chasing circles

Chapter Six

could you kiss the scars you left?

"sometimes we drink the poison just to wonder why we are sick."

2nd April, 2000

Mornings at St. Mungo's had their own rhythm. The halls were quieter, but there was something unsettling about them—the kind of silence that only existed in places where too many people had suffered. The scent of potions lingered in the air, mixing with something sterile and medicinal. Lyra had never liked it.

She moved quickly through the corridors, wanting to get this over with.

She hadn't meant to forget the paperwork, but it had slipped through the cracks. Between work, watching over Teddy when Andromeda wasn't able to, and the constant, lingering ache in her chest, she had lost track of things. It wasn't like her. She hated feeling careless.

The dress Hermione had chosen for her—a long, flowing lilac thing—felt utterly ridiculous here. It was too soft, too elegant, too far removed from the stark white walls of the hospital. She was used to moving through these halls in Healer robes, purposeful, sharp. Now, she felt like an imposter, like a stranger in her own skin.

It was wrong.

But everything felt wrong these days.

She was stuck.

Everyone else was moving forward—getting married, making plans, building lives, having children. And she—she was standing still, watching the world turn without her.

She swallowed down the thought and set the last of her paperwork on the desk with a sharp thwap. Before she could turn to leave, a voice cut through the quiet.

"Merlin's bloody arse, you look exhausted."

She scowled before even turning around.

Victor Brown leaned against the doorway, looking like death warmed over. His Healer robes were wrinkled, his curls messier than usual, and the dark circles under his eyes were so pronounced that even she felt secondhand exhaustion.

"Look who's talking," she muttered.

Victor stepped into the room, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. "I have an excuse. Night shift. You, on the other hand—" He gestured vaguely at her dress. "—look like someone trapped you in an alternate dimension where you care about pastels."

She exhaled sharply, rubbing at her temples. "It's for a wedding."

Victor's eyebrows shot up. "Wedding?"

"George and Angelina."

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. "Weasley and Johnson? About time."

Lyra hummed, not quite agreeing, not quite disagreeing. She didn't understand their relationship, not really, but who was she to say anything?

Victor studied her for a moment, his smirk fading. "You alright?"

She frowned. "What?"

"You don't look great."

"Thanks," she said flatly.

Victor snorted. "You know what I mean."

She hesitated. She hadn't been feeling great. For the past few days, she'd been lightheaded, her skin too warm, her head too heavy. It wasn't serious—at least, nothing she thought required actual attention—but it was bothersome.

"I've just been feeling a little off," she admitted finally. "Lightheaded. A bit of fever."

Victor's frown deepened. "You should be resting."

"I took a potion this morning," she said dismissively. "I'll be fine. I just need to get through this wedding, and then I can go home and collapse."

Victor didn't look convinced.

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine."

"Have you eaten today?" he asked.

She blinked, thrown by the question.

Victor sighed. "Lyra."

She scowled. "Yes."

Victor crossed his arms. "Something other than potions?"

She hesitated.

Victor groaned. "Of course you haven't."

She let out an exasperated breath. "It's fine, Victor. I'll eat at the wedding and I was planning to order something after the wedding."

His expression didn't shift. "What?"

She exhaled sharply. "There's this Muggle place near my flat. They have great chicken soup. I was thinking of ordering from there when I get home."

Victor blinked, clearly surprised. "You? Muggle food?"

Lyra arched an eyebrow. "Is that so shocking?"

Victor held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, you just don't seem like the type."

She crossed her arms. "My tastes are highly developed, I'll have you know."

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. "Oh, highly developed?"

She rolled her eyes. "Merlin, shut up."

Victor chuckled but then tilted his head slightly. "Daphne still hasn't come back."

It wasn't a question.

Lyra's jaw tightened.

"No," she said quietly.

Victor didn't press. He just nodded, exhaling slowly.

They stood there in silence for a moment.

Finally, he spoke. "Well, tell the Weasleys congratulations for me."

Lyra nodded.

As she turned to leave, he called after her, voice softer than before.

"Try not to collapse before the reception, yeah?"

She didn't look back.

But she let herself smile.

The Burrow had always looked like something out of a storybook—crooked, charming, impossibly held together. But today, it was something else entirely. It had been transformed. Strings of golden fairy lights hung between the trees, twinkling in the fading afternoon sun. Soft, enchanted lanterns floated lazily through the air, casting warm glows over white-clothed tables. Wildflowers bloomed in overflowing arrangements, and ribbons of deep red and gold curled around chairs and railings. It was warm and bright and breathtakingly alive—a dream spun into reality.

Lyra should have found it beautiful.

And, in a way, she did.

But she also felt like she was standing in a world that was moving forward while she stayed frozen in place.

She swallowed against the knot in her throat, adjusting the flowing lilac fabric of her dress. It felt too soft, too delicate, too unlike her, at least the her she was now. But she hadn’t argued. She hadn’t had the energy.

She weaved through the crowd, familiar faces laughing, smiling, drinking, living.

And then she saw her.

Daphne.

Sitting beneath the shade of a tree, a blanket spread beneath her, baby James perched on her lap.

She looked better.

Better than she had the last time Lyra had seen her, which had been last week.

Better than she had since Astoria.

She wasn’t okay, not by any means, but she was pulling through. The sharp hollowness in her face had softened, her posture more upright, less like she was afraid she might collapse at any given moment. Her blonde hair was pinned back neatly, the pale blue of her dress complementing her features.

And James—

James was much bigger than the last time Lyra had held him, just a few days after his birth.

He had grown into that softness that babies always seemed to develop around this age, his cheeks plump, his limbs a little rounder. His dark hair had thickened, still just as messy, and his eyes—Astoria’s eyes—were bright with curiosity, his tiny fingers reaching for Daphne’s necklace, grasping at the delicate chain like he could pull it toward him.

Daphne chuckled softly, gently prying his fingers away.

Lyra watched them carefully, something twisting in her chest before she sat on a soft blanket beside Daphne, the pale lilac of her dress pooling around her.

It still hurt, in a way she couldn’t quite describe.

Not just losing Astoria, but this. The way time kept moving forward without her. The way everyone seemed to be settling into their new roles while she still felt like she was standing in the ruins of something, unable to move forward, unable to become anything other than what she had always been.

“Finally decided to join us, then?”

Lyra blinked, startled from her thoughts.

Daphne was watching her with a knowing look.

She hesitated, then let out a quiet scoff. “You look better.”

Daphne arched a brow. “So do you.”

Lyra huffed, adjusting the fabric of her dress. “I feel ridiculous.”

Daphne smirked. “Hermione?”

“Obviously.”

A ghost of something fond flickered over Daphne’s expression.

James let out a tiny, babbling sound, his arms reaching toward Lyra now, his little fingers grasping at the air.

Lyra’s chest tightened.

She hesitated, just for a second.

Then she reached out, gently lifting him into her arms.

He was warm.

Small and soft and full of life.

She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together as she cradled him close.

“Say hello to Aunty Lyra,” Daphne murmured, brushing her fingers lightly over James’s chubby cheek.

Lyra froze.

Aunty Lyra.

She had never considered it before—what she would be to James. If she would be anything at all.

But Daphne had decided for her.

And, for some reason, that made her throat feel tight.

James turned his wide, curious eyes toward her, babbling nonsense as he reached out with his tiny hands.

Lyra hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then she reached forward, carefully lifting him into her arms.

“I think he likes you,” Daphne murmured.

Lyra let out a breath of quiet laughter. “He doesn’t know any better.”

Daphne hummed, her smile tinged with something sad.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the noise of the wedding fading into the background.

Then—

“Well, look at that.”

Lyra stiffened.

She knew that voice.

She had once known it better than her own.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Harry.

She hadn’t seen much of him over the past few months. Just glimpses here and there, brief moments at work or in passing, but they hadn’t talked. Not properly. Not since that night at St. Mungo’s.

But now—

He looked better, too.

More settled into himself.

More like a father.

His dark hair was longer than the last time she had seen him, curling slightly at the ends, and he was dressed in a well-fitted suit that made Lyra’s heart stutter in her chest before it ached—a silent, softer heartbreak curling beneath her ribs as the weight of their past settled over her.

He was smiling.

A real, easy smile.

Something deep inside her twisted.

“Is that my son stealing all your attention?” he asked, his voice lighter than she expected.

Lyra exhaled sharply, adjusting James in her arms. “Obviously.”

Harry huffed a laugh, and she watched him look at his son again, his green eyes soft, his mouth curling into a small, genuine smile, and, Merlin help her, Lyra almost combusted.

He looked so right like this.

For a second, Lyra couldn’t breathe.

Because she had known him for years, had loved him for years, and yet she had never seen him like this.

Had never seen him as a father.

And it was terrifying, how much it suited him.

How much it made her want things she had no right to want.

Harry turned to Daphne. “I see you finally convinced Lyra to hold him.”

Daphne smirked. “She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Harry turned back to Lyra, his green eyes warm, filled with something that looked suspiciously like gratitude.

And Lyra—

Lyra swallowed hard, forcing a smirk. “Well, I figured someone had to teach him good habits. If he spends too much time with you, he’ll never learn how to sit still.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade.

Harry’s gaze flickered to her, something unreadable in his expression. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t.”

Lyra swallowed hard.

An awkward silence settled between them.

She hadn’t realized until now how much easier it had been to avoid talking to him.

Now, sitting here, forced into conversation, she could feel the weight of everything pressing down on her.

Harry shifted on his feet. “You look... good.”

Lyra arched a brow. “I look ridiculous.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Hermione?”

“Who else? The only one I can never say no to.”

Something flickered in his expression. And then—

“Can I...?” He gestured toward James.

Lyra hesitated.

Then, carefully, she passed the baby into his arms.

And Merlin help her—

She shouldn’t have looked.

Shouldn’t have watched as James curled into his father’s chest, his tiny fingers gripping at the fabric of Harry’s suit.

Because it was too much.

Too soft.

Too perfect.

Too much like a life she was never meant to have.

Harry glanced down at James, something warm and fragile in his gaze.

And Lyra—

Lyra looked at him.

At the boy she had loved.

At the man he was becoming.

And she wondered—

Was this how it was always meant to be?

Was she always meant to be the one on the outside, watching him belong to someone else?

She pressed her lips together, pushing the thought away.

Because it didn’t matter.

It couldn’t matter.

Harry had James.

And James—

James would always come first.

And she wouldn't have it any other way.

The wedding had been beautiful.

Overwhelming in its warmth, in its love, in the unshakable sense of family that filled every inch of the Burrow’s garden.

Lyra had spent most of it lingering at the edges, playing her part where necessary, nodding when expected, sipping her drink when silence was required. She had even laughed at one of Charlie's particularly ridiculous jokes, though she was fairly certain it had been more out of surprise than actual amusement.

But now—

Now, as the evening settled into something quieter, something softer, she found herself standing at the back of the crowd, watching as Ron Weasley took center stage, his cheeks flushed with warmth and emotion, his hands gripping a piece of parchment like a lifeline.

The best man’s speech.

She had expected something loud, something boisterous, something Ron.

She hadn’t expected this.

Ron cleared his throat, shifting slightly.

“I—uh,” he began, voice slightly hoarse. “I had a whole speech planned, you know. Something about how George finally found someone who could put up with him and how Angelina should start charging him for emotional labor, but—”

A weak chuckle rippled through the crowd.

Ron exhaled sharply, gripping the parchment tighter.

“But I—I don’t think that’s what I want to say.” He hesitated. “Love isn’t... easy.”

The hush that settled over the gathering was immediate, the air shifting, the laughter fading into something more intent.

Ron swallowed. “Love isn’t simple. It’s not just... candlelight and grand gestures and knowing exactly what to say at the right time. It’s hard. It’s work. It’s choosing someone, over and over again, even when it’s not convenient. Even when it’s not easy. Even when it hurts.”

Silence.

Lyra felt her breath catch.

Ron exhaled. “Because love isn’t just about the good moments. It’s not just about the days when everything makes sense, when the world feels light and easy and kind. It’s about the hard days, too. The days when nothing makes sense. When everything feels wrong—when you’re tired and lost and scared.” His fingers clenched slightly around the parchment. “And that’s what makes it real. Because love—it stays. Even when it changes. Even when it doesn’t look the way you thought it would.”

Lyra swallowed against the lump in her throat.

Ron hesitated, then glanced toward George and Angelina. “And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that love like that—love that stays—that’s the kind worth holding onto.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then—

A quiet sniffle.

Laughter, light and gentle, as Ron cleared his throat, cheeks flushing. “Alright, enough of that,” he muttered, rubbing at his face. “Before I start crying into my drink—someone get me a bloody refill.”

The crowd erupted into laughter, applause breaking through the weight of the moment, glasses being raised, voices calling out in celebration.

And Lyra—

Lyra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Because that—

That hadn’t been what she expected from Ron.

It had been too... put together. Too poetic, almost. But maybe she had underestimated him. Maybe the years had given him a way with words she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe he had always known what to say, just never had the right moment to say it.

She shook her head slightly, taking a sip of her drink, forcing herself to breathe past the strange tightness in her chest.

And then—

Her gaze flickered across the crowd, almost absently—

And landed on him.

Harry.

He was standing near Molly, who was holding James in her arms, gently rocking him back and forth, the baby’s tiny fingers curled into the lace of her sleeve.

But Harry—

Harry wasn’t looking at James.

He was looking at her.

The lantern light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the angles of his jaw, the tired smudges beneath his eyes. And for a brief moment, just one, she thought—

She thought he almost looked sad.

Then—

As if realizing she had caught him—

He turned away.

Turned back to James, reaching out for his son, his jaw tight as he looked down at him, something unreadable in the way his hands curled so carefully around him.

Lyra exhaled, shaking her head slightly.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

But later—

Much later—

After the music had softened and the candlelight had burned lower, after the speeches had ended and the first dances had been danced, she found herself standing near Daphne, who was absently swirling her drink, watching the guests with a quiet sort of amusement.

Daphne, who had been watching her carefully for a while now.

And as if she had already guessed what Lyra had been thinking, she murmured, voice quiet—

“You know he wrote it, right?”

Lyra blinked, turning to her. “What?”

“The speech,” Daphne said, tipping her head toward the now-empty platform. “Ron didn’t write it. Harry did.”

Lyra stared at her.

Her first instinct was to laugh.

Because—because no.

That wasn’t possible.

That speech had been too... thoughtful. Too well-structured. Too polished. Harry wasn’t—he didn’t—he couldn’t have.

Daphne arched a brow at her silence. “You really didn’t know?”

Lyra swallowed. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

There was something unreadable in Daphne’s gaze. Something soft. Something knowing.

And Lyra—

Lyra turned, her gaze finding him again.

Harry, who was sitting at a table now, James cradled against his chest, his fingers absently smoothing over the baby’s messy black hair.

And suddenly—

Suddenly—

It made sense.

Because the words Ron had spoken—

They hadn’t just been about George and Angelina.

They had been about something else.

Something bigger.

Something Harry hadn’t been able to say himself.

And as she looked at him now—at the quiet, tired way he was holding his son, at the way he was murmuring something too soft to hear—

She wondered just how much of that speech had been meant for her.

The night had wound down into something quieter.

The air was thick with the remnants of celebration—soft laughter drifting through the Burrow’s garden, music playing low and slow, candles burning down to their last flickers. The world felt softer, and yet, in some ways, unbearably loud.

Lyra felt light.

Too light.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

She hadn’t meant to drink that much, but somewhere between listening to Ron’s speech and realizing Harry had written it—somewhere between Daphne looking at her like she knew something, and watching Harry hold his son like he was afraid of letting go—somewhere in the mess of it all—

She had stopped keeping track.

Now, she was stumbling up the stairs inside the Burrow, the long fabric of her dress tangling around her legs, one hand gripping the wooden railing while the other reached blindly for the wall, as if she could steady herself on something more solid than the warmth in her veins.

She had almost made it—

Almost—

Her foot caught on the last step.

The floor rushed up to meet her, and she had just enough time to think oh, well, this is going to be embarrassing before—

Hands.

Warm, steady hands caught her waist, pulling her back before she could crash face-first onto the landing.

“Merlin, Lyra—”

The voice was familiar.

She blinked up at him, her vision adjusting, his face coming into focus—too close, too much, all sharp angles and messy black hair and green eyes that still felt like they knew her, even when they shouldn’t.

Harry.

She groaned, letting her head tip back against his shoulder. “Oh, bloody hell.”

His grip on her waist tightened slightly, steadying her as she swayed. “You’re drunk.”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Brilliant deduction, Potter. Always knew you had a sharp mind.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, exasperated, but he didn’t let her go. “Why did you drink so much?”

She scoffed, halfheartedly pushing away from him, though she barely managed to take a step before his fingers curled around her wrist, keeping her upright.

She hesitated.

And then—because she was drunk, because the words were there, clawing at the edges of her mind, because she had spent the entire night pretending she didn’t care—

She asked, “Who wrote Ron’s speech?”

Something in his expression shifted.

His fingers twitched slightly where they still rested on her wrist.

“What?”

She turned to face him fully now, swaying slightly but keeping her gaze locked on his. “The speech. The one Ron gave.”

Harry was silent.

Lyra exhaled, shaking her head. “I didn’t realize at first, you know. But it was you, wasn’t it?”

Still, he said nothing.

Which was answer enough.

Lyra’s breath hitched slightly, something twisting in her chest.

“Why?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Harry swallowed. His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn’t step back.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice rough. “I just... I had things to say, and I didn’t know how to say them. And Ron needed the help.”

She stared at him.

He had always been like this. Always hiding his words in other people’s mouths, in unsent letters, in actions rather than speech.

But she wasn’t sure what unsettled her more—

The fact that he had written it.

Or the fact that—when Ron had spoken those words—

She had felt them.

She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face. “Fuck,” she muttered. “This is—”

But before she could finish, she stumbled again—

Harry caught her again, hands steady against her arms, and she let out a breathless laugh.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

And maybe—

Maybe if she were sober, she would have stepped away.

Maybe if she weren’t Lyra Malfoy, and he weren’t Harry Potter, and there weren’t years and years of history between them—maybe then, she would have stopped.

But she was drunk.

And he was Harry.

And she was tired.

And the world felt too much and too little all at once, and the only thing grounding her was him.

So she moved.

Not away.

Not toward.

Just—closer.

And when she kissed him, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t anything that it should have been.

It was sharp edges and rough hands and the taste of firewhiskey lingering between them.

It was a mistake.

It was inevitable.

And neither of them stopped.

The kiss burned between them, frantic and untamed. Lyra’s hands slid into his hair, tugging him closer, feeling the heat of his body against hers. Harry’s hands, warm and firm, gripped her waist, pulling her toward him as if he couldn’t bear any space between them. She could taste the alcohol on his breath, sharp and familiar, and it mingled with the firewhisky still buzzing through her veins. There was no hesitation now, no barrier to stop them.

The world felt distant, like it was happening somewhere far away, and the only thing that mattered was this—him. Her. The press of his lips against hers, the way he held her like he needed her as much as she needed him.

Lyra felt a heat building inside her, a mix of urgency and confusion. She pulled back for a second, her lips tingling, breath short. “Where’s James?” she asked, her voice thick with the remnants of their kiss.

Harry’s eyes were dark, and his hands hadn’t let go of her. He barely paused before answering, his voice low. “Daphne’s. For the weekend.”

She nodded, her mind not fully processing his words, only that he was here, and she was here, and neither of them seemed to want to let go. She leaned back in, her lips brushing his again, fast, demanding.

The kiss deepened again, a wildness to it now, neither of them willing to stop. They were moving in sync, lost in the way their bodies felt pressed together, their mouths moving like they were the only two people left in the world.

Lyra pulled away slightly, breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She stared at him, her mind still clouded but clearer than before. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and she knew—she knew this was reckless, this was wrong, but the words didn’t come. They didn’t need to.

“House is empty?” she asked again, her voice husky, tinged with desperation.

He nodded, his grip tightening on her, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand, his gaze flickering between her lips and her eyes. “Yeah. Empty.”

Her heart slammed in her chest, but it wasn’t from fear. It was something else. A pull she couldn’t explain, something urgent. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to feel the weight of the years that had built walls between them. All she wanted was the moment, the feeling of him, of something familiar.

“Apparate us there,” she said, the words coming out in a rush, no room for hesitation.

His eyes softened, but there was something else there, something in the way he looked at her—understanding, maybe, or something else that she didn’t want to name.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse, a flicker of doubt in his gaze.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for him again, pulling him toward her. And this time, the kiss was softer—slower—but it still held that same intensity, that same pull that neither of them could resist.

“Now,” she murmured against his lips, a pleading note in her voice.

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. His hands were already on her waist, and with a soft pop, the world around them shifted, the Burrow fading away and the quiet emptiness of his house taking its place.

They were standing in the living room now, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them was charged, heavy with the realization of what they had just done—or maybe what they hadn’t done yet.

But before anything else could be said, Harry took a step toward her, and they were kissing again. His lips were gentle at first, as if testing, as if trying to hold on to the fragile thread of control. But Lyra wasn’t sure if she wanted him to hold back. She responded, pulling him closer, her hands roaming over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt.

She could hear the quiet thud of her own heart, pounding in her ears, and it was the only sound in the room as the kiss deepened again, faster now, less hesitant, as if they had both decided there was no going back.

And maybe, just maybe, they didn’t care anymore.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

They broke apart for a brief moment, panting, and Harry took her hand, leading her up the stairs. The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of a floorboard beneath their feet. Each step felt like a mile, as if the stairs were stretching out, trying to keep them apart. But the pull was too strong, and soon they were in his room, the door shut firmly behind them.

With a tremble in his hands, Harry began to remove her dress, the buttons undone one by one, revealing the soft skin beneath. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as if he couldn’t believe she was here, with him, like this. Lyra’s own hands fumbled with his shirt, eager to feel the warmth of his bare chest, the beat of his heart against her palm.

Their kisses grew more urgent, their breaths mingling as they fumbled with the rest of their clothes, the layers peeling away until they were both standing there, bare and exposed in the moonlit room. The air was electric, crackling with the intensity of the moment. They paused, just for a second, the reality of what they were doing washing over them. But the need was too great, the desire too powerful to resist.

Lyra’s mind was a whirlwind of sensations—his hands on her, his mouth on her skin, the feel of him inside her. It was overwhelming, and she didn’t want it to stop. Harry’s breath was hot against her ear as he whispered her name, the sound of it sending waves of pleasure through her.

Their eyes locked again, and she saw it there, in the depths of his gaze—regret, fear, longing. But she didn’t want to think about that now. She just wanted to feel, to be present in this moment with him, to let go of everything else that held her back.

But reality has a way of crashing our best of dreams, especially when they come true.

The quiet in the room was thick with the weight of their actions, the silence stretching like a taut string between them, vibrating with the unspoken truth neither wanted to face. Lyra was sitting on the edge of the bed, her dress a crumpled heap at her feet, and Harry was standing a few steps away, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. The weight of what they’d just done was starting to settle, and it felt like a nightmare unfolding in slow motion.

“This was a mistake,” Lyra said, her voice barely a whisper, as if speaking the words aloud might make them real. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold together the pieces of her fractured mind.

“Lyra, don’t—” Harry’s voice was hoarse as he stepped toward her, reaching out like he wanted to pull her back. “You kissed me. You kissed me, and you—”

“We were drunk!” She cut him off, the words spilling out of her mouth with more heat than she intended. “I was weak, and you were there, and I let it happen. But that doesn’t change what it was. A mistake.”

“So now it’s my fault?” Harry’s frustration bled into his voice, his temper beginning to show. “I didn’t make you kiss me, Lyra. You made that choice. You kissed me just as much as I kissed you.”

“Don’t make this about me!” she shouted, her hands clenching at her sides. “You know damn well what this is about. It’s about you, Harry! It’s about everything you’ve done!”

He stood there, his expression hardening. “What are you talking about? You think I don’t know what I’ve done?”

"It was a mistake and it can never happen again."

Harry’s confusion twisted into frustration, and he stepped toward her, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “So what? You decide everything for us? Just like that?”

Lyra's breath hitched. “Harry, this shouldn’t have happened."

“Why?” His voice was desperate, the words spilling out like he was searching for something to make sense of it all. “Why is it wrong? I love you, and I know you love me. I know you do. So why not?”

“Because it’s not enough!” Her voice cracked, the floodgates of all her pent-up emotions breaking open in one sharp cry. “It’s not enough. I haven’t forgiven you, Harry. I haven’t forgiven you for everything.”

There was a long pause, the air charged with tension as Harry processed her words. His face shifted—pained, guilty, but still so full of longing. “Can you? Ever forgive me?” His voice was quieter now, almost too soft, as though he was afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know,” Lyra replied, her heart aching as she struggled to form the words. “Maybe. Fuck, I don’t know. I’m so angry with you. But at the same time...” She shook her head, her eyes searching for answers that were always just out of reach.

“Lyra, we could be so good together,” Harry said, his voice full of hope, though there was a flicker of desperation behind his words. “You know that. You know we could. I’ve always known it. We just need to—"

“And we would be,” she interrupted him, her words coming out like a sharp gasp, “if you and Astoria hadn’t—if you hadn’t slept with her. I know you got James from that, and I love him, I really do. How could I not? He’s a part of you. But—” Her breath caught, her voice trembling as she said the words that she’d been too afraid to admit until now. “But it’s not just about James, is it? It’s about everything. What you did. What you did to me. To us.”

Harry’s face twisted in pain, and for a second, Lyra thought he might step away, might pull back like he always had before. But instead, something in him seemed to break. His jaw clenched, and his fists tightened at his sides, his body shaking with the effort to hold himself back.

 “I never loved her, Lyra,” he said, his voice low, as if the words themselves were painful to admit. “I wasn’t in love with her.”

“Then what the hell was it?” Lyra shot back, the sharpness in her tone cutting through the air. “What was it, Harry, if you weren’t in love with her? You don’t just sleep with someone like that unless there’s something more.”

Harry’s fists clenched, his breath coming faster now as his own frustration began to mount. “I don’t need you telling me what I felt. I’ve been living with that mistake every single day, Lyra. Every fucking day.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, you never seemed to be doing a damn thing to fix it!” Her voice trembled with the force of the words, but she didn’t care. “I was right there, Harry. I was right there, and you pushed me away. You slept with her, and you kept lying to me. So don’t stand there and try to make this about me when it’s you who’s the fucking problem!”

"You pushed me away first!" Harry took a step forward, his chest heaving with the effort to keep his cool. But there was an edge to his voice, a flicker of anger that couldn’t be contained anymore. “I never wanted to hurt you, Lyra. I never wanted any of this! But you think you’re the only one who’s been hurting, huh? You think I don’t feel guilty every goddamn day for what I did?”

Lyra shook her head, taking a step back, her heart pounding in her chest. “You don’t get it, Harry. You don’t understand what it feels like to be the one who’s been pushed aside. To be the one who’s had to watch you move on while I was stuck, waiting, hoping you’d choose me.”

“I never stopped loving you!” Harry’s voice cracked as he reached for her, his hand almost touching her before she recoiled from him, as if the very touch of him burned. “I never stopped wanting you, Lyra. I—”

“You should have fought for me!” she screamed, her voice breaking as she wiped angrily at the tears that were now falling. “You should have fought for us! But you didn’t! And now I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

The words hit Harry like a slap. He staggered back as if he’d been physically struck, his mouth opening and closing as though he had no response. His face was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief. “So that’s it, then? You won’t forgive me?” His voice trembled, the hurt clear in his eyes. “After everything we’ve been through?”

Lyra’s breath hitched, but she didn’t back down. “I don’t know, Harry. I really don’t know. I want to. I want to believe that we can make this work, but—” She choked on the next words. “But I can’t. Not yet. Not after everything.”

The silence between them was suffocating, the tension like a knife poised at the edge of her chest. Harry’s expression twisted, the guilt and pain turning into something darker. “You think I don’t feel guilty, Lyra?” His voice was strained, as if he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. “You think I don’t feel like I’m living in hell every single fucking day because of what I did? And I love my son, Merlin knows I love him so much, but I miss you too. And I feel so guilty–”

“I don’t care about your guilt, Harry!” she snapped, her voice rising again. “You don’t get to make this about you. You hurt me. You broke me. And now you want me to forgive you? Just like that?”

Harry’s eyes flashed with anger, his temper snapping like a brittle wire. “You think I’m just supposed to keep apologizing, don’t you? Keep begging for your forgiveness? Well, maybe I’m done. Maybe I’m done begging for you to forgive me.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Lyra froze, her eyes wide with shock. “What?” she whispered, disbelief flooding her. “You’re done? After everything?”

“Yeah,” Harry spat, his voice shaking with fury. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve spent long enough trying to make you see how sorry I am, but it’s never going to be enough for you, is it? Never enough.”

Lyra’s heart dropped into her stomach, the pain in her chest unbearable. “So that’s it? You’re just going to walk away?”

“I’m not walking away, you did that first.” Harry growled, his face twisted with rage. “I’m just done letting you control everything. You think you’re the only one hurting? You think you’re the only one who has scars from this?”

“Harry—” Lyra began, but he cut her off, his voice rising to a terrifying level.

“No! I’m done, Lyra. Done with you pretending you’re the only one who’s been broken! I loved you. I still fucking love you, but you can’t see that, can you? All you see is your hurt, your pain, and you won’t let me fix it. You won’t let me do anything, because you can’t forgive me when you were the one who pushed me away in the first place.” His chest was heaving with emotion, his words coming out in jagged bursts. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep trying, only for you to keep pushing me away.”

The anger in Harry’s voice, the rawness, the finality—it cut through Lyra like a blade. Harry didn't explode at people much often but when he did, it was bright and terrifying and endless. For a microsecond she could have sworn she’d never felt so alive, so painfully alive, like the fight had ignited something inside her that she didn’t want to face.

Sympathy was fleeting, and cruelty was far louder.

For a second, she had wanted to scream back, to tell him that it was enough, that she wanted to forgive him, but the words never came. Instead, she stood there, feeling the burn of his fury on her skin, feeling the weight of the guilt he hadn’t been able to hide, and yet, somehow, none of it felt real anymore.

But when he turned and walked toward the door, the words still hanging between them, she couldn’t stop him. And as the door slammed shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like the end of everything.

Maybe, just maybe, she could have forgiven him if he hadn’t walked away. If he hadn’t stormed off like that, leaving her standing alone in the wreckage of their relationship. But it wasn’t just the anger that hurt—it was the cold finality.

Perhaps, it really was the end of everything.

Lyra walked through the empty streets, her heels clutched in her hand, the weight of the night pressing down on her. She was barely aware of the cold, her mind a jumbled mess of emotions, frustration, and regret. The dress felt like a prison on her skin, the lilac fabric a constant reminder of everything she had tried to forget, of Harry, of the argument, of the mess they had made of everything.

She had to get out of it. She had to burn it all down, pretend it never happened.

Her apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, a far cry from the grandiose walls of Malfoy Manor, where her mother still lived, where everything had always been larger than life. This place was hers, a refuge, a space she could call her own. But tonight, it felt too small, too suffocating. She just wanted to get inside, to change, to escape.

When she reached her door, she froze.

Sitting on the steps, his back against the railing, was Victor. She blinked in surprise, her stomach doing a strange little flip. The last thing she expected was to see him here, waiting for her at this hour.

Her first thought was that this couldn’t be real, that it was just some twisted version of reality she was living in, where she was surrounded by ghosts of what could have been. But when he looked up at her and offered her that hesitant smile, the kind that seemed to speak volumes of unspoken words, she couldn’t help but feel something shift.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little more tentative than usual, like he was trying to gauge her mood. "I got you that soup you liked. Figured you wouldn’t have eaten much, and, well, I also grabbed some potions to help you feel better."

Lyra blinked at him, her chest tightening with surprise. She hadn’t expected this, not in the slightest. She had expected an empty flat and a long, quiet night alone to nurse the wounds from the argument with Harry, to drown in her own thoughts and frustration.

But here he was, sitting there, with soup and potions in hand. The thought of someone, anyone, caring about her right now felt almost foreign.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even, but the question came out sharper than she intended. She needed to know how long he had been waiting for her, how long he had been outside, lingering in the quiet night, just to give her soup.

Victor’s gaze flickered downward for a moment, a nervous laugh escaping him. “Not long,” he said, but his eyes avoided hers, and that hesitation told her everything. “Okay, maybe since ten.”

Lyra’s brows furrowed in surprise. Ten? He had been sitting there for hours? Just waiting? She couldn’t understand it. It didn’t make sense to her. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had made this much effort for her.

“And you got me soup?” she repeated, the disbelief in her tone growing.

Victor looked away for a moment, clearly uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “from that place you liked. Or at least, I hope it’s the right one. There’s only one restaurant on this street, Malfoy.”

Lyra’s mind raced as she tried to process the situation, the kindness that Victor was showing her in this moment. She hadn’t asked for any of it. She hadn’t asked for him to show up on her doorstep, to bring her food, to somehow make her feel something other than the bitterness that had consumed her.

Her gaze dropped to the soup in his hands, then back to him. She took a step forward, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. “You like me,” she said, her voice blunt and direct. There was no use dancing around it. The words were out before she could stop them.

Victor’s face flushed, his mouth opening as though he might protest, but he quickly closed it, glancing away from her. “Are you drunk? I mean, after everything—”

Lyra shook her head sharply, cutting him off before he could deflect. She wasn’t here for his games or his nervousness. “No,” she said, her voice firm. “You have feelings for me.”

There was a long pause, and she watched as he seemed to retreat into himself. He shifted uneasily on the steps, his eyes darting around, avoiding her gaze.

Victor shifted on the steps, his face flushing slightly. “I—well, yeah, I guess I do. But it’s not—”

She didn’t give him the chance to finish. Instead, she took a step closer, her heart beating a little faster now. There was a feeling in the air, something undeniable. She didn’t want to overthink it anymore. She didn’t want to keep pretending. Not when he was standing right there, caring for her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

Before he could say anything more, she reached out and kissed him. It wasn’t slow or uncertain. It was a kiss that felt like the first breath of fresh air after being underwater too long. She kissed him with all the frustration, the loneliness, and the desire she had been holding onto for far too long.

Victor kissed her back, and it was gentle at first, as if he were still testing the waters, but then it deepened, and Lyra felt herself melting into the kiss, as if the world had just dropped away. There were no more words, just the quiet hum of everything else fading into the background.

When they finally pulled away, Lyra felt a little breathless, her hands still resting on his chest. “Is that something you wanted?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. There was something sweet, something real about this moment, but she needed to hear it.

Victor smiled, his eyes still a little wide from the intensity of the kiss. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice almost shy. “I guess it was.”

She looked at him for a long moment, searching his eyes for any hint of uncertainty. But all she saw was warmth. Warmth, and something else—something like hope.

“You really waited all this time for me?” she asked, her voice soft with disbelief, but also with something else. Maybe it was hope, too.

Victor nodded, his hand coming up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quiet but certain now. “I know you weren't feeling well and–”

"You waited for me."

Her heart gave a small, painful thump in her chest. She had been so caught up in everything, so wrapped up in her own pain, that she hadn’t realized how much she needed someone like him. Someone who was there, without asking for anything in return.

"I think I would have waited my whole life for you." His words are sweet but there's a sincerity in them she hadn't expected.

Without saying another word, Lyra kissed him again, slower this time, with a softness that was almost tender. And for once, in this moment, she didn’t need to overthink things. She didn’t need to question what came next.

When they broke apart again, she smiled at him, her heart feeling lighter than it had in a long time. Harry and their night together was momentarily forgotten because right now, for once, someone had waited for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Victor smiled back, his hand finding hers. “Anytime,” he said softly, his voice a little playful now. “Anytime, Malfoy.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Lyra felt a little spark of something good in her chest. Something real. Something she didn’t want to let go of.