Chapter Text
The clink of cutlery in the Malfoy dining room was far too precise, far too polite to sound like real life. Lyra sat between Draco and the wall, staring down at the delicate arrangement of fruit on her plate as though willing it to look less ornamental and more like food she wanted to eat. It wasn’t just the food that felt staged—it was the whole house, every gilded frame and polished surface like a museum display. The high windows let in long streaks of early summer sunlight, but even that couldn’t cut through the room’s oppressive stillness. Everything here felt curated, controlled, and suffocating, as though her very existence had been carefully choreographed. Every gesture, every word she spoke at this table felt rehearsed, judged, weighed against the Malfoy standard of poise.
Her thoughts drifted to Salisbury. She clung to it now—a memory of uneven cobblestones, the way the town smelled faintly of bread and rain, the quiet freedom of walking through streets where no one knew her name. Salisbury was alive in ways the Manor wasn’t. No stiff silences, no gilded cages. In that town, she didn’t need to be Bellatrix Lestrange’s daughter or Lucius Malfoy’s niece. She could just be. She could watch the shopkeepers banter with customers, children chasing each other across the square, smell the simple comfort of a bakery’s open window. There, the air didn’t feel heavy. It felt like air after weeks of suffocating underwater.
Lucius, at the far end of the table, held his teacup with two fingers like a man on stage performing elegance. He skimmed the Daily Prophet without looking up. “Yaxley has informed me the Montague proceedings are… progressing,” he said at last, his words clipped, deliberate. “They will want you present again, Lyra—for follow‑up clarification sooner than we initially anticipated.”
She didn’t look up. “Fine.” It was the only word she could force out, and she made it as flat as possible. She couldn’t give him more—not when even hearing Montague’s name made her stomach twist.
Narcissa, ever observant, tilted her head. “You’ve been quiet,” she said, her voice light but prying. “Are you studying already? Exams are a year away, darling.” Her assessing gaze lingered on Lyra just a little too long.
“I like to be prepared,” Lyra replied smoothly, lifting her teacup like armor. Tidy, practiced answers were easier than admitting she wanted to scream.
Across from her, Draco perked up. “You should’ve seen my Nimbus,” he said, leaning forward with an eager gleam in his eye. “Father had it delivered yesterday for the whole team—Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, every single one of us. No more sluggish Cleansweeps or patched‑up brooms. We’ll dominate the pitch. And I’ll be Seeker next year; you’ll see.”
“Maybe,” Lyra murmured, though the faintest shadow of a smile tugged at her lips. “Assuming you don’t fall off in the first match. And don’t think new brooms will save you from tryouts. Everyone earns their spot, even you.”
Draco huffed, affronted, but she was already standing, folding her napkin with deliberate care. “I’m heading into Salisbury,” she said. “I need new parchment for next term.” Really, she needed air.
“Don’t linger,” Narcissa warned, though her voice softened as she added, “And take one of the elves if you plan to bring back more than parchment. And be mindful—Salisbury isn’t like Diagon Alley. Muggles are easily startled, and you need to blend in.”
“I won’t be long.”
Lucius didn’t turn from his paper, but she felt his eyes follow her as she left. Even here, she couldn’t shake the sense of being watched, of belonging to this house instead of herself. Salisbury was freedom, and for a few precious hours, she intended to claim it.
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Salisbury smelled like rain and bread. It always did, and Lyra thought that was what made it feel real. Not the curated reality of Malfoy Manor with its polished marble and perfumed halls, but the real kind of life that clung to uneven cobblestones, chipped paint on shop signs, and the low hum of conversations outside tiny cafes. She lingered as she walked, letting the breeze carry the scent of baking bread and faint soap from a nearby laundrette, savoring every reminder that she was somewhere untouched by her family name. Here, no one cared who she was—no one whispered “Lestrange” like a curse. She was just another girl, a shadow moving through the ordinary lives of strangers.
She passed the little stationery shop she’d claimed as her errand, imagining stepping inside, running her fingers over stacks of journals and smooth pads of lined paper, even pens and markers displayed in tidy rows—mundane objects that still somehow felt exotic to her. It wasn’t about quills or parchment here; it was about choosing something for herself in a place where no one would recognize her. But she didn’t stop—not yet. Her feet carried her toward the square, where vendors called to customers in warm, unpolished accents, and children dashed between stalls with sticky fingers and unrestrained laughter. It was life in motion, messy and unscripted, nothing like the rehearsed interactions of the Manor. She ached for it, for the way this world seemed so unapologetically alive, unbothered by titles or bloodlines. This is what freedom feels like, she thought, brushing her fingers against the rough stone of a wall as if touching it would anchor her here a little longer.
Her steps slowed at The Wild Hare. She hadn’t planned this, but she couldn’t keep away. The pub glowed warmly, alive with laughter, the faint twang of guitar strings, and the clatter of mugs against wooden tables. And there she was—the blonde woman with the ribbon of green and navy tartan, laughing with her companions, her face open and effortless. Lyra froze, caught between the doorway and her own breath, wanting to step closer but rooted in place by something nameless—fear, longing, maybe both. What would it feel like to belong in a place like this?
She lingered just long enough to burn every detail into her mind: the candlelight on the woman’s hair, the warmth of her laugh, the way she seemed so at home in herself. Then, with a tightening in her chest, Lyra turned back into the night. The Manor awaited, cold and silent, but she carried Salisbury with her—the woman’s laughter, the smell of bread and rain, the reminder that there was still a world beyond her gilded cage.
The return to Malfoy Manor always felt like stepping back into a painting—gilded, immaculate, and suffocating in its stillness. The air was too clean, scented faintly with something floral and expensive, the marble floors polished to a mirror-like sheen that seemed to mock the imperfections of the outside world. The portraits followed her with their painted gazes, silently judging her every movement, their eyes carrying the weight of a legacy she couldn’t outrun. Even the silence was oppressive—curated, purposeful, as if the house itself demanded its occupants perform their roles without deviation. Hours in Salisbury had felt like stepping between two worlds—one alive, vibrant, unfiltered; and one rehearsed, perfected, and utterly hollow.
Dinner was a performance. Lucius sat at the head of the long dining table, cane resting at his side like a scepter, his pale gaze flicking between Draco and Lyra as they recounted their day. He asked few questions, but his lifted brow carried a warning: he knew more than he let on. Narcissa steered the conversation toward the upcoming Quidditch season, her calm words carefully smoothing over the tension. She reminded them—pointedly—that Lucius had procured Nimbus 2001s for the entire Slytherin team, a gift meant to ensure their dominance and, implicitly, their gratitude. Lyra gave polite thanks, even managed a smile, but inside she wondered if even her position as Captain still belonged to her—or if it had simply been folded into Lucius Malfoy’s sphere of influence.
Later, in her room, Lyra sat at her desk, pulling a simple, soft-bound journal from her bag. It wasn’t like the enchanted books of her world; it was plain, unadorned, chosen by her and for her—a piece of Salisbury she could keep. She stared at the blank page, quill poised, willing the words to come. How could she write about the dizzying contradiction of being grateful for everything and yet feeling caged by all of it? How could she describe how those few hours in Salisbury—anonymous, untethered—had felt more like living than anything the Manor could ever offer?
Her thoughts returned to the woman at The Wild Hare, her laughter ringing in Lyra’s memory like a charm, the way she looked like she belonged to herself. What would it take to feel like that? Lyra closed the journal, unwritten, leaning back in her chair as the silence of the Manor pressed in. But in her mind, Salisbury still buzzed with life. And somewhere out there, the blonde woman with the tartan ribbon was still laughing—unaware that a girl caught between two worlds was already thinking of her like a flame she couldn’t help but reach for.
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The next trip to Salisbury came a few days later, under the same pretense of running errands. The cobbled streets hummed with life in the evening, lanterns glowing softly as Lyra lingered near The Wild Hare, unable to bring herself to go in this time. Instead, she turned toward the quieter streets leading out of town, her mind caught somewhere between guilt and longing. That was when she saw him.
Dumbledore stood leaning lightly against a wrought-iron lamppost, his long traveling cloak the only thing that made him stand out in the Muggle street. His expression, warm yet unreadable, made it clear he’d been waiting for her.
“An unusual place to see you, Miss Lestrange,” he said, falling into step beside her as though they’d arranged it. “Salisbury has a way of drawing people. I come here myself, now and then, for perspective.”
Lyra arched a brow. “Perspective?”
“It’s easy to forget the scale of life within castle walls,” he replied softly. “This place reminds me that the world is larger than our titles and troubles. And just beyond, of course, lies Stonehenge—a monument older than our world of wands and castles, and a reminder that magic, in some form, has always belonged to more than just us.”
They walked for some time along the narrow country road, the sounds of the town fading behind them until the distant hum of the night and the whisper of the grass took over. Dumbledore spoke lightly of Stonehenge as they approached its distant outline on the horizon, weaving a tale about its role in magical and non-magical history, how generations of witches and wizards had come here seeking answers or simply a sense of connection to something older than themselves.
“And you, Lyra,” he said at last, his tone shifting to something more personal, “have you considered who you want to be, beyond the walls of Hogwarts? Beyond the name Lestrange, or the expectations of those who raise you?”
Lyra’s throat tightened. “I don’t know that it matters who I want to be,” she said, deflecting. “It’s not like anyone’s asking.”
“I am asking,” Dumbledore said, with that quiet insistence that made it sound like the answer would matter to him, even if no one else cared. “You will spend your whole life answering to names unless you decide which one is yours. There is power in choosing who you are.”
She didn’t reply. They walked a little longer in silence, the ancient stones of Stonehenge visible now against the fading twilight, until Lyra finally murmured, “I’ll think about it.”
“That,” Dumbledore said gently, “is all I can ask for tonight.”
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Back at Malfoy Manor, the house felt colder, its stillness pressing in around her. Lyra moved through the corridors like a ghost, slipping unnoticed into her room. She shed her cloak and sat at the edge of her bed, fingers digging into her knees as if she could hold herself together that way. Dumbledore’s words replayed in her head: You will spend your whole life answering to names unless you decide which one is yours. It wasn’t just a statement — it was a challenge, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Her thoughts kept returning to The Wild Hare, to the warm hum of voices, the comforting clatter of mugs, and most of all, to the blonde woman with the tartan ribbon. The memory lingered like a half‑remembered dream, both thrilling and untouchable. That ease, that ordinary freedom — Lyra wanted it in a way that felt sharp and dangerous.
A knock at her door jolted her from her thoughts. Before she could answer, Draco barged in, already in flying robes, his pale hair immaculately combed. “You’ve been brooding all day,” he said bluntly. “Come outside. We should test the new brooms. You can’t keep hiding in here.”
Lyra arched an eyebrow. “And you think flying fixes that?”
“I think,” Draco said with an infuriatingly smug smirk, “that Captain Lestrange needs to see if she can still keep up with me.” He tossed her a pair of flying gloves. “Race you to the pitch.”
She couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at her lips. For once, she let herself give in. “Fine. But don’t cry when I win.”
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The pitch stretched out under the dimming sky as they strode across the grass, the faint smell of summer earth mixing with the familiar tang of broom polish. Lyra mounted her broom and felt the rush of power as it responded, eager to take flight. The first kick off the ground brought a surge of freedom, the manor’s suffocating weight falling away as she climbed higher, Draco streaking after her. They twisted and dove, pushing each other faster, sharper, laughing between challenges. For a while, there were no names, no burdens—just the wind, the sky, and the thrill of trying to outfly each other.
They raced the length of the pitch, weaving through goal hoops, Draco shouting over his shoulder as she gained on him. “Too slow, Captain!”
“Keep talking,” she yelled back, surging forward in a burst of speed that had her overtaking him by inches. The wind roared in her ears, whipping through her hair and stinging her cheeks. She felt alive in a way she hadn’t since before Valentines Day. Every sharp turn, every near miss was its own rebellion, a refusal to let the weight of the Manor or the whispers of her past cage her here.
They finally landed breathless, Draco collapsing onto the grass with dramatic flair. “Fine,” he said between gulps of air, “you’re still faster. For now.”
Lyra dropped beside him, staring up at the darkening sky. For a moment, with the scent of grass in her nose and her pulse still racing, she could almost believe she was free. Almost.