chasing circles

Chapter Seven

once upon a time, i loved you

"i dream of you even when i know you aren't coming back"

29th February, 2004

The world felt quieter than it should.

Not peaceful. Not serene.

Just... wrong.

Too still.

Lyra stood by her bedroom mirror in the grey-blue light of early morning, fingers dragging slowly through her hair, section by section. She didn’t use her wand, though it lay on the nightstand, where she’d left it last night—carefully parallel to a single button he’d dropped weeks ago and never bothered to sew back on. She hadn’t moved it either.

She smoothed her hair again. And again.

The black dress waiting on the bed was elegant, understated, too well-fitted for something that made her skin crawl. It had hung in the very back of her closet for years—bought out of polite obligation, not anticipation. For someday. She hadn’t known that someday would look like this.

With slow, methodical hands, she pulled it on. Tugged the zipper up. Adjusted the sleeves. It was a little looser than it used to be—he’d teased her about how she’d started skipping breakfast, how the tea had replaced actual food—but she hadn’t listened. Not then.

She crossed to the dresser and picked up the silver cuff resting beside a tiny, dusty bottle of cologne. It was his, once. Or no—hers, technically. He’d given it to her on a rainy Tuesday with that half-smile of his, said something stupid like, It looks dangerous, so obviously it’s yours now.

Her thumb brushed the etched pattern on the metal, her breath catching just slightly as she fastened it at her wrist. It was colder than she remembered. Or maybe she was.

She didn’t feel like herself in the mirror. She looked like someone else. Someone who had washed her face and tied her hair and zipped up her dress and now had to go into the world and say goodbye.

The thought turned her stomach.

A knock came at the door—light, careful. Not the knock of someone who was simply visiting.

“Lyra?” Hermione’s voice was gentle.

She didn’t answer right away. She wasn’t sure her voice would work yet.

She took one more glance in the mirror. Adjusted her earring. Lifted her chin.

Then she moved.

When she opened the door, Hermione was standing there, her own coat buttoned all the way up, her hair pinned back in the kind of tight chignon she only wore to court or funerals. Her eyes scanned Lyra once, and Lyra could see it—the way she took in the slight unevenness of her makeup, the stiffness in her posture, the way the cuff was fastened too tightly.

But she didn’t mention any of that.

“Will you be okay?” she asked.

Not how are you or I’m sorry or do you want to talk. Just that. A question that gave Lyra room to lie.

She didn’t, though.

“Yes,” she said.

It came out flat. Too fast. But it was what she had.

Hermione looked at her for a long moment, like she could feel the hollowness underneath the word. Like she might call her out on it.

But instead, she nodded. “All right.”

There was a pause.

Then Hermione added, voice a little softer, “We’re all going to miss him. Terribly.”

Lyra’s stomach lurched.

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard someone say it. Her aunt had said it over the phone. Daphne had whispered it through tears. Even Kingsley, in a letter scrawled with shaking hands. He was one of the good ones, Lyra. I’m so sorry.

But somehow—right now—it felt heavier. More real.

She blinked, slowly. Her eyes didn’t sting. They should have, maybe.

“I know,” she said.

And she did. She knew.

She knew in the way her flat was silent now, in the way she still reached for his mug every morning, in the way the bed seemed too wide no matter how she curled up. She knew in the empty hooks by the door, in the faint smell of his soap on her pillow, in the way no one had been able to look her in the eye for more than a second since it happened.

But knowing it... wasn’t the same as feeling it.

Right now, Lyra felt nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Not despair.

Just—quiet.

Like the part of her that was supposed to feel had shut off so she could keep moving.

She turned back into the room, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve, and Hermione followed her in.

“Have you eaten?” Hermione asked gently.

Lyra shook her head.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but didn’t push. She just sighed. “You don’t have to pretend to be fine, you know.”

“I’m not pretending,” Lyra said, crossing to the wardrobe to retrieve a pair of black heels. “I just am.”

Hermione gave her a look. “That’s not how being fine works.”

Lyra shrugged as she bent to slip her shoes on. “Well, apparently nothing works the way it should these days.”

Hermione smiled—barely—but it was enough to ease the air between them for a moment.

“You’re handling this better than I think I would,” she murmured. “Honestly, if I were you, I’d be hexing portraits or something by now.”

“I already did,” Lyra said, standing up straight again. “One of the ones in the study. It kept asking if I needed tea.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “Merlin. Which one?”

“The one with the dog.”

“Oh, I hated that one.”

Lyra smiled—barely.

The silence settled again.

Hermione shifted. “You don’t have to speak there if you’re not ready.”

Lyra shook her head. “I want to. I think he’d want me to.”

Hermione reached out, adjusting a clasp at the back of Lyra’s dress with a kind of reverence. Her fingers were steady.

When she spoke again, her voice was lower.

“He loved you.”

Lyra didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry.

“I know,” she said. 

And she did. More than anything. Because he’d shown her. Every day. With quiet gestures, and patience, and unwavering warmth. He had truly loved her.

And now... now she would have to learn how to carry that love without him.

Four Years Ago

Victor arrived on a Sunday morning with six boxes, three plants, and a panicked look in his eyes like he was halfway convinced she might make him take it all back.

Lyra had offered to help—twice—and both times he waved her off with a lopsided grin and some variation of “I’ve got it, don’t worry.” Which, evidently, was code for “I will drop this box and stub my toe and possibly set something on fire.”

There was already smoke trailing out from the kitchen.

“Is that… toast?” Lyra asked, nose wrinkling as she stepped over a collapsed stack of Quidditch magazines by the door.

Victor appeared in the archway looking sheepish and very much like a man who had tried, and failed, to be domestic. “It was toast,” he corrected. “Briefly.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You know you don’t have to cook. I didn’t invite you to move in just so you could poison me slowly.”

He grinned. “You invited me because I’m charming and excellent company.”

“Debatable.”

He smirked and ducked back into the kitchen.

The flat wasn’t large—barely two bedrooms, a single narrow hallway, creaky floors, and a kitchen that smelled like peppermint and old parchment. But it had always been hers. Quiet. Ordered. Undisturbed.

And now, it had a very large, very flustered man standing in the doorway, dragging his life in behind him. And now, it also had boxes. His boxes. Overflowing with jackets and boots and an absolutely tragic collection of Dragon Cannons memorabilia.

She glanced down at the topmost box, where a crooked photo frame poked out—Victor, in Spain with his sister, grinning in the snow with his hair wind-swept and a dragon in the blurry background. The candidness of it made something in her chest feel strange.

She reached over and adjusted it so it wouldn’t get bent.

By the time Victor wandered back out of the kitchen—with two mugs of tea and a fresh piece of bread he hadn't even tried to toast—she was kneeling in front of a box labeled ‘Books + Misc. (sorry, I didn’t sort)’ and trying very hard not to judge him.

“You organized these by chaos,” she said, flipping through a pile of books that included Beating the Bludger: Defensive Strategies in the Air, Cooking for the Emotionally Stunted, and something that looked suspiciously like a photo album full of dragons.

“I had a system,” he said, handing her the tea.

“You’re a menace.”

“And yet you asked me to live here.”

She glanced up at him. “Still questioning that decision, honestly.”

Victor laughed—open and easy—and for a moment, they sat in silence, sipping tea, surrounded by clutter and warmth.

And it hit her, suddenly, how strange it was to see someone else’s things here. His coat on the chair. His boots by the door. His voice humming as he moved through the rooms like he belonged in them. It should’ve felt like an invasion.

But it didn’t.

It felt like breathing.

Victor didn’t take up too much space. He didn’t demand or dominate. He just existed beside her—warm and steady and oddly careful with her things, like he knew this space meant something to her.

And maybe that was what startled her most.

Because she realized—sitting on the floor, cradling a chipped mug and watching him sort through a tangled mess of scarves and broom polish—that she liked the space he took up.

She liked the noise, the clutter, the crooked way he grinned when he found something he thought she’d mock him for.

She liked him.

Maybe not in the falling fast and reckless way she'd once known. But in a quieter, slower kind of way.

And maybe—maybe—that was better.

Maybe that was what building something real looked like.

“You brought four pairs of the same boots,” she said, holding up two identical black left ones.

He blinked. “Ah. So that’s where they all went.”

“You’re lucky I don’t charge you rent and a clutter tax.”

“I’d pay it.”

She rolled onto her side, resting her head on her elbow, watching him.

His face looked more relaxed than she’d seen it in months—eyes half-lidded, lips curled just a little, hair fanned around his head like a halo of gentle chaos. There was a quiet to him, underneath the steady grin. A stillness she hadn’t noticed at first.

He turned his head toward her, brows raised slightly. “What?”

“You don’t snore, do you?”

“No.”

“Lie to me again and you’ll be evicted.”

He laughed softly. “I’ll buy you noise-cancelling charms.”

“Damn right you will.”

They fell into silence after that—not awkward, just… still. The kind of quiet that slipped between two people who didn’t need to fill it with noise. He closed his eyes. She didn’t.

She kept watching him, her gaze trailing the slope of his nose, the faint scar just beneath his jaw, the way his fingers tapped rhythmically against his chest like he was humming something only he could hear.

She hadn’t planned this. Not really. Letting him move in had felt impulsive at first—maybe even a little dangerous, considering how many things she’d once promised herself she wouldn’t do again. But now, lying there, his boxes in her space, his scent mingling with hers, his laughter lingering in the walls—she didn’t feel invaded.

She felt… full.

And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

She reached out absently and plucked a sock from one of the open boxes.

“Victor?”

“Hm?”

“If you put your socks on the kitchen counter, I will hex you in your sleep.”

He cracked an eye open. “That’s fair.”

“I’m serious.”

“Terrified.”

She flicked the sock at him and smiled when it landed on his face.

He didn’t remove it. Just lay there, letting it dangle off his nose as he spoke through muffled laughter, “You’re going to love living with me.”

“I’m already regretting it.”

But she wasn’t.

Not really.

He glanced over and caught her staring.

“What?”

Lyra blinked. “Nothing.”

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re judging me for something.”

“I’m always judging you for something,” she said breezily, taking a sip of her tea.

He leaned over, bumping his shoulder against hers. “You’re actually letting me stay. That’s on you– especially after the whole 'let's take things slow talk'. I guess you like me a lot.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just leaned into his shoulder, eyes flicking to the cluttered room that no longer felt entirely hers.

“I guess I do.”

The hallway of Malfoy Manor still smelled like time had stopped.

It was too clean. Too quiet. The sort of silence that pressed in on your ribs and lingered behind your teeth. Lyra adjusted the clasp of her cloak as the door clicked shut behind her, the weight of it echoing faintly off marble and stone.

No one had lived here since her mother’s death two years ago. Not really. The elves maintained it out of respect, out of duty, but the house felt like it was waiting—for something, or someone, or maybe just for its walls to remember how to be a home again.

Now it would play host to mourning. Again.

She moved slowly down the hall, heels muffled against ancient rugs, fingers brushing absently over the edge of a portrait she didn’t look at. Her hair was pinned back too tightly. The brooch at her chest itched her clothes against her skin, but she didn’t move to fix it. The discomfort helped. It kept her awake.

The brooch was Victor’s, a quiet thing with worn edges and an old family crest that no longer meant much to anyone. He had given it to her last Christmas, with hands that had trembled a little despite himself, and a smile that said he knew she’d wear it only if she truly wanted to.

She hadn’t worn it until now.

She adjusted it absently, fingers lingering against the fasten. The fabric beneath it felt heavier than usual. Or maybe it was just the weight of the morning pressing down.

The first guests were arriving.

The house was filling up, slowly. Too slowly. The hush of voices drifted in from the front drawing room, low and awkward and reverent in the way that only grief could inspire. Footsteps echoed against stone, hesitant and uncertain, like everyone was trying not to be the first to break the quiet.

She could hear someone breathing behind her. One of the elves, maybe. She didn’t turn to look.

It was easier not to.

The door opened again downstairs. Another guest. Another voice.

Lyra exhaled and turned toward the hallway, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble. The walls felt taller than they used to. The house had always dwarfed her, but this morning, it felt as though it might swallow her entirely.

She passed a window and paused briefly to look out.

The gardens had been trimmed. The hedges shaped. The fountain had been restored in the weeks following her mother’s death—something Narcissa would’ve cared about more than anyone. It still sounded too loud to Lyra’s ears.

She could almost hear her mother in the corner of the room: Why bother with grief when you can fuss about centerpieces?

Lyra’s throat tightened.

There was movement up ahead. Familiar, red-haired, tall.

“Ron,” she called before she could stop herself.

He turned, surprised but not unpleasantly so. He looked out of place in the Manor—like he always had—but there was a kind, unsure expression on his face that softened some of the jaggedness inside her.

“Hey.” His voice was low, and a little hoarse. “I was wondering if I’d see you before things started.”

“I’ve been up here,” she said, as if that explained anything.

He nodded. “Right. Yeah.”

They stood a few feet apart. She could see the line of his tie tucked under his jacket. A small snag on the lapel. His shoes were dusty.

“You came early.”

“Didn’t sleep much.”

“Me neither.”

A beat passed.

“I—uh.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking pained for a moment. “I don’t really know what to say. You know I’m shite with this stuff. But—Merlin, Lyra. I’m so sorry.”

Her mouth curved slightly, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really. “You’re not the only one who’s said that today.”

Ron looked down at his shoes. “Yeah, I figured.”

She didn’t move to hug him. He didn’t move to offer.

“I keep waiting for it to hit,” she said suddenly, voice lower. “But it hasn’t. Not the way it’s supposed to.”

He looked up at her. “Grief’s weird like that. Hits you sideways when you’re brushing your teeth or making toast or walking past a shop you haven’t thought about in years.”

Lyra let out a short, unexpected breath that could have been a laugh or a sigh. “You’ve gotten oddly wise, Weasley.”

He shrugged. “I hang around Hermione too much.”

She nodded toward the drawing room. “You should go. There’s tea.”

“You’re not coming?”

“In a bit.”

He hesitated. “Lyra, if you—if you need someone to talk to, really talk to...”

“I will find you,” she said automatically, already stepping past him.

“You holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

And that was that.

He let her go.

Further down the corridor, more voices greeted her.

Neville was there, standing beside Luna, speaking in hushed tones to Padma. His eyes caught Lyra’s, and the expression there was instantly gentle.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly when she reached him, his hand brushing her arm. “We all are.”

She gave him a look, steady and small. “Thank you, Neville.”

“I—he was always—he had this way of—” He stopped, brow furrowed. “It’s hard to believe.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded again. Like she’d been doing all morning. Like she’d be doing all day.

More condolences followed. More gentle hands on her arm, her shoulder. More eyes that flicked between sympathy and uncertainty.

He.
Him.
He was.
He had.
He meant.
He loved.

It felt like being slowly unraveled. Word by word.

The worst part was no one said his name. They all already knew she would truly break if she heard it.

And she couldn’t say it either. Couldn’t let the name fall out of her mouth. Not yet. Not here.

She murmured “Thank you,” and “Later,” and “Yes, I know,” so many times it all began to blur.

It was a defense mechanism, she supposed. One she was rather good at.

The Manor’s west corridor had always been the coldest, and now she found herself standing there without knowing why. There were old portraits on the walls—distant relatives, long dead. One of them was scowling at her. Another had fallen asleep in his chair. Neither seemed to notice her grief.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

She turned and found Andromeda watching her from the corner.

Her aunt approached slowly, dressed in slate grey and an expression that understood far more than it let on.

“Lyra,” she said gently, like it was a salve.

“Aunt Andy.”

They didn’t hug. But Lyra could tell that Andromeda wanted to.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

There was a moment, soft and still.

“I keep thinking he’s going to walk in,” Lyra whispered. “I keep—every time I hear footsteps, I think it’s him.”

Andromeda didn’t speak, but her hand found Lyra’s arm, squeezing gently.

“I should go downstairs,” Lyra said after a moment. “Before someone sends up a search party.”

Andromeda nodded, but didn’t move.

“He loved you,” she said simply. “So much.”

Lyra’s jaw locked. “I know.”

“I hope you know how lucky he felt. Every single day.”

She couldn’t answer. Not properly. The words sat on her tongue like iron.

Andromeda stepped back. “I’ll be there, if you need me.”

Lyra nodded. “Thank you.”

When her aunt left, the corridor was silent again. Just her. Just the portraits. Just the weight of memory pressing in from every angle.

She touched the brooch again.

Still gold. Still warm from her skin. Still his.

And she still hadn’t said his name.

Three Years Ago

The kitchen was small, barely big enough for the two of them, but it was enough. The golden light of the late afternoon streamed through the window, casting a soft glow over everything. The air was filled with the warm scent of garlic and fresh herbs, mingling with something sweet from the oven. Victor moved around the kitchen with an easy confidence, his focus on the dinner he was preparing.

Lyra leaned against the doorway, arms folded over her chest, her eyes following his every move. She hadn’t been expecting this. The simple act of him cooking—so natural, so domestic—had caught her off guard. She was used to doing things herself, having everything just so, but somehow, with Victor, it felt like the chaos of him wasn’t something to be fixed. It was just... part of the comfort.

"You're going to burn something, aren’t you?" she asked, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

Victor glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at her. "You wound me," he said, his voice light with mock offense. "I'm just making you dinner."

"Mm-hmm. You’re already a step behind," she replied, leaning in a little, amused by the sight of him fumbling with a spatula.

Victor snorted, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “You’re not even going to help, are you?”

She shrugged, the smile never leaving her face. “I’m just here for the entertainment,” she said with a wink, watching him drop a utensil for the second time. "You’re doing great so far."

“Very funny,” he muttered, clearly unbothered, though she could see the slight flush on his cheeks. "It’s supposed to be caramelized, not... whatever this is."

She glanced at the pan, her lips twitching. "Maybe you just invented a new form of cooking. Charred, with a side of character."

He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but laugh. "I’m going to impress you, you’ll see," he said, tossing the ruined onions aside and returning to the stove.

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “Impress me? How, with a kitchen fire?”

“No," he replied with mock seriousness, "with this perfectly edible masterpiece.” He gestured toward the food, though she could see the underlying panic in his eyes. “Now, be nice.”

She stepped into the kitchen, walking toward him as the music began to play—one of those slow, cheesy Muggle ballads. The kind that didn’t belong in her world but felt just right here. It was the kind of song that would make her roll her eyes in any other setting, but now, it just felt like part of the quiet magic of the moment.

Victor caught the beat first. His foot tapped, and then his whole body swayed, the movement smooth and carefree. He turned to her with a grin, his eyes bright with mischief.

"Come on," he said, holding out a hand, "I’m not cooking alone here. You’re going to have to dance with me."

Lyra glanced at him, a small laugh escaping her lips. "What? No, no way. I’m not—"

“Oh, come on,” he said, pulling her toward him before she could finish her sentence. She yelped in surprise, caught off guard by the sudden movement. But before she could push him away, he was already guiding her into an awkward, yet endearing shuffle around the kitchen.

She stumbled a little, not used to this, but Victor just laughed, his grip on her steady as they swayed to the music. It wasn’t graceful, and they both stepped on each other’s feet, but it didn’t matter. It was easy.

“I’m terrible at this,” she muttered, laughing despite herself as he twirled her, causing her to stumble into him.

“You’re fine,” he said with a grin, catching her easily. “You just have to relax.”

She shot him a look, trying to keep her tone playful, though there was something else in her chest that she couldn’t quite name. "Yeah, I’m sure I’m perfect at it."

Victor grinned, his voice lowering slightly. “You’re mad because I’m better than you.”

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "I think I might need more convincing."

“Oh, we’ll see,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he spun her again, this time a little too fast, making her stumble into him once more. He caught her by the waist, and for a moment, the world outside the kitchen disappeared.

The music played softly in the background, but it felt quieter now—just them, the smell of dinner cooking, and the steady beat of their hearts syncing. Lyra’s breath caught for a moment as she looked up at him, realizing how close they were, how much she liked this—how much she liked him.

She leaned her head against his chest, a little breathless. “You know,” she began slowly, almost as if she hadn’t meant to, “I think I could love you.”

Victor’s expression softened, and there was a quiet certainty in his eyes that made her feel a little like she was falling, though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop herself.

“Good,” he whispered, his voice low and full of that warmth that always settled around her. “Because I already do.”

Before she could say anything else, he kissed her, soft and slow, his lips warm against hers, tasting of the bread he'd just pulled from the oven. For a moment, time seemed to still. She kissed him back, her heart thumping a little faster than it should.

She pulled away first, her fingers lingering at the back of his neck as she caught her breath. "Don't burn my dinner," she murmured lightly, her voice still tinged with that warmth from the kiss.

Victor chuckled, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and something deeper. “It’s almost ready,” he said softly, his gaze never leaving hers.

Lyra smiled back, feeling the sudden, strange ease that seemed to settle between them. “Well, in that case,” she said, her voice playful, “maybe I’ll give you a second kiss and then later in the bedroom...”

Victor leaned in, his lips brushing hers again, this time slower, as if savoring the moment. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer as the music continued to play softly around them.

Lyra smiled into the kiss, feeling the warmth of the kitchen, of him, and for once, the world outside didn’t matter.

Lyra stood motionless by the display table at the funeral venue, her gaze fixed on the photo frame. The image of him—grinning, his face alight with a carefree joy—seemed almost out of place now. It was as if he should have been captured in a moment of stillness, not in this wide-eyed, unguarded smile. The kind of smile that made you feel like everything would be okay, even in the worst of times.

The winter scene in the background felt like a cruel joke. The snowflakes swirling around him were beautiful, soft, fragile—just like he had been. But now, all she could think of was the way he’d felt so warm in her arms, the way his laugh had made the world feel brighter, even on the darkest days. His warmth had been the kind that lingered long after he was gone, and now it felt like an ache in every part of her being.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against the glass of the frame, feeling the chill of it beneath her touch. It should have felt familiar—he had always been there, always been so present in every small moment. But now, everything about this felt foreign. The frame, the photo, the words on the card.

"You were the kindest of us."

The words were simple, but they hit her harder than she expected. She hadn’t realized how badly she needed to hear that until now, and yet, it still wasn’t enough. She swallowed, forcing down the lump that had settled in her throat. The card, with its neat script, was so small and insignificant compared to everything he had been. She wanted to throw it away, tear it up until the words fell apart in her hands, because none of it made sense. It didn’t fit. He was gone. No amount of cards or kind words could bring him back.

But that was the truth, wasn’t it? Nothing could bring him back. Not the frame, not the flowers, not the words. Nothing.

A sound behind her—a soft step, the lightest of noises—made her blink, snapping her out of her trance. She didn't have to look to know who it was. The warmth in the air gave it away. Neville. He had always had a way of being quietly present when it mattered most, even when you didn’t want it.

"Lyra," his voice was gentle, a low murmur, as if afraid of disturbing her. "Do you need help with anything?"

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the photo frame, a small shake running through her hands. She didn’t turn around. Instead, she simply stared at the image of Victor, her heart aching with an intensity she hadn’t expected. Her voice, when it came, was thick with the weight of everything she was trying to push down.

"I’ve got it," she said, her tone too firm, too cold. Her fingers were almost numb, but she didn’t dare loosen her grip. If she did, it felt like the last connection to him would slip away, too. The silence after her words seemed to stretch for an eternity. She knew Neville would want to stay, would want to help her through this, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn around, to let anyone in, not even him.

She heard Neville shift behind her, his breath steady but quiet. There was a long pause before he spoke again, his voice soft, hesitant.

"Okay. But if you change your mind... I’m here, Lyra. Whenever you need me."

There was no accusation, no pressure. Just the offer, unspoken but felt in every word. His concern, his care—it felt too much for this moment, too overwhelming in a way that she couldn’t let in.

She closed her eyes for a moment, squeezing them tight as if she could block out the ache in her chest. When she opened them again, she saw the card, the words, and then his face in the frame.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stay here like this, drowning in the memories that were slowly fading into a blur of too much loss. She wanted to scream at the world for taking him away, for making her stand here like this, putting up these pictures and cards as if they could somehow make up for the hollow space in her life.

Her fingers trembled as she set the frame down gently, but the moment felt unreal, as if she was still hovering just outside the grief that should have overwhelmed her.

But nothing—nothing—was overwhelming her. Everything was simply... still. Frozen.

Footsteps in the distance pulled her back, a familiar sound, but it wasn’t until someone else came close that she noticed it. It was Ginny. Ginny’s voice, like it had been for years, was calm and strong, even in moments like this. She could sense the silence around Lyra and understood what was needed, even if Lyra didn’t want it.

"You sure you're okay?" Ginny asked, her voice quiet and filled with an understanding that Lyra didn’t know how to handle.

Lyra didn’t turn to look at her. "I’m fine," she said, the words automatic, her gaze fixed on the frame. She wished she could believe them.

Ginny waited, her presence steady. “I know you don’t want to talk, but we’re here for you,” she said softly. “Whenever you're ready.”

Lyra could hear the sincerity in her voice, but it only made the space between them feel larger. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready for anything to make sense.

She took a deep breath, finally turning toward Ginny, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "I know," she said. "But I just... I need a minute." She didn’t know why she said it. She didn’t want anyone’s pity, but the words slipped out anyway, a small fracture in the wall she’d built.

Ginny gave a small nod, then offered her a kind smile. "Whenever you’re ready, we’ll be here."

Lyra turned her attention back to the photo frame. It was still there, his face frozen in time, his smile forever preserved in that one moment.

But it wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.

The words on the card—"You were the kindest of us"—stuck in her mind, repeating themselves like an echo. It wasn’t that they were wrong. It wasn’t even that they felt too small. It was that nothing could ever capture him. Nothing could ever capture the way he had made her feel alive again, the way he had held her when everything had been too much. She would never be able to understand how he’d been taken from her so suddenly, and the ache of that would stay with her forever.

The space around her felt suffocating, and for the first time in a long while, Lyra wished for nothing more than to disappear. To vanish into the quiet of the world outside. But there was no escaping this. No escaping the emptiness.

"I’ll be okay," she murmured softly to herself, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.

And for the briefest of moments, before the noise of the venue began to crowd in, Lyra stood there, feeling that hollow ache in her chest stretch wide.

Two years ago

The night had unfolded in the most ordinary of ways, but Lyra felt the weight of it more than she could explain. Victor and she had been tasked with babysitting Teddy, as Andromeda had been called away for a work emergency, one of the rare occasions when she wasn’t available to look after her grandson. And while Andromeda trusted them both completely, it still made Lyra uneasy to play the role of caretaker. She wasn’t a mother. She hadn’t ever intended to be.

Victor, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease, slipping into the role of playful guardian effortlessly, his laugh filling the corners of their small kitchen as Teddy ran circles around him, giggling like he didn’t have a care in the world. The three of them made a little makeshift dinner together, the sounds of their conversation and the clink of cutlery on plates the soundtrack of the evening. It felt cozy, domestic, and just right in a way that Lyra had come to appreciate but had never quite let herself fully enjoy.

Teddy was sprawled out on the floor in front of them, crayons in hand, his little legs kicking as he worked on his newest masterpiece—a rainbow of bold, overlapping strokes across the page, his tongue sticking out in concentration. He was a good kid, full of energy and warmth, and in his presence, it was easy to forget about the worries that clouded Lyra’s thoughts.

Victor, however, never seemed to let the worry slip into his voice. Even when he cracked jokes or teased her, there was always a calm certainty in his manner. He was one of those people who knew how to be present, how to be fully in the moment. And it made her want to hold on to those moments for as long as she could.

Lyra was leaning back against the counter, watching Victor, when Teddy suddenly piped up, his voice cutting through the peaceful lull of their dinner.

“Victor,” Teddy had asked, his voice cutting through the calm. “Why do you live with Aunt Lyra?”

It was a simple question, one that any child might ask, but in that moment, it hung in the air, pregnant with meaning.

Victor had answered easily enough, his voice light, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Because I love her,” he’d said with a smile, not a trace of hesitation in his words.

But it was Teddy’s next question that had caused a sharp breath to catch in Lyra’s throat.

“Do you love him too, Auntie Lyra?”

The room had fallen silent.

Victor had looked at her, his gaze steady, warm, and Lyra had felt the weight of it—the question, the implication, the unspoken truth. She’d never said the words to him. Not yet. And when Teddy had asked, the question hadn’t just been about love in a general sense—it had been about something deeper, something Lyra wasn’t sure she was ready to admit, not even to herself.

She had looked away then, her gaze flicking to the counter, trying to distract herself from the pressure building in her chest. She couldn’t answer. Not with Teddy watching her, not with Victor’s eyes on her, full of unspoken hope.

Victor, sensing the tension, had responded to Teddy’s next barrage of questions, his voice light and unconcerned, but Lyra could feel his attention still on her. The weight of it lingered long after the boy was tucked into bed and asleep.

Victor’s eyes never left her as they stood in the quiet of the hallway. Her chest was tight, her hands trembling slightly as she rubbed them together, trying to ease the cold that had settled there. The conversation had been left unfinished, but she couldn’t pretend anymore. The question was there, hanging in the air, and it was one that Victor was going to ask sooner or later.

And then he did.

“Lyra,” he said softly, his voice low but firm. “Do you love me?”

The question was gentle, but there was a thread of desperation woven through it—something she hadn’t been expecting, something that cut through her.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her throat tightened, her heart hammering. She had never said it to him. Not in so many words. She had never told him that she loved him, not the way he needed. She hadn’t even fully understood what she was feeling, not until the moment he’d asked. Her mind raced, the answer hanging on the tip of her tongue, but it was too difficult, too fraught with things she wasn’t ready to face.

But she did love him. It never meant that she didn't. He had saved her.

Victor stepped closer, his expression softening as he watched her, waiting for the words. “It’s okay, you know. You can tell me. But I need to know.”

Lyra shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to answer that, Victor.”

He raised an eyebrow, his confusion evident. “What do you mean? I’ve been here, Lyra. We've been together for long enough and I've been with you, patient. Through all of it. But you’ve never said it—not even once. I need to know.”

She turned away, her back to him, her hands pressed against the cool wall. “I... I don’t know if I can say I love you the way you want me to.” Her voice cracked, and she wiped her eyes quickly, not wanting him to see how much she was struggling.

Victor’s tone softened, but there was a bite to it, like he was holding back something, trying to protect her from the truth of it. “Why not?” His voice dropped lower, quieter, as if testing the waters. “Is it because of him? Do you still love him? Harry, I mean.”

The question hit her like a fist to the gut. Harry. It was always Harry, wasn’t it? She knew it was coming, had known the moment she saw his eyes soften, the way his body tensed. The shadow of Harry always lingered between them—between her and Victor, between her and herself.

She didn’t answer right away, didn’t even turn to face him. She just stood there, her chest aching, her thoughts swirling.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice so quiet, it was almost lost in the empty space. “A part of me always will.”

Victor’s breath caught, but his voice was steady when he spoke again. “And that's why you don’t you love me the same way?”

Lyra swallowed hard. The words were harder now. The weight of them suffocating. She had never admitted it to anyone—not to herself, not to him. Not to Harry. How could she? How could she admit to someone else, let alone to the man who loved her, that she was broken, that she couldn’t fully love anyone without fearing it would hurt them?

“Because I’m damaged, Victor,” she said, the words escaping her in a rush, like a confession she couldn’t take back. “If I tell you I love you, which I do, so much but if you knew how much you meant to me... something bad would happen to you.”

Victor’s face shifted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

She turned to face him now, her eyes full of unshed tears, her heart pounding in her chest. “I can't be in love with you the way you want me to because I’m scared. I’m scared that when I do, when you know how important you are, something will happen to you. Something bad, something I can’t control.” She paused, taking a breath, trying to steady herself. “People who love me, that I love... bad things happen to them. Every single time. They get hurt or they hurt me. My parents, Astoria. Blaise... he—he died because of me, Victor. He died because of the things I couldn’t protect him from, he died to protect me. And Harry hurt me so much. I can’t do that again. I can’t let myself love you that way.”

Victor’s eyes softened, but there was a sadness there now, something she had never seen in him before. He took a step toward her, reaching out to cup her face gently in his hands, as if trying to steady her, to calm the storm within her.

“Lyra,” he murmured softly, his voice breaking through the cloud of fear she had wrapped herself in. “I’m not him. I’m not Harry. I’m not going to hurt you and I am not going anywhere, okay? You don’t need to protect me from something that hasn’t even happened.”

She shook her head, her tears finally falling freely. “But I can’t help it. I can’t just ignore what’s happened. It’s always there, Victor. It’s always with me. And I can’t let you be the next person who suffers because I love them.”

Victor’s hands dropped to her shoulders, his grip gentle but firm. “Lyra,” he said, his voice a little more urgent, “If you never let yourself love me the way I need you to, you’ll be punishing both of us. And that’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to me. I can’t promise you that nothing bad will ever happen. But I can promise you that I’ll be here. With you. No matter what.”

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes as his words sank in, his steady presence grounding her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. She had been pushing him away, convincing herself that loving him would only end in heartbreak—his heartbreak. But maybe it was time to stop running, time to stop protecting him from something that wasn’t real, time to let go of the fears that had held her prisoner for so long.

“I’m trying,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m trying, Victor. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid. But please, I do love you. So fucking much.”

He pulled her to him then, his arms wrapping around her with a warmth that felt like safety, like a promise. “I know,” he murmured, his voice soft and steady. “One day, I hope you realize that you loving people is a blessing not a curse. I am not going anywhere, my love."

The room felt suffocating in its stillness, as though the very air was weighed down by the loss they were all there to mourn. Lyra sat in the front row, stiff, her eyes dry, but her thoughts were anything but composed. She didn’t want to look at the casket, didn’t want to acknowledge the reality of why they were all gathered here. Her hands rested in her lap, her fingers trembling just slightly, a small betrayal of the quiet chaos swirling inside her.

The muted murmurs of the crowd washed over her, but they didn’t reach her. Not really. Not until a child nearby began crying, the sharp, raw sound of grief breaking through the haze of sadness in the air. The sound of pure, unfiltered emotion.

For a moment, Lyra’s gaze flickered to the source. A small boy, his face scrunched up in tears, unable to comprehend the loss around him. It cut through the walls she had built around herself, pulling at something inside her. The tightness in her chest was palpable, the need to grieve, to feel, but she resisted. She wouldn’t let herself. Not yet.

She didn’t cry. Not here. Not now. She had to hold it together.

But then she felt the subtle shift in the atmosphere. A presence beside her. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

It was Harry.

She had barely seen him in over a year—had barely spoken to him. What had happened between them felt like it belonged to another lifetime, something that was ancient history now. Their paths had drifted apart so completely that the distance felt unbridgeable. There was no animosity between them, no open wounds, just an uncomfortable silence that neither of them knew how to break.

He didn’t sit down immediately. She could feel the hesitation in the space between them. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not yet. Not until he settled next to her, his presence quiet, but undeniably there. When he sat down beside her, there was no greeting, no attempt to fill the silence with words. Just an unspoken acknowledgment that they were there together, at this moment, in this shared grief.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of everything that had happened—everything that had been left unsaid—hung between them like a thick fog. Lyra kept her gaze trained straight ahead, her posture rigid, her chest tight with emotions she didn’t know how to process.

Harry broke the silence first. His voice was low, but it still seemed to cut through the room.

“You okay?” he asked, and then, as though realizing the absurdity of the question, he added, “Of course, you’re not. He was your fiancé.”

His words, so blunt and so simple, were like a hammer to the fragile wall she had built around herself. He didn’t sugarcoat it. He didn’t try to soften the blow with platitudes. The truth was there in his voice, in his recognition of the loss, of the man she had once loved. The pain she hadn’t allowed herself to feel cracked open inside her.

For a brief moment, she thought about saying something. Something sharp, something cutting. But she didn’t. She just sat there, still, her hands clenched in her lap as she fought the urge to break down.

The air between them felt impossibly thick now. His words had opened a door she wasn’t ready to open, had dragged out something she had been trying to bury. She hadn’t talked to Harry in over a year—not really. They hadn’t needed to. The silence between them had become a kind of language all its own, a comfort in its own way, even if it was painful.

She finally turned to him, just enough to meet his eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the space.

“I’m fine,” she said, the words feeling like another lie she was telling herself. “I’m just here.”

Harry didn’t seem convinced. He didn’t push her, but his gaze softened, something unreadable in his eyes. For a moment, he just studied her, and she could almost feel the weight of his gaze on her. It was too much, too intimate, and she wanted to look away. But she didn’t.

“I know you’re not,” he said quietly. “It’s okay. It’s... it’s okay to not be okay.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the emotions threatening to spill over. She hated how easy it was for him to read her, to see through her carefully constructed facade. She hated how, even after everything, there was still something about him that made her feel so exposed.

But she didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not with him.

“I didn’t want to be here,” she muttered, her voice quiet, almost to herself. “I didn’t want to be anywhere, really.”

Harry’s expression softened, the familiar tension between them giving way to something else—something that felt like understanding, like shared grief. He didn’t say anything more. He just let her words hang in the air, the two of them silently acknowledging the pain they both carried.

For a moment, they just sat there, side by side, as the quiet murmur of the funeral swirled around them. She wasn’t sure how long they had been sitting there like this, but it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but the shared weight of the room, of the grief that surrounded them both.

But then Lyra couldn’t hold it in anymore. The cracks started to show, just a little.

“I loved him with every bit of my soul,” she said softly, barely above a whisper, but the weight of the words was undeniable. “And I am scared he died not knowing just how much, because I didn’t show it well enough. Not really. Not the way I should have.”

There was a moment of silence between them—so thick, so overwhelming—that Lyra wasn’t sure if Harry had heard her. She could feel the warmth of his presence, his body so close to hers, but she wasn’t sure if he understood the depth of the grief she was drowning in. She wasn’t sure if anyone could.

She had never been able to let her guard down fully with anyone, and now it felt like the dam had cracked wide open, and she was drowning in the flood.

Harry didn’t speak right away, his gaze forward, his expression unreadable. He seemed distant, as if he were processing the depth of what she had just admitted. But then, after what felt like an eternity, he turned toward her, and for the first time in ages, she saw something soft in his eyes—tenderness, maybe, or just understanding.

“I think he knew, Lyra,” Harry said, his voice gentle, almost too gentle. “I think he knows just how much you loved him.”

Lyra swallowed hard, shaking her head slowly, as though trying to shake away the words before they could settle. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that Victor had known, had truly known how deeply she had loved him. But there was a knot in her chest that wouldn’t loosen, a deep, gnawing ache that made her think of all the things she hadn’t said.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice faltering. “But I still feel like I failed him.”

She shifted in her seat, hands trembling, her fingers tight around the fabric of her skirt. She felt as though she were unraveling, losing control of everything she had worked so hard to hold onto.

"He was so excited it was a leap year." She whispered, now unable to stop talking, "He was so excited, so he planned us a trip, and he packed our bags a week ago. The same day... We were supposed to go on a trip today."

"Oh."

“Do you know how he died?” Lyra asked suddenly, her voice raw, as if the words had been waiting to break free. She didn’t even know why she was asking him, or why she felt the need to speak the truth aloud, but it felt necessary now. As if it were a confession she needed to make.

Harry turned to face her more fully, brow furrowed in concern. “No,” he replied, his voice soft but firm. “I never heard the full story.”

Lyra drew in a shuddering breath, her chest aching as she relived the memory. The night Victor had died felt like it had happened to someone else, like it was a lifetime ago. But the sharp pain of it was as fresh as ever.

Almost a week had passed.

“It was a rogue Death Eater,” she whispered, eyes trained on the floor. “He was out for revenge. On me. For betraying the Dark Lord. I... I tried to leave all that behind, tried to move on, but I was never truly free. They never let me go.” Her voice wavered as she spoke, but she couldn’t stop now. “This Death Eater—he was looking for me. I didn’t even know he was still out there, still hunting me, until that night.”

Her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white as the guilt swelled inside her, a wave that threatened to drown her once again.

“I should have been more careful,” she continued, her voice trembling with the weight of the words. “Victor shouldn’t have been there. He didn’t deserve this. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t—if I’d just stayed away from everything—none of this would have happened. I—”

She stopped herself, taking a shaky breath, trying to collect herself, but it was futile. The tears had returned, flooding her eyes, and she couldn’t stop them anymore.

“Lyra,” Harry said softly, his voice low, the weight of his words grounding her, “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. You didn’t cause it. That man, that horrible Death Eater, is the one who made the choice to come after you. You didn’t ask for that.”

But Lyra shook her head vehemently, her voice cracking as she spoke. “It doesn’t matter, Harry. It was because of me. He wanted revenge on me. And Victor was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He died because of me.”

She could hear the rawness in her voice now, the guilt that burned deep in her chest, and it felt like it might suffocate her if she didn’t say it all. “Every time I love someone, something bad happens to them. It’s like a curse. It’s not just me, Harry. It’s them. They get pulled into my mess. And now he’s gone. And it’s my fault.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze soft but firm as he looked at her. She could see the sympathy in his eyes, the hurt that mirrored her own. But he wasn’t blaming her. He wasn’t angry at her.

Instead, Harry reached out, placing a hand gently on her shoulder, grounding her, anchoring her in this moment, this space between them.

“You didn’t ask for this, Lyra,” he said quietly, the weight of his words seeping into her. “You didn’t cause it. You’re not responsible for the choices that man made. He chose to come after you, and that’s on him, not you.”

But Lyra’s chest still felt heavy, her heart still aching with the weight of guilt and grief. She wanted so badly to believe him, to let go of the burden that had been crushing her for so long. But it was hard. So hard.

“I don’t know how to move on,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to move on all at once,” Harry said gently, his grip on her shoulder firm yet comforting. “You just have to take it one step at a time. And you don’t have to carry it alone, Lyra. You never have to carry it alone.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a brief moment as she let the warmth of his presence wash over her. 

For now, she would hold on to that. She would let herself believe that she didn’t have to carry the weight of Victor’s death alone.

And maybe, just maybe, she would find a way to forgive herself.

Lyra swallowed hard, words sticking in her throat. She wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to make sense of everything swirling inside her. But she didn’t need to say anything more. Harry had always been able to read her, to understand her in ways she didn’t want to admit.

The child’s crying started again, louder now, the wailing echoing through the room. It was too much, too raw, and Lyra’s chest tightened in response. She didn’t want to feel it—didn’t want to let the emotions flood her. But she couldn’t stop it. Not anymore.

And so she sat there, her heart heavy with everything she had never said, with everything she had lost, as Harry remained by her side, silent and steady, offering nothing but the quiet comfort of his presence.

A Few Months Ago

It was a crisp morning, the early spring air tinged with the scent of freshly baked bread and the hum of life in Diagon Alley. The cobblestone streets were busy with witches and wizards going about their daily tasks—shopping, chatting, and making their way toward the various stores that lined the bustling alley. But for Lyra, it felt like time had slowed down the moment she stepped out of the Floo Network into the familiar streets.

Victor had proposed to her just a week ago, and she was still in a daze, her thoughts always drifting back to that moment. It hadn’t been an extravagant proposal—no grand speeches or lavish displays of affection. It had been simple, quiet, and unexpected. But it had been perfect.

She remembered the evening so clearly, as though it had just happened a few minutes ago.

It had been a Tuesday night, a quiet evening in their shared home, the flickering fire in the hearth casting a warm glow on the walls. They had been sitting together on the couch, a book open in Lyra’s lap and a glass of wine in Victor’s hand. The room was filled with the soft murmur of the fire crackling and the steady beat of their hearts—together, as they had been for years.

Victor had been the one to break the silence. He had asked her if she was happy. It was a simple question, but it had caught her off guard. Lyra had turned to look at him, meeting his gaze with surprise.

“Of course I am,” she had replied, her voice steady. “I’m with you.”

There had been a brief pause, and then Victor had set his wine glass down on the coffee table, turning his body toward her. His hands had shaken slightly as he reached into his pocket, and Lyra had felt her pulse quicken.

“Lyra,” he had said softly, his voice steady, though she could sense the slight tremor in it, “I can’t imagine my life without you. And I want to spend the rest of it with you.”

And then, in that quiet, almost imperceptible way, Victor had pulled out the most beautiful ring Lyra had ever seen—a simple gold band with a single, small diamond set in the center. It was understated, elegant, and perfect in its simplicity, just like their relationship had always been.

“Will you marry me?” he had asked, the question hanging in the air like a breath waiting to be taken.

Lyra hadn’t hesitated. Not even for a moment. She knew, deep down, she had known for a long time that this was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. There had been no doubt in her mind, no lingering uncertainty. He was the one. He was the man she had always been searching for, even if she hadn’t realized it until they had crossed paths.

“Yes,” she had whispered, the word coming out before she even had the chance to think about it. “Yes, of course.”

Victor had grinned, his face lighting up with a joy that Lyra hadn’t seen in a long time. She had taken the ring from him and slipped it onto her finger, feeling its cool weight settle against her skin. She had never felt so certain of anything in her life.

It had been simple. No dramatic gestures, no elaborate plans. But it had been perfect, because it had been exactly what they both needed—a quiet, intimate moment that marked the beginning of something new, something lasting.

And now, a week later, here she was, walking through Diagon Alley with Victor at her side, their hands intertwined. It was a Saturday, the day that Andromeda had invited them to lunch to celebrate their engagement. It felt surreal, as though she were living in a dream, still unable to quite grasp that this was her reality now—that she was engaged to Victor, the man she had come to love in ways she never thought possible.

As they walked, they came across an elderly witch struggling to cross the street, her cane tapping weakly against the cobblestones. Without thinking, Victor stepped forward, offering his arm to the woman with a kind smile.

“Let me help you, madam,” he said gently, his voice warm and reassuring.

Lyra watched, her heart swelling with affection as Victor helped the elderly witch across the street with such ease, treating her with the respect and kindness she deserved. She had always admired that about him—his quiet strength, his unwavering compassion. It was moments like this, small but meaningful, that made her love him even more.

When they reached the other side of the street, the witch thanked them, her face lighting up with gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” Victor said, his smile easy and genuine. “It was our pleasure.”

Lyra couldn’t help but smile as well, her heart full of warmth. It was moments like this that made her believe she was making the right choice. This was the man she had chosen—this man, who was kind and selfless, who made the world better just by being in it.

They continued walking, and Lyra felt a gentle tug at her sleeve. She turned to see Andromeda, standing just ahead of them, a warm smile on her face as she waved them over.

“Ah, there you are,” Andromeda said, her voice cheerful. “I thought you might get lost, but it looks like you’ve made it.”

Victor chuckled and nodded, his arm still wrapped around Lyra’s waist as they approached her.

“We’re here, and we haven’t gotten lost yet,” Victor said with a grin, glancing down at Lyra.

Lyra smiled up at him, and for a moment, she felt a quiet sense of peace settle over her. Everything was right. This was where she was meant to be.

Later, as they sat in the small, cozy restaurant, enjoying their celebratory lunch, Lyra felt the weight of the past week settle into her bones. The food was delicious, the conversation flowing easily between the three of them. Andromeda was as warm as always, asking about the wedding plans and teasing Lyra about how nicely they had decided on the engagement. But Lyra’s mind kept drifting back to Victor and their quiet, beautiful proposal.

The moment Andromeda turned her attention to something else, Lyra found herself looking at Victor, her heart swelling with the emotion she couldn’t put into words. She reached for his hand across the table, squeezing it gently, and his eyes met hers, a silent understanding passing between them.

“I think I love him more than I ever loved Harry or anyone else,” Lyra said suddenly, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She hadn’t meant to say them aloud, but they felt right, as though the truth had been waiting to be spoken. “I never thought I could feel like this again, but with him...”

Andromeda looked at her, a knowing smile on her face. Her eyes softened as she placed her hand on Lyra’s.

“Then love him, Lyra,” Andromeda said quietly, her voice filled with wisdom. “Love him the way you never loved anyone before. Before life reminds you how short it is. Because you never know what’s waiting around the corner.”

Lyra blinked, the weight of Andromeda’s words settling deep into her heart. She had always known that life was fragile, that time could slip away faster than anyone ever realized. But hearing those words from Andromeda made her realize just how precious this moment was.

She looked at Victor, his face still so open and full of life, and she made a vow to herself in that moment. She would love him, with all that she was, for as long as she could. She wouldn’t hold back, wouldn’t let fear control her anymore. This was her chance to build something beautiful, something lasting.

And she wasn’t going to let it slip away.

The air was thick with an almost unbearable silence. The crowd had gathered around the gravesite, and the somber atmosphere seemed to weigh heavily on Lyra’s chest. The grave was freshly dug, the earth dark and rich against the pale light of the overcast sky. Victor’s coffin sat at the center, draped in simple white lilies that somehow felt both beautiful and tragic at once.

The priest, a solemn figure in his black robes, stepped forward, his voice carrying across the graveyard as he began the final rites. The words of the ritual seemed to float above the crowd, filling the space with a mournful reverence.

He spoke his full name, his voice steady and clear, "Victor Brown."

The moment the name left his lips, it felt like a physical blow to Lyra. She closed her eyes, shutting out the world around her, as if the sound of his name could undo everything she had tried to keep inside. It hit her like a curse, a reminder that this was real, that Victor was truly gone. The sharp edge of grief tore through her, and suddenly, everything she had held back—the numbing fog of the past days, the overwhelming loss that had been building—crashed over her like a tidal wave.

Her chest heaved with the weight of it. She hadn’t cried before. Not properly. Not like this. But now, as the priest continued with the ceremony, her heart seemed to shatter. Her body shook with the force of the sobs she couldn’t control. She had tried to keep her composure, to remain strong, but in that moment, everything broke apart.

Lyra’s hands trembled as she pressed them to her face, trying to stifle the cries, but it was no use. Her shoulders trembled, her breath ragged as the tears spilled freely, hot and bitter. The grief was overwhelming, suffocating, and it poured from her in waves.

Around her, the crowd remained silent, the only sound the soft murmur of the priest’s voice and the rustling of the trees in the distance. But then, as she sobbed, she heard a whisper. It was barely audible, but it carried through the air like a secret.

“He made her whole.”

The words caught in her throat, a cold sting that brought fresh tears to her eyes. She didn’t know who had said it—didn’t need to. It didn’t matter. They were true. Victor had made her whole.

For the first time in years, she had felt complete with him. He had been her anchor, her strength, her warmth when the world had been nothing but cold and dark. And now, with him gone, a part of her was lost. She didn’t know how to keep going without him.

But there was also something else in the whisper. A reminder. It wasn't just grief. It was love, too. Victor had healed the broken pieces of her soul, and though he was gone, that love would never fully fade.

Lyra’s sobs eventually quieted, though the ache in her chest would remain long after the ceremony ended. She slowly wiped her eyes, her fingers trembling, her heart still raw. The grief had not disappeared—it never would—but there was a quiet understanding beneath it, a recognition that she would carry him with her, always.

Victor Brown. The man who could barely cook, who had abysmal collections of quidditch fanart, the man who waited for her even when she didn't ask him to. The man who had made her whole. The man she had loved more deeply than she had ever thought possible.

The priest's voice softened as he spoke the final words, but Lyra barely heard them. Instead, she looked down at the grave before her, a silent promise forming in her heart.

She would live for him now. Even if it meant learning to breathe again without him beside her.

She could still feel him, in the space between her breaths, in the ache of her heart. And somehow, in that ache, there was also a sense of peace.

One Week Ago

The night was quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that only the soft glow of moonlight and the occasional rustle of leaves could bring. The soft hum of the house, the gentle creak of the floorboards as they settled, created a sense of calm that enveloped the room.

Lyra sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers idly brushing through her hair, the weight of the day slowly lifting off her shoulders. Victor stood by the door, watching her with a look of quiet affection, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them in that moment.

He had been standing there for a while, long enough that she noticed the way his gaze softened, the way his smile came easier when he looked at her. His hand reached out, a gentle touch on her shoulder as he stepped closer.

Lyra sat in the dimly lit living room of her flat, the soft hum of the city outside the window a distant reminder of the world that continued without her. The cup of tea in her hands had long since gone cold, the steam having faded away, leaving behind only a faint trace of its warmth. She didn’t mind. She hadn’t really been able to taste it anyway.

The room felt quieter than it ever had before, the kind of silence that wrapped itself around her like a heavy cloak, one she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried. It was an empty kind of silence, the kind that presses in on you when everything you once knew has shifted and you’re left trying to remember what it was like before the weight of grief changed everything.

Her eyes drifted across the room, landing on the bed. The pillows were neat, the blankets perfectly in place, as though nothing had ever disturbed them. But her gaze fixed on the one pillow beside her own, the one Victor used to sleep on. It was empty now, its indentations long since smoothed out. She reached out with a trembling hand and ran her fingers over the fabric, the smooth cotton cold beneath her touch.

The touch felt foreign, like she was reaching out to something she couldn’t quite grasp anymore. The absence of him was everywhere, filling every corner of the room, the space that once held the sound of his laughter, the weight of his presence beside her. His absence was as tangible as the pillow she now touched.

“You did,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. She felt a sting behind her eyes, but she held it back. There was no more crying left, no more tears to shed, only the echo of memories she could no longer escape.

“For a while, you really did. You made me the happiest I've ever been.”