1.10
CHAPTER TEN
the ending had now began
1997
seventh year, pt. one
ORIGINAL UNIVERSE, LYRA'S POV
-I-
THE DARK LORD'S SECRET
“Lyra,” Snape began, his voice barely above a whisper. “There is something... grave that you must know. I have held onto this information for far too long, and if we are to have any hope of survival — any hope of ending this war — it’s time to act.”
Lyra felt her pulse quicken. She had grown accustomed to secrets, to half-spoken truths, but the intensity in Snape’s tone struck a new level of seriousness. “What is it?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tension building inside her.
Snape took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “The Dark Lord has ensured his survival through means darker than most could ever imagine. He has split his soul into fragments, binding pieces of it to various objects through Dark Magic — Horcruxes.”
A chill ran down Lyra’s spine. She had heard whispers of Horcruxes in the forbidden books at Hogwarts, tales of vile magic that twisted one’s very essence. But to think that Voldemort had created them... “How many?” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Seven,” Snape replied. “At least that is what Dumbledore believed. But here is the cruel twist, Lyra.” He paused, his expression hardening. “One of those Horcruxes resides within Harry Potter himself.”
The revelation struck her like a blow. Her hands clenched the armrests of her chair, her knuckles white. “You mean… all this time, Harry’s been carrying a piece of Voldemort inside him?”
Snape nodded grimly. “Yes. It is why he has that connection, why he has seen visions. It is a tether to the Dark Lord himself, a dormant fragment of his soul.”
Lyra’s mind raced. She thought back to all the times she had seen Harry suffer because of that connection, each vision, every nightmare. It suddenly made a horrible, twisted kind of sense. “Does he know?”
“No,” Snape replied sharply. “And we cannot tell him. Not yet. To remove a Horcrux, the vessel often has to be destroyed. You understand, I presume, the implications.”
Her blood ran cold. Destroying the vessel. Destroying Harry. “There has to be another way,” she said, her voice tinged with desperation. “We can’t… he can’t…”
Snape’s expression softened slightly, an uncharacteristic glimmer of sympathy in his dark eyes. “There might be a way, but it will be dangerous, and it may fail. I'll do my best... but if I fail, if I die before I can save him..." he looked down, "I hate to ask this of you, but you will have to do it. And the chances of survival are quite slim."
Lyra swallowed, "What's the plan?"
-II-
CRUELY, MEMORIES AND EVIL AUNTS
Lyra had been searching through her trunk, her hands working aimlessly through the fabric and papers that held the remnants of her old life. Amid the mess of robes and textbooks, her fingers brushed against something soft and familiar—a sweatshirt. Harry’s.
Lyra’s fingers trembled as they closed around the familiar sweatshirt, a faded shade of Gryffindor red with tiny holes in the sleeves where Harry had idly picked at the fabric during long nights in the common room. She held it up, almost reverently, her heart twisting at the familiar sight. It smelled faintly of him—of the warm, comforting scent that had always made her feel safe. She clutched it close, letting her cheek brush against the worn fabric, breathing in as though she could conjure him into the room. Her hand instinctively went to the necklace around her neck, the one Harry had given her on her last birthday. A soft, smooth stone rested against her collarbone, warming under her touch.
She closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of solace as memories washed over her. She could almost hear his laughter, his voice teasing her as he tossed the sweatshirt at her one rainy night in the Astronomy Tower, insisting it’d keep her warm even though he’d shivered through the rest of their conversation. She could feel him there, holding her, whispering promises that they would find a way through this war, together.
She started thinking of the first time she ever wore Harry's jacket.
Harry had told her he didn't like and then and suddenly regretted his words. He caught up with her, and had grabbed her shoulder gently. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to upset you. Can we just try to work this out when we’re not freezing to death?”
Lyra had whirled around, her face was flushed with anger and frustration. “Fine, but I’m not in the mood for your pity right now.”
Harry had sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I’m not trying to pity you. I’m trying to be honest. I’m just as lost in this forest as you are, and we both need to get out.”
Lyra’s anger had softened just a little. “Alright, but only if you promise not to get us further lost.”
“Deal,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let’s just stick together, okay?”
Reluctantly, Lyra had taken his hand, and they had started walking side by side again. The forest seemed less intimidating with their shared effort.
As they walked, there was a brief, awkward silence before Lyra broke it again. “You know, your jacket isn’t half bad.”
He grinned– his famous signature smile. “Glad you think so. Just don’t go thinking I’m soft because I’m nice.”
Lyra had smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ll try not to.”
“What’s this?” a harsh voice sneered, snapping her back to reality.
Lyra’s head jerked up, her heart pounding as she found herself staring at Bellatrix Lestrange. Her aunt stood in the doorway, her lips curled in a predatory smirk as she surveyed Lyra with gleeful suspicion.
Lyra’s grip tightened on the sweatshirt, trying to shield it from Bellatrix’s gaze. “Nothing,” she said, forcing her voice to stay steady. “It’s just an old piece of clothing.”
Bellatrix stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she took in the worn garment. “An old piece of clothing from a boy, by the look of it.” Her gaze dropped to the necklace Lyra’s fingers had unconsciously touched, a derisive smile spreading across her face. “Ah, is this from Blaise?” she drawled, her voice laced with contempt. “Did he give you both of these trinkets?”
Lyra’s jaw clenched, her heart pounding as she met Bellatrix’s eyes, defiance flaring up despite the fear pooling in her stomach. “No,” she said sharply, “he didn’t. And it’s none of your business anyway.”
Bellatrix’s smile darkened, her voice turning mocking. “Oh, I think it is my business, darling.” She reached out, her fingers brushing over the stone of the necklace with a scornful look. “Didn’t Lucius tell you? You belong to the Dark Lord now. This silly attachment to... Mudblood sympathizers,” she spat, “is beneath you. I wouldn't mind Zabini if his mother hadn't refused to join the cause.”
The words struck Lyra like a slap, but she stood her ground, her hands fisting around Harry’s sweatshirt. “It’s not just ‘some attachment,’” she shot back, voice trembling with anger. “And I don’t need anyone telling me what to feel.”
Bellatrix’s face twisted with rage, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You think you have a choice in this, girl?” She raised her wand, her hand steady as she aimed it at Lyra’s heart. “I’ve broken girls like you for less insolence.”
Lyra swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her ears. She wanted to shrink back, to hide, but she forced herself to keep her chin raised, her fingers clutching the pendant that had become a symbol of all she was fighting for.
“You can try,” she managed, her voice tight. “But you can’t change who I am. And you’ll never make me hate who I already am.”
Bellatrix’s eyes glittered with sadistic pleasure. “Hate yourself?” she laughed, raising her wand even higher, her voice full of malice. “You’re not worthy of the Dark Lord. Or anyone.”
Lyra’s voice cracked with the force of her next words. “Then do it,” she dared, the defiance burning within her. “Show me just how much you hate me.”
Bellatrix’s wand trembled in her hand, her face a mask of anger and disdain. For a long moment, she stared at Lyra, her expression unreadable. Then, with a disgusted sneer, she hissed, "Cru-"
Lyra’s heart was pounding, her throat tight as she watched Bellatrix’s lips form the beginning of the curse. She had steeled herself for the inevitable, but before the curse could be completed, Narcissa stormed into the room, disarming her sister, her expression fierce, protective, and terrifying in a way Lyra had never seen.
With a single stride, Narcissa placed herself between Lyra and her sister, her wand drawn and pointed directly at Bellatrix. “How dare you attack my child?” Her voice was cold, laced with barely restrained fury.
Bellatrix let out a sharp, mocking laugh, tilting her head to regard her sister with a look of disdain. “You dare disarm me, Cissy?”
“You dare hurt my daughter?” Narcissa’s voice was unwavering, her eyes blazing. Lyra had rarely seen her mother so visibly angry, her jaw set, her shoulders squared. She seemed almost regal, every inch the formidable Black she’d been raised to be.
Bellatrix sneered. “She is naïve and stupid, Narcissa. She doesn’t understand what is good for her.”
“Then it is my job to teach her, not yours,” Narcissa shot back, her voice sharp as a blade. “How dare you even try to torture her? It’s true, isn’t it? What they say about people like you—that ‘the abused becomes the abuser.’”
Bellatrix’s eyes flashed, her hand turning into a fist, her knuckles white, but her tone was icy. “Narcissa, I will not have you speak—”
“And I will not have you attack my daughter in her own home,” Narcissa interrupted, her voice deadly calm. She took a step forward, her wand never wavering. “Get. Out.”
Bellatrix’s smile faltered, replaced by a momentary look of shock. “What?” she spat, taken aback.
“I said get out, Bellatrix.” Narcissa’s tone was low but seething with anger. “I may have stood by while you tormented Sirius, even Andromeda, but I will not stand idle while you do this to Lyra. Get out. And do not show me your face again—or I swear to Merlin, I will murder you myself.”
A dangerous silence stretched between the two sisters, thick with tension. Bellatrix’s lips twisted into an unsettling grin as she let out a humorless laugh. “Fine. I’ll give you time to cool off, Cissy. I have business with Rabastan anyway.”
With a lingering, malevolent glare, Bellatrix swept from the room, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hall until they faded.
When silence finally returned, Narcissa turned to Lyra, her stern expression softening at the sight of her daughter trembling. She reached out, brushing a gentle hand against Lyra’s face. “Are you all right?”
Narcissa’s hand hovered over Lyra’s trembling form, her heart aching at the sight of her daughter’s distress. The fight with Bellatrix, the tension, and the fear that had gripped Lyra—it was more than she could bear. With a soft but firm touch, Narcissa guided Lyra to the edge of the bed, sitting her down with a tenderness only a mother could possess.
Lyra’s hands trembled, still clutching Harry’s sweatshirt like a lifeline. Narcissa noticed it immediately, her sharp eyes catching the way Lyra’s fingers curled tightly around the fabric. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and leaned down, brushing a lock of hair behind Lyra’s ear.
"Are you all right?" Narcissa’s voice was soft, but there was a quiet strength in it—an undercurrent of motherly concern that she rarely allowed to show.
Lyra nodded shakily, but the words seemed stuck in her throat, and the silence stretched between them. Her mother’s question, however, was enough to pull at something deep within her, and before Lyra knew what she was doing, she whispered, "I’m sorry."
Narcissa’s brow furrowed in confusion, her gaze settling on her daughter with a mixture of concern and something softer, something maternal. "Why are you apologizing, sweetheart?"
Lyra’s eyes flickered down to the sweatshirt she was still clutching tightly to her chest. She let out a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to speak.
It was then that Narcissa noticed the look on her face—something foreign and raw, something that didn’t belong to the world she knew. Something heartbreakingly familiar. Her eyes softened, but her voice remained gentle as she asked, "Has Bellatrix done this before?"
Lyra didn’t say anything at first. She couldn’t. Instead, she just nodded, her throat closing up again, her heart heavy. Yes. This wasn’t the first time.
A silence settled between them again, but this time, it was filled with something more than words—grief, a shared understanding of the pain that could pass from one generation to the next. Narcissa sat beside her, her own heart breaking at the realization that her daughter had been carrying this burden alone.
Then, slowly, Lyra spoke. In the arms of her mother, Lyra told Narcissa about Harry and how much she loved him. She told him about the heartache and the stolen kisses and pain and the guilt. So much guilt. Her voice cracked with the weight of the truth she’d been holding in for so long. "I… I love him, Mama."
The words were barely a whisper, but they hung in the air like a confession, like it was something Lyra had never dared to say aloud before. Narcissa’s heart skipped a beat at hearing those words, and she felt something stir within her—something old, something long buried.
Lyra hadn't called her Mama in a long time. It had been years, not since she was a little girl, before everything had changed. Narcissa felt the ache of it, the shift in time, the loss of innocence, but also the weight of responsibility.
Her arms wrapped around Lyra instinctively, pulling her close. Lyra’s shoulders shook as the dam inside her broke, her tears flowing freely, hot and unchecked. The girl who was so strong, so defiant, was crumbling in her arms, and Narcissa held her without hesitation, letting her sob.
"I know, baby," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, holding Lyra tight. She could feel the weight of her daughter’s pain, the rawness of it, and Narcissa’s own heart cracked as she realized how deeply Lyra had been hurt. "I know."
Her heart ached as she looked at her daughter, so much like Regulus in that moment—so much like him, yet so much more vulnerable than he had ever been. The way Lyra held onto that sweatshirt, the way her emotions bled out in waves, it reminded her of the brother she had loved and lost—of the pieces of the past that never really went away.
For a long time, they stayed that way—Narcissa holding Lyra, letting the tears flow. The room seemed to grow quieter, but the weight of their emotions hung in the air like a storm that hadn't quite passed. And for once, Narcissa didn’t mind the silence. It was the sound of them both, the sound of being together, of sharing the grief and love that ran so deep it could never truly be spoken.
It seemed as if the Potter men had always had a way to change the darkest of the Black women, Lyra especially included.
-III-
WHO ARE YOU? (WHAT DID THEY DO TO YOU?)
It was nearly Christmas, and the Hogwarts castle was unusually quiet that evening, with only the faint sound of the wind swirling outside the high windows. The halls were dark, save for the soft glow of the torches lining the walls, and Lyra Malfoy moved through them with purposeful steps, her eyes scanning each shadowed corner as she made her way along the empty corridors. As Head Girl, it was her responsibility to ensure that all students were in their rooms by curfew, and she had always done so with a sense of duty, but tonight, the weight of the task felt different.
She was accompanied by Blaise Zabini, who had made Slytherin prefect that year (Nott was surprisingly Head Boy), but their steps were silent, separated by an unspoken tension that had been building between them for months. It wasn't a secret really, everyone in the school knew—the truth about her being involved in Dumbledore's death. But now things had been incredibly different. They hadn’t really spoken properly since that day, not in the way they once had. It was as if the air between them had thickened, and neither of them knew quite how to clear it.
Blaise’s silence was heavy as they walked side by side, both their gazes fixed ahead, avoiding the other. The coldness between them was palpable, but it didn’t feel like the natural distance of old friends who had grown apart—it felt like something far worse, as if a breach had occurred between them that neither knew how to mend.
Lyra’s heart felt tight in her chest as she walked, and despite the familiar, calming routine of curfew checks, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something had changed in her, in them. The path felt endless tonight.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, Blaise finally spoke, breaking it with a voice that was unexpectedly soft, as though he had chosen his words carefully.
“So, how is Potter?”
Lyra’s breath caught in her throat. She had been dreading this moment, knowing he would ask sooner or later. She kept her face forward, not allowing herself to show the quick rush of emotions that the mention of Harry’s name brought. “What do you mean?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.
Blaise didn’t hesitate. “You know what I mean, Lyra. Are you still pretending to be in love with him?”
Her heart pounded in her chest at the accusation. "What is that supposed to mean? You know I love him." she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral, but her voice came out harsher than intended.
Blaise’s eyes narrowed as he took a step closer to her. “Don’t play dumb. You’re not fooling me. I do know how you feel about him, how much he apparently means to you. But I also know the truth, Lyra. I know what you’re involved in, what you've done, and how you’ve been lying to everyone.”
Her stomach twisted. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, and for a moment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The guilt gnawed at her insides. It wasn’t like Blaise knew how much she had sacrificed—how much she still sacrificed—just to keep Harry safe, to keep him danger, even though it made her the enemy in his eyes.
But how could she explain that? How could she explain her own betrayal of everything she stood for without losing the only person who might understand? Without losing him?
“What’s the deal with the mark on your hand, Lyra?” Blaise asked, his voice colder now. “I know it’s the Dark Mark, isn’t it? No amount of concealment spells can hide the truth.”
Her hand instinctively went to her left wrist, where the dark mark still remained. It was a silent reminder of her involvement, of the line she had crossed to save the wizarding world, and no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise, it would never fade.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Lyra replied quietly, her eyes cast downward as her heart began to beat faster. "I’ve already told you, Blaise."
He exhaled sharply, frustration lining his voice. “I’m not blind, Lyra. I am not going to watch you become your father, and you can’t keep pretending that you are not going to."
She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could form the words, a loud yell echoed from a nearby classroom. Both of them froze, instinctively turning toward the sound. The voice was unmistakable—Neville Longbottom.
The anger in the shout was clear, the words unintelligible but filled with an intensity that made Lyra’s stomach drop. Without thinking, she grabbed Blaise’s arm and tugged him toward the classroom. They both moved quickly down the hallway, and as they reached the door, they could hear the sound of scuffling inside, a loud crash following the Longbottom boy's yell.
“What’s going on in there?” Blaise murmured, his voice tense.
Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, but we need to find out.”
Lyra stepped into the classroom, her eyes scanning the scene in front of her. Neville Longbottom lay on the floor, his face bruised and his breathing labored, while Ginny Weasley knelt beside him, her face pale with shock, her hand pressed to her mouth as if she were trying to silence herself from screaming.
Professor Carrow stood over them, his expression calm—too calm for the situation—and his wand pointed at Neville’s chest. He wasn’t even sweating, not in the slightest, as if he was accustomed to this sort of cruelty. The tension in the room was suffocating, the weight of fear almost palpable.
Without hesitation, Lyra straightened, her eyes cold and resolute. Blaise, silently following her, matched her stride. She hadn’t expected to find this mess tonight, but she would make sure it didn’t get worse.
She spoke calmly, her voice even but firm, cutting through the tension. “Professor McGonagall was looking for Weasley and Longbottom here,” she said smoothly, walking toward Carrow. “You wouldn’t mind if I escorted them to Gryffindor Tower, would you, Professor Carrow?”
Carrow’s cold gaze flickered over her, a sly smirk curling on his lips. “Not at all, Miss Malfoy. Take a few house points, too, ungrateful children,” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom as he spat toward Neville and Ginny, clearly pleased with the scene he’d orchestrated.
Lyra’s fingers twitched slightly, but she didn’t react to his words. She didn’t need to. Instead, she focused on Neville, bending down to gently pull him to his feet, her hands moving carefully as if she were handling something fragile. “Come on, Neville. Let’s get you out of here.”
Ginny gave a short nod, her eyes wide with confusion and relief, but she didn't say anything. Blaise, his face unreadable, kept his gaze focused ahead, never flinching. Without a word, they all turned toward the door, making their way out of the classroom.
As soon as they were in the corridor, away from Carrow’s icy presence, Neville suddenly reached for Lyra, his arms wrapping around her in a bone-crushing hug.
Lyra melted into it, after the initial shock, the unexpected intensity of his gesture catching her off guard. The hug was desperate, frantic, and it made her heart skip a beat. She hadn’t expected it, not from Neville, and yet, here he was—clinging to her as though she were his lifeline.
Ginny’s eyes widened in disbelief, her jaw tightening with anger. “Neville, why are you—why—why are you hugging her?” she spat, her voice shaking with confusion and frustration.
Blaise, too, stood stiffly, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked from Lyra to Neville. He didn’t speak, but the look on his face suggested that he was equally unsettled by the display.
Neville pulled back slightly, his hands still gripping her arms as he met her gaze, his expression raw with emotion. “I—Lyra, I—thank you. I have been trying to talk to you, but you are never alone,” he stammered, his voice hoarse and thick with gratitude. His words were like a punch to her gut, and she felt something twist painfully in her chest.
She nodded, "I am glad I found you now, I am sorry I couldn't come sooner."
Ginny crossed her arms over her chest, still glaring at Lyra, her voice laced with suspicion. “You’re just so full of surprises, aren’t you, Lyra?” Her words were sharp, accusing. She didn’t trust her, and Lyra couldn’t blame her for that.
The silence stretched out between them for a moment before Blaise spoke, his tone flat and a little more serious than usual. “Let’s just get them to their Tower before anyone else decides to cause trouble,” he said, his eyes darting nervously down the hallway. It wasn’t safe for them to linger.
Neville slowly let go of Lyra, but he didn’t step away from her completely. "We won't go to the tower, there's some place else we need to be. Lyra, it's time."
Lyra swallowed, her throat tight. She didn’t know what else to say, so she simply nodded. She knew that Dumbledore's Army was still active, Nevill had tried to approach her about it multiple times, being the only one who knew she was playing both sides of the war.
“Come on,” she said, her voice finally breaking the silence. “Let’s go.”
"Neville!" Ginny glared, "Why are we taking them there?"
"All will be explained, I promise Gin," the boy shook his head, "We can trust Lyra."
The tension in the Room of Requirement was almost suffocating. A group of around two dozen students, most of them fifth to seventh years, were gathered around, hanging on every word of a crackling radio that carried the faint whispers of rebellion. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation—until they saw Neville step through the door.
A cheer erupted from the group, but it was quickly stifled the moment they realized who was following behind him. Ginny entered first, her face a mixture of confusion and resolve, and then Lyra and Blaise.
The collective mood shifted instantly from cautious optimism to sheer panic. The room fell silent, save for the low murmur of worried whispers. Lyra could feel their eyes on her—some cold with disdain, others wide with fear. Her heart thudded in her chest, her every instinct screaming at her to leave, to disappear into the shadows. She was known in this room, and it wasn’t the reputation she’d wanted.
"Why is she here?" Seamus Finnegan's voice cracked, his eyes dark with distrust, his wand shaking slightly in his hand.
"I brought her here," Neville replied, his tone firm but weary, as though he were used to this kind of resistance. His words, however, did little to reassure anyone in the room.
The atmosphere grew heavier, the students now staring at Lyra like she was a ticking time bomb ready to explode. Her role as Head Girl—and the fact that she was a known Death Eater—didn't help matters.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” one of the students muttered under their breath, his voice full of disbelief. Several students were now pointing their wands at Lyra and Blaise, their hands shaking with the uncertainty of whether they should attack or hold back.
Blaise, who hadn’t said a word since their hurried exit from the hallway, finally spoke, his voice low and guarded. “What the hell’s going on?” He glanced at Lyra, a question in his eyes as he tried to make sense of the situation.
Lyra didn’t answer him immediately. She could feel her heart racing, the pressure of the room weighing on her shoulders. She knew what they thought of her—knew what they thought she was. They didn't trust her. How could they? They were right to be scared.
Neville took a step forward, positioning himself between the students and Lyra, his hands raised as though he were trying to hold back a tide of accusations. “Listen, everyone,” he said, his voice hardening, but there was a palpable frustration in it, too. “I know this is... a lot to take in. But Lyra is on our side. She’s been helping us from the inside. She’s—”
“Helping?” Seamus interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm and disbelief. “She's a bloody Death Eater, Neville! Harry told Ginny that she was there when Dumbledore died! You can't just bring her in here like everything's fine.”
“No!” Neville snapped, his patience fraying. “She’s not the enemy! I—” He stopped himself, visibly calming down, and took a deep breath before continuing. “She’s been risking her life, her safety, just like the rest of us. And if she’s here now, it’s because she believes in what we’re doing.”
Dean Thomas spoke then, his face twisted in disbelief, his wand still pointed in their direction. "You want us to trust her? After everything?" he sneered, taking a step forward. "You think we're stupid?"
Lyra felt the heat of the room pressing in on her, the eyes of every student locked on her, waiting for her to prove herself. She didn’t know how to do that. She didn't know if she could prove herself.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything she was feeling in that moment. “I came here because I want to help.”
Her words hung in the air, but the room was still tense. Blaise stood beside her, his arms crossed over his chest, not saying anything, but his stance was defensive. He wasn’t sure what to make of this situation either.
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” Neville said, cutting through the silence, his voice growing stronger. “I trust her. And if you think I’m wrong, you’re welcome to leave. But you’ll be making a mistake.”
A long pause followed, the room divided between doubt and hope. Some students were still muttering among themselves, others lowering their wands slightly, but nobody dared speak out in opposition to Neville.
Ginny, still standing at the edge of the group, looked torn. She wanted to trust Neville—needed to trust him—but her gaze kept flicking to Lyra, her eyes narrowing as she tried to make sense of the situation.
Finally, it was Cho Chang who spoke up, her voice calm but firm. “You’re asking us to believe you, Neville. But you’ll need to show us something more than just words. If we’re going to take this seriously, we need to know what she’s done to prove it.”
Lyra could feel all their eyes on her, every single one waiting for some explanation, some reason to believe that she wasn’t going to betray them. She swallowed hard, feeling as though the weight of the entire room had just fallen squarely on her shoulders.
“Fine,” she said quietly, her voice unwavering. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was going to say, but she knew it had to be enough. “I’ve been working with the Order. In secret. Dumbledore asked me to join the death eater and to report on all the meetings, and Dumbledore knew he was going to die that day. He had a plan and I am just following through with that plan. That's why I did not kill him. I’m... not who you think I am. I don’t want to be part of this war, but it’s the only way I can protect the people I love. And if you’re going to fight this fight, you need me—whether you want to believe it or not. I know the only way Harry can kill Voldemort.”
The room fell silent again, the words hanging in the air, waiting for a response. Lyra stood tall, despite the fear threatening to shake her to the core. She’d come this far, and now there was no going back. She’d have to prove herself, one way or another.
Blaise was shocked beside her. The whispers around them were loud, everyone was scared.
"Why are you on our side?" Cho asked. Looking at her didn't hurt anymore. The war had changed all of them, the kiss between Cho and Harry had no impact on her anymore. It didn't hurt to look at her.
"Because just like all of you, I have a lot to lose. Especially, my life."
-IV-
FLASHFORWARD, ITS TIME TO PREPARE TO FIGHT
Several months had passed since the chaos of that night in the Room of Requirement, and the school had only become more suffocating with each day. Lyra, now fully entrenched in her dual role as Head Girl and secret spy, was doing everything she could to keep the younger students safe. The Carrow twins, with their sadistic enjoyment of tormenting the younger students, had grown bolder. It was becoming harder to protect everyone, but Lyra still used her position to get students back to their common rooms before curfew, making sure they avoided unnecessary confrontations with the Carrows.
Ginny was doing her part as well, tasked with ensuring that the younger students who had Herbology lessons—many of whom were already shaken by the atmosphere in the castle—were escorted back to the Gryffindor common room quickly. The pressure of their tasks weighed heavily on both of them. Lyra felt the heavy burden of maintaining her cover while protecting those she could, including Ginny, Neville, and the others.
Ginny's arms were folded, her brow furrowed in a mixture of skepticism and reluctant trust. “I don’t know about this, Lyra,” she said quietly, glancing over at the other students who were eyeing Lyra like she might burst into flames at any second. “How do we even know we can get them back to the Tower without being caught by Carrow or Snape?”
Lyra exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair, eyes darting around the room to make sure no one was listening too closely. “You know how to do it,” she replied softly. “Get them moving in pairs, keep them in the shadows, and don’t come anywhere near the staff. If Snape or Carrow see them, they’ll stop them before they get halfway down the hall.”
Ginny nodded, a small sigh escaping her lips as she glanced toward the group of first-year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors who were still huddled together by the far wall. They looked anxious, lost in the chaos of the moment. Ginny’s eyes narrowed with resolve.
"I’ll get them. I’ll make sure they stay out of sight. Just... don’t get caught yourself, Lyra doing whatever it is you are doing," she said, her voice low but firm.
“I won’t,” Lyra whispered back, giving her a small, reassuring nod.
That particular afternoon, after making sure the younger Slytherins had safely reached their Tower, Lyra had set off on her own mission. Snape had given her a vague hint about a potential Horcrux, something related to Ravenclaw, and though she had no idea how to fully connect the pieces, she was determined to find out more. Every lead was crucial. She walked through the dim corridors, her thoughts heavy, and her footsteps quiet, weighed down by the gravity of her task.
She had been walking for several minutes, her mind still lost in the labyrinth of possible connections, when a sudden fluttering sound broke her from her thoughts. Looking up, Lyra spotted Athena, her owl, swooping down toward her from the high rafters of the hallway.
Lyra quickly held out her arm, and the owl landed, offering a quiet hoot before extending the letter it carried. She could feel her heart rate pick up. Athena rarely brought letters, and the fact that it had come to her now, at this moment, made her stomach twist. Carefully, she untied the parchment from the owl’s leg and unfolded it.
Her breath caught as she saw the familiar handwriting.
Lyra,
I trust you are doing well. Easter break approaches, and your presence at home is requested. Your mother is growing anxious to see you, and I must discuss some matters of importance with you. Come as soon as possible.
I know you’ve grown distant, but I expect your compliance.
Your father.
Lyra’s hand trembled as she held the letter, her chest tightening with both dread and a strange sense of longing. Easter break… her father’s words felt like an order, not an invitation. She wasn’t sure what she dreaded more—the idea of returning to Malfoy Manor and pretending to be the dutiful daughter, or the thought of what her family would expect from her now.
For a moment, she stood frozen, the weight of the letter heavy in her hands. This wasn’t the same request her father had made months ago—it felt more urgent, like a reminder that she was still tied to them in ways she couldn’t escape.
Her mind briefly wandered back to the Horcrux hunt, to Snape’s cryptic words. She had a mission, and it was one that could change everything, that could help Harry win this war. But her family...
The sound of footsteps approaching broke her out of her reverie. Quickly, Lyra tucked the letter into her robe and glanced around. She couldn’t afford to be seen standing here, lost in thought.
She was Head Girl. She had responsibilities. But her family... they were always going to be a part of her, whether she liked it or not. She would have to go home and see if everything was okay, if not for her, then for her mother.
Athena gave her a gentle hoot, as if to reassure her. Lyra looked at her owl with a soft sigh before speaking, more to herself than the bird. "I’ll figure this out, Athena. I have to."
With one last glance at the letter, Lyra tucked it away, straightened her robes, and continued down the corridor, her mind spinning with everything she now had to consider—her father’s request, the dangerous path ahead and the mysterious horcrux hidden inside the castle.