chasing circles

Chapter Two

a desperate heart to borrow

"your worst sin is that you've destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing"

21st February, 1999

The break was unbearable at first.

Lyra spent too many nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if she had made a mistake. If she had chosen temporary relief only to guarantee something worse later. She had wanted space to figure herself out—but instead, it felt like she was unraveling, piece by piece, as if she had already lost him.

The war was supposed to be over. Things were supposed to be better. But somehow, life felt just as bleak as it had in the beginning, in the middle, even at the very end.

She threw herself into training. Becoming a Healer had always been a distant possibility, something she had thought about in passing, but never allowed herself to fully consider. Before the war, she would have needed five N.E.W.T.s—Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Defense—each with a high mark. But the war had rewritten all the rules. The exams had been canceled, and students from her year were given grades based on their past academic performance.

Some, like Hermione, had chosen to redo their seventh year. Lyra hadn’t even considered it. She already had the grades she needed, and she had no desire to relive any part of that hellish year, even in a more peaceful time.

Hermione had still gone back, because of course she had. Lyra didn’t understand it—Hermione had Os in nearly everything already, and an E in the rest—but she supported her nonetheless.

Neville had taken a break from education entirely. He was figuring himself out, too, in his own way.

Harry and Ron had joined Auror training.

Pansy had retreated to France after the backlash of that incident—where she had very publicly suggested they hand Harry over to Voldemort in the final days of the war.

And Lyra?

Lyra had spent the first two weeks of her Healer training buried in work, too exhausted at the end of her shifts to think about anything else. The lime green robes were dreadful, unflattering in every way, but she didn’t have the energy to care.

Then, two weeks in, Harry started showing up.

At first, she thought she was imagining it.

She had just finished a particularly grueling shift, her brain half-fried from memorizing case studies, when she spotted him in the hospital's lobby. He was standing near the entrance, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking back on his heels like he had nowhere better to be.

She froze for a second, unsure if she should acknowledge him. But he caught her gaze before she could decide, and—Merlin, it had been two weeks, but it felt like so much longer.

Lyra had exhaled sharply and walked over. “What are you doing here?”

Harry’s eyes flickered down to her robes, and his mouth twitched. “You really hate that uniform, don’t you?”

Lyra scowled. “It’s vile.”

His lips tugged into something almost like a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wanted to see you.”

Her stomach twisted. “Harry—”

“I know we’re on a break,” he said quickly, like he had been preparing for this argument. “And I know you need space. But—” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I still care about you. And I miss you, Lyra.”

She swallowed hard.

“We don’t have to do... all the dating stuff,” he continued, hesitant. “Not if you’re not ready. But I don’t want to just—stop talking. We don’t have to make things heavy, or dig into everything all at once. Just... tell me about your day. I’ll tell you about mine. We can just be—however you need us to be.”

Lyra was silent for a long moment.

It was a simple offer. No pressure. No expectation.

And Merlin, she wanted to say yes.

Because the truth was, she missed him too. The break hadn’t made that go away—it had only made her realize how much she missed him. She just needs time to get back to normal.

Maybe this way, they could ease themselves back to normal or another form of normalcy. It was a good offer.

“Alright,” she said finally, voice quiet. “We can talk.”

Harry let out a breath like he had been holding it in for weeks. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

And for the first time in weeks, things hadn't feel quite so impossible.

Two weeks turned into a month, and Harry was still there at the end of her shift every single day, waiting for her without fail. He would be leaning against the wall near the entrance of St. Mungo’s, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his glasses fogged slightly from the cold.

At first, she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

They were on a break. A real break.

And yet, there he was—always there.

"You're persistent," she had remarked one evening, stepping out of the hospital, exhausted after a particularly grueling shift.

Harry had only grinned, falling into step beside her. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

She never told him it wasn’t.

And so, they talked. They walked. They spent hours doing nothing except sharing stories, old memories, little moments of the day that no one else would care about.

There was a reason why Harry and Lyra had gotten along so well for all those years. They knew how to talk to each other. They knew each other’s worst parts already, the broken, jagged edges of war still settling around them like ghosts. And in a way, that was the most comforting thing of all—because there were no secrets left to be afraid of.

Then came the weekly pub nights with Ron and Neville.

Ron took some time before he warmed up to her constant presence again. He wasn’t rude about it, just cautious, as if waiting for something to break. Maybe it was because he had seen them at their worst, watched them argue, watched them separate. But slowly, grudgingly, he accepted it.

Blaise still thought it was a terrible idea.

“You’re getting too close again,” his voice would whisper in her ear sometimes, but she paid him no mind. He wasn’t real—not anymore.

For the first time in a very long time, Lyra was enjoying herself.

It felt good. It felt right.

January ended, winter bitter and unrelenting. She and Harry went to the cinemas, watching ridiculous Muggle films and laughing over how absurd some of them were. He would buy popcorn, and she would insist on sneaking in chocolates, and somehow, they would always leave debating whether or not the protagonist’s choices were truly justified.

Neville, who had recently discovered a passion for cooking, took it upon himself to teach her how to make something other than toast. Their lessons often ended in flour-covered disasters, with Ron complaining about the mess and Harry laughing in the background.

She spent weekends at Harry and Ron’s apartment in Diagon Alley, sitting on the countertops as Neville instructed her on how to properly chop vegetables or measure ingredients. Ron, naturally, made it his mission to 'taste-test' everything before it was even finished.

Then there were the Quidditch matches at the Burrow.

Charlie Weasley, home for a visit, would sometimes join them. His presence made the games even more chaotic, and Lyra found herself laughing more than she had in months. George would sit off to the side, watching, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic comment when Ron and Lyra inevitably ended up in a heated argument over some rule or another.

And Harry—Harry just watched it all with a quiet smile, like he was memorizing these moments, tucking them away somewhere safe.

The war had taken so much from them.

But now, somehow, life was giving something back.

And now, they sat at the Leaky Cauldron—Ron and Neville on one side of the booth, Harry and Lyra on the other, and Daphne Greengrass, of all people, joining them.

Daphne was a recent addition to Lyra’s life, a result of Healer training. They had formed a tentative friendship over long hours at St. Mungo’s, bonding over their mutual exhaustion and the occasional eye-roll at their instructors’ absurd demands.

"Alright, alright, listen to me fellows," Harry said, leaning back in his seat, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Harry must question, for it is a very important question indeed, why, exactly, does Miss Lyra Malfoy want dragon tail in her breakfast tea?"

Lyra, undeterred, lifted her chin. "Lyra has had time to consider this, Master Harry Potter, and her words shall be the final decree. They add a special treat."

Daphne snorted into her drink.

Ron, on the other hand, looked between them with a frown. "This is weird, right?"

Neville, who had been casually sipping his butterbeer, raised a brow. "What’s weird? Lyra being a menace, or you actually drinking like an adult?"

Ron scowled. "No, this—them." He gestured vaguely between Harry and Lyra. "It’s weird."

Lyra turned to him with a smirk. "Oh, do elaborate, Weasley."

Ron let out a sigh, setting his drink down with a thunk. "You two are just... I dunno. You’re something again, but not really something."

"How poetic," Lyra deadpanned.

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Ron gave him a look. "Mate, c’mon. You’re acting like you’re together—you show up everywhere together, you finish each other’s bloody sentences, and the two of you just spent ten minutes debating dragon tail in tea like it’s the most important decision of your lives—"

"It is important," Lyra interrupted. "You wouldn’t understand, Ron, your palate is about as refined as a troll’s."

Ron ignored her. "But you’re not together, are you?"

Silence fell over the table.

"Yes," Harry declared.

"No," the blonde witch refused.

Lyra’s playful expression flickered—just for a moment—before she reached for her drink. "We’re just taking things slow."

Ron snorted. "Right. And what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means," Harry said evenly, glancing at Lyra, "that we’re figuring it out."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "And how long exactly is this figuring-out stage supposed to last?"

Lyra took a slow sip of her drink, looking unbothered. "Why? You planning to send out invitations for a wedding, Weasley?"

Ron scoffed. "I just don’t get how you can be this close and still say you’re ‘figuring it out.’ Either you’re together or you’re not!"

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s not that simple, Ron."

"Sure it is," Ron argued. "You love her. She loves you. What’s there to figure out?"

Lyra rolled her eyes. "Merlin’s beard, Ron, why are you more invested in this than we are?"

"Because it’s frustrating!" Ron threw his hands up. "You two are acting like a couple, but the moment anyone asks, you get all weird and vague about it."

Neville smirked, taking a sip of his butterbeer. "You know, Ron, some people like to actually think before they rush into things."

Ron shot him a glare. "Oh, shove off, Longbottom."

Daphne, amused, tapped her manicured nails against her glass. "I think what Ron means—in his usual, brutish way—is that it’s odd to see Harry Potter not dive headfirst into something for once."

Harry gave her a look. "And what’s that supposed to mean?"

Daphne smirked. "Oh, come on. You’ve spent your entire life running straight into danger without a second thought—why stop now?"

"Because this isn’t a war," Harry said simply, his voice quieter.

That shut Ron up.

For a moment, there was silence at the table.

Then Lyra, softer this time, added, "And we’re different people now." She glanced at Harry, something unreadable in her expression. "Aren’t we?"

Harry met her gaze. "Yeah," he said, just as quietly. "We are."

Daphne, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. "For what it’s worth, I think it’s smart." She shrugged at the way Ron looked at her. 

Neville hummed in agreement. "Yeah, look at you, Ron—you and Hermione spent years pretending you didn’t like each other, and now you’re the happiest I’ve ever seen you."

Ron turned red. "That’s different."

"How?" Lyra challenged.

Ron spluttered for a moment, looking between them, before grumbling, "It just is."

"Alright, Weasley," Lyra drawled, leaning back against the booth with a smirk. "Then if you’re done analyzing my not-relationship, tell me—who are we betting on for next weekend’s match?"

Ron groaned dramatically, rubbing his face. "If I have to hear one more bloody word about your ridiculous Chudley Cannons slander—"

"Ron, mate," Lyra said gravely. "I hate to break this to you, but they are ridiculous."

The table burst into laughter, and just like that, the tension faded.

Harry glanced at Lyra then, watching the way she threw her head back when she laughed, the way she bantered effortlessly with Ron, the way she just fit here, so different from how she had been months ago—so much lighter.

It was nice.

Nice things don't last.

Harry had zoned out somewhere between Ron’s complaints about their so-called not-relationship and Neville and Daphne making sarcastic remarks, but when he tuned back in, the conversation had spiraled into something completely different.

“I cannot believe you’re this thick,” Lyra was saying, exasperation clear in her voice.

Ron, equally outraged, leaned forward. “You’re out of your mind if you think a wizard can accidentally perform wandless magic in their sleep!”

Lyra scoffed. “Oh, because intent is the only thing that matters in magic?”

“Yes!” Ron threw his hands up, his 'inner Hermione' has Harry had sometimes teased coming out. “That’s literally the foundation of spellcasting! Intent and focus!”

Neville, who was watching with mild amusement, hummed. “Actually, there are documented cases where magic happens completely outside of conscious intent—especially in children. Accidental magic—”

Ron waved him off. “That’s different! Accidental magic happens because emotions override control, not because someone just sleepwalks their way into spellwork!”

“But that’s the point,” Lyra said, eyes gleaming. “If emotions can override intent in children, why couldn’t something—oh, I don’t know—like instinct take over when someone’s asleep?”

“Oh, yeah, brilliant theory,” Ron shot back. “So you’re telling me that some wizard out there is just sleep-casting—what? Floating objects? Brewing potions? Transfiguring their pillows into puppies?”

Lyra’s lips twitched. “You do remember that case in 1874 when Healer Ballister recorded a patient unknowingly casting a Protego while dreaming?”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “That’s a myth.”

“It’s not a myth!” Lyra exclaimed. “It’s written in Practical Cases of Unconscious Magic by—”

“Oh, please tell me you’re about to reference something written by a Ravenclaw from four centuries ago,” Ron interrupted. “Because that would be so convincing.”

Lyra gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “You take that back! Rowena Ravenclaw’s contributions to magical academia are—”

“I swear, if you say unparalleled, I will hex you under this table,” Ron grumbled.

Harry, meanwhile, was staring between them, completely lost. “I have no idea what you two are even arguing about now.”

Neville chuckled. “To be fair, I only half know what they’re on about, and I’m still siding with Lyra.”

Daphne, who had been watching with a smirk, rolled her eyes. “You’re all ridiculous. This is an absurd debate.”

“But you agree with me, right?” Ron asked hopefully.

Daphne considered. “...For once? Yes.”

Lyra gasped dramatically. “Et tu, Greengrass?”

“Alright,” Daphne drawled, ignoring her. “Since neither of you will shut up about this, let’s actually settle it. My sister’s temporarily working at Flourish and Blotts. She’s probably still there closing up.” She smirked. “We could go confirm this. Right now.”

Ron slammed his drink down. “Yes. Finally. Some real proof.”

Harry, completely unaware that this was an absolutely horrible idea, found himself nodding along. “Brilliant. Let’s go.”

Neville groaned but stood anyway. “This is a terrible decision.”

Lyra smirked. “Oh, absolutely.”

No one disturbed the group as they stumbled out of the Leaky Cauldron, Ron and Lyra still arguing loudly as they made their way toward Diagon Alley.

"It’s impossible to cast a full shield charm in your sleep, Malfoy!"

"And I’m telling you, Weasley, magic doesn’t just shut off because someone’s unconscious!"

"Oh, so what—you think if I fall asleep dreaming about setting you on fire, I’ll accidentally do it?"

"First of all, you’d need a lot more magical capability than you have for that, mate."

"Oh, sod off!"

Flourish and Blotts was clearly on the verge of closing for the night. Most of the lanterns had dimmed, and a tired-looking shop assistant was half-heartedly rearranging a display near the front. The only other customer was an older witch, slowly perusing the shelves, muttering to herself about the outrageous price of Hesper Starkey’s Guide to Potion Brewing.

None of that, however, deterred the group of drunken idiots Harry had arrived with. The moment they stepped inside, Daphne, Ron, Lyra, and Neville made a beeline for the Wandless Magic section, shoving past a display of Advanced Defensive Charms in their rush to prove the other wrong.

Harry sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he wandered towards the quieter side of the shop, scanning the shelves half-heartedly. Behind him, their argument continued, voices carrying much too loudly for a place that was not a pub.

"You're a right tosser, Weasley," Lyra was saying.

"And you're an absolute menace, Malfoy," Ron shot back.

"Both of you, shut up," Daphne cut in. "If you break something, I will leave you here to deal with the shopkeeper yourselves."

Neville, bless him, at least tried to be the voice of reason. "Alright, let’s find a book before we get kicked out, yeah?"

But Ron, predictably, wasn’t ready to let it go. "Listen, you daft cow, I know for a fact you’re chatting out of your arse—"

"You ginger buffoon—"

"Oi, you snake-faced harpy—"

"—overgrown kneazle—"

"—bat bogey hex waiting to happen—"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. He should go over there before this turned into an actual duel in the middle of the bookshop. He took a step forward—

At first, Harry didn’t recognize her.

She was just another person in the shop, another witch browsing the shelves, flipping through a book with the easy, unhurried grace of someone who belonged here. Dark hair, striking blue eyes, an air of quiet confidence. There was something about her that made his stomach churn, though he couldn’t place why.

Not until she turned her head slightly, allowing the light to catch her features just right.

His stomach dropped.

Astoria.

His mouth went dry as the realization slammed into him. His grip on the shelf tightened.

Astoria Greengrass.

And then, like a Bludger to the gut, it hit him. Greengrass.

Daphne’s sister.

He knew that. He knew that. He had always known that.

But somehow, after all this time, after everything that had happened, he had managed to push that detail so far to the back of his mind that seeing her here, in the same room as as all of them, felt like some cruel joke.

His heart pounded in his chest. His head was suddenly full of memories he had spent months trying to bury.

Astoria’s voice—sharp, precise—cutting through the air as she took of her clothes.

Lyra’s face—pale, drawn, tired—when she turned to look at him that day.

The sound of something breaking, though he couldn’t remember if it had been something in the room or just something inside him.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, blinking hard, forcing himself back to the present.

The bookshop was quiet save for the occasional rustling of pages and the increasingly loud argument in the back.

"Listen here, you absolute cockwomble," Lyra was saying, her voice carrying across the store.

"You ruddy nightmare," Ron shot back. "I know for a fact that wandless magic is more powerful in spontaneous instances, not premeditated ones!"

"That is utter bollocks!"

"Oi, language," Neville muttered, though he didn’t sound very invested in stopping them.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. When he opened them, Astoria was still standing there, still flicking through the pages of a book.

He needed to move. He needed to walk away before she noticed him.

Before she turned and recognized him.

But his feet refused to cooperate.

"Hey..." Harry started, the word barely leaving his mouth. His throat felt dry, and he had to force himself to speak properly. "Hello, Astoria. How do you do?"

Astoria froze for a fraction of a second, then quickly walked toward him, her blue eyes scanning his face with something close to urgency.

"Harry," she said quietly, "I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past week."

He knew that. Three different owls had come, each carrying letters he hadn’t dared to open. He had shoved them into the drawer of his bedside table, unopened and ignored, hoping they’d go away.

He didn't need a reminder of that mistake.

Astoria was still looking at him, waiting—expecting—him to respond.

"I—" He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he even say? That he had seen the letters and chosen not to read them? That he had spent the last few months trying to pretend that night had never happened?

She let out a quiet breath and glanced around as if checking to see if anyone was watching. "I need to talk to you. It’s important."

There was something about the way she said it, her voice quieter than before, more serious. Harry’s brows furrowed. "What—"

Before he could finish, loud voices rang out from the back of the shop.

"I’m telling you, Hermione would definitely agree with me!" Lyra’s voice carried through the nearly empty bookstore, clear and determined.

Ron scoffed, following right behind her. "Absolutely not! You’re completely barmy if you think she’d side with you on this!"

Daphne strolled in behind them, shaking her head at the argument already in progress. She barely glanced at Astoria before saying, "Oh, there you are. I was wondering if you’d gone home already."

And then Lyra turned, and the moment her eyes landed on Astoria, her entire facelit up.

"Astoria!" she gasped, beaming. "I thought you’d still be at Hogwarts!"

Astoria barely had a moment to react before Lyra practically launched  herself at her, wrapping her in a tight hug.

"Merlin, it’s been ages!" Lyra exclaimed, squeezing her once before stepping back, still grinning. "Harry, did you know Astoria was my roommate in fourth year? She almost caught us sending secret letters so many times!"

She was laughing now, oblivious to the way both Harry and Astoria had stiffened at her words. He could feel Astoria’s gaze dart toward him, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

"Yeah..." Astoria said after a pause. "I remember."

"Oh, Greengrass, I’ve missed you!" Lyra went on, completely unaware of the tension in the air. "Why have you abandoned me with your horrid sister?"

"Oh, sod off," Daphne said, rolling her eyes. "You love me, Malfoy."

Lyra smirked. "That I do, Daphne, that I do."

Astoria let out a small chuckle, but there was something strained about it, something hesitant.

Then she spoke again, her voice light but her words carefully measured. "I didn’t know you guys were going to come here."

But Harry heard what she really meant.

I didn’t know you and Lyra were back together.

A sinking feeling settled in his chest, an unpleasant reminder of the months he had spent trying—and failing—to get back to where he and Lyra had once been. He had thought they were getting there, slowly but surely. But the moment Astoria said those words, any lingering hope he’d had seemed to slip through his fingers.

He had to get out of here.

"Actually," he said abruptly, a little too loudly, "I think Astoria's busy right now. How about we head back to the apartment and play a round of cards?"

Ron immediately perked up. "Marvelous idea! Prepare to get your arse kicked, Greengrass. I am the best, after all."

"He actually is," Lyra admitted, laughing. "Especially at Wizard’s Chess—surprisingly good, really."

"Oi!" Ron objected, looking deeply offended. "What d’you mean surprisingly?"

"Mate, I hate to say it, but she’s right," Neville chimed in, chuckling. "Your entire personality is food and chess."

Ron glared. "I hate you all."

Daphne, who had been watching with mild amusement, smirked. "You love us, Weasley."

"That I do, Daphne, that I do," Ron muttered, mimicking Lyra’s words from earlier.

Neville chuckled before turning to Astoria. "You should come with us," he offered. "It’ll be fun."

Harry stiffened.

For one agonizing second, he was terrified she would say yes.

But Astoria hesitated only briefly before shaking her head. "You lot enjoy. Daphne, sister, I’ll see you at home."

As the group turned to leave, Harry risked one last glance at Astoria.

The look she gave him wasn’t just expectant—it was desperate.

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before muttering, "Tomorrow. Noon. I'll come here. We can talk then."

A flicker of relief crossed her face. "Thank you."

And then he was gone, walking out of the shop with Lyra laughing at something Ron said, while the weight of his unfinished conversation with Astoria settled heavily on his shoulders.

Lyra woke up to a pounding headache.

It felt like a hammer was repeatedly slamming against the inside of her skull, and when she groaned, burying her face into her pillow, she immediately regretted every life decision that had led to her drinking that much firewhiskey the night before.

The only silver lining was that it was the weekend, which meant no shifts at St. Mungo’s, no patients expecting her to function like a proper Healer, and no stern lectures from her supervisor about how hangovers and emergency spell-damage treatment did not go well together.

A soft click of footsteps echoed from the other side of the room.

She stiffened.

She knew that sound.

With a deep breath, she lifted her head just enough to confirm her suspicions—yep.

There he was.

Blaise Zabini, walking over to sit in the chair near her dresser, legs crossed, watching her with that infuriatingly knowing glint in his dark eyes.

"Good morning, sunshine," he drawled.

She groaned, flopping dramatically back onto her pillow. "Why are you here?"

Blaise took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. "Because watching you suffer is highly entertaining."

Lyra groaned again. "Go away, Blaise."

He ignored her, smiling at her as he fixed his jacket, the picture of effortless composure. "I’m impressed, actually. I thought you would’ve been out for at least another hour, considering how much of a spectacle you made of yourself last night."

"Merlin, shut up," she mumbled into her pillow. "I don’t need a running commentary."

Blaise smirked. "Oh, but I think you do."

Blaise shook his head. "You could have just paced yourself last night, you know. Maybe not gone shot-for-shot with Ron Weasley of all people."

"I wasn’t," she grumbled.

Blaise arched an elegant brow. "Lyra, I was there."

She huffed, rubbing her temple. She lifted her head just enough to glare at him. "Why are you here now?"

Blaise arched a brow. "I’m always here."

Which was true. Somehow, despite everything, despite their endless bickering, despite the way they seemed to irritate each other to no end, her best friend's ghost was always here. A steady, unwavering presence. It was starting to annoy her. 

And right now, he was watching her too closely, as if already picking apart her thoughts before she even had the chance to organize them herself.

She sat up slowly, wincing as the movement made her headache flare up. "If you’re here to judge me for getting pissed with the boys, I—"

"I’m not," he interrupted smoothly, setting down his tea. "Though, it was a terrible performance on your part. Honestly, Malfoy, I thought you held your liquor better than that."

She rolled her eyes. "Sorry to disappoint you, Zabini."

He chuckled, then leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "So," he said casually, "are you going to talk about it?"

Lyra narrowed her eyes. "Talk about what?"

Blaise gave her a look. "Don’t be thick."

She huffed and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples. "I don’t know what you’re on about."

"Don’t you?" Blaise mused. "You were awfully close to Potter last night."

Lyra stiffened. "And?"

"And you were laughing. You were happy." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "When was the last time you let yourself be happy, Lyra?"

The question hit deeper than she expected, and she immediately felt defensive. "I am happy," she shot back.

Blaise didn’t even blink. "Are you?"

She scowled. "Yes."

He sighed, shaking his head. "Lyra, I’ve known you long enough to recognize when you’re lying to yourself."

She clenched her jaw, refusing to answer.

"Look," Blaise continued, his voice softer now, less teasing, more serious. "I know you’re scared. I know what happened with Potter before—why you ended things, or as you like to, so eloquently put it, put a pause on a things."

Her stomach twisted.

"But you’re being a coward," he said bluntly.

Her eyes snapped to his, anger flaring in her chest. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Blaise’s gaze didn’t waver. "You’re afraid, so you’re pushing him away."

"I—"

"And I get it," he interrupted before she could argue. "I do. You lost so much when the war ended. And you think if you let yourself have this—if you let yourself be happy—something’s going to come along and take it away."

Lyra’s throat tightened.

Blaise leaned back in his chair, exhaling. "But that’s life, Ly. You don’t know how much time you have with someone. No one does." His voice was quieter now, the weight of his own experiences pressing into every syllable. "Take me, for example. I died at seventeen. One second, I was alive, standing there right beside you—the next, I wasn’t."

Lyra flinched. She hated when he talked about his death so casually.

Blaise noticed, of course. He always did.

He gave her a small, almost sad smile. "If I had known how little time I had, maybe I would’ve done things differently. Maybe I would’ve said things I never got the chance to say." He paused. "But you do have time, Lyra. Right now. With Potter. And you’re wasting it."

Silence hung between them for a long moment.

Lyra swallowed hard, staring down at her hands.

Blaise sighed. "Just... think about it, yeah?"

She nodded slowly.

And she did.

Even after Blaise disappeared, even as she lay back down and closed her eyes, trying to ease her headache, she thought about it.

She thought about Harry.

She thought about the way he always waited for her after her shifts, the way he laughed with her, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

She thought about how easy it was to be with him, how much she had missed him.

She thought about Blaise’s words—You never know how much time you have with someone.

And in that moment, Lyra decided.

She was done wasting time.

She was taking Harry back.

Lyra sat at a quiet corner table in the small Muggle café, hands wrapped tightly around the cup of tea she had barely touched. She had been here before—with him. Usually after they had gone to see some ridiculous Muggle film he had insisted was a classic, even if she found half of them nonsensical.

The place was secluded, dimly lit, and warm against the bitter winter air outside. It felt like the right place for this—for them.

She could do this.

She had been rehearsing what she was going to say all morning, pacing in her flat, changing her outfit three different times before deciding it didn’t matter.

He loved her. He still loved her.

Right?

The bell over the door chimed, and she looked up, breath catching as Harry stepped inside.

He looked... tired.

His hair was messier than usual, dark circles under his eyes, and he moved like someone carrying too much weight on his shoulders. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, shoulders tense. But Lyra convinced herself it was just the hangover—that’s all it was.

He spotted her, his gaze unreadable, and walked over.

"Hey," he said, voice rough.

Lyra offered him a small smile, motioning for him to sit. "Hey yourself."

He hesitated for half a second before sliding into the seat across from her, fingers lacing together on the table. His knuckles were pale.

She swallowed hard. Just say it.

"I—I wanted to talk," she started, keeping her voice steady, careful. "I’ve been thinking a lot about us, Harry. And last night—" she let out a nervous laugh, "—it reminded me how easy it is. How much I miss you."

Harry didn’t react. Not at first. He just stared at her, expression blank.

Her stomach twisted, but she pushed forward.

"I was scared," she admitted. "And I know that’s not fair to you. I ran because I was terrified of losing you. Of hurting you. But the truth is—I love you, Harry. I love you so much, and I don’t want to waste any more time."

She reached for his hand across the table.

His fingers twitched, but he didn’t take it.

Instead, his eyes—green and stormy and distant—grew even more defeated.

Then, softly, too softly, he said, "Lyra, I—we can’t."

A chill crawled up her spine.

Her hand dropped. "What?"

Harry inhaled sharply, like this was hurting him too. "Lyra—"

"Do– do you not love me anymore?" she whispered, heart pounding.

His head snapped up. "God—Merlin, no." His voice cracked. "I love you so much, but—"

"But what?" she asked, her voice trembling now. "Harry, you’re scaring me."

Harry shut his eyes, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Like he couldn’t bear to look at her when he said it.

"I'm having a baby." The words spill from his lips too fast, like ripping off a bandage, as if saying it quickly will soften the impact.

Lyra blinks. "What do you mean?" she whispers.

His throat bobs. "I'm having a child."

Silence.

"With someone else?"

The world was still.

Too still.

Lyra felt like she had been plunged underwater, the sound around her muffled, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest, suffocating her.

Harry was staring at the table now, jaw tight, fingers clenched together as if he wanted to disappear into himself.

She needed to say something. She had to say something. Lyra’s pulse pounded in her ears, fingers curling against the edge of the table like she needed to hold onto something—anything—to keep herself from falling apart.

"Who?" she managed, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Harry hesitated. Just for a second.

And that second was all she needed to feel the first crack form in her ribs, splintering through her like glass.

"Does it matter?" he asked quietly.

Her breath came sharp and ragged. "Of course it bloody matters!"

Harry winced but didn’t look away. "Astoria."

Lyra froze.

The name echoed, ringing in her ears, bouncing around her skull like she had misheard him.

"Astoria?" she repeated, feeling like she was grasping for something solid, something real. But the ground beneath her was slipping too fast. "Daphne’s sister, my friend—Astoria?"

Harry exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Yeah."

Her stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing at her throat.

Her mind raced back to the night before. Astoria’s hesitant gaze, the way she had looked between them, the silent message in her eyes.

The way she had looked at her, like she was trying to apologize.

Oh.

Lyra swallowed, but it felt like swallowing glass. "When?" she demanded, voice barely above a whisper. "When did this happen?"

Harry’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer right away.

Which meant she already knew.

"A few months ago," he admitted.

Her heart clenched.

"A few months ago?" she repeated, stunned. "As in—when we—"

She didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t.

Harry shook his head quickly, eyes wide. "No! Merlin, no. It was after—after you left. We weren’t together anymore, Lyra. You made that choice."

"What date?" she cut in sharply.

Harry hesitated.

She felt the hesitation before she even saw it, the way his lips parted slightly like he wanted to lie—like he wanted to soften the truth.

"Harry."

His throat bobbed.

"The day we decided to take a break."

It hit her like a physical thing, knocking the breath from her lungs.

Her fingers curled into the edge of the table, knuckles white.

"The break?" she repeated, her voice rising. "Not a breakup, Harry. A break. We never even—" She let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Oh my God."

She shoved her chair back, standing so fast it scraped loudly against the floor.

"You didn’t even wait a full fucking day?" Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care. "Were you just waiting for an excuse? Was it that easy?"

"It wasn’t like that, Lyra." His voice was quiet, tired.

"Then tell me what it was like, because I’m having a hard time understanding!"

Harry dragged a hand down his face. "I was a mess, alright? You left, and I—I was angry. I felt like I was losing everything, I was drunk and she was just... there."

"There?" she repeated bitterly. "So you what, tripped and fell into bed with her?"

"Lyra—"

"You aren’t even nineteen, Harry!" she cut him off, voice trembling with rage now. "Do you even understand what you’ve done?"

He looked away.

"Do you know how hard it is to raise a child, Harry?" she continued, voice dripping with anger. "You can’t walk away now. You can’t just panic and think, ‘She’ll be fine raising a child alone for the next eighteen years,’ like it’s not your responsibility too—because it is, Harry. This is just as much your mess as it is hers!"

She jabbed a finger hard into his chest.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up.

"I know," he whispered.

Something in his voice—quiet, broken—made her pause for half a second.

But it wasn’t enough.

"Do you?" she bit out, hands shaking. "Because if you knew, you wouldn’t have done it. If you knew, you wouldn’t have let this happen—"

"You think I wanted this?" Harry’s voice finally sharpened, an edge cutting through the exhaustion. "You think I planned this? That I wanted to ruin everything?"

"You didn’t just ruin everything," she shot back. "You fucking destroyed it."

His jaw clenched, and for the first time, he actually looked angry.

"I know I did," he said, voice taut. "And I have to live with that. Every single day, Lyra. You think I don’t know what this means? You think I don’t—" He exhaled sharply, pressing his palms against the table. "It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s done. You left me."

She sucked in a sharp breath.

She had left.

She had been the one to walk away, to push him aside because of her fears.

And now—now she had come back, expecting everything to fall back into place. Expecting him to fall back into place.

But life had moved on without her.

And so had he.

"Do you love her?" she asked, voice barely steady.

Harry hesitated.

And that single moment of hesitation shattered something inside of her.

"No," he admitted quietly. "But that doesn’t change anything. There’s going to be a child, Lyra. My child."

The finality in his voice nearly broke her, the words echoed, ringing in her ears. My child.

Her breath shuddered out of her, and for the first time in a long, long time, Lyra didn’t know what to say.

The weight of it all settled on her chest, suffocating.

Her vision blurred, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of him. Not when she had already lost.

So instead, she forced herself to stand, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"Congratulations, then," she said, voice hollow.

She didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t give him a chance to say anything else—because if he did, she might shatter completely.

So she turned and walked out of the café, each step feeling heavier than the last.

And for the first time since the war ended, Lyra Malfoy knew what it truly felt like to lose Harry Potter. What it truly felt like to lose everything.