chasing circles

Chapter Four

my heart rarely beats these days

"i found him in the answers for the questions i wasn't keen to ask"

5th April, 1999

The pain was what woke her, a scream dying in her throat.

A sharp, aching hollowness in her chest, as if something had been ripped away from her in the middle of the night, leaving only an empty, gaping wound where her heart should be. Lyra gasped, curling in on herself, fingers clenching at the sheets as if they could anchor her, as if they could stop the feeling of loss from swallowing her whole.

It took her a moment to realize she wasn't alone.

The shadows in the dimly lit bedroom shifted, coalescing into something familiar. Someone familiar.

Blaise.

He was sitting in the chair near her desk, posture relaxed but gaze sharp, watching her with a quiet intensity that made it clear he had been here for some time. He looked exactly the way she remembered him before he died—pristine robes, composed expression, always somehow effortlessly put together even in the worst of times.

She hated seeing him like this. Hated knowing he wasn't real, that he was nothing more than a ghost, a figment of her own making. Blaise was dead. He had been dead for almost a year now. But still, in moments like this—when the grief threatened to break her, when she felt like she was drowning in everything she couldn't fix—he came back. 

"It's been a while," he said, voice calm, steady, the way it had always been. "You haven't needed me."

Lyra closed her eyes, willing away the burning at the back of her throat. "I don't need you now."

"Liar."

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her nightgown, nails pressing into her palms. "You're not real."

"And yet, here I am."

She exhaled sharply, sitting up, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. The pain was still there, a dull, echoing ache inside her ribs. She knew why it was there.

It had been over a month since she confronted Daphne. Over a month since she had learned the truth about Astoria. About the baby. About Harry.

And yet, the hurt had not lessened.

On the contrary, she felt like it was just getting worse, like her reality was becoming more... permanent and fixed.

Her mother had noticed, of course. Narcissa Malfoy had always been perceptive over everything else, and that was no exception to now, when she was trying to swallow herself in her own grief and unbearable guilt. But things had also been different lately—her mother was getting better. Slowly. She spent less time staring out the window, less time drifting through the manor like a ghost herself. She was more present now, though not always in the ways Lyra needed her to be.

At least, she was trying. It was Lyra could really ask.

Blaise shifted, watching her with a knowing look. "You're getting worse."

Lyra let out a humorless laugh. "So encouraging, as always. Glad to know death didn't change your negative aura."

"I'm not here to encourage you. I'm here because you refuse to let yourself move forward."

She stiffened. "I am moving forward."

Blaise tilted his head. "Really? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're still lying awake at night thinking about the same things. The same people."

Her jaw tightened. "It's not that simple."

"It never is." His gaze softened, just slightly. "But you don't have to do this to yourself, Lyra."

She wanted to snap at him. Wanted to tell him to leave her alone, to stop acting like he understood when he wasn't even here. But she didn't. Because deep down, she knew he was right.

Silence stretched between them, heavy with things she didn't know how to say.

Finally, she forced herself to look at him. "Why are you really here?"

Blaise didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood, crossing the room until he was standing directly in front of her. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made her chest tighten.

"You already know," he murmured.

Lyra swallowed hard.

Because she did.

Because deep down, she knew the real reason why he had come back.

It wasn't just about the heartbreak. It wasn't just about Astoria or the baby or Harry.

It was about her.

Because despite everything—despite the way she carried herself, despite the walls she had built so carefully—she was breaking. And she wasn't sure if she could put herself back together this time.

Blaise reached out, his fingers ghosting over her shoulder—not quite touching, not quite real. But the gesture was enough.

"You have to stop," he said softly. "You have to let yourself live, Lyra."

Her throat felt tight. "I don't know how."

Blaise's expression didn't change, but something in his gaze sharpened. "Then figure it out. Before you end up like me."

She let out a bitter laugh. "Is that why you keep showing up? Because I remind you of yourself?"

Blaise didn't blink. "Because you're making the same mistakes I did."

"You didn't make mistakes." Lyra's breath caught in her throat. She turned away from him, staring at the wall instead, "You were perfect."

"And I was eighteen. And I gave up easily and I don't regret– I saved you. But I still gave up."

Silence followed for a minute. "I don't want to forget him." The admission was barely a whisper, like saying it out loud would make it real. "What if I don't want to let go."

"Letting go doesn't mean forgetting," Blaise said, his voice quiet but firm. "It means accepting. It means living for yourself, not for the ghosts of the past."

She wanted to argue, but she couldn't. Because, deep down, she knew that she wasn't just holding on to Harry.

She was holding on to him.

Holding on to this—these moments where he appeared, where he reminded her of things she didn't want to hear, where she could pretend for just a little while longer that she wasn't alone.

"You're still holding on," Blaise said eventually, voice quieter now. "Still waiting for something that isn't coming back."

Her throat tightened. She asks again.  "What if I don't want to let go?"

"Then you'll never stop hurting."

She exhaled shakily. "If I let go of this—of you—then what's left?"

Blaise's expression was unreadable, but his voice was soft when he said, "You. You are what's left Lyra, and it's beautiful. You are going to have a beautiful life."

She clenched her jaw, shaking her head. "It shouldn't hurt like this. It's been weeks. I should be fine. I should be—"

"You should be lying to yourself better than this by now," Blaise cut in, unimpressed. "You hold on because it's all you've known. But it's killing you, Lyra. And I can't keep coming back to watch it happen."

Her hands trembled in her lap. "So don't."

Blaise studied her for a long moment. "I wish it were that simple."

A silence stretched between them. And when she finally gathered the courage to look back up—

He was gone.

And Lyra was alone again.

The knock at the front door echoed through the quiet halls of Malfoy Manor, startling Lyra from her haze. She had been curled up in the library, staring blankly at the fire, half-heartedly reading a book she hadn't turned the page of in over an hour. Shaking off her daze, she stood, stretching out stiff limbs, and made her way downstairs.

She wasn't expecting anyone.

Dressed in loose lounge clothes and with her hair still half-damp from the bath she had taken earlier, she wasn't exactly presentable. But it was the holidays, and most junior healers had been given a few days off, so who would be calling on her? Narcissa had gone out for a walk earlier, leaving Lyra alone in the vast house.

When she opened the door, the last person she expected to see was Hermione Granger.

She stood on the doorstep, bundled up against the cold, brown eyes sharp but warm. There was something about her expression—worried, yet distinctly unimpressed.

Lyra blinked.

"Good morning to you, too."

Hermione huffed, pushing past her into the entrance hall. "Oh, don't even start with that."

Lyra shut the door behind her, watching with mild amusement as Hermione turned on her heel, arms crossed, her expression both fond and exasperated. "I haven't heard from you in weeks. Do you know how worried I've been?"

Lyra sighed, rubbing her temples. "I've been working."

"You've been hiding."

Lyra flinched but masked it quickly. "That's dramatic."

Hermione gave her a look. "You weren't at the Burrow for Christmas. You barely answer your letters. I had to corner Andromeda just to figure out if you were still alive. What the hell, Lyra?"

Lyra groaned, running a hand down her face. "I didn't mean to worry you, alright?"

"Well, you did." Hermione's voice softened slightly. "I just—I miss you, you idiot. You can't just vanish into thin air because you feel like it."

Something in Lyra's chest cracked a little. She exhaled and shook her head. "You're relentless."

Hermione smirked. "You're just realizing this now?"

Lyra rolled her eyes, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She turned, gesturing for Hermione to follow. "Come on, we might as well sit. I assume you're staying?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Obviously."

They made their way to the sitting room, where the fire was already crackling, casting a warm glow across the dark furniture. Lyra sat on the couch, curling her legs under herself, while Hermione perched on the armrest beside her.

"You look terrible," Hermione said without preamble. 

Lyra blinked. "Thanks, Granger. Always a pleasure."

Hermione sighed, "I mean it, Lyra. When was the last time you slept properly? Or ate something that wasn't tea and biscuits?"

Lyra rolled her eyes and turned. "I'll have you know I had an entire scone this morning."

"Merlin help us, a scone," Hermione muttered dryly. "And here I was, worried you'd waste away."

It was unnerving. No one could see through her bullshit quite like Hermione Granger.

"Alright," Lyra said finally, leveling her with a look. "Spit it out. You came all this way, might as well say what you came to say."

Hermione sighed. "I didn't come to give you a lecture, if that's what you're worried about. I just... I wanted to see how you were. And, if I'm being honest, I don't love what I'm seeing."

Lyra huffed a laugh. "You're always honest, Granger. Painfully so."

"And you're always deflecting," Hermione shot back, tilting her head. "I won't push, Lyra. I won't tell you to move on, or that things will magically be alright. But I am here. And I'd really appreciate it if you'd actually talk to me."

Lyra hesitated. She wasn't sure how to put everything into words—the gnawing ache in her chest, the exhaustion, the way time kept moving forward while she felt like she was sinking deeper into the past.

But Hermione was here. And she wasn't looking at her with pity. Just quiet patience.

"I don't know how to be okay," Lyra admitted after a long moment, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

Hermione didn't rush to fill the silence, didn't tell her she had to be okay. Instead, she gave a small nod. "That's fair."

Lyra let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I don't even know what to do with myself most days. I feel like I'm just... waiting for something. But I don't even know what."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. "Then you don't do it alone."

Lyra looked at her, brows furrowing. "And what? Drag you down with me? That's hardly fair."

"Oh, please," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "You think you're the first friend I've had to pull out of their own misery? Have you met Harry? Ron? The number of disasters I've helped clean up?"

That startled a laugh out of Lyra, despite the sharp tug of pain in her chest at hearing his name, dry but genuine. "So I'm just another one of your charity projects, then?"

Hermione smirked. "You wish. You don't get to be special in your suffering, Lyra. You're stuck with me."

Lyra shook her head, amused despite herself. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, here I am."

Something in Lyra's chest eased, just a little.

A comfortable silence settled between them, the fire crackling softly. Then Hermione shifted, stretching out her legs. "Alright, enough brooding. Do you still have that bottle of elf-made wine I sent you last Christmas?"

Lyra quirked a brow before gasping dramatically. "What, Miss Granger, are you suggesting we drink in the middle of the afternoon? How scandalous."

"If I have to tolerate your self-pity for the next few hours, I deserve some compensation."

Laughing, Lyra pushed herself up. "Fine. But you're the one getting the glasses."

"Unbelievable," Hermione muttered, standing up. "You Malfoys have no sense of hospitality."

"Then what good are you?"

"Unbelievable," Hermione groaned, shaking her head as she walked toward the kitchen, but there was a mischievous smile hinting over her lips. "The audacity."

Lyra watched her go, warmth settling in her chest for the first time in weeks. Maybe things weren't as good as they had once been. Maybe everything still hurt. But for now, Hermione was here, making snarky comments in her sitting room, and maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

Ever since Lyra had met her, Hermione had been hopeful for the future. Lyra wasn't sure she believes in one anymore. But perhaps, having people around, who found it in their hearts to be hopeful on the worst days, would be enough.

The sky was heavy with thick gray clouds when Lyra arrived at Andromeda's house. It was a modest, cozy cottage nestled on the outskirts of a quiet village—far from the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, but infinitely more welcoming. She had been here often over the past month, helping out where she could, even if it was just keeping Andromeda company or entertaining Teddy for a little while.

She barely had time to knock before the door swung open, revealing her aunt.

"You're late," Andromeda said dryly, stepping aside to let her in.

Lyra arched a brow as she pulled off her cloak. "I didn't realize we had a set time, Andy."

Andromeda sighed. "We didn't, but I had a feeling you'd drag your feet getting here."

Lyra smirked. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but I showed up. And I didn't even have to be bribed."

Andromeda shook her head, but there was amusement in her eyes as she led Lyra inside. Teddy was playing on the floor, his chubby fingers grasping at a stuffed dragon whose wings flapped lazily every few seconds. When he caught sight of Lyra, his entire face lit up, and he let out a delighted squeal.

"At least someone's happy to see me," Lyra muttered, scooping him up effortlessly. Teddy clung to her immediately, his little hands grasping at her robes like she was the most exciting thing in the world.

"I am happy to see you," Andromeda said, moving into the kitchen. "Because now I can dump my grandchild on you and flee."

Lyra snorted. "Grandmother of the year."

Andromeda huffed a laugh as she poured herself a cup of tea. "You joke, but you'll understand one day if you ever have children. The second someone offers to take them off your hands, you don't ask questions—you run."

Lyra shook her head as she adjusted Teddy on her hip. "Noted."

Andromeda took a sip of her tea before eyeing Lyra carefully. "How's... How is Narcissa?"

Lyra exhaled through her nose, already expecting the question. "She's... better than she was. She's still quiet, still a bit lost, but she's not—"

"A ghost?" Andromeda supplied, her voice softer now.

Lyra hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."

Andromeda sighed, setting her cup down. "I should see her."

"You should," Lyra agreed without hesitation.

Andromeda's lips pressed into a thin line. "It's complicated, Lyra."

"You say that like we're not in a family where my mother used to braid the hair of a sister who later joined a mass-murdering cult and tried to wipe more than half of the wizarding population."

Andromeda snorted. "Fair point."

Lyra tilted her head, watching her aunt closely. It was still so strange sometimes, looking at her—seeing Bellatrix's features, the sharpness of their bone structure, the way they moved. But where Bellatrix had always been wild, frenzied, Andromeda was steady. She had a soft look about her that Bellatrix never could have managed, not even in a moment of quiet.

"She's different, Aunt Andy," Lyra said, voice quieter now. "She's not the woman you knew before."

Andromeda was quiet for a long moment before sighing, rubbing at her temple. "I don't know if that makes it easier or harder."

Lyra hesitated before offering, "I could be there when you see her. If you want."

Andromeda glanced at her, something warm flickering in her gaze. "You'd do that?"

Lyra huffed. "No, I just like hearing myself offer useless things."

Andromeda smiled, shaking her head. "You are a menace."

"I prefer delightful menace, thanks."

Teddy, as if wanting to remind them of his presence, let out a dramatic squeal and patted Lyra's cheek. She laughed, kissing the top of his head.

Andromeda watched the two of them for a moment, something softening in her expression. "You know, he adores you."

Lyra smiled, bouncing Teddy slightly. "Well, obviously. I'm his favorite aunt, aren't I, Teddy?"

Teddy clapped his hands, babbling happily.

Andromeda shook her head, feigning exasperation. "Great, now I have to compete with my niece for my own grandchild's affection."

"You never stood a chance, Andy."

Andromeda rolled her eyes, but the amusement lingered. Then she sighed, rubbing her hands together. "Alright, I should get going. I'll be gone for a few hours—his bottles are on the counter, and he'll probably need a nap soon."

"Got it," Lyra said easily.

Andromeda hesitated for half a second before stepping closer and squeezing Lyra's arm gently. "Thank you, Lyra. Really."

Lyra blinked, caught a little off guard by the sudden sincerity.

Then, because sincerity made her uncomfortable, she smirked. "Don't get all sentimental on me, Aunt Andy, or I will start charging babysitting fees."

Andromeda scoffed, stepping back. "Ridiculous. If anyone should be charging, it's me—you get free meals every time you come here."

Lyra gasped dramatically. "How dare you imply I only come here for the food? I also come here to make fun of you."

Andromeda rolled her eyes, but there was fondness there. With one last glance at them, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder and stepped toward the fireplace. "Alright, I'll be back as soon as I can."

And with that, she was gone, leaving Lyra standing in the kitchen with an eleven-month-old who had now decided her hair made an excellent chew toy.

Lyra sighed, detangling his tiny fingers from her strands. "Well, Teddy, looks like it's just you and me for a few hours."

Teddy grinned and immediately smacked her face again.

Lyra closed her eyes briefly. "I'm already regretting agreeing to this."

Lyra had just settled on Andromeda's couch, wrapped in one of the old but incredibly soft blankets, a book in her lap and a cup of tea within reach. The rain had started a little while ago, pattering against the windows in a steady rhythm, and Teddy was sleeping soundly in the cot nearby.

She was actually... content. Not happy—she wasn't sure she even remembered what that felt like—but comfortable. It was one of the rare nights where her thoughts weren't clawing at her throat.

And then, as if summoned by some cruel cosmic joke, the front door swung open.

Lyra barely had time to look up before she heard his voice.

"Andromeda, I left my paperwork here yesterday—"

Harry's voice trailed off the second his gaze landed on her.

Lyra tensed, her fingers clenching around the book in her lap. Of course. Of course, it had to be him.

Harry, on the other hand, looked thoroughly caught off guard, standing in the doorway, slightly drenched from the rain, blinking at her like he wasn't sure if she was real. His hair was a mess—worse than usual, which was saying something—and there was a faint, healing cut on his cheek, likely from Auror training.

"You're here," he said, voice unreadable.

"Clearly," Lyra said flatly.

A silence stretched between them, thick and unbearable. The only sound was the rain drumming against the windows.

Harry finally rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around. "I, uh... I didn't realize you were going to be here tonight."

She arched an eyebrow. "Why? Does that change something?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "No. Just... wasn't expecting it."

Lyra exhaled sharply. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Harry cleared his throat. "I, uh— I have to stay the night."

Lyra blinked, sitting up a little straighter. "Excuse me?"

"My flat's occupied," he said, tugging off his wet cloak. "Hermione and Ron needed somewhere to stay, and since I was supposed to be here anyway..."

Lightning flickered outside, illuminating the room for half a second before thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was getting worse.

Lyra clenched her jaw. Perfect.

"So," Harry continued awkwardly, "I'll just grab my things and stay out of your way."

She forced a tight smile. "Brilliant plan."

He nodded once, then moved past her towards the small study where he'd left his paperwork. She exhaled, staring at the flickering fire, feeling the tension settle deep in her bones.

This was going to be a long night.

The storm had fully arrived now. Wind howled outside, rattling the windows. The rain came down in sheets, slamming against the roof. The fire in the hearth flickered and hissed whenever a particularly strong gust pushed through the cracks in the house.

Lyra was curled up on the couch, attempting to read, but it was useless. She wasn't even registering the words. She had already put Teddy to bed in his room and not even her favorite piece of literature could enchant her thoughts away from the uncomfortable elephant that had settled in the room.

Mostly because she could feel him sitting across the room, equally restless.

Harry had given up on whatever paperwork he had retrieved and now sat in an armchair, nursing a cup of tea, staring moodily at the fire. Every so often, he would shift, like he wanted to say something, then think better of it.

The silence stretched unbearably.

"You don't have to act like I'm about to hex you," Lyra muttered, breaking the quiet.

Harry glanced up, startled. "What?"

"You're acting like I'm some kind of wild animal," she said, turning a page in her book without actually reading it. "Relax, Potter. I'm not going to throw a curse at you."

Harry exhaled, setting his cup down. "I'm not acting like that."

Lyra gave him a pointed look. "You are."

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Maybe I just don't know what to say."

She scoffed. "That's a first."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "You think I like this? That I wanted us to end up like this?"

Lyra snapped the book shut. "Like what, exactly?"

"Like... whatever this is!" He gestured vaguely between them.

She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Oh, you mean incredibly awkward and suffocating? I thought that was just our dynamic now."

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no real amusement in it. "Brilliant. Still love your sense of humor."

"Yeah, well, I have to entertain myself somehow."

He sighed again, rubbing his hands over his face. "I don't know how to fix this, Lyra."

Her chest clenched, but she didn't let it show. "Maybe that's the problem," she said coolly.

Harry looked at her, frustrated. "What does that even mean?"

"It means maybe you should stop trying to fix things that can't be fixed."

"That's not fair," he muttered.

Lyra let out a humorless laugh. "Fair? Oh, that's rich, coming from you."

His jaw clenched. "I never meant for things to turn out like this."

"And yet," she said, leaning back into the couch, "they did."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "I— I should go to bed."

"Yeah," she murmured, looking back at the fire. "You do that."

He hesitated, like he wanted to say something else. But then he just exhaled and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Lyra alone with the storm.

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

The wind had only gotten worse. The rain hammered against the windows with an unrelenting force, and the occasional crack of thunder shook the house. The fire was still burning, casting a warm glow over the room, but it did little to ease the tightness in Lyra's chest.

She should go to bed. She should try to sleep.

Instead, she found herself staring at the flames, lost in thought.

Then—footsteps.

She turned her head just as Harry appeared in the doorway, looking tired but very much awake.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, her voice quieter now.

He shook his head. "Not with the storm."

She snorted softly. "You survived a war but can't handle a little thunder?"

He gave her a look. "That's not—" He exhaled, then shook his head. "Never mind."

She sighed, shifting slightly to make space on the couch. "Sit down before you start pacing."

He hesitated, then, surprisingly, sat down at the opposite end.

For a while, they just sat there, listening to the storm.

Then—

"I miss you," Harry murmured.

Lyra stilled.

His voice was quiet, barely audible over the rain, but it was there. Real.

She swallowed hard, staring into the fire. "You don't get to say that."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't change anything."

Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I know."

Silence stretched again.

"You should try to sleep," she said eventually.

"You should too," he countered.

She huffed a soft, tired laugh. "Yeah, well. We both know that's not happening."

Harry leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. "Yeah."

Lyra cleared her throat, afraid to ask her next question, but she knew she had to. "Are you together with her? With Astoria?"

For a second, she let her mind wonder. Lyra wondered if Astoria knew that he crossed the street when he saw a black cat, if she knew exactly how he liked his tea (strong, with too much sugar, even though he pretended otherwise), if she knew that he didn’t like treacle tart nearly as much as people assumed but ate it anyway because it reminded him of home, if she knew that he always picked the smallest, most battered-looking Christmas tree whenever he had the choice, if she knew his favorite color wasn’t red or green but the deep, endless blue of the sky just before dawn, if she knew that he used to sleep with the light on until he was fifteen, if she knew that he had never truly outgrown flinching at sudden movements, if she knew that his name wasn’t supposed to be Harry at all—that his mother had wanted to name him Evan, but James had won the argument, if she knew that he hated the sound of ticking clocks because the Dursleys used to time his chores down to the second.

Lyra sighed, turning her gaze back to the fire. Maybe love was just something that happened to other people.

Harry's eyes snapped open, and he turned to her, looking almost startled. "No—Merlin, no. We—we’ve talked about co-parenting, but it’s complicated."

Lyra hesitated, studying him. He looked tired—more than tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense even as he sat still. For all that he had been the one to break her heart, she couldn't deny the simple fact that he wasn't doing much better.

Still, she couldn't find it in herself to pity him.

Eventually, Harry leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Lyra," he started, his voice quiet, careful.

She tensed automatically, waiting for whatever would come next.

"I don't regret it," he said.

She blinked. "Regret what?"

His fingers tightened slightly where they were clasped together. "The baby."

Lyra inhaled sharply.

"I don't regret him," Harry said, looking at her now. His voice was steady, but his eyes—his eyes were raw, like he was baring something he hadn't dared to say before. "I need you to know that."

She swallowed. "I—"

"It's a boy," Harry continued before she could say anything. "Astoria's healer confirmed it."

Her breath caught. A boy.

Something twisted in her chest—something sharp, something she wasn't ready to name.

And of course, he was right—he didn’t regret the son he was about to have. He was always right, and she had hated that about him. Hated the way he spoke with such certainty, like the world bent to his will. Hated that she had learned, far too quickly, that there was almost nothing she wouldn’t do for him. Because Harry had that infuriating way of getting what he wanted, not through manipulation, not through force, but because he simply was who he was. And she had never been able to refuse him anything.

She had fired hexes for him, shielded him from Voldemort, bled for him, fought beside him until her hands ached and her magic burned. And it had always been worth it, because he’d warm her fingers in his when they were cold, because he’d drape his jacket over her shoulders on bitter nights, even back when he had claimed to hate her. Because no matter how messy, how reckless, how stubborn he was, he had always tried to be the best person he knew how to be.

And then he left her. Perhaps, that muggle author, Pat Baker was right– grief is only as deep as the love that it's replacing. And she had loved Harry quite a lot.

"I wouldn't ever want you to regret your child, Harry." She exhaled slowly. "Have you... have you picked a name?"

Harry shook his head. "No. I— I don't know what I'm doing, Lyra." He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I'm supposed to be a father in a few months, and I don't even know how to be one. I didn't exactly have the best examples when I was growing up."

Lyra's throat tightened. "You had Sirius."

"Yeah, when I was thirteen," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "And I lost him two years later."

She didn't have an answer for that.

Harry exhaled sharply. "Astoria's weak," he admitted, voice low. "The pregnancy is risky. There's a blood curse—something ancient, from her family line. It's been in her family for generations, but it's worse for women. The healer says it's why she's struggling so much. Why she's always so—"

"Tired," Lyra finished quietly. She had heard about it, of course. Daphne was worried sick– Astoria had always looked delicate, but lately, she had been almost fragile.

Harry nodded. "They don't know how bad it'll get. She's determined, though. She keeps saying she'll be fine." He let out a shaky breath. "But I don't know, Lyra. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do if—"

He stopped himself, shaking his head as if he could push the thought away.

Lyra hesitated, gripping the edge of her blanket. "You just... do your best," she said finally. "That's all you can do."

Harry looked at her, something vulnerable flickering in his expression. "And what if that's not enough?"

She swallowed, because she didn't have an answer for that either.

Lyra took one look at his face and knew. Knew in the way you know a storm is coming by the way the air stills. Knew in the way you recognize an old wound by the ache beneath your skin.

And maybe, once upon a time, she would have let him walk past her, let him pretend he was fine just like he always did. Maybe she would have pushed him out further into the water, forced him to prove he could swim. But the waves were too high now, the current too strong, and she could see it in the way he held himself—he was drowning.

She didn’t say anything. Just stepped forward, arms out, offering a tether.

And for once, Harry didn’t push her away.

Grief is like the ocean. At first, you think you’re safe—just standing at the shore, the water licking at your feet. Then, before you even realize you’ve been caught in it, the tide pulls. The current wraps around your ankles and drags you under. And even if you manage to break the surface, to gulp down air, the waves crash into you again and again until your lungs burn, until your limbs give out. Until you stop fighting. Until you let it take you.

And even then, it doesn’t end. Because grief isn’t just drowning—it’s the weight that drags you back down when you think you’ve finally reached the surface. It’s the chain wrapped around your ankles, pulling, pulling, pulling.

People like to say time heals, that it softens loss, smooths out the jagged edges. But time only stretches grief further, makes it a part of you, weaves it into the fabric of your days. You go through life on autopilot, watching the world move forward while you stay exactly where you were the day everything fell apart.

And in the quiet, when there’s no one around to distract you, the what-ifs creep in. They settle into the cracks of your mind, whispering in the dark, twisting the past into something unbearable.

It had been months since the war ended.

And that’s how Lyra and Harry had felt every day since.

Perhaps it was because grief wasn’t always about mourning the dead.

Sometimes, it was mourning the living—the person sitting just a few feet away from you, close enough to touch, yet impossibly out of reach.

[Perhaps my damnation lies in the fact that a part of me will always belong to Harry Potter—that the most ragged, unlovable pieces of me have only ever been seen and held by him. That no matter how many ways he has shattered me, no matter how many nights I have spent picking up the broken pieces, I could never stop loving him.

Because even now, as unshed tears threaten his eyes, he is not worried about war, or death, or survival. He is worried about being a good father to his unborn son.

And how am I supposed to hate that?

How can I resent him for wanting to be good, when all I ever wanted was for him to have a life untouched by war? How can I despise this—this quiet moment where, for once, instead of carrying the weight of the world, he is carrying the weight of fatherhood?

He is in my arms, and he is not mine. He will never be mine again.

But perhaps my true damnation is that, for just one second, I pretend that he is.]