chasing circles

Chapter One

 sell the dream back to me

"lovearrives, exactly when love is supposed to. and loveleaves, exactly when love must."

3rd December, 1998

It's such a fleeting term– love. Sometimes, Lyra wished she was carrying one of those thesauruses that she had seen so many muggles gush about. Perhaps then, she could find another word for love, another way to describe it.

Perhaps it could be fondness, or devotion. Maybe passion, or attachment, or intimacy. Respect. Treasure. Affection. Maybe, it could be hope.

It's rather unfortunate that Lyra Malfoy doesn't own a thesaurus, because she truly believes there are so many, or rather, more articulated words for love, words she wished she could use to describe the way Harry Potter had grasped at her heart, pullings it's strings and overtaking her entire being.

Unfortunately, as of the current day, in her current situation, there's only one word she could use to describe what she felt when she thought about Harry. It wasn't hope or any of those devastatingly beautiful words that warmed any old sap's heart but one she often found herself familiar with– pain. Horrifyingly, crushing, and soul-snatching pain.

Hermione once told her, quoting a muggle author that she was quite fond of, that "there were no winners in war, only survivors." It was quite a shock to Lyra, someone who had been so utterly close to the war, playing both sides while seldomly praying for the light, the good side, to win, that she was, in fact, one of the survivors. She had survived.

But that thought, as good and pleasing as it was, was only just a moment of peace. Because there was so much loss. Countless lives, people she didn't even know, gone in the blink of an eye. Old people, parents, young adults, men, women, children. Lord Voldemort had began the war with a clear mindset (as stupid and bigoted as it was)– purify the wizarding world from those with mixed blood and blood traitors.

In the end, it barely mattered what blood was running through someone's veins. They all bled red, anyway.

Winter has come to England, not in a sneaking way, the way a cat would come and lay at her feet, but rather like a hurricane that no matter how prepared you are, could never be enough. Icy rain mixed with snow, strong winds that steal away breaths, and a chilled stillness in the dampness. It came every year, and Lyra Malfoy, now eighteen, would still never be ready for it.

It was almost like the harshness of the winter mirrored the emotional coldness that's settling over them after everything they had been through. She couldn't escape the cold, not physically, not emotionally. It wrapped itself around her like a suffocating blanket, and she had no way of shaking it off.

She had survived. But what now?

Lyra rubbed her eyes, feeling the sting of the tears she hadn't allowed herself to shed. She had tried to keep it together, tried to hold on to some semblance of strength, but it was getting harder with each passing day. There was only so much one person could carry before they crumbled under the weight of it all.

The first few days after the battle had been hazy, a blur of grief and confusion. The war had taken so much from her, and even though she had survived, even though she was standing here, alive, the weight of it all had nearly broken her. She had tried to hold herself together, tried to be strong for Harry, for her mother, for the other people who walked aimlessly down the street but it felt like she was always just one step away from shattering completely.

In a way, hadn't she lost everything as well?

Forget Harry, or the war, or her parents. It was Blaise she couldn't shake off. Even when she was doing the most menial of tasks, the memory of him rang through her head ["Please, Blaise... don't— don't do this. Please! Don't leave me—"] and then she would find herself back at Hogwarts, back in the war as her aunt maimed to murder her but instead killed another soul.

He hung onto her like perfume, he was always there, somewhere in the corner, in the people on the streets, in the mirror in her bathroom, in the eyes of Cassandra Zabini. He was everywhere.

And then, as a few more weeks passed, perhaps just a few days after his funeral, he was talking, appearing to her. She knew that the Blaise she saw with her tired eyes was just a figment of her imagination, because if he was truly a ghost, how could no-one else seem him? But, it killed her just the same.

Blaise Zabini, the boy with the sweetest words, the most sarcastic answers and the kindest eyes, stuck in time, forever seventeen, haunting his best friend, nay, his sister.

It was strange to even think about it, growing older without him.

She had known him almost her entire life, loved him and protected him and laughed with him. It was always him, the first person she went to with anything. The boy who held her while she cried, who had a mischievous glint in his eyes whenever she had planned to do something delinquent-like.

And now he sat beside her, as she got out of bed in the almost-empty manor in the cold morning.

"You need to talk to Harry about this."

He had been saying that for the past two days. His ghost (Her subconsciousness?).

"I am barely awake," she muttered back, groaning as she stood up. It was seven in the morning, too early to consider anything of importance without a clear mind.

Atleast, today, she slept for more than three hours.

Four, but it was definitely improving.

"Had another nightmare?" the boy questioned, his eyes watching her and Lyra almost felt scrutinised under his gaze.

"What do you think?" she shot back. Nightmares were common amongst everyone who had been there that day, on the Hogwarts grounds as the war went around them.

Sometimes, she relived losing Blaise in her head.

Sometimes, she watched as Nagini killed Snape,  the only man who had bothered to tell her the truth as war rang around them.

Sometimes, she died. Trying to save someone— and as horrible the dream felt when she dreamt it, in the morning, she felt almost normal because of it.

The worst of all of them was the one where Harry died. The moment Hagrid came following Voldemort, holding his body. In reality, he woke up.

In her dreams, he remained still, eyes closed and they never opened again. It haunted her.

"Ly, this isn't healthy," Blaise spoke up again, and for a second she was annoyed he was still here. But then, if this— this lie was gone, she would truly be alone. She needed this version of him to get over the fact that she will never have him again. "You are avoiding your feelings. Last time you did that, you ended up getting hexed so bad by your ex-boyfriend, you almost died."

Lyra hummed, "Guess we can just add that to the list of all the things Harry and I need to discuss, huh?" She tied her hair back, staring at the vanity table across from her bed, a sudden urge to chop it off overcoming her. She ignored it— her mother would be devastated, even more than she already seemed to be. She looked at the mirror again and then asked her ghost companion, "Do you think I would look good with black hair?"

Blaise groaned, "No." he rolled his eyes, tipping his head back dramatically. "Merlin, Lyra. Yes, you’d look good in anything—obviously—but that’s not the point."

Lyra smirked, running a hand through her hair. "So you're saying I should do it?"

"I’m saying you should stop using impulsive hair decisions as a coping mechanism."

She scoffed. "That’s rich coming from the guy who charmed his hair green after his first breakup."

"That was a calculated risk," Blaise said primly. "And, for the record, I pulled it off."

"You looked like a cursed Slytherin mascot."

"And yet, still devastatingly handsome."

Lyra rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she turned back toward the wardrobe, pulling out a sweater. Blaise watched her with an expectant look, clearly waiting for her to acknowledge the actual conversation they were supposed to be having.

"Look, I know what you’re about to say," she muttered, pulling the sweater over her head.

"Oh, do you?" Blaise leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed. "Go on, then. Give me my own speech."

Lyra sighed dramatically, holding up a finger. "One: ‘Lyra, you need to talk to Harry.’ Two: ‘Lyra, this is unhealthy, and even though I am dead and should technically be minding my own ghostly business, I will continue to pester you until you listen to me.’ Three: ‘Lyra, for the love of Merlin, stop making every problem into a solo mission and let people in.’" She turned, raising a brow. "Did I miss anything?"

Blaise clapped, slow and sarcastic. "Bravo. Truly, a masterclass in deflection."

She groaned, rubbing her hands over her face. "I just don’t know how to talk to him about this, Blaise."

He gave her a look. "Lyra. You once convinced an entire room of seventh-years that Flitwick was retiring to become a dragon tamer."

"That was different. That was fun."

"That was lying."

She sighed, flopping onto the bed. "Yeah, well. Talking about feelings is way harder than conning a bunch of idiots."

"Clearly," Blaise deadpanned. "But if it makes you feel any better, Potter is just as bad at it as you are."

Lyra scoffed. "I know. It’s honestly impressive how two emotionally stunted people managed to find each other."

"Right? It’s like watching a pair of flobberworms try to communicate."

She snorted despite herself.

Blaise tilted his head, watching her closely. "Lyra, he probably thinks he’s dragging you down."

She stiffened.

"Shocking, I know," Blaise continued dryly. "Harry Potter, the human embodiment of all that is  tragic in out world, convinced he’s the problem. You really hadn't seen that coming?"

Lyra groaned. "Fantastic. So not only are we emotionally incompetent, but we’re also both convinced we’re ruining each other’s lives."

"You see my problem," Blaise said, exasperated.

"Yeah, yeah." She waved a hand. "Fine. I’ll talk to him. Eventually."

Blaise gave her a pointed look.

"Okay, soon."

More staring.

"Okay, okay! Tonight. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

Before she could throw a pillow at him, a knock echoed from the hallway.

She turned sharply, heart skipping a beat. Only one person would be here this early.

Blaise smirked, already beginning to fade like mist in the morning. "Well, would you look at that. Fate is really not giving you an out today."

Lyra exhaled through her nose, smoothing down her sweater.

"Try not to be an idiot," Blaise added, his voice already distant.

"Never make promises you can't keep," she muttered, and with one last breath to steady herself, she opened the door.

Harry stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking about as uncomfortable as she felt. His hair was messier than usual—if that was even possible—and there were dark circles under his eyes, proof that sleep still hadn’t been kind to either of them.

"Hey," he said, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if she was going to slam the door in his face.

Lyra crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You know, you have a terrible habit of showing up unannounced at ridiculous hours."

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no real amusement in it. "Quarter to eight in the morning is ridiculous now?"

"Yes," she said easily. "In fact, I’d argue that anything before noon is a crime against humanity."

That almost earned a smile. Almost.

His fingers twitched in his pockets, and Lyra felt her stomach clench at the way he looked at her—like he was trying to figure out what version of her he was going to get today. 

"Did you manage to sleep through the night?" he asked, staring at her eyes, under which dark circles had taken home.

She tensed before rolling her eyes. "Merlin, is everyone going to lecture me today?"

Harry lifted a brow. "So that’s a yes."

Lyra sighed, stepping back to let him in. "Come on, Potter. If you’re here to interrogate me, at least do it inside where it’s warm."

He hesitated for half a second before stepping through the threshold, his presence filling the too-large room. Lyra shut the door behind him, pretending not to notice the way her heart picked up when he glanced around like he was memorizing the space.

Harry turned to face her, lips pressing into a thin line. "You’re avoiding me."

She scoffed. "I’m not avoiding you."

"You literally ran in the opposite direction when you saw me yesterday at Diagon Alley."

"That was a coincidence."

"And two days ago?"

"Also a coincidence."

"And the three times before that?"

Lyra opened her mouth. Closed it. Then huffed. "Fine. Maybe I was avoiding you. Happy?"

Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "No, Lyra. I’m not happy. I don’t know what’s going on with you because you won’t bloody talk to me."

"I talk to you all the time," she deflected, walking toward her vanity. "Just yesterday, you went home around two and we were together, and I also told you that you look like a feral dog when you don’t brush your hair—"

"Lyra."

His voice was softer now, but it still cut through the room like a blade. She felt herself go still, gripping the edge of the vanity.

Harry took a careful step closer. "I know you're struggling."

"Congratulations," she muttered. "You cracked the code."

"Ly—"

"I don’t want to do this right now," she interrupted, squeezing her eyes shut. "I can’t do this right now."

A beat of silence. Then—

"You still dreaming about it, aren't you?"

Lyra's fingers dug into the wood. "Of course I am," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I dream about all of it."

Harry was quiet for a long moment before he took another step forward, close enough now that she could feel his warmth at her back. "I have them too," he said. "The nightmares."

She swallowed. "I know."

"You don’t have to do this alone, Lyra."

Her eyes stung. "It feels like I do."

"You don’t."

The conviction in his voice made something inside her waver, made her want to believe him even though everything in her screamed that grief was something to be shouldered alone.

Slowly, cautiously, Harry reached out, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the vanity. It was such a small thing, such a gentle thing, but it unraveled something tight inside her.

She turned her hand over, let her fingers slip between his.

Lyra didn’t look at him, not yet. She wasn’t sure she could.

Instead, she focused on the feeling of his hand in hers—warm, solid, real. It was grounding in a way nothing else had been in weeks, like he was the only thing tethering her to the present instead of the past that kept replaying in her head.

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t push. He just stood there, his fingers curled lightly around hers, waiting.

It had always been like this with him. A quiet sort of patience, one that infuriated her as much as it soothed her.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke.

"I see him," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry didn’t react immediately, but she felt the way his grip tightened, the subtle shift of his stance as he braced himself. "Blaise?"

She nodded, throat burning. "He talks to me. Like he’s still here."

Harry was quiet for a long moment, and for a second, she thought he might tell her she was going mad, that grief was playing tricks on her, that she needed help.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he said, "What does he say?"

Lyra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. "Mostly that I’m an idiot."

That startled a short laugh out of him, quiet but genuine. "Sounds about right."

"He thinks I should talk to you."

Harry shifted, angling himself slightly so he could see her better. "And what do you think?"

Lyra finally turned to face him then, really looking at him. His green eyes, tired but unwavering. The scar on his forehead, a reminder of everything they’d lost. The way his lips parted slightly, like he was waiting for her to say something, to let him in.

What did she think?

She thought she was scared.

She thought that letting him in meant opening herself up to even more pain, and she wasn’t sure she could survive another loss.

She thought that if she started talking, she might never stop.

She thought she missed Blaise so much it felt like she was drowning in it, and Harry was the only one who ever seemed to notice when she was struggling to breathe.

"I don’t know," she admitted.

Harry nodded, like he understood. Maybe he did. "That’s okay."

She exhaled, shaking her head. "It’s not, though. I—" She swallowed hard. "I don’t know how to do this, Harry."

His brows furrowed slightly. "Do what?"

"This." She gestured vaguely between them, frustrated at how small her voice sounded. "Everything."

"Take it one day at a time," Harry whispered, "You will be fine, Lyra."

It infuriated her for some reason.

One day at a time.

How many more of those could she possibly do? How many more days would she have to wake up and force herself to exist? She had tried and tried. It had been three fucking years of just trying to do it one day at a time, and yet—

She still woke up with a weight in her chest that refused to budge. She still saw ghosts in places where they no longer existed. She still felt like she was walking through life in a body that didn’t feel like hers anymore.

Lyra let out a humorless laugh, pulling her hand away from his grasp. "One day at a time," she repeated mockingly. "Is that the best you’ve got, Harry?"

His jaw tightened. "What do you want me to say, Lyra? That there’s some magical fix? That one day you’ll wake up and everything will feel normal again? You know that’s not how this works."

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. "I know that, but I don’t need some empty platitude like we’re in some damn self-help book. I need—" She stopped, because she didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

Harry exhaled sharply. "You need what, Lyra? To keep running yourself into the ground? To let your grief eat you alive? Because that’s what you’re doing. And I know it, and Blaise knows it, and for fuck’s sake, even you know it!"

She recoiled as if struck. "Don’t you dare say his name like that—"

"Like what?" Harry snapped, eyes flashing. "Like he’s dead? Because he is, Lyra! He’s gone!"

Her breath hitched, fury coiling in her chest, burning through her veins. She could see regret enter his eyes as soon as he said it.

 "You think I don’t know that?" she spat. "You think I don’t wake up every damn day and remember? I watched him die, Harry! Right in front of me! And you—" Her voice cracked, throat closing up as she glared at him. "You don’t get to tell me how to grieve!"

Harry’s face darkened, the regret gone and a certain coldness overtaking his green eyes. "And you don’t get to shut everyone out just because it’s easier than dealing with the fact that we all lost people."

Lyra’s head snapped up, and something vicious curled in her expression. "Easier?" she repeated, voice dangerously low. "You think this is easy for me?"

"I think you’re scared," Harry said, and that was somehow worse than all of his anger. "I think you’d rather let your grief destroy you than admit you don’t know how to move forward."

Her chest ached, her pulse roaring in her ears. "Fuck you, Harry."

"Yeah, well, at least I’m trying to live."

That did it. That shattered whatever restraint she had left. "Screw you!" she shouted, shoving him backward. "You don’t get to stand there and act like you’re better than me, like you’ve got it all figured out!"

Harry stumbled back a step, barely catching himself, but his expression remained impassive, infuriatingly unreadable. "I don’t have it figured out," he said. "But at least I’m not pretending the dead are still here just so I don’t have to let go."

Her breath caught. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of his words settling between them like a live wire.

She hated him.

She hated that he was right.

"Go to hell," she whispered, voice shaking.

Harry’s expression flickered—something unreadable passing through his eyes—but he just nodded stiffly. "Let me know when you’re ready to stop running."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, fists clenched, heart pounding, and more lost than ever.

It had been a few hours since her argument with Harry and Lyra was still seething, sat in the kitchen, when she heard the soft click of footsteps against the cold marble floor.

She didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Her mother’s presence was quieter these days—no longer the graceful, imposing figure of Narcissa Malfoy, but something... dimmer. Lesser. A shadow of who she had once been.

Lyra turned anyway.

And there she was, standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, wrapped in a thick shawl over her nightdress. Her once-pristine posture was slouched, her platinum hair hanging loose over her shoulders, strands unkempt. She looked—God, she looked small.

Something bitter curled in Lyra’s throat. Her mother had always been light—not in the warm, comforting way of the Weasleys, but in the way of a chandelier: untouchable, untarnished, always burning bright. But now she was just a broken bulb, flickering and dying, and Lyra didn’t know what she could do to fix her.

Didn’t know how.

“Morning,” Lyra said, cautiously.

Narcissa barely glanced at her. “It’s hardly morning anymore.”

Lyra checked the clock. Half past ten. Not morning by Malfoy standards, but after months of waking up in a haze of grief, she figured it was an improvement.

"Right," Lyra muttered, shifting on her feet. “Did you sleep?”

A pause. “Did you?”

Lyra exhaled sharply. Of course. They weren’t doing this—weren’t playing this game of who was more wrecked, who had lost more, who was barely holding on by frayed edges. It was pointless.

She tried again. “You should eat something.” She took a step closer, as if that would make a difference. As if she could reach her mother. Taking care of her had become her only purpose now—something to throw herself into, something to keep her distracted from the gaping void of her own existence.

She didn’t think about the fact that it had been a week since she and Harry had kissed. That, sometimes, he had still come over at night, just to hold her while she fought for sleep. That had stopped three days ago. It had been three weeks without a real conversation. Three weeks of mostly silence stretching between them, of almosts and maybes and an avoidance so thick it might as well have been another war.

She wasn’t ready for that. For him. For whatever awaited them in the wreckage of what they used to be.“I could make you tea—”

“I don’t need tea.”

"Alright, then—what do you need?"

Narcissa didn’t answer. She turned toward the sitting room instead, moving like a specter, like she had nowhere in particular to be but didn’t know how to stay still. Lyra followed.

“You can’t keep doing this, Mother.”

Narcissa’s shoulders tensed, but she didn’t turn around. "Doing what?"

Lyra scoffed. "This.” She gestured vaguely around them. “Drifting through the house like a ghost. Wasting away. I know things are—hard, but—”

"But what, Lyra?" Narcissa finally turned, voice sharp. "What would you have me do? Pretend? Put on my pearls and smile and act like everything is perfectly fine?"

Lyra’s hands clenched. "No, but—"

"But what?" Narcissa repeated, stepping closer now, her voice low, tired. "My husband is in Azkaban. My sister is dead and the one I do have left blames me for her child's death. My world—our world—has been torn apart. And I—" She exhaled shakily, looking away. "I do not know who I am without it."

Lyra swallowed. "You're you, Mum. You’re still you."

Narcissa let out a hollow laugh. "Am I?"

"Yes," Lyra insisted. "Yes! Maybe you don’t have the life we used to or the name or the power you once did, but—you saved Harry." Her voice shook, but she pushed through. "You—not Father, not Bellatrix, you—saved him. You saved us. And that has to mean something."

For a second, just a second, something flickered in Narcissa’s expression. A brief flash of warmth, of pride—of something alive.

But then it was gone.

“I did what I had to,” she murmured, voice cold again. “And I have paid the price for it.”

Lyra inhaled sharply. "That’s not—" She broke off, dragging a hand through her hair. "God, Mother, I am trying to help you."

“I never asked for your help.”

"Well, too bad," Lyra snapped. "I lost people too. I lost Blaise. I lost—" Her voice cracked. "I lost everything, just like you. But I’m still here, and you—" She gestured at her mother, at the ghost of a woman standing before her. "You are not."

Narcissa’s jaw tightened. "Then perhaps you should stop trying to fix what cannot be fixed."

Lyra recoiled. The words hit sharper than she expected, carving into her bones. "You think you can’t be fixed?"

A long silence.

Finally, Narcissa exhaled, slow and quiet. “I think... I do not want to be.”

Lyra stared. And for the first time in months, she felt utterly, completely helpless.

She let out a breath, hands curling into fists before forcing herself to relax them. “Fine,” she muttered. “You don’t need me to fuss over you? Then tell me—what do you need?”

Another silence. This time, it stretched too long.

And then, quietly—

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a lie. And that was the worst part.

Lyra wanted to be angry, to snap, to tell her mother she had to figure it out, but what was the point? What could she possibly say that hadn’t already been said?

She didn’t know what she needed either.

So she just nodded, stepping back, feeling the exhaustion seep into her bones. “Alright,” she said softly. “I’ll be at the Burrow, Molly invited me over for a meal.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

How could she help someone who didn’t want to be helped? Then a thought struck her head– sharp and bright. Wasn't this exactly how she was treating Harry? 

The war had just left them broken, and though the hope was in the fact that had lived to tell the tale, there was simply, no hope at all.

The Burrow was loud. Too loud.

Lyra had barely stepped through the front door before the noise hit her like a wave—the warmth of the place, the scent of freshly baked bread and herbs, the fire crackling in the hearth. Laughter, conversation, the unmistakable hum of life.

It made her chest ache.

She wasn’t used to this. The Malfoy Manor had always been quiet, its walls too vast, its rooms too cold. Even during the war, when it had been filled with people, it never felt full. Not like this.

At the Burrow, people moved around each other like second nature. Arthur was at the kitchen table, fiddling with some parts of a Muggle contraption, muttering excitedly about electricity, whatever in Salazar's name that was. Bill and Percy were in the middle of a loud argument—something about Dragons or quidditch tactics or law, voices overlapping in a way that was both grating and oddly comforting. Ginny was sprawled on the sofa, flicking her wand at the radio, adjusting the volume without looking.

And then there was Molly.

Molly, who had invited her despite everything. Molly, who greeted her with a hug—a proper one, warm and firm and completely un-Malfoy-like.

“Lyra, dear, I’m so glad you came,” she said, pulling back to study her with sharp, knowing eyes. “You look thin, have you been eating enough? Hermione mentioned you haven’t been sleeping—”

Lyra blinked. Opened her mouth. Closed it again. She wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Molly tutted, already bustling toward the kitchen. “Come in, sit, I’ll get you some tea—”

“I—” Lyra hesitated. The invitation was kind, but it was too much. The overwhelming warmth, the noise, the normalcy of it all. She had spent all morning, talking to ghosts, arguing with Harry and then trying to reach her mother, trying to fix something that could never be fixed, and now—now she was here, in a house filled with people who still had each other, and she didn’t know what to do with it.

“Lyra?”

Hermione’s voice cut through her thoughts. She was standing near the staircase, her expression careful, as if she knew exactly how close Lyra was to turning around and walking back out the door.

Lyra forced a tight smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Hermione said, softer.

They weren’t best friends, but they had fought a war together. They were friends before the world had gone to shit. That meant something.

Hermione gave her a look—far too knowing, so Hermione-like—before nodding toward the table. “Do you want to sit?”

Did she?

Lyra exhaled, rubbing her fingers together. Her head was pounding, her heart felt heavy, and the idea of sitting in the middle of the Weasley family dinner made her feel like an intruder.

But Molly had invited her.

And more than that—Harry had wanted her here.

So, she sat.

The conversation around her continued, voices rising and falling, laughter slipping through the cracks. It was so normal, it made her feel dizzy.

No one said anything about it when Molly sent an extra plate across the table. It landed in the empty space beside George, where Fred should have been. No one said a word as Arthur, quiet and steady, reached over and picked it up before his wife could see.

He didn’t make a fuss about it, didn’t let his expression waver. Just carried the plate back to the counter, set it down gently, and returned to his seat like nothing had happened.

At some point, she realized Molly had placed a plate in front of her as well—without asking, without fuss. As if she belonged here. As if this was just another dinner.

Across the table, George was pushing food around on his plate. He didn’t speak as much as he used to, and when he did, the space beside him felt empty. No one mentioned Fred, but his absence was everywhere.

Bill and Fleur sat close together, murmuring to each other between bites. Percy was listening intently to Arthur, nodding along as his father explained the strange Muggle contraption he was trying to make work.

It was obvious they were trying. The grief still lingered, but there was effort behind every moment. A determination to keep moving forward.

Lyra wasn’t sure if that made it easier or harder to be here.

She barely noticed the door opening until a gust of cold air swept through the room.

She knew who it was before she turned.

Harry.

He walked in with Ron, both of them shaking off the chill from whatever errand Arthur had probably sent them on. His hair was windswept, his cheeks pink from the cold, and for a split second, he looked like her Harry—the boy she knew before everything went to hell.

But then his gaze landed on her.

And the air shifted.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The morning’s conversation replayed in her head. Her cold, clipped voice. His angry, broken eyes. The unbearable weight of trying to fix something that didn’t want to be fixed. The realization that she didn’t know how much longer she could keep trying.

Harry blinked first, looking away.

The room felt too small.

Ron, oblivious to the tension, clapped him on the back and made a beeline for the food, muttering something about “bloody starving.” Harry hesitated before following, sliding into the seat across from her.

The noise continued around them, but Lyra barely heard it.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice low.

She looked at him. His hands curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. He looked tired.

She could feel Hermione watching them. Waiting.

“Hey,” she replied, equally quiet.

Silence.

Harry cleared his throat. “Didn’t think you would actually come.”

Lyra scoffed, a humorless sound. “Neither did I.”

His jaw tensed. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Lie. 

A pause. “Right.”

Another silence. More stifling than the last.

Lyra forced herself to take a bite of food, even though it felt like swallowing lead.

At the other end of the table, George suddenly said, “Mum, why are there vegetables in this? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Molly rolled her eyes, waving her wand at his plate. “You need nutrients, George.”

“My body rejects nutrients.”

“You can live with it.”

George muttered something under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Lyra nearly smiled.

It was almost normal.

Harry shifted in his seat. She glanced at him again—just in time to catch the way his gaze softened. The way he looked at her like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

She looked away first. She wasn't ready.

Molly set a fresh plate in front of Harry, brushing his hair back in that motherly way she always did. “Eat, dear,” she said.

Harry nodded, murmuring a quiet thanks, but his attention flickered back to Lyra.

She took a slow breath.

The realization hit her in a way nothing else could– maybe she wasn’t ready to feel warm again.

She hugged Hermione as she said goodbye, who whispered something neither of them would remember later. Smiled at Ginny, who had been easy to talk to despite everything, they had become good friends in her last year at Hogwarts. She even let Molly squeeze her into another motherly hug, murmuring something about visiting again soon.

And then—Harry.

She hadn’t expected him to stop her. Hadn’t expected him to grab her wrist, fingers firm, warm, desperate—or to pull her through the back door without so much as a word.

The air outside was sharp, biting against her skin. The garden was overgrown, weeds creeping between patches of neglected flowers. No one had tended to it in months.

Harry didn’t let go of her wrist until they were far enough from the house, where no one could overhear them.

Behind her, Blaise’s ghost lingered. She didn’t acknowledge him.

“Harry,” she started, but he spoke first.

“I’m sorry.”

That threw her off.

She had expected him to be angry. To continue the argument from the morning, to demand why she had been avoiding him, why she barely spoke to him anymore. Why they were breaking apart.

Instead, he looked—wrecked.

His hands twitched like he wanted to reach for her, but he didn’t. “Lyra, I—” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I shouldn't have said all that in the morning. I am so sorry, it was cruel and thoughtless. I love you.”

Lyra felt something crack inside her.

She could be cruel about this. Could tell him it was too late, that she was tired of waiting for him to understand her instead of just judging her for the way she dealt with her grief. That she was tired of waiting for them to come back to normal.

But she wasn’t cruel.

And, really, she was just as much at fault.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said quietly. “We both said some things we shouldn't have.”

Harry looked at her then—really looked at her. His eyes burned into hers, searching, waiting.

Lyra hesitated. Then, “I think we need a break.”

The words came out steadier than she expected.

Harry’s face twisted. “No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, voice firm. “That’s not what we need.”

“Harry—”

“I love you,” he said, like it was a fact, like it was unshakable. “And I know you love me too.”

Lyra inhaled sharply. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” His voice was rough, raw. “Because if you think I don’t—”

“It’s about the fact that I don’t know who I am anymore,” she cut in, voice sharper than she intended. “It’s about the fact that I lost Blaise and my father and so many people, and my mother is a shell of herself, and I don’t know how to live in a world that doesn’t require me to fight every second of the day.”

"Lyra–"

"And you need it to," she spoke softly then, tears threatening to spill. "We need to figure ourselves out before we rush back into things. We are not the same people we used to be and that doesn't mean I love you less, in fact, I just seem to love you more every day. Sometimes, I love you so much, I can't breathe. And right now, I just need to be breathe."

Harry’s mouth opened. Then closed.

"So your solution– to break up?" Harry was stepping away from her, his defenses going up. "What does that fix?"

"It's not breaking up, I promise," She shook her head, "I think too much has happened for us to just go back you know. We just need to take a break and figure ourselves out before we figure us out."

Lyra crossed her arms, exhaling shakily. “I need time.”

Silence stretched between them.

"We can still figure it out," His eyes were desperate, pleading. Please hold on to me, they seemed to be saying.

"I don't know how."

Behind her, Blaise sighed.

Harry clenched his jaw, looking away. His hands curled into fists. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

His eyes snapped back to hers, like he didn’t quite believe her.

She reached for his hand, squeezing lightly. “I promise.”

Harry’s fingers curled around hers before she could pull away. “You’ll come back to me?”

Lyra’s chest ached. “I’ll try.”

And that was all she could give him.

Harry slouched at the bar, the dim lights flickering in a way that made everything feel as if it were swimming just out of reach. The alcohol swirled in his belly, and with every swig, he sank deeper into the haze. His head throbbed, a dull, endless ache that wrapped itself around his skull, pressing in on him from every direction. Thoughts ricocheted around, none of them sticking, none of them helping. He just needed the numbness. The liquor was his escape, if only for a moment.

Another sip. The burn of it was familiar. Comforting. He barely tasted it anymore, not that he cared. His stomach twisted, but it wasn’t because of the alcohol—it was the gnawing emptiness, the echo of Lyra’s words that had been hanging in the air since the moment she’d said they needed a 'break.'

A part of him had known it was over then. She wasn’t coming back. She hadn’t even really left him. He’d let her go. She’d asked for space, but Harry knew. It was over.

She wasn't coming back.

What was the point of all of it? Of the pain, the horror, of everything– if in the end, he didn't have the one thing he truly wanted?

“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, swirling the glass in his hand and watching the liquid slosh. He couldn't even focus properly. The anger, the bitterness, the grief—it was all so tiring, and yet it still sat in his chest, heavy as a stone. He hated her for leaving, but more than that, he hated how much he still loved her.

He wanted to scream, wanted to fight, but he couldn't fight for something that was already gone. He wasn’t enough. He hadn’t been enough. And the weight of that truth pressed down on him with every breath.

"Pathetic," he repeated to no one in particular, barely aware of the world around him. Another drink. He took it, almost mechanically, as the buzzing in his ears grew louder.

A soft chuckle pulled him from his spiral.

“I’d be damned. Harry Potter drowning his sorrows with us lowlifes?” The voice was teasing, light, but something beneath it made him look up, snapping him out of his stupor.

He squinted at the woman who had slipped onto the stool beside him. Dark hair, piercing blue eyes—there was something familiar about her. But with the alcohol fogging his thoughts, he couldn’t place her immediately. Slytherin, yes. Someone from Ginny and Luna’s year, maybe? Or was she Daphne Greengrass's sister?

“Astoria... right?” Harry managed to say, his voice thick and sluggish.

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “Perhaps I am more popular than I ever thought I was,” she replied, her tone light, but her gaze thoughtful.

Harry gave a short, dry laugh, though it was more out of disbelief than amusement. His head was still spinning, but the presence of someone else, someone who didn’t seem to expect anything of him, was a weird kind of small relief.

“Maybe,” he muttered. His eyes flitted back to the drink in his hand. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel, but it was impossible to avoid it. "I’ve seen you around with Lyra."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about her; it was that he didn’t know what to say. She had been everything to him. Everything. And now... she was gone. Taking time.

Astoria didn’t answer right away. She slid onto the seat next to him and took a long sip of her drink. Harry couldn’t remember her ordering it, but somehow it didn’t matter. He focused on the glass in his hand instead, willing the feelings to disappear, wishing they would vanish the same way the alcohol burned down his throat.

“How is she doing?” Astoria asked, her voice tentative, like she was careful with the question, but not afraid to ask.

The question stabbed at him, sharper than he expected. He scoffed bitterly, the laugh that followed sounding wrong, too hollow to be real.

“Amazing,” he said, though his voice cracked as if he were fighting to keep the bitterness in check. “Finally getting everything right, after breaking up with me.”

Astoria’s brow furrowed. “You two broke up?” she asked, carefully leaning forward. There was a hesitation in her voice, like she wasn’t sure what she would find if she probed too deeply.

Harry felt something twist in his gut. It wasn’t the words so much as the way they made everything feel too real. He had tried so hard, so bloody hard to hold it all together. To make her stay.

"It’s not... it’s not a break-up," Harry said, his voice strained, though he knew it wasn’t true. A break was a break-up if it stretched long enough. And this one will. It was just that simple. "Guess I know why you lot called her the Ice Queen, though, eh?"

There was a pause. Astoria didn’t jump to defend Lyra or argue. She just took a sip of her drink, her gaze soft, steady. She didn’t need to say anything. Harry knew the Ice Queen label had been his frustration speaking. It wasn’t Lyra who was cold. It was the situation that had frozen him. Frozen them. But calling her that—that had been his way of hiding, of not dealing with what it all meant.

Lyra was more like... fire. And Harry had burned himself on her.

Astoria let the silence settle for a beat longer before her voice broke through. “Wanna get out of here?”

Harry blinked, the question almost startling him. He wasn’t sure he could move, sure he could even leave the bar, let alone face the world outside. But her eyes, the way they were watching him with something like sympathy, like understanding, made him feel something stir in him. Something more than just the weight of all the pain.

He stared at her, his thoughts tangled, his chest tight with the suffocating pressure of grief. But something inside him cracked. The weight wasn’t so heavy when someone else was standing beside him. Even if it was just for now. Even if it wasn't her.

“Alright,” he said after a long pause, the word coming out quieter than he intended. He finished his drink and set the glass down with a decisive movement. "Let’s get out of here."

Astoria stood, offering him a small, understanding smile. She didn't say anything else, just waited for him to follow her.

Harry stood, unsteady, but with her guiding him, he somehow managed. The pub’s noise faded behind them as they walked into the cool night, the darkness outside offering no answers, only the promise of something else. Something, he didn’t know what, but something to take his mind off the pain.

For a moment, Harry didn’t care what came next. He was too tired to care. He just needed a distraction.

He didn’t care as he stripped off his clothes, the fabric falling to the floor without a second thought. He didn't care as Astoria followed suit, her movements slow, deliberate, like she was trying to make the moment last, or maybe trying to make sense of it. He didn’t care either way.

He didn't care when her lips met his, it was frantic, a feverish kiss that tasted like whiskey and desperation. He didn't give a fuck when he kissed her back with the same urgency, hands fumbling, breath short. He needed something—anything—to fill the hollow spaces left by Lyra.

He didn't care as she led him to the bed, and he didn't care as he followed without question, without hesitation.

He simply didn't care at all that night.

She wasn't coming back anyway