chasing circles

Chapter Five

you never get the life you want

"but sympathy was fleeting, and cruelty was far louder."

8th September, 1999

The halls of St. Mungo’s smelled of antiseptic potions, parchment, and something stale, like magic left too long to fester in the air. It wasn’t an unfamiliar scent—Lyra had spent enough time here since the war ended to know it intimately. It clung to her robes whenever she visited, followed her home like a ghost.

She told herself she came here to check in on someone—a former classmate, a friend of a friend, anyone who might need her. But really, it was just habit now. The war had left a gaping wound in so many people, and Lyra wasn’t sure how to heal her own, so she tried to help patch up others. Even if it was just delivering letters, bringing someone a book, sitting in silence with those who had lost too much to ever be whole again.

The Spell Damage Ward was quieter than the other floors. The injuries here weren’t as immediately life-threatening as those in Emergency Healing, but they were often worse in other ways—curses that wouldn’t lift, minds that wouldn’t mend, pain that lingered no matter how much magic was poured into fixing it.

Lyra turned the corner, her hands curled around a bundle of letters she had promised to deliver, when someone stepped out of a patient room directly into her path. She barely managed to stop herself from crashing into them.

"Watch where you’re going," the man said, not sharply, but with an easy arrogance that immediately grated on her nerves.

Lyra lifted her gaze, unimpressed, and took in the man in front of her. He was leaning against the doorframe like he belonged there, like the hospital corridors were his personal lounging space. His robes were standard Healer attire, but slightly rumpled, his dark hair tousled like he hadn’t bothered to fix it properly before leaving the house. He had sharp brown eyes, and a smirk that told her he was exactly the kind of person she had no patience for.

She arched a brow. "Excuse me?"

The man straightened slightly, pushing off the doorframe. "Ah, Lyra Malfoy," he said, as if he had just solved some great mystery. "I was wondering when we’d cross paths."

Her eyes narrowed. "And you are?"

"Victor Brown," he said, flashing a grin that was entirely too self-assured. "Hufflepuff. Two years above you at Hogwarts. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’m not sure you’d return the sentiment."

Her frown deepened. "We’re out of Hogwarts. House affiliations don’t matter anymore."

Victor let out a low whistle. "Damn. You say that like it’s a personal attack."

"I say that like it’s irrelevant," Lyra corrected. She gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. "Doesn't matter, I don’t remember you."

His grin widened. "Tragic. I was quite the presence back in the day, you know. Beater for the Quidditch team, Head Boy, beloved by professors and students alike."

Lyra let out a short, humorless breath. "I must have been too busy trying not to die to notice your achievements."

Victor tilted his head, unfazed. "Fair enough. But I’m new to the Spell Damage Ward, which means you and I will be seeing a lot more of each other."

"Unfortunate," she said flatly.

He chuckled. "You always this friendly, or am I just special?"

"You’re certainly something," she muttered, shifting her weight. "But I have no interest in entertaining whatever this is, so if you’ll excuse me—"

She moved to step around him, but he shifted just enough to block her way. Not in an aggressive manner, but deliberately, like he wasn’t quite done speaking with her.

"You know," he said, watching her with a glint of curiosity in his eyes, "I’ve heard a lot about you."

She stilled. "Oh?"

Victor nodded, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "People talk. They say you’re—how do I put this delicately?" He tapped his chin in mock thought before flashing her another infuriating grin. "Difficult."

Her lips curled into a sharp, humorless smile. "And you’re insufferable."

"I prefer confident," he corrected smoothly.

"Of course you do."

He leaned casually against the doorframe again, as if he had all the time in the world. "I don’t get it, though. You walk around like you’ve got daggers strapped to your ribs, like you’re ready to hex anyone who so much as breathes wrong in your direction. What’s your deal?"

Lyra arched a brow. "You assume I have a deal."

"I assume everyone does," Victor said easily. "But you? You carry yourself like you’ve got something to prove, and I can’t quite tell if you’re trying to prove it to the world or to yourself."

Her jaw tightened. She wasn’t sure what it was about him—his arrogance, his casual way of speaking, the fact that he thought he could read her like a book—but it made her want to hex him just to see if he was fast enough to block it.

Instead, she exhaled slowly. "You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?"

He grinned. "A little."

"Why?"

Victor shrugged. "Because I don’t meet people like you often."

She frowned slightly, crossing her arms. "People like me?"

"People who are interesting," he said simply.

She scoffed. "You don’t know me."

"Not yet," he agreed, his smirk still in place. "But I think I might want to."

Lyra studied him for a long moment. He was arrogant, irritating, and far too interested in things that weren’t his business. And yet, there was something about him—something in the way he met her gaze so evenly, so deliberately—that made her believe he wasn’t just playing a game. That maybe he was genuinely curious.

Which was unfortunate for him.

She took a step back. "And I think you should reconsider."

Victor only chuckled, pushing off the doorframe. "See? Difficult."

She rolled her eyes, already regretting this entire encounter. "And you’re still insufferable."

He winked. "We make a great pair, don’t we?"

"I don't think we make any pair," Lyra scoffed, "I have known you about two minutes and I already loathe you."

"Loathe can very easily turn to something else more..." he shrugged, "Nice."

Lyra exhaled sharply, already regretting this conversation. "Is there a reason you’re standing in my way, Brown?"

"Victor," he corrected. "And maybe I’m just being friendly. You seem like you could use a little of that in your life."

She arched a brow. "You think I need you?"

"I think you want to pretend you don’t need anyone," Victor said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world. "But I’m not convinced."

She narrowed her eyes. "And you’re an expert on me already?"

He grinned. "Not yet. But I could be."

"How unfortunate for you."

He let out a laugh, clearly not deterred. "You’re quick, I’ll give you that."

"I don’t care what you give me," she said flatly.

"Cold," Victor murmured, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "And here I thought you’d at least pretend to be interested in small talk."

"I don’t do small talk."

"Big talk, then?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow. "We can skip straight to the important things. Favorite color? Least favorite childhood memory? Worst date you’ve ever been on?"

She gave him a withering look. "This one."

He laughed again, and Lyra hated that it wasn’t an annoying laugh. It was warm, rich, the kind of laugh that made people want to lean in. It irritated her more than it should have.

"You wound me, Malfoy," he said, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. "I was being charming."

"Were you?"

"Clearly, I need to try harder."

Lyra rolled her eyes. "Or you could try less."

Victor tsked. "Where’s the fun in that?"

She let out a slow breath, trying to decide if she should just shove past him and be done with this. He was good-looking, she could tell that much, but that only made him more insufferable. He knew he was good-looking. Worse, he seemed to think it was a personality trait.

"Do you flirt with all the women who nearly run into you," she asked dryly, "or am I just lucky?"

"Only the pretty blonde ones who look like they’d rather hex me than talk to me," Victor admitted, his grin widening. "It keeps things interesting."

"Do you enjoy making your life difficult?"

"More like I enjoy a challenge," he corrected. "And you, Lyra Malfoy, seem like exactly that."

She stared at him for a long moment, debating whether or not he was worth the effort of a verbal sparring match. Then she took a deliberate step to the side. "Well, enjoy the challenge, then," she said coolly, brushing past him. "Because you won’t be winning it."

Victor chuckled, turning slightly as she walked away. "See you around, Malfoy!"

She didn’t look back.

Merlin, help her. The last thing she needed in her life was another arrogant, overly confident idiot who thought he could figure her out.

Lyra was used to the murmurs.

Hospitals were full of them—excited whispers from visitors, quiet conversations between Healers, hushed voices in the corridors as people spoke about things too heavy to be said aloud. She had learned to tune them out.

She barely noticed them now as she moved through her ward, pulling a blanket up over one of the patients, adjusting the charms on another’s bed. The steady hum of St. Mungo’s life continued around her, but she didn’t engage with it. She had work to do.

Still, the murmurs today were different.

They were excited, almost giddy.

Someone had been born, she caught that much. Something about a baby—no, a boy—but the details barely reached her. Lyra had never paid much attention to the maternity ward. Her patients were far removed from the delicate, fragile lives that entered the world there. The Spell Damage ward had nothing to do with newborns.

So she didn’t bother asking.

The excitement didn’t concern her. A part of her already knew.

She finished her rounds, tucked her wand into her sleeve, and stepped out into the hallway.

And immediately, she knew something had changed.

The air was different.

The hushed excitement was gone. In its place, there was something quieter, heavier. It wasn’t shock, exactly—it was something worse. The kind of silence that filled a space when something terrible had happened.

Lyra’s steps slowed.

Down the corridor, a group of Healers huddled together, whispering. Their faces were grim now, their earlier excitement dampened, ruined.

Something had happened.

Something bad.

She swallowed, ignoring the uneasy twist in her stomach as she walked past them. She wasn’t the type to pry. If it was important, she’d hear about it.

But then—

A sound.

A raw, wrecked cry echoing from further down the hall.

Lyra turned sharply, her entire body tensing.

It wasn’t just grief—it was agony. A wail.

The kind of sound that came from someone being ripped apart from the inside out.

She moved before she even thought about it, following the sound down the hallway, past the closed doors and startled glances of the other Healers.

And then she saw her.

Daphne Greengrass.

She was slumped against the wall, her arms wrapped around herself so tightly it looked painful, like she was trying to physically hold herself together. Her head was bowed, her golden hair falling in messy waves around her, shielding her face.

But it didn’t matter.

Lyra didn’t need to see her face to know—Daphne was breaking.

The sobs racking her body were raw, breathless. She gasped for air, clutching at her chest, her whole body shaking. It was as if she couldn’t get enough oxygen, like she was being crushed by something unseen.

Something inside Lyra went still.

She had never—never—seen Daphne like this.

Daphne Greengrass, who was always composed, who always had her chin high and her expression schooled into polite indifference, was falling apart before her eyes.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

"Daphne?" Lyra said cautiously, stepping closer. "What—?"

Daphne’s head snapped up.

Her blue eyes were wild, bloodshot, glistening with tears. Her face was streaked with them, her lips parted like she wanted to speak but couldn’t.

Lyra stopped short.

Daphne opened her mouth, but no words came out—just a strangled, breathless sob.

Lyra felt something cold creep up her spine.

"What happened?" she asked, this time lower, sharper.

Daphne just shook her head, her hands gripping her robes, her fingers twisting into the fabric like she was trying to anchor herself.

"She’s gone," she choked out. "She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone—"

The words tumbled from her lips in a breathless, broken spiral, like if she said them enough, maybe they wouldn’t be real.

Lyra’s stomach dropped.

She took another step forward, reaching out. "Who?"

But she already knew.

The moment the question left her lips, she already knew.

Daphne didn’t answer. She just let out another choked, wrecked sob, pressing a trembling hand against her ribs like she was trying to physically stop the grief from tearing through her.

And then, behind her, a whisper—

"Astoria Greengrass didn’t make it."

The world stilled.

Lyra felt something rip through her.

Astoria.

Gone.

Her breath caught, the words settling over her like a slow-moving curse, like something suffocating, choking.

No.

She stood frozen as the murmurs from earlier came rushing back, her own mind replaying the moments she had ignored—the excitement, the hushed whispers, the celebrations.

Because before this—before this—Astoria had given birth.

To Harry’s son.

And now—

Now, she was dead.

Lyra inhaled sharply.

She had known, somewhere inside of her. But she had refused to even think about it. 

And now—now Astoria was gone.

And Harry—

Harry was a father.

A single father.

And he probably didn’t even know yet.

The thought slammed into her like a physical force, like something too heavy to hold, too sharp to brace against.

Harry.

Harry, who had barely known what to do when Astoria had been pregnant.

Harry, who had spent months looking exhausted, wrecked, lost.

Harry, who had told her just a few months ago that he wasn’t ready, that he didn’t know how to be a father, that he was terrified he’d get it all wrong.

Harry, who had spent his whole life losing people.

And now, it had happened again.

Lyra swallowed against the tightness in her throat.

She looked at Daphne, who was still wailing, still grasping at her chest like she could hold in the pain, like if she let go, it would consume her completely.

For the first time in years, Lyra didn’t know what to do.

She just knew one thing, with sudden, absolute certainty.

Harry was about to walk into the worst day of his life.

James Hyperion Potter was born on the 8th of September, 1999.

He was a healthy baby boy. A little underweight, but nothing to be worried about.

He had Astoria’s blue eyes.

Lyra stood behind the glass, arms wrapped tightly around herself, nails biting into her skin as she stared at the tiny, sleeping infant in the cot. He was so small. Too small. His chest rose and fell with each delicate breath, his fingers twitching in his sleep, his little fists curled against the blanket. A wisp of black hair stuck stubbornly from his head, dark and messy—Harry’s hair, Astoria’s eyes.

A sob clawed its way up her throat, but she swallowed it down.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know his mother was gone.

Didn’t know she had held him, kissed his forehead, whispered something he would never remember before the light in her faded.

Didn’t know that just hours ago, Daphne had collapsed onto the hospital floor, screaming like something inside of her had been ripped out, clutching at her chest like she could hold it in, like she could force the world to give Astoria back.

They had to sedate her.

She wouldn’t stop crying, and then she couldn’t breathe, and then—then Lyra had just stood there, helpless, watching as the Healers forced a potion down her throat, watching as Daphne’s sobs turned to gasps and then silence.

Now, they were just waiting for her to wake up.

And Harry—

No one had heard from Harry.

That was the part she couldn’t think about.

She exhaled sharply, pressing her nails harder into her skin, trying to ground herself, trying not to let the grief take her apart, not here, not in front of the strangers bustling around the halls, not in front of the baby who had no idea he’d just lost the most important person in his life—

Not in front of him.

“You know,” a voice said suddenly, far too casual, far too out of place in all of this, “I feel like I should be concerned by how intensely you’re staring at that baby.”

Lyra tensed.

Victor.

She didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge him, just exhaled sharply and said, “Go away.”

Victor stepped up beside her, entirely ignoring her words. “Nah, I think I’ll stay.”

She turned to glare at him, sharp and cutting, ready to eviscerate him, to tell him that if he didn’t leave right now, she would hex him into next week, but—

He wasn’t smirking.

He wasn’t wearing that usual, arrogant, insufferably pleased with himself expression.

He was just there, hands shoved into his pockets, watching her.

And for some reason, that made it worse.

Lyra clenched her jaw, turned back to the glass.

Victor exhaled. “So. Which one’s yours?”

Her breath caught in her throat.

For a second, she couldn’t speak.

She forced herself to swallow, forced herself to exhale, forced herself to say, “None of them.”

Victor hummed, tilting his head as he looked into the nursery. “Alright. So, which one are you here for?”

Lyra hesitated.

James shifted slightly in his cot, stretching in his sleep, and for a moment—just a moment—her vision blurred.

She blinked rapidly, forcing it away.

Victor waited.

She wasn’t going to talk about this.

Not to him.

Not to anyone.

She turned sharply, words slipping out before she could think. “Why are you even talking to me?”

Victor blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t know me.” She folded her arms, voice sharp and clipped and desperate to deflect. “We met today. You’re acting like we’re friends.”

Victor studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “I think you look like you need one.”

Lyra exhaled sharply. “Oh, fuck off.”

Victor snorted. “Touchy.”

She turned away from him again, ignoring the way her vision blurred for a second, the way her chest ached, the way her fingers trembled where they clutched at her arms.

The problem was—

The problem was, he was right.

She was alone.

Utterly, unbearably alone.

And she didn’t want to be.

Not right now.

Not when Astoria was gone.

Astoria, who used to steal blueberry muffins from the Ravenclaw table because she knew Lyra liked them.

Astoria, who would braid her hair at night, fingers deft and gentle, murmuring softly about how pretty it would look if she just let it grow out.

Astoria, who loved gossiping about Quidditch players even though she had absolutely no interest in the sport.

Astoria, who had known—known—that giving birth to this child might kill her, and had done it anyway.

Her betrayal felt irrelevant now.

Lyra had spent so much time being angry—furious, devastated, betrayed—but now, with the weight of her absence settling into her bones, with James sleeping peacefully just beyond the glass—

“My friend,” she said, voice quiet. Stiff.

Victor looked at her.

Lyra swallowed hard, forced herself to keep her voice steady. “She died. Giving birth.”

Victor was silent for a moment. Then, softly, “I’m sorry.”

Lyra scoffed, shaking her head. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Victor blinked. “It means I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she snapped. “For something you didn’t do? For something no one can fix? It doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t change anything, no-one really means it—” She stopped herself, breathing hard.

Victor didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Didn’t tell her she was being irrational.

He just said, “It means I wish she hadn’t died.”

Lyra exhaled sharply. Pressed her nails deeper into her skin.

She wished that too.

She wished Astoria hadn’t died.

She wished she were still here, so Lyra could stay mad at her. So she could still hate her, still resent her, still yell at her for everything she’d done, because being mad was easier than this—this hollow, gut-wrenching, unbearable grief.

She wished she could still be furious at her, because at least then, she’d still exist.

Because James should have a mother.

Because Harry shouldn’t be alone.

Because Astoria shouldn’t be gone.

But she was.

And there was nothing left to be mad at.

Only this ache, this deep, suffocating ache, curling around her ribs like it would never let go.

Victor shifted beside her. “You know, for someone who claims not to want company, you haven’t actually told me to leave yet.”

Lyra scoffed, voice thick. “I did tell you to go away.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t mean it.”

She turned to glare at him.

Victor just smirked.

And for some reason—

For some stupid, stupid reason—

She let him stay. 

Lyra hadn’t moved from the glass.

The world had kept moving, shifting around her, healers and mediwitches bustling through the halls, the low hum of conversations blending into the beeping of monitoring spells. But she had stayed rooted to the spot, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring at the tiny baby just beyond the glass.

Victor had left a while ago, though she wasn’t sure exactly when. He had lingered at her side for longer than she had expected, and then, eventually, he was gone. She hadn’t tried to stop him.

She wasn’t sure if she could’ve even if she wanted to.

She just stood there.

Watching James.

She wasn’t sure how long it had been.

Time felt strange, stretched and distant, as if it had no meaning. As if everything outside this moment—the weight of grief pressing against her ribs, the raw, hollow feeling in her chest—wasn’t real.

But then—

A noise.

Hurried footsteps.

Voices.

Laughter.

Her body went rigid, an almost instinctual reaction, and she turned sharply, blinking back the dazed, distant fog that had settled over her.

And then she saw him.

Harry.

There was a small, thin cut on his cheek, trailing from just beneath his eye down to his jaw. It had stopped bleeding, but the skin around it was still raw, red. He didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were wide, bright, full of something she hadn’t seen in so long.

Excitement.

Next to him, Ron was grinning, animatedly gesturing as he spoke.

“Obviously, I should be the godfather,” he was saying. “Who else would it be? Don’t even think about saying Longbottom—”

Harry laughed. “I don’t know yet, Ron, I haven’t—”

And then his gaze lifted.

And landed on her.

And he stopped.

Like someone had yanked him back, like he had just run face-first into something solid, his entire body going still.

Ron kept walking for another half-second before he noticed, then stopped too, his smile fading into confusion.

Lyra’s breath caught in her throat.

She hadn’t seen Harry since that night at Andromeda’s house.

It was surreal.

And he looked—

He looked different.

His hair was longer now, messy as ever but falling over his forehead, brushing against his eyes. His face looked thinner, a little more worn, like he hadn’t been sleeping well. But beneath all of that—

He looked happy.

Her stomach twisted.

In his hands, he was holding something.

A letter.

Even before he spoke, she already knew what it was.

She could see it, playing out in her head—Astoria, hours before labor, sitting down with parchment and ink, knowing she might not make it, knowing she might not get to see Harry’s face when he held their son for the first time, knowing she might not get to tell her son—

So she had written it down instead.

Left it behind for him.

A message. A goodbye.

And the way he was holding it—

Like it was something precious.

Like it was something full of hope.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Harry shifted on his feet.

“Lyra,” he said.

His voice was uncertain, awkward.

She didn’t respond.

She could feel something rising in her chest, something sharp and painful and overwhelming.

He didn’t know.

He was excited.

Because he thought—he still thought—

A sharp, panicked feeling clawed at her.

Someone was going to tell him.

A healer. A nurse. A stranger.

No.

No, no, no—

She couldn’t let that happen.

She moved before she could think, closing the distance between them hurriedly.

Harry blinked at her, surprised.

“I, uh—” He glanced down at the letter in his hands, then back at her. “I got a letter from Astoria.”

His voice was light, hopeful.

It made her stomach churn.

He gave a small, awkward laugh. “Didn’t expect that, honestly. I–I haven't read it yet, Daphne wrote saying that Astoria was going into labour so I rushed here instead, but I figured I’d probably be too late, and—”

His words faltered as he looked at her properly.

Her face.

Her expression.

His own faltered in response, smile slipping slightly. “Lyra?”

She swallowed, but her throat felt tight, her chest too full.

The words had to come out.

“Astoria’s dead,” she said.

It came out too fast.

Too harsh.

Too real.

Harry stilled.

Beside him, Ron’s breath hitched.

“What?” Harry said.

Lyra swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay steady, even as her own voice wavered.

“She—she didn’t make it,” she said, softer now. “The birth—she—”

She stopped.

Harry was staring at her.

His fingers clenched around the letter, like if he held onto it tight enough, it would somehow undo what she had just said.

Like if he didn’t let go, it wouldn’t be real.

“No,” he said.

It wasn’t denial.

It wasn’t even disbelief.

It was just—

Flat.

Empty.

His eyes flickered past her, almost without thinking, searching, landing on the glass window of the nursery.

On the tiny baby sleeping beyond it.

His child.

His son.

For a long, frozen second, he didn’t breathe.

Then—

The letter slipped from his fingers.

Harry made a noise—soft, sharp, broken—like something had just snapped inside of him.

Ron reached for him. “Harry—”

Harry stepped back.

His throat worked, like he was trying to say something, but nothing came out.

He turned back to Lyra, his hands shaking.

His eyes—

They were desperate.

Searching.

Like she could somehow take it back. Like she could somehow fix it.

But she couldn’t.

His breath hitched, something shuddering in his chest, and then, in a voice that barely sounded like his own, he asked, “Did you—”

He stopped, inhaled shakily.

“Did they name him?”

Lyra felt her heart lurch.

Her throat burned.

She could barely force the words out.

“Astoria did,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his hands pressing against his face for half a second, before they dropped to his sides, fingers clenching into fists.

Ron was still hovering at his side, his face pale, his mouth pressed into a thin, uncertain line like he didn’t know what to do—like he didn’t know how to help.

Lyra didn’t either.

Because this—

This was a grief she couldn’t fix.

All she could do was stand there as Harry Potter broke apart.

And Lyra had expected him to break.

She had known it was coming.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier to watch.

Harry was shaking. Not just trembling, but shaking, his whole body drawn tight, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling too fast.

His son.

His son didn’t have a mother.

And now—

Now, Harry was muttering, voice choked and rough and unraveling at the seams, “He doesn’t have a mother. He doesn’t—he doesn’t have a mother.”

Again.

Again.

Like if he said it enough, it might make sense.

Like if he said it enough, he might understand how the hell he was supposed to do this alone.

“He has you,” Lyra said, and it came out too sharp, too cutting, but she couldn’t help it—couldn’t stand there and listen to him say it like that, like he wasn’t standing right there, alive, breathing, right in front of her.

Harry let out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. It was bitter, shaky, wrong. “Does he?” He gestured vaguely at himself, still shaking, still breaking apart at the edges. “Does he really?”

His hands clenched tighter, fingernails digging into his palms.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. His voice cracked on the words. “I don’t know how to be a father.”

Something deep in Lyra’s chest twisted.

A part of her wondered why she even cared.

Why it felt like her ribs were caving in, like she wanted to reach out, like it physically hurt to see him like this.

But she knew why.

Of course she knew why.

She had never stopped loving him.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered. Not in the way that could be undone.

And she could see it now—could see the way this had affected him, the way the weight of it was pressing down on him. And she hated it.

Because, no matter how furious she had been, how much she had resented him—

She had never wanted this for him.

And it was so clear—so painfully clear—that, in his own way, Harry had loved Astoria too.

Not like he had loved Lyra, not like something soul-consuming, but he had cared for her, admired her. Astoria was his friend.

And now she was gone.

Leaving behind nothing but ink on parchment and a newborn child.

Lyra forced herself to breathe.

“She named him James,” she said.

Harry flinched.

His eyes snapped up to hers, something sharp in them now, something wounded.

She swallowed, forcing herself to keep speaking, to get the words out before they stuck in her throat.

“She named him after your father. James Hyperion Potter.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

His breath hitched again, and his knees almost buckled, but he caught himself, ran a shaking hand through his hair, dragging it back as if he could somehow pull himself together.

It didn’t work.

He exhaled sharply, shakily, muttering under his breath, “He doesn’t have a mother. He doesn’t—he doesn’t—”

Lyra snapped.

“Stop saying that.”

Harry’s eyes flew open, wild and grief-stricken, locking onto hers.

“He might not have a mother but he does have a father, Harry,” she said, voice shaking with something close to fury. “He has you.”

Harry shook his head, fast, erratic, like he wanted to fight her on it but didn’t have the words.

“He has you,” Lyra said again, stepping closer, her voice raw, unsteady. “So be his father.”

Harry inhaled sharply, his breath catching like it physically hurt.

His shoulders sagged, his entire body crumbling under the weight of it all, and for the first time—

For the first time since she had told him, he looked small.

Young.

Lost.

And Lyra—

Lyra wanted to be angry.

She wanted to hate him for everything he had done.

But she couldn’t.

Not now.

Not when he looked like this.

Not when he was breaking right in front of her.

So she did the only thing she could.

She reached out.

She didn’t think about it, didn’t hesitate, just closed the space between them and pulled him into her arms.

For a split second, he didn’t move.

Then—

He shattered.

His arms came up, clutching onto her like he might fall apart completely if he let go, like he was drowning and she was the only thing keeping him above water. His breath hitched—once, twice, and then he broke, shoulders shaking, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves as he buried his face against her shoulder.

Lyra’s throat burned.

She closed her eyes, held him tighter. And then suddenly, the false bravado she has hoped to display dries up like an apple left in the sun, and she's left standing at the threshold, unsure and frightened. And she holds on to him, not because she loves him, but because she needs to hold someone too.

For how long they stood there, she didn’t know.

Because the war had ended, but the losses never stopped.

Because they had won, but winning had never meant it would stop hurting.

Because James—tiny, sleeping James, with no mother and a father who wasn’t even twenty yet—was proof that some battles left scars that would never truly heal.

Lyra exhaled slowly, eyes slipping shut.

Harry needed a friend right now.

And she wanted to be that for him.

Because Astoria Greengrass was dead. Sweet, happy, young, excited Astoria, one of her friends, or rather, another one of her friends was dead.

But she would haunt the narrative for as long as they lived.

All of the people they had lost already did.

Three significant things happened on the 9th of September, 1999.

One: James Hyperion Potter was born to Astoria Greengrass and Harry Potter

Two: Astoria Greengrass passed away after giving birth.

And the third, less important but just as significant: Lyra Malfoy met Victor Brown.

It was a day that carved itself into her bones.

A day that smelled like antiseptic and grief, like sterile halls and quiet sobs, like the weight of things unsaid and the unbearable silence that followed loss.

It was a day that tasted like regret, bitter and sharp on her tongue, like all the words she had never said to Astoria, all the fights that now seemed so stupid, so small, in the face of death.

A day that felt like watching a tiny baby, barely big enough to be real, breathing in a world that had already taken so much from him.

A day when the man she loved fell his her arms as he cried over the loss of the mother of his child.

It was a tragic day.

And yet—

She never forgot it.

Because somewhere in that grief, in that raw, unbearable moment where everything had changed—Victor Brown had been there.

And though he hadn’t mattered then, though he had been nothing more than an arrogant, unwanted presence on the periphery of her worst day—

He became something.

And that, too, made the 9th of September, 1999, a day she would never forget.