The Sun and The Star

Sirius paced back and forth in the shadows, the cool, crisp air of the night failing to settle the storm inside him. His mind was racing, thoughts swirling around his cousin-no, his nephew, or perhaps it was both?-Draco Malfoy. That smug, calculating look Draco always wore was enough to make his blood boil. Every time Sirius saw him, that sneer on his pale face made it seem as though Draco knew more than he should-like the little Malfoy already had plans for Lyra, plans that Sirius couldn’t even begin to understand. What the hell did Draco want from her?

A few days ago, Draco had approached Lyra with a ‘deal’, and to Sirius’ disgust, she’d agreed. His gut twisted at the thought of it, an overwhelming sense of helplessness tightening around his chest. This wasn’t how things were supposed to unfold, not when it came to her. He might not know Draco, but he knew how the Malfoy mind worked-manipulative, calculating, always scheming for their own gain. And yet, despite his rage, Sirius couldn’t intervene-not like this. He was trapped in his Animagus form, unable to speak, to act, to do anything but watch.

He could feel Padfoot’s instincts clawing at him, telling him to protect her, to act, to tear through the walls and confront Draco face-to-face. But Sirius, his human mind still trapped inside the dog, knew better. He couldn’t interfere-not without revealing himself to everyone at Hogwarts, not without putting Lyra or Harry in even more danger. And yet, there he was, silently watching from the side-lines, his frustration mounting as each day passed, hoping against hope that she would navigate whatever mess Draco had created without getting hurt.

But that wasn’t the only thing eating away at him. No, there was another dark presence lurking, just as elusive and insidious-Peter Pettigrew. Sirius’ fur bristled just thinking about him. The rat had been hiding in the tower since his arrival at Hogwarts, and Sirius was sure of it. He had been shadowing Harry, trying to stay close to his godson without being seen, during Lyra’s Potions and History of Magic classes. Both subjects were perfect covers for Peter, allowing him to disappear into the background, hidden in the towers’ dark corners. Sirius had spent hours, days even, trying to catch a scent of Peter, hoping to catch him unaware, to smell the rat’s putrid trail.

But every time he checked-nothing. Not a trace. No hint that Peter had been anywhere near Harry or his friends. The bastard was staying hidden, probably tucked away somewhere in the depths of the tower, like the coward he always was.

A wave of fury surged through Sirius, his canine instincts clawing to the surface. His heart pounded in his chest as he thought of Peter’s betrayal, the way the rat had scurried away all those years ago, leaving him to rot in Azkaban while Peter slipped through everyone’s fingers. Now, Peter was right under their noses, hidden in the one place Sirius couldn’t reach. He needed to find him, he needed to make Peter pay for everything he’d done. But how?

Sirius felt a pit in his stomach. If Peter was hiding in the tower, he’d have to break in-he couldn’t let the rat slip through his fingers again. Not when everything was at stake. If he didn’t do something soon, the whole plan would fall apart, and there would be no turning back.

But as his mind whirred, another thought surfaced. Who could he even trust to help him?

He thought about Mad-Eye Moody. The very idea of going to him made Sirius’ skin crawl. Moody had arrested him, had labelled him guilty, and now he was nothing more than a puppet, dancing on Dumbledore’s strings. If Dumbledore said Sirius was guilty, then Moody would follow orders blindly, never questioning the truth. No, that was a dead end.

Then there was Proudfoot. Senior had died, leaving his son, Proudfoot Junior, to carry on his work. Sirius had no love for the younger Proudfoot. He’d never been a fan of Sirius, and now, there was no chance in hell that he’d listen to him. Another avenue shut off, just like that.

He let out a sharp breath, the memories of his past still lingering. James-his best friend, his brother-was dead. Gone, and with him, any hope of turning to him for support. The thought sent a pang through his chest, one he’d grown used to but could never quite shake.

But then, his thoughts flickered to someone else-someone who might just be able to help, someone who didn’t share his past baggage: Amelia Bones. She had taken over as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement after Fudge’s lacklustre leadership, and while she hadn’t been particularly kind to Sirius, she wasn’t someone who tolerated injustice. She was a Hufflepuff, loyal and fair-minded, and though she might not be his biggest fan, Sirius knew she cared about doing what was right. She might be the key, the one person who could help him prove his innocence. But how? How could he even approach her without putting her in danger or making everything worse?

He gritted his teeth. That was a bridge he would have to cross later, when the time was right. For now, his priority was simple-he had to find Peter. He had to make sure that rat never slipped away again, not when there was so much on the line. If he didn’t catch him, if he didn’t stop Peter from disappearing into the shadows once more, all of his efforts, all of his hope, would be for nothing.

There was no time to waste. Peter was out there, and Sirius wasn’t going to let him escape again. Not this time. Not while Lyra, and everything else, hung in the balance.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Remus stood at the front of the classroom, his eyes flicking between the students as the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins filtered in. The Gryffindor boys were already a rowdy bunch, their laughter ringing out as they shoved each other through the doorway, bouncing around like a pack of excited crup pups. Remus couldn’t help but smile, a fleeting temptation to use a spell to enchant their tails just to watch them squirm. But then he paused, remembering his role as a teacher. He had to be the model of professionalism-no matter how tempting.

His gaze shifted toward the Slytherin side of the room, and there, seated at her usual solitary desk, was Lyra Potter. Her sharp green eyes swept over the room, scanning for any sign of disruption. But her attention was drawn to the Grim, the massive black dog curled around her legs, its form a shadow beside her. Remus had always been fascinated by the bond between them-there was something undeniably unusual about it. He wasn’t the only one who noticed. The other teachers had also observed, though no one dared to press the matter too deeply. It was an unsettling connection, but it wasn’t his place to get involved-not yet, anyway.

Before he could shift his attention back to the class, a soft voice interrupted him. It was Astoria Greengrass, the younger Slytherin girl, stepping hesitantly toward Lyra. Her voice was low, almost drowned out by the ambient noise in the room, but Remus’s sharp hearing caught it easily.

“Potter, I... I’ve come to regret my actions towards you,” Astoria stammered, her words wobbling with uncertainty. “The way I treated you... I want to make things right.”

The Grim, who had been lazily resting, lifted its head at the sound of Astoria’s voice. Its bright yellow eyes narrowed with suspicion, its stance shifting slightly as if it were preparing to act. Lyra, however, merely observed the girl before her, her expression calm and unreadable. The tension was palpable-an invisible barrier seemed to rise between the two. Lyra’s gaze flicked briefly over Astoria’s face, her eyes taking in the sincerity-or lack thereof-before she sighed softly and shook her head.

“I’ll give you one chance,” Lyra said, her voice steady, but with an edge of authority that spoke volumes. “But if you ever slander me again, there won’t be another.”

Astoria swallowed hard, her face paling at the weight of the threat. After a long moment of silence, she nodded, her movements slow and deliberate as she lowered herself into the seat beside Lyra. The Grim never took its eyes off her, still watching her every move with an unsettling intensity. Remus chuckled softly at the scene, appreciating the quiet authority with which Lyra had handled the situation. It reminded him so much of how Lily used to handle the Marauders-calm, collected, but with an underlying power that made you feel like a misbehaving child.

“Alright, class,” Remus called, his voice cutting through the lingering tension in the room. “Let’s get started. I hope you’ve all done your homework.” A collective groan rose from the students, and Remus laughed in response. “Yes, yes. How dreadful.” he teased, waving his wand to summon the homework papers. They flew neatly into a folder.

“Now, as you know, Hogwarts is home to many ghosts,” Remus began, his tone shifting to one of light instruction. “Who can tell me what a ghost actually is?” A few hands hesitantly rose, but it was the Slytherin side of the room that seemed most eager. Remus caught Lyra’s eye and smiled. “Miss Potter?” he asked.

“They’re an imprint of the soul,” Lyra said, her voice clear and unwavering, “left behind by a witch or wizard who either feared death or had an exceptionally strong tie to the place they haunt.”

“Correct,” Remus nodded, giving a small smile. “Two points to Slytherin for that. Now, who can tell me the difference between a ghost, a ghoul, and a poltergeist?” He scanned the room, waiting for hands to rise. Again, Lyra’s was the first, but this time, he chose to call on one of the Gryffindor boys, who seemed to be nervously fumbling with his quill. “Mr. Blackwood?” Remus prompted. The boy’s glasses slid down his nose as he stared at Remus, flustered. 

“Uh... One can touch things, and the other can’t?” he guessed, his voice wavering. Remus smiled, nodding. 

“A point for effort, Mr. Blackwood. Anyone else?” he prompted, glancing around the room. Lyra’s hand remained steadfastly raised, and after a brief pause, Remus relented. “Miss Potter?”

“A ghoul is generally harmless,” Lyra explained, her tone firm and confident, “often described as slimy, buck-toothed, with a simple mind and little to no ability to communicate. They can interact with the world, but aren’t particularly dangerous. Poltergeists, however, are chaotic spirits-indestructible, mischievous, and usually invisible. There are exceptions, though-Peeves being the most notable one here at Hogwarts.”

“Know-it-all." one of the Gryffindor boys muttered under his breath.

“Well, I’ll be,” Remus said with a grin. “A walking encyclopaedia.” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Two points to Slytherin for reading ahead, and a point from Gryffindor for rude comments. Let’s try to keep things civil, children.”

The boy groaned theatrically, and Remus couldn’t help but laugh as the tension in the room lifted, the lesson beginning to flow with more ease. Throughout the rest of the class, Remus observed that Lyra’s knowledge was no fluke. She was proving herself to be one of the top students of her year, confident and well-prepared.

But despite his amusement at her quick wit and intelligence, Remus couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was at play here. The Grim. The way it watched him, with an unsettling intensity, reminded him so much of Sirius. But that couldn’t be, could it? It was just a coincidence, right?

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Harry stared down at the runes in front of him, frustration bubbling up inside him. He hated that Hermione was always so sure of herself, so convinced that she knew better. But this time, he was sure- his work was fine. He'd double-checked it, and everything matched perfectly. Yet, here she was again, about to tell him that he'd done it wrong.

It wasn’t just the runes that had him fuming. There was still the matter of what happened earlier in the Boggart lesson. Hermione had rushed off without a second thought, ignoring his obvious distress as he watched his little sister pleading for help. She hadn’t even bothered to ask him how he felt about it-just disappeared to chase some question for Professor Sprout. He’d only found out later, when Hermione, of all people, came barging into the common room, ranting about how Sprout had rushed her out of the greenhouse before she could ask anything important.

Not once did she consider his feelings-his own turmoil. It was always about Hermione, always about what she needed. He was left alone, with his own fears and concerns, trying to manage without anyone to turn to. But of course, it didn’t matter to Hermione. If it wasn’t about her, it wasn’t important.

Harry’s thoughts were violently interrupted when he felt her leaning over his shoulder. The familiar weight of her presence, close enough to feel her breath on his neck, instantly sent a jolt of irritation through him. He tensed, his hands instinctively clutching his parchment.

"You're not doing it right, Harry," Hermione said, her voice dripping with that all-too-familiar, 'I'm right and you’re wrong' tone. She didn't even look at him as she reached for his parchment, her nose lifted a little as she tugged at it. "Let me fix it for you. You’ll never get it right on your own." A flare of anger sparked in Harry’s chest. He snatched the parchment back with a sharp motion, his eyes narrowing as he glared at her. 

“It’s my work, Hermione, and it looks fine to me.” He tried to sound calm, but his voice was thick with frustration. Why couldn’t she just leave him be? Hermione, however, didn’t back down.

“You always think your work looks fine, and then you barely scrape by with an Accept-” she began, her voice rising. 

Barely scrape by ? Was she really going to say that? His temper flared, heat rushing to his face. 

“It’s not up to you how I do in a class. Let me fail or succeed on my own." he shot back, the words slipping out before he could stop them. The classroom around them seemed to vanish, the only thing left in his focus was Hermione's face, her brow furrowed in annoyance. Hermione didn’t get it, though. She was still going, her voice sharp as ever. 

“Someone has to keep track of you, Harry. You never do your homework unless I tell you-”

“I’m usually doing other homework when you come to tell me about another assignment!” Harry snapped, his voice rising with each word. The anger in him was like a fire, and he couldn’t seem to control it anymore. “You aren’t my mum, Hermione. Stop telling me what to do.”

The words hung in the air, and for a brief second, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Hermione’s face went pale. Her mouth opened, and Harry could see her trying to reel it back, but it was too late.

“I’m just trying to care, Harry. Someone has to. It’s not like your parents are around to-” She froze. The blood drained from her face as she realised what she'd said, and Harry’s heart seemed to stop.

He felt the room close in around him, a suffocating weight pressing on his chest. His fingers gripped his parchment so tightly that the edges of the paper crumpled in his hands. The quill in his other hand snapped, but he didn’t notice. All he could hear was the ringing in his ears.

The words- not like your parents are around to -cut through him like a knife. They were said so casually, as if Hermione had no idea what she was really saying.

The whole class was silent now. He could feel their eyes on him, but he couldn’t care less. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else. His stomach churned. How could she? How could she say that so thoughtlessly, like it was just a fact?

“No. You’re right. I don’t have my parents around to care.” The ice in his voice when he spoke again surprised even him but he didn’t let it show. He gathered his things quickly, his hands shaking, but he didn’t stop to look at Hermione. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he could look at anyone right now. He shoved the parchment towards Professor Babbling, his voice flat. “I’ve finished my work. I’m going to go calm down for a moment.”

“Harry-” Hermione’s voice broke through the haze of anger and hurt. But Harry wasn’t listening. He just shook his head, not waiting for her to say anything more. He couldn’t hear her anymore.

"Of course, Mr. Potter. I’ll inform your head of house of what happened here today.” Professor Babbling was kind, her tone soft as she nodded. She lowered her voice, just for him. “If you need to, you can ask one of the elves for a cup of tea to calm yourself.” Her voice was gentle, like she understood. Harry just nodded, not trusting himself to say anything else.

Without looking back, he left the classroom, ignoring Hermione’s increasingly desperate attempts to catch his attention. He felt like he was suffocating. He couldn’t understand what had just happened.

How could Hermione say something like that? After everything they had been through together, how could she so casually mention his parents, like it was nothing?

He stormed down the hallway, his hands clenched around his parchment. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He didn’t know where he was headed, but he needed to get away. Away from the classroom, away from the stares, away from Hermione’s words.

Had they always been like this? Him and Hermione, and Ron too? Had he just been so blind that he couldn’t see how they really were? The nagging thought gnawed at him as he walked aimlessly down the corridor. What else had he missed? What other things had they said, done, or left unsaid, that he hadn’t noticed? And why did it feel like there was suddenly so much more distance between them?

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Lyra leaned her forehead against the book, grateful for a rare moment of solitude. She had just managed to escape the little cluster of first-year Slytherins who had seemed intent on trailing her around all day. She hadn’t expected that Astoria’s public apology would result in her suddenly becoming the centre of attention for a group of eager-to-please younger students.

It had happened so quickly that Lyra barely understood how or why. She had half-expected her sudden shift in status, an alliance with the older Slytherins, to leave them unnerved, but it seemed to have worked in reverse. The younger students were now scrambling for her approval, offering everything from awkward compliments to, in some cases, downright sycophantic behaviour.

It was exhausting. Lyra had never minded attention before, but this was something else. She had assumed the older students, perhaps Draco, had let the first years know about the kind of power she could have exerted-she could have demanded far more than a simple apology. If she were more confident in her spellcasting, she might have even challenged them to a duel. But no one had dared to cross her, not with the older Slytherins backing her. The whole thing was an exhausting web of expectations she had no real interest in untangling.

It made her wonder if 'officially' declaring her heirship would only bring more of the same, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that. Even Lyra, as social as she had once been, had her limits. She’d already had to send Sirius away just to get five minutes of solitude. She couldn’t handle the weight of so many eyes on her for much longer.

“Lyra!” The voice broke through her thoughts, and she stiffened, barely resisting the urge to groan. For a moment, she didn’t recognise it, but then it clicked-her older brother, Harry, was the one invading her personal space.

“I’ve been looking for you all day!” Harry said, clearly pleased to have found her at last. He gave her a quick once-over, scanning her for any sign of distress, before reaching into his bag. Lyra raised an eyebrow, setting her book aside.

“What? Why?”  

“Why?” Harry repeated, pulling a small cupcake and an envelope from his bag. “It’s your birthday, remember? Did you forget?” Lyra froze, her breath catching in her throat. She hadn’t realised it was her birthday-she hadn’t even been thinking about it. But the sight of the cupcake and the card made her heart squeeze unexpectedly.

“You remembered?” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“Of course I remembered." Harry said with a casual smile, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Lyra stared at him, unable to stop the sudden sting of tears that gathered in her eyes. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected him to remember after last year and the previous years forgetfulness.

“You forgot the last two years." she whispered, examining the cupcake as if it might answer her questions. The small chocolate cupcake with caramel chunks and a swirl of vanilla cream was her favourite. She put it down carefully, her hands trembling just a little as she looked up at Harry, who had gone very still.

“I did?” he said, his voice full of genuine surprise. “Holy shit-I did! I’m so sorry! Lyra, why didn’t you yell at me for it? You had every right to kick my ass for forgetting-” He sighed deeply, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t even think about it. Why didn’t you say anything?” Lyra hesitated, looking at the envelope in her hands, still unopened. 

“You went through a lot the past two years.” she mumbled quietly, trying to suppress the wave of emotion that threatened to rise. Harry groaned, walking over to her and wrapping his arms around her tightly. 

“And you call me self-sacrificing,” he muttered. “Lyra, you tell me when I forget something important, alright?” He pulled back and gently tapped her on the head. “I’ll get you two gifts to make up for those missed birthdays, okay?” Lyra sniffled, leaning against him, grateful for the comfort. 

“Okay.” she murmured softly, knowing there was no point in arguing with Harry when he was like this.

“Good,” Harry said, settling next to her in the chair. “Now, tell me what’s going on with all this reading. I know you used to read a lot back at the Dursleys and at the cottage, but this seems like a bit more than usual. What are you reading, exactly?” Lyra sighed, rubbing her neck. 

“Which book are you asking about?” she asked, already dreading the question. Harry raised an eyebrow. 

“You’ve already given me a rundown on the familiar situation, but you’ve been oddly quiet about the heirship and lordship stuff. Also, the empathy thing?” He grimaced. “You’ve been reading a lot about it, haven’t you?” Lyra snorted softly, massaging her temple. 

“Empathy-wise? The books suggest meditation or some kind of charm to dampen the ability. I’ve already sent an owl to the Goblins because they’re the only ones who make something decent in terms of dampening gifts specifically. better than that Mass produced crap you can buy in Diagon or Hogsmede apparently.”  

“Mass-produced? Empathy can’t be that common of a gift, can it?” Harry frowned, Lyra shook her head. 

“It’s not, but the mass-produced items usually target multiple gifts at once, not one specifically. Gringotts makes specialised jewellery for empathy. Until you can channel it, it’s the best option. Sharpknife said if you’re applying yourself to Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, you should be able to make your own by fifth year.” Harry let out a soft hum of understanding, leaning back in his chair. 

“Thanks, Ly,” he muttered quietly. “Sorry you’ve kind of become my little researcher.”  

“To be fair, I can see that you, Ginger Snap, and the Riddler haven’t been on the best of terms.” Lyra tilted her head back, resting it in her hands. Harry blinked at her. 

“Ginger Snap and the Riddler?” he asked, clearly confused.

“Weasley and Granger." Lyra explained with a cheeky grin. The moment the words left her mouth, Harry burst into loud laughter, a genuine, joyful sound that echoed through the room. Once he composed himself, Harry grinned. 

“Please, please call them that to their faces. That’s amazing .”

“So, what’s going on with you and them, then?” Lyra chuckled, shaking her head. Harry’s expression shifted, his earlier joy fading into a frustrated sigh. 

“Ron’s convinced you’re evil because you’re in Slytherin. He’s been... difficult. Every argument he’s had with Hermione about her cat, he expects me to pick a side. If I don’t agree with him, suddenly I’m the bad guy. It’s exhausting.”

“And Hermione?” Lyra prodded gently, sensing the tension in his voice.

“She’s... stressed? Overworked? I don’t know. She’s taking every class under the sun, and I don’t think she’s taken a single break since the start of term. She’s so tired, it’s like she can’t see straight. She’s getting mean, and... my ribs haven’t been this bruised since the Basilisk. I don’t know what to do.” Lyra nodded slowly, thinking for a moment. 

“Have you tried talking to them about it?” Harry groaned, rubbing his face. 

“I tried with Hermione. She just said it was none of my business. As for Ron...” He sighed again. “I just don’t know how to approach him.” Lyra bit her lip in thought, but Harry was already offering her a small, reassuring smile. “Neville’s been really nice, though. Oh! And Parvati’s going to teach us about Indian culture. Apparently, Dad’s side of the family is from there. Grandma’s Indian. So, I’ll let you know when that happens.” Lyra blinked, surprised by the new information. 

“Harry, I have so much to read already. Don’t make me go digging for Potter family history just yet.”

“Well, you could always take a break from researching. Or just organize the books by relevance-‘most important’ to ‘meh, not urgent.’” Harry chuckled softly, patting her back. Lyra groaned, but nodded quietly. 

“I guess I could do that.” She mumbled. And that was how they spent the evening of her twelfth birthday, creating a list of books to prioritise.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Large, midnight-black paws, broad and heavy, moved steadily through the graveyard, casting an eerie silence that seemed to deepen with every step. The night was cold, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, but the creature-massive and dark-moved with unnerving grace. Its broad, muscular body, fur glistening like shadows in the moonlight, glided effortlessly around crumbling gravestones, weaving in and out of the skeletal remains of monuments that had long surrendered to the ravages of time. The silence of the night was only broken by the soft echo of its footfalls, rhythmic and ominous, as it prowled the forgotten grounds.

The hour grew late, the clock tower in the distance striking a quarter to midnight. As the bells tolled, the creature’s head suddenly jerked up, eyes glowing like molten amber in the darkness. It inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring with a low growl rumbling deep within its chest. The beast's thick fur rippled as it threw its head back and let out a long, mournful howl, the sound echoing through the cemetery with a haunting clarity. The howl carried, twisting through the night air like a spectral wail, and as it resonated, an unnatural mist seemed to swirl around the beast’s form, ghostly vapours rising in tendrils, only to dissipate into the shadows.

In response, a few ethereal figures-spectral forms that wandered the graveyard for eternity-flickered in the moonlight, their faint forms trembling. A whisper of fear passed between them, and they recoiled, retreating into the dark corners of the graveyard. The word ‘Grim’ floated on the breeze, exchanged in hushed tones like a forbidden secret. The mere mention of its name struck terror in their hearts, for they knew the legends, the dark omen this creature represented.

The Grim, oblivious to the ghosts' fear, sniffed the air again, its immense chest rising and falling with each breath. Another howl ripped through the air, more insistent this time, its haunting reverberation vibrating through the soil itself. The creature’s golden eyes, fierce and unblinking, narrowed as it locked onto something in the distance. Without warning, it began to move with predatory speed, its body surging forward like a living shadow, fluid and swift as it dashed toward the farthest corner of the graveyard.

In the blink of an eye, the Grim vanished into the stonework of the ancient cemetery. The air seemed to warp around it, and in a flash, the massive creature melted into one of the gravestones, its form absorbed by the stone as if it were a part of the earth itself.

The gravestone stood proud and silent in the still night-its weathered face bearing the name Imogen Peverell engraved in faded, silver letters, the legacy of a family long passed.

The creature had come and gone, leaving behind only the heavy air of its presence and the eerie silence of the graveyard-now, once again, still.