chasing circles

you promised to be my maybe

"by the time you were gone, I had already lost you a hundreddifferenttimes"

23rd February, 1999

Two days.

That was how long it had been since Lyra had walked out of that café, her heart torn apart, her soul left in ruins.

Two days since Harry had looked her in the eye and told her he was having a child.

Two days since she had felt the walls of her world cave in around her, leaving her trapped in the wreckage of what could have been.

And she hadn’t left her bed.

Not really, anyway. She had gotten up only when absolutely necessary—to eat, to stumble into the washroom, where the sight of herself in the mirror only made things worse. Every time she caught her reflection, she saw the mess he had left behind. Red-rimmed eyes, hollowed-out expression, lips bitten raw from trying to hold back the sobs that still clawed at her throat.

A ghost of the girl who had once believed, with every inch of her, that Harry Potter was hers.

She was Lyra Malfoy. She had survived wars, defied fate.

But this was the thing that broke her.

Harry Potter had broken her.

Not just her heart—no, that was far too gentle a word.

He had shattered her.

Left her in a million jagged pieces, and every time she tried to put herself back together, those pieces only cut her deeper.

And now Blaise Zabini—her dead, frustrating, ever-opinionated best friend—was lounging at the head of her bed, arms crossed, eyes sharp with something between pity and exasperation.

"Alright, Malfoy," he said, kicking the blankets at her feet. "This is getting pathetic."

Lyra groaned and buried her face deeper into the pillow. "Go away, Blaise."

"Nope," he said, all too cheerful for someone who had literally died. "Not happening. It’s Monday. You can’t just wallow forever because your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—well, father-of-someone-else’s-child-now—decided to royally fuck things up."

She let out a muffled groan. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," he said smugly. "You need me. Especially now, when you’re clearly too weak to function on your own."

She peeked out from beneath her blanket, eyes narrowed. "I swear to Merlin, sometimes I wish I could bring you back to life just so I could kill you myself."

Blaise smirked. "Charming. But I hate to break it to you, love, even if I were alive, I’d still be forcing you out of bed."

She scowled. "Then it’s a good thing you’re dead."

"Lyra." His voice softened, and fuck, she hated that.

She turned onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "It’s bad, Blaise."

"I know," he murmured.

She swallowed hard, her throat raw. "It took him hours." She let out a humorless laugh, one that hurt as it left her lips. "Hours, Blaise. He told me he loved me, and the second I was gone—" Her voice cracked. "He didn’t even wait for me."

Blaise sighed, watching her with that unreadable expression. "Lyra—"

"No," she cut him off, sitting up suddenly, anger rising in her chest like wildfire. "He knew I was going to come back to him. He knew I needed time. And yet he—"

She broke off, hands clenching into fists in her lap.

"He moved on," she whispered, voice trembling.

Blaise was quiet.

"And do you know the worst part?" she continued, her breath shaky. "I would’ve come back. No matter what. No matter how scared I was, no matter how long it took, I always would have found my way back to him."

Her voice rose, sharp and bitter. "But I don’t have that choice anymore, do I? Because while I was grieving, while I was trying to breathe through losing him and everything else, he was in her bed. And now there’s a child. A fucking child, Blaise."

She sucked in a ragged breath, fingers trembling. "He took away my choice. He didn’t even give me time to fix this. He just—he left me behind."

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

Then, finally, Blaise exhaled. "Lyra, men are idiots."

She let out a bitter laugh. "No kidding."

"They’re impulsive. They panic. And sometimes they do incredibly, unbelievably stupid things when they’re hurting." He tilted his head. "But that doesn’t mean what you two had wasn’t real."

She scoffed. "It doesn’t feel real anymore."

Blaise leaned forward, his gaze steady. "It was real," he said firmly. "But life moved on while you were deciding. He moved on."

Lyra swallowed, blinking rapidly, hating the way her eyes burned.

"He should’ve waited," she whispered. "I waited."

Blaise sighed. "Would you still have really gone back to him, though? If none of this had happened?"

"Yes," she snapped without hesitation. "Yes, I wouldhave. Always. I would have found my way back to him no matter what it took, because—" Her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes tightly. "Because he was mine."

Blaise was quiet for a moment. "That’s the thing about time, Malfoy," he said finally. "It doesn’t wait for you to decide."

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And, of course it was that night. Of course the second I walked out, he went and—" She sucked in a sharp breath, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I swear to Merlin, I—"

She stopped, because her vision was blurring, and the fury was being swallowed by something deeper, something more painful.

Lyra’s jaw clenched.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

Blaise tilted his head, considering. "Well," he said casually, "first, you’re going to get out of bed, take a shower, and stop looking like something that crawled out of Knockturn Alley."

She shot him a look.

"And then," he continued, voice softer, "you’re going to live, Lyra. Because despite what it feels like, your world did not end with Harry Potter."

She exhaled shakily, staring at the ceiling a moment longer.

Then, finally, she threw the blankets off, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and stood.

Blaise grinned. "Atta girl."

Mondays truly didn't give a fuck about your world ending.

Lyra moved like a ghost through the halls of St. Mungo’s.

Her body went through the motions, her feet carried her forward, but it was like watching someone else wear her skin. Like she had been hollowed out, like some essential part of her had been scooped away and left her empty.

Lyra entered the staff room, the strong scent of antiseptic potions and parchment filling her nose. The room was already busy with Healers preparing for their shifts, charting patient updates, and grabbing quick cups of tea before heading off. She barely made it two steps inside before a voice cut through the noise.

"Malfoy! You’re late."

She turned, already bracing herself.

Healer Douglas Worthing, her supervisor, stood near a set of filing cabinets, arms crossed. He was a wiry man in his late forties, with graying hair that he kept meticulously combed back and a permanent expression of exhausted skepticism. His Healer robes were crisp, but his sleeves were rolled up in that way that suggested he had already been working for hours.

"I’m not late," Lyra countered, walking over to the work board. "My shift starts at eight, and it’s—" she flicked her wand at the old grandfather clock in the corner. "—seven fifty-nine."

Worthing’s eyes narrowed. "You’re cutting it close. And you look like you’ve been hit by a particularly nasty Jelly-Legs Jinx."

Lyra forced a tight smile. "Flattering, as always."

"Just an observation," Worthing said, eyeing her critically. "Now, are you actually going to be useful today, or are you planning on sulking around and knocking over potions like Peterson last week?"

"I’ll be useful," she said dryly.

"Lyra."

Her supervisor’s voice was careful, quiet—too careful.

She exhaled sharply before turning to face him. 

He frowned, "Are you alright?"

"Of course," she said, forcing her voice into something light, functional. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

He studied her.

She knew what he saw.

The bruises beneath her eyes from lack of sleep, the way her usual sharp posture was just a little more slumped, how her face—normally expressive, alive—was pale and unreadable.

She knew he saw the way her hands curled into fists at her sides, like she was trying to hold herself together. But she had long perfected the art of pretending.

So when he hesitated, she gave him a small, practiced smile.

"I’m fine," she repeated, tone steady. "Tell me where you need me."

There was a pause—just a moment where it seemed like he might push, might ask again, "Fine. We’re short-staffed today, and I’ve got at least three patients I need an extra pair of hands on. Spell Damage is a bloody mess right now."

"Nothing new, then," Lyra muttered, grabbing a fresh set of parchment and tucking it under her arm.

Worthing snorted. "Exactly. Let’s go, Malfoy. You can mope on your own time."

She bit back a sharp reply and followed him out.

The Spell Damage Ward was, as always, a disaster.

They barely made it past the entrance before a young Healer-in-Training rushed up to them, lLyra barely had time to get her bearings before a young Healer-in-Training rushed up, looking panicked and sweaty, a clipboard clutched in his trembling hands.

"Healer Worthing," the trainee gasped, eyes wide. "Mr. Abbott’s skin is still flashing between green and blue, and the Anti-Mutagenic Draft isn’t working."

Worthing groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Of course it’s not." He snatched the parchment from the trainee and scanned it, his frown deepening. "Someone miscalculated the dilution. He’s resisting the potion because his system is still overloaded with residual transformation magic. What did you give him so far?"

The trainee swallowed. "Uh—two doses of the Anti-Mutagenic Draft, but he started turning purple, so we tried a Purging Potion—"

"Which just stripped away the top layer of the transfiguration magic and left his system raw." Worthing shook his head. "Brilliant. And now you’ve made it twice as difficult to reverse. Bloody fantastic."

The trainee paled. "Should I—?"

"Give him a half-dose of Silverthorn Solution and a basic Cleansing Draught first," Worthing interrupted. "Then try the Anti-Mutagenic Draft again. Slowly. And if you make him polka-dotted this time, I’m sending you to restock potions inventory for a month."

The trainee nodded frantically and bolted off toward the supply cabinet.

Worthing sighed, rubbing his temples. "Idiots. You’d think they’d check the standard protocol before panicking."

"Maybe you should start testing them before hiring them," Lyra muttered, adjusting her sleeves.

"Ha! If we did that, we’d have no one left to work here." Worthing shook his head and passed her a chart. "You’re on bed six. Some genius tried an experimental Memory Charm on himself. Now he thinks he’s a goat."

Lyra arched an eyebrow. "A goat?"

"A very loud goat," Worthing grumbled. "One that keeps attempting to headbutt the furniture. He’s already broken a chair and tried to eat a curtain. If you don’t fix him soon, we’ll have to start charging him for property damage."

Lyra flipped through the patient’s file, scanning the previous attempts at reversal. "Standard counter-curse?"

"Tried it twice already," Worthing said. "Didn’t take. I’d rather not risk another spell-induced backlash, so we’re going to have to do this the hard way. Brew a modified Amnesiac Reversal Potion, but don’t overdo it. Last thing we need is another patient forgetting his own name permanently."

Lyra hummed, already forming a plan in her head. "I’ll start on it now. We have the base ingredients in storage, yeah?"

Worthing waved a dismissive hand. "Should be. If not, steal some from Peterson. He never locks his potion cabinet properly."

"Very ethical," Lyra deadpanned.

Worthing snorted. "This place would collapse in a week if we worried about ethics first and results second."

They walked a few steps further before Worthing suddenly gave her a sideways glance.

"Malfoy."

She sighed. "Yes?"

"You look like hell."

"So you said."

He paused, his voice losing its usual sarcasm. "Whatever it is, don’t bring it into my ward."

Lyra’s grip on the chart tightened, but she nodded. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Worthing studied her for a moment longer, then exhaled. "Good." He cleared his throat, snapping back into his usual no-nonsense demeanor. "Now go fix the bloody goat-man before he starts chewing on the furniture again. I like that chair."

Lyra smirked despite herself. "I’ll see what I can do."

With that, Worthing strode off, already yelling at another unfortunate Healer-in-Training.

Lyra rolled her shoulders, took a deep breath, and squared herself.

Fine.

Work.

She could do work.

At least here, she had a purpose.

The cauldron in front of Lyra bubbled softly, the modified Amnesiac Reversal Potion nearing the right consistency. She had just reached for a vial of powdered Jobberknoll feathers and she had been doing fine—fine—until the door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. The second she heard Daphne’s voice, a sharp surge of anger rippled through her, hot and immediate.

"Lyra," Daphne greeted. "Healer Worthing sent me to give you the Bubotuber pus you needed."

Lyra didn’t respond. She simply held out a hand, still not looking at her.

Daphne hesitated before pressing the vial into Lyra’s palm. A silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken.

"Lyra, what’s wrong?"

Nothing. No reaction.

Daphne sighed, crossing her arms. "Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment?"

More silence.

"Lyra—"

"Did you know?" Lyra cut in, voice sharp as a knife.

Daphne blinked. "Know what?"

Finally, Lyra turned, and the look in her eyes made Daphne falter. There was fury there—unrestrained, crackling, barely contained rage.

"Astoria," Lyra said, voice low. "The baby."

Daphne’s whole body went stiff.

Her eyes widened, but just as quickly, she schooled her expression into something colder. "How in Salazar's name do you know about that?"

Lyra let out a sharp, humorless scoff. "So you did know," she spat. "You knew, and you didn’t tell me."

Daphne’s expression hardened. "Why the fuck would I tell you? It's not my place to."

Lyra laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. "Oh, that’s the best you’ve got?" She turned fully now, crossing her arms. "You knew your sister was pregnant, and you just conveniently left that detail out?"

Daphne’s stance became defensive, her chin tilting up slightly. "It’s Astoria’s life, Lyra. Not mine. I don’t go blabbing about things that aren’t mine to share."

Lyra’s nails dug into her palms. "Not yours to share," she repeated, voice trembling with fury. "But it was fine to stand next to me every bloody day, laughing with me, chatting, acting like nothing was wrong—"

"Because nothing was wrong," Daphne cut in, frustration bleeding into her voice. "Astoria being pregnant has nothing to do with you."

Lyra’s fingers clenched tighter. "It has everything to do with me," she said, her voice dangerously quiet.

Daphne frowned. "Why would it?"

Lyra inhaled sharply. "I thought we were friends, Greengrass but I guess that's just one more thing I was mistaken about. I guess they were right when they said loyalty is an extinct concept."

"Don’t give me that," Daphne snapped. "This wasn’t about loyalty, Lyra. It was about privacy. I wasn’t about to go around spreading Astoria’s business—"

"It’s not just her business!" Lyra slammed the wooden stirring rod onto the table, the sound echoing sharply in the small room. "It’s my life too, Daphne!"

Daphne flinched but held her ground. "How is it about your life in any way? And it's not like I wanted to keep it from you, alright? But what was I supposed to do? Walk up and say, ‘Hey Lyra, guess what? My baby sister’s pregnant’—"

"Yes!" Lyra practically shouted. "That’s exactly what you should have done!"

The sudden commotion startled the patient behind them—who was still under the effects of the botched Memory Charm—and a loud, obnoxious "MEEEEHHHHH!" erupted from the hospital bed.

Daphne startled, turning her head sharply toward the sound. "What the hell was that?"

Lyra barely even blinked. "That’s my patient. He thinks he’s a goat."

Daphne stared at her for a long moment. "Of course he does," she muttered. Then, shaking her head, she turned back. 

Daphne was still watching her, still assessing—the way she wouldn’t meet her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the devastation lingering beneath the surface of her fury.

"I don't get how my little's sister pregnancy had anything to do with you!" 

Lyra’s hands curled into fists at her sides. "It does when Harry is involved!"

Then, like a switch had flipped—

"No," Daphne whispered, breathless.

Lyra’s silence was answer enough.

"No," Daphne repeated, her voice rising with disbelief. "You’re not saying—it’s Harry’s?"

The bubbling potion filled the suffocating silence.

Lyra swallowed hard. "Yes."

Daphne took a step back, like she had been physicallyhit. "Oh, Merlin," she breathed. She ran a hand through her hair, looking sick. "Oh, bloody hell—"

"Drop the pretense, Daphne," Lyra muttered.

Daphne’s eyes snapped back to hers, now full of fire. "Pretense?" she repeated, her voice incredulous. "Are you joking? I just found out about this!"

Lyra scoffed. "Oh, please. You expect me to believe that?"

"Yes!" Daphne snapped. "Astoria never told me who the father was! And now I know why! Because if I knew it was Harry bloody Potter, I would have told you!"

Lyra’s jaw clenched. "Oh, would you?"

"Yes!" The Greengrass girl sighed, "You think she was going to waltz up to me and say, ‘By the way, Daphne, the father of my child is the man Lyra Malfoy is in love with’—that sound like something my sister would do?"

Lyra’s breath hitched, but she didn’t back down. "I wouldn’t put anything past her," she bit out.

Daphne inhaled sharply. "That’s not fair," she said, voice suddenly lower, more dangerous. "Say what you want about me, but leave my sister out of it."

Lyra let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "That’s rich, considering she’s the reason we’re having this conversation."

Daphne took a step closer, her stance suddenly rigid, defensive. "You’re acting like she did this to spite you."

"Didn’t she?" Lyra challenged. "Out of every bloody person in the world, Harry? She knew. She had to know, and yet she still—" Lyra broke off, shaking her head. "Forget it. It doesn’t matter."

"No," Daphne snapped, "you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to stand there and blame my sister for something you think she did out of malice just because you’re hurt! She was drunk that night."

"I am not—" Lyra stopped herself, inhaling deeply. "Forget it," she said again, voice quieter this time.

Daphne studied her closely, still bristling. "What are you going to do?"

Lyra’s fingers dug into the wooden counter behind her. "Nothing."

Daphne blinked. "What?"

"You heard me," Lyra muttered. "Nothing."

Daphne stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. "That’s it?"

Lyra exhaled slowly, fixing her gaze on the cauldron. "What do you want me to do, Daphne? Fight her for him? They are having a child." A bitter smirk tugged at her lips. "If he wanted me, I wouldn’t be standing here right now."

Daphne’s mouth opened, then closed.

The goat-man let out another loud bleat. "MEEEEHHHH!"

Neither of them moved.

Finally, Daphne sighed, rubbing her temples. "Merlin help us all."

Lyra turned off the burner beneath the cauldron. "Yeah," she murmured. "We’re gonna need it."

The crisp evening air bit at Lyra’s skin as she stepped out of St. Mungo’s, exhaustion pressing heavy on her shoulders. The day had been long, grueling—mentally and physically—but nothing compared to the weight in her chest, the ache buried so deep she could barely breathe around it.

She just wanted to go home. To close the door, shut out the world, and pretend, for just a few hours, that none of this was happening.

But then she saw him.

Harry was leaning against the stone railing just outside the entrance, his head slightly bowed, one hand buried in his pocket while the other toyed absently with his wand. The golden glow of the streetlamps cast a warm halo over his features, but Lyra’s sharp gaze immediately caught the fresh gash on his cheek, just beneath his left eye.

Probably from training.

One more month. That was all that was left. One more month, and he’d be an Auror.

One more month, and she’d be—

She swallowed hard and kept walking. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t break stride, didn’t acknowledge him at all. If she did, she wasn’t sure what would happen.

“Lyra.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t respond.

“Lyra, wait.”

Footsteps.

He was following her.

She quickened her pace.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Are you really going to do this? Just—pretend I’m not here?”

Yes.

Because if she spoke, she might say too much. If she looked at him, she might break.

“Can you—please—just talk to me?” he tried again, his voice quieter, strained.

She clenched her jaw and kept walking.

Harry let out a frustrated breath. "I don't know what I'm doing."

That made her stop.

Slowly, she turned.

Harry stood barely a foot away, his green eyes searching hers, desperate, uncertain. There was something raw in his expression, something hesitant.

And there it was again—that unbearable ache in her chest, the one she had been trying so desperately to push down.

The one that reminded her that in another life, they would have still been together. That they wouldn’t be standing here like this, with too many things left unsaid between them.

But this wasn’t another life.

This was now.

And right now, it hurt like hell.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he repeated, quieter this time. “With any of this.”

Lyra inhaled slowly. "Then figure it out, Harry."

He flinched slightly, like she had hit him.

She let out a breath, shaking her head. "I shouldn’t have to do this for you. I shouldn’t have to stand here and—” she exhaled sharply. “I’m not doing this.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I'm not asking you to—"

"Aren't you?" Lyra shot back, folding her arms. "Because it feels like that's exactly what you're doing. You’re asking me to—what? Hold your hand while you try and make sense of it all?" She let out a humorless laugh. "Do you even realize how unfair that is?"

He looked at her, exhaling sharply. "You think I meant for this to happen?"

"That doesn't change the fact that it did."

Harry stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tightening. "I didn't want to hurt you, Lyra."

She let out a bitter chuckle, shaking her head. "Want had nothing to do with it, Potter."

He flinched at the use of his surname.

A silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Harry exhaled slowly. "You think this is easy for me?"

Lyra scoffed. "Don’t do that. Don’t stand here and act like you’re the victim."

"I never said I was," he muttered.

"You didn’t have to."

Harry’s hands curled into fists at his sides. "I didn't plan any of this, Lyra. I didn't wake up one morning and decide—" He let out a frustrated breath. "Fuck." He looked away for a moment, staring at the cobblestones like they held the answers he couldn't find. Then, finally, he met her eyes again. "I don’t know how to fix this."

Lyra swallowed against the lump in her throat.

A part of her wanted to tell him that he couldn’t. That nothing he said, nothing he did, would change what had already happened.

But instead, she just exhaled, her voice quieter this time.

"Go home, Harry."

He didn’t move.

Her hands trembled at her sides, but she forced herself to turn away.

She didn’t look back.

The house was dimly lit when Lyra stepped inside, the only sound the faint crackling of the fireplace in the sitting room. The warm glow of candlelight flickered along the walls, stretching shadows across the ornate furniture. The scent of jasmine and aged parchment lingered in the air—familiar, comforting in a way that made her chest ache.

Her mother was exactly where she had left her that morning—perched by the window, posture poised, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her long, pale fingers traced slow, absentminded circles against the fabric of her robe. She was staring outside, eyes fixed on something in the distance, though Lyra doubted she was actually seeing anything.

The sight sent an unwelcome pang through her.

Lyra sighed and set her bag down with a dull thud. "Mother?"

Narcissa didn’t move, didn’t even blink.

"Mother," Lyra repeated, firmer this time.

Finally, her mother stirred, turning her head slightly. She looked at Lyra with a vague sort of awareness, as if she had just remembered she wasn’t alone in the house. "You’re home late."

Lyra let out a breath. "Long shift."

Narcissa gave a soft hum of acknowledgment but said nothing more.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Lyra's exhaustion, the day’s frustrations, the everything pressing down on her—it all coiled tightly in her chest.

She took a slow step forward. "Are you alright?"

Her mother didn’t respond immediately. She simply smoothed out the fabric of her sleeve, her fingers ghosting over the embroidery like she wasn’t entirely present. Then, finally—

"Of course, darling," she murmured.

Lyra frowned.

She hated that answer. That placid, controlled tone. That nothingness.

"Really?" she pressed, arms crossing. "Because you look like you've been sitting here for hours just… staring."

"I was thinking," Narcissa said simply.

"About what?"

A pause. "Nothing of importance."

Lyra let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Right. Because everything is ‘nothing of importance’ with you."

Narcissa turned her gaze toward her, cool and unreadable. "Lyra—"

"Never mind," Lyra muttered, shaking her head. "Forget it."

She clenched her jaw, willing herself to stay calm, but her fingers curled into fists at her sides. It was always like this. Always carefully measured words. Always distance. Always something left unsaid.

She was so tired of it.

She exhaled sharply, trying to push down the frustration crawling up her throat. But it stayed there, thick and unbearable.

For a long moment, she didn’t even know what to say.

There was too much. Too much hurt. Too much anger. Too many words she wanted to throw out just to get a reaction.

Instead, her voice came out flat. "Astoria is pregnant."

Narcissa barely reacted. She was still staring out the window, her fingers idly toying with a loose thread on her sleeve.

"That’s wonderful, darling," she said distantly.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with words unspoken and wounds left to fester. Lyra wasn’t sure why she had even expected anything different.

She should’ve known.

She should’ve known her mother would retreat behind her usual veil of detachment. That she would say something polite, vague—hollow.

"That’s wonderful, darling."

That was all she had said.

Lyra closed her eyes, exhaling through her nose. Her heart was pounding—frustration, exhaustion, everything pressing down on her all at once.

Then, she opened her eyes and said, flatly, "Harry is the father."

And that—that finally got a reaction.

Narcissa’s fingers stilled.

Her head turned slowly, pale blue eyes focusing, sharpening, as if she had finally, truly heard her daughter.

"Oh."

Lyra laughed. She laughed, but it was hollow, bitter, cracking at the edges. "Oh?" she echoed. "That’s all you have to say?"

Narcissa’s lips parted slightly, as if searching for words, but none came.

Lyra let out a sharp, humorless breath and turned away, hands on her hips, her nails digging into her sides. "Of course. Of course that’s all you have to say. What was I expecting?"

"Lyra—"

"No." She turned back around, eyes flashing. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to sit there and act like this is nothing when I feel like my whole world is falling apart."

Her mother’s expression remained frustratingly composed. "I did not say it was nothing."

"But you act like it," Lyra snapped. "You always act like it. Like none of this touches you. Like none of this hurts you." She exhaled sharply, her voice quieter, but no less anguished. "Do you even care?"

Narcissa’s eyes flickered, something shifting in them just slightly. "You know I do."

Lyra shook her head. "Do I?" She gestured at her mother, sitting there in her perfect posture, her fingers idly smoothing out a wrinkle in her dress as though she were discussing tea preferences and not her daughter’s breaking heart. "Because I don’t feel like you’re here, Mother. I don’t feel like you’ve been here for a long time."

Narcissa’s gaze faltered for the first time. "That is not fair."

"Isn’t it?" Lyra bit back. "You sit here every day, staring out that bloody window like you’re waiting for something that’s never coming back. And I—I don’t know what to do anymore." Her voice cracked, and she hated it. "I don’t know how to help you, I don’t know how to help myself—"

A long, aching pause.

Then, quieter, almost broken—

"I need you, Mum."

She swallowed hard. "I need you so much. And I—I can’t keep pretending that I don’t."

Narcissa inhaled sharply, but still, she said nothing.

Lyra’s hands clenched at her sides. "I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know how to help anyone. Not you. Not myself. Not Astoria. And Harry—" Her voice caught on his name, and she shook her head, pressing her lips together. "I don’t even know where to start."

Narcissa was watching her now, truly watching her, and for a second, there was something vulnerable in her gaze. A flicker of something that made Lyra’s chest ache.

"You don’t have to fix everything, Lyra," Narcissa finally murmured. "Sometimes, things are just... broken."

Lyra’s throat tightened. "Then what do I do? How do I stop it from hurting so much."

Narcissa hesitated, then slowly, hesitantly, reached out.

A light touch to her shoulder. Barely anything, but it still made Lyra freeze.

"You breathe," her mother said softly. "You take one step at a time." She exhaled, and there was something almost pained in the way she said, "And you don’t have to do it alone."

Lyra searched her face, really searched her face, looking for cracks in the perfect, composed exterior.

And she saw them.

Faint, almost invisible—but there.

A weariness behind her mother’s eyes, a quiet sorrow, a grief she had been holding onto for far too long.

And suddenly, Lyra understood.

Her mother wasn’t unaffected. She wasn’t indifferent.

She was just tired.

Exhausted in a way that went beyond words.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Lyra stepped forward—not away, not in anger, but toward her mother.

Narcissa’s breath hitched slightly as Lyra hesitated for just a second before—finally—wrapping her arms around her.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then—slowly, cautiously—Narcissa let herself lean in.

And just like that—

She broke.

Her breath hitched again, but this time, it was shakier. Her fingers curled slightly against Lyra’s back, gripping the fabric of her robes as she exhaled, and it sounded like it was dragged from somewhere deep inside her.

Lyra held her mother tighter, closing her eyes.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

For once, words weren’t needed.