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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

i wish i never wake up

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, MULTIPLE POVS

present time

-I-

THE FACE OF MY NIGHTMARES

It had taken them five days to come up with the almost perfect plan.

The air in the darkened room was thick with tension, and the faintest creak of the floorboards beneath their feet sent a jolt of unease through the group. It was far too quiet, too still, as they waited for the go-ahead from Sirius and James, who were perched just outside the door, keeping watch.

Snape was the one to get the hair strands they needed for the potion. Snape attended a Death Eater meeting under Voldemort's summons, careful as always in his role. He watched as the Dark Lord assigned Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Barty Crouch Jr. a secret mission elsewhere in England. Only a select few knew about it. He seized his opportunity then. Under the guise of a casual brush past or a fleeting touch, he plucks stray hairs from their robes, committing the minor theft with the skill of someone who has spent years deceiving the most dangerous people in the world.

Lyra stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the disguise one last time. Her reflection stared back at her—Bellatrix Lestrange, or at least a close enough approximation that no one would question it. The Polyjuice Potion had done its work well, transforming Lyra's appearance into something sinister and familiar. The long black hair cascaded down her back, and the sharp cheekbones and dark, piercing eyes of her aunt now occupied her features. It was unsettling.

She had known Bellatrix well, due to unfortunate circumstances. Bellatrix was cruel, as inhumane a human can get and Lyra had studied her movements, her mannerisms, her unhinged devotion to the Dark Lord. And now she had to become her.

"If anyone's going as Bellatrix, it's going to be me," she told Lily, her voice a soft whisper.

The redhead woman looked up, surprised. "Why is that?"

"Because I don't think I can do this if I have to keep seeing her face walking alongside of me."

Lily studied Lyra carefully, her green eyes searching for something beyond the words she had spoken. The quiet confession hung between them, delicate and raw.

"You don't have to do this," Lily said after a moment, her voice gentle but firm. "We can find another way—"

"There is no other way," Lyra interrupted, shaking her head. "We need the diary. We need to do this right. And if someone has to pretend to be Bellatrix, it's going to be me."

Lily hesitated, clearly weighing her options. "Lyra..."

"I know her," Lyra pressed on, voice low, urgent. "Better than any of the rest ever could. I know how she moves, how she talks, how she looks at people like they're insects beneath her feet." She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I know how she kills."

A silence stretched between them.

Lily's expression softened. "That's not who you are."

Lyra swallowed, looking away. "Maybe not," she murmured. "But I know how to pretend."

Lily exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the parchment in her hands. Finally, she gave a small nod. "Alright. If you're sure."

"I am."

Behind her, Harry was pacing, adjusting his cloak as he flexed his fingers. His sharp features were now hidden behind a different face—Rodolphus Lestrange. The Polyjuice had obviously changed him too, making him look older, colder. His usual bright, determined gaze was replaced by something sharper, something that almost made Lyra uncomfortable. He was trying too hard not to look like himself, his jaw locked in an effort to keep his expression unreadable.

"Stop fidgeting," she muttered, glancing at him through the mirror.

"I'm not fidgeting," Harry shot back, adjusting his sleeves. "This bloody robe is too tight."

"That's because Rodolphus was a Death Eater, not a Quidditch player," Lyra replied dryly, turning to face him. "You're going to have to act like him, not like someone wearing an ill-fitting costume."

Harry scowled but straightened his stance, trying to embody the arrogance and rigidity of a pureblood loyalist.

Sirius, or rather Barty Crouch Jr., leaned against the doorway, looking far too comfortable in his new form. The Polyjuice had altered him as well, making his normally striking features appear sharper, his eyes sunken in a way that made him look almost predatory. He grinned.

"You two argue like an old married couple," he said with an amused snort.

"Shut up," Lyra and Harry snapped at the same time.

James, hidden under the Invisibility Cloak, let out a quiet chuckle. "It's good. You're already in character."

Lyra rolled her eyes but let out a slow breath. It was time.

Sirius touched his wand to his temple. "Ready when you are," he murmured, sending the message to James.

Lyra adjusted her posture, rolling her shoulders back. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she prepared herself for the role she had to play. She could do this. She had to do this.

Then, the door swung open.

Lucius Malfoy stood there, his platinum blond hair gleaming in the dim light, his sharp features a picture of cold calculation. His gray eyes flickered over them, narrowing as he assessed their presence. He lingered on Lyra—the disguised Bellatrix—his expression unreadable.

For a moment, the room felt too small, too suffocating.

This was her father. In another world, he loved her enough to run around a battlefield, defenseless, just so he could find her. In this one, he killed his own daughter.

"Well, well," Lucius drawled, his voice smooth, almost sing-song. "What's all this, Bellatrix?"

He didn't look much different from the father Lyra remembered herself to have. Last she had seen or heard of her Lucius Malfoy was that he was rotting in Azkaban, caught after seven months of hiding and running. 

Lyra swallowed back her nerves and forced herself to smirk. "Nothing out of the ordinary, Lucius," she replied, her voice laced with the same venom Bellatrix's would have carried. "We're here for business."

Lucius took a step closer, eyeing her with cool scrutiny. "Business?" he repeated. "And what business would that be?"

Lyra arched a brow, tilting her head. "Do I need to explain myself to you, Malfoy?" she asked sharply. "Or would you rather take it up with the Dark Lord?"

Lucius's lips pressed into a thin line. "I only ask because I was under the impression that you were otherwise occupied—far from here."

Lyra's stomach twisted. He was already suspicious.

She let out a low, condescending chuckle. "And you believe everything you hear, Lucius?" she sneered, folding her arms. "Our Lord does not always reveal his full plans to you. Or has that changed?"

Lucius stiffened just slightly, but his eyes remained cold. "Of course not."

Beside her, Harry—Rodolphus—made a noise of irritation. "Enough of this," he muttered. "We don't have time to stand around playing games. If you have a problem with our presence, take it up with the Dark Lord who asked us to come to your Manor for some business. Otherwise, step aside."

Lucius's gaze snapped to him, his expression darkening. For a moment, Lyra thought he would press the issue, but then he exhaled slowly and inclined his head.

"Very well," he said, though there was still suspicion in his tone. "But you would do well to remember that surprises are rarely appreciated in our ranks, Bellatrix."

Lyra gave him a sharp, toothy grin. "Noted."

Lucius watched them for a moment longer before stepping aside. "You may come inside," he said coolly. "But be quick about whatever you have to do."

Relief flooded through Lyra, but she didn't let it show. With a quick nod to Sirius and James, who remained hidden, she turned and strode confidently down the hallway, Harry following closely behind.

The moment they were out of Lucius's sight, Sirius muttered under his breath, "That was too bloody close."

"You're telling me," Lyra muttered.

"Doesn't matter," Harry said, his voice grim. "We're in. Now, let's get what we came for."

They moved swiftly, their footsteps eerily silent against the darkened floors. Every hallway looked the same, but Lyra knew exactly where they were going. She had studied this place, memorized its layout. Lucius Malfoy's office was in the west wing, behind a set of reinforced double doors.

When they reached the door, Harry hesitated. "Are you sure about this?"

Lyra didn't answer for a moment before she nodded. She watched as Harry raised his wand, muttering a quiet unlocking spell. The door creaked open.

Harry and Lyra exchanged a brief look, silently agreeing that this had to work. No matter the cost.

As they stepped inside, the room was plunged into silence.

The diary was here. They just had to find it.

Lyra barely had a moment to react before Narcissa took her by the arm and pulled her into the dimly lit corridor, away from the others. The Malfoy matriarch was eerily calm, her grip firm but not unkind. There was something in her expression—something guarded, something determined.

"This won't take long," Narcissa murmured, glancing back toward the room where Lily continued brewing the Polyjuice Potion, where Sirius and James were quietly going over their final plans.

Lyra frowned. "What—"

Before she could finish, Narcissa reached into the folds of her gown and pressed something into Lyra's palm. A wand.

Lyra sucked in a sharp breath as she turned it over in her fingers. It was unfamiliar but oddly familiar at the same time. She could almost feel the magic thrumming beneath the polished wood, as if the wand connected with her, but it was so faint, Lyra thought she had imagined it. It wasn't hers, and yet... something inside her recognized it.

"It belonged to her," Narcissa said, her voice quiet but heavy.

Lyra's breath hitched. She looked up sharply, meeting Narcissa's piercing blue eyes.

"My– my Lyra," Narcissa clarified, her voice laced with something Lyra couldn't quite place. Grief? Regret? "The one who—" She exhaled softly, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Just in case."

Lyra stared down at the wand, her fingers tightening around the smooth wood. She didn't ask how Narcissa had kept it all these years, why she still had it. It didn't matter.

Narcissa then reached into the folds of her robes again and pulled out something smaller, heavier. Before Lyra could protest, she knelt, carefully strapping a thin holster around Lyra's thigh. The cool weight of metal pressed against her skin beneath the thick, dark fabric of Bellatrix's borrowed robes.

Lyra stiffened. "What—"

"A gun," Narcissa whispered, fastening the last strap securely. Her fingers were quick and precise, as though she had done this before. "I am going to assume you know how to shoot one. If you are really my daughter, defenseless against magic, I would have taught you how to."

She was right. Lyra's mother had forced her to take lessons back in Germany. "You never know what can happen, Dru. Do this and it will help me sleep at night."

Lyra stared at the other Narcissa, stunned. "Why?"

Narcissa straightened, brushing a loose strand of pale blonde hair from her face. Her expression was unreadable. "Because wands can be taken," she said, her voice so soft it was almost drowned out by the distant bubbling of the potion in the next room.

Then she met Lyra's gaze, her next words almost a whisper.

"This can't."

Lyra swallowed hard, feeling the weight of both the wand in her hand and the firearm against her leg.

This wasn't just about a mission anymore.

This was about ending a war.

The dim glow of the office was the only thing that illuminated the darkened room. Lyra's heart pounded as she stepped further inside, her breath slow and measured despite the nervous energy thrumming beneath her skin. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with immaculate rows of leather-bound volumes, the occasional glint of silver and gold from the spines catching the faint light. Trophies from past missions, ornate relics, and finely crafted artifacts sat on display—silent testaments to Lucius Malfoy's wealth and cunning.

Nothing in this room was placed carelessly. Nothing was ever where it seemed it would be. That alone made this job all the more difficult.

She flicked a glance toward Harry, who had already moved toward the far bookshelf, his shoulders tight with concentration. He looked composed, but Lyra knew better. They didn't have much time. The Polyjuice Potion wouldn't last forever, and the longer they stayed, the more dangerous this became.

Behind her, Sirius and James stood watch, their wands hidden within their sleeves, tension lining their bodies like coiled springs. Lyra wasn't sure if James had ever considered he might one day break into Malfoy Manor.

"You're thinking too loud," Sirius whispered, his voice barely audible.

Lyra shot him a look but didn't respond. Instead, she turned her focus to the grand mahogany desk in the center of the room. If the diary was anywhere, it had to be hidden among Lucius's most prized possessions.

She ran her fingers over the polished wood before crouching down, pulling open the first drawer with slow, deliberate movements. The faintest creak echoed in the silence. Her breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to continue. The drawer held nothing but neatly stacked parchment, quills, and small vials of ink.

Frustration pricked at her. They needed to move faster. She tried the next drawer—more of the same. And the next—empty.

Damn it.

Across the room, Harry scanned the shelves, running his fingers over the spines of books, looking for something out of place. "It has to be here," he muttered, barely audible.

"Maybe it's warded," James whispered. "If I were Malfoy, I'd have at least three nasty curses on it."

Lyra exhaled sharply. That was exactly the sort of thing Malfoy would do. She watched as Harry placed his hand flat against the desk's surface, concentrating, searching for any traces of protective magic. "Nothing obvious. But that doesn't mean it isn't there."

Sirius drifted closer, eyes flickering over the room. "Check for a false drawer."

She nodded and ran her fingers along the inside of the desk, feeling for any inconsistencies. And there—at the very back—a slight ridge.

She pressed against it.

Click.

A hidden compartment slid open beneath the drawer, revealing a small, leather-bound book.

Lyra's breath caught.

The diary.

It was unmistakable—the worn, unassuming cover, the weight of something far more dangerous than it appeared. It practically pulsed in her hand.

"We have it," she whispered.

"Finally," Sirius exhaled.

Harry was already moving toward the door. "We need to go. Now."

But just as they turned—

A sound.

Harry pulled Lyra behind him, next to the bookshelf. They watched as James pulled Sirius into the invisibility cloak with him.

The door creaked open.

They froze.

Footsteps.

Lucius Malfoy stepped inside, his movements smooth, deliberate. Behind him, Peter Pettigrew walked in, shuffling nervously, his nose twitching, beady eyes flickering about the room.

He broke out of Azkaban.

Every muscle in Lyra's body locked into place.

Sirius exhaled slowly, shoulders tensing at the sight of Peter. The rat's gaze swept the room, and for a terrible moment, Lyra swore his eyes lingered on her, something flickering behind them—recognition.

Her stomach twisted.

Peter's lips parted. "They're—"

"Everything is in place, Peter." Lucius's voice was smooth, unconcerned. He walked to his desk, unaware of the four intruders pressed against the shadows.

Peter hesitated. His mouth opened and closed. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure.

Lyra's pulse hammered.

Lucius ran a gloved hand along the desk's surface, brows knitting together.

Something was off. He could feel it.

He turned sharply. 

"I know you're in here, Bellatrix. Why?" His voice was sharper now, colder. His gaze wandered about until it finally locked onto the space next to the bookshelf, to Lyra, then flickered to Harry, who still bore the faint traces of Rodolphus's features. "And you?" His eyes narrowed. "Rodolphus?"

Lyra fought the urge to tense. The Polyjuice Potion wasn't perfect. Was it wearing off? Did her face look off in the dim light?

Harry straightened, his posture rigid but composed. "We were just—"

Lucius's gaze flickered over them, calculating. A beat of silence. And then—

His wand was in his hand before either of them could react.

"Who are you?" His voice was quiet, dangerous. "You're not—"

Harry moved first, his wand flashing upward. "Expelliarmus!"

Lucius deflected it with a quick, practiced flick.

The air in the house was thick with quiet anticipation, the kind that settled in the bones, impossible to shake. Everyone was preparing—James, Regulus, Narcissa and Sirius were going over the escape plan, adjusting the finer details of their timing. But in a quieter corner, just outside the drawing room, Harry stood near the window, staring out at the street below, fingers gripping the edge of the sill.

Lyra knew he was waiting for her.

She hesitated at the threshold, just for a second. Things hadn't been the same since she'd exploded at him and Dumbledore, since she'd said the things she couldn't take back. They hadn't talked much since then—barely at all, really. She wasn't sure if it was her silence keeping the distance between them, or his.

But now, with the mission looming over them, there was no avoiding this conversation.

She took a breath and stepped forward.

"You wanted to talk?" she asked, keeping her voice even, careful.

Harry turned slightly, his jaw tightening before he finally faced her fully. "Yeah." His eyes flickered over her, lingering for a fraction too long, like he was searching for something. Then he crossed his arms and exhaled, slow. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Lyra frowned. "Of course, I'm sure."

Harry didn't react right away, just watched her, unreadable. "We can find another way," he said, quieter this time. "It doesn't have to be you."

Something in his voice—hesitation, maybe doubt—pricked at her. "Yes, it does."

"It doesn't," he argued, but there was no anger in it. Just something exhausted, something wary.

She narrowed her eyes. "You think I can't handle it?"

Harry's lips pressed into a thin line. "That's not what I said."

"You didn't have to."

He let out a sharp breath, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's not what this is about, Lyra. I know you can handle yourself. I know you wouldn't hesitate if things went wrong. That's kind of the problem."

Lyra tensed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry shook his head, looking past her for a moment, toward the hallway where the others were gathered. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter. "It means I don't want you throwing yourself into something reckless just because you're pissed off."

That stung more than she wanted to admit.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "You think that's why I'm doing this?"

"I don't know." Harry's gaze met hers then, sharp and unrelenting. "You haven't really been talking to me, so I don't know what you're thinking anymore."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of everything unspoken, everything unfinished, sat between them.

Lyra swallowed hard, forcing her voice to steady. "I'm not doing this because I'm angry, Harry."

His expression didn't shift, but something in his posture eased—just barely.

"I'm doing it because I need to," she continued, voice softer now. "Because if we don't act now, we might not get another chance. We need that diary. And I'm the best choice for this."

Harry studied her for a long moment, the silence stretching between them again. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something more, but in the end, he just nodded.

"Okay."

That was it. No argument. No fight.

Just okay.

He stepped past her, toward the others, but paused just before leaving the room. He didn't look back when he spoke.

"Just... don't do anything stupid."

Lyra let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"No promises."

"Lyra! Run!" Sirius lunged forward from under James's cloak, his own disguise wavering, his body shifting as the magic began to fail.

Lucius's sharp gaze snapped toward him—toward the too-familiar face emerging from the Polyjuice's deception.

Sirius Black.

Recognition flared in his eyes, quickly followed by something colder.

Lyra felt hands on her—James, gripping her arm, pulling her away. "We have to go."

Lucius's lip curled. "Ah. I see." His wand flicked toward James ,and then Harry and for a moment—just a moment—uncertainty passed over his expression. Two James Potters? Impossible.

But Peter was faster. "They're not supposed to be here!" His voice was shrill, panicked. "It's them! It's them—"

Sirius swore. "Oh, shut up, Wormtail—"

"STUPEFY!" Harry's spell shot toward Peter, narrowly missing as the rat dived behind Lucius's desk.

Lucius flicked his wand, sending a burst of magic toward Harry. James shoved him aside, taking the brunt of it—he hit the bookshelf hard, books tumbling around him.

Lyra's legs barely held her as she stumbled backward, pain shooting through her ribs. The Polyjuice was failing—she could feel it, her limbs growing heavier, her vision flickering as her own features began to force their way back into place.

Lucius's eyes locked onto hers. He knew.

His gaze faltered for a moment, face scrunched up in surprise and horror. "I killed you!" He yelled.

"Move, Lyra!" James's voice was sharp, cutting through the pain.

Sirius grabbed her arm, practically dragging her as spells exploded around them.

They weren't getting out of this clean.

They had the diary but now—now, they had to survive.

"Stupefy!" Harry roared, his real voice emerging as his disguise fully dissolved. The jet of red light shot toward Lucius, but he was faster, stepping sideways and flicking his wand in response.

"Protego."

The spell ricocheted off the invisible shield with a dull thud, hitting the desk and shattering an ornate inkpot. Black ink splattered across the carpet, dark as blood.

Harry barely had time to process before Lucius retaliated.

"Incarcerous!"

Thick, snake-like ropes shot from his wand, heading straight for Harry.

"Expelliarmus!" Sirius bellowed before the spell could hit. Lucius's wand wrenched in his grip but didn't fly from his hand—he had a vice-like hold on it.

Lyra forced herself to move, her breath coming in short, pained gasps. The diary—they had the diary. That was all that mattered.

But Lucius knew now.

"You think you can walk in here, steal from me—" His voice was livid, his wand sparking with raw magic. His cold gaze locked onto Lyra, who still clutched the diary like a lifeline. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

"We weren't exactly planning on sticking around for tea, Lucius," Sirius sneered, stepping between them, his own wand raised.

Lucius's expression darkened at the sheer disrespect, but he didn't waste a spell on Sirius. He was watching Lyra now. His sharp mind had already pieced it together.

"You," he murmured. His voice was slow, deliberate, as if tasting the truth for the first time. "How are you even alive? Who are you?"

Lyra didn't answer. She didn't need to. The recognition in his eyes told her he had almost figured it out.

Peter was still frozen in place, eyes darting wildly between them, his hands twitching as if ready to transform. James caught the movement and whipped her wand toward him. 

"Don't even think about it, you treacherous rat," he spat.

Pettigrew hesitated.

Lucius, however, took that moment to strike.

"Confringo!"

The Blasting Curse hit the desk between them, exploding in a shower of splinters. The force sent Lyra flying backward, slamming into a bookshelf. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, and she barely managed to keep hold of the diary as books rained down around her.

"Lyra!" Harry shouted. He didn't hesitate—he ran toward her, ducking another hex from Lucius.

"I'm fine!" she gasped, pushing herself up, pain flaring through her ribs.

Lucius wasn't done. His wand was already sweeping toward her again, another spell forming on his lips—

But Harry got there first.

"Depulso!"

The banishing charm slammed into Lucius, throwing him back against the far wall. He hit the shelves with a loud crash, sending more books tumbling to the floor.

James, still invisible, took that moment to act. He darted past Lucius and grabbed a heavy, ornate paperweight from the desk. With a swift motion, he hurled it at Peter's head.

The rat Animagus yelled as it struck him squarely on the temple, and he stumbled, dazed.

"We're running out of time!" Sirius shouted. He grabbed Lyra by the arm, pulling her up. "James, get the bloody door—now!"

Lucius was already getting back to his feet, fury twisting his pale features.

Harry hesitated. His gaze flickered between Lyra and Lucius, and something dark burned in his expression.

Lyra knew that look. Don't.

But he didn't listen.

Before she could stop him, Harry turned, wand raised, and cast—

"Sectumsempra!"

The spell slashed through the air, a streak of white-hot light aimed directly at Lucius's chest.

Lucius barely deflected it, his shield charm forming just in time. But the force still knocked him sideways, sending him staggering.

Sirius's eyes widened. "What the hell was that?!"

Harry didn't answer. His breathing was ragged, his grip on his wand white-knuckled.

James had the door open now. "GO, NOW!"

Sirius shoved Lyra forward, practically dragging her through the doorway. Harry was right behind her, and James took up the rear, the cloak slipping off his head as they ran.

Behind them, Lucius recovered, his face livid, his wand raised—

"You won't get away with this!" he bellowed.

But they already had.

They sprinted down the corridor, the heavy diary clutched in Lyra's hands, their breaths coming fast and hard. Footsteps pounded behind them—Lucius was following. Chasing.

A spell whizzed past Lyra's ear. Another shattered a window ahead, glass spraying the hallway like sharp rain.

"Keep running!" Sirius yelled.

Lyra's lungs burned, but she tightened her grip on the diary and forced herself forward. They just had to make it outside. Just a little further—

Regulus found Harry standing near the staircase, staring at the map they had laid out earlier. The candlelight flickered across his face, highlighting the tension in his features. He was gripping the parchment too tightly, the edges curling under his fingers.

Regulus wasn't sure how long he had been watching before he finally spoke.

"You're thinking about calling it off."

Harry glanced up, startled, but quickly schooled his expression. "No," he said automatically.

Regulus tilted his head. "Liar."

Harry exhaled sharply, looking away. He wasn't in the mood for this—not for another conversation about whether or not they were doing the right thing. But Regulus wasn't one to be brushed off easily.

"I'm not calling it off," Harry said after a beat.

"But?"

Harry hesitated, his grip on the map tightening. Then, finally, he admitted, "I'm not sure if Lyra should come with us."

Regulus folded his arms, studying him. "Why?"

Harry let out a slow breath, raking a hand through his hair. "Because she's—" He stopped himself, shook his head. "She's too angry right now."

Regulus raised a brow. "And you're not?"

"That's different."

Regulus let out a quiet hum, something between understanding and skepticism. "She can handle herself, even without her magic."

"I know that," Harry snapped, then forced himself to calm down. He took a breath and tried again. "It's not about whether she can handle herself. It's about whether she'll stop when she should. Whether she'll listen if things go wrong."

Regulus considered that. "Do you think she'll get reckless?"

Harry didn't answer right away. He didn't want to say yes, but the truth was, he wasn't sure. Lyra had been different lately. She had always been headstrong, always ready for a fight, but there was an edge to her now—a sharpness that hadn't been there before.

After a long moment, Harry muttered, "I think she might be willing to risk too much."

Regulus was quiet, his gray eyes sharp and thoughtful. "And what about you?"

Harry frowned. "What?"

Regulus took a step closer. "You're worried she'll throw herself into danger, but I don't think you've stopped to ask if you'd do the same."

Harry clenched his jaw, but Regulus wasn't done.

"You and Lyra—you both seem to have a habit of charging forward when you think something needs to be done," Regulus said, voice measured. "You're afraid she'll make a mistake. But what if she's not the only one?"

Harry didn't respond.

The silence between them stretched before Regulus finally sighed. "It's your call," he said. "But if you're going to pull her out of this, you better be damn sure it's for the right reasons."

Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away.

The next curse hit the ground near Harry's feet, exploding on impact. The force sent cracks through the stone, debris flying through the air. Before Lyra could react, another spell shot toward her, fast and deadly—

Harry moved before she even saw it coming.

He shoved her aside, his body twisting in front of hers just as the curse struck.

The pain hit him instantly. His breath left him in a ragged gasp as he staggered, his leg giving out beneath him. He barely registered Lyra screaming his name before he hit the stone floor, hard.

Blood. Too much of it. It pooled beneath his calf where the explosion had torn straight through flesh and muscle. His vision swam, his wand slipping from his fingers as his body refused to move.

Lucius was closing in.

Lyra turned just in time to see the glint of his wand in the dim corridor, his expression sharp and triumphant. He had them now—he knew it.

And Lyra knew it too.

But she didn't think.

Didn't hesitate.

Her fingers closed around cold steel beneath her robes.

Lucius raised his wand—

Lyra drew the gun.

And fired.

The crack of the gunshot shattered the air, deafening in the narrow hallway. The recoil jolted through her arm, but she barely felt it.

Lucius staggered back with a strangled cry, his wand hand jerking as he clutched his shoulder. Blood seeped through his fine robes, his expression twisting from shock to fury.

It was the opening they needed.

"Move!" Sirius was already there, yanking Harry up, throwing one of his arms over his shoulders. Harry groaned, barely conscious, but he forced himself upright as Sirius dragged him forward.

Lyra turned, her heart hammering, adrenaline surging through her veins as she ran.

And this time, she didn't look back as they apparated away.

It all happened in an instant.

The second they arrived, Lyra knew something was horribly, terribly wrong.

She couldn't place it at first—just a strange, gnawing feeling deep in her chest. It was the kind of feeling that made her blood run cold, that set her heart pounding with a terror she couldn't shake. The air felt different. The world, too quiet. There was an odd stillness that didn't belong.

And then she saw him.

Harry.

Sirius was carrying him. No—dragging him. His weight slumped against his godfather, his body sagging like a ragdoll, unresponsive. His eyes were closed, his face deathly pale.

"Harry?" Lyra's voice came out in a strangled whisper, barely more than a breath.

But there was no response.

Sirius didn't even look at her. His focus was solely on Harry, but his face—his face was tight, drawn with an expression of pure dread.

Lyra's breath caught in her throat. Her legs felt like they were made of stone as she rushed forward, but it was as though she were moving through molasses. The world was moving in slow motion, the silence deafening in her ears, her thoughts racing ahead of her.

They burst through the front door, James's voice booming in the chaos.

"Lily! Get a bed ready—NOW!"

Lyra's gaze locked onto Harry again, and everything else fell away. There was no world outside of him. Nothing.

They were too late.

They were too late.

Sirius didn't stop moving, pushing through the door and into the house. James and Lily were already ahead, already prepared, but Lyra's feet refused to move, her heart heavy with the crushing weight of everything that was happening too fast. Too fast.

She wasn't ready.

Harry wasn't ready.

She wasn't prepared to lose him.

She followed them into the house, though the space felt vast and foreign, like a hundred miles between them even though she was right there. Harry's limp form being carried by Sirius. The room growing smaller and smaller as the panic in her chest began to swell.

They took him to the room where Madelyn had woken up after she'd gotten hurt. The room Lyra remembered only vaguely, with its soft bedsheets and quiet, warm air. But there was nothing soft about what was happening now.

Nothing warm.

She stood at the door, frozen in place, watching as they gently laid Harry down on the bed, his body still as stone, but his chest rising and falling with shallow, desperate breaths.

His leg—his leg had been injured in the explosion. She hadn't seen it clearly, too frantic in the moment, too focused on the chaos around them. But now, as she saw him lying there, her eyes caught the deep, jagged wound slashed across his calf, blood seeping through his trousers in dark patches.

Her stomach turned.

A cold wave of dread flooded through her, and suddenly the weight of what had just happened came crashing down on her. He was hurt. He was bleeding because of her. He had gotten hurt protecting her. The thought twisted her insides, gnawing at her heart.

Lily and Narcissa were already moving, their feet swift and sure as they prepared the space. But Lyra barely noticed them. Her gaze was glued to Harry. He was shaking now. His body jerked, his arms spasming, as if something inside him had broken.

He wasn't just hurt. He was sick.

"Get the herbs, Narcissa," Lily ordered sharply, her voice authoritative, but there was an undercurrent of panic there that Lyra could feel. "I don't know what spell was used, he's poisoned. We need to act quickly."

Poison.

The word seemed to echo in Lyra's ears, drowning out the rest of the noise around her.

Lyra's hands were trembling, and she didn't know if it was from the cold or the sheer terror coursing through her veins. She moved forward without thinking, reaching for Harry's hand.

It was ice cold.

Her fingers closed around his, but there was no response. No squeeze.

He was slipping away.

"No," she whispered. "No. Please, Harry, please don't—"

But the words came out ragged, choked on her own fear. Her heart pounded harder in her chest, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, as though the panic was stealing all the air from her lungs.

Narcissa and Lily were already working, their hands flying across the room as they rummaged through the cupboards, pulling out vials, jars, dried herbs. But Lyra couldn't focus on them.

She could only see Harry.

Could only hear the awful sounds coming from his chest as he began to choke—coughing and sputtering as his body wracked with tremors. His mouth opened and closed in desperate gasps for air, but there was no calmness to his breath. It was labored. Strangled.

Lyra felt the air thicken around her. Her throat felt tight as the foam started to form at the corners of Harry's mouth. The sight of it made her stomach lurch.

His body seized again.

Lily was moving faster now, pulling a potion from one of the shelves, muttering something under her breath as she poured it into a small vial. She didn't look up, but Lyra could feel the weight of her eyes on Harry. She could feel the fear in her too.

But Lily didn't stop. She couldn't afford to.

Narcissa was at her side in a moment, leaning over Harry, pressing a cloth to his leg, but the shaking wouldn't stop. The foam was growing thicker now, spilling over his lips, and with every breath he took, it seemed like he was slipping further into darkness.

"Please," Lyra's voice broke through, a whisper of raw panic that she didn't recognize. She gripped Harry's hand harder, shaking him, her fingers digging into his skin. "Please, Harry, wake up."

He didn't move.

His body didn't respond.

The only sign that he was still there was the soft rasp of his breath, the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Narcissa leaned back, looking at Lily with wide eyes. "Lily—"

But Lily was already ahead of her.

She didn't speak. She didn't need to.

She knew.

Lyra couldn't tear her eyes away from Harry. The desperation in her chest was choking her, but she didn't know what to do. How to help him. How to make this stop.

The foam spread across his lips like a plague, and with it, the terror that came with the knowledge that he could—he might—be gone.

Not him. Not Harry. Not like this.

Lyra felt as though the room had collapsed around her. Time felt suspended, as though she were in a nightmare that she couldn't wake up from.

And in the chaos, in the whirlwind of emotion and panic and terror, she barely noticed when Dumbledore and Snape entered the room.

They were already too late. The damage had been done.

Lyra couldn't look away from Harry. Couldn't hear anything but his ragged breathing.

He couldn't die.

He couldn't.

And yet the fear gnawed at her like an unrelenting beast. Her mind screamed that it wasn't fair. That it shouldn't have happened. He was too young. Too good.

But in that moment, as Harry's body jerked once more, Lily moved. She moved with a quiet certainty, her hands swift and graceful as she administered the potion.

And slowly, with a tremble that nearly shattered Lyra's heart, Harry's body began to still.

The foam receded.

The tremors began to lessen.

But as he lay there, pale and broken, Lyra couldn't stop the tears that flowed. She was still holding his hand, feeling the warmth return to his skin.

And it was all she could do to not scream.

Harry stepped into the kitchen, his footsteps light but heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

Lyra didn't look up at him, keeping her focus on the glass in her hands, though she could feel the heaviness of his stare.

After a long, pregnant silence, Harry spoke, his voice tense. "Why are you so hell-bent on putting yourself in danger?"

Lyra set the glass down, her fingers curling around the edge of the counter. She felt her pulse quicken, a familiar rush of irritation stirring in her chest. "What do you want from me, Harry? I'm trying to do the right thing, for once in my life, and you won't let me. Why do you keep treating me like I can't make decisions for myself?"

"I'm trying to keep you safe!" Harry's voice cracked slightly with frustration.

"I'm trying to make sure you get home!" Lyra shot back, turning to face him now, her tone sharp. "Sue me for caring, Harry."

The words hung in the air between them, and Harry's eyes flared with anger. "You can't just... throw yourself into danger and expect everything to be fine! This isn't some bloody game, Lyra. You're not invincible!"

"I can take care of myself!" she fired back, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "Just like you can, Harry."

Harry was stable now—at least physically. His breathing had evened out, and the tremors had stopped. The foam had receded, and the unnerving shakes in his body had quieted, but still, he didn’t wake up. His face remained pale, a stark contrast to the warmth that was slowly creeping back into his skin. He was alive, yes, but... how alive?

Lyra couldn’t stop staring at him. Her hand was still tightly gripping his, as though that simple connection was the only thing keeping her anchored in a world that suddenly seemed so wrong. The room around her felt far too small, as though the walls were closing in on her.

Lily was moving around them, her movements quick and purposeful. She had turned to Lyra at one point, her voice soft but insistent. “Lyra, I need to check your injuries, too,” she had said, her hands already reaching for the edges of Lyra’s robes.

But Lyra could barely hear her. Her head was swimming, her thoughts were jumbled, and every time she looked down at Harry’s still, unresponsive form, it felt like the world was spinning too fast around her.

“No,” Lyra whispered, her voice trembling. “No... I can’t...”

But Lily’s hands had paused, the concern on her face evident. She had wanted to help, wanted to make sure Lyra was okay, but Lyra didn’t care. She couldn’t focus on herself. Not now. Not when Harry was lying here, with blood on his skin, with foam at his lips, and not knowing if he would ever wake up.

It was then that Dumbledore’s voice, calm and steady, broke through the heavy silence of the room.

“Give it time, Lyra,” he said softly, as if this was all just some passing inconvenience, as though time could somehow heal the weight of what had just happened. “He’s been through a great deal. His body needs to rest.”

Rest.

Rest.

The words settled in her mind like a powder keg, ticking down with a quiet fury. It wasn’t just the pain in her chest. It wasn’t just the terror of Harry possibly never waking up. It was everything that had led to this moment. Everything that had been building up for months, and years. All of it came crashing down on her, and with that came the explosion.

Lyra turned, her eyes flashing with rage.

“This is all YOUR fault!” she yelled, the words bursting out of her before she could stop them. Her hands trembled at her sides, fists clenched with an anger so sudden it nearly choked her. She was so full of it, the fire raging inside her that she didn’t even know what she was doing as she took a step toward Dumbledore. “You brought us into this mess, and now Harry might die because of it! Did you think, for even one second, that this wasn’t what we wanted? This isn’t what we signed up for! You did this!”

Her voice was hoarse, ragged, the sharpness of her words cutting through the tension in the room like a blade. Every part of her screamed that someone—someone—needed to take responsibility for the death that could be hanging in the balance.

“If Harry dies,” she continued, her voice louder now, “it’s all on you!”

Dumbledore didn’t move. His blue eyes regarded her with the same quiet patience they always did, as if he were trying to calm her down, as though she were a child throwing a tantrum. But it was the calmness in his gaze that drove the fire inside her to burn hotter.

“How many people have to die,” she said through gritted teeth, her fury rising with each word, “before you start taking responsibility?”

Her chest heaved as she stepped closer, the space between them narrowing with each step. She was done holding back. She couldn’t stand it any longer—the calm, the patience, the excuses. The way Dumbledore thought he could always be in control, always be the one with all the answers.

“How many kids,” she spat, the words bitter in her mouth, “have to sacrifice themselves for you to admit you’re wrong? How many lives need to be torn apart before you stop pretending you know what’s best for everyone?”

The room was silent, the only sound the faint echo of her voice ringing off the walls. Lyra was trembling now, her heart pounding in her chest as she glared at the man who, in her mind, had just as much blood on his hands as anyone else.

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. He didn’t react to the explosion of rage from the girl in front of him. Instead, his hands were folded in front of him, his gaze never leaving her face. But for the first time since Lyra had met him, something flickered in his eyes—something that might have been guilt, or shame, or maybe just a quiet, weary understanding that she was right.

“I...” His voice was soft. A simple word, but it didn’t come with the usual weight of authority or assurance. “I did what I thought was right, Lyra.”

Lyra let out a humorless laugh. “What you thought was right.”

She shook her head, her eyes wild with emotion. She wasn’t finished. She couldn’t be finished. Harry had just nearly died. She couldn’t just sit back and let it slide. Not this time. Not when it was her fault, not when it was all a consequence of Dumbledore’s decisions.

Dumbledore didn’t speak again, and Lyra was grateful for that, because in that silence, she could feel the weight of everything she’d said. Her chest felt tight, her throat burning, but there was something else there too.

A release.

She wasn’t holding it all in anymore.

Her mind still buzzed with anger, but there was a clarity now. The pieces were all falling into place, and she could see them clearly. The games, the manipulations, the decisions made for the greater good—and how many had died for it?

“How many kids will have to die before you realize your plan isn’t working?” Lyra repeated, quieter this time. But the sting was still there. The bite of truth.

Finally, after a long moment of silence, Dumbledore spoke again, his voice calm but tinged with something she hadn’t expected.

“I never intended for this to happen, Lyra. But I understand your anger. And I am... sorry. For all of it.”

Lyra stood there, her fists still clenched at her sides, her breath coming in uneven gasps. But she couldn’t let him off the hook. She wouldn’t.

Not yet.

But the anger began to dissipate, just a little, as she turned her gaze back to Harry. He was still unconscious, still barely holding onto life. But he was alive. And that—at least—was enough for now.

Lyra sank into the chair beside him, her body too tired to hold up anymore. Her head dropped into her hands, her sobs shaking her shoulders as she let everything else go.

The fight. The words. The anger.

It was all too much. All too overwhelming. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was Harry.

The only thing that mattered was making sure he was okay.

"Harry..." she whispered, her hand reaching out to hold his, squeezing it, "Come back to me, please. I need you."

ORIGINAL UNIVERSE, LYRA MALFOY'S POV

1995

-II-

I THINK I LOVED YOU A LIFETIME AGO

The Astronomy Tower was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages turning, and the soft clinking of Harry’s feet against the stone floor as he paced back and forth. Lyra was sitting at a wooden table, her homework spread out in front of her, but it was clear that Harry was doing everything he could to distract her.

“Seriously, Lyra, you’re still reading that?” Harry asked, leaning over her shoulder and peering at the textbook she was focused on, though his attention was mostly on her. “Defense Against the Dark Arts and you’re still reading about moonstone? It’s fascinating, I’m sure, but isn’t there something a bit more... entertaining?”

Lyra bit back a smile, trying to maintain her focus on the words in front of her. “I know you hate studying, but this is important,” she said, tapping the page. “You never know when we’ll need to know about magical properties of stones, Harry.”

He made a face. “When am I ever going to need to know about stones? I’m more interested in learning how to use my broom properly, or maybe how to get better at Quidditch.”

Lyra laughed softly, glancing at him from over the top of her book. “Quidditch. Of course. You can’t ever get enough of that, can you?”

“Not when I’m winning, no,” Harry replied, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Speaking of which, do you want me to show you some moves after you finish all your homework?” He raised his eyebrows playfully.

“Maybe after I finish the next decade of my studies, sure,” Lyra teased, making him laugh.

She tried to refocus on her book, but Harry wasn’t giving up. He shuffled around the table, pulling the edge of the book down just enough so she couldn’t keep reading. Lyra sighed, pretending to be annoyed.

“Come on, just take a break,” Harry urged, his voice light and playful. “You’ve been at it for hours. You deserve a break, right?”

Lyra raised her eyebrows. “I’m only halfway through this essay, Harry. Do you really want me to fail?”

“No, I definitely don’t want you to fail.” He grinned wider, moving around to the other side of the table to sit across from her. “But I don’t mind distracting you for a little while. You could use the distraction. You’ve been so focused on that thing you haven’t even noticed that it’s already past sunset.”

Lyra turned to the window. Outside, the sun had disappeared behind the hills, the sky turning a deep shade of indigo, sprinkled with stars. The view was beautiful, but it also made her realize how long they had been sitting there together.

“You’re impossible,” she said, but her lips curled into a smile anyway.

“So,” Harry began, breaking the comfortable silence. “What’s this book you were reading earlier? You’ve been glued to it for days. What’s it about?”

Lyra tilted her head, considering. “Oh, it’s this muggle book I found. It’s about this boy who gets stuck in limbo.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly not sure what that meant. “Limbo? Like the in-between place?”

“Yeah, exactly,” she said, warming to the topic. “It’s about this boy who dies but isn’t really gone. He’s stuck in this space where no one can tell him what’s happening to him. He’s not alive, but he’s not dead. And he has to figure out how to move on from there.” She paused, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her notebook. “It’s pretty sad, actually. But also kind of beautiful. He spends all this time trying to figure out what’s next, what happens after.”

Harry took all of that in quietly. “That sounds... intense,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why are you reading something so heavy?”

Lyra shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just... it makes you think, you know? About life, about where we go, about what really matters.” She met his eyes, her gaze steady and a little more serious now. “Sometimes, it feels like we’re all just trying to figure things out, and we don’t know what’s next.”

Harry stared at her for a moment, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always know how to make things sound deeper than I can wrap my head around.”

Lyra chuckled, her heart skipping a beat at his gentle tone. “I suppose that’s what happens when you spend half your time reading about death and the afterlife.”

Harry leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “If I ever got stuck in limbo... I think you’d be the one to wake me up.”

Lyra blinked, surprised by the seriousness in his voice. She met his eyes, her heart picking up its pace. “What do you mean?”

Harry reached over, gently brushing a lock of hair out of her face, his hand lingering just for a moment longer than necessary. “I don’t think I’d be able to get out of limbo on my own. But if anyone could pull me out, it would be you. You always seem to know exactly what to do. You’d find a way to wake me up.”

Lyra felt her breath catch, and she wasn’t sure why. It was just Harry being Harry, yet something about the way he said it made her feel warm all over. She took a deep breath, her hand reaching up to touch his, both of them still sitting closer now, the air between them charged with a sudden intensity.

“I would, Harry,” she whispered. “If you were ever in limbo, which won't happen, by the way, but if it did... I’d find a way. I’d never leave you there.”

Harry’s face softened, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything at all. He just looked at her like she was everything he needed. “I know you would,” he murmured.

There was a moment of quiet, a peaceful stillness that filled the space around them. The only sound was the faint breeze that drifted in through the open windows, and the soft, rhythmic beating of their hearts in sync.

And then, without thinking, Harry leaned forward, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was gentle but full of everything they’d never said out loud. It was tender, warm, and full of unspoken promises. Lyra closed her eyes, her hands moving to cup his face, as if she could memorize the feel of him.

When they pulled away, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other, sharing a quiet smile. Harry’s hand gently brushed the back of her hand as he whispered, “I don’t ever want to be without you.”

Lyra’s heart swelled at the words, and she kissed him again, soft and slow, as if the whole world outside the tower didn’t matter anymore. It was just them, here, together, with nothing else to think about except this moment.

“I feel the same way,” she whispered against his lips, unable to keep the smile from her face. “You’re all I need, Harry.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the stars and the warmth of each other’s touch, everything else seemed like it could wait. They had each other, and that was enough.