chasing circles

Chapter Eight

spare a prayer for my soul

"you are my first dream, and my last one"

1st April, 2004

The graveyard was tucked behind a crumbling chapel on the edge of Ottery St. Catchpole, half-swallowed by brambles and time. The iron gates creaked when she pushed them open, a sound too loud in the quiet of early morning. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around the stones like smoke. Everything was damp—the grass, her boots, the grief pressing against her ribs.

Victor's grave was near the back, beneath a silver birch that hadn't yet shed its last leaves. The headstone read:

Victor Brown
1977–2004
Beloved son, brother, friend and partner

She'd helped choose the font. The stone. The color. Everyone had said it was tasteful, elegant. Like he would've wanted.

She thought it looked like a lie.

Lyra stared at it for a long time. The wind tugged at her coat and carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and wildflowers left behind by someone else—maybe Andromeda, maybe his sister Violet. She hadn't asked.

After a while, she sat down on the bench beside the grave. There was a spot worn into the wood from where she'd done this before. Too many times.

There was also the added fact that the Malfoy crypt was also somewhere near here, as was the Zabini one. All her loved ones, in one graveyard.

Her voice, when it finally came, was dry and clipped. Almost bored. The voice of someone making herself small because grief had made her hollow.

"I don't usually talk to rocks," she said. "Seems a bit mad, really. But I couldn't leave without saying something again. Or—I don't know. Pretending I could say something useful but remember, after Mum's death I told you..."

The rock did not respond.

"I told you I wasn't good at this," she said flatly, looking down at the soil like it had offended her. "Talking to people who can't talk back. I always thought it was ridiculous. Still do, honestly.""

Her fingers brushed the stone.

"You'd think I'd be good at loss by now. But I'm not. I never was. I just got good at hiding it. It's what we Malfoys do, right? Repress everything, then develop complex trauma and terrible posture."

Her voice broke just a little on the last word, and she blinked fast, angrily.

"Everyone's been saying things," she muttered. "Nice things. Useless things. That you were kind. That you had this... light. As if I didn't know that already. As if I needed the reminder."

A beat passed. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a crumpled tissue, and shoved it back in again without using it.

"I keep thinking about that awful dinner we burned," she said suddenly. "You made that disgusting Italian dish and I said it tasted like floorboards. And you laughed. You always laughed, like I was something clever and not just... me."

The wind picked up. It rustled the edge of her coat, but she didn't move.

"I told Harry I think it's my fault. That you died because of me. Because I betrayed a war I didn't start and made enemies I couldn't see coming. That damn Death Eater—Rothmore or whatever his name was—he wasn't after you. He was after me. You just... got in the way."

Her voice cracked, barely, but she swallowed it back fast.

"If I'd stayed cold. If I'd kept you out like I was supposed to. If I hadn't kissed you because you got me bloody soup and waited hours for me, you'd still be alive. You'd be laughing in that awful cardigan you wore when you cooked, and I'd be mocking it while secretly wanting to steal it."

She stood abruptly, as if being on the ground was suddenly unbearable. Her jaw was tight, throat working through something that didn't want to come out.

"I loved you, you know. I did. I do. And I hate that I didn't say it more. I hate that I was always so bloody scared of what it meant."

She let out a sharp breath, eyes burning. Still no tears, but the ache was visible—carved into her posture, her clenched fists.

"You were supposed to grow old with me. You were supposed to be the one thing I didn't ruin."

She paused.

Then... "And now I'm going to ruin something else, probably."

And then—almost absently—her hand drifted to her stomach.

"I'm pregnant," she said softly. "I found out yesterday. Thought it was some kind of joke. Or punishment. Or both. You absolute idiot. You left me with a part of you, and you didn't even stay to see it."

A pause. Her voice dropped, quieter now.

She let out a strangled little laugh. "I don't know what I'm doing. You were always the one who believed we'd be good at this. That we'd be... whole."

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the cold stone.

"I don't know if I can do it without you."

And then, more quietly than anything she'd said before: "But I will. Because I have to. Because there's a piece of you still here. And maybe that's enough."

She stayed like that for a while—just breathing, crying, speaking to a man who couldn't answer but who she hoped, desperately, could hear.

"I hope—wherever you are—you know," she added, barely audible now. "You're still everything. You always will be."

A day ago

Andromeda's cottage smelled like lavender and something burning slightly in the oven. The kettle was screeching like it had a personal vendetta but the blonde witch had made no move to get it. Lyra stood by the window with a chipped mug of tea, watching the clouds roll by like they were on a deadline. Her hair was half up, half forgotten, and her jumper didn't match her socks, which didn't match each other. She didn't care. Andromeda did, but only quietly.

From the kitchen, a voice floated in, "I suppose you're not going to that engagement thing tonight."

Lyra didn't look away from the window. "Daphne's party? No. Obviously not."

"Well," Andromeda replied, far too casually, "that's too bad. Because I already laid out your dress."

Lyra turned her head. "You did what?"

"Green silk. Long sleeves. Shows just enough to make people uncomfortable and Daphne regret that she chose you as a bridesmaid. It's minimal effort required to look devastating."

"I don't want to look devastating," Lyra muttered. "I want to sit here and rot."

"You've been rotting here for weeks, darling. It's not even artful anymore." She poured herself tea and took the opposite armchair, perfectly composed. "Go. For Daphne. Or to show Pansy you haven't died. Or for Theodore Nott's mother, who's been trying to matchmake her son to someone tolerable for years and will be absolutely gutted he chose Daphne over you."

Lyra narrowed her eyes. "You're enjoying this."

"Of course I am."

"I wasn't planning on going."

"I know. That's why I'm making you."

Lyra blinked. "You can't make me."

"Watch me," Andromeda said, entirely unfazed. "It's hanging in the wardrobe. Third hanger from the left."

"Andy—"

"You've been inside for two weeks now and I haven't said a word. You need fresh air. Conversation. Something that isn't decaf tea and pity."

"You have been giving me decaffeinated tea?"

"Yes." Andromeda shrugged, with no shame.

"I don't want to see people."

"I know. But unfortunately, the world hasn't ended, and people still exist."

"That sounds like a you problem."

"I think it's still very much a you problem."

Just then, footsteps thundered down the stairs, and a blur of child energy exploded into the room. Teddy Lupin—half biscuit, half whirlwind—ran in, brandishing a wooden toy dragon.

"You're still here!"

"Unfortunately," she drawled, reaching over to steal the rest of his biscuit. He squawked in betrayal.

"I thought you were leaving today."

"I was," she said through a mouthful of crumbs. "But then I remembered how fun it is to be woken up by a small feral goblin at six a.m."

Teddy crossed his arms and glared. "I'm not a goblin. I'm nearly five."

"That's true," Andromeda added from her chair, a suspicious glint in her eyes. "And if Lyra moves back to her flat, I will lose my built-in babysitter so I don't mind her staying as long as she needs."

"Babysitter?" Teddy looked horrified. "I'm not a baby!"

"No, you're not, darling."

"Auntie Lyra, oh! My dragon ate your hairbrush!"

Lyra glanced up. "That explains why it smells like cinnamon and defeat."

Teddy flopped onto the rug dramatically. "He says it tasted sad."

"That tracks."

Andromeda looked between them, unimpressed. "Teddy, what did I say about running inside?"

"Don't do it unless you're being chased?"

"And are you?"

"No." He looked up innocently. "But what if someone was chasing me and I escaped by running into the house? Then I'd already be inside and safe. So really, I'm being smart."

Lyra stifled a laugh behind her mug. "He's going to rule the world by seven."

"Oh, absolutely," Andromeda sighed. "He already negotiates bedtime like a diplomat."

Teddy sat up straighter. "Are you going to that party, Aunt Lyra?"

"I might," she said noncommittally.

"You should," he said, nodding sagely. "You never wear your nice dresses anymore. And you can take me with you."

"No thank you. I've already got one emotionally immature baby to manage... me."

He pouted. "Again, I'm not a baby."

"I know you're not. But if you came with me, who would stay here and make sure Granny Andy doesn't go completely mad?"

Andromeda narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Lyra said, sipping her tea smugly. "The symptoms are already showing. The toast you gave me yesterday was burnt. And you tucked poor Teddy's jumper into his trousers. It's a cry for help, Teddy. You have to intervene."

Teddy turned to his grandmother, clearly enjoying this more than he should. "Are you going mad, Nana?"

"Not yet," Andromeda replied, deadpan. "But if I have to share a house with your auntie for much longer, it's only a matter of time."

Lyra gave her a sharp grin. "Love you too, Aunt Andy."

Teddy huffed. "Fine. I'll stay here and protect you from getting mad."

"Very noble," Lyra said. "That's why you're my favourite nephew."

He beamed. "But I'm your only nephew."

"Still counts."

Andromeda stood and brushed off her robes. "You'll go to the party," she said with finality. "You'll put on that green dress and show the world that grief doesn't get to kill all of you."

Lyra didn't answer. She looked out the window again. Something in her chest ached—not raw, but tired. Like a bruise that had settled deep into the bone.

"Do you think he'd be proud of me?" she asked suddenly, voice quiet.

Andromeda paused. "I think he already was."

The party had already been going for over an hour when Lyra finally slipped through the door of The Seven Swan, heels quiet against the aged wooden floor. The pub was charming in that classic, almost-too-quaint way—warm lighting, ivy curling over the stone walls, fairy lights flickering overhead. It was the kind of place Daphne would scoff at in theory but fall in love with in practice—Lyra had no doubt that Hermione Granger or maybe even Ron Weasley had suggested it, and Daphne, in her ever-practical brilliance, had seen the appeal.

Godric's Hollow was far from London, and even farther from where Lyra wanted to be. But Andromeda had all but shoved her out the door with a carefully packed handbag, a perfectly steamed emerald-green dress, and Teddy's very loud commentary on the importance of not being "boring and sad forever."

The dress helped. It was rich, velvet-soft, a familiar cut that made her stand straighter. And Andy had been right—it made her look like herself. Or at least someone she used to be. That in itself was... something.

The air inside was faintly scented with elderflower and citrus, and somewhere in the background, a transfigured string quartet played softly, each instrument drifting on invisible magic. It was absurd. It was very Daphne. But maybe—maybe it was helping.

Lyra wandered toward the drinks table, one hand loosely around the stem of a wine glass. Familiar faces mingled in little clusters: Slytherins from their year and a few above—Theo's crowd, mostly—sipping enchanted cocktails that shimmered faintly with color. Seamus was near the bar, charming a pair of French witches. Millicent Bulstrode, surprisingly statuesque in navy robes, nodded at her. Even Gregory Goyle was there, older and broader, smiling beside his wife. Strange how time made monsters into memories, and memories into something almost tender.

And then, of course, there was Pansy.

The last person Lyra expected to see, though maybe she should've. Pansy always did love a dramatic entrance—and tonight, she had swept in wearing cream satin and a cloak that probably cost more than the entire drinks budget. Her dark hair was pinned up in a style far too elegant for the setting, and she stood near the back, drink in hand, gaze scanning the room with a kind of detached calculation.

They locked eyes.

Only for a moment. But it was enough.

Pansy crossed the room slowly, raising her drink like a peace offering. Her voice, when it came, was velvet-edged steel.

"Lyra," she said. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Neither was I." Lyra tilted her head. "Daphne always throws a dramatic party. Hard to resist."

"She hasn't changed much."

"And you have?" Lyra asked.

A pause. Pansy let out a soft, self-aware laugh. "Well. Time does things to people."

"So does betrayal."

Pansy flinched. Barely—but Lyra saw it.

"I deserve that," she said. "I just— I wanted to say... I'm sorry. About the war... and about Blaise."

Lyra didn't answer right away. The clink of glasses and polite laughter filled the room, but around them, the air felt strangely still.

"You seem to be five years too late."

"I wasn't at the funeral," Pansy added. "I wanted to be. I just didn't know if I'd be welcome."

Lyra stared at her, voice calm. "You weren't. Not standing opposite the cause he died for."

It landed. Pansy took a breath, slow and measured.

"I heard about Victor," she said softly. "I didn't know him. But I'm sorry."

Lyra looked away, toward the fairy lights strung over the hearth. Her voice was even. Detached. "He was the best person I've ever known."

"I believe that." Pansy's tone was quieter now. "You look different."

"It's grief. Does wonders for your figure."

Pansy gave a brittle huff of laughter. "You're still awful."

Lyra glanced at her—and for a second, she saw it. The girl who used to sneak firewhisky into the Prefects' bathroom. The girl who cried in her bed when Steven McGruff started rumors about her in the fourth year. The girl who hexed a Hufflepuff for mocking Lyra's wand grip, and earned a month of detention and a strange look of reluctant respect from McGonagall.

"I missed you, you know," Pansy said, voice rougher. "I thought about writing. I even tried once. But what would I say? 'Sorry I betrayed everything you believed in'? 'Sorry I was scared'? 'Sorry I said what I did in front of everyone'?"

"Yes," Lyra said plainly. "That would've been a start."

Pansy nodded. Swallowed. "You're right."

A pause. Then, carefully—like it cost her something:

"I did love you, you know. I still do. You were one of my favorite people and you were one of my closest friends."

Lyra's throat tightened. She stared into her glass. "You were mine too."

For a moment, Pansy said nothing. Her expression twisted, raw and strange. "I thought you'd hex me on sight."

"I thought about it," Lyra admitted. "Still might, depending on how the rest of this conversation goes."

That got a real laugh from Pansy. Soft. Startled. But real.

Across the room, Mattheo called out a toast—something loud and irreverent—and Lyra and Pansy both turned instinctively. Old reflexes.

"You left," Lyra said quietly. "And you didn't come back."

"I didn't think you wanted me to."

"I didn't," Lyra replied. "But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt."

"I'm really sorry, Lyra," Pansy said again. This time, it was small. Honest.

They stood there, the party moving around them like water around stones.

"We're not the same little girls anymore," Lyra said. "Not the ones who thought they could outsmart a war with eyeliner and clever insults."

"No," Pansy agreed. "But maybe we don't have to be strangers either."

Lyra raised a brow. "Is that your way of asking if we can be friends again?"

Pansy smiled faintly. "It's my way of saying I miss you."

There was something real in her voice. Not fragile. Not pleading. But open.

Lyra hesitated. The hurt still lived under her skin, quiet and sharp—but maybe it didn't need to be the only thing there.

"I'll think about it."

Pansy nodded. "That's all I can ask."

She reached out, brushed her fingers lightly over Lyra's arm—a gesture that didn't quite land as casual—and then turned, disappearing into the crowd with the click of heels on polished wood.

Lyra exhaled slowly.

It seemed like growth. Lyra was never truly angry at Pansy for not being on their side, she was scared. They all were. They were just children. She was angry at her for leaving and never calling. She was the only person who knew Blaise almost as well as she did and she had needed her. But Pansy being back meant that things would change. That the wrongs would become right again. 

And maybe, like Andy said, life would keep moving.

Maybe she'd find a way to let it.

The clink of glasses and faint laughter trailed after Pansy as she walked away, vanishing into a knot of partygoers near the enchanted hearth. Lyra stood alone, half-shadowed by the flickering glow of floating candles. She let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening around the empty glass in her hand. The dress still shimmered faintly, catching the golden light—but for all its velvet sheen and perfect tailoring, it felt like armor. Heavy. Constricting.

She was debating whether to find another drink or simply vanish out the side door when a familiar voice, warm and grounding, cut through the crowd behind her.

"You looked like you were about to either disappear or throw that glass at someone."

She turned, already smiling before she saw him. "Neville."

He was holding two glasses—something amber-colored in one, and what looked suspiciously like elderflower wine in the other. He passed her the latter with a small, hopeful tilt of his head.

"I figured you'd be drinking something more... herbal," he said. "Not that I know what you're into these days. You've gone a bit elusive, Malfoy."

Lyra accepted the glass but didn't sip. "I'm not really in the mood."

Neville's gaze softened. "Yeah. Thought you might say that."

There was no awkwardness between them—never had been, not since they were sixteen and he'd nervously asked if he could take her to Slughorn's Christmas Ball because he thought it was unfair she wasn't invited just because of her family's actions. There was something comforting about Neville. Maybe it was the steadiness of him, the way he didn't crowd her with condolences or questions. He just stood there, present, not trying to fix anything. The pub swirled around them—music, laughter, enchanted lights flickering like fireflies—but between them, the air felt still.

"Come on," he said gently. "Let's sit?"

She nodded and followed him to a quiet little alcove near the window. The seat was old, worn velvet, and it creaked familiarly under them. Outside, snow flurried softly against the glass, catching the glow of fairy lights.

They sat in silence for a moment before Neville finally spoke. "I missed you. Not just in the we-all-miss-you sense. You specifically. You are like my annoying little sister."

"I am older than you." Lyra giggled lightly as she turned the glass in her hands, watching the wine swirl. "And, I know. I missed you too. I just... wasn't ready."

Neville gave a small nod. "You don't have to explain. I understand."

But she did want to explain. Maybe not all of it, not the parts that still woke her up at night, gasping, reaching for someone who wasn't there. But enough.

"I stayed with Andy. After the funeral. I haven't even left her flat for weeks till now. I needed time. Space. A decent amount of wine and a month of aggressively staring at the Thames from her windows." "

Neville didn't look surprised. "Family has always been your safe place."

"That's true and you guys are too. You're my family, Nev. But, helping her out with Teddy helped. And she is so much like my mum... It was nice." Lyra said. "She makes me eat. Lets me cry."

"I'm glad," he said. "That you have her."

She glanced sideways at him. "You've always been good at letting people be. Letting them break apart quietly."

"I try," Neville said. "I also try to show up when it counts. Not sure I've done great at that with you lately."

"You showed up plenty, Nev, every time." Lyra said softly. "And you're still here. That counts."

Neville looked like he was debating something, then he gave a little shrug. "I'm going to be back at Hogwarts next month."

Her head whipped around. "Wait—what?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah. Professor Sprout's finally retiring. I'll be taking over Herbology."

Lyra blinked. "Neville Longbottom. A professor. At Hogwarts."

He laughed. "I know. Feels weird, right?"

"No," she said. "It feels... right. You'll be brilliant."

"I hope so. I think I've got something worth teaching. And I like the idea of growing things again. Safe things."

She smiled faintly. "You always did like plants more than people."

"They're easier to understand. Less inclined to break your hearts."

Something in Lyra's chest twisted at that, but she didn't flinch. "Congratulations," she said. "You'll be good at it."

He looked at her carefully. "What about you? Are you going back to work soon?"

She nodded, exhaling slowly. "Next week. They've made me Head of Trauma Response and Spell Damage."

Neville's eyebrows shot up. "That's... huge."

"It is," she said. "Apparently, having three lifetimes worth of trauma makes you a prime candidate for high-pressure jobs. I think they're mad. Or maybe desperate."

"They're neither," he said. "You're brilliant. You've always been." There was something about the way he said it—certain and unshaken—that made her believe him, even if only for a second.

"Tell that to the mirror," she muttered, then added, with more of her old bite, "Or to the smug bastard who'll inevitably challenge every protocol I write."

Neville grinned. "There she is."

"What? The charmingly bitter gorgeous witch you used to sneak Honeydukes liquorice to under the table during seventh year?"

"Exactly," he said. "She's my favorite."

She snorted. "You really need better standards, Longbottom."

Before he could respond, a familiar voice broke through the din. "Is this the Sad Corner? Because if it is, I want in."

Lyra looked up just as Hermione emerged from the crowd, her curls pinned back in soft waves and her navy robes cut beautifully to her figure and—oh. Oh.

It hit her then—the shape of her. The gentle swell of her stomach beneath a soft grey dress, the way her hand instinctively rested just below it as she stepped forward.

She was glowing, and not in the metaphorical, overused way people said about pregnant women. No—she glowed. There was a peace to her tonight that Lyra hadn't seen in years. Not since before the war. 

It wasn't subtle anymore. A month ago, at the funeral, Hermione hadn't been showing. Or maybe she had, just enough to know herself, but not enough for others to notice unless they knew. And Lyra had known. Hermione had told her, days before the incident. Ginny had told her. Andy had told her. And yet she'd forgotten.

"Merlin," Lyra breathed, standing quickly. "Hermione—I—"

"It's okay," Hermione said at once, reaching for her hand. "You didn't forget. You've just had... a lot."

"I did forget," Lyra said, guilt rising hot in her chest. "I knew. I remember you told me. You weren't showing at the funeral, and I... I just—"

In all her hiding—in all the wine-soaked, curtain-drawn, rage-choked days she'd spent coiled in her grief—she'd forgotten that her best friend was having a baby.

And now it was obvious.

Her stomach turned. She felt like a ghost in someone else's life.

Hermione's arms were suddenly around her in a careful hug—warm, real, careful not to press too hard. "You don't have to explain. I understand."

Lyra held on longer than she meant to, then pulled back, wiping at her eye with a sharp laugh. "God, I'm an awful friend."

"You're not," Hermione said gently. "You're grieving."

Ron joined them a second later, carrying a plate of treacle tart and looking mildly confused at the emotional reunion. "What's all this, then? Did someone finally admit to liking Hufflepuff wine?"

Lyra raised a brow. "Nice to see your palate's still garbage, Weasley."

He grinned. "There she is."

"You lot keep saying that like I've been buried underground."

"You kind of have," Neville said. "Figuratively."

Lyra rolled her eyes, but the edge softened. "Fine. I have. But I'm trying."

"We know," Hermione said. "That's all we ask."

They stood like that for a moment—Neville at her right, Hermione beside her, Ron looking awkward and trying not to hover too obviously around his pregnant wife.

"I really am happy for you," Lyra said quietly, looking at Hermione's stomach. "You'll be brilliant parents."

Hermione smiled, hand slipping into Ron's. "We're terrified."

"Good," Lyra said, raising her empty glass in mock salute. "Means you'll be great."

Ron perked up, nudging Hermione's shoulder with a grin. "I told her it'd happen eventually. She didn't believe me."

"You also thought Bill would become a werewolf," Hermione muttered.

"He had the vibe!" Ron insisted.

Neville snorted into his drink, and Lyra, against all odds, let out a breath that might've been a laugh.

Ron glanced at Neville. "I give her a week back at work before she terrifies three junior Healers and gets promoted again."

Lyra smirked. "Please. Three? I've got four in my sights already."

Neville chuckled. "Still a heartless bitch, then?"

"The heart's in there somewhere," Lyra said. "Buried under years of heartbreak and a truly unholy number of night shifts."

They all laughed, and it felt—for just a second—easy. Light. Like maybe grief didn't erase everything. Like maybe, if she let herself have these moments, they could stack up into something that looked like living.

Lyra had just popped a shrimp into her mouth—crispy, golden, soaked in the faintest hint of lemon butter—when it took a treacherous turn down the wrong pipe. She choked, snorted, and then very unceremoniously popped it out of her mouth, like it was something garbage she had eaten by mistake.

"Bloody hell," she muttered, reaching for a napkin and dabbing at her face, coughing so violently her eyes watered. "Dignity? Never met her."

"Still the same old Lyra," came a voice, amused and careful.

She looked up, blinking through watery eyes, and saw him—tousled hair, soft expression, hands in his pockets like he wasn't sure whether to stay or bolt. Harry Potter.

"Oh, brilliant," she croaked, giving her nose one final dab. "You show up the exact moment I sneeze out a shrimp. Of course you do."

Harry grinned, a little awkwardly. "I heard you were here. Thought I'd say hello."

"You could've waited until I was done making love to this shrimp platter."

"I'm not interrupting anything sacred, am I?"

"Yes, actually," she said, but her tone was lighter now. "But fine. Sit down before I start throwing up cocktail sauce."

He slid into the seat beside her, and for a second, it was quiet—just the thrum of the party around them, and Lyra sipping her drink like she wasn't suddenly extremely aware of the fact that she hadn't spoken to Harry in weeks. Since the funeral.

"You look better," he said.

She snorted again—thankfully shrimp-free this time. "I was wearing black veil-core for a full month, Potter. The bar is underground."

Harry smiled. "I meant it though. It's good to see you out."

"I didn't come for the company," she muttered. "I came for the food."

"Clearly," he said, glancing at the abandoned shrimp like it had personally wronged her.

She sighed, leaning back. "How's work?"

Harry blinked, slightly thrown. "Oh. Um—good, I guess? Busy. We've got this entire case load coming in from Eastern Europe—illegal enchantments, imported hexed artifacts, and a surprising amount of smuggled cauldrons?"

She raised a brow. "Riveting."

"Thrilling," he said dryly. "You'd hate it. Too much paperwork."

"Ugh," Lyra groaned. "Don't remind me. I have to go back to work next week, the paperwork awaits."

"Yeah? Finally leaving Andromeda's apartment?"

She nodded. "Head of Trauma Response and Spell Damage."

He gave a low whistle. "Wow. That's... really impressive. I am proud of you, Ly."

"It's exhausting just thinking about it."

"You'll be brilliant," he said, genuinely. "You always are."

She looked at him then, a little softer. "How's James?"

Harry's eyes lit up in a way that made her heart twist a little. "Good. Loud. Messy. He's obsessed with Teddy lately—won't shut up about how cool he is, and how much he wants to be like him."

Lyra chuckled. "Of course he is. And meanwhile our little Teddy worships the ground you walk on. I keep telling him that I'm much cooler."

"That you are." Harry smiled down into his drink. "It's weird, sometimes. Seeing how much they adore us, I mean, he wouldn't stop talking to James about you whenever he visits. It's always 'Auntie Lyra this', and 'Auntie Lyra that'. They are such good kids and all I can think about is how much of a dickhead I was when I was younger."

She raised her brow. "Was?"

He gave her a long look, then laughed. "Fair. But really—Lyra, I was awful to you. I've been thinking about it a lot lately. What I said, what I didn't say. What I let people assume about you. I was such a bloody teenage boy—angry, stupid, self-righteous. I'm sorry. For all of it."

She blinked, caught off guard. Her walls were usually up around him, old instincts and older hurts keeping them tall and thorned. But the way he said it—quiet, unforced—it slipped past her defenses before she could stop it.

"...Thank you," she said. "That means more than you think."

There was another pause, gentler this time.

"I'd like us to be friends," Harry said quietly. "If you want that."

She looked at him, really looked. The green eyes were the same, but softer now. Less world-saving. More human. They were no longer kids. 

"Yeah," she said. "I think I'd like that too."

"Well, this is just absolutely heart-melting," came a slurred, giddy voice beside them. "My two favourite emotionally repressed disasters—talking! Like actual adults!"

Lyra turned, grinning before she even saw the blonde curls. "Daphne."

Daphne Greengrass, flushed with drink and glowing in soft lilac robes, beamed at them. "I've had three firewhiskeys and half of Theo's champagne, and I must say, seeing you two not at each other's throats has made my entire evening."

Harry chuckled, standing to kiss her cheek. "Congratulations, by the way. Engaged at last."

Daphne held up her hand, flashing the ring. "About bloody time, right? Do you know how exhausting it is being proposed to six times by the same man? I told him if he didn't do it properly this time I was going to elope with Lyra and make him our nanny."

Lyra laughed, leaning against the table. "She means it. I've signed several contracts."

Daphne smirked. "You are both going to be there, right? I mean, Lyra, you're my bridesmaid. I want you both seated far apart at the ceremony but close enough at the reception that it makes things awkward."

"You definitely know how to throw a party," Lyra said dryly.

"I know how to cause just enough chaos," Daphne corrected, sipping her drink. "And Merlin, Malfoy, it's really good to see you. You've looked like a ghost lately. An ethereal, terrifying ghost, but still."

"I've been... around."

"You've been sipping tea and giving people death stares from balconies, darling. Yes, everyone noticed."

"She's always done that," Harry said, and Lyra slapped his arm.

"You're both insufferable."

"We learned from the best," Daphne chirped.

They chatted for a little longer—about the engagement, about Theo's hideous taste in cake flavours, about how Pansy nearly hexed the florist—but somewhere halfway through the conversation, Lyra's stomach twisted.

Not in the pleasant, bubbly way. In the I might be sick kind of way.

She sat a little straighter, pressing a hand against her middle.

"You okay?" Harry asked.

"I—" she tried to breathe through it, but her mouth was already watering in that nauseating way, and her heart kicked up with dread.

"I need the loo," she muttered, rising quickly. "Right now."

Daphne stood too. "Do you want me to—?"

"No," Lyra waved her off, already moving. "Just—keep talking about flowers or something."

And then she was gone, weaving through the crowd, eyes locked on the glowing "Lavatories" sign, heels clicking against marble as she silently cursed the shrimp, the champagne, and the sudden, sick swirl in her stomach.

Lyra was curled on the cold, sterile tiles of the bathroom stall, her head resting against the wall. The sudden wave of dizziness had hit her so quickly that she hadn't even had time to reach the sink. Now, all she could do was breathe deeply and hope that the room would stop spinning soon. The nauseating taste in her mouth hadn't gone away, and her stomach churned uncomfortably, but it wasn't just the food that made her feel off. There was something more, something gnawing at her like a sense of impending doom—though she had no idea what it was.

Then, suddenly, the sharp clack of Daphne's heels broke through her haze, followed by the familiar sound of her voice, tinged with drunkenness yet still unmistakably sharp.

"Lyra? You in here?" Daphne called out, her tone more concerned than Lyra had expected, though still laced with that trademark sass.

"I'm fine," Lyra croaked from the floor, her voice hoarse, as she tried to sit up. It wasn't working. The room was still spinning.

Daphne's voice got closer, and Lyra could almost feel her scrutinizing her from the other side of the stall. "You sure about that?" Daphne quipped. "Because you look like you've been hit by a herd of Hippogriffs. What happened? Did the shrimp strike back?"

Before Lyra could muster a response, Hermione's voice chimed in, sharp and observant as ever. "Lyra? Are you alright?" Her tone wasn't just worried—it was analytic, like she was already trying to figure out what was wrong before Lyra could even answer.

"I'm fine," Lyra repeated, though the words felt hollow. She struggled to sit up, but the dizziness smacked her down again, and she slumped back against the stall wall. "Just... everything's spinning."

"You don't look fine," Hermione said, her voice not just concerned but practically assessing her. She walked over to Lyra, crouching down beside her. "You're awfully pale. Are you sure it's just the food? Maybe you caught something? Or—?"

Lyra closed her eyes for a moment, trying to focus. She felt awful, and it wasn't just the shrimp. "I'm not sure what's happening... I just feel... off." The words were out before she could stop them, but they weren't enough to describe the odd mix of symptoms that had started to creep up on her. "It's been happening quite a lot, lately. Must have caught something."

Daphne, as usual, didn't seem to think twice about it. She crouched down beside Lyra, poking her gently with a finger. "You know, this is just... a bit too dramatic, even for you," she said with a small smirk. "You're a healer, right? Shouldn't you know what's going on?"

Lyra shot her a withering glance, although it lacked its usual punch. "Yes, Daphne, I am a healer." She paused, biting back the groan she felt building up in her chest. "You've worked with me for five years. Did you only just notice that now?" 

"Well," Daphne said, leaning back slightly, raising an eyebrow, "I always thought being a healer should involve... I don't know, knowing when our own body is betraying us?" 

Lyra half-laughed, half-sighed, her voice faint. "Apparently not. I am telling you, I probably just caught something."

Hermione, however, was less focused on teasing and more on her usual form of analytical observation. She knelt down beside Lyra, giving her a critical once-over. "You're definitely pale. And your breathing's shallow. I don't think it's the shrimp, though, because I've seen you eat worse and survive."

Lyra opened her eyes, feeling slightly disoriented as Hermione continued speaking. "It's definitely more than that. Maybe it's stress? You've been under a lot of pressure lately with your new job, haven't you? And after everything that happened..."

"That's a given," Lyra muttered. "But this... doesn't feel like stress. It's..." She trailed off, unsure how to articulate the strange, off-kilter sensation that had settled in her chest.

Daphne crossed her arms and leaned in, still studying her. "Look, I'm not one to beat around the bush. You're a bloody healer, you should know your own body. Have you—" She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly, her tone turning serious. "Have you been feeling... off in any other way? Apart from the fainting on the bathroom floor?"

Lyra blinked. "Off? Like—how?"

"Like..." Daphne glanced at Hermione before lowering her voice slightly. "Like you've been tired? Or... I don't know, emotional? Or maybe... maybe a little... different?"

Lyra stared at Daphne for a beat. "You've lost me. I'm always tired, and 'emotional' doesn't exactly narrow things down when it comes to me."

Hermione, however, was beginning to look more intently at her, as if running through a mental checklist of symptoms. "Wait," Hermione said, her voice filled with sudden clarity. "Lyra, when was the last time... you know... when was your last cycle?"

Lyra froze, her heart skipping a beat as the question sunk in. It wasn't like her to forget something like that—but then again, it wasn't like her to feel so out of sorts, either.

"Cycle?" she repeated, her voice dull, though a spark of realization began to flare in the back of her mind.

Hermione nodded, still watching her carefully. "Your period, Lyra. Have you... have you had it recently?"

Lyra's mind immediately flashed to the last few weeks. She hadn't really thought about it. There had been so much going on, between the funeral and getting the unexpected promotion at her job and just... existing. And then it hit her.

"Oh," she whispered, her stomach turning with a new kind of anxiety. She felt a chill run down her spine. "Oh Merlin."

Daphne, who had been half paying attention and half making sure the conversation didn't take a more serious turn, suddenly caught up to what Hermione was implying. "Wait. Wait a second." Her eyes widened. "Are you... Are you telling me...?"

Lyra looked at her, her face slowly going ashen as the weight of the realization hit her. "I think I might be pregnant."

There was a beat of silence as both Daphne and Hermione stared at her, as if they hadn't quite processed the magnitude of what she'd just said. Then, Daphne blinked and let out a strangled laugh. "Wait. You think? You think? Oh, Merlin, you can't even tell you're pregnant?" She looked at Hermione in shock. "She's a healer and she didn't even notice?"

"I've been distracted, okay?" Lyra snapped, her nerves fraying at the edges. "And it's not like I'm exactly in a place where I'm actively thinking about being pregnant."

Lyra leaned back against the cool bathroom wall, still trying to steady her breathing as her stomach twisted in odd, unfamiliar ways. Daphne and Hermione were hovering over her, and though they had meant well, there was a sudden and palpable sense of confusion and panic in the air. Lyra tried to clear her foggy mind, but the sheer absurdity of the situation kept hitting her in waves, making it harder to focus.

"We need to make sure," Lyra nodded.

Daphne, now standing a few feet away, was swaying slightly on her feet, clearly unsteady from a few too many drinks. "You know," she said, a wicked grin pulling at her lips, "I'm a bit of a genius when it comes to... well, everything regarding the maternity ward. But right now? Not so much on the spell front."

Lyra shot her a look, raising an eyebrow. "You can barely stand, Daphne. What makes you think you're going to diagnose me?"

"Okay, okay, fine," Daphne said, holding her hands up in surrender. "But you have to admit, the idea of me doing a diagnostic spell while drunk is hilarious."

Hermione, who had been pacing back and forth beside them, muttered to herself as she flipped through a mental checklist of spells. "I—I really didn't think I'd need to learn this stuff just to check if someone's pregnant," she said with a nervous laugh. "I mean, I could try, but I've only done basic diagnostic charms back at school. Not... this. I really don't know enough about how to detect this."

Lyra, feeling a little weaker by the second, pressed her hand to her stomach again. "It's fine, Hermione. Just... I think I need to lie down or something. I'm feeling a bit—" She cut herself off, trying to will the nausea away. "Just not great."

"Oh, perfect," Daphne said, her voice slightly slurred as she leaned against the stall door for support. "We've got a healer who doesn't know how to heal herself, a drunk witch who can't cast a spell to save her life, and a perfectly reasonable... well, emotional breakdown happening right here. What could possibly go wrong?"

Hermione gave her a look that was equal parts frustrated and amused. "Well, clearly, things have already gone wrong," she shot back, but her voice softened as she turned back to Lyra. "Lyra, we'll figure this out."

"How do we check, right now?" Lyra questioned. The idea of being pregnant was scary. It was an idea she had considered, with Victor. It was always supposed to be with him.

"Let me think."

Lyra's stomach twisted again, this time with a wave of guilt that almost made her physically ill. The thought of a child—her child—was so foreign to her, and yet it gnawed at her in ways she couldn't explain. The idea of being pregnant with Victor's child had once been a distant, impossible dream. But now, alone and with no clear sense of what her future even looked like, the reality was overwhelming.

Hermione, sensing Lyra's growing unease, crouched down next to her, her hands resting gently on her shoulders.

Lyra swallowed, feeling the dizziness clawing at her once more. "I don't know... Hermione, I didn't want this. I never thought—" Her voice faltered, and she cut herself off, unsure how to put her scattered thoughts into words.

Daphne, who had been leaning against the stall door, clearly struggling to maintain her composure, piped up with an uncharacteristic seriousness. "You didn't plan for this. I get it. But that doesn't mean it's the end of the world."

Lyra met Daphne's eyes, the words sinking in as much as they could. Daphne had never been the one to offer comforting advice—not really—but something about the simplicity of her statement felt grounding in the chaos of her own mind.

"I just don't know how to handle this," Lyra said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. She blinked rapidly, willing herself not to let the tears that were starting to gather in her eyes spill over. "I don't even know if I'm... ready for this. Not without him."

Daphne straightened, her tone softening. "No one is ever really 'ready' for something like this, Lyra. But you're not alone. You've got us. We'll figure it out."

Hermione nodded, clearly trying to contain her own discomfort with the situation but staying focused on Lyra. "Look, I think the first thing we need to do is confirm whether or not you're actually pregnant. We can't jump ahead and assume—"

"I think she's already assumed," Daphne interjected with a laugh, though it was more out of nervousness than humor. She wiped her hand across her mouth, clearly still a bit tipsy but not entirely dismissive of the situation. "And I'm still not entirely sure how the two of us are supposed to help her if you can't even figure out how to cast a diagnostic spell and I am too drunk to," She gestured vaguely with her hands, almost as if trying to make the air clear. "Unless, you let me try–"

Hermione sighed, glancing over at Daphne with a mix of frustration and understanding. "Daphne, I'm sure you're doing your best, but we need someone who actually knows what they're doing. We can't—"

"I know how to do the spell," Lyra interrupted quietly, the realization dawning on her despite her queasy stomach. She was a healer. She had been trained for moments like this, even if she wasn't in any condition to do it herself. "I just... I don't feel like I can right now." The thought of performing a diagnostic spell on herself felt impossible. Every movement made her feel weaker, and the idea of confirming her suspicions was terrifying.

Daphne gave an exaggerated sigh. "This is why we need to just go straight to a healer who can actually—"

But before Daphne could continue, a knock at the door interrupted her. It was soft, tentative, but it was definitely there. Lyra closed her eyes, hoping they hadn't heard it. Hoping this conversation could somehow stay contained within the walls of the bathroom stall.

"Lyra?" Harry's voice came through the wood, tentative and concerned. "Are you alright? You've been in here a while."

Lyra's stomach tightened. This wasn't how she wanted to face him—not with everything she was feeling, not with the way her world seemed to be falling apart.

"Is she really in there?" came Ron's voice, sounding slightly muffled, though still easily recognizable. "We've been looking everywhere for you, mate. It's been ages. Is Mione in there too? Are you guys snogging?"

Daphne shot a look at Hermione, her face betraying a mix of curiosity and concern. "You think we should... tell them?" she asked, her voice an octave too high.

Hermione, glancing at Lyra with a look of quiet sympathy, shrugged. "I don't think we have much of a choice. It's obvious something's going on, and we're not exactly keeping this under wraps."

Lyra's breath caught in her throat, her heart beating painfully in her chest. She wanted to scream, to run away, but instead, she found herself sitting there in a bathroom stall, helplessly trapped between her friends and the reality she wasn't ready to face.

"I'm fine, Harry," she called out, her voice coming out weak, despite her best efforts. "Just... give me a minute."

Harry's voice didn't sound convinced. "Are you sure? We've been looking for you. Everything okay in there?"

"I—" Lyra hesitated. "I just need to be alone for a bit. I'll be out soon."

Daphne glanced at Hermione with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Can't keep the man waiting forever, can we?" she said, but the teasing was gone now, replaced by something more serious.

"Boys!" Daphne's voice rang out, loud enough to echo off the bathroom walls. "Can you come in here?"

"Daphne!" Lyra hissed, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Are you out of your mind?"

Daphne shot her a look, unfazed. "Lyra, we're in Godric's Hollow. It's not like the entire town's made up of wizards. Plenty of muggles live here. We're not in that much danger."

Lyra stared at her, her expression blank, utterly confused by the logic—if there was any. But Hermione, ever the pragmatist, seemed to catch on first. "Actually, you're right, Daph. That could work," Hermione said, her voice calmer than Lyra felt in the moment.

"What could—" Lyra started, but before she could finish, the bathroom door creaked open.

Harry and Ron stepped inside, pausing when they saw the trio of women clustered in the middle of the room, the tension so thick it was almost tangible. Both of them froze for a beat.

"Ladies!" Ron boomed, his voice echoing off the tiled walls. "Decent yourselves! There are men in here now, here to aid a friend in distress!"

"Ron!" Hermione groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Shut up."

Harry's expression softened as his gaze darted quickly between the three women, his brow furrowing. "What's going on?" His voice was cautious, like he wasn't sure whether he should step any further into the situation. He looked at Lyra, then back at Hermione and Daphne, as if trying to piece it all together.

Lyra groaned softly, her hand still on her forehead as if trying to will herself into a state of not being entirely miserable. Hermione, who had been muttering spells under her breath, looked up and shot Harry a strained look.

"Lyra might be... pregnant," Hermione said bluntly, as if it were no big deal.

Ron's face scrunched up as he processed the words. "Wait, what? Pregnant?" he repeated, his voice rising in disbelief. "How? When?"

Lyra, still not entirely ready to deal with the situation, looked up at Ron with a scowl. "I don't know, Ron, it's not like I planned it! It's just... happened. And it's a bit much to process right now. It's Victor's."

"Oh, Merlin," Ron muttered, his eyes wide as he began pacing back and forth. "This is... this is a lot. A lot."

[Harry stood frozen in the doorway, the weight of the words hanging in the air like an uninvited guest. It felt like the entire room had shifted, and Harry wasn't sure whether it was the words themselves or the sharp, sudden awareness of how things had changed.

Lyra, still curled on the floor, glanced at him briefly, her face pale, and there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She was struggling to breathe evenly, her hand pressing against her stomach, as if willing herself to stay composed. But something was wrong—something bigger than what they could explain. She hadn't exactly been keeping it together well before, but now, the full impact of what had been said hung in the air.

Harry blinked, his mind scrambling for something to grasp onto, but all he could come up with was: Pregnant. The word seemed foreign, like it didn't belong in this conversation, especially when it came to Lyra. He thought about what it meant—not just for her, but for him, too. There was something unsettling about it—something twisted in his gut at the thought of her being pregnant... with someone else's child. 

And he knew he shouldn't feel that way, they were done, they had been for years. She had fallen in love with someone else. It was why he ignored every party invitation he would know she would be at with Victor. He had no hope of ever getting back together with her, but it hurt all the same.

He glanced over at Ron, who was standing awkwardly by the door, his face a mix of confusion and disbelief. It was like they'd both been thrown into a whirlwind, and neither knew quite how to react.]

"Pregnant," Harry said, his voice low, almost disbelieving. "Lyra, are you—" 

[He trailed off, still processing it. His mind kept circling back to one thought: Another man's child. A twist of jealousy—unfamiliar and unwanted—flared up inside him, knotting his stomach. It didn't make sense. Why would he feel this way? This wasn't about him. But somehow, it was.

Lyra met his gaze for a moment, and he saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes—a glance too quick, too subtle, but there nonetheless. She knew what he was thinking. And just like that, Harry could feel his own unease crackle in the air between them. Was this it? Was this how she would stop existing in his fantasies too?]

"Don't panic," Hermione said calmly, though there was a slight tremor in her voice. "We need to be sure. That's why Daph called you both in. We're going to need a test."

Ron blinked. "A test? What test?"

"A pregnancy test, Ron!" Hermione said, exasperated. "You know, the one you use to check if... well, if someone's pregnant."

"You want us to go to the pharmacy?" Harry seemed to have gotten out of his head, the thought of getting a pregnancy text for his ex-girlfriend seemed a little... wild. 

Lyra looked horrified at the suggestion. "Wait, you're actually sending them to the pharmacy? You want them to go get the test?"

Hermione nodded firmly. "Yes, and you're not in any condition to be going anywhere yourself."

Ron's face was a mixture of confusion and horror. "But... but how are we supposed to—"

"You'll figure it out!" Hermione said briskly, turning to face him. "Go to the pharmacy, ask for a pregnancy test. It's simple."

"Simple?!" Ron repeated, his face pale. "I don't even know what they look like! What if they... I don't know, what if they don't even sell them at the store?! What if—"

"Ron," Daphne interrupted, cutting him off with a laugh that was barely there, "they sell them everywhere. You can't go into a shop without tripping over one."

Ron's eyes darted to Harry, as if silently begging for some backup, but Harry was too busy trying to suppress the fit of irony building in his chest.

"Oh, this is brilliant," Harry muttered, shaking his head. "You two are really going to make us go and get a pregnancy test for Lyra?"

"Do you have a better idea?" Hermione shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah, sure! Go to Mungo's!" Ron's voice dropped into a mock-serious tone. "I can't just go up to the counter, hand over a Galleon, and say, 'Oi, I'm here for a pregnancy test. My friend might be knocked up. No big deal. Just want to be sure.'"

Lyra's face twisted into a grimace. "Honestly, Ron, I'd rather you not tell them exactly what's going on, okay? Just buy the damn test and leave out the details."

"We can't go to St. Mungo's right now," Hermione shook her head, "And Daphne's too plastered to do the spell herself. This is the quickest way of finding out and we can go to St. Mungo's tomorrow to make sure."

"I don't even know if I want to be part of this conversation," Ron muttered. "Why do I always end up in the middle of these bloody things?"

"I really don't want to piss on a stick," Lyra said suddenly, her voice filled with genuine distaste. She shot them all an exaggerated look of revulsion. "It's... it's just... no."

Ron blinked, utterly baffled. "You've got to be kidding. We've been talking about pregnancy tests this whole time, and now you don't actually want to use one?"

"Yes!" Lyra snapped, her face twisting in disgust. "It's a... a stick! I don't do sticks, okay? That's not how this works for me."

Hermione's eyes closed briefly in exasperation as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I swear, Lyra, every time you open your mouth, you make it ten times harder for me to just fix things." She turned to Ron and Harry, her patience clearly thinning. "Just go. Get the test. Please."

Ron looked like he was about to faint just from the thought of walking into a pharmacy and asking for a pregnancy test. "This is going to be so weird."

Harry, struggling to keep a straight face, bit his lip. "Mate, I'm pretty sure I'll be more uncomfortable than you."

"Yeah." Ron's face contorted in mock horror. "Do we... do we use galleons for this, or...?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching into a grin. "I've got some muggle money. Should thirty pounds do the trick?"

"Sure." Hermione shot them both a pointed look. "But hurry up. I need to make sure Lyra gets proper care. We're not going to stand here all day talking about sticks, are we?"

"Yeah, sure. Just... just don't make me hold the stick, alright?" Ron muttered.

The two lines on the muggle pregnancy test changed everything.

"Fuck."

9th November, 2004

The world was hushed under a silver November sky the day Lyra Druella Malfoy brought her daughter into it. A sharp wind pressed against the windowpanes of St Mungo's, blustering down Diagon Alley in early winter defiance, but within the softly lit birthing wing, the world was still, filled with nothing but breath and heartbeat and the slow rising tension of time.

She had gone into labour just before midnighr.

Andromeda had been the first to arrive, not just because she was family, but because she had been there through everything—the aching months, the morning sickness that had rivalled even the worst flu, the quiet nights when Lyra had sat by the fire trying not to miss Victor too much, her hand on her stomach, whispering old stories and new hopes.

When Daphne barged in with her hair unbrushed and a charm gone horribly wrong on her eyeliner, she took one look at Lyra's twisted expression and declared dramatically, "Oh, bloody hell, you look like you're about to hex the midwife."

To which Lyra snarled, "I've already hexed the midwife."

Neville arrived next, panting slightly as if he'd jogged up the stairs despite the existence of perfectly functional lifts. He had a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand and a thermos in the other. "Tea," he explained, handing it to Andromeda. "And... flowers. Because, you know. Birth."

"You brought flowers?" Lyra groaned between contractions. "Neville Longbottom, if you try to make this sentimental, I will vomit on you."

He gave her a sweet grin. "Wouldn't be the first time."

By mid-morning, Hermione had shown up, looking tired but glowing. Hugo had been born just a few months earlier, and she'd snuck away while Ron was distracted feeding him a spoonful of mashed pumpkin. "It's poetic, isn't it?" she said, resting a hand on Lyra's shoulder. "Our children will grow up together."

"I don't care about poetry," Lyra gritted out through her teeth. "I want this over with."

Pansy arrived shortly after, in high-heeled boots entirely inappropriate for the hospital, a soft pink scarf wrapped around her neck, and a rare vulnerability in her eyes. She said nothing at first—just sat beside Lyra, quiet as the wind outside. But her presence, warm and steady, was a balm.

Even Violet came, Victor's younger sister. Her face was flushed from travel, her dark hair mussed from the Apparition. "She's going to be extraordinary," she whispered to Lyra, clasping her hand. "Like her mother. Like my brother."

Lyra, exhausted and sweating, didn't say anything—but she squeezed Violet's fingers back.

And then there was Harry.

He stood at the door for a while, unsure if he belonged there. He looked older than he had just a year ago. Not physically—but somewhere behind the eyes. He watched Lyra, watched her pain and her strength, and something deep inside him twisted. Not out of jealousy, not really. But grief, maybe. Grief for the years they lost. Grief that it wasn't him.

Ron, of course, was less conflicted. He pushed Harry inside and said, "Mate, you already went through Voldemort and surviving the war, you're not going to faint over a baby, are you?"

Lyra snapped, "Get out unless you're bringing chocolate."

"I am bringing chocolate," Ron said triumphantly, producing a bar from his coat. "Because I know you."

The final hours of labor were a blur—pain and sweat, muttered spells and whispered reassurances, the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic mingling with the warmth of candlelight and the murmurs of friends holding their breath.

Lyra Malfoy had never imagined giving birth would feel like this—so raw, so infinite. Like she was being unmade, broken down into every trembling piece of herself before being asked to choose: come back together, or be lost to the void forever.

Andromeda held her hand the entire time, her grip steady, her voice low and unwavering. "Breathe, darling. Just like this—good girl, that's it." She'd been there from the very beginning, through every terrifying checkup, every painful twinge, every dark, uncertain moment when Lyra wasn't sure she'd survive this.

And then the pain intensified, spiking like fire in her back and hips, sharper than anything she'd ever endured. Her mind was drifting, slipping somewhere between the real and the not-real.

Someone said her name.

She looked up, but the faces around her had changed.

Her mother stood at the foot of the bed, elegant and glowing, her silver hair tied back like it always had been when Lyra was a child. Narcissa smiled softly, eyes full of pride. Beside her, her father looked younger than she remembered—warmer, somehow. He nodded once, the way he had when she took her first steps.

Astoria was there too, clapping like it was a stage performance. Her eyes were bright with joy. "Come on, Lyra," she beamed. "Finish strong."

And then she saw Blaise.

"You got this, Ly," he said, his voice low and familiar, achingly real. His arms were crossed, but his expression was soft—softer than she'd seen in years.

Her heart stuttered at the final figure.

Victor.

He stood just beyond the others, his brown eyes shining with tears, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"I will love you both, forever," he whispered, his voice like a memory and a promise all at once. "You can do this, darling. You're almost there."

"Now, Lyra!" Andromeda's voice cut through the haze, urgent. "One more push!"

Lyra screamed, not from pain—but from the weight of all of it, the past and the future collapsing into this one moment.

At 3:47 AM, with a cry that split the silence and cracked the world open, Lyra Druella Malfoy gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

The room fell silent, just for a moment. The baby's wail rose sharp and sure, filling the air like a spell cast from the core of something sacred.

Tears rolled down Lyra's cheeks as they placed the tiny girl in her arms.

"She's here," Hermione whispered, wiping her own eyes. "You did it."

"Bloody hell," Ron murmured from a corner. "She's perfect."

Daphne was already halfway through a celebratory toast with conjured champagne before remembering she'd sworn off drinking that week. Neville sat back with a watery grin. Pansy looked away quickly, dabbing at her eye with the hem of her sleeve.

Harry stepped forward last, quiet and reverent, his gaze never leaving the baby's face. "She looks just like you," he said, voice hoarse.

"And him," Violet sniffled beside him.

Lyra looked down at her daughter—tiny, pink, wrapped in a green blanket Violet, her aunt had made by hand. Her eyes were barely open, her fists curled tight.

"She's going to be a storm," Lyra murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she pressed her lips to the baby's warm, damp forehead. "A beautiful one."

Andromeda leaned in close, gently brushing a strand of sweat-soaked hair from Lyra's temple. "What will you call her, sweetheart?"

Lyra looked around the room—at Daphne clutching Violet's hand, at Neville wiping his eyes, at Pansy standing unusually still in the corner. Hermione was holding Hugo now, and Ron had gone quiet. Harry hadn't looked away once, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and something deeper, something unreadable.

And then Lyra's gaze drifted further—somewhere none of the others could see. To the faces she'd seen only moments before. The ones she'd carried with her through grief and fire and rebirth.

She tightened her hold on the tiny girl in her arms, her heart breaking and healing all at once.

"Victoria Blaise," she said softly. "For the two men who saved my life, in their own ways."

There was a beat of silence, full of breath and awe.

Harry stepped closer, his voice thick. "It's beautiful, Ly. She's beautiful."

Lyra looked down at the little face, peaceful and fierce all at once. "She really is," she whispered.

And in the quiet that followed, the storm passed—and a new beginning arrived, wrapped in soft skin and starlight.