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CHAPTER TWELVE

these violet delights are known to have violent ends

ORIGINAL UNIVERSE, LYRA'S POV

1989

-I-

A YEAR AFTER THE WAR (AM I A DIFFERENT PERSON NOW?)

The brisk winter wind swept through the narrow cobbled streets of Dresden's magical quarter, carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and flickering spells. Lyra, or Druella Black as she now called herself, tugged her gray woolen scarf tighter around her neck. Her black hair, an attempt at a disguise as much as a symbolic severance from her past, framed her face in loose waves. She had come here to pick up her mother's list of potion ingredients and for a distraction—something about magical marketplaces always soothed her frayed nerves.

The wizarding area was bustling with energy, an eclectic mix of German witches and wizards bartering loudly over enchanted goods. Storefronts glowed with signs advertising everything from self-replenishing cauldrons to wands tipped with rare dragon heartstrings. A soft chatter of German phrases filled the air, and Lyra found comfort in the unfamiliar language. It made her feel invisible, a ghost slipping through the world unnoticed.

She entered a quaint little bookshop, the air inside warm and heavy with the smell of aged parchment. Shelves were lined with thick tomes of spell theory, potion guides, and even tawdry romance novels with animated covers. She idly browsed the rows, her fingers brushing over the spines as she let her mind wander.

A display near the counter caught her eye: a stack of wizarding magazines, their covers flickering with moving images. Lyra hesitated before picking one up. The headline of Witch Weekly International promised "Scandal and Secrets: The Aftermath of the War!" Her lips curved into a bitter smile.

"Because that's what the war was to them," she muttered under her breath, "a scandal."

She flipped through it absently, eyes catching headlines about famous wizards and witches rebuilding their lives. It was all painfully distant to her now. She turned the page, and her hand froze mid-motion.

"The Golden Boy's Path to Glory—Harry Potter's Post-War Journey"

There he was. His face took up most of the page, smiling awkwardly for the camera. The photograph flickered between different expressions—uncomfortable, serious, almost happy. Lyra stared at it for what felt like an eternity.

"Excuse me, Fräulein, are you buying that?" The voice of the shopkeeper startled her. A stern-looking man with glasses peered at her over the counter.

"Yes," Lyra said quickly, clutching the magazine to her chest like it was a secret.

She paid for it and left the shop, her steps quicker now. Outside, the winter wind hit her again, but she hardly noticed. She ducked into a quieter alley and leaned against a wall, opening the magazine again. Her eyes darted across the article, taking in every word.

"Despite his victory against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Potter seems more reserved these days. Friends report he's focused on rebuilding Hogwarts and honoring those lost in the war..."

"Of course he is," she murmured, tracing her finger over the image of Harry. The words felt like a knife to her chest, cutting deeper with every sentence. She could almost hear his voice, the way he'd once said her name, the way he'd looked at her when they were alone, before everything fell apart.

The next page was a long article, showing the celebration at the Weasley-Granger residence where a lot of her classmates were seen, including Harry and his friends, who were now being nicknamed by the media as the 'the golden trio.'  The article was written by a witch she had never heard the name of but that's when her eyes fell on a photo, as a heavy feeling settled in her stomach. It was Harry intensely lip locked with Ginny Weasley. The sight instantly took her back to her sixth year, when the two Gryffindor's were dating after hers and Harry's break up.

It was the words written beside the picture that hurt her more–

"Recent graduate of Hogwarts, Ginerva Weasley, who is currently been recruited by major Quidditch Teams including theHolyhead Harpies was recently seen kissing our one and only golden boy during the infamous Weasley-Granger party. Does this mean Harry Potter has stopped the frantic search for his ex-girlfriend Lyra Malfoy, who, along with her mother, went missing after the war? Lyra Malfoy was the only daughter of Lucius Malfoy (convicted death-eater who is now serving time in Azkaban) and Narcissa Malfoy.

"There is not much known about her, as her year and house mates refuse to comment on anything that isn't related to her disappearance. Anonymous sources state that she was a spy for the late Albus Dumbledore (former Headmaster of Hogwarts Wizarding School) but as far as we know, this has never been confirmed and she did not fight during the Second Wizarding War.

"All we can do is hope is..."

She abruptly stopped reading the article. What the actual fuck did they mean by saying 'she did not fight during the Second Wizarding War'? She gave everything up for that war. She wasn't expecting trophies and parades but they could at least give her credit where it was due. She was now reduced to an equivalent of a squib because of how she participated in the war and for them to say such nasty vile–

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind her.

"Reading Witch Weekly, are we? Looking at you, I wouldn't think that was your style."

Lyra spun around, heart racing, but it was only a young wizard, probably her age, smirking at her. He had sharp features and a mischievous glint in his eye.

"I didn't think it was yours either," she shot back, snapping the magazine shut.

"Touché," he said with a chuckle. "I saw you in the shop earlier. You looked... intrigued."

"Not that it's your business," Lyra said, slipping the magazine into her bag.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just saying, if you're interested in British gossip, you don't have to hide it. Some of us are curious about Potter's perfect little life too."

Lyra bristled. "It's hardly perfect."

The wizard raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the venom in her voice. "Didn't realize you were a fan—or maybe not a fan?"

"Neither," she said curtly, turning to leave.

As she walked away, her mind swirled with memories she'd spent years trying to bury. Harry wasn't perfect, and neither was she. But for a fleeting moment, when they'd been together, it had felt like the world could be. And now... now she was here, alone, running from a war that had taken everything, while he was celebrated as a hero.

It wasn't that he wasn't a hero. It just felt as if she was being reduced to as one of the enemy and it really hurt.

She sighed and glanced at her reflection in a shop window. The woman staring back at her looked nothing like the girl Harry had once known. Maybe that was for the best.

Pulling her scarf tighter, she disappeared into the bustling crowd, the magazine burning a hole in her bag.

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, MULTIPLE POVs

2002

-II-

THISCANNOTBEHAPPENINGIAMDREAMINGIAMDREAMINGWAKETHEFUCKUPLYRA–

From where she lay in the cramped dark space, Lyra's world emerged in fragments—flashes of cold, dim light, and the rhythmic pounding of a headache so persistent it felt like her skull would crack under the pressure. The air around her was damp, stagnant, tinged with the smell of mildew and faint wood polish.

Her limbs ached, heavy and uncooperative as though they belonged to someone else. She blinked, her vision slowly adjusting to the faint light filtering into the cramped space. It was then that she became aware of the steady warmth pressed against her side, the rise and fall of breath not her own.

Instinct jolted her upright—or at least she tried to rise. A sharp pain in her ribs stopped her short, and she let out a quiet groan. Panic began to unfurl within her chest, and her fingers groped the narrow floor for something to protect her from this intruder she was locked with. There wasn't anything there.

What had happened? The last thing she remembered was walking through the marketplace in Old Town. The cold stone beneath her feet. A slip. That sharp sting behind her eyes, and the creeping darkness swallowing her whole, as if Death was coming for her. But this was not what death felt like– Lyra Malfoy had died once before, she knew that her head pounding and her panic-stuck breaths meant that she was still alive.

Her breathing hitched as she registered the weight beside her shifting, then a low, ragged voice.

"Am I dead?"

Lyra froze, the words slicing through the haze in her mind like a whip. That voice was unmistakable, even hoarse and worn. She turned her head sharply, ignoring the sharp protest of her aching muscles, her breath caught in her throat.

"Harry?" she whispered, though she scarcely believed it herself.

The figure moved beside her, twisting awkwardly to meet her gaze. His face came into focus in the dim light, disheveled hair sticking out at every angle, those familiar green eyes squinting against the gloom.

He looked the same and yet so different. This wasn't the Harry she remembered. His eyes had bags, a soft stubble around his face, his glasses were different, as if new, and his hair was much longer than she remembered. He was older. Mature. Not hers.

"Lyra?" His voice carried a mix of disbelief and tentative relief, like he couldn't quite trust his own senses. "Is that—? Why are we—?"

Her stomach churned as his words faltered. She didn't have answers for him, or for herself. Was this real? Her mind raced, trying to process the impossible. She was alive. And so was he.

But where were they? Harry was supposed to be in London, why were they in this strange place, together?

"I..." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. "I don't know. Harry, you're not dead."

He turned toward her too quickly, wincing as pain flared across his shoulder. She could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the tension in his features. Relief flickered in his expression, but only for a moment before confusion overtook it again.

The words lingered in the cramped air of the broom closet, a weight pressing down on both of them.

"But I died," Harry muttered, his voice dry and rasping like parchment cracking under strain. "I remember I died. But— I— I feel alive. Where the fuck are we? Are you really here?"

Lyra's lips parted, her breath shallow, but no response came. How was she here? How were either of them here? Her thoughts swirled like smoke, insubstantial and elusive, echoing the same question over and over: How?

She glanced around the dim, suffocating space, the broom closet's narrow walls pressing on her chest like the weight of her failures. "I don't know," she admitted softly, her voice thin and raw. The admission tasted bitter, like ash on her tongue. "Are you really here?"

Harry's gaze locked onto hers, and she could feel the desperation in it, the disbelief that mirrored her own. His green eyes—always so bright, so alive—were dulled now, as though they too had been lost to the same impossible questions.

And then his face darkened, realization dawning like the slow spread of a storm cloud. "You're supposed to be dead," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. But the words hit her like a blow, reverberating through her chest with all the force of a curse.

Lyra's throat tightened, and she turned her head sharply, breaking his gaze as though it burned her. Before she could find the strength to respond, a loud creak shattered the thick silence. The door to the broom closet flew open, and they both tumbled out in an awkward, undignified heap.

The first thing Lyra registered was a wand pointed directly at them.

"What the fuck is happening?" she whispered under her breath, scrambling to her knees.

"Who the hell are you?" The voice was sharp, feminine, and unfamiliar. Lyra's head snapped up to see a teenage girl—fifteen at most—with fiery red hair and fierce brown eyes glaring at them, her wand trembling ever so slightly as she aimed it at their faces.

The girl's voice turned accusatory. "Don't think I won't hex you!"

Harry, still disoriented, reached instinctively for his pocket. "Where is my fucking wand?" he muttered, his voice rising with frustration as he patted himself down.

The girl's eyes narrowed as she examined Harry more closely, her gaze lingering on his features. Then, suddenly, she sneered. "Why do you look like my dad?"

The words hung in the air, absurd and incomprehensible. Lyra's brows furrowed in confusion as she stepped slightly away from Harry's side, raising her hands in what she hoped was a calming gesture. Her dad? Harry was twenty-two, way too young to have a teenaged daughter. "Hey, okay, let's all just take a deep breath. We don't mean you any harm, alright? Just—put the wand down—"

The girl's breath hitched, her face twisting in something between shock and disbelief. "Lyra? But—"

Lyra's confusion deepened. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are," she said cautiously, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "Maybe you've seen me in the newspapers? This is my—well, this is Harry Potter. You might know him. We have no idea how we ended up here, and—"

The girl's demeanor shifted instantly, fear giving way to anger. Her wand steadied as her glare hardened. "This is a very cruel joke," she spat. "You Death Eaters think it's funny to pose as—"

Harry interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "This is the Potter Manor," he said suddenly, turning to Lyra with a dazed expression. "It looks different, but I know this is the Potter Manor."

"Yes, you wanker, it is," the girl snapped, her voice dripping with venom. "PADS!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice echoing off the walls.

Lyra shot Harry a look, stepping in front of him as if to shield him from the girl's wrath. "Hey! We're not here to hurt you, okay? Can you just tell us who you are?"

Before the girl could answer, heavy footsteps sounded from the hall, and then a tall, broad-shouldered man with long black hair and stormy gray eyes strode into view. Lyra froze. She has seen this man in the newspaper's before– the wrongfully convicted cousin of her mother's.

Harry's breath hitched audibly. "Sirius?"

The man—who looked so much like Sirius Black that it sent chills racing down Lyra's spine—didn't answer. Instead, his wand appeared in his hand with a speed that belied his size. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Harry stumbled backward, his face pale as a ghost. "Okay. I'm definitely dead," he muttered, his voice cracking. "Because two dead people are standing right in front of me, and any second now Mum and Dad are going to—"

"Harry, we are not fucking dead!" Lyra snapped, her voice sharp and edged with exasperation. She turned to the older man, whose eyes had narrowed dangerously. Recognition flickered in his gaze for a brief moment before his expression turned icy.

"You Death Eaters have no shame," Sirius hissed, stepping protectively in front of the red-haired girl. "Posing as dead niece and godson— as dead people to finish whatever mission your master has sent you on—"

This time, it was Harry who cut in, his voice rising in fury. "You're the one taking the face of a dead person!" he spat, his fists clenched. "I watched Sirius Black die. I—"

Harry never got to finish.

The last thing Lyra saw was a flash of light, and then everything went dark.

-III-

HELLO UNIVERSE, ARE YOU HERE TO FUCK ME OVER AGAIN?

When Lyra came to, the first sensation she registered was cold—cold air, cold stone floors, cold ropes biting into her wrists. The sharp ache of her arms twisted behind her back brought reality crashing down around her. She blinked, disoriented, and tried to focus on her surroundings.

She was tied to a chair.

The second thing she noticed was noise. Whispered voices, hurried and harsh, though the whispering did little to mask the intensity of the conversation happening just out of her line of sight. The voices were vaguely familiar, but her head throbbed too much to make sense of them yet.

Then she felt it—movement. A faint rustle behind her.

"Lyra?" Harry's voice was a soft rasp, barely audible over the bickering nearby. He sounded lost, almost like a child, and it made her stomach twist. "Is this real?"

"Yes," she whispered back, her voice steadier than she felt. "I just... don't know what's happening but we are alive, for sure."

There was a long pause before he spoke again, and his words came so quietly they were almost drowned out by the arguing. "Have you been alive this whole time?" His voice cracked, and the raw hurt in his tone made her chest ache.

"Yes," she admitted, the word heavy with unspoken truths. "Harry, I'll explain everything, I promise. But first, we need to get out of here."

The whispering behind them grew louder. Lyra strained to make out the words, catching snippets of the argument.

"You can't seriously think you can handle this alone," a girl's voice said, sharp and frustrated. Lyra recognized it as belonging to the red-haired girl who had pointed her wand at them earlier—Madelyn, was it?

"Of course, I can handle it," the man replied, his tone clipped and full of barely restrained annoyance.

"That's because you think you're still an Auror, but you're not!" Madelyn hissed.

"I am just suspended!"

Lyra's ears perked up at that. The man—Sirius, or whoever was pretending to be Sirius—was suspended? Why would a death eater be an auror anyway? The new Ministry was very careful with who they hired.

"How about this," the man countered, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl. "We wait for your parents to come home. Let them deal with this."

"Oh, brilliant idea," the girl shot back sarcastically. "I'm sure Mum and Dad will love finding two strangers posing as dead people tied up in our sitting room like we're part of some dark wizard cartel, especially when one of them is posing as their dead son."

"Madelyn." His voice was sharp, a warning.

"Fine," she snapped, but the venom in her tone didn't fade. "But we're calling the Aurors as soon as they get here."

"You've made your point," the man growled, and there was the sound of footsteps approaching.

Lyra tensed as Sirius—or his imposter—stepped into view. His gaze was hard and unrelenting, his gray eyes glinting like steel as they locked onto hers.

"Now," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "let's start with who the hell you are and what you're doing here."

Harry stirred behind her, his voice tight with anger. "You first," he spat. "Who the fuck are you? Because Sirius Black is dead."

The man's lips curled into a humorless smirk. "Right. Because you'd know that better than me."

Harry pulled against his bindings, the ropes creaking in protest. "I watched him die," he snapped. "I saw him fall through the Veil. So whoever you are, drop the act."

"Harry," Lyra warned softly, her eyes flicking toward Madelyn, who stood nearby with her wand still raised. "Let me handle this."

But Sirius wasn't paying attention to her. His eyes narrowed as he studied Harry, his smirk fading. "What is your name?" he spat.

"Harry." The raven-haired boy finally muttered. "Harry Potter."

"You certainly look like a Potter but none of whom are alive," he said slowly, his tone laced with suspicion. "But you can't be Harry Potter. Because Harry Potter died sixteen years ago, as a baby. He can't just appear in my mate's house uninvited, older and tied up in some bizarre conspiracy with—" His gaze shifted to Lyra, and his expression darkened. "—a dead Black."

Lyra looked at him in confusion. Though she called herself a Black now, away from prying eyes, the whole Wizarding world knew her as a Malfoy. "A Black?" she repeated, her voice rising. "Who the hell are you?"

"I am asking the questions here," the man snapped.

Lyra's stomach dropped. She glanced at Harry, whose jaw was clenched so tightly she thought he might shatter his teeth. "Look," she said, keeping her voice calm despite the rising panic in her chest. "I don't know what you want but you filthy death-eaters need to let us go. I would be more afraid of how this would look in front of the ministry now that your precious—"

"How this looks?" Sirius cut her off, his tone incredulous. "It looks like two people broke into this house and are trying to pass themselves off as—" He stopped abruptly, his gaze narrowing. "as very dead people."

Lyra's heart pounded in her chest. "You are the one who is supposed to be dead, Sirius Black," she said cautiously.

"Me? Supposed to be dead," Sirius repeated flatly, like he was testing the word on his tongue and finding it distasteful.

"Yes," Lyra snapped, her patience wearing thin. "Now, if you don't let us go the consequences will be dire."

Madelyn barked out a bitter laugh. "You are the one tied to the chair. What is your real name?"

Lyra rolled her eyes, struggling to maintain her composure. "Look, I don't know what you are on about, but we are who we fucking claim we are. Can't say the same about you." She said looking at the man.

"You really think I'm that stupid?" Sirius interjected, his wand now aimed squarely at Harry. "You've got one chance to convince me why I shouldn't hex you into oblivion right now."

Harry met Sirius's glare head-on, his green eyes blazing. "You're not going to hex us," he said evenly.

"And why's that?" Sirius challenged.

"Because if you were really Sirius Black," Harry said, his voice steady, "you'd know exactly who I am."

The room fell silent. For a moment, even Madelyn seemed caught off guard, her grip on her wand faltering slightly.

Finally, Sirius spoke, his voice low and measured. "And if I'm not?"

Harry's lips twisted into a grim smile. "Then you've made a very big mistake. I don't do well with threats."

The tension in the room was palpable, the air so thick it was hard to breathe. Lyra's mind raced as she tried to piece together a plan, but before she could speak, the front door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.

"Oh, thank Merlin," Madelyn muttered, her shoulders sagging in relief. "They're back."

Lyra's blood ran cold as another deep, unfamiliar voice called out from the hall.

"What's all this noise about?"

Harry Potter had finally gone mad. That was the only explanation. He could already see the Daily Prophet headline: "Our Saviour embraces insanity: Harry Potter has gone crazy". That was the only reason why he was tied to a chair with his ex-girlfriend that disappeared years ago. Why he was being threatened by his dead godfather.

Why his father just walked in through the door.

"What's all this noise about?"

If this was a joke that the universe was playing on him, it was an especially cruel one.

The man that walked in looked so much like James Potter, that Harry was sure he stopped breathing for a minute there. He knew what his father looked like— he had seen pictures of him, heard stories about him.

This man definitely looked like James Potter— an older version. He looked slightly different from the pictures Harry had, a bit taller, more buffed, his hair having a tinge of white in it, though messy.

Next to him, Lyra who too was tied to a chair whispered, "What in Merlin's name is going on here?"

The man, who looked like his dead father was probably some death eater on a polyjuice potion that was just running out, of course, Harry concluded. Because James Potter was not alive and neither was Sirius Black. Hermione would be proud of his deduction skills.

Jury was still out on Lyra Malfoy.

When the fake James's eyes fell on the two tied up adults, his hand instantly fell to his wand. Harry noted his auror robes and his mind went back to all of his colleagues.

Was his elite team of aurors compromised? Did they kill one of them to pose as an auror? What was happening here?

The man turned to the imposter Sirius, his voice low as he whispered, "Blimey, Sirius, is that... Lyra Black?"

"We can hear you, asshole," the girl beside him gritted, "Why do you all keep calling me a Black? Who the fuck are you?"

Their captors glared at them as the fake James finally turned to look at Harry, his eyes hardening by the second. Harry always wondered what it would be like to have father, but seeing even someone look like his father seeing him with such cold eyes made him uncomfortable.

"Madelyn," he muttered, still glaring at Harry, "Go to your room."

The fifteen year old turned to the man in alarm, "But Dad—"

"No buts, just go."

With a sigh, the girl didn't argue and soon disappeared from Harry's view.

"This is a very cruel and vile thing for you to do," Harry glared back at the man, "Sickening. I will make sure you rot in Azkaban for this."

That when the fake Sirius spoke up, "Prongs..." he hesitated, "This one claims to be Harry. Says his name is Harry Potter."

It was as if a new form of hatred burned through the fake James as he thundered over to Harry then, as if Harry's name was the worst sound he had ever heard.

He leaned over, so he was on eye level with Harry, only a few inches apart. Hazel Brown orbs stared at him with hatred, "The only people going to Azkaban today are you two."

He pulled back, "Pads, call Moody. Tell him to get the interrogation room prepped. We got two death eaters."

Harry's head turned in confusion. Moody was dead too. Was he in some hellscape, forced to be around the people in his life that died for him?

"We are not the death eaters, you are!" Lyra snapped.

James laughed, though there was no humour in it. His wand still pointed at Harry, he turned to take a good look at Lyra.

"Your polyjuice is probably running out asshole, your hair is the wrong colour." he tutted, "Or are you as bad at potions as you are at breaking and entering an auror's home?"

"It's called hair dye, asshole" Lyra mocked.

Harry couldn’t help but glance at her then, properly taking her in for the first time since this madness began. The Lyra Malfoy he remembered was confident, sharp-tongued, and effortlessly elegant. But this Lyra—her black hair cut short, her face gaunt, shadows under her eyes—was different. Hardened. Worn down.

His throat tightened. She had been gone for so long. Four years of grief, of fighting to believe she was still alive when everyone else had given up. And now here she was, tied to a chair beside him, spitting fire at the people who were supposed to be dead. 

Four fucking years.

"We are who we say we are!" Harry yelled. "My name is Harry Potter!"

The reaction was instant. James’s face was still twisted into a mask of pure loathing as he stalked toward Harry. “You think that name will get you out of this? You think you can trick us with some sob story pretending to be my son?”

“It’s the truth,” Harry bit out. “I am Harry Potter!”

“You’re delusional,” James spat. “Moody will sort this out soon enough.”

"What do you mean Moody will sort this out? Moody is dead!"

Before any of them could reply to Lyra, another person opened the front door and James and Sirius left their two captives to check who it was, wands drawn.

Harry turned to the girl beside him. The girl who everyone believed was dead. Who he believed was dead.

Gritting his teeth, he spoke, "Tell me something only Lyra Malfoy would know."

She turned to him sharply, "Harry it's me. I know it's been a while but even your half-witted brain can recognise me."

"Tell me."

THe girl beside him took a deep breath, "During the summer before fifth year, I came over to Privet Drive and we went out and you made me try muggle food for the first time. The first time we kissed was at the astronomy tower after the Yule Ball. In first year, you gave me your jacket when we had detention. Harry, it's me. It's Lyra."

It's her. Harry's world spinner in its axis. Till now, he had been convinced he must be dreaming or losing his mind. But this was real. He knew it was. It was really her.

"Where have you been?" he didn't trust himself to say anything else and Godric knew he had a lot to say. How are you here? Why did you leave me?

"Just... away," she gulped. "Harry—"

"I mourned you." he spat, "They all believed you were dead and so I mourned you year after—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence as the two men came back to the room, this time accompanied by a red-haired woman with startling green eyes dressed up in healer's robes.

"Mum?" Harry gasped.

The woman reached for the imposter James's hand, her other hand covering her mouth as tears started to form in her eyes. "Jamie— why would someone do something so evil to us?"

The man just shook his head, "I don't know."

"Look," Lyra spat, as if she knew exactly what Harry was feeling, "We haven't done anything wrong. Just let us go, please."

The man posing as Sirius came forward then, "Prongs, Alastor said we can apparate with them there right now, they have veriseterum ready."

"James, Sirius, can I talk to you?" Lily whispered as she pulled the men to the corridor, away from earshot.

Lyra shifted in her chair, her expression a mix of annoyance and disbelief. "Well," she drawled, keeping her voice low, "That went about as well as it could in any hostage situation."

Harry finally exhaled, leaning back in his chair. His wrists ached from the ropes, but his mind was racing too fast to care. "That woman looks like my mum," he murmured, almost to himself.

Lyra raised an eyebrow. "You're just now catching on?"

Harry glared at her. "I mean, she's alive. She shouldn't be alive. They shouldn't be alive. Are people posing as them? Am I dreaming this? None of this makes sense."

"Welcome to the club," Lyra said dryly, tilting her head toward the corner where James, Sirius, and Lily were arguing. "You think they're trying to figure out how to kill us or just what kind of lunatics we are?"

Harry shot her a look. "Not helping."

"What do you want me to say?" she countered. "That everything's going to be fine? Because it's not. I was walking home when I fainted and woke up here, a place where your father, who is not even supposed to be alive, by the way, looks ready to curse us into next week, and I'm pretty sure this isn't going to end with tea and biscuits."

Harry let out a frustrated sigh, his eyes flicking back to James. "She recognized me," he said quietly. "For a second, I could see it in her eyes. She looked like she knew me."

Lyra's expression softened, just slightly. "That's not surprising," she said after a moment. "You're practically your father's double. I'd recognize that messy hair anywhere. But... Harry your parents are dead. These people can't be them. And you're famous, everyone knows who you are."

Harry ignored the jab. "Do you think they want something from us?"

Lyra considered this, her gaze sharp. "Maybe," she said bluntly. "But not yet. We're not dead, so that's something."

"That's a low bar," Harry muttered.

Lyra gave a small shrug. "When you're tied to a chair with a bunch of strangers arguing about your existence, the bar doesn't get much higher."

Harry frowned, his mind racing. "We need a plan."

"Brilliant observation, Potter," Lyra said with a smirk. "Got one?"

"Not yet."

"Then shut up and let me think."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, his heart pounding in defiance, but the three figures re-entered the room before he could speak.

Lily's gaze swept between Harry and Lyra, her brows knitting together in suspicion. She looked almost hesitant, her green eyes—so strikingly like Harry’s—lingering on him for just a moment too long. There was something searching in her expression, but it quickly hardened, the moment lost.

"This—this can't be real," she whispered, though her trembling voice carried an edge of resolve. She stepped closer, her healer's robes brushing the floor. When her gaze locked with Harry's, it was piercing, almost accusatory. "These people," she continued, her tone now firm, "They're not who they say they are."

Harry flinched as if struck. The woman who looked like his mother had just denied him outright. He wanted to shout, to argue, but his throat felt like it had closed up.

Lyra, however, was less reserved. Still tied up beside him, she let out a loud, scornful scoff. "Merlin's beard, are you all insane? We're not here to hurt anyone! We didn’t want to be here in the first place!"

James’s wand was up in an instant, aimed squarely at Lyra’s chest. His movements were sharp, trained, and utterly unforgiving.

"Quiet," he barked, his voice cutting through the room like a knife.

The sight of James threatening her lit a fire in Harry’s chest. Without thinking, he surged forward against his restraints, straining to shield Lyra with his body as best he could. "Don’t point that at her!"

The room fell silent at his outburst. For a fleeting moment, Harry could hear nothing but the rapid pounding of his own heartbeat. James’s eyes narrowed, and Sirius—if it was really Sirius—stepped closer, his wand raised and ready.

"Brave for a prisoner," Sirius muttered, his tone low and menacing. His gaze flickered, almost as though he were trying to gauge Harry’s mettle, but whatever he saw seemed to puzzle him. He exchanged a glance with James, something unspoken passing between them.

Lily moved quickly, her voice cutting through the tension like a razor. "James." Her hand reached out, resting lightly on his forearm. Her touch seemed to steady him, though her voice remained taut. "Let's not do anything hasty. Moody's waiting for us, isn’t he?"

James’s lips tightened, his jaw set as if weighing his options. Finally, he gave a sharp nod. "You’re right," he said curtly. His wand lowered slightly but stayed firmly in his grip. He glanced toward Sirius. "Get them ready. I don’t want them pulling any tricks during transport."

Sirius gave a curt nod and moved closer, his expression stony. He reached into his robes, pulling out a coil of rope that gleamed faintly in the dim light. It was enchanted, no doubt, to ensure they couldn’t escape.

"Let’s go," he growled, his tone brooking no argument.

-IV-

THE INTERROGATION

The sharp pull of Apparition left Lyra's stomach churning as she and Harry were dragged into the Ministry by their captors. Their wrists were still bound, and though Harry's glare could have burned a hole through James—or whoever this man was—Lyra's mind was racing for an explanation.

If these people are Death Eaters disguised as the Potters and Black, why are they so casual walking into the Ministry? she thought, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings.

The hallways they passed through weren't the ones she'd seen during her father's rare visits here. These weren't the public spaces filled with bustling witches and wizards. No, this was deeper—quieter. The air felt thick, laced with the Ministry's secrets.

As they turned a corner, Lyra saw a young wizard in dark green robes salute James and say, "Good evening, Potter. All's quiet tonight."

James nodded curtly in return, and Sirius gave the man a roguish grin. "Quiet? That'll change soon. Moody's got something brewing."

Lyra blinked in confusion. Harry, beside her, looked equally unsettled, his brows furrowing as more people greeted the group. Some nodded to Sirius; others greeted James with admiration. A witch even turned to Lily, her face lighting up. "Oh, Healer Potter! I didn't know you'd be down here tonight."

"I wasn't planning on it," Lily replied tersely, her gaze never leaving Lyra and Harry.

Lyra exchanged a bewildered glance with Harry. What kind of Death Eaters waltz into the Ministry and receive respect from Ministry employees?

They continued down the corridor until the space opened into a circular room with no visible exits, just towering walls of slate gray stone. Lyra's unease grew with every step as she was steered toward a set of double doors on the far end. She could only assume that this was Moody's interrogation room—though what awaited them inside was anyone's guess.

But then, as they turned a corner, she froze.

There, in the shadows of the hallway, stood Severus Snape.

The sight of him hit her like a Bludger to the chest. His hair was as greasy as ever, and his dark robes billowed faintly as he moved to stand more prominently in their path. His face was pale, but his black eyes burned with intensity.

Snape? Her mind reeled. He was supposed to be dead. She had seen his body—heard the tales of his death at Voldemort's hands. And yet here he was, standing right before her.

His reaction was just as startling. His eyes widened dramatically as his gaze landed on her. It wasn't just shock—it was recognition, the kind that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

Before she could say anything, he raised a single finger to his lips.

Keep quiet.

Lyra felt her heart hammering in her chest. Did Harry notice? Was anyone else seeing this? She shot a glance at Harry, whose attention was still locked on James and Sirius. No one else seemed to notice Snape's silent plea.

Before she could fully process what she'd just seen, the group moved again, James and Sirius steering them toward the interrogation room. But Snape remained in the shadows, his expression unreadable, his warning lingering in her mind.

What in Merlin's name is going on here?

As the heavy doors creaked open, Lyra swallowed hard. Whatever awaited them on the other side, she couldn't shake the feeling that Snape's presence was no coincidence—and that her instincts to trust no one might be more vital than ever.

Moody's magical eye swiveled to Lyra, the other glaring at her unflinchingly. “And you?”

"Lyra Druella Mal—" Lyra hesitated, her lips trembling as she fought the serum's pull. " Lyra Druella Malfoy," she finally said, her voice quiet but steady.

James's eyes widened, and his gaze shot to Sirius, who looked equally startled. "Malfoy?" James repeated. "I thought I was seeing things earlier, but..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Moody growled, cutting James off. His tone was sharp, commanding, and left no room for argument. “State your profession. Both of you.”

Harry’s lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “Auror,” he snapped. “I’m a bloody auror, sitting on the wrong side of the interrogation table.”

Sirius let out a low groan. “Mate, you’re not helping yourself here.”

Moody turned his focus to Lyra. “And you?”

Lyra hesitated again, clearly dreading the answer. Still, the potion gave her no choice. “I’m... a Muggle waitress.”

Harry’s head whipped toward her, his expression a mixture of disbelief and confusion. “What?”

Lyra’s gaze darted to him, panic flashing across her face. She hadn’t wanted this—any of this. The serum forced her truths into the open, and this was one she wasn’t ready to explain, especially not now.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Potter,” she said sharply, her voice shaking despite her defiance.

“Lyra—” Harry began, but Moody cut him off with a sharp bark.

“That’s enough! We’re the ones asking the questions here.”Moody’s scarred face twisted into a scowl as he loomed over them. “Ages. Now.”

“Twenty-two,” Harry said instantly, the answer automatic.

“Twenty-two,” Lyra echoed, though her voice had steadied slightly.

The scrape of James’s chair against the stone floor broke the tense silence as he stood abruptly. “That’s impossible!” he exclaimed, turning to Moody. “They’re lying! The potion isn't working!"

Moody's magical eye swiveled toward him. "It's working, Potter. Trust me, I'd know. But even if they are who they claim to be—Harry Potter and Lyra Black—there's no way they'd be that age. As of today, they'd still be teenagers."

He turned his attention back to Harry and Lyra, his expression hard. “What date do you think it is?”

Harry blinked, thrown by the question. “Christmas Eve, 2002,” he said slowly.

“Same,” Lyra added, glancing uneasily at Harry.

James's knuckles whitened as he gripped the table. His voice was tight with disbelief as he said, “It’s Christmas Eve, 1987.”

The words hit Harry like a physical blow. He froze, his mind racing as he struggled to process what he’d just heard. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “That’s not possible. That’s—”

“How did you end up here?” Moody interjected sharply, his patience thinning.

Lyra swallowed hard before answering. “I was walking home from work. My head hurt, and I slipped. It went dark, and when I woke up, I was in a broom closet.”

Moody turned to Harry, his magical eye narrowing. "What about you, boy?" 

"I was at the Weasley's for Christmas—"

Sirius cut in, "Arthur Weasley?"

Harry glared at him, "Yes, him. His son and I are best mates. I was there when..." he hesitated, "My godson wanted me to get something for him from his house. I was driving when I lost control of the car."

Moody raised an eyebrow. “Driving? Why not just Apparate?”

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I like to drive. I’m not a fan of gatherings.”

It was Lily who broke the silence this time, her voice softer but still laced with suspicion. “Why not?”

Harry bit his lip, fighting against the potion’s pull. He struggled, but the words came anyway, spilling out before he could stop them. “Because after the war was over, I thought I’d be happy by now. That I’d have a family, or... something. But I don’t and everyone else has their shit figured out. The war’s over, and I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”

The room was silent, save for Harry’s labored breathing. Lyra’s dark eyes softened as she looked at him, but before she could say anything, Lily spoke again, her voice sharp.

“What do you mean, the war is over?”

Harry glanced up, startled. “I mean Voldemort—”

Four voices shouted at once. “Don’t say that name!”

Lyra scoffed. “It’s just a name.”

Their horrified expressions said otherwise, and they exchanged uneasy glances, as though preparing for something terrible.

For a heartbeat, the room stood still.

And then, all hell broke loose.

-V-

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, SAY WHAT?

The room erupted into chaos as alarms blared, a piercing, shrill noise that seemed to reverberate through the walls. Lyra’s heart jumped to her throat as James, Sirius, and Moody rose to their feet simultaneously, their faces etched with alarm. Their gazes darted to each other, silently exchanging unspoken messages of urgency.

Lily was the first to act. Her voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. “They’re here. I’m taking these two back. Both of you, come home as fast as you can.”

“Lily—” James started, his tone thick with protest.

“Not now!” Lily snapped, her words laced with a desperate kind of authority. “We can’t take them to our house. It’s dangerous. Maddy—”

“I’m doing this for her,” Lily interjected herself, her voice softening but firm with resolve. Her green eyes flickered briefly to Harry and Lyra. “These kids might know how the war ends. They might be our chance.”

Before James could argue further, she stepped forward and kissed him, quick and fierce. “Get home to me fast, Jamie.”

James’s voice softened. “I promise.”

Lily turned back to Lyra and Harry, her wand already in her hand. With a muttered incantation, the magical bindings around their wrists vanished. Lyra flexed her hands, feeling the rush of blood as the restraints disappeared.

“You two,” Lily said sharply, motioning for them to follow. “Now.”

“What’s happening?” Lyra asked, trying to steady her voice as the weight of the situation pressed down on her.

“Death Eaters,” Lily answered shortly, her tone clipped. “They can’t know about you two. I don’t know who you are—exactly—but if there’s even a chance you’re telling the truth, I’d rather keep any potential enemies close.”

Lyra’s stomach twisted. She exchanged a quick, uncertain glance with Harry before they both fell into step behind Lily, who was already moving swiftly through the dimly lit corridors. The Ministry felt like a labyrinth, one identical hallway bleeding into another as they ran.

Lyra’s breath came in short gasps, her boots pounding against the cold stone floor. She tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling, but the reality of the situation—the alarms, the whispered urgency in Lily’s voice—made her chest tighten.

They turned a corner and nearly collided with a figure standing at the end of the hall. Lyra recognized him instantly. His dark robes billowed around him, and his sallow face was set in a rare expression of urgency.

“Severus?” Lily said, coming to an abrupt halt. Her wand remained steady in her hand, though her voice carried a note of both surprise and suspicion.

“Lily,” Snape said, his voice low and urgent. “I need you to listen to me. Albus and I—we’ve been planning this for a while. I think something went wrong with the spell, and these two ended up with you instead of us.”

Lily frowned, her grip tightening on her wand. “What are you saying?”

“They are who they say they are,” Snape continued, his dark eyes flicking briefly to Lyra and Harry before settling on Lily. “That’s Lyra, and that’s Harry Potter. Just… not your son. They’re from another universe.”

Lyra’s heart skipped a beat. The words hung in the air, surreal and impossible, yet oddly fitting. Another universe. That explained the discrepancies, the confusion. But hearing it out loud made it all the more disorienting. It sounded more like cruel joke. She wasn't surprised to hear Dumbledore was behind it.

Snape pressed on. “Remember the theory of infinite relativity? Professor Caling spoke about it. They’ve won their war, Lily. They can help us win ours.”

Lily looked torn, her gaze darting between Snape and the two strangers she had only just begun to trust. “Sev, this—”

“Lily,” Snape interrupted, his voice softening for the briefest moment. “Go. Get them out of here. I’ll come to your house later and explain everything. But right now, you need to leave.”

For a moment, Lily hesitated. Then, with a nod, she turned sharply back to Lyra and Harry. “Follow me. Now.”

Lyra barely had time to process what she’d just heard before they were running again, Lily leading the way. They reached the main entrance, where the distant sound of shouts and footsteps echoed ominously.

“Take my hands,” Lily commanded, her voice steady despite the tension radiating off her.

Lyra grabbed Lily’s left hand while Harry took her right. Without another word, Lily twisted on the spot, and the world disappeared into the crushing darkness of Apparition.

Lyra’s stomach lurched as she felt the pull of the spell. Her thoughts churned in a chaotic storm—questions, fears, doubts. Another universe. A war they had already won. And now, they were here, thrust into a conflict that wasn’t their own.

When they landed, the cool night air hit her like a slap. They were standing in a quiet, moonlit field, the silence broken only by their ragged breathing. She could see a large house in the distance, which was probably the Potter Manor. Lyra looked at Lily, who was already scanning the area, her wand raised and her expression unreadable.

“Stay close,” Lily said, her voice quiet but firm. “When we get home, we need to talk.”