free now

CHAPTER ELEVEN

all bad things come to an end too

1997

seventh year, finale

ORIGINAL UNIVERSE, MULTIPLE POVs

-I-

THE INTRUDERS AT MALFOY MANOR

Throughout the years, Lyra Malfoy would have been a liar if she said she hated Easter Break. In all honesty, it was truly her favourite out of all the other holidays. It was the last holiday before exams and the end of semester and in seven years, Lyra had started to cherish the little break she had every year before everything became so hectic in the name of exams.

Though, last year Lyra had not gone home for Easter break, in the name of the wretched woman called Bellatric Lestrange, she was admittedly happy to see her parents this time. Being away at school kept her safe, especially because she trusted Snape with her life, but it also caused her to worry so often about her family and friends and of course, Harry.

She was constantly worried about him, to no one's surprise, listening to that broken radio, holding a list of codes to decipher what Lee Jordan was saying. She hoped that wherever he was, wherever his friends were, they were safe. This would all be for nothing if they died in the process of killing Voldemort. 

As always, Lyra or rather I, spoke too soon.

Lyra was in the family parlor, reading through her potions book when the shrill sound of her aunt  screaming her name caught her attention. "Lyra! Child! Come here this instant."

"Come here this instant," Lyra scoffed and muttered, "Like I have no job of my own to do. Focus on your studies they say, and then they constantly pull me out of it to do their evil bidding."

If only she could have left, she thought. Sirius did it. Her aunt Andromeda did it. If only she had the courage to, she would have walked up to 4 Previt Drive and begged the man she loved to take her away from all this mess. If only she could have. Dumbledore ruined that plan. Though Lyra made it a good habit of hers to not insult or think ill of a dead man, the girl had a lot of resentment when it came to the old bastard.

He knew. He knew Harry would have to die and he chose to let it happen. He chose to not tell anyone about it till his last days. He chose to use Lyra as a pawn to hurt people, just for his plan to work. If Lyra had known what she knew now, a part of her would have actually muttered the killing curse that night in the Astronomy Tower. 

Rolling her eyes, she made her way to where Bellatrix and presumably her father was, when she was met with a sight she hadn't expected.

The drawing room, dazzling even after the dimness outside, was already occupied by strangers and prisoners under guard. The large crystal chandelier cast eerie patterns against the dark purple walls, and the elaborate, marble fireplace loomed, casting ominous shadows.

Two figures rose from the chairs near the fire as Lyra entered. Her mother's familiar voice cut through the murmurs. "What is this?"

Lyra froze, realizing the Snatchers had brought in prisoners, and as her gaze swept over them, her heart lurched. One figure, with his back to her, was slouched in a way that felt all too familiar.

"They say they've got Potter," came Lucius's tense voice, who turned and saw Lyra enter. "Lyra, come here."

Lyra swallowed hard, feeling the full weight of her predicament.His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature distorted by some jinx. His black hair reached his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around his jaw. She had to bite down the panic that threatened to spill over. She couldn't afford to give him any sign that she recognized him.

Greyback, the werewolf, growled and yanked Harry to stand directly beneath the chandelier. Lucius scrutinized him, his gaze predatory as he leaned close, close enough that Lyra felt her fingers clench involuntarily. This was it—the moment her father could see Harry's true identity. She fought every impulse to intervene, knowing it would only make things worse.

"Lyra, come here, look properly!" Lucius said excitedly. His eyes were hungry, almost manic. "What do you think?"

Lyra stepped forward slowly, moving to her father's side, and looked at Harry without truly seeing him. It took all her resolve to keep her face blank, to allow only the slightest tremor of uncertainty to show.

"I don't know," she murmured, unable to let herself say anything more. She backed away, her heart hammering in her chest, moving toward her mother as Narcissa looked on, cold and scrutinizing. "He doesn't really look like that bastard."

"We'd better be certain, Lucius," Bellatrix warned. Her icy tone hinted at her fears. "We can't summon the Dark Lord here for nothing... Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?"

"What about the Mudblood, then?" Greyback snarled, and the prisoners were forced to turn so the light fell on Hermione. Lucius studied her with narrowed eyes.

"Yes... yes, she was in that book shop with Potter, oh those years ago! Look, Lyra," he gestured to Lyra, "isn't it the Granger girl?"

Lyra nodded numbly, managing only a whispered, "I doubt it, to be honest..."

Then Lucius's voice, sharp and urgent, rang out as he pointed at Ron. "But that's the Weasley boy, isn't it?"

Lyra couldn't bring herself to confirm or deny. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to intervene, but she kept herself planted where she was, expression carefully blank, even as she saw the shadow of panic pass over Harry's face.

Suddenly, Bellatrix laughed. She glanced back at Lucius and Narcissa, her mouth curling into a delighted sneer.

"But surely this is the Mudblood girl? And beside her, we think, Potter! Caught at last!"

"Could it really be Potter?" Bellatrix's scream seemed to echo, and Lyra flinched. She watched helplessly as her aunt brandished the Dark Mark, prepared to summon Voldemort himself.

But Lucius quickly grasped her wrist, stopping her. "I shall summon him, Bella. Potter has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority—"

Bellatrix wrenched her hand back, her face a mask of contempt. "Your authority? You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius!"

Lyra's pulse pounded in her ears as she watched her family members argue, the atmosphere becoming increasingly chaotic. Narcissa stepped forward to reprimand Bellatrix, but her sister silenced her with a fierce, shrill cry.

The scene unfolded in brutal chaos as Bellatrix dispatched the Snatchers in a flurry of Stupefies, leaving only Greyback alive. Lyra held her breath, watching her aunt seize the sword of Gryffindor from the floor, demanding to know where it came from.

"If it is indeed Potter," Bellatrix muttered, her gaze locked on the sword, "he must not be harmed. The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of him himself..."

Lyra's heart clenched, knowing the horrors that awaited Harry. Bellatrix's eyes flashed as she turned to Narcissa and Lucius. "The prisoners must be placed in the cellar while I decide what to do!"

"This is my house, Bella!" Lucius protested.

"Do it!" Bellatrix screeched, her voice shaking with hysteria. Her wand seared a fiery hole in the carpet as she commanded Greyback to take the prisoners away, her gaze ferocious.

Lyra, standing still as a statue, felt as if her world was shattering piece by piece, her mind racing with plans, desperately searching for a way to save Harry, Ron, and Hermione. As Greyback dragged them toward the cellar, Lyra cast a final glance at Harry, sending him every ounce of hope she could muster, even if he couldn't see it. For now, she had to wait and watch, her resolve hardening with each frantic beat of her heart.

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME!" Bellatrix screamed, her voice slicing through the air like a blade. Lyra flinched, horror and helplessness twisting in her chest as she watched Hermione's tortured face, the girl's voice breaking as she cried for help again and again.

"Aunt Bella," Lyra managed to speak, mustering every ounce of courage she had. "She's more likely to speak if you're not hurting her! Stop, please!"

Bellatrix turned to Lyra with a sneer, her face twisted with disdain. "I knew you were stupid, but stupid enough to defend a Mudblood? Are you a blood traitor, Lyra?"

Lyra gulped, fear knotting in her stomach. "No–"

But she didn't have a chance to finish before Bellatrix raised her wand and shouted, "Crucio!"

Pain tore through Lyra like fire, consuming her as she collapsed, writhing on the floor. She thought she'd be able to withstand it, that maybe after being forced to endure this curse so many times, she would be strong enough to ignore it. But she wasn't. The agony was too much, overwhelming her senses, and she screamed, her voice joining Hermione's in a terrible, desperate symphony of pain.

Just as the unbearable torture threatened to swallow her whole, Lucius entered the room, his face a mask of fury. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice sharp.

Bellatrix released the curse, the pain mercifully fading as Lyra lay gasping on the floor. Her aunt sneered at Lucius, not the least bit remorseful.

"Teaching your daughter what happens to blood traitors," Bellatrix replied with a cruel smirk.

Lucius's eyes hardened, a deadly fire burning in his gaze as he knelt beside Lyra, helping her to her feet with unexpected gentleness. He leaned close, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're making noise in the dungeons. Go with Wormtail and check it out."

Lyra, still trembling from the aftershocks of the curse, nodded weakly. She didn't need to be told twice to leave the room. As she stumbled toward the door, Lucius turned back to Bellatrix, his tone icy. "Focus on the task at hand, Bella. We can't afford to be wrong about this."

Lyra limped after Wormtail, who was a horrible excuse of a man. 

"We're going to have to try and tackle him," she could hear Harry whispered to Ron. "Leave the lights on," he added, his voice barely audible. Stupid boys, she thought, they are just making it obvious.

"Stand back," came Wormtail's voice, high and wheezy. "Stand away from the door. I'm coming in."

The door flew open, and Wormtail gazed into the cellar, momentarily blinded by the light from the three miniature suns floating in midair. In that split second, Harry and Ron launched themselves at him. Ron seized Wormtail's wand arm, forcing it upward as Harry clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling his startled cries. They struggled silently, Wormtail's wand emitting sparks as his silver hand tightened around Harry's throat.

"What is it, Wormtail?" called her father's voice from above.

"Nothing Father!" she called back, her voice surprisingly convincing. "I just tripped! All is fine here!"

Harry could barely breathe, the grip on his throat tightening unbearably.

"You're going to kill me?" he choked out, struggling to pry off the unyielding metal fingers. "After I saved your life? You owe me, Wormtail!"

To his astonishment, the silver fingers slackened. Harry managed to pull himself free, his hand still covering Wormtail's mouth. The rat-like man's small, watery eyes widened with fear and confusion, as though he, too, couldn't believe what he'd just done.

"And we'll have that," Ron whispered, yanking Wormtail's wand from his grip.

Without his wand, Wormtail was helpless. Terror filled his face as his gaze shifted from Harry's to something else—his own silver fingers, which began to move of their own accord toward his throat.

"No — " Wormtail whispered, his voice shaking with terror.

Harry, reacting on instinct, tried to pull the hand back, desperate to stop the inexorable movement. But it was no use; the silver hand Voldemort had given his most cowardly servant had turned on him, strangling him in merciless retribution for his moment of weakness. Pettigrew's face turned purple as he clawed helplessly at his throat, struggling for breath.

"No!" Harry, Lyra and Ron all tried to pry the crushing fingers away, but their efforts were futile. Pettigrew fell to his knees, his body convulsing.

Then, from overhead, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the silence. Hermione's voice, filled with raw, unimaginable pain.

Wormtail's eyes rolled upward in his purple face as he gave one final twitch, and then he was still, his lifeless body slumping to the floor.

Lyra groaned, this would be hard to explain. She turned to Harry. "You have to get out of here."

His eyes searched for something in hers. Confusion and regret and relief stared back at her. It had been months since they had seen each other. 

"Why did you–" he whispered.

"Harry, I told you, I chose you. I will always choose you." With a sudden rush she hadn't felt in a year, she threw herself in his arms and kissed him. There was danger in her kiss, an urgency the two had never quite felt. It was almost as if fireworks would start anytime soon and Lyra memorized everything about it, the way he smiled into the kiss, the way his face felt in her hands, the burning sensation in her heart. Just in case. 

"What the fuck is–" Ron's eyes were wide open.

Lyra pulled away first. "You have to get out of this place, right now."

He nodded, his head on hers. "But Lyra–"

"We can talk after the war is over," she caressed his face. He looked so different. Mature. "Finish your task, get rid of the horcruxes. I believe you will find one in Hogwarts. I will find you then. Promise to finish this."

"We do," Ron spoke, a sincerity in his eyes that Lyra had never witnessed before. 

"I am so proud of you, Harry." she kissed his cheek, "I am sorry I had to betray you, Dumbledore had asked of it. I am with all along the way, okay? Be careful. And before you go, you have to stun me and leave me in the cellar."

Harry's eyes opened wide, "NO! I am not leaving you here."

"You have no choice, baby," she whispered, "If I survive, it's only if you do this. Otherwise they would think I betrayed them. They will kill me instantly."

"Then come with us," Ron said, and Lyra was surprised to hear it from him. They had a lot of difference over the years but Ron understood one thing they had in common, how much they both loved Harry.

"I can't, I am sorry. I have the dark mark, they can track me easily." she nodded, stepping away from them and handing Harry her wand. "Take this, be safe. Find me, okay?"

Harry nodded, stepping over Wormtail's body, away from her. He pointed his wand at her. "I will."

"I love you, Harry," she muttered as Harry said, "Stupefy."

As the darkness enveloped her, she didn't hear Harry say, "I love you too."

Narcissa found Lyra sprawled on the cold, stone floor of the cellar, unconscious. Her heart clenched as she knelt beside her daughter, brushing stray strands of hair from Lyra's pale face, willing her to wake up.

"Lyra," she whispered urgently, her voice laced with both fear and relief. "Dru, please, open your eyes."

Slowly, Lyra stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. She looked up, dazed, and then, recognizing her mother, reached out weakly.

"Mum..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Narcissa gathered Lyra into her arms, holding her close. "Shh, it's all right, my darling. You're safe now," she murmured. But even as she spoke, her mind raced with worry, the events of the night still fresh in her memory.

As Lyra regained her strength, Narcissa's face grew tense. "Lyra, listen carefully," she said, her voice steady yet grim. "Just as they Apparated away, your aunt Bellatrix—she threw a dagger. The moment they vanished, it disappeared too. There's a chance... someone might have been hit. Someone might have been..." She trailed off, unable to bring herself to say the word.

Lyra's eyes filled with horror as she processed her mother's words. The fear, the guilt—it all came crashing down on her as she clung to Narcissa, her body shaking.

"I'm so sorry, Mum," she sobbed, burying her face in her mother's shoulder, her tears falling freely. "I didn't want any of this to happen... I just wanted to help."

Narcissa held her close, gently stroking her hair. "I know, sweetheart," she whispered. "I know. None of this is your fault. We will make it through this. But for now, rest. You're safe here with me."

And as Lyra's sobs subsided, she felt, if only for a fleeting moment, the warmth and protection of her mother's embrace.

-II-

THE WISE RED-HEAD

The night was quiet, with only the faint rustling of leaves outside as Lyra sat alone on the cold stone floor of the Astronomy Tower, her gaze fixed on the stars. She hugged her knees to her chest, heart heavy with worry, her thoughts spiraling back to Harry—whether he was safe, if he'd been hurt, and if he'd managed to escape.

She barely noticed when Ginny entered the tower. Ginny sat beside her silently for a moment before reaching out, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"He's alive," Ginny whispered, her voice steady but soft. "He's somewhere safe, Lyra. I promise."

Lyra's shoulders sagged in relief, but it didn't erase the guilt that tightened her chest. She looked over at Ginny, someone who was her friend now, her steady gaze filled with a quiet strength and trust. The memory of that last, urgent kiss with Harry suddenly felt heavy on her heart, a weight she couldn't ignore.

"Ginny, I..." Lyra hesitated, the words getting caught in her throat. She knew Ginny cared about Harry deeply—maybe even more than anyone else could. "I'm sorry. There are things you don't know, things I wish hadn't happened..."

"I know, Lyra," she whispered, "I know you're in love with him."

Lyra's eyes opened wide, "How–"

"It's kind of obvious, you know." Ginny said with a small, knowing smile. "The way you talk about him, the way you do everything. The way you risked your life playing double agent just so he can survive this war. I am younger than you but I am not stupid."

"Ginny, I am so sorry. I know you liked him... Like him."

"It was just a silly schoolgirl crush," she waved it away, "I mean, sure, I cared about him... maybe still do. But I knew he wasn't in love with me either. It was hard to miss, with how his eyes were always on the Slytherin table. With the way he froze whenever someone mentioned your name."

"You're very observant," Lyra nodded, "Anyone tell you that?"

Ginny laughed lightly, "Yeah, I've been told. I don't know what happened between you two, but you love each other. Otherwise, Harry wouldn't have broken up with me at the end of last year."

Lyra turned sharply, "He broke up with you?"

"Right here, actually. In the astronomy tower."

Lyra shook her head, "That boy and his need for breaking up with girls in the Astronomy tower."

Ginny studied her for a moment, her eyes sharp yet understanding. "Look, you don't have to explain anything to me, Lyra," she said, her tone more comforting than accusing. "We're all in this war together. And Harry... well, he has a habit of making people care about him, doesn't he?"

Lyra managed a weak laugh, though her cheeks flushed with guilt and relief. Ginny's words felt like a small absolution, a permission to feel what she'd been suppressing.

"Yeah," Lyra admitted softly, looking away. "He does."

They stood in silence, both gazing out at the vast, starry sky stretching endlessly before them. For once, the burden didn't feel so heavy on her chest. She hadn't realized how much she needed this—needed to be understood without having to confess her every secret.

"You know," Ginny said, breaking the quiet, "I think, in some strange way, he needed you just as much as he needed all of us. You might have saved him in ways none of us could."

Lyra swallowed, feeling her throat tighten with emotion. "I don't know about that, Ginny. But... thank you. For being so understanding."

Ginny shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "We're all trying to protect him in our own way. I guess that's something we'll always have in common, yeah?"

Lyra returned her smile, a warm, tentative bond forming between them.

"Yeah," Lyra replied, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. "I guess it is."

As Ginny squeezed her shoulder once more and headed out of the tower, Lyra looked up at the stars with a renewed sense of purpose. She wasn't alone. There were others who cared for Harry just as fiercely, and somehow, that made all the difference.

-III-

THE RETURN OF POTTER AND GANG

Lyra stood on the outskirts of the crowd, her gaze fixed on the familiar face that had just stepped into the Room of Requirement. "Look who it is!" Neville’s voice rang out, loud with excitement. "Didn’t I tell you?"

Harry had barely a moment to take in the swirling faces around him before he was engulfed by cheers and hugs from his friends: “HARRY!” “It’s Potter, it’s POTTER!” “Ron!” “Hermione!”

She could only watch, frozen, as he was immediately surrounded by everyone celebrating his return like a victory. He looked dazed, almost overwhelmed, as though the sheer weight of the room pressed down on him. She hadn’t realized just how much she had missed him—she hadn’t realized it would hurt to see him like this, exhausted, yet still the center of the room.

The buzz of the room drowned as she watched Ginny move past her, catching her eye for a moment with a quick, knowing look before breaking through the crowd to hug her brother. Lyra swallowed and took a step forward.

Harry’s eyes moved across the room, as if searching, and then his gaze landed on her. For an instant, the noise, the crowd, everything faded to nothing but him. He took a step toward her, and then another, and without thinking, she stepped forward too. In moments, they were inches apart, and the next thing she knew, she was in his arms, his lips on hers in a fierce, breathtaking kiss.

They broke apart to hushed silence, and then Seamus’s voice pierced the quiet, dry as ever. “Now that explains so much.”

The silence shattered into scattered chuckles and exclamations. Lyra felt her cheeks burn, but she managed a smirk just as Blaise Zabini’s familiar voice sounded from nearby. “You know, Lyra, you could have told them about this in the first place.”

Harry’s shoulders relaxed slightly as Blaise moved forward, clapping a hand on his shoulder in what could only be described as a friendly—if somewhat awkward—bro hug.

As the chatter started to rise around them, Ginny, who had joined Ron and Hermione, gave Lyra a conspiratorial smile before rolling her eyes playfully at her brothers. Lyra could almost hear Ginny’s unspoken words: It’s about time.

“Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, turning to face him again with superb indifference to the Carrows’ predicament. “if He-Who-Must- Not-Be-Named does indeed know that you are here — ”

As she said it, Harry once again staggered, this time as if he was in more pain. His's body was turning warmer and as Lyra tried to keep him standing.

"Harry are you alright?" she asked, concern filling her gaze as she searched his green eyes.

“Time’s running out, Voldemort’s getting nearer. Professor, I’m acting on Dumbledore’s orders, we are all acting on Dumbledore's orders so I must find what he wanted me to find! But we’ve got to get the students out while I’m searching the castle — It’s me Voldemort wants, but he won’t care about killing a few more or less, not now —"

Not now that the horcruxes are almost all destroyed, Lyra finished his sentence in her head.

“You’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders?” she repeated with a look of dawning wonder looking at both of them. Events of last year finally made sense. Then she drew herself up to her fullest height.

“We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named while you search for this — this object.”

“Is that possible?”

“I think so,” said Professor McGonagall dryly, “we teachers are rather good at magic, you know. I am sure we will be able to hold him off for a while if we all put out our best efforts into it. Of course, something will have to be done about Professor Snape — ”

“Let me — ” Lyra spoke up, but was ignored.

“ — and if Hogwarts is about to enter a stage of siege, with the  Dark Lord at the gates, it would indeed be advisable to take as many innocent people out of the way as possible. With the Floo network under observation, and Apparition impossible within the grounds — ”

“There’s a way,” said Harry quickly, and he explained about the passageway leading into the Hog’s Head.

“Potter, we’re talking about hundreds of students — ”

“I know, Professor, but if Voldemort and the Death Eaters are concentrating on the school boundaries they won’t be interested in anyone who’s Disapparating out of Hog’s Head.”

“There’s something in that,” she agreed. She pointed her wand at the Carrows, and a silver net fell upon their bound bodies, tying itself around them and hoisting them into the air, where they dangled beneath the blue-and-gold ceiling like two ugly sea creatures.

“Come. We must alert the other Heads of House. You’d better put that Cloak back on, Lyra walk next to me, we can pretend you ran into me during your head girl rounds.”

She marched toward the door, and as she did so she raised her wand. From the tip burst three silver cats with spectacle markings around their eyes. The Patronuses ran sleekly ahead, filling the spiral staircase with silvery light, as Professor McGonagall, Lyra, Harry, and Luna (both, who were under the invicibility cloak) hurried back down.

Along the corridors they raced, and one by one the Patronuses left them; Professor McGonagall’s tartan dressing gown rustled over the floor, and the kids rushed after her.

They had descended two more floors when another set of quiet footsteps joined theirs, Lyra reaching out for her mother's wand (now that her's was with Harry) but before she could do anything, McGonagall too seemed to become aware of their company. She halted, raised her wand ready to duel, and said, “Who’s there?”

“It is I,” said a low voice. From behind a suit of armor stepped Severus Snape.

Lyra sighed in relief before pulling up a stoic face. He was not wearing nightclothes, but was dressed in his usual black cloak, and he too was holding his wand ready for a fight.

“Where are the Carrows?” he asked quietly. "Lyra what are you doing out of bed?"

“Wherever you told them to be, I expect, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall. "And, Miss Malfoy and I were having a discussion about her last transfiguration essay.

Snape stopped nearer, and his eyes flitted over Professor McGonagall and Lyra and then into the air around her, as if he knew that Harry was there. Lyra still held up her wand tip up, ready to attack.

“I was under the impression,” said Snape, “that Alecto had apprehended an intruder.”

“Really?” said Professor McGonagall. “And what gave you that impression?”

Snape made a slight flexing motion with his left arm, where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin.

“Oh, but naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “You Death Eaters have you own private means of communication, I forgot.”

Snape ignored her comment, his eyes probing the air around them, moving nearer as if unaware of his own steps.

“I did not know that it was your night to patrol the corridors, Minerva.”

“Do you have any objections?”

“And I wonder what could have brought Miss Malfoy out of her bed at this hour?” he turned to the girl.

“I thought I heard a disturbance,” Lyra replied calmly. 

“Really? But all seems calm.”

Snape looked into the professor's eyes. “Have you seen Harry Potter, Minerva? Because if you have, I must insist — ”

Professor McGonagall moved faster than Harry could have believed:

McGonagall’s wand slashed through the air faster than Harry could have anticipated: for a split second, he thought Snape would crumple, unconscious, but Snape’s Shield Charm threw McGonagall off balance. She directed her wand at a wall torch, which flew from its bracket. Harry pulled Lyra and Luna aside as the torch morphed into a ring of fire, swirling toward Snape. Then it transformed into a great black serpent, which McGonagall blasted to smoke, reforming into a swarm of daggers. Snape dodged, using a suit of armor for cover, and with a clang, the daggers buried themselves into the metal.

“Minerva!” said a squeaky voice, and looking behind her, still shielded by Harry from flying spells, Lyra saw Professor Flitwick and Sprout sprinting up the corridor toward them in the nightclothes, with the enormous Professor Slughorn panting along at the rear.

“No!” squeaking Flitwick, raising his wand. “You’ll do no more murder at Hogwarts!”

Flitwick’s spell hit the suit of armor where Snape had hidden. It sprang to life, gripping Snape, who broke free, sending the armor crashing into the wall. Harry, Lyra, and Luna dived to avoid it. When Lyra looked up, Snape was fleeing, with McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout pursuing him. They chased him through a classroom door, and a moment later, McGonagall’s furious shout rang out: “Coward! COWARD!”

“What’s happened, what’s happened?” asked Luna.

Harry dragged them to their feet and they raced along the corridor, trailing the invisibility Cloak behind them, into the deserted classroom where Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were standing at a smashed window.

“He jumped,” said Professor McGonagall as the three ran into the room.

“You means he’s dead ?” Harry sprinted to the window, ignoring Flitwick’s and Sprout’s yells of shock at his sudden appearance.

“No, he’s not dead,” said McGonagall bitterly. “Unlike Dumbledore, he was still carrying a wand... and he seems to have learned a few tricks from his master.”

There were heavy footfalls behind them, and a great deal of puffing, Slughorn had just caught up.

“Harry!” he panted, massaging his immense chest beneath his emerald-green silk pajamas.

“My dear boy... what a surprise! Goodness, Lyra why is all of Slytherin screaming of your disappearance... Nevermind that...  Minerva, do please explain. . . . Severus... what...?”

“Our headmaster has taken a temporary leave,” said Professor McGonagall, pointing at the Snape-shaped hole in the windows.

“Professor!” Harry shouted then, his hand still holding Lyra's tightly, “Professor, we’ve got to barricade the school, he’s coming now!”

“Very well. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming,” she told the other teachers. Sprout and Flitwick gasped; Slughorn let out a low groan. “Potter has work to do in the castle on Dumbledore’s orders. We need to put in place every protection of which we are capable while Potter does what he needs to do.”

“You realize, of course, that nothing we do will be able to keep out You-Know-Who indefinitely?” said Professor Sprout.

“Thank you, Pomona,” said Professor McGonagall, and between the two witches there passed a look of grim understanding.

“I suggest we establish basic protection around the place, then gather our students and meet in the Great Hall. Most must be evacuated, though if any of those who are over age wish to stay and fight, I think they ought to be given the chance.”

“Agreed,” said Professor Sprout, already hurrying toward the door. “I shall meet you in the Great Hall in twenty minutes with my House.”

And as she jogged out of sight, they could hear her muttering, “Tentacula, Devil’s Snare. And Snargaluff pod . . . yes, I’d like to see the Death Eaters fighting those.”

“I can act from here,” said Flitwick, and although he could bare see out of it, he pointed his wand through the smashed window and started muttering incantations of great complexity. Lyra heard a weird rushing noise, as though Flitwick had unleashed the power of the wind into the grounds.

“Professor,” Lyra said, pointing Harry out to him as she approached the little Charms master “Professor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is important. Have you got any idea where the diadem of Ravenclaw is?”

“ — Protego Horribilis — the diadem of Ravenclaw?” squeaked Flitwick. “A little extra wisdom never goes amiss, Miss Malfoy, but I hardly think it would be much use in this situation!”

“She only meant —" Harry interrupted, "Do you know where it is? Have you seen it?”

“Seen it? Nobody has seen it in living memory! Long since lost, my boy!”

Lyra felt a mixture of desperate disappointment and panic. What, then, was the Horcrux?

“We shall meet you and your Ravenclaws in the Great Hall, Filius!” said Professor McGonagall, beckoning to the remaining kids to follow her.

They had just reached the door when Slughorn rumbled into speech.

“My word,” he puffed, pale and sweaty, his walrus mustache aquiver. “What a to-do! I’m not at all sure whether this is wise, Minerva. He is bound to find a way in, you know, and anyone who has tried to delay him will be in most grievous peril — ”

“I shall expect you and the Slytherins in the Great hall in twenty minutes, also,” said Professor McGonagall. “If you wish to leave with your students, we shall not stop you. But if any of you attempt to sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us within this castle, then, Horace, we duel to kill.”

“Minerva!” he said, aghast.

“The time has come for Slytherin House to decide upon its loyalties,” interrupted Professor McGonagall. “Go and wake your students, Horace.”

Lyra felt her heart ache at that. She hoped that the Slytherins would finally own up and show to the rest of Hogwarts, and probably the Wizarding World that they were ambitious and cunning, not evil.

They all ran after Professor McGonagall, who had taken up a position in the middle of the corridor and raised her wand.

“Piertotum — oh, for heaven’s sake, Filch, not now — ”

The aged caretaker had just come hobbling into view, shouting, “Students out of bed! Students in the corridors! Head Girl and Head Boy nowhere to be seen!”

“They’re supposed to be out of bed, you blithering idiot!” shouted McGonagall. “Now go and do something constructive! Find Peeves!”

“P–Peeves?” stammered Filch as though he had never heard the name before.

“Yes, Peeves, you fool, Peeves! Haven’t you been complaining about him for a quarter of a century? Go and fetch him, at once!”

Filch evidently thought Professor McGonagall had taken leave of her senses, but hobbled away, hunch-shouldered, muttering under his breath.

“And now — Piertotum Locomotor! ” cried Professor McGonagall.

And Lyra watched as all along the corridor the statues and suits of armor jumped down from their plinths, and from the echoing crashes from the floors above and below, Lyra knew that their fellows throughout the castle had done the same.

“Hogwarts is threatened!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “Man the boundaries, protect us, do your duty to our school!”

She sent Lyra a quick smiled, "I have always wanted to do that."

“Now, Malfoy, Potter,” said McGonagall, “you both and Miss Lovegood had better return to your friends and bring them to the Great Hall — I shall rouse the other Gryffindors.”

They parted at the top of the next staircase, the three of them turning back toward the concealed entrance to the Room of Requirement. As they ran, they met crowds of students, most wearing traveling cloaks over their pajamas, being shepherded down to the Great Hall by teachers and prefects.

“That was Potter!”

“Harry Potter! ”

“It was him, I swear, I just saw him!”

But neither of them dared to look back, and at last they reached the entrance to the Room of Requirement.

Lyra reached for Harry's hand, squeezing it firmly. “We’re going to make it,” she whispered, meeting his gaze with an intensity that mirrored the fierce resolve in her heart.

Harry’s eyes softened, his worry momentarily replaced by warmth. “Together,” he replied, his grip tightening.

Lyra leaned against the enchanted wall, which opened to admit them, and all of them sped back down the steep staircase.

“Wh — ?”

As the room came into view, Harry slipped down a few stairs in shock as Lyra helped him up to his feet. It was packed, far more crowded than when she had last been in there.

Kingsley and Lupin were looking up at them, as were Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, Bill and Fleur, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

“Harry, what’s happening?” said Lupin, meeting them at the foot of the stairs. He turned to Lyra, suspicion in his eyes, "What is she doing here?"

“We can trust her, she is on our side. Voldemort’s on his way, they’re barricading the school —Snape’s run for it — What are you doing here? How did you know?”

“We sent messages to the rest of Dumbledore’s Army,” Fred explained. “You couldn’t expect everyone to miss the fun, Harry, and the D.A. let the Order of the Phoenix know, and it all kind of snowballed.”

“What first, Harry?” called George. “What’s going on?”

“They’re evacuating the younger kids and everyone’s meeting in the Great Hall to get organized,” Harry said. “We’re fighting.”

There was a great roar and a surge toward the foot of the stairs, and Lyra watched as everyone made their way towards the Great Hall.

-IV-

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall stretched above, dark and infinite, dotted with the twinkling of a thousand stars. Below, the four long House tables were scattered with students, some still clad in their travel cloaks, others in mismatched dressing gowns, their faces weary from the events of the day. The school ghosts floated eerily in between them, their translucent forms glowing softly in the dim light.

Every eye in the room, whether living or dead, was drawn to the front of the hall, where Professor McGonagall stood at the raised platform, her stern figure silhouetted against the soft glow of the torches. Her voice, clear and authoritative, echoed through the room as she addressed the students, her words carrying weight far beyond the usual lessons.

Behind her, the teachers stood in a silent but resolute line. Among them was Firenze, the palomino centaur, his powerful frame standing tall and noble, an oddity among the human professors but still a part of the Hogwarts faculty. To his side, members of the Order of the Phoenix were gathered, their faces grim, each one standing with quiet strength, having arrived to assist in the fight that loomed just beyond the castle walls.

The tension in the air was palpable. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by the occasional shift of someone in their seat or a low murmur of nervousness.

Blaise Zabini, on her side, was unusually quiet, his usual jabs and dry comments absent. He seemed almost lost in thought, his sharp gaze flickering between the teachers and the Order members with a mix of suspicion and something deeper—something she couldn't quite place.

Professor McGonagall’s voice grew stronger, the urgency in her tone unmistakable. "We are on the edge of a battle that will shape the future of our world. It is time for us to stand united, not as students and teachers, but as allies, as warriors who will fight for the safety of those we love and the survival of our very way of life."

Lyra felt the weight of her own secret in that moment. She wasn’t just a student; she wasn’t just a member of House Slytherin. She was more than that now. The role she had been forced into, the choices she had made, the secrets she kept... all of it would lead her here, into a fight she wasn’t sure she was ready for. The war had already begun, and she knew there would be no turning back.

Her fingers curled into her robes, her knuckles white as McGonagall’s words continued to resonate in the air.

“ —evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and Madam Pomfrey. Prefects, when I give the word, you will organize your House and take your charges, in an orderly fashion, to the evacuation point.”

Many of the students were frozen in fear, their eyes wide and their bodies tense as they absorbed the gravity of the situation. The hum of anxious whispers rippled through the room, but there was an undercurrent of determination as well, something not everyone could hide. Lyra caught glimpses of her peers, the same faces that had once seemed so distant, now appearing just as vulnerable as the next person.

As Harry scanned the room, his gaze shifting rapidly in search of Ron and Hermione, Lyra noticed a familiar figure stand up at the Hufflepuff table—Ernie Macmillan. His face was flushed with anger, but his voice was steady as he shouted across the hall. "And what if we want to stay and fight?"

The words hung in the air, and a hesitant murmur rippled through the students. Some looked uneasy, while others looked resolute. Then, as if on cue, a few students began to clap—tentative at first, but growing stronger as more joined in.

Lyra couldn’t help but glance at Harry again, noting how his expression seemed to flicker with a mixture of surprise and something deeper. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was the recognition of what was about to happen.

Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the buzz of murmurs, authoritative and calm. “If you are of age, you may stay.”

Ernie's chest puffed out with pride, and several others around him nodded firmly, though their faces were tight with the weight of what they were about to face.

But then, a new voice—an uncertain one—spoke up from the Ravenclaw table. "What about our things?" the girl asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Our trunks, our owls?"

McGonagall didn’t miss a beat. "We have no time to collect possessions," she replied, her tone unyielding, yet softened just enough to give the room a sense of urgency. "The important thing is to get you out of here safely."

"Where’s Professor Snape?" A girl from the Slytherin table shouted, her voice laced with panic. Lyra caught a glimpse of her, but her attention was quickly drawn back to Harry, who was still scanning the room for his friends.

“He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk,” McGonagall replied, and the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws erupted into a cheer.

 A sick feeling began to settle in Lyra's stomach as the weight of the situation pressed down on her once more. They were so close. The fight was coming, and the tension in the room was palpable.

Harry paused near the Gryffindor table, and the room seemed to hold its breath as every eye turned toward him. Whispers broke out in his wake, and Lyra could feel their collective gaze settling on the boy who seemed to bear the fate of them all on his shoulders. The whispers were suffocating, suffused with a mix of awe, fear, and something more dangerous—expectation.

Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out again, trying to restore order. “We have already placed protection around the castle, but it is unlikely to hold for very long unless we reinforce it. I must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly, and do as your prefects—”

Her words were abruptly drowned out by a voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once, reverberating through the very walls of the Great Hall. Lyra stiffened, her hand instinctively going to her wand, though she knew there was little to be done against the creature behind that voice.

“I know you are preparing to fight,” the voice boomed, cold and clean, without a trace of warmth.

Lyra’s heart lurched, her stomach sinking as she looked around. Screams erupted from students, many clinging to each other in terror. Some turned in circles, frantic, as if the voice might come from the next wall or from beneath the floorboards. Lyra’s own gaze flicked across the hall, but there was no sign of the source. She could feel the cold creeping up her spine, the same icy fear that always accompanied Voldemort’s presence.

“Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.”

There was a terrifying silence that followed, one so thick it felt like it might suffocate them all. Every eye in the room turned toward Harry, their gaze heavy and expectant. Lyra’s heart beat faster as her attention snapped back to him—his eyes were wide, his body tense, but there was something in his expression that she couldn’t quite place. Was it fear? Defiance?

“Give me Harry Potter,” Voldemort’s voice continued, smooth and chilling. “And none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you shall be rewarded.”

Lyra felt a surge of anger flare within her. The audacity. To think that Voldemort could waltz into their home, demand one of them, and somehow expect them to just give him up. The idea sickened her.

“You have until midnight.”

The silence that followed was more deafening than anything Voldemort had said. Every student’s gaze was locked on Harry, their fear turning to something else. Pressure built in the room, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Lyra’s hand tightened around her wand, her knuckles white.

And then, without warning, Pansy Parkinson’s voice cut through the stillness, high-pitched and frantic.

“But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

Lyra’s blood ran cold at the sound of her name. Her eyes snapped to Pansy, who was standing, trembling, pointing directly at Harry. Lyra’s heart thudded harder in her chest, and a familiar heat flared in her chest, one she knew all too well.

Before anyone could move, Lyra’s voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.

“Not if you want me to hex you first, Parkinson,” she said, her tone icy and filled with venom towards the girl she has once considered her good friend.

Pansy froze, her eyes wide with fear, but it was the students around them that reacted first. The Gryffindors in front of Harry rose to their feet, standing in defense—not of Harry, but against the Slytherins. Then, like a ripple, the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws stood in unison, their backs turned to Harry, but their wands now drawn and pointed firmly toward the Slytherin table. Lyra felt a surge of pride at the other Houses’ solidarity, her lips curling into a tight smile. She stood tall, unwavering, facing Pansy, who was now visibly pale and trembling.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the rising tension. “You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow.”

The order was immediate, and the Slytherins began to stir, slowly rising from their seats. Lyra’s eyes stayed locked on Pansy for a moment longer, her wand still raised, just in case anyone tried anything stupid. She could feel the pulse of magic thrumming in her fingertips, ready to strike if needed.

As the Slytherins shuffled out of the Hall, Lyra took a deep breath, her gaze never leaving Harry. The room was heavy with anticipation, but she felt a strange sense of calm within herself. She wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but she knew one thing for certain—no one was going to hand Harry Potter over without a fight. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Lyra turned toward Harry, her brow furrowed as something Professor Flitwick had said earlier echoed in her mind. The weight of it settled in her chest, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important—so much more important than they’d realized.

"Harry, listen," she said, her voice low and urgent. "Professor Flitwick said, 'Nobody has seen it in living memory.'"

Harry’s gaze flickered to her, but his expression was distant, distracted. He nodded absently. "Yes, I know what he said," he muttered, his mind clearly elsewhere. He was thinking about what had just happened, about the words Voldemort had left hanging in the air.

"No, you're not listening to me, Harry," Lyra insisted, a small, triumphant smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She could see that something was beginning to click in his mind. "No-one in living memory," she repeated, a little more forcefully now.

Harry’s eyes widened as realization dawned on him. His breath caught. "That means the ghosts—"

Lyra nodded quickly, her gaze intense. "They could know someone who can help. They're the only ones who have been here longer than anyone else. If anyone's seen this before, they might know what to do."

Harry stood there for a moment, stunned by the sudden burst of clarity. His heart raced, but he felt the weight of the situation pressing on him again. He knew that time was running out—Voldemort had given them until midnight, and they had no way of knowing how much of that time they had left.

Lyra’s expression softened as she stepped closer to him. "I’ll help here. You go and finish this," she said, her voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of something far deeper—concern, perhaps, or fear for his safety. She wasn’t entirely sure, but she couldn’t let him face this alone.

Harry opened his mouth to argue, to say that he didn’t want her to risk herself further, but Lyra’s hand shot out and rested lightly on his arm, stopping him before the words could leave his lips.

"Harry," she said quietly, her eyes meeting his with a firmness he couldn’t ignore. "I can help. You just need to find them. The ghosts, I mean. You need to find them before it’s too late."

He stared at her for a long moment, caught between the desire to argue and the understanding that she was right. He wasn’t the only one who could make a difference now, and Lyra—despite everything that had happened—was someone he could trust. She was fierce, intelligent, and loyal, qualities he needed on his side more than ever in that moment.

"Okay," he said finally, his voice rough. "I’ll find them." His resolve hardened. He was going to do whatever it took to stop Voldemort.

Lyra smiled faintly, a mix of pride and relief in her eyes. "Good. And Harry," she added as he started to turn away, "be careful. And don’t do anything stupid."

Harry’s lips twitched at the familiar words, and despite the heaviness of the situation, he couldn’t help but smile back. "No promises," he said, though his voice was warm with the unspoken understanding between them.

Lyra watched him go, her heart thudding in her chest. 

-V-

SOME LOSSES YOU CANNOT UNDO

Lyra stood beside Blaise, her heart pounding in her chest as the atmosphere in the Great Hall grew tense. All around her, the faces of her classmates—some terrified, others determined—were lit by the eerie glow of the enchanted ceiling. The night sky was pierced by the occasional flash of light from the distant battle outside. She could hear the low hum of magic in the air, crackling like an electric current, a stark contrast to the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Her grip tightened on her wand, fingers cold and trembling despite her attempt to steady herself. Blaise stood beside her, his usual sardonic expression replaced with a rare seriousness. He kept his eyes locked on the doors, his body tense, as if he too could sense the storm that was approaching.

"They’re coming," Blaise muttered, his voice low but sharp. "I can feel it."

Lyra didn’t need to ask who he meant. She could feel the change in the air too—the shift in the atmosphere, the pressure building like an ominous storm cloud ready to burst. The Death Eaters were at the gates of Hogwarts, and the defenses they’d relied on for so long were beginning to crumble. The walls, once so strong, were failing, their magic no match for the oncoming tide.

Suddenly, the first blast of dark magic tore through the air, and the barrier that had been holding the castle’s defenses in place shattered with a deafening crack. Students screamed, some ducking for cover, others casting spells toward the advancing forces of darkness. Lyra gritted her teeth, raising her wand as she joined in, throwing spells into the night with all the power she could muster.

“Protego!” she shouted, a shield charm erupting around her and Blaise just as a barrage of curses came their way. The spells rebounded off her shield, causing a flurry of sparks. The air around them seemed to tremble with each impact.

Then, through the chaos, there was a sickeningly familiar laugh—a high, chilling sound that froze the blood in her veins. Lyra’s heart lurched in her chest as she turned, her eyes scanning the hall. It didn’t take long before she saw her.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Her aunt stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, her face twisted into a grotesque, manic grin. The insanity in her eyes sent a shiver down Lyra’s spine. Her dark hair, wild and unkempt, framed her pale, sharp features as she raised her wand, her laughter echoing through the room.

"Well, well, well," Bellatrix sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "What do we have here? My little niece, playing at being a hero? You think you can stop me?" Her voice was like a serpent’s hiss, sending ripples of fear through the students around them.

Lyra’s stomach twisted with a mix of dread and anger. She had known this moment would come, but it didn’t make it any easier. She tried to push down the terror that was clawing its way up her throat, forcing herself to meet her aunt’s gaze. Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed as she locked onto Lyra, her grin widening.

"You should have stayed out of this, Lyra," Bellatrix purred, her wand already raised. "But now it’s too late."

Lyra’s breath caught as just then Blaise’s curse collided with Bellatrix’s, creating a brilliant flash of light between them. The force of the collision sent a shockwave through the room, causing students to duck for cover. Blaise’s face was hard, his eyes locked on Bellatrix as he lowered his wand slightly, preparing for whatever came next.

Bellatrix snarled, her laugh turning to an angry, almost feral growl. "You think you can stop me, little boy? You’re nothing but a flea to me."

Lyra’s heart raced as she watched her aunt, knowing that this was no longer just a battle for Hogwarts—it was a battle for her very soul. Her loyalties were torn, her mind whirling with conflicting thoughts. But one thing was clear: Bellatrix wanted to destroy everything she cared about, and Lyra couldn’t let that happen.

She stepped forward, her wand raised, and with a fierce determination that surprised even her, she shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

The force of the disarming charm sent Bellatrix stumbling back slightly, though she quickly recovered, her grip tight over her wand, her eyes burning with fury. She spat at the ground in front of Lyra.

Lyra’s heart pounded in her chest, her pulse thundering as Bellatrix’s venomous words echoed in her ears. “You dare turn against your own blood, girl?” the crazed woman hissed, her lips curling into a twisted, manic grin. “You’ll regret that, mark my words.”

Lyra's grip tightened on her wand, her fingers turning white with the force. Her gaze never wavered from her aunt’s. "I’m not you," she said, her voice steady, colder than she felt inside. "And I won’t let you destroy this place, or anyone in it."

Bellatrix’s smile widened, a sickly, victorious gleam flashing in her eyes. "We’ll see about that." With a flick of her wrist, she spat, "Avada Kedavra!"

The green light streaked toward Lyra with the speed of death itself. She had no time to react, no time to brace for what she knew would come.

But then everything went silent. It was as if the world itself had paused in that brief, agonizing moment. Lyra braced herself for the impact, her breath caught in her throat, but—

The curse missed.

She hit the floor hard, the sound of her body slamming against the stone so loud that it seemed to echo through the hall. Her vision swam with spots of black, the edges of her mind blurred by the shock. There was a ringing in her ears that drowned out all sound—except for the pounding of her heart.

Her eyes flicked to the side, and she froze.

Blaise.

He was lying on the floor a few feet away, his eyes wide and unblinking, his chest still. For a moment, it was as though the world around her had gone silent. The chaos of battle seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only the horrible reality of what she was seeing.

No. No. No. No.

This cannot be happening.

"Blaise!" she screamed, her voice raw with panic. She scrambled toward him, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she reached for him, her fingers brushing his neck. But there was no pulse. His skin was cold, lifeless.

"Blaise, please," she sobbed, shaking him, desperate for him to respond, for him to open his eyes. "Wake up! Wake up!"

Tears flooded her vision as she clutched him to her chest, her sobs wracking her body. "Please, Blaise... don’t... don’t do this. Please!" Her voice broke on the last word, her desperation clear.

But it was no use.

Bellatrix had long since disappeared, lost among the chaos of the battle. Lyra barely noticed. She could only see Blaise, lying there, lifeless, in her arms.

"Please, I’m sorry," she whispered through her tears, kissing his forehead as if somehow the touch might bring him back. "I should have stopped her. I should have been so much better as a friend and I should have—"

A voice broke through the haze of panic, and suddenly there was someone else kneeling beside her.

"Lyra, you need to get away from here."

It was Harry. His presence was like a lifeline, and for a moment, Lyra wanted nothing more than to cling to him and pretend everything could be fixed. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Blaise. She couldn’t leave him here. She couldn’t—

"Lyra, please," Harry said, his voice more urgent now. His hands were gently but firmly on her arms, pulling her away. "We have to go. It’s not safe here. The battle’s still going on, and—"

"I can’t leave him!" Lyra gasped, her voice broken, her tears falling faster. She struggled in his grip, trying to return to Blaise, to somehow save him, even though deep down, she knew it was already too late.

But Harry didn’t let her go. Instead, he moved closer, his hand slipping around her, holding her tightly. She fought it, but his arms were unyielding, his strength far greater than hers in that moment. He whispered her name, his voice soothing, but firm.

"Lyra, listen to me," he said, pulling her against him as the flames from the nearby fires flickered dangerously close. "You have to let go. We can’t do anything for him now. We need to get to safety."

Lyra’s breath hitched, her chest tight with the weight of the words. She looked at Blaise one last time, her heart breaking, before she let Harry lead her away from the fire, away from the devastation that was consuming everything she loved.

As they moved through the hall, Lyra’s mind screamed in agony.

Blaise was dead.

Her best friend was dead. 

“Harry, in here!” Hermione screamed. She had pulled Ron behind a tapestry.

Lyra was pulled behind by Harry as they came across an angry Ron, who was being held by Hermione strongly. If the Gryffindor witch noticed the mascara running down Lyra's face as harry held on to her tightly, she didn't mention it.

“Listen to me — LISTEN RON !” she was screaming

“I wanna help — I wanna kill Death Eaters — ” His face was contorted, smeared with dust and smoke, and he was shaking with rage and grief.

“Ron, we’re the only ones who can end it! Please — Ron — we need the snake, we’ve got to kill the snake!” said Hermione.

"Granger is right," Lyra whispered, "It's the only way. Only way can end this." Her eyes darted to Harry's. All the horcruxes must be destroyed. Will Snape be able to save Harry?

“We will fight!” Hermione said. “We’ll have to, to reach the snake! But let’s not lose sight now of what we’re supposed to be d–doing! We’re the only ones who can end it!”

She was crying too, and she wiped her face on her torn and singed sleeve as she spoke, but she took great heaving breaths to calm herself as, still keeping a tight hold on Ron, she turned to Harry. “You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he’ll have the snake with him, won’t he? Do it, Harry — look inside him!”

Harry's eyes suddenly rolled over as the battle went on all around them, Lyra was still holding on to him. She would fall apart if she didn't. Suddenly the boy got up with a gasp. 

"He's in the shrieking shack, he was with Malfoy." He turned to Lyra, "Your father is worried about you, he's trying to get them to stop fighting so he can find you. He’s in the Shrieking Shack. The snake’s with him, it’s got some sort of magical protection around it. He’s just sent your father to find Snape.”

He knows. And once he realizes who the Elder Wand really belonged to, he will come for her too.

“Voldemort’s sitting in the shrieking Shack?” said Hermione, outraged. “He’s not — he’s not even fighting?"

“He doesn’t think he needs to fight,” said Harry. “He thinks I’m going to go to him.”

“But why?”

“He knows I’m after Horcruxes — he’s keeping Nagini close beside him — obviously I’m going to have to go to him to get near the thing— ”

“Right,” said Ron, squaring his shoulders. “So you can’t go, that’s what he wants, what he’s expecting. You stay here and look after Hermione, and I’ll go and get it — ”

Harry cut across Ron.

“You three stay here, I’ll go under the Cloak and I’ll be back as soon as I— ”

"Harry, I am not going anywhere without you."

“No,” said Hermione, “it makes much more sense if I take the Cloak and — ”

“Don’t even think about it,” Ron snarled at her.

Before Hermione could get farther than “Ron, I’m just as capable — ” The tapestry at the top of the staircase on which they stood was ripped open. Death Eaters had found them, and the four of them ran together, towards the Whomping willow.

-VI-

THE REALIZATION

Ron was panting heavily as he struggled to catch his breath. “How — how’re we going to get in? I can — see the place — if we just had — Crookshanks again —”

“Crookshanks?” Hermione wheezed, still hunched over, her hand clutched to her chest.

Lyra threw him an exasperated look, sharing a momentary glance with Hermione. “Are you a wizard, or what?”

“Oh — right — yeah —” Ron blinked, looking a little embarrassed. He glanced around quickly before focusing his wand on a nearby twig and muttering, “Wingardium Leviosa!” The twig floated up, spun through the air, and darted straight at the base of the Whomping Willow. The tree stilled instantly as the twig made contact with a knot near its roots, its branches frozen in place.

“Perfect!” Hermione panted with relief.

“Wait,” Lyra murmured, her gaze flickering over to Harry.

For a moment, as the crashes and echoes of battle rang out around them, it seemed like Harry hesitated.

"Harry, we have no time, follow me." She crawled into the passage first, reaching back to clasp his hand as soon as she was inside.

“Harry, we’re coming, just get in there!” urged Ron, giving him a gentle push forward.

Harry ducked down and entered the narrow tunnel, Lyra leading the way, her mother’s wand casting a faint glow to guide them. The tunnel was cramped, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees, and each of them moved in silence, apprehensive and tense. Lyra pressed forward, her wand light bobbing as she crawled, half-expecting a barrier to stop them at any moment, though none appeared. She could feel Harry’s presence close behind, his focus unyielding as he followed her through the winding path.

Finally, the tunnel sloped upward, and a small beam of light appeared ahead. Hermione gave Harry’s ankle a sharp tug.

“The Cloak!” she whispered urgently. “Put the Cloak on!”

Harry fumbled with the slippery bundle Hermione handed him, managing to drape it awkwardly over both himself and Lyra. As soon as the Cloak was in place, Lyra muttered, “Nox,” extinguishing her wandlight. They inched forward, nerves prickling, moving as silently as possible toward the opening, every sense heightened, alert for any sound or movement.

And then she heard voices coming from the room directly ahead of them, only slightly muffled by the fact that the opening at the end of the tunnel had been blocked up by what looked like an old crate.

Hardly daring to breathe, Harry and Lyra edged right up to the opening and peered through a tiny gap left between crate and wall.

The room beyond was dimly lit, but she could see Nagini, swirling and coiling like a serpent underwater, safe in her enchanted, starry sphere, which floated unsupported in midair. He could see the edge of a table, and a long-fingered white hand toying with a wand. Then Snape spoke, and Lyra's heart lurched: Snape was inches away from where they crouched, hidden.

“...my Lord, their resistance is crumbling — ”

“ — and it is doing so without your help,” said Voldemort in his high ugly voice. “Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there... almost.”

“Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please.”

Snape strode past the gap, and they both drew back a little as Voldemort stood up. Lyra could see him now, see the red eyes, the flattened, serpentine face, the pallor of him gleaming slightly in the semidarkness.

“I have a problem, Severus,” said Voldemort softly.

Shit, shit, shit.

“My Lord?” Snape’s voice was calm, but something seemed tense beneath the surface.

Voldemort raised the Elder Wand, his long, white fingers handling it with an eerie delicacy, as though it were a dangerous creature he was attempting to tame.

“Why doesn’t it work for me, Severus?”

“My — my lord?” Snape sounded genuinely taken aback. “I do not understand. You — you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand.”

“No.” Voldemort’s voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand... no. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago.”

Beside her, Lyra felt Harry stiffen, his gaze fixed on the Dark Lord, and she couldn’t tell if it was from anger or pain. Voldemort continued to speak in that calm, musing tone, as if he were talking about a puzzle he had nearly solved.

“No difference,” Voldemort repeated, his gaze slipping from Snape to the wand he held.

Snape remained silent, his expression unreadable, and Lyra could just see the outline of his face in the dim light. Voldemort started to move slowly around the room, his movements measured, predatory, the wand tracing idle patterns in his hand as he paced. For a moment, Harry and Lyra lost sight of him, though his voice remained steady, filling the room as though it came from everywhere at once.

“I have thought long and hard, Severus... do you know why I have called you back from the battle?”

Lyra saw a flash of Snape’s profile as he looked to Voldemort, his eyes briefly flickering over to Nagini, who floated, coiling and twisting in her enchanted sphere. His voice was steady as he replied, “No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter.”

Voldemort’s lip curled, his voice tinged with amusement and disdain. “You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is for him that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come.” Voldemort’s gaze darkened, and his lips curled further. “And if he does not, all I will have to do is strike Lucius Malfoy’s daughter down. I am aware of their feelings toward one another.”

Harry’s hand inched toward his wand, his breath catching, and beside him, Lyra forced herself to keep still, though she felt her pulse pounding in her ears.

“But, my Lord,” Snape interjected, his tone pleading, “he might be killed accidentally by someone other than yourself —”

“My instructions to the Death Eaters have been perfectly clear,” Voldemort said coldly, barely moving as he spoke. “Capture Potter. Kill his friends — the more, the better — but do not kill him.” Voldemort’s red eyes flashed, catching Lyra’s attention for a brief, terrible moment before they returned to Snape. “But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable.”

“My Lord knows I seek only to serve him,” Snape replied, inclining his head respectfully. “But — let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you. I know I can —”

“I have told you, no!” Voldemort’s voice snapped, his cloak swirling as he turned, and Lyra shivered as his eyes gleamed red, sharp and deadly. “My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!”

“My Lord, there can be no question, surely —?”

“There is a question, Severus.” Voldemort’s voice softened, deadly, as he stopped moving and turned fully to face Snape, his gaze intent. He slid the Elder Wand slowly through his pale fingers, studying Snape’s face as though searching for some hidden answer. “Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?”

“I — I cannot answer that, my Lord,” Snape said, his voice steady but low.

“Can’t you?”

Harry’s fist tightened, pressing into his mouth, his face contorted in barely contained pain. Lyra grasped his other hand, her fingers cool around his, grounding him as she silently willed him to stay calm.

“My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another’s wand. I did so, but Lucius’s wand shattered upon meeting Potter’s.”

“I — I have no explanation, my Lord.”

Snape’s gaze remained fixed on Nagini, his dark eyes unblinking as he stared at the serpent suspended in her enchanted prison.

“I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick.” Voldemort’s voice turned softer, as though he were recounting an old legend. “I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore.”

For the first time, Snape’s gaze shifted, his dark eyes meeting Voldemort’s, his face ghostly pale, expression frozen, lifeless, as though he were already preparing himself for whatever came next.

“My Lord — let me go to the boy —”

“All this long night,” Voldemort murmured, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, “when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here, wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner... and I think I have the answer.”

Snape’s silence was complete, his face a mask of resignation as he waited for the inevitable.

“Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus,” Voldemort said, his tone almost regretful. “You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen.”

“My Lord —” Snape’s voice was low, almost pleading.

But Voldemort’s face had hardened, and he looked down at the wand in his hand with cold certainty.

“The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot truly be mine.”

“My Lord!” Snape protested, raising his wand in a trembling hand.

“It cannot be any other way,” Voldemort replied smoothly, his voice icy and detached. “I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last.”

Voldemort swiped the air with the Elder Wand. For a fleeting moment, Snape looked as though he might be spared, as though he might still be useful to the Dark Lord. But that hope vanished in an instant when Voldemort's true intentions became clear.

The snake’s cage, a massive orb, rolled through the air with a hiss, colliding with Snape before he could even raise his wand to defend himself. It encased his head and shoulders as Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue, his voice a cold, sibilant whisper that commanded the serpent within. There was no room for mercy in that voice; only command, only cruelty.

A terrible scream filled the air, shattering the cold silence of the room. Lyra watched in horror as Snape’s face lost what little color it held, his black eyes widening in fear and pain as the snake’s fangs sank deep into his neck. He struggled, hands grasping for anything to free himself from the cage, but it was no use. The venom coursed through him as his knees buckled, his body collapsing to the ground in a slow, agonizing descent.

Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back a surge of grief and nausea. No. Snape—the one man who had tried to protect her through everything, who had covered for her, shielded her, and taken risks so she wouldn’t have to. He had been the one to teach her, even before Hogwarts, when she was just a child, guiding her hands as she brewed her first potions. He was her mentor, her protector, and her friend.

“I regret it,” Voldemort said, his voice as cold as the Dark Mark on her arm, as empty as the hollow heart of the snake that coiled within its cage. His tone held no trace of remorse, just the indifferent acknowledgment of a necessary sacrifice.

Turning away, Voldemort moved to the door, ready to leave the shabby little room behind. His work was done; he had what he came for. With the wand now destined to obey him fully, nothing could stand in his way. He pointed it at the cage that held the serpent, and it floated up, obediently following him as he swept from the room, not bothering to look back.

Snape lay there, alone, his body crumpled on the cold, dirty floor, blood pouring from the punctures in his neck, soaking into the grime and dirt as he lay, motionless.

In the hidden tunnel, Harry opened his eyes, pulling his fist from his mouth and wiping away the blood he’d drawn biting down to keep from screaming. He had forced himself to remain silent, but his face was pale, his hands shaking. Lyra felt his grip tighten on her hand, and she tightened hers in response, silent tears rolling down her cheeks as she leaned close, both of them wrapped in each other’s grief and horror.

Lyra finally gathered herself, looking through the thin crack between the crate and the wall, watching as Snape’s body gave one final, trembling jerk before going still, his black robes now darkened with blood.

“Harry!” Hermione whispered, her voice urgent yet barely audible behind them, as if terrified her voice might betray them.

But Harry had already pointed his wand at the crate obstructing their view. It lifted an inch, just enough for him to push it aside silently. With a glance back at Lyra, he pulled himself up into the room, a fierce determination in his eyes.

Lyra ran forward, her breath catching as she saw Snape’s pale face, his fingers slick with blood as he tried, uselessly, to stem the flow from his neck. Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak beside her, his gaze fixed on the dying man. Snape’s black eyes found Harry’s, desperate to speak.

Harry bent down, and Snape’s hand seized his robes, pulling him close. His voice, no more than a harsh whisper, struggled to break through the blood and pain.

“Take… it… Take… it…”

A silvery blue substance, bright and otherworldly, seeped from Snape’s mouth, ears, and eyes. Lyra, hands trembling, conjured a flask, passing it to Harry as tears blurred her vision. Harry held his wand to the shimmering essence, guiding it carefully into the flask, gathering every last memory as Snape’s life slipped away.

When the flask was full, Snape’s grip faltered, his strength nearly gone. He turned his fading gaze toward Lyra, and his voice, barely a whisper, drifted to her.

“Lyra… I am… so sorry… you deserved… so much… more…”

His dark eyes, once sharp and guarded, met hers, a flicker of regret and something she’d never seen before, perhaps kindness, before the light faded from them. His hand dropped from Harry’s robes, falling to the ground, lifeless.

Lyra slowly rose, her heart heavy and numb, as if the weight of the entire war had just fallen upon her shoulders. This was it. The end was near; she could feel it in every fiber of her being.

“Harry,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. He looked at her, momentarily startled, as though he’d forgotten she was even there.

She met his eyes, her own gray gaze fierce and steady. “I need you to disarm me.”

Harry’s face twisted in confusion, and Ron and Hermione exchanged uncertain glances behind them. “What? Lyra, what are you talking about?”

“It’ll all make sense soon, Harry,” she insisted. “Right now, just disarm me.”

He hesitated, but with a resigned shake of his head, he lifted his wand and murmured, “Expelliarmus.”

Her wand flew from her hand into his, and she managed a small smile. “Good,” she whispered. “Give me back one of the wands. Now, I have one last thing I need to do. You go to the headmaster’s office and use the Pensieve. Do it now.”

“But, Lyra—”

Before he could finish, Voldemort’s voice cut through the air, filling the room with an icy echo. It resonated from the walls and floor, carrying across Hogwarts and all the way to Hogsmeade. He was speaking to every soul within reach, his cold breath a deathly whisper.

“You have fought,” Voldemort’s voice echoed, chilling them all, “valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.”

Lyra’s heart raced, but her resolve was unshaken. Voldemort’s voice continued, now addressing Harry directly, his tone filled with mockery and scorn.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.”

Lyra turned to Harry, her gaze unwavering. She pulled him into a tight embrace, her heart pounding as she kissed him, grounding herself for what was to come. As he pulled away, she gently but firmly pushed him toward the door.

“Go,” she said, her voice a mere whisper, yet fierce. He stared at her, torn, but the urgency in her eyes drove him out the door.

As he disappeared, Lyra raised her wand at his disappearing figure, her voice low and steady as she whispered, “Vinculum Magicae.”

-VII-

HOW MUCH MORE CAN I GIVE?

In the dense, shadowed silence of the Forbidden Forest, Lyra felt a pressure against her heart, a heaviness that nearly broke her resolve. Fear, loss, and a thin, fragile hope twisted inside her like a storm. Around her, the forest held its breath, shadows cast long and dark by the slivers of moonlight filtering through the canopy. Memories flooded her mind in relentless waves: Harry’s crooked smile, her mother’s warm embrace, the sound of Blaise’s laugh echoing through the corridors, all the small moments that she had held close, pieces of a life that was slipping through her fingers. But she had to do this; she had to end it here. For them.

Snape’s words had haunted her ever since he’d revealed the truth: a final spell, a desperate gambit with a deadly cost. She knew, as she raised her wand now with trembling fingers, that there would be no coming back from this. If she failed, if her concentration faltered, Harry would die. Voldemort’s command echoed in her mind—an hour had been given, a single hour before all hell broke loose again. There was no time for doubt, no time for fear, only the knowledge that this last effort was the only chance to save him.

Closing her eyes, Lyra steadied herself. She could feel her heartbeat slow, her pulse calming, though her hands shook. She whispered the incantation, voice raw with pain and purpose. “Ligant animas magicas venir.” The words spilled into the air, fragile and ancient, twining with the dormant magic buried in the roots and shadows of the forest. Souls bonded. If Voldemort’s curse struck Harry, the Horcrux inside him would be destroyed—but it would pass through her instead. Her life would pay the price.

For a terrifying moment, nothing happened. Panic gripped her; had she been too weak, too exhausted? She had barely eaten, barely slept in days. But then, just as the fear took hold, she felt a deep pull, like her soul was tethered and unraveling at the same time, drawn out by the magic. The pain was blinding, white-hot, and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from screaming. Slowly, she opened her eyes, just long enough to see a pale, silvery mist gathering around her, a soft glow that pulsed with the faintest light, a thread of life stretching between herself and Harry, fragile yet unbreakable.

In the distance, over the trees, she thought she saw a flash of green, a faint light that pierced the night and flickered out. She wondered if Harry would know—if he’d understand what she’d done, if he’d ever realize the choice she made. A final, peaceful warmth bloomed in her chest, the last flicker of life, and her lips formed his name in a silent, unspoken farewell.

With a final, soft exhale, Lyra sank to the forest floor. Her eyes fluttered closed as the memories softened, fading like whispers, and the forest claimed her, her last thoughts lingering on Harry, holding him close in the quiet space of her mind.

And just like that, Lyra Malfoy was dead.

Lyra's eyelids fluttered open, and she was greeted by the sterile, blinding white of a room so vast, so empty, it could have been a universe unto itself. The walls stretched infinitely, the air still and quiet. It reminded her, strangely, of the Astronomy Tower—the place she had often gone to seek solitude, to think, to escape the chaos of her life.

She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt weak, unfamiliar, as if they were no longer her own. As her gaze swept across the room, she saw a figure sitting on the floor, his back against one of the walls, his posture relaxed, as though he had been waiting for her.

He looked up slowly, and the moment their eyes met, her heart skipped a beat. There was something oddly familiar about him, like an echo of a memory she hadn’t quite grasped. She opened her mouth, but the words came out before she could stop them.

“Am I dead?”

The man nodded grimly, his expression softening with a hint of sadness. "Yes. But not quite as you might think." He paused, his gaze thoughtful, before adding, "You're in the plane between life and death."

Lyra blinked, trying to make sense of the words, trying to shake off the strange fog that enveloped her mind. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly. She felt like she should know, like there was some part of her that recognized him—an image, a faint memory—but it eluded her.

The man’s lips curled up into a small, knowing smile. "I would have thought your mother would've told you about me," he said lightly, as though the question was absurd.

Her mind raced, and for the briefest moment, confusion clouded her thoughts. But then, a flash of recognition struck her like lightning. The faint memory surfaced, and she stared at him, eyes widening in shock.

"Regulus Black," she whispered, the name coming to her almost involuntarily. Her mother’s cousin, the one whose legacy had always been a shadow over the Black family. She had seen him in pictures—staring back from old, dusty frames, a face that had been lost to the past.

Regulus smiled softly, almost sadly, as if he understood her shock. "You remember me now."

“How are you here? How am I here?” Lyra’s voice trembled, the weight of the question pressing on her chest. She felt dizzy, the reality of the situation sinking in with a strange, unsettling finality. She had died. It had worked—the magic, the sacrifice, it had worked, but it had come at such a cost.

Regulus gave a quiet, almost bittersweet laugh, shaking his head slightly. "I’m guessing this is the place you found most comfort in," he said, looking around the vast, empty space, his voice thoughtful. "I don't blame you. I hid myself here quite often. It's peaceful. Quiet."

Lyra swallowed hard, the lump in her throat thick and painful. Her mind raced back to Harry, to the last moments before everything went black. “Is Harry alive?” she stuttered, her heart hammering in her chest as fear gripped her. The thought of him... what had happened to him? What had she done?

Regulus looked at her with a soft, sad smile, and for the briefest moment, something akin to warmth flickered in his eyes. “He’s alive,” he said, his voice steady. “But whether he remains so... that’s not for me to say. You’ve done all you could, Lyra. You gave him a chance. That's more than many ever do.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she bit her lip to hold them back. She was scared—so scared—unsure of where she stood, unsure of what was happening. And yet, somehow, she felt a sense of peace in Regulus’ presence, as though he, too, understood loss and sacrifice.

"You remind me of myself," he said softly, his voice carrying a weight of meaning. "The same fire, the same determination. It's... bittersweet, isn't it?"

Lyra nodded slowly, her throat tight. She wanted to ask him so many things—about her mother, about the magic she had used, about what came next—but the words caught in her chest. For now, all she could do was sit in this strange, ethereal place and try to find some semblance of peace.

 Regulus, her mother’s cousin, watched her with a quiet understanding, his eyes filled with a deep, unspoken sorrow. The weight of his gaze pressed on Lyra’s chest like a heavy stone, making her breath hitch in her throat. His voice, when it came, was soft, but there was an edge to it, as though he had carried this knowledge for far too long and had been waiting for someone like her to arrive.

“We both betrayed the Dark Lord,” Regulus said quietly, his tone distant, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her. “Death thought it would be funny if I was the one to greet you here.”

Lyra frowned, the words not quite making sense in her muddled mind. She leaned forward slightly, her voice shaky as she asked, “What do you mean, Death thought it would be funny?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let the silence hang between them, heavy and pregnant with meaning. Finally, he looked at her again, his eyes darkening with something deeper—regret, maybe, or something far more painful.

“He sent you a message,” he said slowly, his words coming out as if each one was carefully weighed. “You played with the balance of the universe. When the Killing Curse struck the Potter boy, he was supposed to die.” His words were harsh, final, like the toll of a bell that could not be un-rung. “But you stopped it from happening, and that created an imbalance.”

Lyra’s breath caught in her throat, her heart racing. "But Harry has survived the Killing Curse before," she said, her voice rising in confusion and fear. "Why—why would this time be different?"

Regulus sighed, his expression hardening with a knowing sadness. "Because there are always people who weren't supposed to die who end up dying. The balance shifts, Lyra. There’s always a price for messing with fate. Always.”

Her head spun as she tried to process his words, the weight of it all suffocating. "Then... what happened today?" she whispered, her heart a thundering drum in her chest. "Why am I here? Why... didn't one of us die today?"

Regulus’s eyes darkened even further, his lips turning down into a somber frown. "Today, one of you was supposed to die. But neither of you did." He paused, the finality of his words hanging like a cold breeze between them. "And that’s why you’re here."

“Then kill me,” Lyra said abruptly, her voice rough with the pain of knowing her own fate. “If that’s the price, just let me go. I’ve already lost so much.”

Regulus took a deep, slow breath, as if bracing himself for something heavier. "You’re going to," he said softly. "It’s coming. He wanted me to warn you that what you did comes with a price you won’t escape." His gaze softened for a moment, but the sorrow never fully left his eyes. "You will no longer have your magic. You will no longer be a witch. And you will die, Lyra. Slowly. Painfully. He doesn't wish for you to live past your twenty-third birthday."

Her breath faltered at his words. She felt the icy sting of dread crawling up her spine, tightening her chest as though the air itself were being sucked out of the room. It was all too much—everything that she had done, everything that had led to this moment, everything she had sacrificed. And now, there was no escape.

"Oh," she whispered, the reality crashing down around her like a tide. "But Harry will be fine, right? That's all that matters."

Regulus looked at her, his lips curling into a small, sad smile. “Yes,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “Harry will be fine.”

Lyra felt a surge of relief wash over her, the fear in her heart finally easing. That was the one thing she needed to know. Harry would live. She could go knowing that she had saved him.

"Then that's all I need to know," she murmured, her voice calm but heavy with finality. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as though sealing away the rest of her fears.

"He might have survived without your spell you know," He said and Lyra turned to him sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"Voldemort cannot kill Harry Potter because Harry's blood runs through his veins. There's a chance, a small chance but he could have survived without your sacrifice."

"What were the chances of that?" she questioned.

"I would say a rough twelve percent?" He admitted, "And it would leave him broken. Alive but barely living. Your spell changed that though. You may have just saved the wizarding world now, because Harry Potter can now kill Voldemort."

"As long as he is fine, I'll do anything. I love him."

"I know." Regulus nodded, a flicker of something almost warm in his eyes as he spoke again. “If you want to go back, Lyra, all you have to do is close your eyes. And..." he hesitated, "Tell your mother that there was nothing she could’ve done to save me.”

Lyra opened her eyes and met his gaze one final time. His presence had offered her peace, a kind of acceptance she hadn't known she needed. But there was no more time left. There was nothing else to do but let go.

With one last, steadying breath, she closed her eyes. And in the darkness, she whispered softly to herself: I did all I could. I saved him. And now it’s time to let go of him.

-VIII-

"HARRY POTTER IS DEAD"

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Forbidden Forest, a voice broke through the stillness.

"My Lord... my Lord...”

It was Bellatrix’s voice, and it was dripping with reverence, almost like a lover's call. Harry, still lying flat on the cold ground, dared not move, not even an inch. He knew his wand was still hidden beneath his robes, pressed tight against his chest. The Invisibility Cloak was tucked in beside it, offering him a sliver of comfort that he might remain unseen, but he couldn’t let himself relax—not even for a moment.

"My Lord..."

"That will do," Voldemort’s voice hissed, its coldness cutting through the air.

Footsteps echoed through the clearing, and Harry could hear the shuffle of robes as the Death Eaters retreated, leaving a space around Voldemort. Bellatrix, however, remained by his side, kneeling beside him like an obedient servant.

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, its rhythm the loudest sound in the forest as he remained still, straining to hear. He was too afraid to move, but his mind was racing. What was happening? Why had they been so focused on him? He wanted to open his eyes, to see what had caused the commotion, but the risk was too great.

Instead, he allowed his other senses to take in what little he could. Voldemort had fallen, that much was clear—he had to have, judging by the strange silence that filled the clearing now. Had he been struck by his own curse, like Harry? Was there some strange connection still between them? Harry’s pulse quickened at the thought.

“My Lord, let me—”

“I do not require assistance,” Voldemort's voice came, icy and dismissive. Harry imagined Bellatrix recoiling, her loyalty torn between her master’s command and her desire to be of help.

There was a silence after that, thick and heavy, until the question Harry dreaded finally came.

“The boy... is he dead?”

Harry’s entire body stiffened at the question. He could feel the weight of all the eyes on him, though he dared not move, dared not show the slightest sign of life. The pressure of their gaze was suffocating, and he knew that any flicker of movement, any noise, would be the end of him.

“You,” Voldemort commanded, and Harry heard a sharp bang, followed by a shriek of pain. “Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead.”

Harry’s heart thudded erratically in his chest. He didn’t know who had been chosen to examine him, but he knew that he had to remain still. He had to make them believe he was dead. The suspense was unbearable, his every sense straining against the terrifying reality that one small movement could give him away.

Then, unexpectedly, a softer presence brushed against him. A hand—delicate, almost tender—touched his face, gently pulling his eyelid open, as though testing for signs of life. Harry's breath hitched in his chest, but he fought to keep his body still, forcing himself to pretend he was already gone. Her fingers lingered on his chest, and Harry could feel his heartbeat thumping steadily beneath her touch.

Her breath quickened as her hand traveled down to his ribs, checking for the pulse that would prove whether he was still alive. It was barely audible, but her whisper reached Harry's ear, so close he could feel the heat of her breath against his skin.

“Is Lyra alive, is my daughter alive? Is she in the castle?”

Harry's heart lurched at the mention of Lyra. He barely dared to breathe, but he forced the words out in a whisper.

“Yes.”

The woman’s hand stilled on his chest, and for a brief moment, Harry thought she might expose him, but she quickly withdrew. He could feel her sit up, her presence retreating from him as she processed what she had just heard.

Then, the cold voice of Narcissa Malfoy rang out, breaking the fragile silence.

"He is dead!"

Lyra made her way back to the castle, finding Hermione and Ron staring out to the forest.

Hermione's arms wrapped around her tightly, pulling her into a comforting embrace, but it did little to quell the storm inside her. "Lyra?" Hermione’s voice broke through the haze, full of concern. "Are you okay?"

Lyra managed a small, strained nod, though she knew she looked anything but okay. Her clothes were torn, her face streaked with dirt and sweat. She gripped her wand in her hand, but deep down, she knew it was useless. Her magic was gone. She could never go back to being who she was. A failure. A traitor.

Ron’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and questioning. "Where’s Harry?"

Before Lyra could respond, Voldemort’s voice boomed over the crowd, sending a chill down her spine. His words rang out like a death knell, and her stomach dropped. He was gloating, declaring victory, the arrogance and cruelty in his tone almost unbearable.

“The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anybody who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

Lyra's chest tightened at the thought. No, Harry’s alive. He has to be.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Hagrid’s voice, forced into compliance by Voldemort’s power, and the heavy, deliberate footsteps as Voldemort strode toward the steps of Hogwarts. Lyra clenched her fists, her heart racing as she felt the weight of the moment, like a leaden cloud suffocating her.

But then came a sound that shattered everything.

“Stop.”

It was Voldemort’s voice again, this time colder, demanding. The Death Eaters halted in unison, and then a scream tore from Lyra’s throat, raw and desperate. “NO!”

Her voice echoed across the clearing, louder than anyone had ever expected, and she could hear Bellatrix's sickening laugh in the distance, relishing in her pain. The crowd that had gathered at the steps seemed to stir, and Lyra’s gaze darted toward them, seeking any sign of hope, any proof that this was all a horrible nightmare.

But there was no sign of hope. Only the cold, cruel reality of Harry’s death. The crowd of survivors, their faces twisted in grief and disbelief, were being forced to witness the moment that Voldemort had crushed their last hope.

Lyra’s heart broke as she saw Harry’s body laid at Voldemort’s feet. She screamed again, her voice cracking under the strain of her emotions. “Harry! Wake up! NO!”

But it was too late. Voldemort stepped forward, stroking Nagini’s head with a cold, deliberate finger. His voice was full of satisfaction as he addressed the crowd.

“Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

“NO!” The scream was the more terrible than anyone had never expected or dreamed. 

“No! ” Other people were screaming too, now.

 “Harry! HARRY!” Ron’s, Hermione’s, and Ginny’s voices were almost as bad as Lyra's, Ron was holding the blonde girl tightly, as if to stop her from running towards his best friend's dead body.

“He beat you!” yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more.

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” said Voldemort, and there was relish in his voice for the lie, “killed while trying to save himself so now is the time for you to join me. Join me and live.”

"Lyra!" Her father yelled from that side. "Come here."

Voldemort turned to Lyra then. "Ah, of course, Lyra Malfoy, the traitor amongst my ranks. Join us and all will be forgiven."

Lyra's eyes turned to her mother desperately, but she just smiled at her shook her head. Was she—was she willing to let her own daughter be destroyed by this monster? Was she already preparing for Lyra to be lost forever?

Her mother’s eyes then drifted toward Harry’s body, and something flickered in them—a look that could have been relief—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. She nodded at her. Wait, was Harry–

"Do you join us Lyra?"

"I'd rather die, actually." she spat, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Oh you insolent child, you–"

But then, out of the corner of her eye, Lyra saw something, someone, moving through the crowd. A flash of movement, a sudden burst of defiance. It was Neville.

Before Lyra could blink, the sound of a scuffle and a shout rang through the air, followed by the unmistakable crack of a flash of light. The figure of Neville Longbottom hit the ground with a thud, his wand ripped from his hand. Her heart clenched in her chest as she watched, helpless.

Voldemort’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and mocking, his snake-like hiss sliding through the air. “And who is this?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement.

Neville struggled to his feet, defiantly facing the Dark Lord, his hands clenched into fists. Lyra could feel her pulse racing as she watched him stand alone in the no-man’s-land between the two sides.

Bellatrix’s voice cackled through the cold morning air. “It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?”

Voldemort’s gaze turned cold as he looked down at Neville, unarmed and unprotected. “Ah, yes, I remember,” he said, a cruel smile curling on his lips. “But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” he asked Neville, as if it meant something, as if it could save him.

Neville stood tall, facing him, undeterred. His voice rang out, filled with defiance. “So what if I am?” he shouted.

Lyra could see the rage building in Voldemort. The Dark Lord’s cold eyes fixed on Neville, and for a moment, it seemed as though the air itself held its breath. “You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

“I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” Neville retorted boldly. Then, with a sudden yell, he called out, “Dumbledore’s Army!” The words were met with an answering cheer from the crowd, though the Silencing Charms Voldemort had placed seemed to choke their voices, like a dam being held back.

Voldemort’s voice, however, turned even colder. “Very well,” he said softly, and Lyra’s heart seemed to stop. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head,” he said quietly, his words laced with a sinister promise.

With a flick of his wand, Voldemort summoned something from the castle. Lyra watched, her breath caught in her throat as a misshapen, battered object flew through the broken windows and landed in the Dark Lord’s hand. He shook it, and Lyra’s stomach turned when she realized what it was. The Sorting Hat. The emblem of Hogwarts, a symbol of hope, of unity—reduced to this.

“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” Voldemort declared coldly, his voice echoing through the darkness.

Lyra’s stomach churned as Voldemort continued, his cruel words aimed directly at Neville. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?” he taunted, as if mocking the very idea of the school’s traditions, the very thing that had given them all a sense of belonging.

Neville stood strong, refusing to break under Voldemort’s pressure, but Lyra could see the fear creeping into his eyes as the Dark Lord’s wand pointed directly at him. She watched in horror as Voldemort forced the Sorting Hat down onto Neville’s head, the hat slipping down over his eyes.

Everything seemed to slow as the world around them tensed. Lyra could feel the weight of the moment, the heaviness in the air. The Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the remaining fighters at bay as Voldemort’s words rang out.

“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me.”

With a flick of his wand, the Sorting Hat burst into flames. Lyra’s breath caught in her throat as the fire spread, engulfing Neville in a scream of pain. She could hear his agonized cries, his body locked in place, unable to move as the flames consumed him. It was too much to bear, too much to watch.

Her mind screamed for action, but her body remained frozen. She couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t even help him. She couldn’t help any of them.

And then, as if to add to the madness, there was an uproar from the distant boundary of the school. Lyra’s heart skipped a beat as she heard the sound of hundreds of feet pounding the ground, war cries echoing through the air. She barely registered what was happening as a giant's voice rumbled through the air, followed by the sound of giant footsteps, shaking the earth beneath them.

All of it happened at once. The battle was far from over.

Why? Well, because Harry Potter was a hard mother fucker to kill.

As the war raged around her, Lyra could feel the weight of the chaos pressing in on her from all sides. Curses flew through the air, a storm of light and violence, and she shielded herself, instinctively ducking and weaving through the crowd. She had no magic left to protect herself, no power to defend against the storm of destruction around her. Her wand lay useless at her side, a reminder of her helplessness.

She could barely hear the shouts and the cries of the fallen above the noise in her mind, the thoughts that kept racing through her head like a blur. The Death Eaters were everywhere, their cruel laughter cutting through the chaos as they attacked without mercy. Her eyes darted from one person to the next, the fear and panic in the air thick enough to choke on. But even in the midst of it all, there was a sharp clarity within her. She had to get out.

And then she saw her mother.

Lyra’s heart skipped a beat. Narcissa stood not far away, her face drawn but determined, her eyes sharp with the same cold resolve that always seemed to radiate from her. Lyra ran toward her, her feet heavy but driven by some force she couldn’t name.

“We need to leave,” she said, her voice barely audible above the din of battle.

Her mother didn’t hesitate. Without a word, Narcissa nodded, the two of them moving together, like a single unit. They began to move through the crowd, slowly but steadily, as if the world was falling apart around them but they were determined to walk through it. Lyra glanced behind her, her gaze lingering for a moment on the battle unfolding between Harry and Voldemort. She saw him, just for a moment, fighting with everything he had. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t pull her eyes from him.

He was alive. And he was fighting. But there was something else in that moment, something that made her heart clench painfully—she knew, deep down, that this would be the last time she ever saw him.

She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t fight alongside him, not like this, not after everything that had happened. Her role in this was over. The war had consumed her for so long, twisted her into something unrecognizable, and now, as she walked alongside her mother, she knew she no longer had a place in it. She wasn’t a Death Eater. She wasn't a spy. She wasn’t a warrior. She was just... tired.

Her father appeared behind them, his strides quick and purposeful. He was always quick to act, always ready to run when things went wrong. Lyra didn’t look back at him, didn’t need to. They were leaving, and nothing mattered more.

The front gates of Hogwarts loomed ahead, and Lyra could see the chaos unfolding in the distance—the battle, the destruction, the aftermath. The war wasn’t over. Not yet. But it was ending, in a way, for her and for everyone else. She couldn’t be a part of it any longer. She couldn’t pretend that it still mattered, that there was anything left worth fighting for.

With one last glance over her shoulder, Lyra stepped through the gates. The world behind her was falling apart, and the world ahead of her was uncertain. But she knew one thing. She was done.

If she stayed, she would only break Harry's heart more if he found out what happened, why she was dying. This was better. This was for the better.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains as Lyra stood by her desk, her fingers deftly folding clothes into her bag. The room felt heavy, as if the weight of the past few days had settled into the very air around her. She could still feel the reverberations of the battle, the faces of those lost, the choices made that she could never take back. As she moved, her eyes caught sight of Athena, her owl, swooping in through the window with a small package tied to her leg.

Lyra glanced at the bird, her heart momentarily lifted by the familiar sight of her companion. Athena landed on her perch, her feathers rustling as she extended her leg, offering the news that had arrived. It was a small relief, a tiny tether to something normal, even as Lyra’s stomach churned with uncertainty.

The familiar sound of footsteps signaled her mother’s arrival. Narcissa entered the room with her usual grace, her gaze flicking toward the owl and the package. She didn’t ask immediately; she simply waited, as though she already knew what this moment would bring.

Lyra untied the scroll and unraveled it, feeling the weight of the words even before reading them. The headline screamed at her: War is Over. Lord Voldemort Has Vanquished. Her breath hitched as she processed the words.

Finally. It was truly over.

She let out a long, shaky breath, a mixture of relief and exhaustion flooding over her. It was the answer they had all hoped for, yet it still didn’t feel like victory. Her gaze drifted to the pile of clothes she was folding—clothes she had once worn with pride, but now felt so heavy with their association to everything she wanted to leave behind.

Narcissa, who had been silently watching her, took the paper from Lyra’s hands and began reading. Her eyes moved quickly across the text, her expression neutral at first, but Lyra could see the subtle tightening of her jaw as the realization set in. The rumors had been true.

Her mother’s gaze shifted then, moving from the paper to the bags Lyra had packed with purposeful movements. “Where are you going?” Narcissa asked, her voice soft yet edged with concern.

Lyra hesitated before replying, “I can’t stay.”

“What do you mean?” Narcissa’s voice cracked with the question, and Lyra’s heart twisted. She couldn’t look at her mother’s face—not when she could see the confusion, the worry, the desperation to understand.

Lyra let out a deep breath, the weight of it heavy on her chest as she slowly explained. “I’m not who I was anymore, and I can’t pretend to be. I can’t be here, not after everything. I don’t have magic. I can’t stay in this world where I don’t belong. And... I can’t let Harry watch as I die.”

There was a long, unbearable silence as her words hung in the air, and Narcissa’s face crumpled. "What?"

Lyra then told her mother the whole story, ending with the spell she did to save Harry's life. She told her about Death's warning and meeting Regulus while she was dead. Narcissa' hands trembled as she covered her mouth, unable to stop the tears that began to fall. Her stoic mask, the one she had worn for so long, shattered in an instant.

Lyra’s heart broke as she watched her mother, the woman who had always been so strong, now vulnerable and raw. She crossed the room and knelt beside her, her own tears beginning to sting her eyes.

“Is there nothing we can do?” Narcissa whispered through her tears, her voice thick with pain.

“No, Mama, I’m sorry,” Lyra replied, her voice barely audible.

Narcissa wiped her face with the back of her hand, gathering herself slowly, like a person stitching together the remnants of a broken world. She looked at Lyra, her eyes filled with that fierce, maternal love—yet there was something else in her gaze, something that softened, a silent acceptance of the truth.

“Where are you going to go?” she asked again, her voice steady now but laced with sorrow.

“Away from here,” Lyra said, her voice firm yet quiet, “Where they can’t find me. I’ll go somewhere far. Somewhere they can’t find me.”

Narcissa’s eyes searched Lyra’s face, trying to understand, trying to hold on to her. “But... I can’t let you go alone. I'll come with.”

Lyra shook her head, her resolve strengthening. “Mum, I can’t let you do that. You’ve done enough for me.”

Narcissa’s lips quivered, but she wiped away the tear that escaped. “I have no place in this world without you, my darling Dru,” she said softly, using the nickname she had given Lyra when she was little, brushing Lyra’s hair back gently. “I hear Greece is nice this time of year.”

-IX-

FOUR YEARS LATER

Lyra, now almost twenty-two, walked through the cold streets of Warsaw, the winter chill biting at her skin. Christmas was just around the corner, but she didn’t feel any of the usual holiday warmth. Instead, she felt the weight of her constant pain pressing against her temples, the familiar headaches that had become a constant companion ever since the war ended. Muggle doctors couldn’t explain it—just endless rounds of prescriptions for painkillers that only helped for a little while. She knew deep down that death was approaching, her body signaling its inevitable arrival, but she had learned to live with it. What choice did she have?

Her now black hair, which she’d dyed to match the new fake identity of Dru Black that she’d created for herself, was pulled into a loose bun. She wrapped her jacket tighter around herself as she walked, the streets slick with frost and the air thick with the sharp scent of winter. She had stopped by the market to pick up a few things for dinner, but even the mundane task felt like a struggle.

As she walked, her foot caught on a rough stone. The world tilted, and before she could catch herself, her knees hit the cold pavement, her head hitting a nearby wall. She barely had the energy to keep herself steady as the dizziness overtook her. Her vision blurred, her mind too foggy to focus.

A voice cut through the haze—soft, concerned. “Czy wszystko w porządku?” The words barely registered, but she could tell someone had noticed her fall. The question was polite, but she didn’t have the strength to answer.

She tried to lift herself up, clutching her grocery bag to her chest like it was a lifeline. But it was useless. The headache surged, and she felt the ground give way beneath her once more. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed again, the world spinning too fast.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The voice was closer now, speaking in English now, tinged with urgency. But it was distant, almost muffled, as if the world was becoming further and further away.

Lyra opened her eyes one last time, but everything was blurry. The woman was still there, but her face was fading. She could feel herself slipping, unable to hold onto the edges of consciousness. She didn’t want to go, not yet. No, please not yet, she prayed.

And then there was only silence.