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Godric's Hollow
Night of 31st October 1981 — Potter House

The last few cold days of October had passed slowly and quietly, filled with a strange electricity and a silence saturated with a tension that James and Lily Potter couldn't ignore. There was something in the air lately, something scratching at the walls of the house even though the world outside seemed to be flowing smoothly. In their home, time seemed to have thickened between the walls, and not even the sound of the wind or the muffled noise of the outside world could break that feeling of anticipation — an anticipation that smelled of foreboding, of something that had not yet revealed itself but was approaching, at a slow and inexorable pace.

James and Lily were aware of it.

They had been for weeks, perhaps months.

Every day spent with their children — the twins who were just over a year old, Lyra and Harry — was as much a blessing as it was a countdown. They couldn't go out and they knew it, and of course they couldn't have any visitors except for a few trusted people: Sirius, Remus, Peter... and sometimes Albus Dumbledore, who appeared like a quiet shadow and always left with a new worry around him, never any real certainty.

The two young parents would've liked to enjoy a quiet Halloween evening like so many others with their children: decorating the house, waiting for someone to knock on the door to say "Trick or treat?", carving funny pumpkins with the children's help, putting on some music or dressing up, as the Muggle and Wizarding families in the neighbourhood had been doing for days.

But this dream of theirs could not come true.

Because there was a name, a face, a shadow that had been looming over them for months: the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, who was hunting them — or, to be more precise, one of their children. The most feared dark wizard of the century was gathering around him all kinds of creatures — unscrupulous wizards, werewolves, trolls, beings who had forgotten the light — and with them his most loyal followers, the Death Eaters. All bore the Dark Mark engraved on their left forearms, a skull with a snake rising from it as a tongue, symbolising his power and a tool for summoning them to him. When the mark burned, there was no hesitation: they materialised wherever they were. Voldemort's plan was grand and ruthless: power and might had always been his ultimate goals, and to achieve them, he had to remove anything that stood in his way.

Although his goal was power — absolute, unchallenged and eternal power — there was a problem standing in his way.

As every rise has its obstacles, his came in the form of words.

A prophecy.

Dark, ambiguous, uttered at an unexpected moment by a young woman, Sybil Trelawney, just as she was seeking a position as the Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Dumbledore, who was about to dismiss her kindly, suddenly froze at the sound of those words spoken in a trance, as if they came from another place, deeper and more inaccessible:

'Here comes the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord, born to those who have thrice defied him, born at the end of the seventh month.

The Dark Lord will name him his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord does not know... and one will kill the other, for neither can live while the other survives.

The only one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord will be born at the end of the seventh month... '

Just hearing the first part was enough to change everything, because someone had been eavesdropping.

A man with blurred contours between loyalty and regret: Severus Snape.

Still a Death Eater, still tied to the world that had welcomed him years before — but not entirely. Snape heard enough to bring the news to Voldemort, without understanding the consequences of what he was delivering.

The prophecy, as is often the case with dangerous truths, named no names nor distinctions. It spoke of neither a boy or a girl; only of a child.

One among many, yet the only one capable of changing everything.

The prophecy was vague and ambiguous, and the choice of individual was to be made by the Dark Lord himself; and for some strange and absurd reason, he never knew that the Potters had twins, a boy and a girl, born at the end of July.

And among the possible candidates, only two names stood out: Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. Two newborns, unaware of the fate that hung over them.

Yet, Voldemort chose Harry as his equal.

Perhaps because he was a half-blood, like him.

Perhaps because he felt a threat closer, more similar.

He chose Harry, convinced that, being a half-blood himself, he would prove to be a greater threat to his rise to power.

Snape realised too late what he had unleashed: he was still in love with Lily Evans, with the kind of love that does not die even in the dark. And he asked only one thing of his master, his voice trembling just beneath his mask...

To spare her, Lily. The only woman he had ever loved.

Ever since the prophecy was revealed, James and Lily took refuge in the Potter Cottage.

It was a small house that carried the scent of childhood, of wet ground and laundry hanging in the sun — but for months it became their only possible world. It was a house supposed to protect them, isolate them, keep them away from the evil that was pressing at the gates of the wizarding world. It was there that they decided, on the advice of the Order, to resort to the Fidelius Charm, a spell as powerful as it was risky, capable of hiding a secret in the heart of a single individual.

At first, the couple chose Sirius as the Secret Keeper, because of the instinctive trust that only comes from bonds created and shaped in adolescence, when everything seems invincible. But then they changed their minds, because they were convinced that Sirius would be the prime suspect and that they would be taking too much of a risk. So they cautiously entrusted the life of their family to Peter Pettigrew, convinced that no one would ever consider him.

And from that day on, James and Lily lived in fear.

Not the loud, chaotic fear of battles, but the quiet, insistent fear that creeps into everyday life, that makes you hold your breath every time you hear a noise behind the door, that makes you hold your children a little tighter than necessary just because you don't know if you'll be able to do it again. A fear made up of light footsteps on the floorboards so as not to wake the little ones, of quick glances at the window even though there was nothing to see, of sentences cut short so as not to say certain things out loud. A whispered fear, hidden under the dresses, which however could never completely extinguish hope.

They knew they could no longer fight on the front lines alongside the Order of the Phoenix, that they could no longer actively participate in the war that was inflaming the Wizarding World, but deep down, they both felt they were doing what was most important: protecting Harry and Lyra, raising those two little miracles in light and love.

James and Lily had dreamed for those two a childhood full of laughter and scraped knees, of stories told under the covers, of games in the garden and jam-stained hands, of that simple, bright happiness that should be every child's right. They didn't want them to know hatred, only love for their fellow human beings, empathy and kindness.

Deep down they hoped that all this would be enough... that the Dark Lord would be defeated, perhaps in time, perhaps without further sacrifice. After all, they were just in their early twenties, with heads full of dreams and hearts full of future. And they saw light even where the world seemed unable to see it. They saw good even in evil, the sky even in the midst of the storm.

They had grown up believing that there was at least a spark of goodness in every person.

And despite everything, they continued to believe it.

Yet, on the evening of 31st October 1981, Voldemort proved to have no shred of the goodness that James and Lily stubbornly believed in. Betrayed by Peter Pettigrew, who had sold himself like a worn coin in exchange for power, the Dark Lord arrived at Godric's Hollow. It was a dark and bitter evening, the sky covered with clouds like a curtain about to fall on the world. The wind beat against the windows and the rain fell thickly, but there was something deeper, more disturbing in the air. A strange, suspended silence, as if even time itself had held its breath.

With all the magical protections now broken, it wasn't difficult for Voldemort to find the beautiful two-storey house with ivy climbing up the walls and the fireplace still lit.

The dark wizard crossed the threshold like a shadow that asks no permission, and the sound of the door swinging open mingled with distant thunder, shaking the windows.

In an instant, every heartbeat stopped.

James ran to the entrance without thinking, without even grabbing the wand he had left on the sofa — a fatal mistake that cost him his life, but it was instinctive.

Be cause between life and his wand, he chose the lives of his children and his wife.

And he didn't even have time to scream.

Voldemort ascended the stairs with a slowness that smacked of condemnation, with the steady, precise steps of someone who knew exactly what he was about to find. Every step echoed like a tolling bell in the narrow corridor, an announcement not of his arrival, but of his dominance — for he had already seen the end written in the stars, had already crafted the outcome in the hollow of his palm.

Nothing could touch him now: not fear, not failure, not fate.

But when he pushed the door of a bedroom, something made him almost hesitate, not out of weakness but out of surprise. The kind of pause that wasn't born out of hesitation, but because of a confusion too sudden to be suppressed. Inside the crib, illuminated by the pale, indifferent light of the moon filtering through half-drawn curtains, there were two babies.

Two.

He had expected one.

Harry, of course — he had recognised that baby immediately with a certainty that didn't come from memory, but from the bone-deep resonance of prophecy fulfilled. The boy marked for him, the boy he had feared only long enough to decide he would destroy.

The boy whose existence had dictated the shape of his return and the necessity of murder.

But beside him, as if the universe itself had miscalculated, there was a little girl: a baby of delicate features and straight light hair, looking at him curiously with her watery green eyes.

Her presence struck him like a whispered name in a silent room — unfamiliar, but not unimportant. And Voldemort, who firmly did not believe in accidents, felt the air tighten around him with the dissonance of something profoundly wrong.

She was a threat he hadn't calculated. And for someone like him, who shaped his entire existence around control and prophecies, who had spent years weaving the fabric of immortality from threads of precision, that mistake was enough to crack the foundations of his own plan. The girl's presence was intolerable, because it meant he had miscalculated everything and something had slipped past him.

It meant that he might not know everything — and this was perhaps the most offensive of all.

He stood motionless for a moment that seemed like an eternity, his breath suspended and his gaze fixed on that small, unaware face, and something inside him contracted. No one had ever told him about a twin. No one had told him that the Potters had two children.

Who had kept it from him? Who had deceived him? And what did that ambiguous prophecy, so open to interpretation, really mean now?

Lily stood before him, straight as a barrier of light, her hands trembling and her eyes steady. There was love in every fibre of her body... a fierce, desperate love, and her voice, when she told him not to touch her children, seemed to come from a place deeper than any magic.

Voldemort gave her a chance to save herself, but the young woman refused to step aside without hesitation or supplication, and was brutally killed.

Green lightning exploded in the room with a hiss that shook the windows and made the shadows recoil, while Lily's scream broke in the air like a string pulled too tight. The children covered their eyes and cried with all the breath they had in their lungs, pressed against the blankets, their faces streaked with tears and their skin shivering.

And in the silence that followed, thick as smoke, Voldemort approached.

He bent over the twins, the small creatures trembling like leaves in the wind, and there was no pity or hesitation in his gaze. Only calculation and power.

And then, without a shred of doubt or hesitation, he pointed his wand at the girl.

He chose Lyra. He wanted to start with her, not because she was weaker than the boy nor because she was insignificant. In fact, it was the very opposite. There was something in the stillness of her body, in the way her small hands had clenched in silence, glimmering light in her wide, green eyes that refused to close, even when danger had filled the room like smoke. She wasn't crying or screaming: she was watching.

And that alone was enough to unsettle him.

For a brief moment, and only within the depthless caverns of his own mind, Voldemort felt something twist — something cold, sharp, almost insulting to himself. That this child, this unknown, nameless girl, would not turn her face from him. That she would look, as if trying to understand. As if she saw through something no one else had dared to see.

He raised the wand and aimed it directly at the small figure that had dared to remain still. At the little girl who had no prophecy, no name in the books, no mark of destiny — and yet, somehow, burned with presence. But just before the words could form on his tongue, in that suspended moment, in that instant before the end, that something impossible to foresee happened: a flash, dazzling and pure, so vividly white that could hurt the eyes, shot across the room like a bolt of lightning. It was like an explosion of light and wind, of living electricity that shook the walls and destroyed the window with a loud crash, shattering the glass and bending the air itself. It was as if time had contracted into a single heartbeat, and in that heartbeat something — or someone — had crossed the threshold of the real world to snatch away what could still be saved.

It didn't come with a sound or a warning, but with a violence of light so total, so searing, so white that it devoured every shadow in an instant and redefined the room around it.

It wasn't like fire, nor like a spell — it was something else, something ancient and pure and faster than anything that had ever moved inside that house. A blast of energy, a living breath of electricity and wind and something far older than magic, detonated into the room as if the universe itself had reached in to correct a mistake.

A figure, something like a force or a trail of light impossibly fast and real, crossed the room so quickly to be seen clearly. It was impossible to tell if it was a man, a shadow, or an idea.

It wasn't moving like something moving through space and time, but like something rewriting both. A streak of incandescent brilliance, barely visible to the human eye, slicing through the thick veil of silence like a blade through silk, tearing the very fabric of stillness apart. It was just a luminous trail that crossed the room, crossed the silence, crossed death — and took little Lyra away with it into light, enveloping her in its invisible embrace a second before the wand pointed at her released the curse.

Lord Voldemort stood motionless: for a moment, the Dark Lord seemed almost human.

Betrayed by time, by predictions, by reality itself.

He had felt his magic already on the verge of exploding, he had already tasted the sensation of the end, and yet someone — something — had taken it away from him right before his eyes.

In those split seconds, an unnatural wind rose in the room, charged with power and tension, a noise that echoed in their eardrums like a distant scream. The sound of air being torn apart, of glass falling to the floor like sharp rain, and in the midst of it all, Harry cried. He cried loudly, desperately, unable to understand, but able to feel everything.

Voldemort did not wait any longer at that point: enraged as he had never been before, filled with a rage that surpassed even his thirst for power, he raised his wand and cast the Killing Curse with blind fury, all focused on the small body standing before him.

But the impossible happened. Again.

The curse — that green wave that had extinguished hundreds of lives — rebounded.

It didn't simply fail. It reflected, returning as if it had found an invisible barrier between itself and the child. A wall made of love, sacrifice, ancient and unknown magic that even the darkest of wizards could not have foreseen.

And when the Avada Kedavra struck the one who had cast it, it was like seeing evil crumble: Voldemort's body fell apart before little Harry's eyes, like sand scattered in the wind, like a shadow losing its shape at dawn. Nothing remained but an echo of black magic and an unreal silence that seemed to come from another world.

And Harry was still there.

Alone, fragile, his eyes filled with tears that no longer had a voice, sitting on a carpet soaked with fear. He looked at his mother, lying on the floor, motionless and distant, too far away to be awakened by a cry or a caress. And every now and then, with a glimmer of hope that hurt even those who weren't there, he turned to the cradle next to him, searching for his sister's gaze, the scent of her skin, the warmth of her presence.

But Lyra was gone.

There was no refuge left in that room. No familiar voices. No response.

All he had left was a scar on his forehead, a thin lightning bolt that glowed faintly in the dim light of a night that seemed never-ending. And from that moment on, Harry James Potter would be known to the world as "The Boy Who Lived".

But no one, not even Dumbledore, not even the Order, knew what had happened to little Lyra — who that night became instead "The Girl Who Vanished".

Where that trail of light had led, that explosion of power that had taken her away from there — no one knew. And in the surreal silence that followed, the house remained standing, like the secret kept within its walls.

————————

Miles away, hidden by magic and every protective spell known to man, the cottage where Sirius Black and Remus Lupin had taken refuge was shrouded in the thick darkness of the night, interrupted only by the dim light of a nearly consumed candle. The silence around them was profound, the kind of silence that inevitably precedes something big, something that would change the course of events.

It was in that unreal silence that something happened: a hiss, a muffled bang, and then a figure appeared in the middle of the room, wrapped in a white suit crossed by thin silver trim and an amber yellow so vivid it looked like solidified light. It wore a mask that completely covered its face, revealing only two bright blue eyes, almost superhuman in their intensity.

The sudden noise set off Sirius and Remus, and they entered the living room in an instant, wands already pointed with steady hands but hearts racing in their chests.

«Who's there?» hissed Sirius, his voice little more than a whisper, sharp as the tip of his wand. Remus, silent and focused at his side, stared at the figure in the centre of the room, trying to decipher its intentions and movements. «Who are you? What do you want from us?» he continued, his voice trembling with anger and fear.

The white figure stood motionless for a few seconds, breathing slowly and evenly behind the mask, then spoke. His voice was deep, strangely distant, almost metallic, as if each word were passing through endless layers of time and space to reach the ears of the two young men. «I cannot tell you who I am.» he said with unnatural calm, as if reciting a script written by someone else.

«I'm sorry, I really can't. But I mean no harm, I assure you. I am here in peace.»

As he spoke, his movements were cautious, and he gently lifted what he was holding in his arms. Sirius and Remus held their breath when they saw the sleeping face of a little girl. They recognised her immediately: it was Lyra, Lily and James' little daughter.

«I've brought you this child,» the figure continued, advancing slowly and handing her over with extreme delicacy, almost as if she were made of glass. «I believe you know her.»

The two wizards stood motionless for an interminable moment, a thousand questions crowding their minds, multiplying like shadows in the dark. Remus, moving first with a calmness that felt instinctive, took little Lyra into his arms. She was warm, peaceful, and sleeping soundly, unaware of everything that was happening.

«Something terrible has happened at the Potter house a short while ago,» the figure added with his voice slightly cracked with sadness or perhaps just exhaustion. «I couldn't take the other child, I'm sorry. But she... she's different. You must protect her. Keep her hidden from everyone and everything.»

Remus looked at Sirius, searching for answers in his eyes filled with panic and confusion, then stared back at the stranger, noticing that he was now clutching a letter in his hands, like a secret entrusted to them, the few who could keep it safe. «What's this? Who should we give it to?» asked Sirius, almost impatient but with a trembling, frightened voice.

The figure remained silent for a few seconds, scrutinising them with those bright, deep eyes that seemed to contain entire worlds. Then, with solemn caution, he handed them the sealed envelope, as white and immaculate as his suit. «It's for you two. You must keep it hidden, away from prying eyes. That's all I can tell you, except that this child will be... different. It is essential that you do not talk to Harry about her, or vice versa, not yet. If they find out about each other too soon...»

«Who are you to tell us what to do?» Sirius suddenly shouted, his eyes flashing with anger and pain, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. «Why should we trust you, a masked stranger who hands us children and letters and instructions without even telling us his own name?»

But in the time it took to utter those words, the man — or perhaps the flash of light — had already vanished, as if he had never been there, leaving behind only the oppressive silence of a room that suddenly seemed too large, too empty. Sirius, overwhelmed with frustration and despair, vented all his helplessness by hitting the wall hard, once, twice, three times, until the physical pain at least partially subsided the inner pain. Remus, on the other hand, stared motionless at the letter in his friend's trembling hands, while little Lyra continued to sleep, peaceful in his protective embrace.

«Let's read it...» said Remus in a very low voice, almost inaudible for fear of breaking the delicate balance that was still keeping them standing. «We have to do it before it's too late.»

They slowly opened the envelope, and Sirius read it quickly before looking at Remus with a heavy sigh and began to read aloud:

"To the Guardian of this child,
To the Protector who did not choose to be, but was chosen by fate.

I know I have no right to ask you anything, you don't know me and I don't know you.

But I clearly feel that at this moment your heart is broken by loss, and that the pain, anger and helplessness at what happened tonight in Godric's Hollow are consuming your every certainty.

I have come to you because I know you are not to blame, that no one could have prevented what happened.

But please, listen to me carefully, because what you're about to read will change everything.

This child, Lyra Eileen Potter, is no longer a normal child or witch like the others.

When Voldemort entered that house, he did not know about her — as he thought there was only one child there. The prophecy is unclear to those who look at it with impatient eyes, and we, who have seen the future of the timelines, know what will happen if Lyra stays close to her brother. We have also seen what will happen if she is hidden, protected, away from prying eyes."

As soon as they reached this point, the two Marauders looked into each other's eyes, now filled with tears. It can't really have happened, they thought, James and Lily are dead, and maybe Harry too. Sirius swallowed loudly, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that had formed, and continued reading in a trembling voice.

"Two possibilities. Two futures. 
One ends in blood. The other in hope.

In saving her, I left a part of myself in her, not by choice, but because I had no other way.
It's a spark, a gift, and perhaps for some, a curse: Superspeed.
But it's not just running... it's perception, refraction, time itself.

It is possible that Lyra will discover, as she grows up, that she can move faster than thoughts, see what has not yet happened, or what has already happened.
No one knows how it will manifest itself. No one must know.

Her power does not come from Voldemort, nor from the Potters. It comes from me, and therefore from another world.

Lyra cannot grow up with you, and I know that this truth breaks you inside.
Sirius, I know your heart, and I know you would have given your life for James.
Remus, I know how much Lily meant to you.

But if Lyra stays with you, she will be found. The Death Eaters will seek revenge. Voldemort may not have been completely destroyed, and Lyra is still too young to run from danger. You must let her go.

Entrust her to someone who carries your blood or who has your absolute trust, someone who can protect her and hide her at the same time. She must not grow up with a heart full of hatred, she must not become like them.
She will grow up without knowing who she really is, but she'll never be truly alone.

Her memories will return, the dreams will begin to speak to her; and when she is ready, if you are there to hold her hand, when the time is right, she will find her brother, she will find all of you. And then the world will change forever.

I entrust this life to you, asking you not to seek mine.
When the time comes, we will meet again.

– The Speedster"

The letter fell from Sirius' hands onto the table. They two of them didn't speak for a couple of minutes, which seemed like an eternity. With tears streaming down their faces and slight sobs, the two watched the baby girl sleeping peacefully in the emerald-coloured blanket held by Remus. They then looked at the letter, the flowing handwriting, the black ink, the words written so small but with a meaning greater than they could explain or understand. It wasn't the content itself that was difficult to digest, but the realisation that something had changed forever that night, and they couldn't bring themselves to admit it.

Remus held the baby girl in his arms, his eyes closed to pretend that nothing was true, while Sirius sat on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands, his knuckles white from clenching his fists. They thought about everything they had been through in recent years, the jokes, the laughter, the holidays, the happiness, but also the dark side of the war in the wizarding world.

And finally, both their thoughts turned to the Potter family. To James, Lily and little Harry. And they felt like crying, screaming, smashing everything at the mere thought that they might really be dead that night. And Sirius also thought that maybe Peter had betrayed them and handed them over to Voldemort. Especially since he was the only one who knew that Peter was the Secret Keeper and not him, as the others believed.

«I can't let her go, Remus...» Sirius said, his voice breaking. «She's all I have left of James and Lily. And if what that speedster says is true, I don't... I can't imagine that...»

The words died on his lips, choked by a desperate sob.

Remus sighed and turned to look at the little girl, smiling sadly. Her delicate features, chubby cheeks, long eyelashes and hair like her little brother Harry's. But he noticed that there was something more, like an invisible aura, a vibration that made time around her seem suspended.

«I know, Sirius...» he murmured. «But we both feel it, don't we? That she's... not like Harry. That maybe this guy is right, and we can't risk any further if...» Remus took a long breath. «If the rest of the family really is dead.»

He said the last two words in a hiss, almost inaudible. Sirius' eyes widened.

«So what- what do we do? Do we abandon her? How can we... let her go, Remus?»

Remus looked at him, sighing. «Unfortunately, we're targets. You're the most visible target of the Order, Sirius. I... once a full moon comes, I know I won't be able to protect her as I'd like to. Not always. And besides... if anyone knows about her, they'll come looking for her.»

Sirius looked at him angrily, his eyes still shining. «She's my goddaughter, Remus! Lily asked me to protect her and Harry if anything happened, and James wanted her to be with me too. And if I leave now, if I abandon her...» he said the last sentence tremulously, sobbing.

«I'm not asking you to abandon her!» Remus interrupted, stroking his arm cautiously. «I'm saying that the only way to protect her right now... is to let her go. At least for now, until the dust settles. She needs to be given to someone who isn't suspicious, someone who isn't on the Order's register. Someone who lives among them for a while.»

A deep silence fell between the two. The ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual, alternating with the quiet breathing of the child. They both knew that the choice they had to make would change everything, and they didn't know if it would be for better or for worse.

«Moony, please- please promise me she'll never be a Death Eater...» Sirius whispered. «That she'll never be one of them.»

«I swear, Padfoot. Never one of them.» said Remus. Sirius looked at him for a moment, then nodded, and before leaving he placed a kiss on Lyra's little forehead.

————————

Albus Dumbledore arrived at Godric's Hollow shortly after James and Lily's deaths, alerted by the protective spell he himself had cast: a spell that was hoped would never actually be activated. However, before Dumbledore could reach the house, now reduced to a sad ruin, Hagrid and Sirius had already arrived.

Entering the devastated place, enveloped in a chilly and painful silence, the two saw the bodies of James and Lily lying lifeless on the floor; the scene took their breath away, a pain so strong that it seemed to empty every part of them.

But in the midst of that horror, they heard a soft, almost surreal sound: a muffled cry of a baby. Hagrid was the first to spot little Harry, sitting in his cot, his face streaked with tears, his green eyes like his mother's, wide open in a silent plea for help. When the baby saw them approaching, he instinctively reached out his arms towards them, giving them an uncertain, innocent smile, as if he didn't understand what had just happened. That smile broke something inside Sirius, who felt a violent and painful anger mingle with his grief; he leaned slightly towards Hagrid, his voice trembling and his hands shaking slightly.

«Hagrid,» Sirius said urgently, his voice hoarse. «You must take Harry and get him out of here. Take him to Dumbledore immediately, he'll know what to do.» Hagrid looked at him for a moment with a puzzled and worried expression, holding the child gently to his chest.

«But what about you, Sirius? Aren't you coming with us?" he asked, his eyes glistening with tears. Sirius shook his head slowly, unable to look at anything but the motionless body of his best friend lying on the floor.

«I can't...» he said, his voice almost unrecognisable, «I have something to do that can't wait any longer. Take my motorbike if you need it, but get him to safety.»

Hagrid nodded, understanding the determination and desperation in his eyes, and left the house, leaving Sirius alone with the unbearable weight of his loss. Blinded by the rage and pain burning in his chest, Sirius left the destroyed house and plunged into the dark night, determined to find Peter Pettigrew: the man who had betrayed their trust, who had sold the lives of those he considered his best friends, his family, to the Dark Lord. Hatred and fury pulsed through his veins, almost obscuring his vision, but also giving him the clarity of someone who knows he has nothing left to lose.

He never knew how he found him so quickly, hidden in a street not far from the Potters' house.

Peter was there, cowering and trembling, his eyes filled with fear and guilt, an expression that further fuelled Sirius' fury.

The duel that followed was fierce, violent, desperate.

Words of anger, heart-rending accusations, spells cast with ferocity, while tears of pain streamed down Sirius' face.

Pettigrew, with the desperation of someone who has no way out, amputated his own little finger with a spell, faking his own death with a cowardly explosion that also killed twelve innocent Muggles. In an instant, the street was engulfed in smoke and confusion, and when everything cleared, Peter had vanished into thin air.

Only Sirius remained, standing still, stunned, unable to believe what had just happened. His tear-filled eyes looked around, seeing only destruction and pain, and it was then that he understood Pettigrew's terrible plan: he had framed him. Everyone would think that it was Sirius Black, the traitor, the murderer.

The screams came shortly after. Members of the Ministry of Magic appeared at the scene of the disaster, and no one believed Sirius's agonising screams, his despair, the tears streaming down his face. He was arrested on the spot, dragged away while shouting his innocence in vain and trying to make the whole world understand that Peter Pettigrew was still alive, that the real traitor had managed to escape him.

And while Sirius was being taken to Azkaban, his heart broken and his soul destroyed, little Harry, unaware of everything, was being taken to safety by Hagrid, towards his destiny, towards a new life that he would only know far away from the arms of those who truly loved him.

————————

After almost a week of silence, sleepless nights and tormented thoughts, Remus Lupin had finally made a decision. It hadn't been easy, nor was it obvious, and every day that passed made the weight on his shoulders heavier and sharper. He had thought long and hard, consulting secretly with the most trusted members of the Order of the Phoenix, but in the end he was left alone with his doubts and that disturbing letter that had deprived him of peace since the moment he received it.

He had read news reports about Sirius in the newspapers, both Muggle and in the Daily Prophet, about his arrest for causing the deaths of 12 Muggles and Peter Pettigrew. There was also talk of the disappearance of Voldemort and Harry Potter: the Wizarding World was in chaos.

That evening, sitting by a window in a lonely cottage in Wiltshire, the rain fell slowly on the windowpane. The room was dark and a little cold, lit only by a floating lantern. Remus clutched the pen between his trembling fingers. The ink had left smudges on the paper, revealing the fragility of his emotions, which he could no longer contain. Every now and then, he glanced up at the cradle next to him, where Lyra slept peacefully, wrapped in an emerald green blanket that seemed to glow slightly, an imperceptible, almost magical reflection, perhaps the result of what had touched her on that fateful night.

«You lost everything before you even knew what you had...» he whispered softly. He looked at her, seeking comfort in the steady rhythm of her breathing, but all he felt was a tightness in his chest. «I wish I could've given you what they took from you, and grow up with you. But I can't, Lyra. I can't protect you from what's coming for you.»

A part of him, the more impulsive and justice-hungry part, screamed at him to run away with her, to hide in a faraway place where no one could find them. But the weight of responsibility and the bitter awareness of his condition constantly reminded him that it wasn't possible. Not after what had happened to Sirius, imprisoned in Azkaban; not after what had been foretold in the letter left by that enigmatic speedster.

He had thought long and hard about the Selwyn family. Cassius and Elinor were not the most perfect choice, but perhaps that's why they were the safest. They had ties to powerful families — it was true — but they had never been extremists. Remus had listened carefully to the advice of Dumbledore and other trusted members of the Order: the Selwyns were reserved, neutral, strong enough to protect Lyra and discreet enough to hide her from prying eyes. They would not raise her in hatred, he was certain of it, and perhaps they would even give Lyra the peace he himself could not offer her.

Remus took a deep breath and slowly approached the cradle, bending over Lyra tenderly. The little girl had woken up and was looking at him with big curious eyes, giving him an innocent smile that broke his heart even more. «Little Lyra...» he said in a soft, trembling voice. «I have to tell you something, even though you can't understand yet. I know you'll be different, I can feel it already, in every beat of your little heart. But don't be afraid: you will be loved, safe and protected. And I promise you that I will always be close to you, even from afar. One day, I swear, we will be meeting again.»

Lyra chuckled softly, unaware of the gravity of his words, and he smiled sadly, gently brushing her cheek.

And when the time came, Remus picked her up, carefully wrapped in her blanket, and materialised in front of the Selwyn manor. The house was imposing but welcoming, surrounded by a quiet peace that seemed to belong to a distant time. Cassius and Elinor were waiting for them at the door, their expressions calm and kind, which Remus interpreted as a sign that perhaps he had made the right choice after all. With slightly trembling hands, Remus placed Lyra in Elinor's welcoming arms.

Before leaving her, he placed a small box in the woman's hands. Inside was a note with the words "carry on" written on it by her father, and a delicate silver necklace with a carved heart adorned with small sparkling diamonds.

«Take care of her, please,» said Remus in a low voice, addressing himself more than anyone else. «This child deserves everything the world has denied her.»

«We promise we will...» Elinor replied softly, stroking the little girl's head, who had already fallen asleep again, reassured by the warmth and security of that new embrace. Remus took a step back, his throat tight with pain, but knowing he could not have done otherwise.

«Remember, little Lyra...» he whispered as he took one last look at the child. «This is only the first chapter. Live, little one, and we'll see each other again very soon.»

And so, in the delicate silence of the evening, Lyra Eileen Potter began her new life as Lyra Selwyn, carrying with her a secret that time would one day decide to reveal.

Chapter Text

It was probably one of the hottest mornings in late July when Lyra woke up suddenly, breathing heavily and gasping for air, her skin damp in sweat, as if she'd just emerged from a vortex so deep to remember it all. Her heart was pounding in her chest, hands clenched around the sheets, and her mind was still trapped in the echo of yet another identical nightmare.

She had been having the same dream for days now — bizarre and distressing, and identical in every detail. 

The only things that remained etched in her memory were the screams, flashes of green light, the sound of thunders, and then a strange white light that seemed to calm her, almost like it protected her before she woke up. And every time, there was a child next to her — always the same one — but always too blurry and unreachable for her to understand who it was. 

And worst of all, every time she almost managed to distinguish the face, she would wake up with a start, her heart in her throat.

It wasn't the first time this happened to Lyra: she knew that every year, starting days before her birthday, this nightmare would come back to visit her. It was almost like a twisted gift from her mind, as punctual as a ministerial owl and just as 'desired'; it was a personal tradition, in case she forgot that something inside her wasn't quite right.

"Thanks, subconscious. You didn't let me down this year either!" It was the fixed, ironic and bitter thought that Lyra repeated to herself when she returned to reality.

And when her parents found her pale and agitated, with red eyes and trembling hands, the girl simply said, "I'm fine, Mother, these things happen!" shrugging her shoulders. 

It was easier for her than admitting how much that difficult-to-feel and difficult-to-name emptiness remained in her heart, which was like a sense of missing something she couldn't explain or understand. But by now she hardly noticed it anymore, she had become accustomed to it.

The alarm clock on the bedside table read 8:30 a.m. on 31 July 1991. Today Lyra would've turned 11, an important age in the Magical World for those born with magic in their blood: it wasn't just any number, but the moment when the world really begins for them.

She rubbed her eyes and stretched slowly, allowing herself time to get ready before going down for breakfast: today would be a long day.

It wasn't going to be a normal summer morning, because that day she would set foot in Diagon Alley, not only for a walk with her mother or to go to Gringotts (the Wizards' bank) with her father: on September 1st, she would leave for her first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Today she was going to buy her school supplies: a wand, books, cauldron, cloak, and maybe a pet to keep her company — if she could find the right one. As she got ready to go downstairs, she thought about what awaited her in a month's time.

Her friends had been talking about it for months, fantasising about the castle even before the summer began. They talked about it as if they already knew that everything had been written by someone else, or rather, carved in stone by their families. They talked about Hogwarts with the same naturalness with which one talks about a house that has known since childhood: they talked about it as if it belonged to them, as if the future were a straight line to be travelled with their heads held high, with the right name sewn onto their robes. And they said with brazen confidence which house they would end up in: Slytherin, of course. And they said it with that tone of self-satisfaction, as if it were the only possible choice for someone who had everything it took to be superior.

Lyra wasn't a girl of many words, so she preferred listening to them in silence, as she often did, partly because she was not the type to interrupt or impose herself in conversations when she didn't think it was necessary; she preferred to observe and reflect, with a calm composure and aloofness that few had noticed. And among those few were certainly not her lifelong friends — except for Draco Malfoy, Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini. Others, such as Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe and Pansy Parkinson, didn't understand her, but they were still among the most wicked and despicable people she had ever met — apart from Blaise and Daphne.

No one was ever cruel to her; actually, they seemed to include her naturally and always sought her opinion. But Lyra was neither blind nor deaf: she saw how they spoke to others, how they treated those who didn't fit into their mould, their ideas of purity, prestige and wealth, ostentation and perfection. She watched with growing nausea the ease with which they humiliated children simply because they were 'guilty' of having friends born into Muggle families, or because they were too poor to wear well-pressed robes.

And so Lyra stood there, silent, a spectator of a world she hadn't chosen but found herself in. She waited for the others to leave and then bent down to those who had been left behind: a hug, a kind word, a different kind of silence. She was disgusted by her "friends" and by her inability to escape the situation her parents had put her in. Although they probably had good intentions — that she should have ties, people she could count on — no one had ever asked her if those ties really suited her. 

No one had ever wondered if Lyra was happy amid all the glitz and glamour.

But she knew that this was her life, caught between appearances and reality: between the Sewlyns' expectations and the part of her that refused to give in. 

In a month, she had a train to catch and, perhaps, finally a choice to make for herself.

Lost in her thoughts, Lyra got ready calmly, letting the steam from the hot water wash away the sweat of the night from her skin and the reflection in the mirror restore an almost normal expression to her face. Once she had tucked her hair behind her ears and fastened the last button of her light-coloured red shirt, she descended the stairs silently, lulled by the familiar sounds of the house. The villa was large, refined and always too quiet for a child accustomed to filling the voids with her thoughts. But that morning, amid the golden shadows of the summer light filtering through the windows and the slight creaking of the white parquet floor, there was a distinct smell in the air. It took her a moment to recognise it, then a half-smile spread across her lips: the smell of  soft chocolate biscuits, with large, dark chips, which her mother made using a recipe she never wanted to reveal.

«Good morning, my beautiful birthday girl!» said her mother as soon as she saw her cross the threshold, giving her a warm hug followed by a kiss on the cheek. «Did you sleep well?»

The girl hesitated. «Not bad, it was just... a little hot. But yes, I slept well.»

She didn't want to bring up the subject of nightmares again, at least not today. She wanted to try to start a new, more peaceful life, and maybe she would think about the thoughts running through her mind later.

«The important thing is that the birthday girl is well!»her father said, elegant as usual, as he entered the dining room. «Happy eleventh birthday, Lyra.»

«Thank you, Dad!» she smiled. «But now I want some biscuits before they mysteriously disappear...» she continued, still looking at her father, and the three of them burst out laughing.

———————

After a hearty breakfast, the Selwyn family decided to head straight to Diagon Alley to avoid being late for important adult appointments. For this reason, they decided to use Floo Powder; it was a new experience for Lyra, as she had never been allowed to do anything like this on her own. Father and daughter approached the fireplace in the tea room, where the fake flames burned high and calm. A few moments later, her mother arrived, holding a velvet bag containing the powder.

«Lyra, you go first, dear,» said Elinor, «and be careful.»

The little girl hesitated, but then took a handful of flying powder and stood a step away from the hearth. The powder was silvery, light as flour but finer, and glowed like living ash. She looked at her parents for approval or help. Her father looked at her and smiled. «Remember...» he said, «you must say Diagon Alley. Loud and clear, without hesitation.»

Her mother nodded. «Be careful... pronounce the words clearly, stand up straight, and keep your arms close to your body. If the powder falls on you, nothing will happen, but if you don't speak clearly...»

«I'll end up in Knockturn Alley...» Lyra finished, almost bored. «You've told me dozens of times over the last few days!»

It was her first time travelling alone through the fireplace, and her heart was beating too fast for her liking. She was afraid, perhaps afraid of disappointing them or of not using the powder correctly. She took a deep breath and approached the fire, and the flames instantly turned emerald green. She turned slightly, as if seeking a sign of reassurance from her parents, but no one was looking at her; perhaps she was glad, because no one was really looking at her, and she preferred it that way.

She stepped into the fire and the heat enveloped her. Then, in a clear voice, she said, "Diagon Alley!" and was engulfed by the emerald flames, which covered the area around her. She was engulfed by the flames and clutched her cloak. She tried to stay calm.

Not even a second later, she arrived on the carpet of a narrow shop with strange scents: it was a perfumery in Diagon Alley. She dusted off her boots and cloak, then turned to her right: she was indeed being watched by a man with a surprised expression.

«First time.» she said with a shrug, and immediately after her, both her parents arrived, and they left the shop and set off down the huge street. 

That day was busier than usual, and it was full of children who, like her, were probably shopping for the new school year. Today, Lyra breathed a different air, almost more magical: perhaps she couldn't wait to start a new journey, a new life, far from home. When she thought of Hogwarts, she was definitely anxious, but at the same time she knew that perhaps there she would find a place to get away from everything and find herself; she was determined to rediscover that part of herself that she had always had to hide to please those around her. Her thoughts were interrupted by her mother, who took her by the arm and led her to Madame Malkin's to buy uniforms.

«My dear Elinor, how lovely to see you!» exclaimed a plump witch with an open face, dressed in a mauve tunic that smelled faintly of lavender and new cloth. Her smile was broad and sincere, accompanied by an almost sing-song tone. «To what do I owe this visit?»

Elinor smiled at the witch who must be Madame Malkin. «My daughter, Lyra, is starting her first year at Hogwarts. I brought her to try on some uniforms.»

«Oh, how wonderful!» chirped the witch, clapping her hands softly. «Come with me, my dear... there are two young gentlemen in the back trying some on right now.»

Lyra lowered her gaze slightly and followed the witch with some reluctance, which was evident in her slightly reddened cheeks. She was led to the back of the shop and found the two boys standing on stools, straight as soldiers, being supervised by the expert hands of a witch with pins to pin the hem with quick, decisive gestures. 

One of them was a boy with tousled raven hair and almost broken glasses, and he looked a little worn out — and he was in fact very thin.

Perhaps he felt uncomfortable, not so much because of his clothes as because of who was next to him, impossible not to recognise: a boy with a pale, sharp face, very blond hair slicked back with gel and a cocky air that Lyra knew all too well. Draco Malfoy.

She stopped to listen to the conversation, as if she had forgotten why she was there, despite the witch waiting for her.

«...don't you think? They're not like us, they didn't grow up the way we did. Just think, some of them had never even heard of Hogwarts when they got their letters. I think they should limit attendance to the oldest wizarding families. By the way, what's your surname?» said Malfoy calmly, as if he hadn't just said something contemptuous. The boy he was talking to was about to reply, but Lyra joined the conversation.

«Come on, Draco, you don't want to upset him before he even gets to school, do you?» Lyra said softly, bowing her head and looking him in the eyes. Her tone was as calm as it was sharp, just enough to make the boy's lips curl.

«Besides, you don't know who you're dealing with. He could be our future housemate...» she continued, smiling at the boy, who looked at her a little more cheerfully but still fearful.

Draco fell silent, holding back something that was unclear whether it was annoyance or surprise. Finally, he looked away and turned to the seamstress who was freeing him from his cloak, apparently determined to end the matter there. For a while, there was silence in the back of the shop, broken only by the creaking of stools and the rustling of fabrics.

Draco was the first to finish. He adjusted his collar mechanically, then turned, casting a contemptuous glance at the smaller boy before settling back on Lyra. «Happy birthday, anyway,» he smiled almost affectionately. «See you tonight, eh?»

Lyra followed him with her eyes until the door closed behind him. Then she stood silently for a few moments, until she was called by a voice too low to be heard. 

«Is it your birthday too?» asked the boy, his voice shy but enthusiastic.

It was then that she turned and looked into his eyes: they were large, deep, bright green eyes, which she swore were identical to hers. But she just nodded, a small smile appearing on her lips without warning. 

«Yes. Eleven, today.»

The boy bowed his head, and his black hair, tousled in an almost endearing way, moved slightly. «Strange, it's my birthday too. My name is Harry.»

«Lyra!» she replied, smiling slightly. «Nice to meet you, unknown twin.» she added with a giggle. Harry giggled too, lowering his gaze for a moment, as if he wasn't used to being called that, or perhaps because that word - twin - had struck something inside him that he didn't even know he had.

«Thanks for earlier... for what you said to that guy.»

Lyra shrugged. «Oh, Draco is... Don't listen to him too much. He grew up in a world where kindness is a weakness and purity is a trophy. But sometimes even those who grow up in certain environments don't really believe it.»

Harry looked at her, confused for a moment. «Do you believe it?»

The question came direct, unfiltered. Lyra opened her mouth to answer, but then stopped. She just looked at him again, into his eyes, identical to hers, so full of everything she couldn't yet name.

«No.» she said, finally. «I believe in people and what they choose to be, not what others say they should be.»

Harry looked down, smiling. And in that smile there was something childlike and adult at the same time — something that, for some reason, made her feel safe. «Then I hope we can be friends. Or at least... see each other at school.»

Lyra nodded, smiling slightly. «I hope so too, Harry.»

But fate had other plans, and it would take years before those words came true — not until their fourth year at Hogwarts.

Time passed so quickly that Lyra thought she had done everything in one breath. She found herself with everything she needed for the school year divided between her and her parents; her father had also bought her a black cat in a shop near Madame Malkin's. The little girl's eyes sparkled when she saw it. She had wanted one for a long time, perhaps to feel a little less alone in a big, dark house where she felt small in its immensity.

—————

In the evening, the Malfoy family — Draco, with his parents Lucius and Narcissa — and the Zabini family — Blaise and his mother — arrived at the Sewlyn Manor to celebrate Lyra's birthday. Dinner went fairly well, with mostly the adults talking, perhaps because the children were tired after a day in Diagon Alley or perhaps because they were afraid to talk about anything else while their parents discussed "important" and "grown-up" matters. This made the young girl feel uncomfortable, because she couldn't express herself freely, she didn't trust the people around her, and over the years she had learned to keep everything inside. Then, with the strange things that had sometimes happened to her, she felt even more "invisible" to the people around her. She felt excluded.

The three children decided to get away from the noise of adult voices and the restrained laughter echoing in the main living room of the Selwyn Manor, taking refuge in the vast garden, dimly lit by street lamps. The sky, still deep blue, was beginning to dot with shy stars, and the air smelled of night-blooming flowers and ancient stone. Every step on the gravel path seemed muffled, as if the world were holding its breath. Blaise was the first to break the silence, sitting down with his usual natural grace on a grey stone bench. 

«So, Lyra? Ready for your first year?» he asked, scrutinising her with those dark eyes that always seemed older than his age.

«Not really, to be honest,» Lyra admitted, stopping a short distance away and sighing. And it was true: she didn't know if she was really ready. «I don't know what to expect. There's still a month to go, but I don't feel ready... and I don't even know which House I'll be sorted into—»

«Slytherin, of course. There's no doubt about it.»

Draco spoke before Blaise could even open his mouth, with a confident tone, his chin slightly raised, his gaze sharp, almost irritating in its certainty. Lyra stared at him for a long time, searching for the reflection of the child with whom she had shared summers, secrets, games and dreams.

«And what makes you think that, Malfoy? Did you consult your crystal ball?» she finally asked, with only apparent calm, her tone sharp enough to betray the irritation that was beginning to rise in her temples.

He smiled slightly. «No, I've known you long enough to know.»

He took a few steps forward until he was right next to Lyra, as if he needed to reduce the distance between what he was thinking and what he was about to say. «You're smart, bright and intuitive. You observe everything, even when you seem distant. You don't trust anyone at first glance. You choose carefully who you show your cards to, and you know how to read people. And when you decide to speak, you hit right where it hurts. You're not naive, Lyra.»

«And that's a compliment, I suppose. You're telling me I sound like a snake taken out of one of your library textbooks!» she replied, turning away to hide an involuntary smile. 

Draco raised an eyebrow. «That depends on how much you want to deny it. But you know I'm right... the Sorting Hat will put you where it knows you can survive and shine in your own way.»

She clenched her jaw. «Just because I'm not impulsive doesn't mean I'm like you!»

«Stop it!» he retorted, without raising his voice, but with that Malfoy tone that he knew was more authoritative than a thousand shouts. «It's useless to pretend you're different from what you are.»

Lyra took a step back, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. «But I am different, Draco. I don't think like you. I don't care about people's blood, their surnames, or who has more right to be at the top. And I don't go around telling people who they should be and where they should end up!»

The tension cut through the air like the overpowering scent of jasmine. Blaise, a little further away and still sitting on the bench, pretended to look at his nails, as if he were used to this exchange. Draco, on the other hand, didn't move: he stared at Lyra for a long time, then lowered his voice, as if the words weighed more heavily than they should have. «I'm not telling you who you should be, Lyra... I'm telling you who you are. It's just that you've always needed to convince yourself that you're something else, because the idea of being like us scares you.»

She felt her stomach tighten and, despite her anger, she sighed. Deep down, she knew he wasn't entirely wrong. «It scares me because sometimes it feels like there's no room among you for anyone who wants to think for themselves without being labelled a mistake. What if I'm not cut out for Slytherin? What if I end up somewhere else? You—»

«Lyra.»

Draco's tone was firm but not harsh, like that of an older brother who couldn't bear to see his younger sister doubt herself.

«You can end up in another House if that's what you want. My father says the Sorting Hat takes choices into account. But you know you'll never stop being one of us...»

Lyra stared at him silently for a long time, her eyes almost shining.

«I know you don't want to be labelled, Lyra. But you're not like the others. You're yourself, and Slytherin isn't a prison. Actually, it could be a weapon... if you know how to use it. And remember: whatever your colour, if anyone touches you... I'll deal with them.»

She bit her lip, trying to hold back the lump in her throat. «Draco, I—»

«You don't have to say anything,» he interrupted, looking more serious than usual. «Just remember that you won't be alone at Hogwarts. Not even when you think you are.»

For a moment, they stood side by side in silence as the fireflies began to flit among the shadowy bushes. Lyra ran a hand through her hair, uncertain, and turned to look at him. «Sometimes you really seem like my brother.»

Draco smiled slightly, as if he were used to hearing that. «Well, someone has to keep an eye on you, right?»

Anyway, Lyra was still furious hours later, but even more tired. Tired of always having to understand, of having to smile politely, of measuring every word as if the world around her could collapse at the slightest disagreement. And now, with her heart swollen and her breath barely held between her teeth, she paced back and forth in her room like a caged animal, moving erratically, her footsteps muffled and disordered, her mind boiling silently. 

Every time she tried to formulate a clear thought, a subtle, elusive anger came back to overwhelm her, and she didn't know if she was really angry with someone, with herself, or with the way it seemed that everyone always knew who she was and where she was going — everyone except her.

The air in her room smelled of lavender and paper, and there was a deafening silence; the walls, covered with little details that spoke of her — books stacked haphazardly, cardboard boxes piled in a corner, burnt-down candles — seemed to be watching her, like silent witnesses to a weariness that had no name.

It was as she was walking around the bed for the umpteenth time, her mind full of unanswered questions and her heart more weary than angry, that she kicked the corner of the desk. Nothing violent, just a sudden, sharp knock, but loud enough to make a small glass box on the corner jump — a small, elegant bottle, enclosed in a smooth, opaque case, with the name engraved in gold cursive: REM, her favourite perfume.

And then something happened.

Something that had no name or sound, but filled the air.

Time broke. Or perhaps it stopped. Or perhaps it stretched out, like a soft ribbon folded by invisible hands.

Lyra saw it. 

She saw the perfume slip into the void with unnatural slowness, suspended in mid-air as if floating in water, as if the air around it had become dense, heavy, made of glass. Everything seemed to slow down: the light flickering on the curtains, the beating of her heart, even the breath that caught in her throat.

And then, suddenly, she was there. Standing in the perfect trajectory of that fall that was no longer a fall, her fingers closed around the bottle, as if it had always been hers, as if the gesture had taken place outside of time.

Yet she didn't remember moving.

Her mind was a void filled with amazement, and her body — so small, so young, so unaware of everything she would one day discover — trembled silently. Not with fear, but with something strange, as if a mysterious energy had been activated beneath her skin, in a place she couldn't identify.

She looked around slowly, her eyes still wide and shiny, as if she expected to see someone come out from behind a door to tell her that she had only imagined everything, that nothing had really happened. 

But there was no one there. There was only the silent room, the slow beating of her heart and the scent still intact between her hands.

She brought her other hand to her mouth, slowly, with an instinctive and fragile gesture, as if to hold back an exclamation she didn't even know how to formulate. 

She said nothing. She couldn't.

But she was just a child. She was only eleven years old.

Yet something inside her had stirred.

——————

Platform 9 3/4

1 September 1991, 10:47 a.m.

A month had passed since that inexplicable event in her room. Lyra didn't think about it anymore, or at least she tried to forget it or push it into a corner of her mind, where she could convince herself that it was just a figment of her imagination or protected by the routine of the house and the long hours she spent there alone — thanks to her parents' tireless work, who rarely managed to spend time with her except late at night, when Elinor's voice was tired and Cassius's gaze was full of unspoken thoughts. So she spent a lot of time alone in her room playing with toys she had bought on a trip to Rome. 

'Imagine having to play with this stuff, how exciting...' Draco had said as they walked through the narrow streets full of Muggle shops in Italy, and on those occasions Lyra would press her lips together and hide the CD player even deeper in her bag. 

But today she'd begin a new chapter in her life, at Hogwarts. She was excited, and her heart knew that she would do anything to find peace and serenity and try to find herself again. She didn't want to get off on the wrong foot, not here. 

She hoped to find real friends, people who didn't see her as a Selwyn, or as the daughter of two respectable wizards, or as the little girl who spoke too softly and always carried a book with her. She hoped to find someone who would see her simply for who she was — even if she didn't really know who that was yet — and who would welcome her without the need for masks, studied postures, or restrained smiles.

She didn't want to spend seven years of her adolescence alone, locked in the elegant silence of her upbringing, or worse, forced to pretend. She needed affection, sincere looks, hands that sought her out for the pleasure of doing so, not out of duty. 

Sighing, she looked at her parents. «My Lyra, don't worry...» said her father, bending down slightly and kissing her on the forehead. «Everything will be fine. The first period might be difficult because it's a new environment, but I'm sure you'll find your way. And don't stay alone.»

Lyra looked at him, her eyes shining. «I hope so,» she said softly. «I really hope so.»

She then turned to her mother, who gave her a sweet smile and held out her hand. Together they walked to the door of a carriage and carried their trunks and the cat on board.

«See you in a while, Lyra...» said her mother with a smile.

«See you, Mum...»

Lyra found a seat. Then, at 11 o'clock sharp, the Hogwarts Express set off for Hogwarts. A tear rolled down her cheek, she sighed and decided to sleep.

————————

Hogwarts

Entrance to the Great Hall

They had just finished climbing an imposing staircase leading to the main entrance of the castle, guided by what must've been one of Hogwarts' caretakers, a tall, burly man named Rubeus Hagrid — who, despite his somewhat gruff appearance, had a kind and reassuring voice. Lyra looked around excitedly, speechless: she couldn't believe her eyes that this was really the castle where she would live every day. The towers, in particular, stood out dark and majestic against the night sky, illuminated by a few distant torches and the silvery reflections of the moon dancing on the tall, narrow windows. The castle seemed alive, as if it were breathing around them.

It was simply beautiful.

They arrived in front of a large dark oak door, where Hagrid knocked.

The door opened instantly and a tall witch appeared, wearing an emerald green dress and a very unusual but beautiful hat, according to many. The witch looked stern, but the smile she gave the first-year children melted her mask.

«Here are the first-year students, Professor McGonagall,» Hagrid said.

«Thank you, Hagrid. I'll take them from here!» replied the witch, nodding.

She opened the door wide, and the hall Lyra found herself in was immense. The stone walls were lit by thousands of flaming candles suspended in mid-air, the ceiling was so high that you could barely see the top, and there were four long tables with lots of children waving and looking curiously at her. Opposite where they stopped was a sumptuous marble staircase leading to the teachers' table.

The students were also shocked to notice that there were many ghosts wandering around the hall, smiling sweetly at them. Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of the first-year students and placed a brown pointed wizard's hat on top of it. It looked quite old, as it was stained and worn.

«Welcome to Hogwarts,» began the teacher. «The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats, you will be sorted into your Houses. The sorting is a very important ceremony, because for as long as you are here at Hogwarts, your house will be a bit like your family...»

Hearing these words, Lyra rolled her eyes because she knew in her heart that if she ended up in Slytherin with those friends of hers, it would not really be a family for her. «...You will attend classes with your Housemates, sleep in your House dormitories and spend your free time in your House common room. There are four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. During your time at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn points for your House; any violation of the rules, however, will result in points being deducted.»

Everyone was stunned and somewhat confused.

«When I call your name, you will sit on the stool and I will place the hat on your head to be sorted,» said Professor McGonagall after a few moments of silence. Then she opened the scroll of parchment she was holding and began to call out various names.

«Malfoy, Draco» and Lyra looked up at the boy. He looked cocky as he walked over, and the hat barely touched his head before shouting, 'Slytherin!'

Lyra stared into space for a moment, thinking that there was no doubt that he had ended up in that house, knowing Draco's bad temper.

Then she heard «Potter, Harry» and everyone began to murmur. Lyra knew the story of the boy who defeated the Dark Lord, and she felt sorry for the loss of his parents; he was sorted into Gryffindor.

«Selwyn, Lyra.»

It was as if her heart and time had stopped for a moment.

Professor McGonagall was looking for her, and she slowly began to approach the stool, almost as if her legs were too heavy and too light at the same time. 

She was afraid, very afraid: what would her parents say if she hadn't been sorted into Slytherin? Would she be able to make friends? Would she be good enough for where she was? 

She sat down and the Sorting Hat was placed on her head; immediately afterwards, it began to speak in a low voice.

'Oh... you. You are complicated,' it began, and Lyra giggled nervously.

'Yes, I hear that a lot' the girl thought.

'You're full of contradictions. There's a part of you that holds back, observes, and analyses everything before speaking. But there's also a part that screams to be free... that burns if not allowed to be released.'

'Maybe that part is Gryffindor?' thought Lyra.

'Ah yes, Gryffindor... I can see that fire. The courage to say what you think, even if your voice trembles. But that's not all, no. You don't fight for glory or impulsiveness, but out of necessity. Because you know that if you don't do it, no one will do it for you.'

'I just want to understand who I am and find my place for once... without having to choose between what everyone else believes and what I feel.'

'And to do that, sometimes you need silence. Strategy. Masks. You'd be brilliant in Ravenclaw, but there you'd get lost in your thoughts. In Hufflepuff you'd be loved, of course, but you're not looking for acceptance. You want understanding. You want to know how the world works and why. You want to choose when to speak and when to be silent. When to love and when to strike.'

Lyra didn't know how to respond. Part of her longed to feel different from what she had always been, from what others expected of her. But another part, a deeper part, realised that perhaps, after all, it wouldn't be so bad to stay true to herself.

'You are clever, loyal, ambitious, and you have learned not to trust anyone easily. But when you love, you love with all of yourself. And that, my dear... is something that will make you powerful. Not just strong... Powerful.'

The silence was sudden, almost solemn.

'It is there, among those who will look at you with suspicion, that you will shine like you never imagined. There, where people believe that only ambition matters, you will bring something else. Choices. Heart. Intuition. And from there you can build something of your own, and only yours. You already know this, deep down. You don't want to be chosen— you want to choose. And that's why the best choice is...'

There was a moment of silence, the longest Lyra had ever experienced in her life.

'SLYTHERIN!' the Hat shouted, and the Slytherin table began to applaud. She felt her breathing become a little laboured, and the sounds around her were at a minimum. She descended the steps and headed towards the silver-green table, her hands still trembling slightly, sitting down next to a smiling Pansy Parkinson and their mutual friends. Luckily, she had a view of the entire Great Hall, and she was glad of this because she could glance at other faces sitting at other tables. During dinner, which seemed to pass calmly, Lyra managed to exchange a few words with other students and made friends with Theodore Nott, with whom she talked a lot. 

————————

1 September 1994

Hogwarts Express

And so, between polite smiles at dinner and glances exchanged in the castle corridors, days turned into months, and months turned into years. Hogwarts became a quiet, jagged home for Lyra, but one she loved, full of paths she learned to walk with a steady step and an alert mind. The days followed one another, all the same yet always new, between successful potions, glances exchanged between desks, copied homework, sleepless nights and ambiguous letters and gifts from home. She had learned to live like this: holding back questions, choosing carefully the words to say and even more carefully those not to say out loud. She had formed bonds deeper than she wanted to admit, but without ever really taking off her armour.

Then came the summer between her third and fourth years, when something in Lyra changed. Perhaps that something had always been there, latent. Perhaps it had just grown with her, like a seed waiting for the right moment to break through the soil and grow. 

But simply, when September came knocking again, Lyra was no longer the same.

The sunset filtering through the carriage window was tinged with shades of pink and purple, the girl's favourite colours. When she opened her eyes, the familiar sound of wheels running on the tracks seemed almost distant, muffled by a sense of disorientation that one feels when returning to a place one does not remember. Perhaps she had fallen asleep, or just closed her eyes; she wasn't sure.

But her blurred reflection in the glass seemed to be the first to notice the girl with longer light brown hair and slightly hollow cheeks, who had grown up without asking permission.

A cough made her turn abruptly, still half lost in the muffled thoughts of waking, as she noticed she was wearing a faded red and orange jumper, very soft and too big to be hers. She immediately recognised its warm, familiar texture, but couldn't place it.

«Morning, look who's finally awake...» said a voice that was unfamiliar to her but clearly amused. Next to Lyra, in the compartment, were Fred and George Weasley, Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom, who were looking at her with smiles. «Slept well?» asked one of the twins, tilting his head slightly.

«Yes, I... yes, I slept pretty well, thank you,» replied Lyra, still sleepy. «Whose lovely jumper with a giant "G" in the middle is this?» she asked after a few seconds, and a wave of laughter swept through the compartment.

«It's mine!» replied the twin next to her. «The important thing is that you didn't leave a puddle of drool on it. I'm George Weasley...» He made a theatrical half-bow. «This is Fred, the other me. And these are Ginny, my sister, and Neville.»

«I don't think I got it wet, Weasley,» Lyra replied, grabbing the edge of her jumper dramatically and scrutinising it as if looking for evidence. «Lyra Selwyn.»

George raised his eyebrows. «Selwyn? One of those they call the house elf with the silver bell?» 

Lyra narrowed her eyes and sighed. «Only on odd days. And if the silverware is polished, of course.»

Everyone in the compartment laughed. They talked for a long time about what they had done over the summer, laughing and joking with each other. It was the first time Lyra had laughed heartily, but more than anything, she felt comfortable talking about herself. She felt a calmness inside her that she had rarely felt before, and in the moments when she sat silently watching and listening to her four friends in the place where she was, she realised that this was what she wanted at school; a kind of safe place where she could be herself without having to wear masks all the time. But instead she was in Slytherin, which, although it was quite similar to her character, she never found people like that. She was also glad that they didn't recognise her right away, since she was friends with Draco Malfoy and company. Luckily, she had changed over the summer; after all, she was 14 now: she had grown taller and slimmer, her hair had grown longer and lightened, she had curves, and her voice had changed too. Her thoughts were interrupted by comments about the Quidditch World Cup.

«Were you there, Lyra?» Ginny asked curiously. «At the Cup?»

«Yes. I was there with my dad. Were you there?» Lyra asked curiously.

Fred nodded energetically. «Our dad managed to get the tickets, and it was an amazing final. Ireland against Bulgaria... my ears are still ringing from the chants!»

«And Krum!» said Neville, sitting up straighter. «That snatching of the Snitch... it left us speechless.»

Lyra watched them, resting her chin on her knuckles, and nodded slowly. «Yes, I was there too, I think we were seated near... VIP section, unfortunately...» she said the last words with a slight note of irony. «My father works for the Department of International Magical Cooperation.»

They all laughed, as if they were a little more relaxed. But after a few moments, silence fell: Fred stopped talking, George scratched the back of his neck and looked down, as if unsure whether he could continue, and Ginny and Neville exchanged worried glances. Lyra perceived the silence as a subtle but sticky weight that almost changed the temperature in the compartment, like a low cloud on a clear afternoon. She had noticed it for years now: that caution surrounding her surname, that constant holding back of half-sentences. 

«You can talk about it, you know,» she said then, lifting her chin slightly. Her voice was calm, but her tone betrayed a quiet firmness. «Yes, I saw what happened. And yes... I know one of my uncles was among those in disguise that night.»

No one said anything. George raised his eyebrows slightly, discreetly. Ginny seemed unsure whether to interrupt her.

«Look... I haven't spoken to him since I was very young,» Lyra continued. «My parents cut ties with that side of the family long before I understood certain stuff. And no... there's no dark mark on my father's arm. Not that anyone ever asks me that outright, of course.»

Fred was the first to snort softly, leaning his elbow against the window. «Well... you're a lot smarter than a lot of the adults we've heard talking about that night.»

«And anyway, you seem like a smart girl, and you're funny, so that's enough for me.» Ginny murmured, smiling at her.

«Wait, but you... you're that Lyra? That Lyra Selwyn?» Fred exclaimed after a couple of seconds of silence, squinting as if to focus on a distant memory while Lyra nodded and laughed. Ginny glared at him and elbowed him, but Fred raised his hands as if to defend himself. «Oh, come on, I mean it in a good way! I didn't recognise you at all...» 

Neville, meanwhile, looked at her curiously as he nodded. «You've changed a lot... I think I remember you from Professor Lupin's lessons or around the school, and you were always with Malfoy's group, but... but I know you were never like them, in fact you were always nice, even to me.»

«...You didn't recognise me because I've grown up well, is that it?» Lyra replied in an almost indifferent and naive tone, but with a hint of a smile. George burst out in a dry, low but sincere laugh; it was a sound as surprised as it was knowing, and the boy was so amused that he couldn't help but make a fist with the girl.

Fred shook his head. «Good heavens, Georgie, I don't know what disturbs me more, her quick wit or the fact that she's still wearing your jumper as if it were hers...»

George looked at her, with a hint of quiet interest. «It suits her better than me, actually. But if you keep it, I want something with your name on it in return, Selwyn.»

The girl turned to the red-haired, almond-eyed boy, raising an eyebrow. «George, right?»

He nodded. «Well, George, if you want something with my name on it, you'll have to work very, very hard for it, in the truest sense of the word.»

Fred and Ginny burst into loud laughter, and Neville rolled his eyes. George was about to reply, but just then the door to their compartment opened with a sharp click. 

«There you are, Lyra. Come on, I was looking for you.»

Draco Malfoy, looking immaculate in his uniform, stood in the doorway, and suddenly all the warmth and liveliness disappeared. For Lyra, it was like a cold shower on a hot summer's day. The group fell silent: Neville stiffened, Ginny lowered her gaze slightly to play with her hands, Fred and George exchanged glances.

Lyra waited a moment before getting up. She touched her face to wipe away the last traces of sleep and took off her jumper to give it back to George, folding it carefully and not noticing that she had seen a little skin with some scars when she took it off. «Thanks for your hospitality, guys. It was... interesting.»

George watched her as she left and closed the door, and then Fred spoke.

«Okay, who ordered the mysterious Slytherin, grown up way too well, with a deadly smile and sharp answers?»

They looked at each other, and then Neville muttered, «Now... now she seems like a different person. She seems different, more confident, more—»

«Dangerous,» George finished with a sigh. «And she's charming as hell.»

————————

The carriages rolled heavily through the gates of Hogwarts and up the steep driveway. The weather was not at its best, and in fact they swayed heavily from side to side in what was turning into a real storm. Stepping out of the carriages, everyone hurried up the stairs to avoid getting too wet. The Great Hall was magnificent as always and was decorated for the start-of-term banquet, with golden plates and goblets sparkling in the light of hundreds of candles floating in mid-air. After a good dinner, during which Lyra had seconds of caramel cheesecake, Albus Dumbledore stood up to speak. 

«...And it is also my painful duty to inform you that this year's Quidditch Championship will not take place.» The Great Hall, which had been silent, was transformed into a sad and angry chatter. «This is due to an event that will take place in October and will occupy the rest of the school year, taking up the time and energy of the teachers. I am sure you will all enjoy it, and in fact, I am delighted to announce that, after more than a century, the Triwizard Tournament will be held.»

«You're JOKING!» shouted Fred Weasley, and everyone, including Lyra, burst out laughing.

«No, I'm not joking, Mr Weasley,» smiled the headmaster. «The Triwizard Tournament was first held seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three greatest European schools of magic: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. A champion was chosen to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took turns hosting the tournament every five years, partly because it was an excellent way to establish links between young witches and wizards of different nationalities... at least until the death toll became too high and it was discontinued.»

Everyone murmured quietly. A little fear had risen in the hall among the students. «Various attempts have been made to revive the tournament, but thanks to the International Magical Cooperation Office and the Magical Games and Sports Office, they have been working over the summer to ensure that no champion will be in mortal danger this time. The headmasters of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will join us in October with their selection of students who will compete for the Triwizard Cup.»

Everyone seemed enthusiastic. They talked to their neighbours, perhaps hoping to participate in the tournament. «While I know how eager each of you is to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,» sighed Dumbledore, «the heads of the schools, myself included, have decided to impose a minimum age limit for this year's challengers: 17 years old.»

Something like pandemonium broke out in the hall, everyone was up in arms, shouting that it wasn't fair, and Lyra partly agreed with them.

«SILENCE!» thundered Dumbledore. «This is a measure we feel is necessary, because the trials of the tournament are still difficult and dangerous, despite the precautions we will take, so students below sixth and seventh year are very unlikely to be able to cope with them. Therefore, I will set an age limit that will be very difficult to confuse.»

Chapter Text

That evening, the air at Hogwarts after Dumbledore's speech had something strange and gloomy about it, to the point that the storm outside — the rain and wind crashing against the windows, and the thunder rumbling in the distant hills — seemed to have slipped between the castle walls and taken up residence in the minds of the students, especially after the Headmaster's announcement of the Age Line around the Goblet of Fire.
Despite the golden lights, the floating candles and the tables laid out just moments before, Lyra felt as if the corridors were holding their breath in anticipation of something; it was as if the entire building, always alive and ancient, was waiting for something nameless to explode, while inside her, time seemed to vibrate and freeze in her veins in waves, almost following a fixed but disturbing rhythm — almost as if it had its own pulse, or its own life. But perhaps it was just her imagination, or maybe it was due to the Triwizard Tournament itself: these two words, which at first glance smacked of spectacle, fun, jokes and celebration, also had for Lyra an almost frightening taste and a clear smell of danger passing by without looking, but brushing you enough to give you goose bumps and keep you on your toes.

She believed there was a reason why this Tournament had been interrupted in the past: obviously not on a whim but, as Dumbledore had hinted, they’d stopped it because of the deaths — of those poor souls who never got the chance to return home. So, reviving it seemed almost like voluntarily opening a door leading to a dark corridor, hoping that the shadows had learned their manners.

It was like sending someone, if not all the participants, to certain death.

In the Slytherin common room, however, the storm seemed to remain outside only by convention: despite the air being warm compared to outside, Lyra looked around and noticed how several of her housemates were laughing heartily, betting quietly on who would come forward, or some were strutting around talking about how all they had to do was put their name in the Goblet to leave there crowned with victory. Others, however, muttered angrily against Dumbledore and his choice of who could compete; they were naturally convinced that the age limit was a personal affront. 

Lyra understood their discontent — who wouldn't want glory? — but then again, perhaps it had all been decided for a good cause; you couldn't risk having a 13-year-old boy involved in something like this. 

«The age limit is ridiculous!» said a fifth-year boy, sitting not far from the table where she was with her group. Draco laughed, sitting down properly in one of the armchairs near the fireplace and placing the Daily Prophet on the table in front of him, with Blaise and Theo beside him. Pansy, Daphne and Lyra were sitting leaning back, drinking hot tea.

«Some Slytherins have to take part in the tournament. I doubt anyone else could get through even one task without blowing themselves up...» Theo snorted, «Especially some Gryffindors, if they get picked.»
Pansy smiled lazily. «You're forgetting Cedric Diggory, Theo. Even though he's a Hufflepuff, he's not just anyone. Don’t you remember the magic he did at the World Cup to entertain people outside his tent? And they say he's very good at Transfiguration and Charms, as well as Quidditch. And he has the jawline of a Greek god... lucky girl who gets to sleep with him!»

«He may have a nice jawline…» Lyra began under her breath, hiding a half-smile, «But we'll have to see if he keeps his head up when he has to jump into a frozen lake with aquatic creatures that have more teeth than patience.»

She didn't say it to be mean, it was just what she really thought: this wasn't a tournament for everyone, and that's what scared her, and she feared for anyone who was foolish enough to put their name in the fire as if it were a children's game. Draco looked at her and nodded.

«Guys, there's no doubt about it. We have to have a Slytherin in the Goblet. Someone with charisma, ambition and a cool head.»
Pansy nodded slowly, then said: «And style. You need style too. If you're going to rule the school, you have to do it right.» Lyra glanced around at the only people left in the Common Room: those talking about signing up, how to get noticed, those who imagined themselves at the bottom of the third test as if wishing it were enough to be safe. As she listened to these conversations, Lyra believed that throwing yourself into things was only noble if you knew where you were going to land, so you had to think rationally before making such a choice. 

«Why are you talking about the Tournament as if it were a parade to get to the circus?» Lyra asked. «People have died, guys, you can't just raise your hand and wave to the audience to get home in one piece! Didn't you hear Flitwick's words as we left the Great Hall? One of the previous champions was even eaten alive!»
Draco shrugged and turned to look at her. «Death is part of the game, Selwyn. And those who are scared don't deserve glory.»

She held the boy's gaze and sighed wearily. «I'm not afraid, Malfoy. I just have the flaw of thinking twice before jumping into the fire. And that's why I don't end up in the Hospital Wing every other week like Potter or Longbottom.»

An icy silence fell over the group. Then Blaise snorted amusedly, even though he partly agreed with Lyra. Pansy put down her cup and turned to the other girl.

«So you wouldn't have participated? Not even if you were old enough?»
Lyra gave her a half-smile. «I didn't say that. I said I want to choose how and when to take risks, and I certainly wouldn't volunteer because my eyes light up at the idea of being applauded by some babes in the Great Hall.»

Draco stared at her for a moment with a grimace before replying. «If you went and won, I'd be your biggest supporter, but since you're not old enough, it's difficult. But if anyone puts Potter's name in the Goblet, I swear I'll throw up... But then I'd start betting on how long he'd last.»

Laughter flared up in patches and died down quickly, like sparks, but only the echo of the name remained with Lyra: Harry. She thought about it all evening for no apparent reason, with that strange pressure in her chest that was neither fear nor pity, but rather the subtle and stubborn awareness that certain people (like Harry himself) attract destiny like lightning attracts the tips of towers, and that if that name had really been thrown into the fire, she would have looked at the cup not to see glory, but to count the dangers.

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Sunday, 30th October 1994

In the first few weeks at Hogwarts, time slipped away faster than expected, almost as if everyone's life had suddenly sped up. The teachers, moreover, kept reminding everyone — now in a more bored and tired tone, with the impatience of those who knew they’d have to repeat it again in the next lesson — that because of the Tournament, there would be no Quidditch or end-of-year exams that year. Lyra and Blaise had almost got used to the idea of not having to prepare for exams (unlike Hermione Granger, who still burst into tears when it was mentioned in class), but the absence of Quidditch remained with them both as a constant melancholy: they wouldn’t feel the cold stands, their hands numb from the cold as they clutched their scarves, or the screams lost in the fog of the school field... ‘It's like taking the breath away from fish!’ Blaise said one evening, and Lyra nodded silently.

Also, they had met their fourth (and new, of course) Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher: in his first lesson, he made them sit in silence through the Unforgivable Curses, and then she understood why everyone said he was a bit crazy; yet he knew his stuff. Nevertheless, she was struck by the scene in which the spider on Neville's desk writhed under the Cruciatus Curse with such violence that the very sound of the classroom changed; some held their breath, some laughed nervously, Neville turned pale until he looked transparent, and in the days that followed, he still moved as if he had bumped into a memory with his body. Lyra, feeling sorry for him, left a bar of Honeyduke's chocolate on his desk the next day with a short note signed by her (“Not all scars are visible. Some are better healed with a bite of chocolate and someone who, even from afar, understands ♥”) to cheer him up a little.

«Anyway, I still don't understand why you did that, Lyra!» Theo said, snorting as they walked, tapping his backpack. «I mean, for heaven's sake, are you always ready to be the lion's helper? What a waste of heroism…»
Lyra stiffened slightly and turned around. «Theo, are you listening to yourself? He's a person, not a piece of furniture! And stop bringing up things that happened ages ago...»

There was a sharp silence between them, and something in Theo's eyes rippled slightly. Lyra looked at him sadly, feeling a certain regret slowly reopening in her heart; she felt a certain bitterness in knowing that Theo, who had been close to her in her first year, was slowly choosing the comfort of the group. Would Blaise and Daphne do the same, someday?
«Come on, don't worry, you're right! Let's pretend this conversation never happened, shall we?» 

She continued walking faster. It was almost six o'clock in the evening and no students wanted to be late in front of the castle, because at that time the guests from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would be arriving. When they reached their friend group, Lyra greeted them quietly, but no one responded. So she slowly took half a step back, falling behind them, and hid, her heart heavier than usual and tears welling up in her eyes. It wasn't the usual feeling of being out of place that you get when you don't know anyone; it was way worse than that.

Every time something like this happened, Lyra realised that the group she had seen as a refuge when she was little had now become a disguise tailored to help her survive, and every time she felt as if something inside her was breaking silently and impassively. Apart from Theo, who knew her almost completely, not even Draco looked at her, and that's why she bit the inside of her cheek, because he was the only one who had always seen her in all her facets; he was busy talking intently with Blaise. Pansy was giggling with a group of younger boys, and Lyra was alone and surrounded by people, as if she were a ghost that no one saw or noticed until she touched something or spoke. She wanted to scream to be seen and heard, to scream so that people would finally start to see her and take her seriously or try to get to know her better. Or maybe it was just her who couldn't be like everyone else, who couldn't blend in with the crowd. And that made her feel atypical, abnormal, an odd Slytherin who was in the wrong place.

Her thoughts then turned to someone who was probably still in a sea of trouble: Neville. How lonely, humiliated and hurt he must have felt, seeing that curse happen in front of him. But also how little it would have taken to let him know that he wasn't invisible: she and Hermione, in fact, had been the only ones to cheer him up. She remembered the shy smile he gave her when he noticed her small gift on his desk. 

And that made her feel worse, because she could see the others, but they couldn't see her and her needs.

And then her thoughts turned to Ginny with her ringing voice and disarming frankness, and Fred, who was so theatrical that he made you smile even on the worst days; but above all to George, who had been so... attentive to her, with a non-judgmental gaze and a kindness that did not demand to be noticed. With them, even without knowing them, she had felt seen, not judged. Perhaps her heart knew and understood that Lyra didn't have to explain herself every time, or that she didn't have to choose the best version of herself to look her best. She could be ironic and tender, cold and then sad; it would come naturally to her, yet these were people she didn't even know. And none of them would force her to choose one single version of herself.

As people murmured in anticipation of the foreign guests, Lyra looked towards the Gryffindor people: the group she was looking for was there, laughing and exchanging ideas; and for a moment, brief but intense, Lyra wondered if courage really meant staying where you are or having the strength to change direction. Her thoughts, however, were interrupted by Dumbledore's voice and the further cries of the students: «Unless I'm very much mistaken, the Beauxbatons delegation is coming!» he said, pointing towards the Forbidden Forest.

Something large was hurtling through the dark blue sky towards the castle, growing larger and larger. As it drew nearer, they saw a huge blue carriage the size of a large mansion floating towards them, pulled by a dozen winged horses almost as big as elephants. The students at the front even had to duck to avoid the carriage as it descended lower. Once on the ground, a boy in a sky-blue robe stepped out and pulled out a set of golden steps, then stepped back. First, a shoe as big as a child's sleigh was glimpsed, followed by the tallest woman many of the students had ever seen: she had an olive face, large black eyes, and hair gathered in a bun at the base of her neck. All the students, including the teachers, began to applaud, and the great lady walked towards the headmaster.

«My dear Madame Maxine, what a pleasure,» said Dumbledore enthusiastically, «Welcome to Hogwarts!»

In a deep voice, she replied, «Mon cherie Dumbledore, I hope you are well!»

She smiled sweetly and then pointed to the carriage. «My students!»

A dozen boys and girls had emerged from the carriage and stood behind Madame Maxine. They were all very beautiful, especially the girls — who were very delicate, but trembling; indeed, their dresses seemed to be made of light silk, and they wore no cloaks.

«I'm tempted to give any of them my cloak…» Theo whispered, giggling. He exchanged glances with Lyra, who rolled her eyes, and then they stood there waiting for the Durmstrang people to arrive, watching the sky for a signal. At one point, in the silence, there was a loud sound advancing towards them with speed: it was almost like a rumble, as if there were a muffled suction in a river.

Lee Jordan turned suddenly and shouted, «The lake! Look at the lake!»

The lake, which had been smooth and black, changed in the centre because there was some turbulence in the depths; large bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were beating against the shore... and then a whirlpool appeared in the centre of the lake, and slowly and majestically a ship appeared, shining in the moonlight. The boys calmly disembarked, wearing shaggy fur cloaks; the one who must have been the headmaster, however, had smooth, silvery fur. «Dumbledore!» he began, «How are you, my friend, how are you?»

Dumbledore smiled at him and embraced him, «Very well, thank you, Igor.»

And then everyone was taken aback to see Viktor Krum, the best Quidditch seeker, standing there next to them. In the same place. When the atmosphere calmed down, however, they made their way to the Great Hall for the banquet: the plates in front of them were filled with food as usual; there was a much richer variety of dishes than usual, including some things that were decidedly foreign. The Gryffindor table began to murmur, indicating that the two previously empty chairs at the teachers' table had been taken. Everyone turned, and there sat Ludo Bagman and Mr Crouch.

At the Slytherin table, many looked confused.
«What do you think they're doing here?» asked Blaise, surprised.
«They organised the Triwizard Tournament, didn't they?» said Lyra. «They probably wanted to see the opening.»

When the plates had been cleared, Dumbledore stood up again, and a pleasant tension spread through the hall. Lyra looked around, and indeed many were excited, but others, such as the Weasley twins, seemed rather tense.

«The time has come...» Dumbledore started, smiling. «The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin, but before I have the chest brought in, I’d like to introduce Mr Ludo Bagman and Mr Bartemius Crouch. Both have worked hard over the last few months to make this Tournament happen, and they will be joining me, Professor Karkaroff and Madam Maxine on the jury that will judge the champions' efforts.»

The headmaster motioned to Filch to bring the chest, which looked very old and richly decorated with precious stones. A murmur of interest rose from the waiting students.

«The instructions for the tasks that the champions will face this year have already been reviewed by Mr Crouch and Mr Bagman, and the necessary precautions have been taken. There will be three challenges, spread out over the school year, and they will test the champions in different ways... especially their magical skill, their daring, their powers of deduction, but of course also their ability to face danger.»

At this last word, the hall was filled with such a deafening silence that it seemed as if everyone had stopped breathing. And for Lyra, it was as if time had stopped because of her fear and anguish at what she had heard; and looking around, it was as if the others were motionless and she was the only one able to move. It lasted only a blink of an eye, and she heard Dumbledore speak again.

«As you know, three champions will compete in the Tournament, one from each school. They will be scored on their performance in each task, and the champion with the highest score after the third task will win the Triwizard Cup.» Dumbledore sighed. «The champions will be selected by an impartial selector... the Goblet of Fire.» 

He took out his wand and tapped the lid three times. The lid opened slowly, and Dumbledore reached inside and pulled out a large wooden cup. It would have been quite ordinary, had it not been filled to the brim with dancing blue and white flames.

«Anyone who wishes to be a champion must write their name and house clearly on a piece of parchment and place it in the cup. Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours to come forward. Tomorrow evening, on Halloween night, the Goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. You will find it on display in the Entrance Hall, but to ensure that no student under the age of 17 is tempted, I will draw an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire. I would like to remind you, however, that the Tournament is not to be taken lightly: once the champion has been chosen, he or she will be required to participate until the end, because placing your name in the Goblet is a binding magical contract. So please… be sure. Good night, everyone!»

Lyra turned abruptly towards the Gryffindor table, as if an invisible thread had pulled her eyes towards Harry Potter: he was sitting there sideways to the headmaster, and a mixture of emotions could be read on his face. Lyra was afraid of what might happen, she felt that something might happen; but perhaps it was just paranoia due to what Draco had said earlier in the Common Room.

‘What if it really happens? What if they name him a Triwizard champion?’ she thought, biting the inside of her cheek, knowing that if that happened, it would be the beginning of the end.

Everyone left the Great Hall slowly, and she noticed that the small group of Gryffindors — Harry, Hermione, Ron, and the Weasley twins — were walking towards the part where she had to pass to reach her friends, and she heard them talking about the Tournament. She couldn't help eavesdropping on their conversation.
«An Age line!» Fred blurted out, his eyes sparkling with anger. «You could fool it with an Ageing Potion, couldn't you? And once the names are in the Goblet, it can't go looking for your date of birth…»

Lyra couldn't hold back a giggle, which escaped in the silence. Everyone turned to her, and the twins looked at her amused.

«Are you enjoying yourself, Sewlyn?»

«Quite a bit, you know,» she replied to George with a grin, stopping a few steps away from him, her hands tucked into her cloak, remaining silent for a moment. «The Cup is difficult to fool, more than it seems. It's not just a matter of potions, because there are spells that blur the boundaries that don't come in bottles... sometimes you just need to know how to slow down time and bend it to your advantage. But if you really want some less poetic and more useful advice, I could show you a few concoctions... only if you know how to defend yourselves against the side effects.» Lyra smiled slightly, nodded as if to say goodbye, and went in the opposite direction to return to her common room, leaving everyone stunned — except Fred and George, who felt a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

«She can't be serious, come on!» Ron snorted. «The Goblet of Fire is hard to fool... who is she trying to fool? She's acting like a typical Slytherin, all mystery and drama.»

«Well, she's not entirely wrong, Ron,» Hermione replied with a grimace. «The Age-old Potion is dangerous if miscalibrated. But the way she talks... bending time? That's a very peculiar way of explaining things.»

Harry didn't answer right away. He stared at the spot where Lyra had disappeared, thoughtful, as if she might come back and demand that someone contradict her. 
«She's creepy,» he said nervously in a low voice. «She's always so... so controlled, isn't she? And she has that ‘I know something you don’t? look on her... and it's as if she's playing with what she knows, as if she wants you to think you know less than she does. And she's too good at it.»

«I think it's her trademark, Harry…» said George, amused. «She comes in, leaves a Snape-like prophecy, and leaves.» Fred laughed.

«Worse, Georgie. I think she spends hours practising them in front of the mirror. But the older she gets, the better she gets at leaving people with a thousand questions and no answers.» George nodded and Ron made a noise like someone who didn't appreciate the situation. 

«But admit it, Ron, she's got style.» he said with a smile. 

Ron moaned. «But she's always hanging out with Malfoy, Zabini, those people... Someone like that can't be trustworthy!» 

Harry laughed and nodded as they resumed walking in silence. «She's not stupid, though. In fact...» he paused. «She's brilliant, perhaps too brilliant. And that makes her even stranger.»

Hermione looked at him curiously. «Are you interested in what she says, or who she is?»

«What interests me... is that I don't trust her.»

The twins laughed at him. «Sure, Harry, it's always like that with people who intrigue you, isn't it? First you don't trust them, and then you find yourself fighting side by side with them.»

Ron let out a slight groan of exasperation. «Yeah, and maybe one day we'll find out she's related to someone. But worse still, if we all end up getting caught up in one of her mysterious ideas, don't say I didn't warn you!»

Everyone laughed, except the twins. «Too late!» they murmured in unison, amused. «Are you going to put your name in the cup, Harry?»

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Monday, 31 October 1994

There were flashes of white everywhere.

They weren't like normal lightning, but like living, blinding bolts of light that split the darkness at an irregular pace, much faster than a heartbeat. They made a deafening noise, like a bell ringing in your head continuously until you lost your sanity — a full, almost piercing vibration in your eardrums that never stopped.

Lyra didn't know where she was; she only knew that she was afraid. A thick, clear fog that smelled like smoke or a petrol engine enveloped her legs, preventing her from walking or running away; but her heart was beating so fast that it felt like she had been running for hours, beyond normal, beyond human capabilities.

Then she heard a voice. A cold, metallic voice, yet it seemed so familiar. Even though tears were streaming down her cheeks, that voice was perhaps calming her. But then it started screaming, echoing inside the girl's thoughts as she screamed in annoyance.

‘Lyra Eileen Selwyn. Frequency unstable. Acceleration at 73%. Reset impossible. Fracture imminent.’

And again. Again and again she heard the same phrase, the same words, insistently. The world around her, a tired darkness with her at the centre and lightning bolts flashing around her, began to vibrate. The stones on the floor shattered like glass, and every sound became a bright white trail, as if time were breaking into strands.

And then she saw herself.

She saw herself in a reflection, in the centre of a circle of light. At first she was still, motionless like a nail stuck in the ground, while everything around her was rushing by. Various versions of herself — probably from a future that had not yet happened or never existed — darted and disappeared like comets, others cried, or screamed without a voice, or laughed. They all had white, empty eyes, or eyes as red as the most evil monsters that children fear. She looked at herself in the mirror, but her reflection was no longer solid, no longer looked like her. Her body seemed to be made up of a million overlapping, unsynchronised images; the outline of her face vibrated at a high frequency, as if every particle of herself was about to lose its grip on reality. On the reality that Lyra knew, or thought she knew.

It was as if time no longer knew where to place her. 

She tried to scream, but no normal sound came out, only a metallic sound that frightened her. She looked down at her hands and saw them vibrating, and under her skin she felt as if there were harp strings being pulled too tight. Her image was shifting as if in a ghostly dance.

And for a second, she thought she was about to disappear.

Then it all stopped, and Lyra tried to catch her breath, but in front of her she saw a very small girl looking at her. «Why did you leave me there? Why didn't you save me? Why do you always run away?»

Lyra tried to answer but had no voice, and she looked at the little girl with teary eyes. Then a hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her violently into the centre of a vortex. Lyra closed her eyes instinctively, and when she opened them again, she saw two bright yellow eyes inside a mask.

«You weren't supposed to exist. Not in this time nor in any timeline.»

White flames exploded. The ground opened up with a sharp jolt. And then, total silence, almost deafening. No wind, no heartbeats. Just a straight, flat line, like a monitor that had stopped showing signs of life.

Lyra woke up with a start, gasping for breath, her skin wet with sweat, her heart beating so hard it felt like it might jump out of her chest or stop at any moment. She looked around: the other girls were asleep, but there was a glimmer of light outside, so the alarm would probably go off soon. The girl felt empty, tired, afraid. It was the first time she had ever had a dream like that, and she didn't know what it meant. She knew she couldn't talk to anyone about it, because no one would understand or think she was normal.

But what did it mean that she wasn't supposed to exist? And what was this acceleration inside her?

She got up slowly and stood in front of the mirror. She touched her face, her hands, her eyes, her shoulders, hoping to understand her nightmare. Meanwhile, tears rolled down her cheeks without haste. She let out a trembling sigh and went back to bed until the world decided to slowly resume its andatio.

«Are you all right, Lyra?» Daphne asked worriedly. «I heard you crying last night.»
«Oh...» Lyra began, and for a second she couldn't breathe, not knowing what to say. «Yes. I just had a bad dream. Nothing to worry about, though, thank you, Daph...» she continued quickly, forcing a smile. As they walked, they didn't have a chance to say much else because they heard a loud noise coming from the Entrance Hall, and after exchanging glances, they hurried there with curiosity. When they arrived, the Goblet of Fire was bubbling with blue-white flames, and the crowd had formed a circle around it and the Line of Age.

«Do you think anyone has put their name in yet?» asked Daphne, and Hermione turned to them.

«I think almost everyone from Durmstrang has, but I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.»

They didn't have time to reply to Hermione before they heard distinctive, infectious laughs coming from not far away: Fred and George Weasley with Lee Jordan in tow, striding boldly like people who had just had a brilliant or suicidal idea; and in the midst of that cheerful noise, George's almond-shaped eyes rested on her for a moment and he winked at her, as if he had found her among all the others.

«Done!» Fred announced right in front of Lyra, while George, with his usual crooked smile of someone who enjoyed even breathing, kept his eyes on her — and here the girl looked away, as if she wasn't listening to the conversation. «We just drank it.»

«Drank what?» asked Ron, bewildered and with red ears, and Fred put his hands on his hair.

«The Ageing Potion, you genius.»

«One drop each...» said George, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. «All we need is to be older than a few months…»

«It's not going to work!» Lyra sang. The others, including Fred and George, turned to her. George looked at her with a sly smile, his hands still rubbing together.

«Oh, yeah? And why is that, Selwyn?» he muttered, leaning his head slightly towards hers, his voice full of mischievous curiosity. «Did you put the Age-Line around the Goblet after we told you our plan?»

Fred laughed. «Or are you one of those who likes to ruin other people's fun for sport? Like her...» he said, nodding towards Hermione, who looked at him indignantly. 

Lyra smiled, but she didn't flinch or take her eyes off George's almond-coloured eyes, which were looking at her with a challenging and amused provocation. But before she could reply, she felt that sensation her body sometimes experienced — as if time were slowing down — and as soon as George approached her, she smelled the delicious scent of caramel and almonds and almost lost her composure; she coughed and continued speaking.

«No, absolutely not... I don't want to ruin your fun, because that's not my ambition. It may be an almost perfect potion, but a few drops aren't enough to fool ancient magic. And besides…» She paused, tilting her head slightly. «If it doesn’t work, the three of you will burn like dragons with your noses in the fire!»

George let out a low laugh, his eyes fixed on the girl's lips. «You know, Selwyn, you can insult me all you want... but with that tone, you can say anything.»

Lyra lowered her gaze and raised it again immediately, sighing. «Only if you stop talking as if you're immune to every rule. Sooner or later, you'll get burned, Weasley.»

But the way she said ‘Weasley’ — with an imperceptible tremor — was barely noticed by George, as was the way Lyra looked away from him, who was still staring at her lips. A shadow of satisfaction passed over the boy's eyes, almost as if he had realised he had found a secret switch in her. 

In any case, Fred made a dramatic gesture with his hand and said, «And with that sentence, I'd say someone's already burning, and it's not the three of us!» 
He walked away laughing with Lee, while George, before joining them, stood watching Lyra and winked at her. The girl stared at him for a few seconds, as if hours had passed, her mouth half open. In any case, the three tried to pull out the parchment sheets and insert them into the Chalice. For a few seconds, nothing happened, and George shouted triumphantly and turned to look at Lyra as if to say, ‘I told you so!’, but then the worst happened: all three were thrown away by something like an invisible launcher, and they started arguing with each other while everyone laughed. Lyra and Daphne laughed and rolled their eyes. «You told them, those dumbasses…»

At lunchtime, after classes were over, the group of Slytherins headed to the Great Hall. There was a delicious smell of stewed pumpkin and warm bread, mingling with the clatter of plates and the chatter of students. The ceiling was a solid grey, covered with low clouds threatening rain, but at least the downpour from the day before had passed. They had just sat down at the table, and Lyra still had a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. There were strangely few people at lunch that day, which is why she noticed Fred and George's flaming red hair at the Gryffindor table: they had obviously just returned from the Hospital Wing and she found them in excellent condition; and George, for Merlin’s sake, seemed even hotter than usual. As soon as he noticed her, Lyra looked away and started playing with her cutlery, pretending nothing had happened.

She was about to start eating when Theo plopped down next to her with a thud; she raised an eyebrow. «Had fun this morning, eh?» he said in a tone that was too neutral to sound disinterested.

«With the cauldrons in Potions about to explode, or with Professor Binns' peculiar faces?» she replied, drinking her coffee.

«With Weasley,» Theo cut in, nodding towards George. «The one who winked at you like you were old friends. Has he sent you flowers yet now that he's out of the Hospital Wing?»
Lyra stiffened slightly, then smiled faintly and cleared her throat.

«What's your problem, Theo? We were just joking. You know, something normal human beings do.» she said, trying to remain calm.

«Oh, right. Just joking, and you thought it was cute…» he snapped, banging his spoon on his plate, which made a few people turn around curiously.

«I thought it was unusual, but everyone thinks that. Judging by how much people laugh at his jokes, even though they're sometimes worse than mine after I have a couple of glasses of wine.» she shrugged, while Theo stared at her tensely as if he were really angry. 

«So you like the clown?» he asked sarcastically.

Lyra glared at him. «Will you stop being a jealous prat? It's not like I'll become yours if you talk to me in a low voice and bring me chocolates every now and then.»

They heard a few people giggle, who had probably only heard half the conversation. Draco, who was sitting across from them, rested his elbow on the table and intervened. «For Merlin's sake, Nott, it was a smile. It's not like she swore allegiance to the Weasley family — thank goodness she's still sane! And besides, George acts like an idiot sometimes... not like Fred, of course, but it's not his fault that Selwyn has a weird sense of humour.»

Lyra looked at Draco. «Please, don't defend me!» and the boy raised his hands in surrender, while Theo snorted again. 

«I thought we were friends...»

«Yes, so did I. But friends don't make a scene when they see you smiling at someone else!»she said. 

«All this for a smile, huh...» Theo muttered under his breath as she got up.

«Yes, just a smile. Strange how it makes some people so angry, isn't it?» 

And she left the Great Hall, leaving the boys standing there. Theo was boiling with rage, and Draco looked at him. «Theo, I've always told you. You can't keep her on a leash, and if it burns you so much, try to make her laugh yourself.»

Chapter Text

The Halloween banquet that evening seemed to go on longer than usual, not so much because it was the second such lavish meal in two days and the tables were still being laden with food, but because, under normal circumstances, each student would’ve enjoyed it more quietly and happily. Lyra looked around and, like everyone else in the Hall, judging by the glances of the students perpetually fixed on the teachers' table to watch Dumbledore and the impatience written on everyone's faces, she could feel the feverish anticipation of the discovery of the three champions of the Tournament.

Draco studied her out of the corner of his eye, his elbow resting on the table and his glass spinning slowly between his fingers, and when he saw that Lyra's shoulders remained as stiff as taut strings, he leaned slightly towards her, his tone half-ironic as usual but his gaze softer than usual.

«You're going to break the glass holding it like that, Lyr. Breathe.»

The words slid off the girl like a light tap; only then did she realise that she was clutching the glass so tightly that her knuckles were white, her breath short and her eyes fixed on the blue fire of the cup.

However, it was the boy's gesture that softened her and almost calmed her down: Draco's warm hand found hers, which was quite cold, under the table. He took it in his hands and began to caress her knuckles with his thumb in light, circular movements, as if to help calm her down; after all, he knew her better than anyone else. Lyra lowered her gaze to their intertwined fingers as she felt the warmth reaching her and her heartbeat slowing slightly, and she smiled at him uncertainly.

«Hey,» Draco murmured. «What I said earlier about Potter... I was joking. I don't think his name will actually come out of there.»

She looked at him sideways, raising an eyebrow slightly, as if weighing his words; but the constant pressure of his fingers against hers was more eloquent than any promise. «Are you really sure about that, Draco? I—»

«Nothing will happen that you can't handle with your emotions...» he added, more quietly, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper. «And even if it does, you won't be alone. Although I don't understand your strange obsession with him this year.» Lyra nodded as she muttered ‘idiot’ under her breath, letting the blue flames of the Cup reflect in her eyes; she focused on the rhythm of that thumb tracing her skin and for the first time since the candles had been lowered, she felt her heart no longer racing, but walking.

Pansy, however, silenced them with an impatient gesture. «Shhh, guys, it's about to start.» but Draco didn't let go of her hand; he just squeezed it once, like a pact.

Sure enough, out of nowhere, the golden plates returned as good as new and silence fell in the Great Hall: Dumbledore stood up, and the entire teachers' table seemed to stiffen.

«Well, the Goblet of Fire is almost ready to make its choices,» he began. «Those who are chosen are requested to come to this side of the Hall, walk past the teachers' table and enter the room behind it. There you will receive the first instructions.»

He then drew his wand and with a sweeping gesture, all the candles went out at once, leaving only the light of the Cup with its white and blue flames. Everyone stared at it expectantly, holding their breath, and then suddenly the flames turned from blue to red: a tongue of fire shot into the air, carrying a piece of burnt parchment, while the flames returned to their original colour.

Dumbledore grabbed the piece of paper and held it out with his arm outstretched to read the name. «The Durmstrang champion,» he read aloud clearly, «...is Viktor Krum!»

The roar was immediate: a storm of applause thundered through the Hall, echoing off the walls. Krum rose casually and followed the path indicated by Dumbledore, disappearing through the side door as the applause faded. After a few seconds, the flames turned red again, and a second piece of parchment emerged.

«The Beauxbatons champion is Fleur Delacour!»

The girl with long blonde hair rose gracefully, throwing back her shining hair and advancing lightly towards the champions' room. Two of the girls who had been excluded from Beauxbatons were so disappointed that they burst into tears.

And now it was the turn of the Hogwarts champion.

«The Hogwarts champion...» there was a palpable silence in the hall, many students clasping the hands of those next to them as if afraid of who would come out. «It's Cedric Diggory!»

Every single person in Hufflepuff leapt to their feet, shouting, banging their fists on the table and jumping as if the floor were a trampoline, while Cedric advanced with a big smile on his face. Lyra cheered up, thinking that if Hogwarts had to have a face, this boy's was not wrong at all — in fact, it was perfect. The applause for the boy lasted so long that the headmaster took a while to make himself heard.

«Well, now we have our three champions. I'm sure I can count on all of you to give your champions all the support you can —»

But the words suddenly caught in his throat, and everyone realised what had distracted him. Lyra turned to look at the Goblet: the flames, which were blue up a moment before, were now red again. «What... is that normal?» she whispered in shock, looking at her friends. Everyone shook their heads, and Draco shook his head, squeezing her hand again under the table.

«No, not at all.»

Another sheet of parchment came out, singed, and Lyra felt her heart in her throat as if it wanted to escape. She barely had time to think or process what had happened, to prepare herself for anything, when the headmaster's voice echoed in the total silence of the Great Hall.

«Harry... Harry Potter?»

Silence fell in the Great Hall, and Lyra felt the blood freeze in her heart. It was an empty silence, almost a mixture of confusion, surprise and strangeness; and no one laughed or applauded.

Not even a small word of encouragement.

The name that had just been spoken — Harry Potter — hammered in her head at regular intervals as if it were tied to a string in her heart.

It was as if every sound had disappeared.

Every heartbeat, every voice, every breath.

Lyra followed the boy with her eyes as he slowly got up after being pushed by Hermione, who had a now pale Ron beside her. She saw that Harry's gaze was searching for something to hold on to, but in return he received only stares and insults muttered not so quietly.

At that moment, he seemed tiny to her, and he was no longer The Boy Who Lived (in fact, to her, he had always been just a boy like any other) but only a fourteen-year-old boy who wanted to remain invisible — but the world was calling his name, again.

Lyra's fingers clenched Draco's until they hurt, but it was as if she wasn't touching anything; everything in her wanted to move, run, jump to her feet, scream ‘stop’, cross the room and wrap Harry in an embrace tight enough to stop the trembling she noticed in his shoulders — but she knew it wouldn't be enough, that no arms could contain something so big and frightening. Raw fear ran under her skin like the electricity she’d felt from time to time for years, anger bit her tongue, anxiety tightened her throat; and above all, that silent, lucid anguish, the certainty that something had been set in motion and that no one, not even Dumbledore, could bring it back.

She couldn't take her eyes off him — as if, by looking away, something worse might happen to him — and the moment Harry passed between the tables, Lyra had the absurd impression that time bent a little, that sounds came back in jerks, that the castle was holding its breath with her. When the door closed behind the boy, the world started up again, but not in the same way: like a clock that had lost a tooth, everything kept moving, yes, but with an irregular tick that hurt her ears. And inside, where courage is kept, there was only one naked, stubborn thought: 'From now on, nothing will ever be the same again.'

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The next morning, the Slytherin Common Room was buzzing like a hornet's nest: it was like a competition to guess how Harry Potter had managed to get his name into the cup, and how he had got it out. Amidst bets flying back and forth and whispered theories full of venom, a still sleepy Lyra approached her friends sitting around the crackling fireplace.

«What did I tell you, friends…» Draco said, stretching his legs. «Harry Potter has found a way to participate in the Tournament.»

«True... but doesn't he ever get tired of wanting to be the centre of attention?» asked Pansy, clinking her teaspoon against her steaming teacup before passing it to Lyra.

«And, of course, they'll let him compete. Compete, guys! Instead of expelling him from school...» whispered Theo. Blaise and Lyra exchanged glances and sighed heavily. «What, Lyra? You don't agree, as usual?»

Lyra took a slow breath, then let out a yawn. «Actually, I do agree. He shouldn't have been allowed to participate.»

«Ahhh, then you're sane!» Pansy laughed, tapping her knee.

But Lyra's agreement carried — rightly — more weight than theirs.

It was true that she didn't want Harry in the Tournament, but she believed that because it wasn't a tournament a fourteen-year-old could endure, especially given its break after the tasks were stopped because of the deaths. And she would’ve sworn, putting her whole self into the fire instead of just her hand, that it wasn't him who put his name in the Cup. That Harry Potter was looking for new and strange experiences every year, or that he always found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, was obvious — he was a magnet for trouble.

But he would've never risked so much. At least, not of his own free will.

Lyra leaned back, crossing her arms and watching the fire, but she had stopped listening to what the others were saying. There were many, perhaps too many, things that didn't add up, and even though she didn't know Harry, what little she had seen of him over the past three years didn't seem compatible with such a stupid move. She had noticed it in his eyes the night before: it was as if he was trying to understand what had just happened to him; it wasn't the kind of look that betrayed the greed of someone who had got what he wanted.

And there was also that strange, persistent and inexplicable feeling of familiarity towards him: perhaps it was just her imagination, or perhaps it was just her who, unlike the others, wondered why everyone was still so convinced that Harry was always and in any case chaos personified.

Perhaps it was easier for some to believe that story than to really look.

And Lyra, knowing herself, fortunately always looked a little deeper — at least when it didn't involve boys and love together.

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Days later, Lyra still dreamed of the evening when the cup spat out a fourth name, almost like a wound that wouldn’t heal. And, as usual, she opened her eyes wide in the dark, her breath broken. Although she was still tired, she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night, and going back to sleep would be pointless as the anguish in her chest would not let go. She decided to get up quietly, slip on a simple amaranth-coloured robe and a pair of dark Levi's, and go for a walk through the silent corridors of the castle.

Lyra walked slowly through the deserted corridors of Hogwarts, her skin prickling from the cold, the silence around her (except for the voices of the sleeping portraits muttering things to each other in sleep-filled voices) and the sense of emptiness she felt in her chest every time she thought about the Tournament.

She couldn't shake the feeling of constant anguish when her mind replayed the scene: all the students cheering for the three champions, the applause and collective satisfaction — and then the Cup spitting out a fourth name... and when Dumbledore called Harry; as well as the memory of his bewildered, confused face, with no one stopping what was happening. Not to mention how Ron and many of his other friends, or those who considered themselves friends, turned their backs on him when he needed a shoulder to cry on more than ever to face something so immense — especially in the days following the incident.

She left the main hall on the first floor and was about to turn onto a staircase, her head full of thoughts and questions, not even knowing where she was going, when she suddenly heard low voices and suppressed laughter coming from nearby. She took the last few steps on tiptoe to avoid being heard, then peeked out cautiously: Fred and George Weasley were there, sitting on the edge of a parapet with their legs dangling, both holding bottles of pumpkin juice as if nothing had happened, talking.

«Oh, look who it is...» Fred said amusedly when he saw her. «Lyra Selwyn, queen of prophecies and shadows, caught red-handed breaking the rules!»

Lyra pretended not to hear, then peered into the corridor and sighed as she smoothed her hair. «I thought you both were the professionals at breaking rules, not me.»

«Eh, but we're hopeless cases, and the teachers gave up on us halfway through our first year,» Fred replied calmly. «You, on the other hand, would make headlines.»

«Can't sleep?» asked George, who had been watching her curiously until a moment ago, trying to figure out what was going through her mind. She shook her head and sat down on the floor, not far from them, and rubbed her eyes.

«I don't think even a strong dose of valerian or passionflower would help me right now. I guess you guys can't sleep either.»

«Too much going on in our heads, you know?» George muttered, looking up at the starry ceiling above them. «After what happened to Harry the other night... he shouldn't have been chosen. We know that. But something doesn't add up about this situation.»

Lyra nodded slowly, looking up at the ceiling too. «I understand. He's just a boy...» she whispered. «He's my age... and this isn't something to be taken lightly!»

The twins nodded and sighed. Fred, who was still playing with the empty glass bottle in his hands, was the first to speak again. «Our father told us that whoever puts their name in the Goblet signs a binding contract, but it seems to us that someone did it for Harry.»

«You know, when Dumbledore said his name... it was as if I felt a kind of emptiness inside me. Not just out of compassion, but as if...»

There was a moment of silence. Fred was still playing with the bottle in his hands, but George kept looking at Lyra. He watched her closely, tracing the details of her face with his eyes: her high, slightly sharp cheekbones, which gave her a determined tone even when she was silent; her soft, almost pink cheeks; her straight, elegant nose; and her full lips, often pressed together in a thoughtful expression — as if she were always thinking about something. Her hair, darker than it appeared in the night light, fell in waves below her shoulders, with a few rebellious strands falling across her face, escaping her control.

But it was her eyes, green with shades that turned to amber when the light changed, that held the mystery and, above all, George's gaze fixed on her. They were not easy eyes to read: the boy couldn’t tell if there was irony, mistrust or just a deep need not to be misunderstood; it was as if he were looking for something in her way of speaking, or perhaps in her expressions, to understand her.

«Harry would’ve never done such a thing, he wouldn't have got himself into this mess... Do you think it's right that he has to take part?» asked him then, still looking at her.

«I know,» said Lyra, turning to them. «That's what scares me. It's not fair that he has to take part… I mean, I understand the ancient rules, the magical contract, the honour of the schools, all that drama, but— but you can't expect a kid who didn't put his name in the Cup to take this well! He looked terrified, guys!»

«Do you know him well? Harry?»

«No— I mean, only by sight. We’ve never talked much. But it's like when I look at him, part of me feels like I've known him forever. Crazy, right?»

Fred laughed. «Welcome to Hogwarts, where magic makes the real seem crazy and the crazy seem real!» and Lyra chuckled softly.

George kept staring at the ceiling, then turned to look at her. «You can sit here if you want, Selwyn,» he said, indicating the seat next to him with his hand tapping on the stone. «I won't bite.»

Lyra stared at him for a moment, tilting her head. «Are you sure? After the Ageing Potion, you might have developed permanent side effects...» she teased, but she obeyed and stood up, slipping into the seat between the twins.

They remained silent for a while, without saying a word. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but one of those where you know you can relax; and perhaps for the first time, Lyra didn't feel judged or out of place. And maybe she even thought that the Weasleys weren't as stupid as they seemed after all. It was in that silence that, almost without realising it, she reached for the bottle George was holding between himself and the railing; brought the bottle to her lips and took a long sip of juice, feeling the warmth of the spices descend into her throat like a caress, then put the bottle back in its place.

Only then did she realise what she had done, and the blush spread across her cheeks.

With her lips still wet with juice, Lyra put the bottle down abruptly. George, on the other hand, was staring at her with an expression halfway between innocence and guilt, and without changing his tone, he teased her with a calmness that seemed like a sharp blade to her.

«Ah, so that's how it works with you, Selwyn? First you steal my juice, then you look at me like you're sorry... in some villages, that counts as an official engagement, you know.»

Lyra's eyes widened, she felt the heat rise again to her cheeks in an instant, and her first impulse was to retreat, as if she had really crossed an invisible line; she ran her thumb under her lower lip to wipe away the remaining drop and pretend nothing had happened. «I— sorry, I didn't mean to... I didn't think...»

George stopped her with a gesture, and his gaze softened in a second. «Hey, I'm just teasing you, I'm not really making fun of you. Drink as much as you want...» he said, holding out the bottle again, while Lyra took it between her fingers.

With a smile that trembled slightly at the corners of her mouth, she murmured, «Thanks, Fred.»

For a moment, George didn't move a muscle; then he leaned towards her slowly and his warm, still spicy breath came close to her cheek, and he lowered his voice as if he were confessing a secret: «Ouch. Fred, really? It burns almost as much as the Age Line.» he smiled half-heartedly, but a hurt and amused look flashed across his eyes. «Tell me you only confused me because I look better in the dark... or I'll have to start all over again and introduce myself: George. The one who listens to you, and doesn't steal your juice— usually.»

Lyra burst into a nervous giggle, ran a finger over her moist lips as if to erase the gaffe, and shook her head. «I'm teasing you, Weasley. I know very well that you're George. Fred doesn't have those two tiny moles...» She pointed, without touching him, to the right side of his neck. «Here.»

George instinctively touched the spot she had indicated, as if he hadn't known he had them until then, then looked back at her with a half-smile that was softer than usual. «Are you studying me, Selwyn?»

«I'm observing,» she replied simply, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself. «It's a habit I can't break.»

«Oh, fantastic,» Fred chimed in from the opposite side, tapping his shoes against the stone. «I've got nothing, but you've got devastating charisma. I'll make a note of the discrimination.»

Perhaps for the first time in days, Lyra was finally able to breathe without a thousand thoughts running through her head; and perhaps, between the three of them, there was a strange possibility of becoming friends.

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In the morning, Lyra felt more tired than usual: after all, she had spent the night wandering the corridors with the Weasley twins until almost dawn, just before Filch began checking the various floors of the castle in search of students to get into trouble. She let herself fall at the Slytherin table and remained for a moment with her fingers wrapped around her steaming cup of coffee and her gaze fixed in front of her, as if to recharge.

«Strange, I haven't seen Potter around for a while, except in class...» Pansy began in a tone of feigned indifference that masked her nosiness. «And he's not with his friends this morning. Has he already passed away, or is he busy with interviews?» Draco and Blaise laughed, then coughed almost in unison when the bite of pancake almost went down the wrong way.

Lyra looked up from her coffee. «Oh no, there he is!» she nodded as Harry walked towards Hermione, who was left alone after Ron had already left the table. He looked visibly tired and quiet, his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed on the floor. Lyra continued to watch them without drawing too much attention to herself, pouring pumpkin juice into a glass or eating something, but she found herself holding her breath when she saw Hermione's worried face as she tried to convince the boy of something.

«What do you think they're talking about?» asked Daphne, intrigued by Lyra's insistent gaze towards the table.

«Probably strategies for surviving more than five minutes in the tournament,» replied Draco, grimacing. «If the Cup chose him, he'll have to find a way to stay alive until the end.»

Blaise shook his head and smiled as he poured coffee for the others. «I've known you forever, Draco, and yet you still surprise me with your immense sensitivity!»

Draco raised his head with an air of superiority. «I don't say anything that isn't true.»

«Yeah, probably,» said Lyra. «Although the whole situation still seems strange to me.»

Theo looked at her suspiciously. «Be careful, Lyra. If you stare at him too much, someone might think you're rooting for him.»

«Nonsense, babe,» she replied coldly. «I'm just trying to understand, that's all.»

Then she set her cup down on the table with a sharp sound and rose without haste, as one does when one decides that the rest of the conversation is no longer worth one's time. Around her, the others had already resumed talking about the pins ‘Potter Stinks’ and other ones found in the corridor; and as she crossed the central aisle of the Great Hall, Lyra caught Hermione's eye, who smiled at her slightly and almost sympathetically, as if she knew what she was thinking.

The situation at school, however, had not calmed down at all: Lyra, like probably anyone who still had a shred of common sense, believed that as the days passed, people would get used to the idea that Harry was one of the champions.

But she was wrong.

After Halloween, between the return to classes and the crowded corridors, most of the students were still convinced that he had put himself forward; and now, added to the murmurs were cracks in his friendship with his best friend Ron, the Gryffindors divided into factions and the Hufflepuffs in revolt — who hated him because they believed he had stolen Cedric Diggory's glory.

Lyra was near the library when she heard someone call her in an unusually nervous and tense tone. «Um... Lyra? Excuse me, do you have a minute?»

She turned abruptly and was surprised to see Hermione Granger standing in front of her, clutching a thick folder filled with notes and carefully drawn diagrams. The girl looked slightly agitated and kept looking around as if to make sure no one saw them together.

«Granger?» Lyra asked curiously. «Sure, go ahead. What's going on?»

Hermione took a deep breath, as if searching for the right words. «This might seem strange coming from me, but... would you like to talk for a moment? It's about something that's very important to me.»

Lyra nodded slowly. «What is it?»

Hermione hesitated for a second, then showed her the file, lifting it slightly. «Have you ever heard of SPEW?»

«The... what?» Lyra replied, wrinkling her nose and staring at the cover of the file.

«The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare,» the curly-haired girl said immediately, in the determined and passionate tone she was so familiar with from lessons. «It's something I created to support the rights of domestic elves. It's an important issue, and I need someone with a fairly open mind...»

Lyra chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow. «Open mind? And you come to me?»

Hermione smiled shyly. «I was hesitant, actually, considering how much time you spend with Malfoy and the others. I thought you'd send me away.»

Lyra looked at her and grimaced ironically. «You're right, spending so much time with them can give that impression. But we're not all the same in Slytherin.»

«That's why I'm here!» the other replied confidently, smiling slightly. «You're one of the few who could really understand.» Lyra then gently took the folder from Hermione's hands and began to leaf through it curiously: it was full of pages covered with notes, diagrams and ideas, and small drafts of campaigns for pages, holidays and vacations, and pensions.

«It looks... it looks good, Hermione. I promise I'll take a look at it over the next few days and let you know.»

Hermione smiled with relief. «Thank you so much. It wasn't easy to find someone willing to listen. With Harry and Ron arguing, and the rest of the school going crazy over the Tournament, it seems like everyone has forgotten everything else.»

At the mention of Harry, Lyra looked up suddenly. «Right... speaking of Harry. How is he?»

Hermione sighed, lowering her voice. «Bad. He had a fight with Ron and he's feeling lonely. This whole situation is weighing heavily on him, even though he's trying to hide it.»

Lyra hesitated, clutching the file tightly in her hands. «»Do you think... there's anything I could do to help him?» she asked almost blushing, and the other girl looked up, surprised by such a sincere question.

«Do you really want to help him?»

«Yes,» Lyra admitted after a few seconds of silence, lowering her gaze in embarrassment. «I know it sounds strange coming from me, of all people, but— but he doesn't deserve this. I don't think he put his name in the Cup.»

Hermione nodded firmly. «Neither do I. And maybe... knowing that not everyone thinks he's a liar or an impostor might help him. Just telling him, or letting him know that someone really believes in him—it would do him a world of good.»

She thought for a moment, then looked at Hermione with determination. «All right, then. I'll do something.»

And the girl smiled gratefully. «I knew I should’ve talked to you. You're a better person than you give yourself credit for, Lyra.»

«Now you're exaggerating, Granger,» Lyra teased, feeling herself blush slightly. «I have a reputation to uphold.»

Hermione giggled, shrugging as she walked away. «Don't worry, your secret is safe with me.» and as Hermione disappeared around the corner, Lyra stood still for a moment, looking at the file in her arms, feeling strangely satisfied and nervous about what she was going to do next. She headed to the library to study before letting herself go to the common room for a hot tea.

She was sitting at the back of the library, finishing the second of the two scrolls McGonagall had assigned her a few days earlier. She had stopped to look for something in the book desperately when she heard someone moving among the shelves next to her. She looked up just in time to see Harry Potter. Lyra hesitated for a moment and looked around to make sure no one was watching her, then approached the table where the boy had sat down.

«Potter?» she whispered, so as not to scare him.

Harry jumped, looking up. «Selwyn? What are you doing here, did one of your bosses send you?» he said, surprised and annoyed, as Lyra leaned slightly against the table.

«Usually, people study or read in the library, Harry. It's a rather complicated concept at the moment, I know.» Harry grimaced wearily but seemed to appreciate her irony.

«Yeah, you're right, s-sorry. I didn't think you were a regular here.»

Lyra smiled back. «Surprised that Slytherins can read?»

«No, just surprised that one of them decided to talk to me instead of making fun of me or selling pins against me.»

The girl sighed, sitting down opposite him. «Not everyone thinks you put your name in there, Harry. Me included.»

«Really?» he asked, surprised, his voice low and his eyes shining. «Because from the way everyone looks at me in the corridor, you wouldn't think so.»

She looked at him, noticing the tiredness on his face. «I know it'll sound strange coming from me, but not all Slytherins think you're so naive as to voluntarily seek out something like that. Except for the people I hang out with, apart from Daphne and Blaise...»

Harry smiled bitterly. «Thanks for your trust. After Hermione and Hagrid, and the twins, you're the fifth. A personal best, I'd say.»

Lyra gave him a sincere smile. «Consider yourself lucky, five people is better than none, and it's already something. And anyway, regardless of what others say, I don't think you're a liar. I thought it was only fair to tell you.»

Harry stared at her, not knowing whether to take her seriously. «Why are you telling me this?»

«Because I really mean it, but don't expect me to suddenly become your friend, Potter. I just think you deserve at least one or two real friends.»

Harry looked down. «It would be a lot if the ones I have remembered that they were.»

Lyra immediately understood the reference. «The sixth Weasley, eh?»

The boy scratched the back of his neck and nodded. «He hasn't spoken to me since.»

She settled into her chair and waited a few seconds before speaking. «Give him time, Harry. Sometimes it's strange or hurtful to always be someone else's shadow, especially for him, coming from such a large family.»

Harry looked at her in surprise and grinned. «I didn't think you were so wise!»

Lyra raised an eyebrow, laughing. «Don't get used to it, Potter. As I told Hermione, I have a reputation to uphold.»

He smiled and thanked her profusely. Lyra stood up, carefully gathering the file Hermione had given her.

«But one thing... remember, if you tell anyone about this, I'll deny everything.»

Harry nodded amusedly, returning more calmly to his writing. And Lyra, as she walked away, felt she had done something that made her feel good for the first time in a long time.

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13th November, 1994

Lyra had just returned to the Slytherin common room after another afternoon spent in the library doing research. She was tired but curiously in a good mood: she felt lighter after her chat with Harry a few days earlier, and she’d also managed to spend some time, at least occasionally, with people outside her circle. She let herself fall onto her bed and almost immediately Pansy and Daphne joined her, sitting on the bed opposite.

«Listen, Lyra...» Daphne began with a half-smile. «Is it just me, or do the Weasley twins always find an excuse to talk to you lately? George, especially?»

Lyra looked up in surprise. «What do you mean?»

Pansy giggled. «Yes, really! Why are you always hanging out with those two lately? Have you started fraternizing with the Gryffindors?»

The girl opened her green eyes wide, looking at them puzzled and amused at the same time. «Really, girls, you're exaggerating. We've only talked a few times, we're not really friends. I'd rather call them acquaintances.»

But as she said this, flashbacks of the last few days after her night with the twins began to run through her mind.

Lyra was walking quickly towards the Charms classroom when Fred suddenly appeared in front of her, stopping her with a theatrical air. «Attention, attention, everyone stop! A Slytherin is coming!» he shouted, raising his hand.

«Weasley, stop it,» she replied, smiling, betraying the severity of her voice. «I'm late, you can bother me later...»

«Georgie is too, don't worry,» Fred replied, smirking. «If you keep hanging around him, you'll infect him with all your bad habits.»

«And you'll continue with your terrible jokes,» Lyra replied sarcastically. «It's not my fault you managed to extract my class timetable from me! I can always inform your Head of the House. She'll believe me, I'm a girl and I do excellent in her classes!» she said, waving her index finger.

«Careful, dear Lyra,» George intervened, approaching her with an amused smile. «Irony is our only weapon against your Slytherin barbs...»

The girl shook her head, stifling a laugh. «Bye, guys, bye. Get lost!»

Or when, one day, Lyra was sitting on the edge of a fountain reading her Potions book when George sat down next to her as if nothing had happened. «If they see you here with me, you'll risk your impeccable reputation, you know that, Weasley?» she said without looking up, in a defiant tone.

«Don't worry, Selwyn,» he whispered. «If they find you with a Gryffindor, you'll lose yours too. We're both in danger.»

«Oh no!» she said, pretending to be worried and looking at him. «That's terrible. But I'll think about it after I figure out what to write on the parchment for Snape.»

«See?» said George, chuckling. «At least we'll have something in common. Anyway, what's the research about...?»

Lyra shook her head slightly, returning to the present with a half-smile on her lips.

«Well?» Daphne continued. «Anything to declare?»

Hearing these words, she rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and screamed softly. «Girls, really. You're seeing drama where there isn't any. They're just nice.»

Daphne winked at her. «Mm... just nice? Really, Lyra? Especially George?»

Lyra laughed nervously, then sighed. «I swear, nothing else.» Pansy laughed, getting up from the bed.

«If you say so, sweetheart. But remember, they're Weasleys, let's not get too friendly or we won't know how to defend you.»

«I'll remember that, thank you,» replied Lyra with feigned severity, feeling a strange sensation, like vibrations in her stomach, which made her think that perhaps something was changing.

Chapter Text

The morning of November 14th was quite cold. During the night, the storm had been quite turbulent, with lightning splitting the sky, windows rattling and a sea of water lashing the towers, to the point that the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had to sleep in a more sheltered area of the castle; at least, the rest of the day promised only sharp gusts of wind and dry cold that penetrated to the bone.

As the first lesson of the morning, by the way, Lyra had Potions.

The classroom smelled of damp, iron and burnt resin; drops of condensation streaked the walls, and the candlelight struggled to keep the darkness lurking in the corners at bay. As everyone took their seats in silence, the echoes of Draco and Harry's argument still lingered in the air, caused by the sparkling badges with the words "Potter Stinks", and ending with badly bounced spells — which left Goyle with pimples on his face and Hermione with teeth growing almost under her lower lip, quickly fixed by Lyra, who in the meantime continued to apologise to Harry and endure Ron's mutterings.

Despite everything, Lyra loved Potions lessons; for her, it was like entering a world she could read better than anyone else: the slow rhythm of the boiling, the weight of adding a pinch of any ingredient, the way the ladles were used... if Hermione was the strictness of the textbook and Draco was talent nurtured by pride and discipline, Lyra had an absolute ear for Potions — she had an infallible tactile memory, almost as good as the one she had for the piano, capable to recognise with her eyes closed when the ingredients really blended together or when a flame needed to be lowered by anail's breadth. And in class, everyone knew that 'Miss Selwyn' was always one step ahead, even to Granger and Malfoy, to the point that her classmates asked her for corrections in whispers — and Draco, as much as he didn't want to admit it, tilted his head slightly to follow the girl's movements, unlike Hermione, with whom Lyra exchanged notes quietly. And Snape, who never gave praise even under torture, betrayed small signs of satisfaction every time he passed her desk.

«Antidotes!» Snape announced, looking around. «You should have already prepared your potions, so today you will be distilling them carefully, and then we will choose someone to be the guinea pig...» he sighed. «And don't forget to prepare at least one antidote.»

Lyra chose the Laugh-inducing Potion. It was certainly not the easiest potion to manage, but its effect — if it worked — would make the person laugh uncontrollably for no apparent reason, to the point of breathlessness. She tied her hair into a quick bun, rolled up her sleeves and began the preparation. The class was silent for the first half hour, everyone with their eyes on their cauldrons.

But the silence was broken by two sharp knocks on the door: it was Colin Creevey, a young Gryffindor boy who slowly made his way to Snape's desk.

«Yes?» Snape asked dryly.

«Please, sir, I'm supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs.» Snape stared at the boy, whose smiled faded, for a long time, then turned to Harry.

«Potter has another hour and a half of Potions to complete,» he replied coldly. «He'll come upstairs once this class is over.» Draco chuckled under his breath along with Crabbe and Goyle.

«But sir- Mr Bagman wants him,» said Creevey nervously. «All the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs...»

«Very well, very well!» muttered Snape, his tone unchanged. «Potter, get your things and get out of my sight!» Harry quickly gathered his things and headed for the door with Creevey.

Lyra watched the whole scene and almost burned the potion.

«Concentrate, Miss Selwyn,» Snape said as he passed behind her, his cloak brushing the back of her chair. «Your potion has no time for distractions.»

«Yes, professor.»

Towards the end of the lesson — which seemed to last forever — Snape began to walk around the tables. The Slytherins and Gryffindors were busy despite the little time left, both for fear of making mistakes and for fear of the professor, who seemed more insistent than usual that day. The smell in the classroom was pungent. Lyra was bent over her desk, stirring carefully; her potion, an effervescent yellowish liquid, was slowly boiling in the cauldron. It gave off a faint aroma of cinnamon and pepper that tickled her nose, but she had to be careful because she had chosen one of the most difficult potions to stabilise.

Then the professor walked behind her, observing, and stopped: «Selwyn... stabilise and prepare the antidote,» he said, giving her a cold look that was as good as praise, and the girl smiled slightly. Lyra prepared the antidote with the same care: a quick infusion of mint, a dash of acanthus essence, two drops of fennel seed extract. She poured it into a clear vial and held it in her hand to feel its warmth, as if she could measure the correct reaction with her fingertips. The wind outside whistled through the unlit fireplace in the basement and made the nearest flame flicker for a moment.

«Well,» said the professor when the time was up. «I suppose we can try them, so I'd say we'll start with Miss Selwyn's... Mr Thomas, come on—» he didn't have time to finish, because at that moment the door creaked open and George Weasley appeared in the doorway, his hair tousled and a parchment clutched in his hand.

«Professor Snape, I'm sorry. Professor McGonagall asked me to give you these updated student records...»

Snape didn't even bother to thank him, but snatched the papers from his hands. «What a miracle, Weasley. I'm surprised you didn't get lost in the dungeons...» then he looked around the classroom. «And, look, you're just in time.»

George blinked, confused. «In time for...?»

«We needed a volunteer,» Snape cut him off, turning to Lyra. «Selwyn, prepare a dose of your potion. Weasley will do us the honour of testing it.»

«What?» George smiled nervously. «I— Really? Are you sure—?»

«Do you have anything better to do?» the professor cut him off, and Ron and Hermione, not far from Lyra, giggled. «Sit there and don't you dare move.»

With an expression somewhere between amusement and resignation, George sat down in the chair indicated. «I just hope the girl doesn't poison me...»

Lyra, meanwhile, took a vial from her workstation, poured some honey-coloured potion into it and approached George with a smile.

«Are you sure you want to be the guinea pig?»

George looked her in the eyes. «With you taking care of me? I trust you.» he winked at her, and someone in the back whistled softly.

«Silence!» Snape shouted.

Lyra blushed slightly, looked away from him and handed him the potion; George swallowed it in one gulp and for a moment nothing happened. Then a giggle, then another, until it turned into loud laughter. Within seconds, George Weasley was doubled over, unable to hold back, his eyes watering, laughing so hard that he attracted everyone's attention. His hands clung first to Lyra, then to the desk, and he was breathless, his eyes shining. «Ahahaha... Selwyn, you're an evil witch—»

And the class, which had initially held its breath, burst out laughing at the infectious laughter, Lyra included.

Snape, however, silenced them with a deadly glance. «Selwyn. The antidote. Now.»

Lyra stepped forward and helped George drink the light green potion from the vial. He managed to drink it between sobs and giggles, and slowly his breathing stabilised, and George calmed down, running a hand over his wet eyes. «Wow... what a feeling. Your potion works, and I'm still alive.»

She smiled slightly. «You look almost disappointed.»

George looked at her again, his eyes still shiny. «No, I'm just surprised. You know, I don't usually trust myself to be vulnerable with a Slytherin.»

«You didn't have much choice,» she said softly, looking at him.

«True... but if it had to happen, at least it was you, right?» he replied, giving her a smile that almost took her breath away.

Snape coughed dryly. «Weasley, Selwyn, if you're done with your lovey-dovey stuff... he can leave, before I deduct points from both Houses.»

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Shortly after the end of classes, the castle had returned to a state of apparent calm, with a silence that preceded the hustle and bustle of lunch, people talking and cutlery clattering. Some students began to pour into the Great Hall, driven by hunger or the simple habit of sitting down at the table to relax. Lyra, fresh from Charms, walked alongside Daphne and Pansy, their voices intertwining in giggles and whispered comments, always returning to what had happened in Potions.

«Come on, don't tell me it wasn't brilliant,» Pansy said, laughing. «George Weasley doubled over with laughter because of you, Lyra, while Snape looked like he was about to cast Avada Kedavra on the whole class...»

Daphne laughed. «But then when he turned to tell you he trusted you... I'm sorry, it was like a scene from a romance novel. All that was missing was the music in the background!»

Lyra covered her mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. «Stop it! It wasn't like that...»

«No, of course not,» said Pansy, feigning innocence. «That's why you were laughing too, while Snape was looking at him as if he wanted to poison him slowly.»

They had just arrived in the Great Hall when they heard familiar voices calling, «Hey, Selwyn!» And Lyra turned around: sitting at the Gryffindor table, leaning listlessly on their palms, were the Weasley twins. Fred waved her over, as if welcoming a celebrity, while George looked at her with a smirk of pure amusement. Pansy and Daphne exchanged glances and smiled.

«Perfect...» Daphne began, taking Lyra by the arm. «The bride is expected at the altar.»

«Try not to trip on the red carpet,» whispered Pansy as they accompanied her to the two boys, surrounding her like bridesmaids.

«Are you all right, girls?» George asked.

«We're fine. Our dear Lyra is all yours for the next five minutes,» said Daphne with an exaggerated bow. «See you later, beautiful!»

«So...» started Fred, waving a copy of the Daily Prophet and placing it on the table in front of the girl, who had meanwhile sat down next to George. «We thought you'd like to read this gem.»

George snorted. «Or rather, be outraged with us. Rita Skeeter has done a masterpiece, she's outdone herself... in a bad way. It's a mess.»

Lyra picked up the newspaper curiously. They watched her silently, waiting for any sign of what she was reading. The article was on the front page, written in large letters:

'Harry Potter, the Chosen One at all costs?'

A nasty scar, a reminder of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, whose eyes are tearful...

Rita Skeeter hadn't wasted any time: the first few lines were full of broken sentences, partial quotes and insinuations. The more time she spent reading it, the more stunned she became. Then her gaze shifted from one twin to the other. «Does she really say that Harry's "eyes were glistening with the demons of the past" as he told his story?» Lyra asked with a puzzled expression. Fred spread his arms.

«She does think that. According to me, she either mixed him up with someone else or she needs a new pair of glasses.»

George was silent, staring at the headline with his arms crossed. «She's using his name like it's a calling card to sell stories. And the school isn't doing anything about it.»

«12 years old... Then she mentions his parents— I mean, "What do you think your parents would have said if they were alive?"» said Lyra, trying to imitate a harpy's voice. «How can the Ministry let things like this pass?» The twins nodded, as shocked as she was. Then Fred stood up with a sigh, stretching.

«I'm going to see if Angelina's coming. We promised to talk to her about that top secret thing...»

«Sure, you go ahead, now that we were getting all indignant together!» said George sarcastically, but Fred replied with a whistle and a smile before disappearing into the crowd. Left alone, George and Lyra exchanged a calmer glance.

«Harry's not the type to seek all this...» she murmured after a while. «I'm sticking with this idea.What do you think?» George nodded.

«I'm totally with you, Lyr. Harry's always been a good guy, you know. He wouldn't get involved in something so dangerous, with the possibility of certain death.» He looked at her and then added, more quietly, «I don't know how you do it. You have your own way of seeing people.»

Lyra lowered her gaze to the newspaper: she knew George was right. It came naturally to her to analyse the people in front of her like clockwork, almost in detail, even with very little information. «It's like nobody wants to see that there's something strange about all this!» she muttered as she nervously leafed through the next pages of the Gazette. «Harry isn't even old enough to participate. And the look he had that night, and every day since, seemed lost.»

George nodded with an unusually serious expression. «Yeah. No one has asked what it means to be thrown into something this big. Everyone just talks about glory, fame... but not the panic that's probably eating him up inside.»

Lyra glanced at him, looking surprised and amused. «You talk surprisingly profoundly for a boy who sells explosives and sweets that make you spit green smoke. Are you okay, or is it my potion?» George smiled, tilting his head to one side.

«I have many layers, Selwyn. Like a magic onion. I burn your eyes if you cut me in the wrong place, though.»

She burst out laughing. «Did you just say you're a cursed vegetable?»

«And proudly so, if it makes a stuck-up Slytherin laugh.»

Lyra shook her head but couldn't hold back a smile, settling herself better on the bench to turn and look at him. «For your information, I'm not stuck up. I'm just a private person...» she told him, moving closer to his face and sticking out her tongue.

George laughed without looking away. «You're actually more elusive than a Devon pixie, you know that? We see you everywhere, but as soon as we talk to you, you manage to wriggle out of the conversation as if you had the Vanishing spell built into you.»

She shrugged. «I just like to observe.»

«And what do you observe?» he asked quietly after a few moments.

«You know, people. How they move, how they talk... how they shift when they think no one is watching.»

«And what have you observed about me?» George asked with a feigned air of haughtiness, leaning slightly towards her, reducing the distance between them to a breath. Lyra blushed and cleared her throat.

«That you ask too many questions, Weasley.»

«Ah, so you're interested in me too. I'll definitely remember that...» George tossed his hair back with a satisfied smile on his face. «But you do know you can talk about yourself without anyone using it against you, right?» Lyra didn't answer right away. She looked at the torches on the walls, the golden reflections on the stone floor, and then back at the newspaper on her lap, finally returning her gaze to him.

«It's not that simple for me.»

George stopped smiling, not completely, but his expression softened. «Well, let's start with the basics. Favourite colour?»

«Red.»

«Like my tie? Coincidence? I don't think so.» He chuckled as she tapped him gently with the folded newspaper.

«You're trying to trick me into talking about myself. You're cheating.»

«No, I'm just trying to get to know an interesting girl, one detail at a time. I like red too.» She said nothing, but looked down with a smile, and George looked at her for a moment.

«You know, you're not what I expected.»

«What do you mean?» Lyra asked, almost confused.

«You're much less... Slytherin than I thought. I thought you were like your friends, deep down. That's a compliment, before you throw an explosive potion at me.» George held his hands up quickly.

Lyra rolled her eyes. «I'll keep that in mind, magic onion.»

George laughed, and despite the noise in the Great Hall growing louder as the minutes passed, Lyra could only hear that sweet, infectious laugh, and she smiled without thinking. Students entered in waves, but the two seemed to be in a small bubble suspended just for them. And in that moment, however small, another piece was added to the bond that was forming between them. Until Lyra turned towards the entrance.

«Hey, Hermione» Lyra said loudly, waving her hand. Hermione saw her, smiled and walked quickly towards them. «Do you know each other?» George asked quietly, and the girl nodded hastily.

«Lyra, hello,» Hermione said, surprised. «Everything okay? Strange to see you at the Gryffindor table...» Lyra laughed.

«Yeah, George and Fred made me read the article written about Harry in the Daily Prophet, and it left me speechless. Anyway, sorry I kept you waiting. I wanted to talk to you about the SPEW.»

Hermione's eyes lit up. «So? What do you think?»

George joined the conversation in his usual even tone. «Great name, really! Sounds like an emergency ward for rude elves.»He raised his hands in a gesture of peace. «No offense, Hermione... but what's the point? It won't work. Elves don't want to be freed. I mean that without any bad intentions: they'll break your hands before they'll accept a sock.»

Hermione's mouth tightened slightly; Lyra gave her a warning look and returned to Granger as if George hadn't spoken at all. She opened her folder, took out the file and handed it to him carefully. «It's a good cause to fight for, and I'd love to be part of it. I can help you with the flyers or by writing something decent.»

Hermione almost screamed. «Seriously? Ahh, that's great, thank you!» She hugged her suddenly, and Lyra half-gasped because she wasn't used to such affection, but she tried to return the hug, albeit awkwardly. «You know, I didn't think you'd be involved, seeing as you're always with Malfoy and the others—»

The girl stared at her for a moment, taken aback, but smiled. «I know, but I'm not cut from the same cloth as them. House elves don't deserve the way they're treated... Here, take this for the participation fee.»

Hermione lit up. «Really? Thank you, Lyra, you're amazing. I'll have Harry add you to the list, but in the meantime, here's your badge!»

But it was at that moment that the carefree mood, at least for the Slytherins, diminished: Blaise, Draco and Theo slowly approached them, their cloaks perfect and their gazes as curious as they were contemptuous. «Selwyn,» Theo said, and George almost choked on his water at the annoyance it caused him. «Still here? We were waiting for you in the Common Room to have lunch together, but Pansy and Daphne informed us...»

Draco looked at the Gryffindors with contempt. «What a delightful scene.»

Blaise, on the other hand, merely smiled slightly at George and Hermione. Lyra stood up slowly, and in that moment George noticed the almost imperceptible change in her face: her eyes darkened slightly, her lips tightened, and her fingernails played with the palms of her hands. Perhaps discomfort, or irritation, or something else. He looked at her, tilting his head slightly.

«If you really have to go...» he said in a deliberately neutral tone, but his eyes asked if everything was all right.

Lyra nodded slightly and then turned to Hermione. «Let me know when you need help with that, alright?» The girl nodded and smiled enthusiastically. She gave a final wave before walking away with her friends towards the Slytherin table, leaving George and Hermione there in a slightly awkward silence.

«Is she always like this?» asked George, referring not so much to the Slytherins as to the defensive attitude Lyra seemed to adopt when she was with them. Hermione looked at him carefully, taken aback by the question.

«Often. But I think that deep down, she's not really like them. It's just probably easier to pretend to be than to explain the opposite every time...»

George didn't answer right away. He stared at the empty spot where Lyra had just disappeared and ran a nervous hand through his hair. «I don't know, Hermione... it's just that when she talks to us, she seems different. More real, even if she's reserved. But as soon as her friends arrive...» He turned for a moment towards the table on the opposite side of the Hall. «She closes up as if to protect herself.»

Hermione nodded. «Because she does protect herself. Lyra doesn't trust easily, so she's on guard with everyone.» George looked down, biting the inside of his cheek just like she did, and Hermione noticed but said nothing.

«I just want her to know that with me—» Realising what he had said, his eyes widened and he corrected himself quickly. «I mean, with us, she doesn't always have to be like walking on eggshells.»

The girl stifled a laugh and nodded at him. «Then show her. Try to include her, maybe invite her to try one of your weird prototypes, like you did today with the Daily Prophet... or like I did with the SPEW. She's a girl who wants to help, she wants to feel useful, but no one ever asks her to.»

George looked up, and Hermione nodded towards Lyra, who was talking to the others at the Slytherin table, perhaps not looking very happy. «Sometimes it would be enough to make her understand that there's room for her too. It's hard for me too, given what her 'friends' put me through, but she's shown herself to be different.» He remained silent, but there was something in his eyes, as if he were already thinking about what to do. Hermione gave him a little push on the shoulder. «And of course, George... it's clear that something about her has stayed with you. Even if you don't want to admit it.»

George snorted, but surrender shone in his eyes. «Me? No way. It must be the charm of this SPEW thing.»

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The afternoon passed slower than ever for Lyra, mainly due to the argument she had with Theo after he saw her at the 'enemies' table, where most of the attention was focused on George. Despite everything, she didn't respond because she thought it was pointless. As they left the Herbology greenhouses, where the Slytherins had had a lesson with the Ravenclaws, heavy rain awaited them.

«Come on, guys, move!» shouted Daphne as she ran, trying to cover herself with her bag like the others. Laughing and running, Lyra followed the group in the pouring rain. They reached the portico and stopped, panting, trying to shake the water off themselves. Lyra, in particular, had to wrap her soaked cloak tightly around herself, and drops of water were running down her cheeks, which were frozen by her equally wet hair. Not to mention the shirt under her uniform, which was sticking to her skin.

«It's mid-November and it feels like the middle of winter...» said Blaise, snorting, and everyone agreed in a whisper. «Hot chocolate in the Common Room before we study, guys?»

Lyra, smoothing her hair with trembling hands, shook her head. «I'll join you in a minute, guys. I have to go to the library to get some Defence Against the Dark Arts books.» Pansy raised an eyebrow.

«Are you going there looking like that?» she asked.

«Yes, I'll warm up in there. You go on to the Common Room without me, I'll join you as soon as I can to study. Make me some hot chocolate!» she shouted as she waved goodbye and everyone laughed.

At that point, Lyra headed for the library, still dripping and cold. She resumed walking down the half-empty corridor, and the only thing on her mind was not the bitter cold: there was Theo's face in her mind, but above all, George's glances at her that morning, which were harder to shake off than the water.

She smiled slightly as she thought about it, but then she snapped back to reality, shaking her head. 'No, I can't think about that...' she murmured under her breath, smiling, as if to escape the out-of-place thoughts she wasn't used to having.

She couldn't lose her head just because a boy a little older than her — however interesting she found him — was giving her looks that seemed to pierce her soul. She wasn't the type to think about such things.

«Were you talking to yourself or practising casting spells on anyone who happens to cross your path?»

Lyra started, her eyes widening as she spun around: George Weasley was there, leaning against a column next to the windows, hands in his pockets and a smug grin on his face. «Good heavens, Weasley, are you trying to give me a heart attack?» she blurted out, huddling into her wet cloak. «What on earth are you doing here?»

«Hey, don't be like that. At least I'm not talking to myself in a half-empty corridor, dripping like a house elf who's just stepped out of a cold shower.» He glanced at her and lowered his voice, moving closer to her and coming up to her height. «Are you planning to melt in the corridor, or are you aiming to break the record for the fastest cold ever caught at Hogwarts?»

Lyra snorted and rolled her eyes, but still managed a half-smile. «I'm going to the library. I need to get a book before it disappears into thin air like my dignity right now.»

She started to walk away, but George laughed softly and stepped away from the column, walking alongside her. «I'll walk you there, so if you pass out from hypothermia, I can tell the story with great pathos.»

«Oh, what an honour. And I thought you were wandering around ruining my day.»

«Oh no, no darling, I'll save that for another time.» They exchanged a quick glance and he winked at her. Lyra looked away, almost embarrassed, and they continued walking.

«But seriously, what happened to you?» he asked after a silence, in a less joking tone. «You're soaking wet.»

She shrugged, snorting. «Herbology class in the rain. I didn't think I needed to bring a life jacket.» George raised an eyebrow.

«And your friends didn't drag you to the Common Room to wring you out in front of the fireplace? Those little beggars...» he said, shaking his head.

«They went on ahead, I had to go to the library.»

«Stubborn and determined. A great Slytherin, eh?» he muttered, rolling his eyes, and Lyra nudged him with her shoulder, laughing, and they entered the library to look for the textbook.

Among the tall shelves, the world grew quieter. Lyra scanned the section she was interested in and began running her finger along the spines; George, behind her, did the same, stopping occasionally to offer her a volume. «Which one are you looking for, exactly?» he asked, lowering his voice reflexively. «DADA is like half the library.»

Lyra brushed a worn spine and shook her head. «A serious manual on Unforgivable Curses. Not a first-year summary: I want origins, limits, countermeasures... stuff like that.»

«Got it.» He looked up at the higher shelves. «Let's go up a level then.»

«Damn, where is it...» the girl muttered nervously, continuing to search.

«Right here,» said George, taking the book from two shelves above where Lyra was looking and handing it to her. «All yours!»

They were so close that Lyra almost stopped breathing, feeling the warmth of his breath and body mingling with the damp cold that still clung to her skin. She stared at him for a moment too long, her lips parted slightly, then lowered her gaze to the book and took it with a whisper.

«Thank you...»

The word came out trembling: it was impossible to tell if it was just from the cold still prickling her damp skin or from his sudden proximity. George looked at her for a moment, tilting his head slightly.

«Wait...» he whispered. Calmly, he slowly took off his red and gold striped scarf, still warm from his body heat and smelling of wood and spicy almonds, and wrapped it around her neck, tying it carefully and barely touching her chin with his fingers. Lyra held her breath: she suddenly felt a strange sensation of warmth on her face and neck, and it had nothing to do with the wool of the scarf.

She had blushed.

George leaned forward slightly, just enough to look her straight in the eyes.

«Red like the scarf,» he murmured with a half-smile, glancing at the girl's cheeks.

Lyra quickly looked away, shaking her head slightly. «Nonsense.»

«Beautiful nonsense, though,» he continued, then leaned closer to the girl's ear and whispered something that made her heart skip a beat and her breath catch in her throat. «Flaming red. My favourite colour.»

Lyra held her breath, feeling her heart pound in her chest and a shiver run down her spine. She jumped slightly and looked at him with an uncertain, dazed expression, while he looked at her with a half-smile and moved on to look at other shelves. He had been annoyingly good at making her blush.

But why did she feel this way about him, whom she considered only a friend?

She returned to the Slytherin common room with George's scarf still wrapped around her neck, and as soon as she crossed the threshold, Blaise and Daphne whistled at her.

«Are you sure you only went to get a book, Selwyn?» Blaise asked, winking at her. Lyra simply replied by raising an eyebrow and giving a slight smile. Shifting her gaze, she met Theo's, who was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace: he stared at her for a moment without saying a word. While she was adjusting her bag, Theo remained motionless, his fingers clenched on the armrest and his jaw clenched.

Her thoughts were interrupted, however, by Draco, who had been watching her with the look of someone who sees everything even when pretending not to — as she did most of the time, except perhaps when it came to boys. «Nice colour. It brightens you up, you know?» he commented sarcastically, his gaze fixed on her scarf. «Brotherhood with the enemy?»

Lyra raised an eyebrow. «Are you trying to whistle at me like Blaise?»

He shook his head, smiling. «No, I'm too refined for such village fair displays. But I could venture a guess as to the expression on Theo's face.»

«Don't start, it was nothing.» Lyra said, snorting, embarrassed.

«Lyra...» Draco said seriously, lowering his voice. «If someone looks at you as if they've just seen their fortune arrive with their neck wrapped in a red and gold scarf, maybe it's not just annoyance.»

She lowered her eyes. «It's not my fault. Theo and I are great friends.»

Draco looked at her for a moment and then shrugged. «I didn't say it was your fault. But maybe you should try to red the situation better, before someone else tells you in a way that's worse.» Lyra took a deep breath.

«I told him clearly, Draco. Last year, when we broke up, I was very clear — despite everything we had said to each other. I didn't leave him any openings, no half-promises. I'm not playing games with him.» Draco nodded slowly, and in that slight bow there was more respect than judgement.

«I know that. And I know you're not playing games. But people hear what they want to hear, and Theo... sees what he wants to see. I'm just saying, handle it before they do, and they'll do it worse.»

His words lingered like a warm brand. Lyra bit the inside of her cheek, then smiled bitterly. «All right, I'll talk to him.»

Draco touched her arm with two fingers, a quick gesture like an older brother. «Your own way is fine. And if you need me— I mean, I'm not famous for diplomacy, but I know how to handle stuff.»

«I know, thank you, Draco.» she whispered with a slight nod, clutching her folded scarf.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

November 21st, 1994

The late afternoon sky had almost finished giving off the last rays of sunlight, and the light had given way to a pink sunset, but with a damp and cold air. Lyra walked stealthily along a deserted corridor of the castle, her heart beating as fast as if she were going to do something forbidden: in fact, she was on her way to the meeting point she had agreed with Fred and George that morning. Over the past week, she had spent more time with them than she'd planned, chatting about this and that, about special products they were preparing for silent sale — and here the twins were almost hit over the head with cauldrons by the girl — and about themselves, even though Lyra didn't want to reveal too much. Daphne and Pansy didn't agree with sending her alone, let alone that she had started seeing them more often. In any case, she finally saw the Weasley twins appear from behind a column with Ron a little further back, looking uneasy.

«Hi, little witch!» Fred began. «Thanks for being here with us. We invited you because we trust you, but you must swear solemnly that you won't tell anyone, not even under Veritaserum, except to one person we'll tell you.»

Lyra looked at the three of them worriedly, but nodded. «I solemnly swear that I won't tell anyone. If I were you, I'd trust you even without your naughty oaths, but if it's that important...»

«It is,» George interrupted. «But now we have to go to Hagrid's or we won't get anything done.»

They set off on the long walk to Hagrid's hut, which was a little way down the hill from the castle, near the Forbidden Forest. The girl lagged slightly behind the three brothers, but she could hear Ron muttering under his breath, 'I still don't think it's a good idea. She's a Slytherin, she's always with Malfoy... who's to stop her telling him everything?'

Lyra stopped, and the three turned around in surprise. «Ron Weasley...» she began calmly but firmly, staring him in the eyes. «I understand your concern, and I don't expect anyone to trust me right away, especially you. But if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't talk too much, because if I had a friend in trouble, if Harry were my friend, I wouldn't abandon him despite our different houses.»

Ron held her gaze, his face still red. «The Slytherins have always made our lives hell. And Malfoy... the things he says about my family, about Hermione...»

«I know,» she interrupted him. «And I've never agreed to those things. I've pointed that out to him more than once, even when we were fighting, but I won't stick my nose too much into your business because it's none of my concern. I'm here tonight because your brothers trust me, so I'm asking you to at least try.»

Fred clicked his tongue. «Hey, nobody here wants a trial. We chose her.»

George took half a step towards Ron, still watching Lyra. «If she betrays us, I'll deal with her,» he said quietly, patting him on the shoulder. Ron looked down at his shoes, then looked back up, a little more candid.

«I still don't trust you. But... I'm sorry. I had no right to take my prejudices out on you.» Lyra nodded and Ron coughed awkwardly. «All right. Let's go. But if Malfoy smells something—»

«He won't hear it from me!» she cut him off.

Fred rubbed his hands together. «Excellent! Reconciliations, trust earned, and soon some healthy fear. What a romantic evening.»

When they reached the cabin, they knocked and were greeted at the door by the gamekeeper, whose smile lit up his bearded face as he gestured for them to enter. Inside the house, there was the smell of wood, herbs hanging to dry, and the sound of a kettle bubbling on the fire. «Who's this girl?» he asked, looking at her curiously. «I don't think I've ever seen you here, maybe just in class.»

«This is Lyra Selwyn,» George said, stepping in front of Lyra. «She's with us on this.»

Hagrid looked at her and smiled. «Intense green eyes... you know, they remind me of someone I know very well.» Lyra smiled back, though she was taken aback and confused by the remark. They talked for a while over hot tea, with Fred, Ron and Hagrid sitting at the table and Lyra and George on the small sofa.

George then, without beating about the bush, spoke up. «Hagrid, we have to show her... the special guests. You'll help us.»

The man understood immediately and stood up with a sigh. He grabbed his waxed cloak and nodded towards the doorway; they went out one at a time, into the damp darkness that engulfed them and the ground that sank slightly beneath their shoes.

«Ladies first!» said George when he was alone with Lyra, bowing to her. She rolled her eyes and laughed, and they closed the door.

After a few minutes of walking in the dim light of the forbidden forest, they suddenly began to hear loud noises, including hollow snorts, moans and the sound of chains, and a low crackling like burning coal. They passed through a light magical barrier and caught a glimpse of colossal dragon silhouettes, asleep under the watchful eye of their tamers.

Lyra was shocked to say the least, covering her mouth with her hands and instinctively taking a step back, hitting George square in the chest. He was as surprised as she was, but moved quicker and wrapped his arms around her waist to prevent her from falling into the mud. Under his fingertips, he felt wool, and then the actual shape of the girl's hips; his heart leapt into his throat when the breeze carried the scent of vanilla mixed with lavender to him, coming from her neck but especially from her soft, long hair. He swallowed, trying to hide a smile, but without letting go of her hips, as if he didn't want to forget their shape.

«Hagrid... but these... these are—» She couldn't finish her sentence.

«Dragons.» he completed, worried and proud at the same time as he looked at the dragons with the others, including the Hungarian Horntail, which looked menacing even at rest.

George turned to look at her instead. «Very much alive and very real...» he added, and that was when Lyra realised her hands were on her hips and she bit the inside of her cheek, then moved closer to Hagrid.

«So he'll have to face these next Sunday? Do the other champions know?» she asked.

«He doesn't, but Krum and Fleur do. I don't think Cedric does either, but Harry will tell him. And that's why you're here, Lyra,» said Fred. «We think you're the one who should tell him.»

Lyra stood silently, watching the creatures and listening to their breath, which almost made her ribs vibrate. Then she nodded slowly.

«All right, I'll tell him. It's madness, pure madness to make him face dragons. But he'd better know.»

They left the clearing, walking back along the path to the castle. While Fred and Ron took the lead and were ahead, Lyra walked beside George, talking quietly; but then she slowed down slightly to take the scarf out of her bag that the boy had lent her a few days earlier and which she had used every day since, even though she had her own. She handed it to him shyly, with a small smile on her lips.

«I think it's time I give this back to you,» she whispered. «Thank you for keeping me warm...» she said to the scarf, kissing it. George took it, brushing her fingers.

«Don't worry about it, but keep it if you want, even though it will definitely smell like you. It suits you better than me.»

Lyra giggled, looking up at him with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment that softened her features, almost like a little girl excited by an unexpected surprise. Fred turned and noticed the silent exchange, smiling amusedly before looking back ahead, knowing he would tease his brother later. The four said goodbye at the entrance to the courtyard, and Lyra noticed that Harry was not far from her, sitting on a bench. She sighed and then slowly approached him.

«Harry... I'm sorry,» she called gently, and the boy turned abruptly.

«Hey, Lyra, what is it?»

«There's something you need to know. Hagrid told me you need to meet him in half an hour,» Lyra whispered. «But trust me, you're not going to like what I'm about to tell you.»

She explained just enough to make him understand the urgency, then stood watching him walk away along the path leading to Hagrid's hut, just a small figure against the black evening. Her heart was pounding, a subtle fear lodged between her ribs.

«You did him a favour, you know that?» said a voice behind her. Hermione had appeared beside her, her eyes shiny and thoughtful.

«I just hope he needs it, at least a little...»

Chapter Text

November 22nd, 1994

The next morning, Lyra woke up with only one thought in her mind: to find Harry, to look at him in the eyes and ask him how he really felt about what he’d discovered the night before. She got dressed quickly, wearing a simple pair of baggy dark jeans and a black bodysuit under her cloak and the House jumper, and walked through the chilly cold corridors, trying to get to the Great Hall as fast as possible to find him, but it was useless; there was no sign of Harry. She waited there longer than necessary, even though she had eaten breakfast very calmly, forcing herself to keep busy with gestures such as pouring juice, crumbling a slice of bread or counting how many candles were unlit.

And when the boy didn't even show up for Transfiguration, the first lesson of the day that Slytherins had with Gryffindors, her concern became more than it should have been. As she left the classroom, despite the dirty looks from her friends, Lyra approached Hermione almost on tiptoe.

«Hi, Hermione…» she whispered, surprising the curly-haired girl who was adjusting her backpack.

«Oh! Hi, Lyra, can I help you?» the other girl asked with a smile.

Lyra sighed and nodded. «You know, I wanted to talk to Harry after... yesterday, but unfortunately I didn't even bump into him this morning.»

Hermione pursed her lips, unsure whether to explain the situation. «I guess... he skipped class this morning because he had to talk to his godfather late into the night yesterday and—» she noticed Lyra's mouth drop open when she heard “godfather” and nodded quickly. «Oh, yes, I really did say that. I imagine you've heard about Sirius Black, but everything is under control. In any case, you should be able to catch him before the next class. Usually when he's upset, he goes to the small garden near the Charms classroom... I'm sure you'll be able to talk to him!»

And indeed, Hermione was right: Harry was sitting in the small courtyard on the bench described by the girl, his shoulders hunched and his gaze heavy, waiting to enter the class. Lyra quickened her pace and as soon as he saw her, he gave her a big smile and stood up. «Lyra, I wanted to thank you for yesterday. Really... you were fantastic.»

The girl remained silent for a few seconds, a bit embarrassed by Harry's enthusiasm. She adjusted her scarf around her neck and then cleared her throat. «Oh, it's nothing special, Harry. I just thought you had to know.» He looked at her for a moment, then lowered his gaze, almost embarrassed.

«No, really. If it hadn't been for you, I think I would’ve been more afraid and gone in blind... and I wouldn't have warned Cedric, and— and I would’ve felt guilty.»

Lyra sat down on the bench, motioning for him to do the same. «But how are you really, Harry?» she asked him softly, almost as if not to be heard. «Have you already thought of a strategy for the first task?»

The boy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. «I don't know, I'm a little scared, I won't deny it. And I haven't thought of a strategy yet. I keep thinking about those dragons I saw, and it still seems like a joke. But at least I know what to expect, thanks to you and the others... at least those who stayed with me.» Lyra realised he was referring to Ron, but decided not to say anything about it, so she simply nodded.

«It won't be easy, but you can do it. And if you need to let some things out...» She swallowed. «Well, I mean— I'm here.» Harry smiled and thanked her.

«If you need it, the same goes for you, just so you know. Even though we're not in the same House and you hang out with that bunch of bullies. I understand that sometimes, unfortunately, you have to cling to someone just for the sake of not being alone, but I imagine you've tried to rein them in several times.» Lyra laughed heartily and nodded, because it was true that she had tried. «Although I know you've been spending a lot of time with the Weasley twins lately. They're looking for trouble, aren't they?»

The girl looked down and giggled. «The twins find trouble just fine without me, Potter,» she said, deflecting the question. «But that's beside the point right now. Remember that I'm on your side in the tournament, understand?»

«So... friends?» he asked, holding out his hand, and she shook it without hesitation.

«Friends.»

«But... what are those things behind that bush?» he asked, confused, because a rustling behind the hedge made them both turn around: two red tufts bounced up and down like buoys in a rough sea. Harry sighed, unable to hold back a laugh.

«Speak of the devil…» Lyra shook her head, amused. «I gotta go. The twins are waiting for me, and if I’ve figured them out correctly, they don't like to be ignored.»

«Unfortunately not. Come on, see you later, Lyra.»

She stood up, touched her scarf with her fingers as if to gather courage, and headed for the corridor where Fred and George were already waving at her; Harry watched her until she disappeared behind the archway, with the new and unexpected feeling that he had found an ally where he least expected it. They barely had time to greet each other before the garden filled with screams: Draco Malfoy appeared from the porch, between the columns, with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.

«Hey, Potter!» hissed Draco. «I see you've taken up extreme thrills, so my father and I have placed a bet on how long you'll last before you're roasted by the dragon. He reckons you'll last less than ten minutes!» he continued, while Crabbe and Goyle burst out laughing. Lyra took a few steps forward, but the twins pulled her back by her wrists, their eyes fixed on the scene. Harry, on the other hand, turned to the platinum-blond boy.

«I don't give a shit about what your father says, Malfoy, leave me alone!» he said, turning his back on him to walk away, when Draco took his wand out from his cloak and pointed it at Harry. He was about to mutter something when Professor Moody's heavy wooden leg appeared in front of him, pointing his wand as well.

«You know you're not supposed to do magic behind people's backs, eh, Malfoy?»

Harry turned around, confused, and the scene he saw was hilarious: where Draco Malfoy had been standing, there was now a white ferret bouncing in the air, diving into his friends' clothes, then tumbling into the flower beds before bouncing back up. The students nearby burst out laughing, including Ginny, who had just arrived and was already wiping tears from her eyes with the sleeves of her cloak. The situation was calmed down, however, by Professor McGonagall, who simply shouted “Professor Moody!” to stop the commotion, and so it was that Draco regained his legs and his wounded pride, while all the boys scattered like leaves in the wind, and Moody, with a hand on Harry's shoulder, led him away down the corridor, limping decisively.

«I can't believe he actually did that!» Ginny gasped, still trying to wipe away her tears. «Draco Malfoy turned into a ferret... this is probably the best thing that's happened to me since the beginning of the year.»

«He may be a bit peculiar, but Professor Moody knows his stuff,» added Lyra.

«A gem, really,» sighed Fred. «Dear Georgie, I'd say that from today, the ferret can be our spirit animal.»

George laughed, then turned to Lyra and leaned close to her ear. «Although personally, I prefer felines...» he whispered. «More elegant, more cunning... and definitely more unpredictable.» Lyra rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling awkwardly, her cheeks flushing.

«And I thought you preferred deers, given what your friend Potter is like.»

«I prefer creatures that leave their mark and get into your head,» George replied with a casual half-smile, which sent a jolt through Lyra; for a moment, it seemed to her that the words had slipped out more sincerely than intended, and for that very reason, they made her breath catch slightly.

Fred coughed and Ginny elbowed him. «Are you two flirting? Shall I call some prefects, or will you two stop on your own?»

Lyra ignored them, pretending to be interested in the view of the courtyard and the sky, which was turning to a light blue. «So, what are your plans for the week?»

Fred was the first to answer. «We're preparing some pranks for the Ravenclaws. Nothing strange, but we need a hand with a spell that slows down the reaction time of anyone who touches the books.»

«A kind of educational prank, for those who push themselves too hard in the library,» added George, running a hand through his hair. «You know, a gentle reminder that academic pressure doesn’t justify the aggression towards poor books.»

Ginny shook her head and laughed. «And of course no one’ll think it was you, right?»

George pretended to be offended, putting a hand on his chest. «Ginny, I'm hurt. Us? Guilty?»

«Guilty and cheeky,» Lyra murmured with a smirk she couldn't hold back, and he leaned close to her ear again, whispering, «Cheeky only to those who intrigue me.»

The phrase slid over her like boiling water: Lyra pressed her lips together to hide the blush on her cheeks and turned away abruptly, as if to seek oxygen. Inside, her thoughts broke down into a string of polite no's — not now, not here, not with them — but her heart, stubborn, beat time to the answer she didn't want to give. «I think I should go, I don't want to be late for Potions.»

«What a shame,» Fred said with a theatrical sigh, putting a hand to his forehead. «You were almost convincing us to become better people.»

«Don't even try it, Weasley. See you later!» Lyra retorted, one step away from telling him to go to hell and two steps away from laughing; then she turned and walked away quickly. George, on the other hand, stood watching her until the corner of the corridor made her disappear, his chin resting on his shoulder, his hands in his pockets — and a thread of apprehension, almost imperceptible, tugging at his chest, as if he wanted to be sure she reached her destination. Fred then turned to him with a raised eyebrow and Ginny crossed her arms over her chest.

«Do you want to tell us something, Georgie?» Fred asked. George shrugged and shook his head, but not too quickly to be a mere coincidence. He then turned to both of them with the innocent expression he usually had after a successful joke.

«What is it?» he simply asked.

Ginny shook her head, scanning him as if trying to decipher a difficult rune. «What is it? Really? You've never done that before. Not with Alicia, not with anyone else...»

Fred rested his elbow on his brother's shoulder and tilted his head. «You whispered in a Slytherin's ear. You made her blush, and it wasn't the first time.»

George looked at them, then ran a hand behind his neck as if to scratch it. «So what? It's fun to see her react. She always has an answer for everything...» he replied, trying to play it down, even though his expression didn't help.

«It's just that I've never seen you so attentive when a girl talks about a boring Herbology lesson,» Ginny began. «Or how you look at her when she runs her hand through your hair randomly, if she sees you sitting in the library.»

George shook his head and laughed. «You're exaggerating. She's just nice, she lets herself get teased and whines, but she plays along.» Fred stared at him again, incredulous.

«You never say a girl is nice, you know that, right?»

«Maybe it's because she's a Slytherin, and that makes everything more fun.»

Ginny didn't seem convinced by the answer, so she gave a half-smile and looked at him slyly. «That may be, but it seems to me that you’re never tired of looking at her, even though you've only known each other for a short time...»

«Only because she makes funny faces when she blushes,» George muttered, looking down and saying the first thing that came to mind.

But as he said it, the image that remained in his mind was not a funny grimace: it was the way Lyra had held her breath before leaving, as if for a moment she had been afraid of falling — and he, contrary to his usual habits, would’ve had the stupid instinct to stand beneath her, just in case, to prevent her from hurting herself.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

There were only two days left until the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, and it was now rare to see the four champions around; they’d become like ghosts, especially Cedric and Harry who, despite having lessons, had been skipping more than half of them lately. On the one hand, people envied them, because the professors had become very ambitious, having noticed that the students preferred to find out about the Tournament rather than study, so they increased the workload before the First Task.

That afternoon, Lyra, Daphne, Draco, Theo and Blaise were in the library studying for a mini-quiz with multiple-choice or open-ended questions that Professor Flitwick would be giving the next morning. And amid the sweet, dusty smell of ink, new parchment and old books, the four were reviewing almost religiously — or at least trying to.

«Guys, come on, one last moment of attention, please,» said Daphne, clearing her throat, ready to test her friends. «What does a failed silent spell entail?»

The teens exchanged weary glances, then Lyra ventured an answer: «Maybe... it either doesn't work at all or it manifests itself in an unstable way, like bursts of light or a spell backfiring on the caster.» Draco nodded and muttered something else.

«Or I think it makes strange sounds. Like when Weasley tried the Silencio on a toad but ended up making it bark...» Everyone laughed, but Daphne rolled her eyes.

«Flitwick wants to know the consequences, Malfoy, not Gryffindor anecdotes!»

Blaise rested his head on the table with a bored groan. «I refuse to read the theory of Applied Levitation Spells again,» everyone nodded wearily. «And if tomorrow the dwarf dares to ask us the difference between Wingardium Leviosa and Locomotor, I'll faint to get the quiz stopped.»

Draco decided to slam the book in front of him shut. «Please, give me a break, guys. Or I'll throw an Aguamenti on myself to wake up.»

«Okay. Besides, tomorrow, whoever can write without dying of anxiety will do well,» said Daphne, stretching, then picking up a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet from under a pile of books. «Anyway, on another note, have you read the interview? By Rita Skeeter, of course.»

Theo looked at her for a moment and laughed. «The one where she paints Harry Potter as the chosen martyr, sad and persecuted? Yes, unfortunately.»

«I don't know, Theo...» said Daphne, confused. «He seemed very lonely to me.»

Lyra pretended not to hear, as if she were looking for something in her bag, because she didn't want to talk about that rubbish. «Speaking of Potter and the articles...» Blaise began, looking at her amused. «Lyra, will you tell us what's going on with the Weasleys? You're always with them lately.»

Draco smiled slightly. «You’re often with them, even in your free time. We're not complaining, mind you, but I hope you're not planning on joining their prank club.»

Everyone laughed, including Lyra. She looked at them for a moment before answering, but Daphne spoke before she could: «Come on, guys, don't start. I talk to people outside the House too. Give it a rest.»

«Yeah, yeah, I was just joking. I was just saying that because she always huffed when she saw them from afar,» Blaise said, shrugging, and Lyra raised an eyebrow.

«And I still do!»

There were a few moments of silence, but then Draco spoke. «All right, just don't dye your hair red, or we'll be offended.»

They laughed again, Lyra too — but inside, in a place she couldn't name, she admitted to herself that she was perhaps really growing fond of the twins. Or at least one of them, the one who made her heart race like a stormy wind. But then a hand touched her shoulder: Theo, gently bringing her back to reality. «Earth to Selwyn,» he murmured with a half-smile. 

«Fancy a walk to get some fresh air?» Lyra nodded, more to avoid argument than out of any real desire to go out, and together they slipped out of the library. The stone in the corridor retained a clean coldness; the torches rustled softly and, between the echo of footsteps and the distant buzz of students revising, it almost felt like walking through a pause.

«How are you feeling about the First Task?» Theo asked at one point, glancing sideways at the girl, who returned his gaze, bewildered.

«I'm not participating, remember? I wasn’t old enough.»

«I know, but you seem more involved than you're letting on…» he replied in a vague tone that always managed to unmask her. «I saw you with Potter the other night.»

Lyra blushed slightly, not because of the thought of Harry, but because of the direction the conversation was taking; it was the same trap she had been avoiding since the year before, when the two of them had tried to be something and then, because of something serious that had been said and a couple of steps over the line, she had managed to pull away in time, setting clear boundaries and ending it there.

«Only because he needed help. Really.» Theo nodded slowly.

«You can be empathetic when you want to be, even if you seem made of ice.»

The girl chuckled but didn't give him an opening. «Thanks for the compliment, I suppose?»

They didn't speak for a few steps. Lyra now kept a subtle and measured distance from him: close enough not to seem rude, but far enough away so as not to give him the wrong idea. She had already made it clear — right after the end, last year — that there would be no “us” to pick up again in any future, yet she still feared that flash in Theo's eyes every time she smiled; she didn't want to lose him as a friend, but she wasn't willing to go back into a relationship that made her chest tighten.

«You know you're adorable when you blush?» Theo said, half-smiling and speaking softly, as if nothing had changed. Lyra tapped him with the back of her hand, a gesture more measured than playful. She opened her mouth to reply when a voice behind them overtook them with the agility of a marble rolling downhill.

«Hey, Nott. Have you joined the 'How to Make Them Blush in Five Moves' club?»

They both turned abruptly: George Weasley was walking down the corridor a few metres away from them, heading towards the left wing of the castle with a few packages under his arm and a rather mischievous smile that always seemed to know something more. «I'll give you a six and a half for the effort, but you got the punchline wrong,» he added, giving Lyra a knowing look, who instead lowered her gaze, smiling despite herself. He then nodded to her. «Everything okay, Selwyn?»

«Everything's fine, Weasley,» she replied with a smile, as he continued on his way, casting one last glance before disappearing to his top-secret job.

Theo looked at her curiously. «This new circle of acquaintances of yours is becoming increasingly intriguing.»

«Maybe it's just me who intrigues others...» Lyra replied with a shrug to mask the irritating agitation that this twin provoked in her every time, but which amused her at the same time.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Hogwarts seemed to vibrate with collective anxiety. Students from the three schools occupied the corridors more than usual, moving in flocks like birds and preparing banners of various kinds to cheer on the champions. in fact, Lyra noticed a group of Hufflepuffs sitting on the floor near a window, their hands and cheeks stained with paint, busy colouring a giant flag for Cedric Diggory, with a hand-sewn badger that winked every time someone looked at it. Or that Beauxbatons student who was enchanting floating heart-shaped petals with the name Fleur written on them. In addition, whispered phrases, giggles and bold hypotheses could be heard in all directions, and even increasingly colourful speculations about how the First Task of the Tournament would be set up or what would have to be faced: some talked about using part of the Forbidden Forest, or facing special creatures created just for this day; some even ventured to hypothesise elemental tests, including lava — a theory put forward by a Durmstrang boy and reported by the Ravenclaws. There were even those who swore that structures with advanced projection spells were being set up near the Quidditch pitches, and those who claimed to have seen Hagrid carrying huge crates with Dumbledore and McGonagall.

But the truth, of course, was that no one really knew anything, and that was what made the wait so nerve-wracking, even though there were only two days left — though it seemed like an eternity at the time.

The Great Hall had also been spruced up: the tables were decorated with small rosettes and ribbons in the colours of the four houses, and there were rumours that Professor Flitwick was preparing a spell that would project the entire first task onto the sky, making it visible from every corner of the castle.

Finally, the most competitive had already started betting on everything: how long the first task would last for each champion, who would get hurt the most, the order of exit.

And, of course, the Weasley twins were getting rich with well-calculated odds, spread by their friend Lee Jordan and the Hufflepuffs: Harry was in first place, followed by Krum (who, as a true Bulgarian, should fear nothing), Cedric and Fleur.

Lyra watched all this with a mixture of excitement and curiosity; even though she wasn't one of the participants, it was impossible not to feel involved. The scene that made her laugh the most that morning was a Slytherin boy who, with a more serious look than necessary, had successfully proposed a bet to guess which professor would cry first due to the tension.

In fact, the queue was already very long.

Lyra stopped for a few minutes to watch the scene, amused by its absurdity: it felt like she was living in a parallel reality, like a new Hogwarts; and besides, she went to bet on who would cry. «I'm betting everything on Professor Sprout,» she whispered with a half-smile. «She’s got too big of a heart not to get teary-eyed.»

She signed with her initials, brushed a curl from her forehead and walked away smiling.

«So Selwyn, who did you choose?» Theo asked her, catching up with her at a brisk pace.

«I guess the vote's a secret, Theo,» she replied as she snapped the tab of a small box, popping a strawberry chewing gum into her mouth. «But if I feel like it, I'll tell you later!»

Theo didn't laugh, though, and took a step forward. «If you feel like it? If you don't want to tell me, just be honest. There's no need to play hard to get with me, mhm?»

There was a tense edge to his tone, a note of irritation that Lyra recognised instantly — the same one that had exploded months earlier in an empty classroom among half-finished scrolls and wrong words at the worst possible moment. She took a step back, more out of instinct than anything else, her shoulder blades seeking the cold stone of the wall.

«Theo, come on, it's nonsense. It doesn't seem normal to me that...»

The boy's fingers closed around Lyra's wrist with more force than necessary, almost as if to remind her of the argument that had ended badly. «You know, I get the impression you're avoiding me. That there's someone else now...»

«Theo!» she blurted out, trying to break free. «Let me go, you're overreacting.»

He let go of her immediately, realising the situation. «I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It's...»

«It's okay if you don't know everything I'm thinking.» Lyra said quietly, lowering her gaze and touching her wrist to calm her heartbeat. She tried not to raise her voice too much, but inside she felt a certain unease, as if she were about to relive that evening all over again.

But just then, a familiar voice broke the tension, much to the girl's relief. «Hey, Selwyn. Can I steal five minutes of your immense wisdom?» George was standing there, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on both of them. He had approached from the corridor, carrying a large box that looked as if it was about to explode. Then he saw the way Lyra was rubbing her wrist, and for a moment his smile faded. «Are you alright?» he asked, addressing only her.

Lyra nodded slightly, then turned to Theo. «See you later, eh?»

Theo stood motionless, staring at George and Lyra as they walked away; strangely, he said nothing — and that silence, in public, was the first real crack after months of swallowed words.

Lyra followed George silently down the corridor, still slightly shaken by the way Theo had gripped her wrist and spoken to her. They walked side by side, without saying a word, until George stopped near a recess between two tapestries, where there were few people and the light fell softly. He put the box down on the floor, then looked at the girl with a rather serious expression, devoid of his usual cheekiness.

«Is it okay if we stay here for a moment?» he asked with a half-smile. «But now you have to tell me... did he— did he do something to you? Is everything okay?»

Lyra stared at him, not expecting such attention and care, and in fact didn't know what to say at first. «No, really. Nothing serious. He got upset over something silly. I gave him a vague answer and—» She paused to sigh and try to hold back her tears. «It was just a moment.»

George narrowed his eyes, nodding slowly, lowering his gaze to her wrist for a moment. «You didn't seem so calm when he took it. And you didn't seem so happy before either.»

«It was nothing, really. He didn't do it on purpose...» Lyra lied, trying to hide the uncertainty in her voice, and George decided not to press the issue.

«Okay. But if you ever feel like telling me what that nothing was, I'm here, okay? Not to pry, but because...» He gave a half-smile and scratched his neck with an almost shy gesture. «I'd hate anyone who hurts you, that's all.»

Lyra looked at him for a moment, uncertain without her usual armour, but then smiled weakly. «Thanks, George. You're more perceptive than you look.»

«Ah, my beautiful Lyra. That's actually my middle name: George Perceptive Weasley. Don't tell anyone, though, it’d ruin my reputation as a professional idiot.» She laughed, feeling more relaxed. Humour always helped her, and George seemed to understand that. But behind that smile, there was something more: a careful thoughtfulness that made her feel safe. Even though she still didn't quite know why.

«So? What strange reason did you steal five minutes of my time for?» she asked curiously, tilting her head and looking at him curiously. «If it's not some kind of joke, maybe I'll listen…»

«Oh— no, no. No jokes,» George began, scratching the back of his neck. «I wanted to ask you something, but you don't have to say yes if you don’t want to...» Lyra fell silent, waiting for the request. «On Sunday, if you'd like... I mean, if you haven't already promised to watch it with someone else, would you like to watch the First Task with me? I mean, oh my God, with my group. Me, Ginny, Fred, Lee, Angelina... I mean, if you came, I'd be happy.»

She waited a moment before answering. He's asking me to be with him, she thought, maybe he likes my company? But immediately these nice thoughts were dispelled by negative ones: ‘He's doing it out of pity!’, ‘It's not just the two of you', 'he's enjoying making you blush and teasing you.’ But despite everything, she decided to accept.

«I think I can make time for some annoying Gryffindors.»

«All right,» he said, stepping back and smiling as if he had just won a bet. «Then I'll come and kidnap you tomorrow.» He didn't give her time to reply before running off with a wave, joining Fred who was waiting for him in the distance. Lyra stood for a second watching him disappear around the bend in the corridor, feeling her chest lighten with an anxiety she didn't know she was carrying; then she retraced her steps to where she had left Theo waiting for her.

«Hey, sorry for keeping you waiting...» she said, giving him a quick hug, then continuing to walk with him along the path that ran alongside the greenhouses. The silence between them was a mixture of discomfort and reflection, as if he wanted to tell her something but didn't know how to say it calmly.

«Do you fancy Weasley?» he said suddenly, breaking the silence, almost nonchalantly, and Lyra's eyes widened. Lyra's eyes widened slightly, then she lowered them to her knuckles, smoothing the crease in her sleeve to gain a second.

«George?» she repeated, and he nodded without looking at her. «No. He’s— he's nice, you know? It's good to have a laugh every now and then... and you should too. Maybe I'll introduce you to them sometime.»

«Don't you dare!» Theo cut in, half-smiling bitterly and almost shouting in shock. «I'd rather have a swim in the Black Lake. Everything sorted, anyway? Or did he recruit you for some of their brilliant ideas?»

«Nothing compromising, really, don't worry,» she replied with a smile, although the blush on her cheeks betrayed her a little. «Just chit-chat.»

«Anyway, after the first test, we'll celebrate together, eh?» Theo continued, and the girl nodded enthusiastically, promising herself that she would tread more carefully between those two worlds that continued to pull her in opposite directions.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

November 26th, 1994

Shortly before dinner, Lyra and Draco left the Common Room with the excuse of returning a book to the library; in reality, they both just wanted to walk in silence, as they did together when their heads were full of thoughts. This was a common occurrence in their friendship and their way of caring for each other: even in silence, they knew they were there for one another, they understood each other, and they didn't demand explanations or more words than necessary. It was enough for them to exchange a look, stand side by side and support each other.

They went out to breathe the evening air and gather their thoughts before the pre-First Task dinner. They sat on a bench in a corridor not too far from where they walked, with a bitter cold coming from the draughts nearby. Lyra pulled her cloak tightly around her chest, crossing her arms, thinking about how everything seemed more complicated to bear lately, but on the other hand, she felt almost a little lighter in her heart than she had the previous year.

«You're turning into more of an icicle than a penguin, Selwyn,» said Draco, breaking the silence and making her almost jump. His voice was quiet, calm, but with a hint of sarcasm.

«Sometimes it's good to freeze, you know? It makes you realise you're still alive…» replied Lyra, snorting and looking at her feet. «Or whether you're teetering between life and something bigger than yourself.» Draco stood looking at her silently for a few moments, almost studying her.

«You're different, you know?» he began. «You're not so... reserved anymore, at least when you're with them. I've known you forever, and I thought you’d simply changed.»

Lyra didn't reply immediately: she had heard the disapproval in his tone when he said them, but in any case, Draco had touched on what she was feeling. «Maybe with them I just don't have to think about what I should say, or how I should look or behave,» she sighed deeply and closed her eyes for a moment. «With you, it's different. It's home, but sometimes it's as if I don't have enough space or time to breathe, as if I can't catch my breath. Not because you oppress me, don't get me wrong, it's just that... I grew up like this, and sometimes it confuses me with everything I feel.»

The fair-skinned boy with very blond hair nodded slowly, as if he had understood something he had not wanted to fully see before. «And with them... you're just Lyra. Not a Selwyn, not a Slytherin, but it's as if you're rediscovering yourself.»

She turned to him, struck by the clarity with which he had said it. «Exactly that.»

«I hadn't seen it through,» he admitted, his shoulders tensing imperceptibly as he thought of the Weasleys, Potter, her laughing with people he would have gladly avoided. «I thought you were drifting away. Maybe it's the opposite.»

Lyra smiled, a slight, pure gratitude in her eyes. «I don't want to lose you, Draco. But I also need to laugh, make mistakes, breathe. And try to be a little more myself, even if it scares me to death.»

«...And maybe even let yourself be teased by a smooth-talking Gryffindor?» he said, raising an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. «You don't fraternise with the enemy, that's the golden rule.»

They both laughed heartily. «Maybe. Maybe sometimes that's necessary too.»

They sat there in silence for a few more minutes, staring into space and sharing an almost brotherly moment. «Come on, let's go, before we're late for dinner,» said Malfoy, nudging Lyra with his elbow, while flashing her a small, rare smile that no one ever saw him give.

The Great Hall was more crowded than ever, with the long tables of the houses fuller than usual, all buzzing with voices and murmurs and cutlery clattering everywhere. The students seemed strangely more united than usual tonight, even though the tension of the evening before the first test was evident even among those from the guest schools.

Lyra sat between Daphne and Blaise, but every now and then she glanced at the Gryffindor table: George was there with his group of friends, and he had given her a look followed by a wink and a wave before sitting down. Harry, on the other hand, was clearly nervous about tomorrow's test. But his moment of thoughtfulness was interrupted by the darkening of the sky above the hall, and a silence began to descend on the tables. Everyone's attention was captured by an unmistakable sound: the slight clearing of Albus Dumbledore's voice.

«Dear students and dear guests here present...» he began in a calm tone. «Tomorrow, the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament will take place. As you know, the Champions do not yet know the nature of the challenge that awaits them, as is traditional, and this mystery will remain so until the moment of the task itself.»

At these words, there was a stir among the students in the hall: some raised their eyebrows, while others exchanged confused and excited glances. Cedric, who was sitting with his Hufflepuff classmates, seemed lost in thought. Krum was not looking at anyone and had his hands folded in front of him. Fleur Delacour, composed as always, was sipping water. And Harry, finally, looked very tense, even though he was trying to hide it, while Hermione whispered something to him.

«However,» Dumbledore continued, «I invite you to remember that, although the tournament celebrates courage, intelligence and fortitude, you must not forget that it is also a symbol of collaboration and respect between the schools present here. And like any great test, it will be a time to get to know each other better, to understand who you are and who you want to become.»

«Tomorrow morning, the Great Hall will be closed. Those who wish to do so may follow the First Task in the outdoor field that has been set up, or through the projections that Professor Flitwick has carefully prepared.»

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

By now, everyone had returned to their common rooms, including Lyra. She sat in front of the warm fireplace, wrapped in a blanket for a long time, letting the crackling of the embers enter her temples until, unfortunately, every thought in her head took on a distinct form. She thought about how tiring the day had been and how Dumbledore's words echoed in her head. But she was also struck by the realisation that she too was facing trials — inner trials that no one could see, and that did not involve dragons, wands or an audience.

For weeks, she had been moving through a labyrinth of invisible trials, composed of an identity crumpled by time and trust in people and in the many things that were slowly slipping through her fingers, of a past she couldn't fully tell anyone about... and above all of something within her that was too big to bear: a heartbeat that sometimes raced faster than time, frightening her, not understanding whether it was a gift, a curse or just a different way of being alive.

Who was she really?

She often wondered about this as she stared at the fire that dared not go out.

Was she a Selwyn, the daughter of people with an ancient surname?

Was she a Slytherin, educated in composure, sharp irony and ambition?

Or was she the girl who felt her veins vibrate like taut strings and who, without meaning to, measured the corridors in lengths of breath and accelerated heartbeats?

Lyra decided to go to the dormitory anyway because sleep was pulling her down. The dark green curtains hung liquid, as if an upside-down lake were falling from the ceiling; a gust of damp air filtered in from outside, smelling of wet stone. She was already lifting the covers to slip into bed when she saw it: a small square box, perfectly imperfect, wrapped in burgundy-coloured paper, tied with a gold ribbon that held a rolled-up parchment together. She looked around instinctively, knowing full well that it was not the work of her companions — in recent days they had been muttering more than usual about “strange gifts and jokes” — and a smile curled on her face, trembling slightly at the corners, as if she were not sure she deserved it. She smiled even before unrolling the parchment, but when she read the contents, her heart almost leapt out of her chest.

The parchment was covered in quick, slanted handwriting, which read:

'For when you feel like something sweet. I'll probably forget to offer it to you tomorrow, so consider these three Chocolate Frogs an advance payment; or maybe an incentive to tolerate me during the Task. PS: if you blush again tomorrow, I win. —G '

With a smile and a slight blush — with which she would already have lost — she muttered ‘ridiculous’ under her breath and opened the box: inside there were three chocolate frogs, shiny and perfect, each wrapped in thin cream-coloured tissue paper. In addition, each had a small handwritten label stuck on it, but only two of the three had phrases: “For when you catch a joke from me” and “For when you can't stop thinking about me (just kidding... or maybe not)”.

Lyra shook her head and laughed softly, because that was George Weasley: cheeky enough to say “I'm thinking of you” disguised as a joke, delicate enough to leave a blank label in case you don't know what to write at that moment. She sat on the bed with the parchment open beside her and a Chocolate Frog between her fingers.

She remembered the bag she had left with Neville a few weeks earlier — “For days when you need a little extra courage” — and had the strange feeling that someone, for once, was leaving it for her.

She broke off a piece of chocolate and placed it on her tongue: the sweet melted slowly in her mouth, with that slightly spicy note that tastes like confidence, and she understood why at Hogwarts giving chocolate was like saying “I'm on your side” without having to explain it. She found herself looking at the signature — that decisive G — and wondering if it was just a game for him or the kind of game that is serious precisely because he is not afraid to joke around.

Immediately, however, contrary voices arose in her mind: “He's inviting you with the group, not alone”; “Tomorrow you'll have a hundred eyes on you”; “What if Theo, what if Draco, what if everyone...”.

She took a long breath, her eyes fixed on the empty label, and then she closed them and heard that laughter from afar — George's — caught in the wind, and almost felt her own returning home after months of absence. And that was why she wanted to reply to the note, even if only with a single line.

She took the blank label, a pen, and wrote: “For when you forget that I win... tomorrow I won't blush. (Probably a lie!) —L”

She sighed. She touched her cheeks, still warm. She thought about how, when she was with him, she wasn't asked to choose a single version of herself: she could be sharp and clumsy, ironic and tender, lucid and confused, all in the same minute, and no one counted down the seconds for her to get her act together. ‘Maybe that's it, in the end,’ she said to herself, as sleep pulled at her eyelids, ‘Maybe the real test is accepting that I can be more than one thing, and that someone, when they look at me, is not in a hurry to put me in order.’

She put George's parchment under her pillow — a superstitious, ridiculous, perfectly necessary gesture — and closed her eyes. Her heart was no longer racing as it did in dreams where everything breaks; it was beating steadily, a little stronger, like when you finally find a rhythm that doesn't hurt.

She didn't know exactly what was going on between them — but at least he made her feel good. And she considered him the first real friend, or person, with whom she truly felt aligned.

Chapter Text

On November 27th, the atmosphere at the school was filled with excitement and tension. Classes would end around noon so that students could make it to the enclosed area in time for the First Task. After that, Lyra had just enough time to go to her room to get ready: she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, running her fingers through the hair she’d tried to straighten a few moments earlier, her eyes filled with anxiety about the test. She knew it wasn't her who was facing dragons or finding ways to move on to the next phase, but the atmosphere that morning made her feel agitated.

She chose a dark green jumper that accentuated her eyes and her fair complexion, under a white short-sleeved t-shirt in case she got hot after the task, and a simple black skirt, flesh-coloured tights and black boots. Not wanting to be any later than she already was, she flew out of the dormitory, grabbing her Chocolate Frogs and quickly putting them in her cloak. Outside the corridor, the others were waiting for her, already in scattered formation, and a theatrical round of applause greeted her when they saw her arrive.

«Miss Elegance has arrived, with an aura of mystery that some may find appealing...» said Blaise, glancing meaningfully at Theo, who was talking to Draco.

Lyra raised an eyebrow. «You forgot to say intimidating, Blaise. That's the finishing touch.»

Laughing, the group set off down the central corridors, swept along by the general excitement. There were voices everywhere, with students rushing to take their places or seeking the latest news. Lyra didn't know where she would meet George, so she simply decided to wait in the Entrance Hall with the others — adding that she’d probably forgotten to tell them, except for Daphne. While waiting, she managed to spot Harry coming out of the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall, who hardly looked like herself; in fact, she looked almost as worried as Hermione had been in recent days.

«I think you should step out in the courtyard?» Daphne whispered mischievously to Lyra, winking at her. «Maybe someone's looking for you.»

«Why, who would be looking for—» Theo began, but was interrupted by a familiar voice behind them.

«Hey, Selwyn. I have to kidnap you again, but it's not a declaration of love...» Lyra turned and saw George there, his hands in his pockets and a defiant smile on his face; behind him were Ginny, Fred, Lee and Angelina, who all seemed quite amused by the scene. At the same time, Blaise and Daphne were already laughing hysterically, Draco remained impassive, and Theo stiffened slightly.

«You, kidnap me? Well, I mean… What if I don't have a moment to spare for you anymore?» Lyra retorted, crossing her arms.

«You’d be lying, I know you well enough to notice that you've made yourself look better than usual just to make me faint! Admit it...» Lyra opened her mouth wide, pretending to be deeply offended.

«Too bad, you survived. I'll have to improve my technique.»

«No need, it won't be long now,» he winked at her and then turned to the other Slytherins. «Can I take her away, or does one of you want to spit in my face first?»

Blaise gave him a half-bow. «You have our permission. But bring her back in one piece, Weasley.»

«I can't guarantee anything Zabini, but I'll try.» Lyra laughed and left arm in arm with Angelina and Ginny, while the others walked ahead of them at a brisk pace. They calmly exited through a side wing of the school, following the flow of students heading towards the place, surrounded by the smell of wet earth; meanwhile, they chatted about this and that.

«You know, I've never seen a Slytherin laugh so much,» Ginny said, giggling, and made Lyra roll her eyes.

«Apparently, I'm the only one with a sense of humour in that House, right?»

Everyone laughed, while Lee leaned towards Fred, taking care not to be heard by anyone but his best friend: «The most absurd thing, though, is George... he brags about being immune to any girl, as in his mini-relationships, but he never turned around every five seconds to see if his chosen one was still here with us — and they're just friends!»

They approached one of the balustrades from which they could see the field in the distance. Lyra leaned out, raising her chin quite a bit and trying to see, her lips hinting at a small smile. George watched her silently for a moment, then approached her.

«You know you're always a little more beautiful when you pretend you're not afraid?» he whispered in her ear, making her turn around and snort, even though a smile escaped her lips.

«And you're always more foolish when you try to relax me.»

«Does it work though?» 
«Maybe.»

George smiled and gently pinched her cheek between two fingers before continuing to walk; but Lyra had blushed, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks, and thank goodness he hadn't noticed. Lyra furtively took a Chocolate Frog he had given her the night before, the one that said, “For when you can't stop thinking about me (just kidding... or maybe not)”: because it was true, at that moment she couldn't stop thinking about him and that adorable — as much as she hated to use the word — physical contact, and she began to eat the chocolate.

The sky above Hogwarts was tense, and the professors were finishing with the projection spells, while the students began to gather to find the best spot to watch the Task. Lyra, still holding the Chocolate Frog, joined the Gryffindor group that had just found a place on a staircase that had a 360-degree view.

«Hear ye, hear ye, Lyra Eileen Selwyn is among us mere mortals...» Fred began when he saw her. «Did you lose a bet or did you finally convert?»
«I'm here to make sure you don't scream too loudly when your friend Potter is burned to a crisp,» she replied, continuing to eat and making everyone laugh. «Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to finish this in peace!» Lyra continued, showing everyone the chocolate.

George made room for her next to him, but smirked when he saw what she was holding. As soon as she sat down, he leaned over and whispered, «Is someone here eating my gift?»

Lyra blushed violently. «Oh, no, it was in my pocket...» She didn't finish her sentence in time, as the other things George had given her the night before spilled out of her bag, and he whistled, not letting her get away with it. He picked them up with guilty innocence and saw that the empty label was no longer empty: the handwriting was Lyra's, slanted and precise. He tilted it towards the light, reading it out loud with a smile that curled the corner of his mouth. 

«Ah, let's see... “For when you forget that I win... tomorrow I won't blush. (Probably a lie!)”» He looked up, amused. «Probably a lie, eh? And “tomorrow” when, exactly? Because you're already at a disadvantage.»

Lyra bit the inside of her cheek, red up to her ears. «It was— it was a creative writing exercise.»

«Then this is for you,» said George amused, giving her another probable Chocolate Frog and a label with almost theatrical care, «but you have to open it right away.» Lyra unwrapped the chocolate, finding a tiny folded parchment inside, and opened it: ‘If you're reading this, then you've blushed. But as per our agreement (invented and signed by myself), you must eat this other Chocolate Frog and share it with me. If you do, I swear I won't make you blush for at least five minutes.’

She looked up and for a moment couldn't say anything, except continue to blush; he was already staring at her, proud as if he had just patented a new rule of the world. Lyra divided the chocolate in half and handed him a piece with a half-smile. «Are you already counting the minutes?»

George leaned in, his warm breath brushing her ear. «Of course. But then you'll fall for it again, it's inevitable with someone like me!»

And pretending nothing had happened, they resumed talking with the others as they waited for the trial to begin, amid predictions, jokes and concerns masked by irony.

«I think he'll last seven minutes...» said Fred confidently, «Eight, if the dragon takes pity on his lost puppy face with a scar on his forehead.»

«No way, I'm betting on ten!» continued Ginny, raising her voice. Lee, on the other hand, laughed heartily: «I think twenty minutes flat, and he'll leave us speechless. Especially you, Selwyn.»

Lyra shrugged as she sipped the hot chocolate with cinnamon brought by Angelina.

«I just hope he doesn't get hurt or lose any limbs. It’d be annoying to see Draco ask for a piece to barbecue in the Common Room later.»

Everyone laughed, even though they were horrified by the image. George, on the other hand, stopped to look at her as she put down her now almost empty cup; Angelina nudged Fred, who simply moved closer to his brother and whispered, «Hey, Georgie. You know, you didn't even look at the new products we had planned to sell in our future shop like that.»

«Shut up, Fred,» said George, his eyes wide.

«I'm serious, you look like “if anything happens to her, I swear I'll burn down half of Hogwarts”.» Lyra heard them and turned around, smiling slightly. 

«If you really care so much about me, Georgie, then you could stop making me blush in public — as much as I might like it — and help me get rid of my problems instead.»

George's eyes widened. «Me? Make you blush? Never happened.»

The bickering between the two, however, died down the moment the field came to life: the Tournament had finally begun. The order of arrival of the champions was Cedric, Fleur, Krum and finally Harry. The time for the first three champions seemed to take forever; Cedric was the first to enter, and he was almost regal in his simplicity. As expected, they only had a wand at their disposal, and before starting to fight the dragon, he turned towards a stand to greet his friends — who, of course, raised that poster with the badger drawn on it. And when the dragon, a Swedish Short-Snout, entered, it was a very long fifteen minutes for everyone; but, fortunately and nimbly, Cedric managed to retrieve the golden egg and there was a general roar from all the stands around. 

Fleur, on the other hand, walked gracefully as if on a stage, and every time the flames came close to her, they illuminated her fantastic profile, envied by many. It was a little more difficult for her to catch the egg, but she succeeded too.

Finally, with Krum, the situation was quite silent due to the tension: he walked as if he were about to go to war, wielding his wand like a sword and his cold eyes fixed on the target protected by the dragon; around him, silence fell thickly and only resumed talking and shouting when his arms closed around the egg.

And finally, it was Harry's turn. 

«Here we go,» Ginny murmured, snorting with fear.

«Come on, Potter. You can do it...» Lyra whispered, so that only George could hear, and squeezed her shoulders as if to give her a hug and reassure her. When his name was announced, she felt fear in her chest, but at the same time she was sure that everything would turn out fine thanks to Harry’s determination.

In front of Harry was the famous Hungarian Horntail, and everyone — Lyra especially — was trembling with fear. The dragon stared at him maliciously as he held the sparkling egg beneath him. The boy took a step, and in no time at all, the dragon began to breathe fire; he tried in various ways to get around him, but without success. And then he raised his wand in the air and shouted.

«Accio Firebolt!» 

Everyone remained silent, hoping to hear a rustling in the distance that seemed to never come; but when they began to hear the broomstick whizzing through the air, everyone started screaming as it flew towards Harry, waiting to be ridden. 

«Come on, Harry, come on!» Hermione and Lyra shouted, clapping their hands.

The boy seemed to be back in his element: he initially gained altitude and then dove down with the broom, with the snout of the Thestral following him, preventing him from catching his beloved golden egg, but for Harry it was like having to avoid a simple fireball — except that it shot fire. He did this two, three, four times, trying to confuse the dragon, but without success. He had even torn part of his robe, and Lyra was so frightened that she grabbed George's hand in fear.

«No! He's hurt himself!» she screamed in fear, even though she could still see him competing in the air; but in her heart she knew he was determined to get that object, and she hoped it would happen as soon as possible. And with a huge acceleration, almost at the speed of light, Lyra saw everything in slow motion: time had spread out like a spring. The flicker of the flames became a slow lace, the shadow of the wing a curtain slowly descending, the claws a distant fork. In the interstice between two beats, Lyra saw Harry tilt the Firebolt, almost skimming the ground, slip through the impossible gap and reach for the egg. The gold hit his palm with a thud. And time returned to normal as soon as the boy had the object clutched to his chest.

«Look at that!» Bagman shouted. «Our youngest champion was also the fastest to get the egg!» 

The crowd erupted in a deafening roar: everyone stood up and began shouting, screaming and clapping. Fred shouted words that were incomprehensible due to the commotion, Ginny was jumping up and down, clapping her hands as hard as she could, Angelina and Lee were holding up their victory sign, and strangely enough, even a few Slytherins were able to be happy and let out a round of applause. Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid had even come onto the pitch, smiling, to welcome Harry and the egg. And Lyra was so happy, so content that she hardly knew what to do but smile from ear to ear.

Her heart was beating so fast it almost drowned out the noise around her, and her fingers were still clasped tightly around George's hand. Only then did she realise that she had perhaps sought comfort in him at a time when she was worried about Harry — who had just made it. Instinctively, she turned towards the red-haired boy, just as he was doing the same: they didn't have time to look at each other before they were already locked in a tight hug. Lyra clung to him without thinking, sighing with relief but still trembling, while George wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close as the audience continued to applaud. They both felt the warmth of each other's skin through the robes, their heartbeats and breaths still irregular from all the mixed emotions. Then they slowly pulled apart: Lyra looked down, blushing, while George looked around, scratching the back of his neck.

«Nice cheering, eh...» said Lyra awkwardly, and George nodded awkwardly, even though both of them probably knew what that hug meant for two simple friends like them.

«Selwyn...» said George, trying to change the subject. «You're invited to the party in the Gryffindor Common Room tonight!»
«Yes!» Lyra shouted, laughing and throwing her hands in the air as soon as she heard about the party, with the others cheering. 

«Great,» he said, in a feigned serious tone. «But there's an unwritten rule: you have to dance at least three times, once with me, and once while eating cake in an awkward way.»

«And the third?» she replied, raising an eyebrow. 

George smiled at her, tilting his chin slightly. «The third... I'll leave that as a surprise.»

«Uh, mysterious. Usually your surprises involve food, explosions, or both.»

«No promise there won't be explosions this time either,’ he winked at her. ‘But you might be the one causing them.»

With that, everyone returned to the castle to continue the party. By now, the corridors were filled with laughter, the staircases echoed with footsteps, and everything was decorated with garlands of various kinds, balloons everywhere, and tiny homemade Weasley fireworks blooming in small sparks on the ceiling — while Lee and Angelina went to kitchens to stock the Common Room with food for Harry's arrival, and luckily Hermione hadn't noticed; Lyra followed the others, happy and still celebrating: together with Fred and Ginny, they chanted in praise of Harry's success in the test. Hermione, though, was afraid for Lyra's safety in their common room, as she didn't want her to be found there and expelled, and she tried to reason with George — but without success.

«I know, Granger, it's almost a violation of Hogwarts law!» George snorted, rolling his eyes and asking for divine help. «But we'll make sure there's no riot if just one Slytherin joins our place.» Lyra heard him and enthusiastically inserted herself between them. 
«But what if I brought reinforcements?» Hermione was about to reply when Lyra noticed her friend Daphne Greengrass in the corridor approaching to greet her, accompanied only by Draco and Blaise.

«Selwyn dear, were you looking for me?» her friend asked.
«Come with me, let's go to the Lions' Common Room!» replied the green-eyed girl. «And don't make a fuss!»

When they arrived in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, Fred cleared his throat like a master of ceremonies. «Password?»
«Long live Harry Potter,» said George, very seriously. The Fat Lady shook her head, amused and scandalised, as she turned to look at the two Slytherins with the group.
«Guests? As a one-off exception, this time. But don't you dare get my frame dirty.»

The Gryffindor Common Room was very cosy, with sunlight streaming in from several windows in various areas. Golden lights had been put up, as well as garlands and enchanted banners designed by Dean Thomas (with ‘Long live Harry Potter!’ written in red and gold) that alternated colours to the rhythm of the music. There were even sweets that the students were munching on ahead of time, as well as butterbeer and savoury snacks. Daphne immediately found herself talking to a girl who lived not far from her home, and Lyra was left alone for a moment, looking around in amazement; then George came over to her with a glass of pumpkin juice for each of them.

«Just so you know, bringing you here isn't a trap...» he began. «We don't want to blow you up like your mates would like to. Nor will we put a singing hat on you — as fun as that would be. We just wanted you here with us, all of us.» Ginny, who had joined them in the meantime, nodded.

«And besides, deep down they want you to figure out who cheated on their bets...» said Ginny amused, but Fred threw a newspaper at his sister's head. «But they don't want to admit it. You're the only Slytherin they know who's smart and scary enough.»

Lyra almost choked on her pumpkin juice as she laughed, and George patted her on the back. «Merlin, Lyra... don't die now, at least wait until Harry gets back. He'd like to receive the congratulations from people who are still alive!» said the boy, as if he were scolding a child.

«Oh, sure, I’m sure Harry Potter woke up this morning and said, “I want Lyra Selwyn at my party,”» the girl replied, rolling her eyes.

«And that's exactly what he said,» George said with a smile, then leaned down to her ear. «But luckily for you, he's not the only one. I wanted you there too.»

Lyra's eyes widened slightly at those words, and she felt a warmth invade not so much her cheeks as her chest: it wasn't the embarrassment of a random compliment thrown in to make her blush during a conversation, but something different that touched her heart. That sentence, that he cared about having her there, made her feel almost as if her heart was beating wildly, like a taut string vibrating only thanks to George's voice. She returned to reality after time stood still for a few seconds for her, and on the one hand she was grateful to Harry who arrived at that moment accompanied by... none other than Ron Weasley at his side. When the champion entered, the Hall was filled with cheers and applause. 

In fact, the Weasley twins hoisted him onto their shoulders and spun him around like a newly won cup.

«Well done, Harry...» Fred began seriously, almost like a toast.
«You couldn't lose your life! A leg maybe...» George continued after his brother.
«Or an arm...»
«But losing the whole package?»

«NEVER!» they shouted together, then set him down amid general laughter.

Lyra approached Harry uncertainly, but when he saw her, he gave her almost no chance to escape: he hugged her tightly, almost as if to say thank you without stumbling over his words.

«What are you doing here? Are you on a mission for someone?» Harry asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. She played along, nodding.

«That's right, I came to check what secret this golden dragon egg contains, you know? I have to report back to my colleagues as soon as possible.» They both laughed heartily and hugged again, and Lyra then looked at him. «Joking aside, the twins told me to come. And today you were fantastic at the trial, Harry, even though for a moment I saw your leg being swallowed by that thing.»

The boy smiled a little awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. «Thanks, Lyra. I'm glad you're here, and thanks again for everything you've done this past month. Really, I'm grateful.» Ron joined them, a little awkwardly, but close enough to stay; they talked for a few more minutes — broken sentences, laughter that flared and died down — until Lee Jordan insisted that the egg deserved a preview. 

One click of the hook was enough: the music in the Hall was instantly drowned out by a shrill scream, high-pitched enough to make the windows rattle, a blade of sound that cut through the chatter.

«Good grief, Harry...» moaned Seamus Finnigan, rubbing his ear. «That sounded like a banshee... maybe you'll have to face them in the next task?» Lyra and Daphne, like everyone else, laughed at this rather funny remark.

«I think I heard someone laughing without my permission,» George whispered to Lyra. «And I think you're feeling a little too comfortable here, Miss Selwyn.»
The girl rolled her eyes and then turned to him. «Unfortunately, your Lion family has such a senseless sense of humour that it makes me laugh.»

«You know how to throw a party, though. They have potential,» said Daphne, and Lyra nodded in agreement, letting her gaze drift over the garlands and shadows cast by the fireplace, and the people celebrating. George, however, suddenly took her hand and gave her a rather sweet look.

«Hey Selwyn, would you like to take a walk away from the chaos to hear a Weasley talk nonsense?» Lyra frowned for a moment, bewildered by the physical contact.

«Only if you promise not to give me the same sweets Fred gave Neville.» 

The boy laughed and nodded, and led her hand in hand to one of the tower windows, where the light was softer and the noise of the party was less annoying and loud. He looked at her carefully before speaking. «You know, when I asked you to come here, I thought you'd last five minutes at most... just long enough to say hello to Harry and then disappear like a bat in the night.» Lyra smiled. 

«I thought so too, but I'm enjoying myself. But hey!» she pointed a finger at him playfully. «How dare you think I'd run away?» 

George laughed heartily, then ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture rare for him. «I like seeing you here, you know? You were laughing so much, and your eyes were shining like I'd never seen before.» She looked at him, a little surprised by his sincerity. «And it's not that I want to steal you away from your Slytherins or your friend Nott, who always seems to have something to say...» he added with a half-smile. «But when you're with me, with all of us, you're different. If I may say so, more you. I hope I'm not wrong.»

Lyra didn't answer right away, remaining silent for a few seconds. She just stared at him, her eyes calmer but full of emotion. «Maybe you're right. I feel a little freer here, with all of you. Maybe I like it when someone notices the good things about me, when they come out from inside me, and not just my flaws. Maybe... it's you, George. It's your fault.»

He stared at her silently for a few seconds, then leaned in a little, lowering his voice: «There, now you're blushing. I know you are. I'm waiting...»

Lyra tapped him lightly on the shoulder with her hand and tried to pinch him, but she was already smiling, and yes, the blush had already appeared on her cheeks. George laughed, then added softly, like a little spell: «Cherry red. My favourite colour.»

And just then, in the inside pocket of her jacket, Lyra felt a small handwritten parchment slip out slightly. She pulled it out discreetly and read: ‘If you blush again, I want you to know that it's official: it's my favourite shade of red. —G’

Lyra folded it carefully and put it back in its place, then looked up at him and said nothing for a few seconds. Then, with a whisper and a smile that was like a promise, she moved a little closer to him: «Then don't look too much, Weasley. Or you'll end up collecting all the shades.»

And there, next to that window where laughter and music came from afar as if filtered, it seemed that the chaos of the world could suddenly stop. They looked into each other's eyes just long enough to understand that they didn't want to reveal their deepest secrets and thoughts, and almost as if by silent mutual agreement, they looked away to turn and gaze at the moon, which had now formed in the sky after that long day.
Lyra had always loved looking at the moon, ever since she was little: she stared at it with a kind of respectful silence with which one looks at an old friend, knowing that even that evening it would remain there, suspended in the sky, listening to her without asking questions and witnessing everything she could not express to anyone. The moon always made her feel less alone.

But just as she was looking at its pale outline through the clouds, thinking back to her conversation with George and the fact that he himself had mentioned Nott's name, she realised what she had said to the Slytherin boy and the half-promise she had made to celebrate together after the First Task. Her stomach clenched because she discovered that she was happy there, truly incredibly happy to be in that tower, especially with George by her side, and she felt a pang of guilt so sharp that it took her breath away.

«Is something wrong?» asked the redhead, touching her shoulder.

«No... no, really. It's just that...» she sighed slowly, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible. «I just remembered something I promised someone. I have to— I have to go, George. I'm sorry.»

Lyra disappeared quickly into the crowd, almost faster than light, and it took George two shoulders and a waving flag to be unable to keep up with her and catch up. He stood there, motionless, staring at the door through which the long-haired brown-haired girl had just disappeared. The buzz of the party in the Common Room seemed to have faded in his mind, almost muffled; his heart was pounding in his throat, but now it wasn't because of one of Selwyn's glances or the happiness of seeing her laugh: it was because of the emptiness the girl had just left inside him. 

Why did he feel this way? She was just a friend to him, wasn't she? It was normal to feel sad when a friend left, wasn't it? He tried to console himself with this thought, while a faint scent of vanilla and lavender lingered in his nostrils.

«George? Are you all right, mate?» Fred asked, bringing him back to the real world, and Angelina gave him a worried look. «What happened? Where did Lyra go?»
George shook his head, smiling almost against his will. «She said she remembered she'd made a promise to someone, and she left.» Ginny approached the group, hearing only bits and pieces of the conversation, but immediately understanding who they were referring to.

«But why did your friend leave?» she asked sadly.

Fred gave the half-smile he used when he didn't want to rub it in even though he knew he was right, and rolled his eyes. «Yes... a friend, Ginny. A friend who teases, who makes you laugh, who you've been out with a lot. Who, coincidentally, you always want around. But yes, just a friend,» he said in a neutral voice. Too neutral to be true.

«George...» Ginny began, seeing George start to walk away after Fred's words — which were true but hurtful — but he turned and shrugged.

«Never mind, guys,» George cut out, turning slightly towards the door. «It's normal, isn't it? She's free to see whoever she wants, whenever and wherever she wants. And I'm free to be an idiot with confetti and Chocolate Frogs, right?» He tried to laugh, but the joke didn't have the desired effect. He sighed deeply and, without realising it, clenched the crumpled Chocolate Frog wrapper he had shared with her that day between his fingers in his cloak; he closed his fist around it with a small snap, as if that were enough to silence the rest.

Ginny touched his forearm. «You don't have to be an idiot now, if you don't want to,» she whispered, and he shrugged as if putting on a jacket that was too comfortable to give up. 

«I'm fine,» he lied gently, «it's just... strange when someone disappears from the room and the air seems to make a different sound.» And he turned towards the window: the moon stumbled through the clouds and, for a fraction of a second, he thought he could smell that trail of vanilla and lavender that Lyra left on things; he wondered if perhaps the adrenaline of the test was just wearing off, and the rest was fatigue, just normal fatigue after a long day.

«If you want, I'll go look for her,» Fred offered, half promise, half provocation. 

«No,» George replied too quickly, then softened his tone. «No, really. She needs space. We're not an assembly line of attention—» he tried to joke, throwing two confetti pieces into the air, which fell listlessly back on him. «Tomorrow I'll tease her again and everything will be back to normal.» 

‘What was normal?’ the thought bounced around inside him, but he pushed it away, going instead to the centre of the room, dragging Lee into a chorus and turning up the volume of the party; yet every now and then — every damn few seconds — his eyes darted to the door, as if it were a window onto time and at any moment that laughter would return, and that way of squinting when she pretended not to blush.

When Harry finally climbed onto a chair to thank everyone and someone set off the pocket fireworks, George was the first to light the fuse, because that was what he did best: give light, make noise, distract; meanwhile, with his free hand, he folded up the chocolate wrapper and slipped it into his pocket like a talisman, telling himself that it was just a souvenir of a successful evening, nothing more — while a thought, more stubborn than the others, remained there, planted like a nail: tomorrow, as soon as I see her again, I'll say something silly until she smiles. That's all. That's all I want to do.

Lyra, for her part, continued to run through the castle with her hands clutching the edges of her cloak and her breath bouncing in her throat; she only slowed down after passing the archway of the main corridor. Now she wasn’t running to get to a place that would make her happy, but towards a promise made without thinking too much about it and then left there, so as not to hurt anyone, even though those who demanded it were the first not to treat her properly.

The castle was silent at that point, far from the party and the singing, and with her footsteps echoing, she reached the staircase leading to the side hall.

There was Theo Nott, leaning with his back against a stone column, his profile silhouetted by the yellow light of the moon and stars. He seemed at ease in the emptiness and solitude, almost unconcerned that she was extremely late. Or perhaps it bothered him very much indeed.

«I thought you really stood me up for your new group of exuberant red-and-golds,» he said contemptuously as soon as he saw her arrive. He uttered the cutting remark with a half-smile, which Theo knew how to use better than anyone else: subtle so as not to seem hostile, but loaded with double meanings. Lyra stood next to him.

«No, of course not. I didn't want to leave you alone... I just forgot.»

«Ah, so you often forget things, or only when you're too busy looking at George Weasley as if he invented magic?» he added amusedly, even though his eyes meant something else. Lyra took a deep breath, ignoring the growing irritation forming inside her.

«I'm not here to argue, Theo.»

«Oh, I don't argue. I observe. Anyway, come on, let's go for a walk together as promised,» he said, detaching himself from the column. 

They crossed the portico overlooking the slightly snow-covered courtyard; the wind made the street lamps vibrate and the sound of their footsteps on the stone cracked in a rhythm that reminded her how far away the party was. Theo talked: about the trial, the dragons, the overly complacent professors, the champions who should “be smarter than brave”. Every now and then there was a hint of venom at the end of a sentence, a small sting that Lyra felt more than usual that evening; she nodded, replied with clean monosyllables, but her thoughts kept wandering—to the steps, to a tight hug out of fear, to a laugh broken in two, and to a chocolate map folded in her cloak.

«You're quiet, Selwyn. You usually tell me I'm an idiot every ten minutes.»

Lyra smiled and shrugged. «I'm just... thinking. About the Tournament.»

«Do you think Potter will make it through all three tasks?» he asked at one point, his hands in his cloak pockets. 

«I think so,» Lyra replied. «He's stronger than he looks. And he's not alone.»

Theo nodded. «You're never really alone either. You know that, right?»

She looked at him for a moment, then went back to staring at her footsteps. «Yes. I know.»

They sat down on a stone bench in front of a closed greenhouse; the glass reflecting the flickering lights of the street lamps and their slightly blurred image, as if a spell had blurred the contours to spare the details. Silence stretched between them, neither comfortable nor hostile: suspended.

«Thank you for waiting for me,» she said finally. «I know you're not the type to do so...»

Theo smiled, a real smile. «I'll always do it for you. Even if you're late. Even if your mind is elsewhere.» She looked down, as there was nothing to say. 

In part, she was grateful to him for this, that Theo had waited for her despite everything, without making a scene, as if to keep her place beside him. But in her heart she knew that perhaps he would never be the right one for her, either as a friend or as something else. There was something dissonant in the way he looked at her, as if he were trying to decipher her urgently, almost as if he were trying to read her in order to file her away and put her in a drawer, and lock away everything about her that he did not understand or like, instead of being there to understand her. He was certainly a present and partly good guy — but there was a subtle thread that tied every gesture of his to the need to keep control of the person. And even though he knew how to mask it well, and even though she had truly believed in the past that the relationship they had had the previous year would always be as smooth sailing as it was in the beginning... now Lyra could no longer ignore that strange feeling of discord between them. And it wasn't just Theo: it was herself too. She wanted something happy and exciting, but she didn't know how to hold on to people, what the right distance was, how not to stray from what she wanted in order to please the other person.

With boys, she stumbled over unwritten rules, and with herself, she spoke in a low voice. She lacked the basic grammar of intimacy, but in the meantime, at least, by dint of observation, she was beginning to see more clearly who was in front of her. So Theo, at least, appeared to her for what he was: a caress that sought approval but also control, a presence that comforts until you truly experience it. Perhaps it had been and still was a simple illusion, kind to the eye: a beautiful house from a distance, but whose walls crumble as soon as you try to live in it.

══════════════
Gryffindor Common Room

The music was no longer so loud, or perhaps it was just George who’d stopped really hearing it. Most people had helped cleaning up and then went to their bedrooms, so the Common Room was slowly shedding the frenzy of the party. He sat on the sofa by the fire, his shoulders hunched forward, his burgundy jumper pulled up to his elbows, his wrists and hands marked with glittering dust left over from the pranks, and his slightly long hair constantly tousled by his fingers. 

He didn't want to think about anything. Or at least he tried not to. Yet even he didn't know why he felt so empty. Lee Jordan approached him with a glass of water in his hand after returning some trays to the kitchens. «Did you know I just saw her outside the castle with Nott? Lyra, I mean. They seemed to be heading towards the park. Poetic timing for a romantic walk, eh?»

George turned slowly towards him, as if the sentence had come from far away. «So what?» he said, in a perfectly neutral, almost bored tone. «I don't give a shit about it, she's free to see whoever she wants.»

Lee raised his eyebrows. «As if I'm going to contest her freedom, I'm just reporting it.»

«Noted, and report signed.» George replied, rolling his eyes and then resuming sipping his water; he didn't want to reply to Lee, just as he didn’t want to say Lyra’s name as if he had any rights over her, and he didn’t want to ask where the two were headed or imagining that grip on her wrist again — he just wanted to swallow the lump in his throat and pretend that the burning sensation was just thirst. Lee slumped into the armchair next to him, twirling the glass in his hands. 

«You know, for nothing, that “nothing” has turned your face two shades paler. And no, don't tell me it's Fred's will-o'-the-wisps.»

«Nothing’s going on between me and her,» George finally replied after a long pause, shrugging his shoulders. «No chocolate frog oaths, no contracts written in cherry red.»

«Sure. But allow me to add my own footnote,» said his friend, leaning back. «I don't like that guy. He has the look of someone who puts people in alphabetical order. And today, when he took her wrist—»

«I saw,» George cut him off, his response coming out sharper than he intended. He inhaled slowly, turning to face his friend. «I don't want to talk about it.» Inside, however, the phrase he repeated to himself had the awkward tone of polite lies: I don't care, I don't care — and the ‘don't’ bounced off him, almost like a coin that keeps rolling on the floor with that annoying noise, so obvious that it brought a silent, bitter smile to his face. 

George hated Theo Nott: he hated his lacquered way of being in the world, precise as a line drawn with a ruler, his words sharpened to just the right point to make anyone who didn't fit the mould feel guilty; he hated the way he held the girl's wrist — not too hard or violent, but wrong — as if he had the right to control Lyra; he hated the look of someone who locks things away in drawers, labelling and sealing them. And most of all, he hated the idea that she, of all people, who when she really laughed had that sparkle in her eyes that made her forget the perfect Selwyn script, had to almost ask someone's permission to do so.

‘She and I are nothing.’

It was true: nothing said, nothing written, it was technically true. Yet there were scattered notes that only they could decipher — if they really put their minds to it, avoiding the beating around the bush: George's scarf that still smelled of vanilla and lavender, those two moles on the right side of his neck that he could now point out with his eyes closed, the speed with which she blushed and then pretended not to, and the way his hands still remembered the shape of Lyra's hips. 

Nonsense, George told himself. Or maybe it was the opposite.

Only then did he realise that he was clenching his fists as if to hold back something that was overflowing; he opened them one at a time, with almost surgical precision, because the last thing he wanted to be was another man who grabbed: if anything — and here the thought came to him fiercely and sweetly at the same time — he wanted to be the place where she breathed. Yet jealousy rose up in him like a midnight fever, absurd and stubborn: he wanted her to come back, not to say something clever, not to claim anything, but just to make her laugh again, to watch her look at the moon from the window and discover, in the reflection, that sometimes that was enough to feel whole.

A little further on, Fred — sitting astride an armchair with a cup in his hands — caught Hermione's eye. She was holding a book open but no longer following the lines; They exchanged that half-nod that was worth a diagnosis: George's response was a facade. They knew him too well — the stifled chuckle when he lied, the way he scratched the back of his neck and then didn't, the habit of staring at a spot on the carpet as if he could disappear into it — and they knew that he cared about Lyra, more than he was ready to admit out loud. 

Hermione slammed the book shut and rested her elbow on the armrest. «For someone who doesn't care, your face froze the moment she said it.»

«Nonsense, Granger,» George snapped, forcing a smile. «I'll just need more pumpkin juice.»

Fred snorted and stood up, patting him on the shoulder. «You need more than pumpkin juice, Georgie. And you know it.»

He shrugged and said nothing, but turned and looked out of the window, where there was no trace of the figure who had left without looking back. Hermione followed the trajectory of his eyes, looked at him with a hint of sweetness and said softly, just for Fred, «He pretends he doesn't care, but he does. He's been watching her all evening as if she were the only thing on his mind.»

Fred nodded, sighing. «And he still doesn't know how much he really is.»

Chapter Text

"And it's hard to be at a party when I feel like an open wound

It's hard to be anywhere these days when all I want is you

You're a flashback in a film reel on the one screen in my town"

- This is me trying

The sun filtered through the leaves, casting patches of golden light on the ground that seemed to dance to the slow rhythm of the wind, and Lyra, her shoulders leaning against the rough trunk of an old tree, let the warmth caress her face and the silence of the early afternoon envelop her like a cloak. She’d closed her eyes a few minutes earlier, not to sleep but to escape the constant buzz that filled the corridors of the castle: the voices, the laughter, the jokes that she often knew how to handle with ease but now felt like sharp blades against her skin. Sometimes she needed solitude, a moment when no one could try to read her mind.

She breathed in slowly, and in the air she almost imagined she could smell the distant scent of the Selwyn library, the smell of the old books she used to open secretly as a child to escape conversations that were too big for her and too empty of truth. She’d always been like that, ever since she was little: sweet, sensitive, with a natural predisposition to notice details that others missed, and a lively intelligence that never let her stand still, that pushed her to ask questions about everything and always seek the reason behind stuff.

During her childhood, Lyra wasn’t afraid to show affection and express her emotions, and so she constantly sought human contact with the same naturalness with which other children asked for a game or a sweet: she would reach out to anyone near her, cling to her mother's arm when she sensed a shadow of tiredness in her eyes, and run to hug her father when he came home, even though he was not a man prone to big emotional gestures. Hers was an instinctive sweetness, an essential part of her personality, which needed no words or confirmation, but that often surprised the adults themselves: Lyra could sense the sadness behind a smile, or the harshness behind a short sentence, and always reacted with a small, sincere gesture, like a sudden kiss, a drawing left on the bedside table, a phrase whispered as if she understood much more than was reasonable for her age.

It was a sensitivity that wasn’t limited to people: Lyra would stop in front of a wilted flower as if she were witnessing a tragedy, she’d pick up small lost animals to return them to the garden, she would cry when listening to a fairy tale read aloud when the character she had grown fond of met an unhappy end. Nothing slipped past her; everything entered her with a force that sometimes exhausted her, but also made her unique: a heart ready to absorb the emotions of others as if they were her own.

This same sensitivity, however, often translated into an almost visceral need to be reassured: she constantly sought approval with her gaze, her face lit up when she heard a sincere compliment, and if she was scolded, she did not react with tantrums or loud crying, but with a deep silence and tears that made it clear how much those words had touched her heart. She had her own way of feeling at the centre of the world and at the same time tiny in front of it, and perhaps this was what made her so fascinating even as a child: the ability to appear strong on the outside, but to remain fragile in the smallest things.

But alongside that sweetness and precocious curiosity, Lyra had also been a chaotic, noisy child, full of life like few others her age: she had a presence that did not go unnoticed, because she carried with her an energy that permeated everywhere, even the most solemn and dark places in the house. As a little girl, she did not really know or understand the meaning of “composure”, at least not until she was old enough to wear it as a mask — as she did now; as a child, she ran through the corridors without caring about the sound of her footsteps echoing off the marble walls, laughed until she had hiccups even when she knew it wasn't allowed, and stuck her fingers into freshly arranged flower vases just to see if she could make them last longer elsewhere. She was able to bring her liveliness to every corner: she made up stories about every painting hanging on the walls, imagined that the portraits of their ancestors could hear her thoughts and judge her, and for this reason she enjoyed making secret faces at them and then bursting out laughing, certain that no one would dare to really scold her. Whenever she tripped over one of the long skirts Elinor insisted she wear, she’d get up with the grace of someone who already knows she will be scolded but doesn't care, because inside she felt that the freedom to laugh and move was worth much more than an intact appearance.

Lyra was like that: a mixture of sweetness and chaos, disarming sensitivity and spontaneous irreverence, with that air of a child who knew how to make herself loved without any effort, who won over adults with the sincerity of her eyes and took them aback with the quickness of her insights. She could spend hours observing an insect in the garden with the same attention that others devoted to an important lesson, or fearlessly interrupt adult conversations to have her say, convinced that even a child's thoughts carried the same weight as the truths they exchanged in hushed tones.

And despite the strict discipline and rules imposed by the Selwyn family, Lyra remained sweet, capable of suddenly hugging someone, grabbing a hand for no reason, kissing a cheek just to remind them that there was love in her and that she wanted to receive the same in return. She’d never been shy about showing what she felt: if she was happy, she laughed with her head thrown back; if she was sad, she cried without trying to hide it, and every emotion crossed her face as an immediate reflection of her heart. It was impossible not to notice her light, that rebellious naivety that made her so different from what the aristocratic environment would have wanted. Because Lyra, even though she had grown up between cold walls and measured words, had a nature that overflowed its boundaries: she was too alive, too sensitive, too attentive to the world to be contained, and perhaps that was why her childhood memories remained so vivid even now, like little flames shining in her memory and reminding her of who she really was, before she learned to build her armour.

Not to mention how important her friends were to her, and how she cared about sharing everything that crossed her mind with them or being there for them in their time of need; she was almost like the sun around which others inevitably gravitated, as if her sweet and spontaneous energy was capable of transforming every place and every moment into a warm and welcoming refuge, ever since childhood. She had a natural instinct to make others feel at ease, starting with a simple smile or a joke thrown into the air when someone was feeling down. It didn't matter if you were in a quiet room or a garden full of people and noise, because Lyra was always there to make that place a space where you could be yourself — above all, simply children. What's more, there was no risk of feeling excluded with her, because she had an almost maternal reflex to bring everyone back into the fold: all she had to do was start humming a melody she had made up on the spot for the others to follow her, clapping their hands, deliberately improvising out of tune just to make everyone laugh together.

Lyra had this rare ability to hold different pieces and opposing characters together, making them seem part of a single design. She did not let differences drive them apart; on the contrary, she transformed them into sparks of vitality, into reasons to play, into opportunities to invent new stories. She couldn't bear the idea of anyone in the group feeling left out, and when that happened, she didn't hesitate to take the blame herself, as if it were a personal failure not to have made everyone happy.

In fact, Lyra almost unconsciously committed herself to being the glue that held the group together, making sure that everyone felt listened to and understood, that everyone had their place without leaving anyone on the sidelines. When the children acted like children — such as when games led to someone being excluded, or when pairs or teams were formed that left a friend out — the little girl felt as if something inside her was breaking, and she did everything she could to remedy the situation. She tried to come up with new rules to make everyone participate, or to share her secrets so that everyone had a part, or to make jokes to distract those who had tears in their eyes. And that was what made her special, even as a child: the ability to make everyone indispensable, to make everyone feel part of her world, even when she felt inside that she wanted to run away and keep her fragility to herself. Her heart always found a way to open up to others, even at the cost of wearing herself out, even at the cost of suffering, so as not to hurt anyone.

Because, deep down, even then, her greatest concern was not only to be loved, but to make sure that those she loved knew they were important — something she would have liked to feel herself, but did not always receive.

Nevertheless, there were three people in particular in her group whom she had become particularly close to: Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass. Her own personal “Marvellous Trio”, as she liked to call them. They’d known each other since before they could walk, and if they were still friends today, it was because their personalities were so different yet so capable of blending with each other and adding to their long-standing friendship in every way.

For Lyra, Draco had always been more than just a friend — she considered him a brother, thanks to his constant presence in almost every moment of her life. As a child, he was very different from what people would later come to know at Hogwarts: he was less rigid, less closed off in the ways she heard about at home, feeling freer and able to show affection without being ashamed in front of others or alone. in fact, he wasted no time in declaring in front of everyone that Lyra was his best friend, or giving her things from his room, or clowning around to make everyone laugh. At that age, before the weight of his family's expectations began to weigh on him, Draco had been a child capable of showing love and loyalty in a direct, almost naive, unfiltered way.

As he grew up, however, something changed between the rules, ideologies and whispered words at Malfoy Manor that began to shape him, and the Draco Lyra knew learned to hide certain emotions, covering them with pride and biting irony. It wasn't that he had stopped loving her, quite the contrary: their bond was so deep that nothing could break it, but the way he expressed it changed. No more impromptu gifts or hugs for no reason in front of everyone, but rather attentions that only Lyra could recognise and which she reciprocated without hesitation: the way he always put himself one step ahead of her in risky situations, the speed with which he defended her when someone dared to offend her, or the way he lowered his voice and stopped acting when they were alone, letting all the masks fall for a moment. So, even though Draco spoke with conviction about blood purity or repeated phrases he had heard at home with the naturalness of someone who had never questioned what he had been taught, and Lyra had never really believed those words because they seemed empty, cruel, and far from her way of feeling, the two complemented each other despite their differences: he found in her a counterpart who challenged him without fear, who was not intimidated by his character, stubbornness, or ideologies; she found in him a steadfast anchor, someone who, despite everything, would never leave her behind.

There were heated discussions, arguments that seemed on the verge of breaking them apart. Yet, each time, they ended up finding each other again: it was as if they both knew that each represented something greater than ideas for the other, something that no ideology could ever destroy: a form of deep-rooted affection, of brotherhood that was not chosen but had become inevitable.

«Promise me something, Draco,» she said suddenly.

«What?» he replied, only apparently annoyed, because he knew that when Lyra took that tone, it was never for trivial matters.

«That you won't become... I mean, that you'll never be a Death Eater.»

For a moment, Draco's eyes widened and his first reaction was to laugh, to dismiss the request as an exaggeration. But then he saw the way Lyra was looking at him: with that intensity that left no escape, with that vulnerability hidden behind her firmness. And he understood that for her, that promise meant much more than just a simple phrase. 

«All right...» he murmured, almost in a whisper, as if uttering those words was a greater commitment than he could admit. Lyra held out her little finger to him, as she did when she was a child when she wanted to seal a pact that no one should ever break. Draco rolled his eyes, sighed, but finally intertwined his little finger with hers, lowering his pride for a moment and letting that gesture speak more than a thousand words.

But would he keep his promise?

Over the years, however, their friendship grew stronger through their differences: the more they argued, the more they realised they couldn't do without each other. Lyra never stopped prodding him, reminding him that life couldn't be reduced to what their families wanted to impose on them; Draco never stopped protecting her, in his own way, even when he pretended not to.

They were siblings in the truest sense of the word: two people who, despite following different paths, would never stop finding each other.

But while with Draco, their friendship was a brotherhood built on arguments, with Blaise, the bond had immediately taken on a different nuance, perhaps more silent and refined, as if it had been born out of a form of mutual recognition that did not need too many words to consolidate. Lyra and Blaise were more alike than they liked to admit to others or even to themselves: they were both very intelligent, subtly curious, able to observe without being noticed and to read people as if they were open books. Where others were carried away by impulsiveness, the two of them preferred to pause, think, analyse, and often a knowing glance was enough to understand that they had reached the same conclusion.

This was precisely what made their friendship so strong: the constant feeling of being on the same wavelength, almost to the point where one would finish the other's sentences. With Blaise, Lyra didn’t need to act, to hide the sharpest parts of her intelligence or her reflections — on the contrary, she could let them out without fear of seeming too much, because he not only understood them, but welcomed them naturally and responded in kind. Their conversations, even as children, weren’t limited to childish chatter: they lost themselves in imagining how the world worked, in dismantling the often illogical reasoning of adults, in laughing at certain inconsistencies that they noticed before anyone else.

It was a friendship made up of subtle irony and silent complicity: if Draco loved the spotlight, the two of them were the ones who stood on the sidelines exchanging comments in hushed tones, finding amusement in details that escaped others. Lyra appreciated Blaise's calmness, which she did not always possess, as well as his ability to observe without immediately intervening, and at the same time, Blaise admired Lyra's liveliness in translating thoughts into actions, as if ideas should never remain static. They were two sides of the same coin: both clear-headed, both clever, both able to move through the world without letting the world really notice how much they knew.

As they grew up, that bond became even more precious. When Lyra began to build her armour, hiding her sensitivity behind a cold exterior, Blaise was one of the few who recognised that there was much more behind that mask. He didn't pressure her, he didn't ask her for direct explanations, but he knew how to be there at the right moments: a book by her favourite author left deliberately on top of her schoolbooks, an ironic comment that defused a tense situation, a look that was enough to make her understand that he understood her.

It was a relationship free of jealousy, excesses and pretensions: a rare kind of balance, where both knew they could count on each other without the need for constant reassurance. Lyra felt safe with Blaise because there was no risk of judgement, no fear of appearing too fragile or too cunning, too idealistic or too calculating. He accepted her as she was, and she did the same with him.

And perhaps that was why everyone believed they would end up together sooner or later.

But no one really understood that their greatest strength lay in being friends, and that turning that understanding into something else would break the balance that made them unique.

Lyra loved that friendship because it was different from all the others: it wasn't made up of noise, shouted promises or grand gestures, but of small, silent certainties that accumulated over the years. It was the friendship that reminded her that she didn't always have to show herself in a thousand colours to be understood; that sometimes it was enough to stop, breathe, and know that someone was there, beside her, thinking exactly the same thing.

Over time, the friendship between Lyra and Blaise had become increasingly intimate, made up of a confidence that knew no barriers, as if both knew they were guarding sides of each other that no one else would ever see. It was a silent understanding, and perhaps that was why, at the beginning of their third year, Lyra decided to go to him with a request so unusual that she would never have made it to anyone else.

One evening, in the quiet of the Common Room lit only by the embers in the fireplace, Lyra sat down next to Blaise with an air of hesitation that was uncharacteristic of her, and after a long silence, she showed him a small crumpled piece of paper, worn by the years, hidden in her bedroom drawer, almost a relic that — according to her parents — she had always had with her: it simply said “carry on”, two simple, light words, yet laden with a weight she could not explain.

«I'd like you to tattoo it here,» she said softly, touching her right wrist with her fingers. Blaise looked at her with his eyebrows slightly raised, surprised but not shocked: he wasn't a judgemental guy, and in fact, there was something in his gaze that seemed to say that understood.

And that was the first time Blaise, with his precise and calm hands, engraved those tiny letters on Lyra's skin. She endured the stinging pain with quiet courage, the same courage she reserved for everything important in her life, and when she finally looked at the result, a small smile touched her lips. Those two words were a reminder engraved in her flesh: carry on, despite everything. Blaise did not ask for an explanation, he did not ask her why those particular words. He knew that if she ever wanted to, she would tell him. And in that respectful silence, their friendship grew even stronger.

It wasn't long before Lyra came back to him with another idea: a small heart, a trivial symbol perhaps, but one that had deep meaning for her. It was not the heart of a lover, it was not a romantic appeal: it was her obsession with love in all its forms, her need to remember that it existed and that she was looking for it, even when she could not find it. Blaise drew it with a steady hand, small and hidden, in a place he knew would not attract prying eyes: behind her left ear. Lyra laughed softly, squeezing his hand gratefully, and it was clear that no one else would ever have that privilege: to engrave such personal marks on her skin.

Over time, those tattoos became part of her, yet no one at Hogwarts ever saw them. Lyra covered them carefully, with a touch of magic concealer or a light spell, as if they were a secret she couldn't afford to reveal. Perhaps it was fear of judgement, or perhaps to avoid complications with her teachers because, after all, she was only thirteen at the time. And Blaise respected that choice without ever commenting: tattoos were not meant to be seen, but to be remembered.

Then came the summer between her third and fourth year. It was a warm evening, several days after Lyra had discovered she was adopted. In the girl's room, lit only by a soft lamp, Blaise plucked up his courage and showed her a drawing he had sketched himself: a small lightning bolt, elegant but beautiful in its simplicity. He didn't explain why he had chosen that, and Lyra looked at him in surprise, but without interrupting him.

«I'd like to do it for you,» he said softly, almost shyly, as if afraid to go any further. «Here.» He pointed to his side, a hidden spot that only the two of them would know about.

Lyra remained silent for a moment, her heart beating faster, not because of the tattoo itself, but because of what it represented: the total trust that flowed between them, the idea that Blaise was giving her a mark he had invented himself, engraved not only on her skin, but in the memory of their bond. She accepted without hesitation, and when the tip traced the clean, decisive line on her hip, she felt the pain mingle with a strange form of freedom. That lightning bolt wasn't just a design: it was the symbol of something she couldn't even define yet, a fragment of herself that she didn't have the courage to tell anyone about, but which Blaise, somehow, had perhaps grasped even before her friend.

When he finished, Blaise moved away slightly, with that detached air he used to cover his most vulnerable side. But Lyra knew him, and she saw in his eyes that he too had felt a strong emotion.

«This lightning bolt is perfect,» she said simply, touching the new mark engraved on her skin with her fingers. And it really was: not because of its shape or the design itself, but because of everything it represented.

From that day on, the lightning bolt remained hidden like the other tattoos, covered by spells and concealers, invisible to the eyes of others. But to Lyra, it was never invisible: it was there, like a secret shared only with Blaise, a silent pact that no one could break. It was their way of telling each other that they understood each other, that they protected each other, that there was something indelible between them, engraved not only on their skin but in their souls.

Friendships aside, Lyra's first three years at Hogwarts marked a slow change in her, inexorable and almost imperceptible to those who did not know her and looked at her from the outside; it was as if that chaotic, sensitive and lively child had suddenly found herself inside an invisible cage, made of expectations and stern looks, of words that said everything and nothing and often half-truths, and silences that weighed more than punishment. It wasn't so much Hogwarts that changed her as the environment in which she lived and which she had begun to notice more as she grew up: and it was there that she realised that, no matter how much love she was willing and ready to give, she would not find much space to show it.

In fact, at home, over time, she began to feel that something was changing: it wasn't a lack of affection per se, because the Selwyns had never been overly cold towards her, but there had always been a subtle distance and an air of measured conversation that made her feel as if she were never quite part of that world. She was loved, yes, but with the controlled measure with which children are loved in aristocratic families: with polite attentiveness, with gestures that often seemed more like duties than spontaneous acts.

And Lyra, who thirsted for genuine gestures, for sudden hugs and whispered words for no reason, began to feel a void that she couldn’t fill. A void that became even wider and more unfathomable shortly before the start of her fourth year, when she accidentally discovered her adoption papers among old documents: cold, bureaucratic words, faceless and without explanation, with the names of her real parents carefully erased or hidden behind veils of ink. She had tried to ask, trying to force answers, but Cassius and Elinor Selwyn had simply told her that, in due course, everything would be revealed to her. That time, however, had not yet come, and so Lyra remained suspended in a middle ground: loved in moderation by a family that was not really hers, and deprived of the chance to know who she really was. This was what created a void within her that no words, no gestures, no affection could fill.

So she stopped openly showing the sweetness that had defined her as a child. Not because it had disappeared, but because she realised that every time she let it show, it was contained, held back, as if someone were implicitly telling her that it was not the right way to behave. Her natural inclination to seek contact, to love without filters, was replaced by a more cautious attitude: she learned to hold back her hands when they wanted to shake, to bite the inside of her cheek so as not to talk too much, to smile less often and with more restraint. It was as if a voice inside her insisted: you must be rigid, composed, appropriate.

And that voice, over time, became stronger than her own spontaneity, and that was when she began to build her armour. It didn't happen in a day, but was a slow accumulation of small moments: a stifled laugh because it didn't seem appropriate, a phrase of affection held back at the last moment, a gesture interrupted halfway through. At first, she didn't even notice, but soon it became natural: the mask of composure, the constant control over her emotions, the apparent coldness that made those who didn't know her think she was distant, when in reality she was screaming the opposite inside.

At Hogwarts, the situation was not much different: even though she was surrounded by friends like Draco, Blaise and Daphne who would never leave her alone, Lyra often felt as if something was missing. She watched the other girls laugh uninhibitedly, hug each other spontaneously in the corridors, confide in each other naturally, and inside she felt a sense of alienation; she couldn't shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, would always put her in her place, reminding her that certain things were not done, that certain emotions were not shown.

Yet, despite everything, Lyra found refuges that no one could take away from her. Music, first and foremost: she spent hours listening to old records bought during holidays in Muggle suburbs, and in those notes she felt understood, as if someone, from afar, had translated her thoughts into sound. Then there were books: she lost herself in the pages with the voracity of someone seeking answers to questions she dared not ask, and in every story she found fragments of herself, fragments of what she desired. She especially loved novels in which love was described as an irresistible, true, absolute force: the love she craved but could not see around her, except in idealised form.

And finally, there was writing, her greatest secret: notebooks filled with thoughts, half-finished sentences, reflections too intimate to be spoken aloud. She wrote to bring order to the chaos that stirred within her, she wrote so as not to forget who she really was beneath the armour she was building day after day. Sometimes they were just scattered words, other times entire pages of invented stories, but they all bore the mark of her soul: a little girl who still wanted to love without limits, but who no longer knew how to do so without getting hurt.

In the corridors of Hogwarts, she learned to walk with a confident stride, to speak with a firm voice, to show the intelligent and cunning side that made her respected by many. But behind that mask was still the same little girl who was moved by a broken flower, who needed to feel chosen, welcomed, loved — only now she kept it hidden.

Over time, Lyra's mind had begun to become confused, almost corroded, as if she no longer clearly recognised the boundaries between what was right and what was wrong, between what deserved to be accepted and what should be rejected. It was as if the armour she had built around herself had protected her from external pain, but at the same time made her more vulnerable to silent blows, those that do not come as punches but as drops that fall slowly and continuously. And it was in this state of mind that, in her third year, she had her first romantic relationship — with Theo Nott, a boy she had met in her first year and with whom she was very friendly.

At first, everything seemed to finally correspond to the dream she had cultivated for years, fuelled by the books and songs she devoured in secret: there was the enchantment of the first loving glances, the kind words, the gestures that seemed to confirm that she too could be chosen, desired, loved. Lyra threw herself into it wholeheartedly, as she did with everything, allowing herself to be swept away by the idea that this was the love she had always waited for, and she did not notice how quickly the dream was turning into something else.

The first problems came slowly, almost silently. They started with small comments from Theo about how she dressed, who she hung out with or how she behaved, how much time she spent with Blaise or Draco. At first, Lyra dismissed them as harmless jealousy, even as attention, and indeed, a part of her — the most fragile part, the part that feared she would never be enough — interpreted them as signs that he really cared, because after all, it was normal for third-year boys, wasn't it?

But those comments led to rules that hadn't been imposed before: Theo began to want to dictate her actions, to control who she greeted in the corridors, to turn up his nose if she laughed too much with other boys. Until the comments came, subtle but stinging, which began to dig into her like burning lava. They were little phrases dropped almost carelessly, yet heavy as boulders: about her appearance, her too loud laughter, her way of speaking, even her need to give affection in the relationship.

Theo knew how to strike a person's weak points with surgical precision, insinuating doubt, making it seem that Lyra was the one who was wrong, that she was the one who demanded too much, who was inadequate. They weren't shouted insults, they weren't visible slaps: they were constant drops that, day after day, made her believe she wasn't good enough.

And Lyra, who had always wanted to love and feel loved, ended up convincing herself that this was true love: imperfect, painful, made up of compromises that consumed her. She told herself that maybe this was what growing up meant, that maybe love was never like they described it in books or songs, and that she had to be content with what she had. She was so good at building masks for others that she ended up building one for herself too: she smiled when she felt empty inside, she made excuses for Theo when she knew she was hurting and didn't deserve what was happening to her — but she didn't know how to get out of it.

That was perhaps the darkest period of her life up to that point. Not so much because she was alone — her friends were there, Draco with his brotherly provocations, Blaise with his intelligent silences, Daphne with her complicity — but because she had lost herself, because she could no longer distinguish her own voice from the one Theo had slowly slipped into her head. Every comment, every gesture, every rule he imposed on her became a piece of a mosaic that trapped her, and the more she tried to free herself, the more she felt she was being unfair, ungrateful, exaggerated. Lyra was no longer the child who hugged without a care in the world or ran laughing through the corridors of her own home: she had become a girl who controlled every word, every glance, every breath, so as not to give Theo a new excuse to make her feel wrong. Yet, inside, that little girl was still there, screaming that she didn't want to be suffocated like this, that she just wanted to be loved for who she was. But for months, her voice remained buried under the weight of expectations and fears.

The collapse of her armour came without warning for the first time, as always happens with things that accumulate silently and then suddenly give way, and when it happened, Lyra was not even able to realise it. She had begun to withdraw into herself in a way that was increasingly obvious to those around her: she frequently skipped meals, excusing herself with a casual ‘I'm not hungry’, her smiles became rarer, her laughter forced, and her answers more dismissive; as did the homework she was accumulating and her inability to sleep well at night.

No one seemed to really notice, no one except Blaise and Draco.

Blaise was the first to suspect that there was something more going on. He was used to reading the details, and he began to notice how Lyra avoided food, how her eyes became duller, how her hands trembled slightly when she thought no one was looking. He didn't say anything to her right away: Blaise wasn't the type to tackle things head-on, he preferred to observe and stay close, waiting for the right moment. But inside, a constant worry ignited, an invisible thread that kept him on alert every time he saw her.

Draco, on the other hand, noticed it suddenly, on an ordinary afternoon in May 1994. He and Lyra had gone out flying, as they often did to distract themselves after a heavy day of lessons, and at one point he had thrown an apple into the air, pretending it was a Snitch to chase. Lyra laughed softly, but when she tried to catch it, she lost her grip and remained suspended in mid-air, without the energy to actually chase it with her broom. Draco descended beside her, noticing that she was pale and breathing more heavily than she should have been.

«Selwyn,» he said in that harsh tone he used when he was scared, «when was the last time you ate?» She laughed nervously, trying to deflect the question, but he didn't take his eyes off her. He didn't need to say it: he understood.

It was then that Draco and Blaise decided together that something had to be done. There was no real confrontation, nor were there any big speeches, because they both knew that Lyra would never tell them what had really happened between her and Theo: too much pride, too much fear of appearing weak, too much pain. They hugged her tightly and, with the force of their presence, forced her to let go of the relationship that was consuming her. Draco was the one who spoke harshly, telling her in no uncertain terms that he would no longer allow that boy to ruin her; Blaise, on the other hand, was the one who took her aside that same evening, calmly telling her that he didn't need to know the details, that just seeing her in such pain was enough to understand that it wasn't the right path.

Lyra never confessed the truth. She didn't tell anyone about the words Theo had stuck in her head like sharp blades, she didn't tell anyone how much she had come to believe it was her fault, how convinced she was that she wasn't good enough; just as she never told anyone, not even herself, what had happened inside the classroom — because she didn't want to think about it either. But she accepted their help, because at that moment she was too tired to resist and too fragile to fight.

She left Theo without looking back, and that was the beginning of a slow recovery.

Yet something inside her was broken forever: if she had previously idealised love as the purest and most overwhelming force, from that moment on she could no longer believe in it.

Love seemed like a deception to her, an empty promise that hid the danger of losing herself again. She continued to desire it, of course, because her sensitive nature could not stop, but she did so with mistrust, with an ever-higher barrier. She told herself that perhaps the love she had read about in books did not really exist, that perhaps she would never know it.

The armour, which until then had been a defence, became a prison in which she locked herself away in order to survive. Only Draco and Blaise knew how hard that period had been, because only they had seen her truly falter. They never spoke of the episode, never returned to the subject, but that summer, looking at her, they both knew that they had saved Lyra from an abyss, and that from then on, nothing would ever be the same again.

And now, sitting under the tree, Lyra knew that all that past was not behind her, but walked silently beside her, with every step she took within the walls of Hogwarts. The child she had loved without fear, the teenager who had suffered too soon, the girl who had learned not to trust love anymore: all those versions of herself still lived within her, and together they formed who she had become.

She had built herself a perfect armour, so thin that it seemed natural and so solid that it seemed unbreakable. A shell made of ostentatious confidence, sharp jokes, and irony that left no room for intrusion. She had learned to move as if nothing could really touch her — even though the truth was that everything touched her, and that every word, every gesture, every detail still engraved itself inside her with the same force as when she was a child, only now she knew how to hide it. No one would ever have guessed that beneath that disarming confidence there was still a desperate need to be chosen and loved.

Irony had become her favourite language, used to throw off balance and distance anyone who tried to push too far. Confidence, on the other hand, was the mask that allowed her not to show her fear. And impenetrability was her greatest weapon: a skill honed over the years, which made her difficult to read, fascinating and at the same time elusive. She had grown up like this, weaving the scars of the past with the masks of the present, until she seemed like a girl who always had everything under control.

And perhaps that was why no one at Hogwarts could really figure her out. Because Lyra Selwyn had become a figure of contrasts: brilliant and mysterious, confident and fragile, ironic and melancholic. A girl who had learned to run faster than her own feelings, but who, despite everything, continued to harbour the hope that one day, someone would catch up with her.

Chapter Text

December 1st had a dull sky hung heavily over the castle, threatening to release its snowy burden onto the surrounding countryside. In the days following the First Task, Hogwarts had grown quieter, as if the castle itself needed a break: students spoke in hushed tones in the corridors, often recalling the amazing scenes of the champions fighting the dragons, and Harry in particular was now regarded with a mixture of respect and perplexity — perhaps some were beginning to admit that he hadn't been so foolish as to put his name in the Goblet; but as always, it would take time for the truth to sink in.

For Lyra, however, the excitement of the event seemed to have turned into something else, a new kind of confusion: George Weasley.

The days after the Gryffindor party were strange, almost suspended in a limbo, and it felt like as if weeks had passed. George was acting differently towards her — nothing obvious, and perhaps that was the problem: nothing dramatic had happened between them, yet it was as if there was more silence than usual, which had made its way into the cracks in the air. George wasn’t really cold towards Lyra, yet he became less cheeky and less openly provocative, letting his usual random jokes stop before they became as cheeky as ever. The parchment notes laden with jokes and double entendres intended to make her blush — which he left everywhere, such as in books, gloves and pockets — had suddenly stopped, like a radio losing its signal at the best part of a song.

So George was always there: always attentive and present when she happened to turn around, because it wasn't in his nature to disappear — but something between them had imperceptibly changed. And Lyra didn't know whether to blame herself, her escape from the party, or that damn Theo who had kept her too long with his usual insistence.

Should she have ignored it and stayed with George?

Perhaps yes, Lyra thought. But the truth was that she was afraid of letting go, of hurting herself, or of expressing whatever was inside her in the wrong way. She hadn't stopped thinking about George and the way he looked at her before she left, or all his sweetness, or the way he had tried to keep her close that evening. But every time they crossed paths in the corridors, it was as if they were dancing on the edge of something that neither of them wanted to step on.

George wasn't feeling any better. His mind couldn't stop returning to that evening: he had managed to keep her close amid the chaos of the Gryffindor Common Room, he thought again about Lyra's fingers intertwined with his at the end of the Task, and the moments before she walked away. Yet, he didn't understand why he cared so much: why did the idea of Theo waiting for her in the corridors bother him, and why did it make his blood boil more than it should? Why did that name sound like a scratch on his heart every time someone mentioned it, or when he saw them together? He considered Lyra a dear friend, but why did he feel so furiously strange only with her?

He had decided to stay away for a while, to give her space, as if to avoid breaking fragile things if they are touched too much. Yet every time he saw her from afar in the Great Hall, or caught her by surprise in the corridors, or when their eyes met for a second too long, his decision was always on the verge of shattering: his chest felt heavy, his usual jokes rose to his throat, and every time he wanted to run to her and make her blush as usual, just to see that wonderful smile of hers, with the slight dimples at the corners of her mouth.

He wasn't in love with her, but perhaps he was on the verge of it. And he feared this, because he knew that if he took even one step into that room, it would be impossible to leave and close the door behind him, as he did with other girls in the past. More than the fear of entering, however, he was frightened by the idea of scaring her away: of losing their little rituals, the shared glances, the light-heartedness she allowed herself with him and almost no one else. So he remained there, torn between the desire to move forward and the instinct to protect himself, suspended in that invisible corridor where every breath sounded like her name.

That morning, Lyra sat next to Daphne, Blaise, Draco and other Slytherins to attend Potions class. Blaise stirred his ladle too vigorously, as if he were doing it on purpose to make it explode; Daphne, on the other hand, cut the valerian roots into almost perfect strips with a bored expression; Theo, finally, was particularly quiet but attentive, following Lyra's every move carefully. Professor Snape walked among the desks like a long shadow, criticising every potion that seemed to have even the slightest imperfection with a glance or a few poisonous words. That day, he stopped at their station and it was the girl's turn: in Lyra's cauldron, the colour of the potion was a shade more cloudy orange than the textbook required, a difference that would not usually have escaped her. «A pity, Miss Selwyn,» Snape said in his usual low tone. «I strongly advise you not to let your mind wander. After all, you have your O.W.L.s next year.» Lyra stared at the cauldron, a wave of shame and anger washing over her, her face burning as it turned red. Daphne stroked her hand as soon as the professor left, as if to reassure her that nothing had happened.

A loud noise suddenly filled the classroom: Ron Weasley had dropped a spoon. Someone laughed as the red-haired boy walked past the Slytherin table, leaning close to Lyra's ear. «Lyra, stay outside the classroom when the lesson ends. Harry, Hermione and I need your help urgently.» She was surprised and turned abruptly, meeting Ron's eyes, then nodded, giving him a smile. He returned a half-smile, then walked back to his table, and with the sceptical expressions of his classmates, he continued to try to adjust the potion in front of him.

«Hey, guys!» Lyra greeted the trio who were already waiting for her beyond the doorway. «Everything okay?»

«Yes, thank you, Lyra. Remember when you told me you'd help me with the SPEW?» Hermione said almost in one breath, her voice seeming to express happiness. Lyra nodded, continuing to look at her confusedly, searching for an answer. «Ron and Harry don't agree with going, but they'll come anyway. We should go down to the dining halls. You know, the ones where Lee got the food for...» The girl didn't finish her sentence to prevent Lyra from thinking about her situation with George, but she failed.

«It's... it's fine with me. Okay, we can go,» Lyra replied, trying to reassure her friend. The two exchanged smiles, while Harry and Ron shook their heads because they really didn't want to go. In any case, they had to follow Hermione, who was running faster than ever, and they almost tripped several times on stone steps similar to those in the dungeons leading to Snape's cellar, but now they found themselves in a wide stone corridor, lit by torches and decorated with unusual paintings depicting food.

«Hermione!» Ron exclaimed. «Why are you trying to get Harry and me involved in this SPEW business? Wasn't it enough to get our signatures?»

«Ronald, it's not about SPEW this time,» she replied quickly, leaving Lyra confused as well.

«Ahh, so you changed the name? Now we're the Domestic Elf Liberation Front? I don't want to barge into the kitchen and stop them from working,» the redhead spitted, almost in tears, while Harry and Lyra exchanged glances and laughed. Hermione continued walking without slowing down until she reached a large painting depicting a mountain of fruit in a bowl. She stretched out her index finger and tickled a large green pear, which squeaked and in the blink of an eye turned into a handle; the three children carried by Hermione didn't have time to notice all the plates and pans around them, or the smell of melted butter, cinnamon and roasts, when something darted towards Harry from the centre of the room.

«Harry Potter, sir!»

An elf almost screamed with joy as he hugged the boy. Lyra had to blink several times to see if she was dreaming or not: she looked at him more closely and recognised him by his pointed nose, huge green eyes and bat-like ears. It was Dobby, whom she remembered as Draco Malfoy's elf.

«Dobby?» she asked, uncertain. The elf let go of Harry and turned to her, and that's when his big eyes widened even more, and his ears almost slipped off in surprise.

«Miss! Miss Lyra!» exclaimed the elf, with a mixture of joy and disbelief, advancing towards her without touching her. «Dobby remembers you! You were the only one of the noble Selwyn family who never spoke contemptuously to Dobby! Once... once you said that servants deserve a way out too. Dobby never forgot that, no!» Lyra paled for a moment, surprised that such a small, skinny creature remembered a sentence she had uttered years ago, almost in a whisper, during a visit to Malfoy Manor with her family. She didn't think anyone had heard her. She didn't think a house elf had heard her and kept the conversation in his heart. Hermione stared at her wide-eyed, Ron stopped complaining for a moment, and Harry looked at Lyra with new attention.

«I didn't know that...» Lyra stammered, then smiled, a slight embarrassment in her eyes. «I didn't know you’d remember me.»

«Dobby remembers kind people, miss. And Dobby is happy to see you with such good friends. And with Harry Potter, yes!» he squeaked, clutching Harry's arm devotedly to turn towards him. «Dobby was hoping to see Harry Potter, sir.»

The elf said he had been given a job at Hogwarts about a week earlier thanks to Dumbledore, and he had brought another elf with him whom the trio knew: Winky. They followed him into the kitchens, passing between long wooden tables arranged just like the ones upstairs, and noticed at least a hundred elves working among stoves, dough and ovens. Winky was sitting on a stool near the fireplace; when Harry greeted her, she burst into tears. Meanwhile, six elves brought the visiting children tea, milk and a flood of biscuits.

«Ohh, the service is excellent!» Ron shouted as he began to eat heartily, while Dobby continued his story and Winky cried and moaned.

«...And so the Headmaster pays Dobby, sir! So Dobby is a free elf, and he earns a galleon a week and has one day off a month!»

Hermione's eyes widened. «That's not much, though!»

Dobby, however, managed to console her. «Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten galleons a week and weekends off...» said the elf, shuddering as if it were a frightening thing. «But Dobby made him lower the price, miss... Dobby likes freedom, but he doesn't ask for too much, he prefers work!» Winky, hearing these words, began to sob and moan even more, and it was then that Lyra tried to approach the little elf.

«May I sit here?» she asked softly, as the creature nodded without looking at her, and they began to talk to her to make her feel better.

«A good elf doesn't leave her family,» she moaned, her voice breaking. «Mr Crouch... Winky had to stay. Winky ashamed.»

Everyone took turns trying to comfort her — Lyra most of all, with the patience that came naturally to her when it came to mending invisible cracks — but Winky's pain was a knot that would not untangle, so they sadly decided to go back upstairs.

«I'm sorry, Lyra, for wasting your time,» said Hermione disconsolately as they returned upstairs, but Lyra gave her a little pat on the shoulder and a sweet smile.

«Don't worry, you did what you could.»

«Dobby is the best thing that could have happened to the elves...» continued the Gryffindor, «They will see how happy he is now that he's free, and slowly they'll realise that's what they want too!»

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It was now late afternoon, and the large table in the library where Lyra, Harry, Ron and Hermione were camped out resembled a battlefield, submerged by books open on top of each other and various unrolled parchments; in the centre, however, was the egg captured days earlier from the dragon's clutches. Their intention was clear, but only seemingly simple: they had to figure out how to hear what was inside. Hermione — who was the one still keeping them locked up there with her — continued to underline the books, while Harry stared at the golden egg as if a face would appear at any moment to speak to him. Lyra, who was sitting next to Ron, adjusted her hair into a loose bun that allowed a few strands to fall across her face, while her eyes skimmed over the book without actually reading anything. The cold was now biting, but the light coming in gave off a slight warmth.

«Maybe it makes a distorted sound in the air...» said Hermione, scratching her forehead. «What if the egg was made to be understood in other circumstances?»

«Like in water?» asked Lyra distractedly, eager to find a solution. The other girl almost screamed with excitement, receiving deadly looks from the others in the library.

«Yes! That's what I was about to say!»

«So you think we could hear the real sound of the message only if it were submerged?» Lyra asked again, a slight light in her eyes, and Hermione nodded confidently. Ron groaned, leaning forward and resting his cheek on the parchment.

«You're both mad... you don't want to leave this place.»

Harry laughed, then turned to the girls, a little confused about what he was supposed to do. «But how am I supposed to test it? I mean, I'm never going to take a bath in Filch's tub...»

Lyra smiled slightly, then looked away. She had stopped paying full attention to the matter for a while: partly because of tiredness, partly because of the thoughts running through her head. As much as she tried to convince herself that it was better not to have to put up with the usual teasing and looks from that damn George Weasley, who was just a friend, she missed everything. She missed him.

«Selwyn,» Lyra looked up: Blaise Zabini's elegant, light voice came from not far away, and he was accompanied by Daphne Greengrass. «We were wondering if we could have our friend back, since you've been holding her hostage since this morning,» he continued in an ironic tone.

«It's not our fault she's the only Slytherin with a brain, you know?» Ron grumbled.

«Ronald meant yes, guys, we were just about done anyway,» Hermione said, glaring at her friend in front of her. Daphne raised an eyebrow and Lyra stood up.

«I'm going then, if you don't mind. We'll catch up on this later, eh?»

Harry nodded and smiled at her. «Thanks again, Lyra. See you later!»

Lyra nodded and walked away with her friends, noticing that Harry was looking at her with an expression similar to the one George sometimes had: as if he were trying to understand her, without knowing where to start. They quickly left the library behind and walked along the corridors before heading towards the Great Hall. «Are you all right?» Blaise asked her, and Daphne gave her a slightly apprehensive look.

«I don't know, but I don't feel like thinking about it right now.» Lyra replied, and they continued walking, chatting about this and that, from Flitwick's test to Snape's homework and what to do on their next visit to Hogsmeade. It was then that a familiar figure emerged from the shadows of the corridor: Theo Nott, his hands deep in the pockets of his cloak, walking with his usual calm gait, as if nothing could ruffle his collar.

«Oh, look who's here,» said Blaise, chuckling. «Look who's coming with the elegance of an eagle owl!» Theo gave a small bow and then turned to Lyra.

«Strange to see you free of Weasley...» Lyra lowered her eyes, pretending not to hear, as she slowly stroked one of George's many notes with her thumb, which she kept almost jealously, but her thoughts were interrupted when Theo began to go around giving hugs: first Daphne, then Blaise, and finally her — for a moment too long. She sensed a change in the air, and that was why she turned her head slightly to the left and saw him: George Weasley. He was coming out of a side passage with Fred, and for a moment it was as if time had stopped just for the two of them; he didn't even stop to wave to her from a distance, but as he walked, his eyes remained fixed on the little theatre in front of him. And Lyra's heart tightened slightly, as if a caress to her child self had been denied her.

«Lyra, come with me for a second? I forgot something in my room,» Daphne said suddenly, and Lyra was almost grateful to her for getting her out of that situation.

The cold still stung her cheeks. The friends walked silently along the corridors: Daphne with her hands clenched in the pockets of her cloak, while Lyra was once again busy clutching one of George's notes; the other stood beside her, not forcing her to talk but saddened by the sight of her friend in this condition. Only when they decided to stop in a sheltered corner to sit down did Lyra decide to speak in a whisper.

«I don't understand what's happening to me. I feel so... so confused,» she said softly, while Daphne took her hand and stroked it.

«It's because of him, isn't it?» she asked in a whisper without saying his name, and Lyra nodded and slowly sighed before continuing to confide in her.

«I miss him,» she admitted, and a slight sob escaped her lips. «And I don't know how to be friends with someone anymore— I mean, it's hard for me with him. And since we stopped talking, I can't do anything lightly anymore, everything feels forced. And I don't know if he feels the same way.» Daphne didn't answer right away, but moved closer to let her know she was there for her. «I didn't want it to be like this. I wanted— I just wanted him to be there for me, especially now that I've seen him in the corridor. With him, I could be myself and laugh even when I wanted to cry. And now he won't talk to me... he pretends nothing's wrong, he jokes less, nothing.»

She looked down and a tear slowly rolled down her cheek. «I don't want to lose him. I don't want to lose him as a person, or as a presence in my life. It's all so destructive for me that I don't even know why I'm feeling so bad about a simple friendship, I feel really ridiculous, Daph,» Lyra sighed deeply. «I just want him with me, or at least to know that somewhere in his day he still thinks about me. But if even that disappeared, I don't think I could pretend to be okay. And I don't know how to fix it.»

Daphne remained silent for a few seconds, the wind ruffling her hair. She looked at Lyra with immense tenderness and regret. «You know what I think? Sometimes we complicate things too much when we feel something for someone. We sit there thinking about the right words to say, the right way to act, as if a single comma could ruin everything,» she paused for a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes with her finger. «But if it's real... if someone really cares, they won't wait for perfect words or actions, they'll wait for you. Your presence, your strange silences. Any silly excuse to see you again, and the rest will fall into place when you talk.»

Lyra lowered her gaze again and murmured softly, «I don't have any more excuses to talk to him...»

Daphne chuckled at that statement, then stood up and stretched as if she had just had a great idea. «Are you really sure? Because I have one.»

«Don't tell me you want to recruit me to make another poisonous potion for Pansy.»

Her friend shook her head, amused. «No, much simpler, and much sweeter. Dobby.»

«Dobby?» Lyra repeated, confused.

«Yes. Dobby adores you. You always spoke kindly to him whenever you went to Draco's house, so if you went and asked him for a cake or something special, I'm sure he could help you find a way to... well, offer something nice to George. Not as a gesture of love, don't worry. But as a nice excuse, like “I thought you'd like it”, you know?» Lyra stared at her incredulously for a long moment, then let out a small laugh.

«It's so stupid that it might just work.»

The knot in Lyra's chest loosened slightly, and for the first time in days, she might have found a way to return to the way things were. She almost ran to the kitchens: they had something enchanting about them, like a kind of familiar warmth made up of the clatter of ladles and plates, and the aroma of freshly baked cakes and steaming soups that would burn your soul but were delicious; she was still quite nervous because she didn't know if Daphne's plan would work or be a disaster. After tickling the pear — as she had seen Hermione do — she barely had time to set foot in the room when a figure darted in front of her at a speed almost comparable to her own: Dobby.

«Miss Lyra!» squeaked Dobby, appearing from under a table nearby, his ears fluttering and his eyes wide as saucers. «Dobby knew you would return! Dobby is so happy!»

«Hello, Dobby...» she smiled, trying to hide the emotion in her voice. «Can I bother you for a second?»

«For Miss Lyra, Dobby always has time!» said the elf, puffing out his chest proudly and pulling on his starched apron. «What can Dobby do for you? Would you like some cinnamon biscuits? Or chocolate brownies? A bowl of pumpkin soup with toast?»

Lyra laughed weakly and sat down on a low stool near a work table covered with various spices. «As tempting as those sound, no, Dobby. I need your help with something else...»

Dobby immediately approached her, visibly interested in her words.

«It's for someone,» Lyra whispered. «For... for a boy.»

The elf's eyes grew even wider. «A boy? A special boy?!» he exclaimed. «Dobby MUST know who he is! Dobby is very good with secrets, but Dobby MUST know.»

Lyra put her hand to her lips, as if she already regretted telling him, but Dobby wouldn't give up: he looked at her with a mixture of trepidation, curiosity and cupid-like enthusiasm. «It's not what you think...» she muttered, feeling her ears flush. «He's just a boy, I mean, a friend, an important one. One of those who, when you don't talk to him for a while, you feel lost. When he laughs, it makes you feel good. But now we talk less, and it's my fault.»

Dobby tilted his head to one side, then nodded slowly, as if he were working out a plan. «I see,» he said. «An important boy, a special friend. So... you need a special cake!»

«Nothing huge, of course, just something to show him that I care. Even if I can't tell him with words.» Dobby seemed to ponder solemnly, then snapped his fingers. A small book appeared in his hands.

«Dobby keeps a diary of all the students' favourite desserts!» he said proudly, smiling. «And Dobby needs to know the name...»

Lyra sighed before telling him the name. «George Weasley.»

The elf let out a little cry of excitement, almost moved. «Oh, Dobby saw George Weasley laughing with you! Yes, yes! He saw him once in a corridor near the North Tower! He was looking at you with loving eyes!» Lyra hid a little in her cloak, but the warmth on her cheeks spoke for her.

«Dobby... could you make him something he likes?»

The little elf nodded. «Of course! George Weasley loves caramel toffees, cinnamon biscuits... and—» He paused, tapping his finger on the paper. «Chocolate cake with cherries, so it’s dark chocolate, cherries in syrup, whipped cream and chocolate flakes.»

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It was almost dinner time and the castle corridors were beginning to fill with the buzz of students heading for the Great Hall; Lyra, however, was going in the opposite direction, her hands occupied with a small enchanted box sealed with a preservation spell that kept a large slice of chocolate and cherry cake warm. On top of it was a small note tied to the box with an emerald green ribbon.

She had been looking for George for a while and had already checked the usual places — the Gryffindor Common Room, the library, the courtyards, even the Astronomy Tower — but without success. Finally, just as she was about to give up, she passed some steps and saw him with Lee and Angelina, laughing at something only they could find so hilarious. Lyra instinctively slowed her pace, as if unsure whether to go to him or put it off until another time. But it was he who looked up and noticed her at that moment, and their eyes met. George stopped talking, his laughter died away, and his friends turned in the direction of his gaze.

«George,» she murmured. «Can I steal a second of your time?»

The boy nodded slowly, and his two friends disappeared in the blink of an eye as Lyra approached him. George cleared his throat, looking at her. «Everything okay?»

Lyra gave a slight nod and shyly handed him the box. «Uhm, this is for you.» George took the box after a few seconds of hesitation, and their fingers barely touched, and that slight contact enough to set in motion something that had been at a standstill for days.

«Is there some kind of poison in here?»

The girl laughed, shaking her head. He then opened the box, chuckling, removing the ribbon, and his sense of smell and sight were intoxicated: a beautiful aroma of freshly baked chocolate and cherry cake, warm and spicy, and also beautiful. And all this was almost like a punch in the stomach for him. He also opened the card, written in neat, slightly slanted handwriting that he would recognise anywhere, which said: “If you eat it all, it means we're still friends. If you share it with me, then you missed me too.”

George remained silent, reading the note over and over, his eyes shiny and a slight smile on his face. Then he slowly turned to her, looking at her as if she were the only person in the world. «Did you come all this way to bring me a cake?» he asked, his voice trembling.

«Yes. But it's not just a cake... it's a way of saying I'm sorry. I don't like being away from you,» she replied, moving a little closer to him, her lips pressed tightly together.

George looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to read behind her words, or behind her green eyes. Then he smiled, that sweet smile he didn't use with everyone but which drove Lyra crazy. «Do you want to eat it with me?» he asked, lifting the box.

Lyra nodded, a small lump forming in her throat. «Only if I get the first bite, Weasley.»

«You're on!» he laughed, and they sat down on the steps not far from them.

It was a very quiet place to eat, and they seemed to be suspended outside of time. The boy opened the box and muttered a spell to divide the cake in two, offering the larger piece to Lyra, and for a while they ate in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Each bite was simple but full of emotion for both of them, starting with the warmth of the chocolate melting in their mouths, the taste of cherries in syrup and a hint of vanilla; and all around them was the smell of warm stone, smoking torches and the cold of December. And as the icing on the cake, it all mingled with the scent of lavender that represented Lyra, and George couldn't help but notice it, as when the girl looked down to cut the cake with her spoon, her hair slipped lightly over her shoulders, and he smiled softly, feeling almost at peace for the first time in days. Lyra, on the other hand, wasn’t usually a fan of the chocolate-cherry combination because she found it too excessive and strong: that evening, however, it seemed just right, as if her palate had come to an agreement with her heart.

«How long have you wanted to...?» George asked, breaking the silence. How long had the girl wanted to talk to him, but he had been too cowardly to make a move?

Lyra placed the spoon on the plate, keeping her eyes downcast. «Enough to realise that I couldn't stand these days without talking to you anymore,» she began, her tone sad but not accusing. «You've distanced yourself, you know?»

The boy's heart sank, and he looked down at the piece of cake left on his plate. «I know, and I'm sorry,» he took a long breath to avoid letting out a slight sob. «I didn't know how to act around you lately. All I wanted was to come and find you, make you laugh or tease you as usual, but I thought that the slightest thing would ruin everything, as if one word would be enough to push you away from me again... I didn't want to do that.»

Lyra stood up after eating her last piece of cake and paused on the landing. «Me drifting apart from you? That would’ve never happened, George,» she admitted, looking at him with teary eyes.

«I know, but...» He paused for a moment, running a hand through his hair nervously, then stood up and approached her. «But every time I saw you with Nott, even from a distance, it seemed like you were fine without me. And I didn't know if I could still be part of your happiness.» He looked at her with teary eyes and swallowed. «I was afraid. Afraid of becoming a burden, afraid of giving you the impression that I was asking for something you didn't want to give me.»

A silence enveloped them, but it was one of those warm silences that didn't make them uncomfortable, and Lyra took another step towards him.

«I missed you,» she said. «But not in the way you miss normal people. I missed you in a way that hurt just to think about. I didn't want to lose my best friend over a misunderstanding.»

George blushed to his ears and said nothing for a moment. Then he reached out hesitantly and brushed her hip lightly. «I missed you too, Lyr. Maybe too much. And for the record, that cake is my favourite, how did you know?»

Lyra chuckled and winked at him. «I have my private sources.» George smiled and looked at her as if she were an ancient mystery: not to solve it at all costs, but for the pleasure of remaining in front of it, knowing that touching it too closely or solving it would risk diminishing the wonderful magic surrounding it. His eyes ran over Lyra's features as if he were reviewing a star map — her long lashes, her not-too-fair skin and enchanting features, her rosy cheeks, her soft, slightly parted lips, and those slight dimples that rarely appeared. The silence between them was not awkward, but like a pause to recharge everything they couldn't quite say but was hanging there.

Almost automatically, George opened his arms and Lyra, almost with a jerk, took refuge there as if she had always expected it: she threw herself against the boy's chest with her hands clasping him tightly, while he wrapped his arms around her hips with the care he reserved for precious things. George closed his eyes, as if to enjoy that moment between them and let that embrace bring order inside him: he felt his heart start to beat slowly and lightly again, and his chest expel all the negative feelings that had accumulated in the previous days; now he had in his arms the only person he had always wanted by his side, and he couldn't be happier.

But it was also her scent that filled every void: lavender, vanilla and a hint of cedar. This scent always intoxicated him, remaining fixed in his thoughts even when she was not there — but it was the first time he had ever smelt it so close, so good. «Bloody hell...» he said almost without realising it, intoxicated by the scent. «I've missed you. You smell like home, like a place I would always return to.» Lyra felt her heart race, and she smiled at his words, which almost made her lose her balance. And it was then, breathing against his neck, that she sensed something she knew all too well: that scent of wood, burnt sugar and light smoke, as if every laugh, every hug and every silence shared with George had been distilled into an essence.

«You, on the other hand...» she whispered, letting the words slip from her lips uncontrollably. «You smell like something that could hurt me, but that I don't want to live without.» George smiled and said nothing. His hands, still resting on her hips, tightened slightly, and it was in that embrace that they both realised how much they had missed each other — and they would have sworn it with their hands on the fire.

And just as George bent down to give her a gentle kiss on the temple, Daphne and Fred — who had bumped into each other in the corridor — watched them from afar, smiling, as they bumped fists in victory, exchanging a glance that was worth more than a thousand words. Seeing them like this, silent but connected in a way that went far beyond friendship, they both understood the same thing: what united George and Lyra was finally becoming something more.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

The first week of December at Hogwarts wasn't so different from the previous years', apart from the presence of the two groups of foreign students: there was still the usual snow settling on the roofs of the towers and gathering on the lawns, the trees were bare, the students went to Hogsmeade during the weekends just to get a warm drink, and the corridors constantly smelled of cinnamon and butterbeer.

Yet, it was for George and Lyra that the atmosphere had changed — even improved — drastically from one moment to the next. From the day they started talking again thanks to a slice of cake and a hug, it was as if their every gesture, words and touch had taken on a different and new meaning compared to before. It was obvious to anyone who looked at them with the slightest attention or knew them, but the only ones who didn't notice were them.

George seemed unable to stay away from her, as if she had become his natural point of reference, like the North Star for sailors: he sought her out with his gaze, always finding excuses and pretexts to be near her or to pass by her and brush her arm, hand or back, or to adjust her scarf with the excuse of the icy wind. Lyra, for her part, although she was the more reserved of the two, was no less so, even though she seemed unaware of how happy she was just sitting next to him; being close to him came as naturally to her as breathing, and each time she wore a bright and genuine cheerfulness that she rarely had.

The two were often found sitting on the steps of the courtyard in the early afternoon, just after lunch, when the snow crunched under the students' feet, but the two of them were in a world of their own. For example, one such day, Lyra was drawing things in the snow with a twig, but she started laughing at one of George's jokes, which was so corny it could have made the walls crumble. The girl couldn't help but comment, «Stop being such a rural poet, Weasley, I think you're running out of ideas!», to which George replied, «It's not my fault your beauty inspires me to say nonsense...», making her blush suddenly and receiving a mini push and an 'idiot' in return.

Or, one afternoon, Lyra invited herself into the Gryffindor Common Room on the pretext of delivering a secret and urgent package to George, and after the initial theatrics, she sat next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder as he opened the box of caramel biscuits — and she, as punctual as a pocket watch, always stole the first biscuit the boy was about to take, almost as an excuse to brush his hand. «If you keep this up, there'll be war on the Selwyn front...» George would say, while she told him to get lost, ruffled his hair and then walked away.

There was something in their glances, half-smiles and barely-there touches that said much more than they could ever say. Neither of them dared to speak aloud about what was growing between them — but neither of them knew it was there, or perhaps they pretended not to.

That afternoon in particular, Lyra was helping George study Potions. They had taken refuge in a secluded corner of the library, just under a window that still let in a little light: on the table lay the Advanced Potions Manual open in the middle, two scrolls full of notes (written in Lyra's neat, slanted handwriting alongside the caricatures of cauldrons that George drew when he pretended to be thinking), a quill drumming in time with his foot, and an empty test tube used as a bookmark.

Now, let's be clear: George was surprisingly good at Potions — just look at the things he sold on the sly or prepared with Fred, the inventiveness with which he combined ingredients that seemed light years apart; he had a brilliant and creative mind, and a formidable elastic memory when he applied himself. But he could also be terribly lazy, and lately he used this laziness for one purpose only: it allowed him to stay closer to Lyra and have her explain things to him in detail.

«You also had to prepare a short presentation on Love Potions, right?» said Lyra, checking the programme in the index book, and George frowned and grimaced.

«Huh? What?»

Lyra stared at him. «George. It's been on the programme for two weeks, don't tell me you haven't checked it at all?»

«Ah... yes, yes. Maybe,» he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. «But explain it to me anyway, just to be the safe...» She sighed, smiling at him as he searched for the page.

«Be thankful I haven't cursed you yet, Weasley.»

«If you weren't so grumpy, I might even fall in love with you, you know?» he chuckled, with a twinkle in his eyes that suggested anything but a joke.

Lyra, at that very moment, had brought the glass of water to her mouth: it almost went down the wrong way. She coughed softly into the back of her hand so as not to attract Madam Pince's wrath, and felt her throat tingle, her ears burn and her heart leap.

«Good for you that I'm unbearable, then,» she replied dryly, glancing at the book for a second and pointing to the beginning of the paragraph on love potions. «Start reading from here, Georgie... although I don't understand how it's possible that I have to explain these sixth-year topics to you, since I'm in fourth year?»

George tilted his head. «Maybe because I enjoy when you pretend to be Professor Selwyn. It makes you more beautiful, and all you're missing is the glasses.»

She gave a half-smile and shook her head. «I swear one day I'll make you regret that sentence, but start reading.» George sighed and began to read aloud, trying to understand something as he ran his fingers over the page too quickly. A few minutes passed like this, amid the rustling of parchment and the milky afternoon light streaming through the window.

Then Lyra rested her elbow on the table, her chin on the back of her hand, and stared at him.

«Well, Weasley? What have you understood about love potions?»

He didn't answer, and that's when Lyra naturally took his fingers gently, intertwining them slightly with her own, and began to read together the paragraphs that would be useful for the next day's lesson, which concerned the subjective effect of Amortentia — or at least, Lyra read them for him.

«...Understand?» she murmured, clearing her throat. «So, the smell changes from person to person. It depends on what attracts you subconsciously...»

George didn't understand a thing, as he almost stopped breathing. The touch of their hands had been enough to short-circuit his brain, worse than when they had hugged days before. Now he felt nothing but the warmth of her hand on his, and he found himself looking into her eyes and the half-smile that appeared every time she found a precise definition to explain to him; the rest was just background noise.

«So, according to the text?» Lyra asked shortly afterwards, in a light, slightly tired tone.

George looked at her as if he had just awakened from a daydream. «Um... that— that causes an immediate effect?» he stammered, saying the first sensible thing that came to mind. Lyra stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

«George, that's said at the top of the page. I read you the middle part.»

«Ah. Yes. Yes, of course. I was... thinking quietly. Deeply. Do you see why I need you?» She burst out laughing, shaking her head as she leaned back. George scratched the back of his neck with a guilty smile, while under the table he continued to caress her fingers slowly and cautiously, as if neither of them wanted to stop the contact.

It was at that moment that, on the other side of the library section, three figures emerged from the shelves: Harry, Hermione and Ron, who had been searching for Lyra non-stop for some time. «Well, look who's here...» Hermione whispered, stopping abruptly.

Harry frowned and then followed his friend's gaze. «Oh...»

Ron, on the other hand, grimaced as if he had just seen a toad in a cake. «Oh, for heaven's sake. He's— he's stroking her fingers. Her fingers, Harry. I think I'm going to be sick.»

Hermione nudged him in the side. «Ron!»

«What? It's gross!»

They tried to approach casually, as if they had just happened to be passing by. When they were a few steps away, Hermione positioned herself behind Lyra and lowered her voice: «Hey, Lyra!»

Like a spell broken, the tension between the two boys vanished in an instant. Lyra pulled her hand back as if she had been burned, while George coughed softly, pretending to concentrate on the book he hadn't actually read that day.

«Sorry...» said Hermione, aware of what she was interrupting. «We need you. It's urgent.»

Lyra hesitated for a moment and then reluctantly got up, giving George a look that was somewhere between embarrassment and broken promise. «I'll make up for it later.»

He nodded and murmured, «Only if there's a practical demonstration.» And as she smiled at him as she walked away, George sat there, staring at the space the girl had just left empty.

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«Guys, can you tell me what's going on?» asked Lyra worried, wrapping her cloak tightly around herself against the cold as they sat down on a bench not far from the Forbidden Forest. «You're really scaring me.»

«Well, now that there's no one around to eavesdrop...» Hermione began, looking around, then turning her gaze to Harry and Ron. «We can talk.»

«Talk about what? I've never seen you so serious.»

«It's— it's about the tournament, Lyra,» Harry said, running a nervous hand through his hair. «We thought you might help us understand the situation better...»

«Is it about the Goblet?» Lyra asked, crossing her arms and lowering her voice, and Hermione nodded. «We know Harry didn't enter, but we believe someone did it for him, and it can't have been a mistake. There's something, or someone, behind it.»

Lyra nodded slowly, her gaze attentive. «Yes, I agree, but what makes you think it's not just... I don't know, a joke gone wrong? A coincidence?»

Ron snorted. «A prank that puts Harry's life in danger? Come on, Lyra. You're too smart to believe that.»

Hermione sighed, covering her face with her hands. «We tried to think of who could have done it. Someone skilled, who knows the Goblet and its magic well... and who wanted Harry to enter on purpose.» Harry nodded and jumped up as if he had remembered something.

«When I was in Dumbledore's office waiting for him... I saw something in the Pensieve. Some kind of trial from a few years ago, I think. Barty Crouch was there. And his son, Barty Crouch Junior. He was a Death Eater, and it was revealed that very day.»

Lyra looked up, her eyes wide. «Him? Really?»

«Yes,» Harry confirmed. «He was young, but not terrified at all, and they even took him to Azkaban.»

«But, Harry... with all the goodness in the world, I don't think it could have been him,» Lyra said hesitantly. «Hogwarts... the castle is impenetrable. Whoever put your name in must have already been here, or had help from the inside, and—» She stopped because she remembered scenes from when, as a child, she had sometimes heard her parents talking about certain events. «Karkaroff. Maybe it was him, he's a former Death Eater,» she murmured.

«Karkaroff? How do you know about this?»

Lyra lowered her gaze slightly, only then realising what she had said. «Um... it just slipped out. When I was little, I often heard my parents talking about these things. I read things in secret more than I probably should have... and I remember a trial very similar to the one you described, Harry. Karkaroff, like a distant relative of mine with whom I fortunately no longer have any contact, was also put in trial and convicted, but he gave out names in exchange for his freedom. That's how he got away with it.» Hermione looked at her intently.

«But it's something the Ministry keeps hidden. There are no official documents. There are only old, classified testimonies.» Lyra nodded, as if confirming that she had drawn on sources she shouldn't have consulted.

«We can't accuse him without evidence. But if someone really wants to eliminate you, Harry, then we have to look where no one else is looking. Even among those who should be innocent.»

Harry sighed slowly. «Thank you, Lyra. You're right, we really have to be prepared for anything.»

And with a long moment of silence between them, they finally decided to go to the Great Hall for dinner. They would try to look for clues later, once Harry figured out how to open that blessed golden egg.

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Charms classroom smelled of new parchment and chalk; the fogged-up windows reflected a leaden sky, and here and there, quills scratched paper and chairs scraped softly across the stone floor. Lyra slumped into an empty seat to save places for Daphne and Blaise, setting her book down with a muffled thud and sinking into her thoughts, until Hermione and Harry's voices reached her ears like a conspiratorial whisper, making her jump.

«By the way, Selwyn, it seems you made quite an impression in sixth-year Potions class,» Hermione whispered, giggling, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

«Me? Are you sure? Impossible, I was with you just now in Divination...»

«Exactly,» Harry interjected, trying to stifle a laugh. «Yet there was someone who seemed to be thinking about anything but potions. Secret personal sources, you know how it is.»

Lyra stared at them both and narrowed her eyes in confusion. «Did George say something?» Ron, who had just arrived, snorted at the mention of his brother's name and muttered: «He just said that a certain scent was driving him crazy.»

Hermione nodded, amused. «And coincidentally, that scent is very similar to the one I smell every time I hug you.»

Lyra's mouth opened slightly, and then she hid behind her book, trying not to let anyone see the redness on her cheeks. «He's such an idiot...» she muttered, but the half-smile on her lips couldn't quite contain it. «Still, I think you're all just trying to make me blush at all costs. It's obvious that Alicia Spinnet wants to get her hands on George again, but he and I are just friends.»

Just friends, yet she felt a sharp pang in her stomach and ears every time Alicia's name was mentioned in connection with George's. Hermione turned to Harry with an amused expression.

«Did you hear that, Harry? Just friends.»

Harry nodded, trying to suppress a smile. «Yeah, like Fred and the sweets hidden under the bed: just friends.»

Ron finally looked up from his notes and grimaced. «If you're just friends, why was George stroking your hand for a good three minutes yesterday while you were finishing explaining something to him? He looked, um, enchanted. Even Snape doesn't look at his cauldrons like that.»

Lyra stared at them all, her eyes wide. «Are you spying on me?»

«We observe...» Hermione replied, trying to sound serious. «It's different. And anyway, by the time you realise that George Weasley looks at you as if you were a Felix Felicis potion in the flesh, it'll be too late for Alicia.» Lyra just rolled her eyes and snorted, just before the lesson began.

Anyway, it was just as the trio had said: the morning Potions class for Sixth Years was different from previous ones. The milky morning light filtered dimly through the basement windows, tinging every surface grey. Professor Snape, as always, looked like part of the furniture: motionless, gloomy, his sharp voice bouncing off the stone walls. What's more, the smell of those three cauldrons of potions on the desk was something no one could stomach; nevertheless, the students were curious to know what was inside each one. Snape scanned the desks, as cold as ever.

«Today we will examine a selection of potions that I have prepared myself, so that you can see them out of curiosity. Just hope that no one has to use them on you,» Snape began solemnly, eyeing them up and down. «Since I don't intend to always call on the same people... Weasley Junior, come forward.»

George looked up, his eyes widening slightly. «Me, Professor?»

«Would you prefer a more competent substitute? I don't think so, so come on. Show us that you know how to use your nose and your eyes.» Someone stifled a slight laugh, especially Fred and Lee, who lowered their faces to avoid making the situation worse, while George snorted and resignedly made his way slowly to the desk.

«Can you tell me what this is?» Snape asked him, pointing to the cauldron closest to the Slytherin table, which contained something resembling boiling pure water.

«Felix Felicis?» the boy hazarded.

«For a moment, I hoped the sight might've helped. No, it's Veritaserum. Next.»

George coughed slightly when he reached the second cauldron, which gave off a heavier, more distinctive vapour. «Essence of... mint? No, maybe not. Basil?»

«Polyjuice Potion. Ten points from Gryffindor. Go on.»

George grimaced and sadly moved on to the third cauldron. The boys were laughing quietly, and Fred even covered his face in shame while his twin responded with a half-smile. But that cauldron struck him, causing him to stop abruptly and freeze: the steam had a pearly sheen and moved in almost perfect spirals, and it only took a moment for the smell to hit him full force.

«Weasley,» Snape's voice boomed in his head, dryly. «Come on. Do your family proud. Try to identify what you're sensing, at least in this.»

A wave of smells hit his nostrils and almost overwhelmed him: it was a familiar, confused and intense smell. The scent was sweet, too sweet, and too full of recent memories that resurfaced with every breath he took inside that cauldron: a sweetness of lavender, vanilla that warmed his throat, a woody note of cedar, but above all, the smell of new, fresh parchment. For a moment, he felt as if he were sitting next to Lyra in the library again, like the night before, when Lyra's fingers had rested on his.

«So, Weasley?» asked Snape, crossing his arms. George cleared his throat, but it was a desperate attempt.

«Amortentia, Professor. The most powerful love potion in the world.»

«Very good. If it's not too much to ask, what particular scents do you sense?»

George inhaled slowly. And when he spoke, he did so quietly, as if reading those thoughts aloud was a bit like undressing in front of the whole class. «Lavender. Vanilla. A touch of... cedar, I think. And... and new parchment.»

Snape stared at him impassively. «Curious. I would never have imagined that a Weasley could distinguish aromatic notes. Perhaps there is hope for mould too.»

George returned to his desk, still shaken, and Fred whispered something in his ear: «Wow. You just recited a poem for her, and you don't even know it.»

George pretended not to hear and ignored him. He slumped into his chair and put his hand over his mouth, because at that moment — amid the giggles, jokes and glances — he realised that yes, it was just a scent, but it had brought him back to her; and perhaps he wanted to go back.

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«A rubber cod?» Lyra repeated, trying to catch her breath between laughs and sitting down on a bench not far from Hagrid's hut. And all this in front of Professor McGonagall? Harry, you and Ron should stop letting Fred and George swap your wands for fake ones... They tried it on me too, but they know I'm too smart for that nonsense!»

And while Lyra laughed, holding her stomach, almost sobbing, Harry ran a hand over his face and sighed. «Anyway, something else happened...» And with that, the girl paused. «After Transfiguration class, McGonagall asked all of us Gryffindors to follow her to the classroom next to hers.»

Lyra pursed her lips in an amused grimace. «And did anything happen?»

Harry snorted, approaching the bench. «Something, um, particular happened, especially for Ron. McGonagall took us to the classroom where the other Housemates were, and announced us a thing... and she even forced Ron, um, to give a practical example.» He continued, now whispering almost horrified. Lyra stared at him for a few seconds, puzzled.

«Don't tell me she turned him into a cup in front of everyone... or the twins did something to him with the professor's permission!»

«I wish!» he blurted out. «She made us all stand up, turned on the music... and then forced Ron to dance with her in front of the whole class to show us how to waltz.»

The silence that followed was broken only by the uncontrollable laughter that burst from Lyra's face as she held her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming like before. «No, wait—please tell me someone documented the scene somehow...»

Harry shook his head, but the shadow of a smile appeared on his lips. «Unfortunately not, but he looked like he was about to throw himself out the window.»

«But why all this, anyway? A sudden passion for dancing on her part?» Lyra asked, still laughing. Harry shook his head and became serious.

«No, it's just... she told us that there will be a ball at Christmas, she called it the "Yule Ball" or something like that. It's held on the occasion of the Triwizard Tournament and to socialise with foreigners, and she said it's only open to those in their fourth year and above, unless we decide to invite someone younger. But that's not all...»

Lyra looked at him. «Come on, it's just a dance, isn't it?»

«No, Lyra!» Harry blurted out, almost desperately. «I'd gladly avoid dancing, you know it, but oh... Lyra, the professor told me that the Champions are required to attend, and they'll be the first ones on the dance floor with their partners.» Harry said this last sentence as a heartbroken whisper, closing his eyes and hoping it was all just a nightmare. Lyra stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and tenderness.

«Okay, yes, it's a tragedy,» she said, then leaned forward slightly and whispered, «But admit it, are you more anxious about the waltz steps... or about finding a girl?» Harry didn't answer, but his gaze spoke for itself: he wanted to go with Cho Chang, a Ravenclaw girl a year older than them. Lyra simply gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

«Come on, Potter. Maybe a secret dancer will volunteer to save you. Or you can get Hermione to help you, she's already there taking notes anyway.»

Harry laughed softly. «Maybe. What about you?»

Lyra shrugged. «Me? Even though I'm in my fourth year, I don't have to dance in front of everyone. And I'm not going to have a total nervous breakdown trying to choose someone,» she winked at him. «Maybe I'll go alone and make an impression anyway.»

«Deep down, you know you want George to—»

Lyra looked at him in astonishment, pointing a finger at him. «Oh, no, no. You... don't start with that. George and I are—»

«Just friends.» Harry finished her sentence, copying her tone. «Blimey, Selwyn, you sound like a broken record. You're friends, but friends can go to the ball together! You two would be lovely.»

Lyra rolled her eyes, as if the conversation annoyed her, yet deep down she knew she wanted to go with George Weasley: maybe see him offer her his arm in a theatrical and slightly cocky way, but with a sweet remark just to make her blush. And she would never admit it, not even under Veritaserum. But just imagining his amber eyes looking at her was enough to make the rest of the world fade away, as if dancing with him would be worth the embarrassment of tripping in front of the whole of Hogwarts.

When Lyra returned to the Common Room in the dungeons, Draco, Blaise, Theo, Daphne and Crabbe were still sitting at the table with their Divination books, large cups of cold tea and scattered notes. She approached calmly and sat down at the table, looking a little shocked but amused.

«Good evening, snakes! I have an important announcement to make before Dumbledore says it tonight...» Everyone looked up at her. «There will be a Christmas Ball in the Great Hall. It is mandatory for all students in their fourth year and above, and you must have a date. The champions, including dear Potter, will open the dance.»

«And yes, we'll also see the teachers dancing,» she continued after a few seconds of silence.

Everyone was shocked for a moment, their mouths half open, until pandemonium broke out at the table. «A ball? And we have to find someone to go with?» Daphne blurted out, almost exasperated.

«Where do they think we are, at Beauxbatons? I'm not going to the dance,» Draco shouted.

Daphne turned to Lyra. «You already have someone in mind, don't you?» The girl shrugged and rolled her eyes, because there was a reason Daphne was saying that: she knew her too well, and she was her best friend; but Lyra shook her head. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then Theo spoke, in a calm tone and with a half-smile that was too innocent to be honest.

«Curious, a ball. So Potter will get to be prince for a night. I wonder who he'll invite.»

«Maybe a mysterious dancer ready to save his evening,» Blaise replied sarcastically, but Theo ignored him and turned to Lyra. «What about you, Selwyn?» he asked, pretending not to have heard the murmurs between her and Daphne. «I imagine half of Hogwarts will be lining up to ask you. I mean, apart from those who already know they don't stand a chance.»

Lyra raised an eyebrow slightly. «Should I feel flattered or threatened by that comment?»

«Oh, it was just a way of saying you'd get anyone you want,» Theo replied, his tone ambiguous, as if he were always on the verge of revealing a second meaning. «In fact... let's just say that if you want to avoid unpleasant surprises, you might want to consider a predictable option. Like—a familiar one.»

Daphne snorted. «Theo, nonchalance has never been your strongest suit.»

«I'm not saying anything mean, Greengrass. Just that it might be interesting to see two Slytherins representing our house. It wouldn't be bad for the Ball's image.» Lyra crossed her legs and adjusted herself in her chair to avoid falling, and stared at Nott for a few seconds.

«Strange, because it sounds a lot like an unofficial self-application to me? Even though Blaise and I would make a nice impression of the house, to be honest.» Everyone laughed.

«Only if the person in question takes it as such, of course...» said Theo, with a small smile as he got up heading for the stairs. «But there's time. Maybe you'll think about it and decide to go with someone who's put up with you for a few years and has learned to understand how you like to dance and party.»

Lyra looked at him sideways. «Theo, are you still trying to propose something to me, or are you just trying to break the record for ambiguous remarks in a single evening?»

«Me? Never!» he replied with his usual innocent tone, placing his hand on his chest as if he had been offended. «I'm just saying that, well... it'd be easier to go with someone you know, who knows how to treat you. Instead of risking embarrassment with guys who mistake you for a trophy to show off.»

Daphne laughed softly. «Now that's starting to sound like a half-invitation.»

«Maybe a quarter,» added Blaise. «Or an eighth, with room for retraction.»

Lyra looked down at the feather, which she had stopped spinning, and remained silent for a few seconds. She felt strange, as if part of her had already hoped that another name would come forward, even though there had been no official announcement from the teaching staff yet — partly because dinner was still a long way off that evening. She wanted a boy with freckles scattered across his face, orange hair and a ridiculous way of reminding her every day how much she liked being around him to come forward.

She hoped George had already said something to her, but he hadn't. And she certainly wasn't the type to make the first move in this situation, so she had no choice but to wait. He would be the only person and friend she wanted to go to something like this with.

Everyone remained silent for a moment after Theo Nott left, then Blaise sighed. «You should think about it, Lyra. You know, just to keep him happy. Maybe he'll even give you a book of dark spells bound in human skin.»

«I haven't decided yet whether I want my dance to turn into a diplomatic negotiation or a potential declaration of war,» she muttered, alluding to something that everyone immediately understood, and Daphne giggled.

«In any case, I hope you come. It doesn't matter with whom. Because if you don't come, I'll have to dance with Blaise.»

«Excellent choice,» he replied, placing a hand on his chest. «I took a summer course with the Beauxbatons kids when I was in France with my mother.»

Lyra stood up, shaking her head. «Right then, I'm off to get changed for dinner. I'll let you know when I receive an official proposal from a pure-blooded prince with two dragons and a white horse.»

«But George only has a dragon and a horse made of cardboard. Does that count?» asked Blaise with feigned seriousness, but Lyra did not reply. The half-smile that escaped her said enough.

Chapter Text

In the early hours of December 10th — the morning after the Yule Ball was announced — for the first time in years, almost no one was talking about going home, but rather deciding to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas. Only a few people, including Lyra, had stayed at the castle in previous years, because they found the Christmas season to be a time of pure relaxation and serenity among the silent corridors and snow-covered towers and streets. But that year, because of the Triwizard Tournament, students mainly from the fourth year upwards — specifically the girls — couldn't miss the Yule Ball: suddenly it was as if they had doubled in number, just like the school population. Girls could be seen whispering in the corridors, bursting into laughter as boys passed by, or even exchanging notes about what they would wear on Christmas Day.

Everywhere you looked, there was talk of evening dresses, high heels, make-up and fabulous hairstyles. Even the most disinterested were beginning to get caught up in the whirlwind of anticipation, and the air smelled more of excitement than snow or butterbeer.

After breakfast, Lyra and Daphne were invited by Harry, Ron and Hermione to join them at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, where there was an air of curiosity but also of cheerfulness. Lyra, with a cup of hot chocolate clutched between her fingers, sat between Ron and Hermione, while Daphne sat with Harry, who seemed to have lost his energy before even getting up.

«What's the matter, Potter?» asked Daphne, tilting her head with mocking pity. «Are you already tired of chasing girls?»

«Honestly? Yes,» he admitted, and sighed deeply. «Why do girls always travel in packs? It's impossible to catch one on her own to ask out.»

Hermione laughed as she set down her water glass. «You know what I think? There are only two weeks to decide, get ready, choose a dress and shoes, and of course find a decent date. It's impossible.»

«Speak for yourself, Granger...» commented Daphne, resting her chin on her palm. «I've already had three offers and I haven't accepted a single one. I'm trying to expand my horizons first.» Ron grimaced, while Lyra giggled.

«I bet that's a nice way of saying you're waiting for someone in particular to make up their mind.»

«Exactly, Weasley,» replied Daphne without chuckling.

«Fourteen days seems like an eternity, you know?» commented Ron, scratching the tip of his nose. «Then you wake up on the 24th and you still haven't invited anyone, so you end up asking the first girl you come across.»

Harry gave him a dirty look. «You're panicking again, aren't you?»

Ron snorted. «I'm not panicking. It's just... the problem is dancing. In front of everyone, with a real girl. It's different, Harry.»

«Ever since Dumbledore made the announcement last night, the castle has been overrun with invitation panic. All the girls are talking about who they want to go with, while the boys seem to want to disappear into thin air,» said Lyra after a slight yawn. «But I think it's just a silly dance, put on just to do something different for a change.»

«You're kinda right, Lyra,» Hermione sighed. «But in the end, it's a way to take your mind off the Tournament, isn't it? The second task is in just over two months.»

Lyra looked at her and then leaned on her shoulder, the now empty cup still clutched in her hands. «Right, but it's a pathetic, stupid and useless way to focus on something else, because—»

«That's exactly why it's great, Selwyn. Because it's pathetic, stupid and useless!»

Everyone turned around: the Weasley twins had just come down to get something to eat with their usual triumphant air. «Have you received any requests to attend the Ball yet?» George asked her curiously.

«Unfortunately for you, no,» Lyra replied, her smile as sharp as her tone. «I'm waiting for the Prince Charming of my dreams to come and ask me out as soon as possible.»

«Great, I want to be there to witness the proposal then!» said George, laughing, before disappearing with Fred towards the kitchens. Lyra stood watching them leave, and the buzz of the room brought her back to her senses just as Harry started speaking again.

«Seriously, though... I don't know what to do either. I don't want to go with just anyone because I have to.»

Lyra turned and looked at her curiously. «You don't want to go, or you don't know who to go with?»

«Both,» said Hermione curtly. «But... I admit that a part of me thinks it could be a nice evening. As long as we don't spend it staring at each other's feet.» Lyra smirked.

«Actually, you might be right. But the idea of having to choose — or worse, being chosen by someone I don't know well — makes me uncomfortable. Although...» She paused briefly as her eyes met Harry's for a moment.

«Although?» Daphne teased, her lips stretching into a suspicious smile.

«Although maybe it's not so bad to have someone you've known for a long time, someone you feel comfortable with...» Lyra concluded, lowering her gaze.

«Like George?» Ron said, as if he had thrown a firecracker under the table, then immediately brought the cup to his mouth. Hermione slapped him, almost hurting Lyra, who was sitting between them. «Ron!»

Lyra gave him a look that was somewhere between bored and embarrassed, but then smiled slightly. «Like anyone, Ronald. Don't start again.»

«Or maybe Theo...» and Daphne winked at her.

The joke lingered like a grain of ice under her collar, and she lowered her gaze to the dirty, empty cup, stirring the spoon to gather her thoughts: choosing meant exposing herself, perhaps too much, about her feelings; being chosen, on the other hand, was like feeling almost like an object. And in between was a confused space where her heart called out a name she didn't dare say aloud — and another she no longer knew where to put. Inside, she heard George's laughter as he walked away and, at the same time, the memory of Theo: two lines that did not want to, and could not, overlap.

«We'll see, guys,» she said, but the slight blush on her cheeks spoke volumes.

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Thankfully, the corridors were almost deserted at that time of the afternoon; a soft light filtering through the tall Gothic windows illuminated them slightly, drawing small golden slivers on the stone floors. Snow had settled on the windows, clouding them, and Hogwarts seemed enveloped in a quiet that never fully belonged to any season except winter. Lyra liked it when the snow fell softly on the grounds, covering the floors and benches in a layer of white. Also, she liked to go out alone around three in the afternoon, just to take some time for herself and clear her mind, as well as to enjoy the fresh air that came in from the small courtyards at certain points along the corridors.

The girl walked silently, at a slow pace, humming a tune that she hadn't been able to get out of her head for days; she really seemed to need those few minutes to truly breathe. She wore her Slytherin scarf, wrapped around her neck more out of habit than necessity, as it wasn't that cold that day, and she clutched a book in her hands that she had no real intention of reading.

«Selwyn!» said a familiar voice behind her, making her almost jump. Lyra turned slightly, struggling to suppress a hint of a smile — one of those that appeared when Theo Nott called her by her surname in that ironic and vaguely provocative tone.

«Nott, hullo!» she replied with feigned formality. «Are you still trying to appear important to me, or are you taking a break from work today?» Theo laughed softly, a sound that seemed more like a whisper than a real laugh. He stood beside her, his hands in the pockets of his cloak.

«You have a way of making me feel irrelevant, Lyra. It's almost a talent by now.»

She glanced sideways at him, glaring. «And you have a way of only showing up when it pleases you.»

«You've got me there,» he admitted, unperturbed. «But you know how it is, I've seen certain Gryffindors hanging around you too much lately. And one in particular seems to think he owns you. I had to try and even things out, didn't I?» Lyra chuckled softly, and they stopped to sit on a low stone wall.

«Anyway...» she continued, her lips curving into a half-smile as they sat on the wide window sill, «Speaking of dances and proposals... you're not the first one these days who's decided to give me a pseudo-romantic speech to win me over. Apparently, the announcement of the dance has affected more brains than hearts.»

Theo raised an eyebrow. «Really? So... I'm just one of many. A number. A voice in the choir. And I thought you were considering me!» he said, almost offended.

«Let's just say you've been the most normal one so far,» she commented, patting him on the shoulder. «You know, someone asked me if I wanted to go in exchange for a whole jar of hazelnut biscuits? Handmade, mind you. Quite a lot.»

«A noble gesture!» Theo nodded with a serious expression. «I hope you at least accepted the biscuits and rejected the proposal.»

Lyra laughed. «Of course! I have high standards, even for biscuits... he would've had to corrupt me with caramel ones, and then I might've considered accepting a three-minute slow dance.»

«And I thought all it took was a well-acted drama and two intelligent eyes...»

«Ah, no,» she said, pretending to think about it as she drummed her index finger on the spine of the book. «You also need a cloak that flutters just right, a slow corridor walk and a habit of disappearing for days on end and then reappearing as if nothing had happened.» Theo looked at her with a feigned hurt expression.

«You just described me.»

«Exactly,» whispered Lyra, unable to hold back a laugh.

«And yet I thought you said yes to someone who knows and understands you.»

There was a slight smile on the girl's lips, but it didn't disappear. «And you're offering yourself as that someone?»

«Only if a Weasley too full of freckles and courage doesn't show up first.»

The name was not mentioned, but it hung in the air like a spell. She looked down at her feet, partly to avoid revealing anything, and partly to deny him the satisfaction of having struck the exact, deep spot in her heart. Lyra slowly turned towards him, an uncertain expression in her eyes.

«Or maybe...» she replied calmly. «I'm just letting you enjoy the moment, because I know you like to think you're in control.»

«Anyway, do you know what happened?» Theo began after a moment of silence. «Today, a Ravenclaw boy brought a whole crate of enchanted buttercups outside the Great Hall to ask a Hufflepuff girl to go to the Ball with him. The flowers serenaded her... in Elvish. She said no.»

Lyra burst out laughing, leaning forward and covering her mouth with her jumper sleeve. «No! Please don't tell me he had the translation ready too!»

«Oh yes, he had a note that said, "Every step you take is a beat that enchants the stars."»

«Bloody hell...» she whispered, shaking her head, still amused. «And the girl?»

«Apparently she ran away. Some say she's still running around the third floor.»

Lyra laughed again, her eyes sparkling with affectionate irony. «And I thought the Gryffindors were the theatrical ones.»

And just as they continued to laugh at failed proposals and Theo's jokes about the possible andatio between the two of them at the ball, the Weasley twins passed by. «Well, well...» said Fred, in a tone that pretended to be struck by a discovery. «So this is where the post-lunch laughter is hiding.»

George, on the other hand, more silent than usual, kept his hands in his pockets and watched the scene carefully, his gaze shifting between the two Slytherins. Then, with a calm but determined stride, he stopped right next to Lyra, glancing briefly at Theo before lowering his gaze to her.

«Careful, Selwyn...» he said in a tone that was somewhere between amused and irritated. «If you keep laughing at all of Nott's jokes, someone might think you actually like him.»

Lyra looked up, and for a second her smile faltered. Then, with her usual quick wit, she replied, «It's not my fault that the Slytherins are funnier than the Gryffindors today.»

Fred made a choking sound, pretending to be offended. «Betrayal!»

George smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. «Strange. And I thought my red was your favourite colour. At least, it's the one that best matches your cheeks when you blush.» Lyra's eyes widened, surprised by the gentle low blow, and she immediately brought her hand to her cheek instinctively. George looked at her with that sharp yet tender half-smile he used when he was trying to appear carefree but was actually in turmoil inside.

Theo tilted his head slightly, with the calmness of someone pretending to be genuinely amused. «I was just entertaining a friend, Weasley. Nothing that can't be remedied... with a better joke.»

George didn't even give him a laugh, and just turned back to Lyra. «Sure,» he added with studied nonchalance, «but if you want a laugh, give me a whistle. I'm good at that too. When I want to be.»

For a moment, a thick silence fell between them: Lyra felt her heart take a half-step forward, then she defused the tension with an amused grimace. «Noted, Weasley. But don't overdo it, or you'll get a big head.»

Fred, standing to one side, rubbed his hands together. «Great, then we'll ask to put on a show on the night of the ball. It'll be Weasley versus Nott: a joke-telling contest, with Miss cherry cheeks as the judge.»

Lyra rolled her eyes, but the smile remained on her face. George, at that point, limited himself to a brief nod before taking half a step back and walking away with his twin.

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December 19th, 1994

The previous days had been devastating for Lyra. Hogwarts had slowly turned into a huge theatre of expectations, invitations and declarations, while she found herself living every moment of the day with apparent calm, hiding a burning feeling inside that was slowly draining her. The castle was filled with whispers and waits, with small perfumed notes tucked between the pages of books, with enchanted flowers blooming on the tables during breakfast, with invitations written in coloured ink and half-held smiles. To Lyra, all this seemed to belong to a world she was not part of, or to a game she was definitely playing, but with the constant feeling that she was in the wrong role.

She too had received proposals — some shy, whispered during Herbology class, others more theatrical, as if the interest were part of a bigger show — but none of those voices, none of those faces, belonged to the person she really hoped would come forward. And if at first she had smiled, thanking them politely and almost in amazement, in the days that followed, every invitation not received from George added up to a small crack in her chest.

She wanted to go with him, the only boy who really made her feel good and with whom she felt herself and complete, but nothing.

«Selwyn, are you lost?» George's voice came from behind her with that touch of affectionate irony he used only with her, and Lyra turned slightly, meeting his gaze as she tried to return to the Slytherin Common Room after spending too much time studying in the library. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking half amused, half curious.

«You know how it is... your corridors smell less than usual at this hour.» she replied, raising an eyebrow as she stopped a couple of steps away from him.

George slowly detached himself from the wall, moving closer, as if he were about to tell her a secret. «Or maybe you just came looking for me. I know you miss my voice when you study too much.»

«Sure. In fact, today I heard you laughing all the way from the Potions classroom, and it almost made me spill my quill,» Lyra hissed, with a half-smile, trying not to dwell on the fact that she had actually turned around as soon as she heard him laugh, as if by reflex.

«Then you're in luck. My laughter is beneficial, it has therapeutic effects,» he replied with a feigned serious expression, before lowering his voice slightly and leaning towards her. «Do you know what my favourite colour is?»

Lyra didn't answer. She just gave him a curious look, tilting her head. George raised a hand and, with his index finger, brushed the air in front of her cheek, which had already turned — all too obviously — a delicate red. «This one. Wonderful, every single time.»

Lyra's eyes widened and then she lowered her gaze, but not before he noticed the smirk she was trying to hide. George cleared his throat and resumed talking, much to the girl's relief: «How are the invitations for the Ball going? People popping out of the bushes with singing flowers, rhyming stuff... have you received the perfect one yet?»

Lyra's heart, for a moment, took half a step forward. «Nothing... perfect actually,» she said lightly, emphasising the word. «A few proposals, yes. But I don't like to choose randomly.»

«Right. Right, yeah.» he nodded. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that betrayed more than he said. «Better to wait for the right one. Or... the right amount of cheeky.» His smile remained half-formed. «I'm not terrible at waltzes, but I'm terrible at things...» He made a vague gesture in the air. «Dramatic things, when it comes to someone I really want. You know, choirs, fireworks, buttercups in Elvish.»

«What a shame, I was just waiting for a poem in perfect Elvish,» she teased him, trying not to let the subtle anxiety that tingled her sternum show.

Tell him, Lyra. Ask me, George. That's what Lyra thought.

George took a breath, and for a second he looked like he was about to jump. «Lyra, I—» but the rest of the sentence died on his lips.

His heart was pounding in his ears, his fingers tingling with the desire to take her hand and tell her in no uncertain terms to go to the ball with him... not to show off, but because her laughter put his world back in place. But fear stopped him: what if she said no? What if that no shattered the fragile balance they had just restored? He bit the inside of his cheek, felt his throat close up, glanced at the fogged-up window pane and swallowed the urge. Better to protect that precious thing they called "friendship"... even though every cell in his body begged him to take the risk.

«You'd better not trip on the stairs on the 25th. The Great Hall will be full of ankle traps.»

The brake was applied clearly and sharply. She nodded slowly, hiding the pain with an amused grimace. «I promise to show up with reinforced ankles. And you promise not to blow up the dance floor.»

«No explosions for you, maybe.» He brushed her scarf to straighten it, with a tiny, sudden gesture. Lavender, vanilla, a hint of cedar: it went to his head as always. «It suits you, by the way,» he murmured.

«Thanks,» Her gaze softened for a moment, then returned to alertness. «Well... see you around, Weasley.»

«Always.» He took half a step back, but stood there watching her as she made her way back to the dungeons. When she disappeared around the corner, he smiled, not sure whether to feel proud or frustrated.

He should have asked her to come with him, he knew that.

But a stubborn and fearful part of him held him back — that fear of demanding something she didn't want to give, of ruining that newfound lightness. And so he stood in the corridor, letting the silence run through him, the echo of her perfume still clinging to him and an unspoken question pounding in his throat like a second heart.

And it was precisely that moment that remained etched in Lyra's mind during those days, among the corridors full of flowers and promises, and in the conversations that never came from him. A moment that seemed like nothing, but which hurt to remember more than she would have liked. He teased her, made her laugh, confused her, but nothing more. And she didn't understand why he was behaving this way, unlike usual. And the silence between the lines of his gestures became, more and more every day, a burden that Lyra carried without showing it. Because when she walked through the corridors and saw Fred joking with Angelina, or when she ran into Hermione and Krum trying to communicate despite everything, or even Harry who had even had the courage to try to ask Cho out despite her following rejection... every scene seemed to confirm that everyone around her had someone.

Everyone except her.

Yet she knew she wasn't alone: she had friends and affection; but in that period of fairy lights, promises and suspended expectations, what was missing stood out more strongly, something similar to love. It wasn't just about being chosen, but about being chosen by someone who could truly see her for who she was — with her shadows, her strength, her silences and that way of loving that she was afraid to even mention aloud. And so, every night, as she tucked herself into her sheets in the cold Slytherin dormitory or leaned against the wall in the common room watching the flames flicker, Lyra wondered if she was doing everything wrong.

If she had misunderstood him.

If George had just confused her.

If Theo, with his sometimes charming and sometimes irritating ways, wasn't an illusion that was turning into reality only because the truth was escaping her, or she simply hadn't really realised it before.

But despite everything, she was in the Gryffindor common room that evening anyway.

The fire in the fireplace crackled softly, so slowly that the sound was almost imperceptible, but the red and orange colours reflected on the walls like something reassuring. The common room was almost empty after dinner, as many had gone to bed early, but there were still books abandoned on the armchairs, blankets left on the sofas and the distant ticking of the clock in the corridor. Lyra was there by chance: she had had to do some rather difficult Divination homework with Hermione, so they had decided to share the work, only it had taken longer than expected.

«I'm sorry it took us so long...» Hermione began sadly, but Lyra stopped her.

«Don't worry, Mione, it's fine. At least we're done.»

Hermione smiled at her and got up. «I'm going to get changed. If you can wait, I'll say goodnight to you, okay?» She smiled, and Lyra nodded.

Lyra decided to sit on the couch next to the fireplace to keep herself warm. She was wearing a light grey jumper that fell a little loosely on her shoulders, revealing a glimpse of her collarbone, and some black jeans. The sleeves barely covered her hands and she clasped them together to keep warm, while the fabric moved lightly every time she crossed her arms or adjusted her hair. She was tired but visibly relaxed, as if only then did she realise how much she had missed a moment of silence. Her delicate, harmonious face was framed by soft, slightly wavy strands of dark brown hair with light highlights, which fell onto her back in a messy but incredibly graceful way, as if winter itself had decided to reflect itself in the calmness of her features. Her large, deep eyes gazed at the fireplace in front of her.

Her thoughts and tranquillity were interrupted by the silent arrival of George, who, without permission or warning, decided to lie down on that very sofa with his head on the girl's legs.

«Good evening, you're an insider, aren't you?» George asked with interest.

Lyra looked at him for a moment, surprised by his gesture, but she did not push him away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly and let out a half-smile. «It depends on what you mean by insider. If you're wondering if I'm looking for secret information about the Gryffindors, then yes. Mission in progress.» George closed his eyes, relaxing, with an amused smirk on his lips.

«I thought I was the dangerous one, but it turns out it's you. What a disappointment, you beat me.»

«I'm a Slytherin. What did you expect?» she replied, raising an eyebrow and absent-mindedly stroking his hair with her fingertips, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. George let out a small sound of approval.

«I confirm: Lyra Eileen Selwyn is highly suspicious. She pretends to be a Slytherin but is known to frequent Gryffindor circles. Interesting case file.»

«Careful, Weasley. My case file says I bite.»

«Good to know, I'll keep that in mind,» he said, opening one eye to look at her. «Can I stay here for two minutes? I promise not to make any disturbing noises.»

«Two minutes,» she conceded, but her voice came out softer than she had intended. The fireplace crackled as if to agree with her. George settled himself more comfortably, one hand on his stomach and the other finding the edge of the girl's jumper and pinching it gently, absent-mindedly. He smelled of warm wood and almost burnt caramel, and Lyra closed her eyes for a moment, as if to memorise the moment.

«This is exactly what I expected. Betrayal, manipulation and cuddles at the right moment,» George said after a while, smiling slightly.

«At least one of the three is pleasant, isn't it?» she said, and George laughed.

«Only one? And I was just getting attached...»

They remained silent for a few seconds, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire. They were both relaxing in that way. «I saw you laughing today while you were talking to that guy from your... what are they called? The Perfect Parchment Club?» he said, and Lyra laughed at the statement.

«His name's Tristan, and he's nice. Don't be jealous.» George opened one eye.

«I'm not jealous. Just careful.»

«Careful?» asked Lyra.

«Of the competition, of course,» he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then closed his eyes again, while Lyra shook her head and continued to play with a strand of her hair.

«You're impossible, Weasley.»

«And you're incredibly patient to bear with me.» She smiled, and for a moment she looked at him not with irony, not with defences, but with that vulnerability that one allows oneself only when one is sure of being truly understood.

And while George lay there with his head on her legs, his eyes half-closed and breathing peacefully, Lyra said nothing. She just began to move her hand slowly through the boy's auburn hair. Her fingers sank gently into the soft, slightly long strands, and she traced invisible patterns on his head, then behind his ear, then down towards his jaw. Each gesture was like a caress, and each caress like an unspoken word. George snorted softly, relaxed, without opening his eyes.

«If you keep this up, I might ask you to adopt me just for these moments of relaxation.»

Lyra smiled slightly. «You're too old to be adopted, Weasley,» he opened one eye, turned it towards her and smiled, like someone who is happy exactly where he is.

«But at least not too old to be cuddled, right?» Lyra ran her fingers over his cheek and pinched it.

«No. I'd say you're just the right size for that.»

Silence fell between them again, and it was in that silence that Lyra's fingers slowly moved from George's temples to his cheeks, beginning to trace each freckle with her index finger as if they were constellations.

«Do you have any idea how many you have?» she murmured almost without realising it after a while, without taking her eyes off the boy's face. George, with his eyelids half closed and relaxed, as if his body had completely surrendered to her light touch, replied with a murmur.

«My mother says that every freckle is an unpunished prank.»

Lyra laughed softly, a sweet sound that melted into the warm air of the room. «Then you should have many more, there are very few in my opinion.»

They both laughed, and she slowly traced the line of freckles on his nose with her index finger, then on his cheekbones, then a small curve near his left eye that broke when he smiled — and at that moment he really did smile, as if that caress had found an invisible trigger inside him.

«Are you counting my freckles?»

«No. I'm learning you like a map.»

Silence fell between them again, but it wasn't awkward: it was full of meanings that neither of them dared to speak or fully understand yet. The fire continued to crackle, while George's heartbeat and breathing became more regular. And Lyra looked at him as one looks at a secret too beautiful to be revealed. Lyra then sighed, as if she were afraid of giving, understanding or staying too long.

«I should go...» she said softly, her fingers pausing in his hair, like a silent goodbye. George opened his eyes and his amber irises lifted towards her as if to ask if she was really sure. The girl gently slipped out from under him, moving slowly. She stood up and for a moment remained looking at him; and George lifted himself up a little, remaining seated with his eyes glued to her.

«Good night, Weas— George.»

«Good night, Lyra.»

And then, with the subtle grace that accompanied her everywhere, she disappeared through the doorway, leaving behind the soft rustle of her footsteps on the carpet and the slightly perceptible scent of lavender and winter. George remained there for a few more minutes, immobilised by something inside him that he couldn't explain, perhaps not even to himself. Then he let himself fall back onto the sofa, arms outstretched, eyes closed.

It was then that, due to a small, almost shy 'tic' of magic, George's eyes opened again, because a mistletoe appeared above him, suspended in mid-air like a secret caught in the act. The pale berries glowed in the firelight, the ribbons fell in a gentle arc, and for a moment, George imagined how Lyra would laugh if she saw it: that smile that moves the air, the quick blush, the instinctive hand to hide her cheeks.

«You're late, mate.»

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December 20th, 1994

The corridors of Hogwarts had a way of becoming quieter on winter afternoons, when the light faded just after lunch and everything seemed to flatten under a dull blanket of dusty light, cold stone and muffled footsteps. By now, the frenzy of invitations had almost died down — most people had found a partner, so the days were now more peaceful for those who had not yet found someone, or who would be leaving in a few days for the Christmas holidays.

George walked aimlessly on the seventh floor, his hands buried in the pockets of his cloak, his shoulders slightly hunched forward like someone carrying a weight, unsure whether to put it down or continue to hold on to it. His heart was beating as if he were expecting something, but his head reminded him that he would do nothing, especially with her: Lyra. The girl's name had resonated within him from the first moment they spoke at the beginning of the year on the Hogwarts Express, like a note he could never quite silence, no matter how hard he tried.

She was everywhere he went: in the gestures he couldn't stop making, in the words he bit back before speaking, in the glances he cast when she wasn't looking. She had become part of his daily life without him asking, yet it made him happy, this thing.

'She's not like the others.'

Fred had said that to him some time ago, and at the time it had seemed like a simple joke as well as an unmotivated statement of fact. But now, that phrase had taken the form of a problem: he was realising that there was something more for Lyra, something he had never experienced in his 16 years of life, and he didn't know what to do or how to behave. With Lyra, everything was all too real; she wasn't the kind of girl who laughed just for the sake of laughing, who listened not out of politeness, but because it came naturally to her.

She understood. She looked at you and understood even if you didn't want her to.

He didn't want to make any mistakes with her, he didn't want to say something just to joke around, and he didn't want to start something and then not be enough for both of them. George didn't understand that love only comes when you stop being perfect, letting yourself live for what was in front of you with all the possibilities and all the doors open.

So I'll keep it quiet. I'll put it off. I'll put it off like a coward, he thought to himself every day.

He stopped in front of one of the large windows overlooking the inner garden. Snow was slowly settling on the hedges, the roofs, and the statues of mythological creatures covered with handmade scarves.

Everything was calm. Except him.

If I ask her to come to the Ball with me, it won't just be to dance. It won't just be for one evening. It will be to say that I'm ready to take a step... What if I realise I'm not? What if I ruin it? What if I ruin everything because of me?

He was afraid, very afraid of making a mistake, of failing, and he was afraid of not taking the right step in the right direction; and even though he knew that this girl could understand him, he was afraid of feeling so exposed, vulnerable, almost naked in front of her. He almost felt inadequate, and preferred to avoid and hide behind his usual smile.

He closed his eyes for a second, as if to swallow the thought, and just then he heard Fred's voice behind him, cheerful and oblivious, still talking about how he had invited Angelina so nonchalantly. George let out a light laugh even though he hadn't heard him, while his heart was bursting in his chest. Fred caught up with him, glancing sideways at him.

«You haven't asked her yet, have you?» George shook his head slightly. Fred stared at him. «What exactly are you waiting for? For her to ask you? Or for Theo to do it first?»

That name alone was enough to make his stomach clench. «Can you not mention him, please?» he murmured, biting his lip. Fred didn't reply: he didn't need to, because the answer was written all over his brother's face. George rubbed the back of his neck, confused and tired. «It's just... Lyra's not like the others.»

Fred was about to reply, but something interrupted him. George had suddenly stiffened, his gaze fixed at the end of the corridor.

Alicia.

She was laughing and walking with Katie and Angelina, with that confident stride and cheerful tone of voice. She hadn't changed much: perhaps her hair was a little shorter, and she had a little more confidence about her. George looked at her as one looks at the simplest solutions, the ones that don't hurt if you lose them because you never really wanted them.

With her, I risk nothing. She doesn't destroy me, she doesn't read me. She doesn't make me tremble, he thought.

He didn't know what to do with Lyra because he was afraid of ruining everything or making a mistake and losing her forever, so he would just watch her from afar and love her silently on his own; because at that moment, perhaps in his opinion, it was the best decision; to delude himself into thinking he was protecting her from the worst — which was his own fear.

That other girl was his ex-almost-flame, the one with whom nothing serious had ever happened, but who at that moment was perhaps the only escape route to avoid possible pain. Without saying another word, he detached himself from the wall and joined her.

«Weasley!» Alicia exclaimed, smiling. «Did you lose a bet?»

«No. I was just wondering if you still know how to dance without stepping on people's feet.»

She laughed, then looked back at him. «Are you going to ask me out, or are you just insulting me elegantly?» George shrugged. His heart wasn't in it, but his voice was.

«Would you like to go with me to the Ball?»

She didn't hesitate. «Why not? If you promise not to blow anything up, I'll accept.» George nodded. He didn't smile. He didn't even turn around completely, but went back to Fred.

His twin didn't speak right away, studying him silently, trying to figure out how to tell him the truth. Then he looked at him, perhaps for the first time, with a disappointed expression. «You just screwed up.»

George closed his eyes for a moment. «I know, and it's a big one,» he admitted quietly.

«What about Lyra? What are you going to do?»

George slowly inhaled the crisp air that passed through the corridors. «I'll wait until it's less scary to want her.»

And with those words, he walked down the corridor, carrying with him the certainty that he had just given his hand to someone else so as not to risk actually touching the person he wanted more than anyone else.

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December 25th, 1994

Christmas Eve arrived quietly, but without any discretion. Although the ball was not due to start until eight o'clock in the evening, Hogwarts Castle had been buzzing with excitement since early afternoon, as if every one of its thousand-year-old stones had been awakened especially for the occasion. The torches along the corridors burned brighter, the ceilings had been enchanted with starry skies and snowflakes falling slowly but obviously without touching the ground, while the air smelled of polished wax, sweet spices and tension. The students who had stayed for the party had already finished dinner some time ago, it was now past seven in the evening, and they were in their respective houses: they were carefully getting ready, all dressed in elegant clothes, fixing the last details, checking their make-up and hair, and making promises to themselves in front of the mirrors.

In the Slytherin Common Room, immersed in deep shades of green, silver and black, the light reflected off the fine fabrics, gold brooches and carefully knotted ribbons. The girls moved like queens in the dungeons, amid light perfumes and quick spells to fix a rebellious strand of hair or adjust a hem. Lyra stood in front of the long mirror next to the fireplace, one hand resting on the satin fabric of her dress, as if convincing herself that she was really there.

«Merlin, Selwyn, you look ready to steal the throne from a Veela!» commented Daphne behind her, approaching with a smug smile as she looked at herself in the mirror next to her, wearing a champagne-coloured dress that fell softly over her hips. And indeed, Lyra was wearing a long, dark green satin dress that fit her as if it had been tailor-made — and which lit up her eyes and gaze like nothing else; she smiled slightly, adjusting a strand of hair that had slipped from the wavy fold of her hair.

«And you look ready to convince half the Great Hall to kneel before you.»

«Blaise finally got his act together this time. He asked me to go with him a few days after Dumbledore's announcement, and he even got Draco to help him choose the colour of his cloak to match mine, imagine that colour coordination,» said Daphne in an ironic but satisfied tone, running her fingers over the gold dress she was wearing.

Lyra turned, smiling slightly. «And I ended up with Theo after someone else decided to be a coward. But at least I'll try to enjoy myself tonight,» she tried to joke, but her gaze was sadder than ever. Daphne watched her silently for a moment.

«George will be kicking himself. Tonight more than ever, don't worry.»

Lyra sighed softly, but the smile slowly returned to her lips. The two girls laughed and exchanged a knowing glance between friends — the kind who can read each other's hearts even when they remain silent. But the voice of one of the girls in the dormitory interrupted the moment: «Five minutes! The boys are already in the corridors!»

Daphne turned, ready. «Shall we go and conquer the night?»

Lyra nodded slowly, the skirt of her dress swaying slightly as she took a breath. «Let's go and get what we deserve.»

And when they left the Common Room, accompanied only by the soft sound of their footsteps on the stone floor, they knew that nothing would go unnoticed that evening.

The buzz filled the castle hall like soft, murmured music, made up of giggles, stolen glances and hurried footsteps on the polished floor. The Christmas decorations flickered faintly under the warm light of the enchanted torches, reflecting amber glints on every surface — yet the moment Lyra appeared at the top of the main staircase, it was as if time had decided to slow down for a moment. Her steps were slow and measured, as if she were dancing in the air. Her long, satin dress, as dark green as a forest at night, clung to her bust and curves with impeccable elegance, then flared out into a flowing skirt that moved gracefully around her legs; she descended each step with an almost unreal lightness. The fabric reflected the light like moonlit lake water, making her every movement seem like a little spell. On her bare shoulders, Lyra's diaphanous skin was tinged with gold under the warm glow of the torches — it was not a cold or sickly pallor, but a natural and delicate luminosity, like that of porcelain that has been exposed to the sun, a velvety harmony that made the accessories perfect: long golden earrings that sparkled in her hair and a thin bracelet on her right wrist, which tinkled softly with every step, plus the necklace she cherished more than anything else in the world, the one with a heart designed with tiny diamonds.

Her brown hair, with its subtle coppery highlights, was partly gathered in a soft, wavy style, leaving a few strands to fall gracefully along her face and shoulders, framing her face with fairy-tale sweetness. She really did look like she had stepped out of the yellowed pages of an ancient book, one of those you leaf through by candlelight, while it snows outside and you dream inside. 

At the bottom of the stairs, in the area near the Great Hall already bustling with early arrivals, there was a moment when everyone turned to look at her: Hermione interrupted the conversation she was having with Ron, the Patil twins and Krum, as if she had heard a spell reversing time. Ginny turned abruptly, while the Patil twins — who until then had been exchanging opinions on dresses — held their breath. Harry saw her and stopped adjusting his tie, letting his hands hang at his sides. Ron, too, with his mouth slightly open, completely forgot what he was saying. It was as if something ancient and magical had walked among them in the form of a girl.

«Merlin...» Ginny whispered very softly. «She's stepped straght out of a fairytale.»

And Theo Nott stood there, at the foot of the stairs, motionless as a statue under the spell that awaited her. His face was elegantly impassive, but his eyes spoke clearly: no spell from Dumbledore, no waltz, no potion could have prepared him to see her like this. Lyra reached the bottom step and gave him a slight smile.

«You look mesmerizing tonight,» Theo whispered in her ear as he offered her his arm. «And I am the luckiest boy alive.»

Lyra blushed slightly and smiled at him in thanks. After briefly greeting their friends, she and Theo entered the Great Hall as the other students and Champions waited. But she unconsciously began to scan the faces in the crowd, as if she were looking for someone in particular: an expression, a hint of red in the crowd, that presence that until a few days ago she could sense even when she accidentally glanced in his direction.

She had seen everyone.

Everyone except him.

In recent days, George had become distant and strange towards her. She hardly ever saw him, and when she did, it was as if an invisible wall had risen between them, made of unspoken words and avoided glances. Part of her had even begun to think that he wouldn't even show up at the dance. That he would stay outside, far away, on the sidelines, as if ignoring her was the only way to protect himself from something that even she could no longer define.

But then she saw him come in. And he wasn't alone.

A hand in hers, their fingers intertwined naturally; a ready smile, the kind he wore on light-hearted evenings when he didn't want to show anything else. Lyra's heart took a step back and a step forward at the same time: the bracelet on her wrist jingled softly, a tiny sound amid the din, and Theo's words beside her became muffled, distant, as if someone had turned down the volume. She looked at him again, as if to make sure she wasn't mistaken, to give herself the coup de grâce or an excuse to laugh at herself.

He was holding another girl's hand in his, and smiling.

And that girl wasn't her.

Chapter Text

Lyra felt her breath catch in her chest, perhaps for too long, as if someone had closed their hand around her throat; the colour drained from her face, and in a single moment she found herself alone amid the din of the ball, her heart beating wildly and a sharp pain in her chest. She felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes and felt the burning sensation, and they were almost stubborn to fall, and a lump in her throat so tight that it almost made her gasp for air.

She couldn't — or rather, didn't want to — believe what she saw with her own eyes: George had entered with someone else, Alicia Spinnet, as if nothing had happened.

As if Lyra had never existed.

As if everything they had shared, between sweets and notes, the days spent in the library with their fingers intertwined and silences full of words, had never existed.

For Lyra, it was worse than her worst nightmares: no one had given George the right to enter her everyday life so deeply, to fill almost every moment of it and snatch her balance from her hands, and then walk away without even turning back for one last glance.

At that moment, she felt like shouting at him in front of everyone, telling him that he had hurt her, leaving her chained to a story that he had started and led, and, it seemed, ended definitively that evening. But there was a part of her heart waiting for a continuation, for a twist that probably, or now certainly, would not happen. She waited for George to return, to approach her and tell her that it was all a joke and that he had not really left. But as Lyra saw him come in, smiling and laughing with another woman, she could only think of one thing:

'You disgust me. You disgust me for what you have created and destroyed, for how you did it, and for the way you continue to smile at her as if nothing has happened'

Lyra desperately tried to catch her breath, to suppress and tame the tremor she felt running through her veins, but above all to regain that typical Slytherin composure that at that moment seemed more like a mask ready to shatter at any moment.

She clung tightly to Theo's arm, as if it were a lifeboat in the middle of a storm, and together they made their way to the centre of the Great Hall, lit by hanging candles, the silvery reflections of Christmas decorations and smiles that, at that moment, seemed empty and distant to Lyra. Theo immediately sensed from the girl's gaze and body language that something was wrong, yet he decided not to say anything that might trigger her to break down. He looked at her discreetly, giving her the time she needed to compose herself; then he placed his hand gently on her waist, as if to reassure her that she was not alone, and gently guided her onto the dance floor to the rhythm of the waltz. Lyra took a deep breath, trying to push away the cruel knot that was pressing against her throat and made it difficult for her to even smile.

«Breathe, Lyra...» Theo whispered in her ear after a while, his voice warm and reassuring. «I'm here, I won't leave you alone. I'm not going anywhere, don't worry.»

She didn't reply immediately, but she felt his words wash over her like a blanket laid over an open wound: they didn't heal, but they warmed the burn and provided the necessary reassurance. Her heart was still beating irregularly, as if desperately seeking a way out of everything around her. Yet it was precisely that calm tone, that gentle touch on her back, that managed to slow down the urgency she felt in her chest. As if, for a moment, she could really let go. The music began softly, slowly enveloping their bodies and the entire room in a sweet and melancholic atmosphere, as if the melody knew the secret torment she carried within her. The first chords floated in the air with the grace of an ancient memory, and the Great Hall, lit by hundreds of suspended candles, seemed enveloped in a spell suspended between dream and nostalgia.

«I know, Theo,» Lyra replied softly, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, closing her eyes for a moment as he gently led her among the couples swaying to the rhythm of a slow waltz. «Thank you. You're really kind.»

They danced like this, without speaking, slowly following the rhythm of the music, as she tried to cling to that fragile feeling of normality that Theo was incredibly able to convey to her at that moment.

And it was strange for her to feel that peace with him: it was strange because a year earlier he had hurt her so badly that she was convinced she would never even be able to look him in the face again without feeling the bitter taste of regret for something that had been ruined by something bigger than them. Strange because she no longer trusted anyone so easily, least of all someone who had let her down. Yet, that evening, he was there. He wasn't demanding, he wasn't even arrogant. Just present, patient, and ready to be there without asking anything in return.

When the music changed to a livelier rhythm and the buzz grew louder, the two slowly moved towards the laid tables, where Lyra took only a small canapé, more to distract herself than because she was really hungry.

«Are you all right?» he asked cautiously, brushing her hair lightly to tuck it behind her ears. The touch was light, but it was enough to make her stomach tighten slightly, as if that gentleness was something she was not used to. Lyra nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the canapé, unable to look up at him because she was afraid that if she did, Theo would too easily read the pain hidden behind her irises.

«I'll try to feel better...» she replied in a soft voice but with a slight smile, as if those words cost her immense effort.

«If you want some air, I'll take you outside for a minute. Or we can stay here. Whatever you prefer, my princess.»

She took a slow breath and nodded. «I'll stay. For now,» he nodded, content to be by her side, exchanging a few words now and then and making sure she ate a little.

Not far away, on the other side of the room, George had spent most of the evening with his gaze returning to the same point — Lyra — while pretending to laugh at Fred or Lee's jokes or listening to Angelina and Alicia's conversations, all the while trying not to be too obvious to his lady. Alicia, although composed, had already noticed those constant silent and pained glances directed elsewhere: she pretended not to notice, faking interest in the others' chatter, even though her heart ached at the evidence that George was not really there with her that evening. He couldn't take his eyes off Lyra; it was as if his gaze faded intermittently every time the music slowed down and the figures of the two Slytherins dancing together appeared on the other side; it was as if George was looking for something in Lyra's every movement, in her every glance, that would tell him that deep down she too was feeling what he was feeling: an immense sense of loss, a pungent and burning nostalgia.

As the music changed and he saw the two of them walk away towards the tables, he noticed Theo brush a strand of Lyra's hair behind her ear; he saw the gentleness of that gesture, and for him it was like a painful punch in the stomach. He would never admit it out loud, but the way Theo touched her hair — with that almost possessive naturalness — made him feel as if someone had ripped the breath from his chest, and he felt a wave of jealousy wash over him. It was a small gesture, perhaps insignificant in the eyes of others, but not to him: he knew every reaction of Lyra's, he could even read her silences. And he knew that if he hadn't moved away from her, that gesture, that sweet and tender caress, could have been his.

Then, as if feeling the weight of those eyes, Lyra slowly looked up.

Their eyes met from a distance, and it was as if time took a step back for a few endless, intense seconds. That silent exchange contained everything they had not had the courage to say or do in the days leading up to the Ball: regret, confusion, suffering and melancholy for what could have been, but they had not been able to bring it to fulfilment. Although their gazes met for only a tiny fraction of a second, it was enough for both of them to realise that perhaps neither of them had really stopped wanting the other.

And it was at that moment that Lyra saw Hermione approaching, accompanied by Viktor Krum, and Harry walking nervously beside Parvati Patil.

«Lyra!» Hermione greeted her with a slightly embarrassed but sweet smile, looking at her with understanding, as if she could clearly read the sadness she was desperately trying to hide.

«Hermione... you look great, you're really wonderful!» replied Lyra, finally managing to smile more naturally; her friend had a radiant face, shiny hair tied back at the nape of her neck, and a periwinkle dress that fell on her with a surprisingly elegant simplicity and suited her very well. «And you too, Viktor. Really.»

Viktor Krum gave her a small nod, polite as ever, but not quite used to such direct compliments. Hermione looked at him with discreet affection and then turned her eyes back to Lyra.

«But you really are wonderful,» Parvati interjected, genuinely impressed. «Green suits you perfectly, Lyra.»

«You're too kind, Parvati...» said Lyra, smiling slightly, feeling her cheeks warm slightly, while Harry, who was eating a pastry a little awkwardly, looked at her with concern.

«Are you all right, Lyra?» he asked, unable to hold back any longer. He had noticed, more than anyone else, the subtle tension that seemed to envelop her.

«I'm fine, or at least I'm trying to be,» she replied gently but firmly, hoping to sound convincing enough.

«If you need anything...» Hermione smiled at her, deliberately leaving the sentence unfinished because, after all, there was no need to say anything else. Lyra smiled slightly, with such deep gratitude that she feared it might betray her and break the calm she had worked so hard to build.

«I know,» she said softly. «Really. Thank you, guys, it's been a bit of a... strange few days, that's all. It'll all pass, won't it? Carry on, as I always say.»

As the group continued to chat about light-hearted and unchallenging topics, Lyra gradually felt the weight on her chest lighten a little, if only for the comfort of being surrounded by people who genuinely cared about her. Theo, though silent, remained by her side, caressing her hips, offering support that she hadn't felt she needed so much until that moment. But despite everything, as the laughter and conversation continued around her, Lyra couldn't help but feel her heart split in two: one part still chained to the red-haired, freckled boy who had left her behind, and another part desperately trying to move on.

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09:37 pm

The music in the Great Hall had changed tempo again, becoming more cheerful and light-hearted thanks to the band hired by the professors, and the atmosphere had become one of smiles and infectious laughter. Most of the couples danced energetically under the hanging candles, while others gathered at the tables to chat, and the golden reflections of the spotlights mingled softly with the soft light of the Christmas decorations. Fred and Angelina slowly approached George and Alicia, who had remained in a corner of the Great Hall, next to one of the tables laden with sweets and punch.

«What an elegant couple you are, congratulations!» Angelina commented with a kind and sincere smile, lightly linking her arm with Fred's. However, her gaze lingered a little longer than necessary on George's face, noticing the tense expression he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. Alicia chuckled softly, placing a light hand on the boy's arm.

«Thank you, although I don't think I've quite managed to convince him to stay here... every now and then he looks like he wants to slip away.»

George made a visible effort to smile, shrugging his shoulders slightly. «That's nonsense, Alicia. Where else would I be?» he tried to say without annoyance, but the question hung in the air with a weight that everyone could feel.

After a brief chat, Alicia politely excused herself to go and get something to drink with Angelina and retrieve a light scarf she had left on another chair nearby. As soon as they had left, Fred stared intently at his twin, saying nothing for a few moments. That moment of silence seemed to stretch on forever, filled with everything they both knew but had never openly expressed.

«You can't take it anymore, can you? Being here, I mean,» Fred asked in a low, gentle but direct voice, finally breaking the silence without beating around the bush. George sighed deeply and looked away.

«I've been looking for her all evening,» he admitted slowly after a few moments of silence, his voice cracked and almost broken with grief. «Every time I turned around, I hoped it was her, or every time I heard laughter, I hoped it was hers. And when I saw her dancing with Theo... Fucking hell, Fred, I felt like dying.» Fred remained silent, allowing him to speak. He saw real, deep suffering in his brother's eyes, something he had rarely seen so clearly.

«You know what I thought when he fixed her hair? That I wanted to be in his place. That that was my place, my job, and I threw it away because I was afraid. Afraid of not being good enough, afraid that it might all be too real to actually handle, or afraid of messing it all up,» George continued, now unable to stop. «And now, look where I ended up tonight. I'm here with Alicia, who is certainly a nice and pretty girl, but— but she's not Lyra, Fred. She never will be, neither she nor anyone else in the world.»

Fred sighed softly, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. «So what do you really want to do now?» George finally looked up, staring at his brother with a determination and vulnerability he had never seen before.

«I want to run to her, take her hand and get her out of here. I want to tell her that I've never stopped thinking about her, not even for a second. That all my attempts to forget her these past few days have been a failure, because every single thing in this damn castle keeps reminding me of her and everything we created,» George said, his voice breaking with emotion.

«I want to tell her that I love her, Fred. And I want to have the courage to look her in the eye when I say it, knowing that she might hate me forever and not return my feelings for her.»

Fred squeezed his shoulder lightly. «I understand, Georgie, but listen to me carefully, okay? Try it if you feel you have to, but don't risk too much...» George was about to speak, but Fred stopped him with a stare. «Don't take too many risks with your actions or words, because Alicia’s here, and Lyra is on the verge of exploding... and besides, remember that we're going back home tomorrow, so there's not much time, and the last thing you need to do is blow everything up in your haste.»

George lowered his gaze again, hesitating for a moment. And in that silence, Fred saw his brother looking so scared and fragile for the first time in his life. So vulnerable. «I can't risk hurting her again, Fred! I can't wait any longer!» he finally said in a whisper. «But maybe I already have.»

Fred shook his head. «If you want, try it, if you really feel you have to tell her something... or maybe try to pick a day to clear things up as soon as we get home, or sleep on it, and tomorrow morning clear things up with Alicia and talk to Lyra when we get back. But don't ruin anything tonight, don't add fuel to the fire.»

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Lyra had taken refuge in a corner of the Great Hall where, thankfully, the lights were not too bright and the music seemed muffled, as if the notes did not dare disturbing the painful inner silence that had clung to her since the beginning of the party. She clutched a glass of pumpkin juice stolen from one of the side tables laden with food and beverages, but she hadn't drunk any yet: she was staring at it, clutching it as if it could give her warmth, but her fingers were cold and tense, and her heart showed no sign of slowing down. She wasn't dancing, she wasn't smiling, she wasn't looking for company — yet she felt watched, as if the very shadow of her disenchantment had become visible.

George was watching her from afar, his heart pounding in his chest and his breath held, unsure whether to approach her or let distance do its work. Finally, as if driven by an invisible force, he plucked up his courage and, with slow, heavy steps, made his way towards her despite the concerned calls of Fred, Angelina and Ginny; he sat down next to her without saying a word. Lyra sensed his presence even before she turned around, because of his scent, which she would recognise from miles away but which at that moment hit her in the stomach.

«You should drink something stronger if you really want to get through this evening,» he murmured softly after a moment of silence between them. He was there beside her, and Lyra didn't dare look at him.

«You could have saved yourself the trouble. I'm already in excellent company, and I think you are too,» she replied with a barely perceptible hint of sarcasm, but one that cut like a sharp dagger.

«Lyra...» he began in a whisper.

«Don't,» she interrupted him in a firm but already trembling voice. «Not now, not ever. It's not worth it. Save your breath for your partner.» George ran a hand through his hair, visibly tense.

«I just wanted to—»

«What did you want?» she interrupted, turning slowly, her eyes shining with anger and pain, and for the first time since that evening, their eyes met closely. «Did you want to see my face when you showed up with her? Did you want to check if I was broken enough? Or were you hoping I'd be happy for you? Because if that's what you're looking for, you won't find it with me.»

«Don't be like that. I just want to explain, it's not what it looks like...»

«Like what? It’s not like what, George?» Lyra hissed, gripping her glass tighter. «I thought that— that maybe, for once, it would be different? That you, of all people, would be sincere? Because from where I stand, it seems crystal clear: you chose someone else over me. And everything we had and everything that was between us meant nothing to you.»

George stiffened and looked down for a moment, but then looked up again, filled with almost restrained anger. «You never said anything. Ever. And I... I couldn't risk ruining everything.»

«Oh, perfect. So it's my fault, huh? Because I didn't speak up?» she blurted out, laughing. «You know what, George? Not everyone can speak when their heart is in tumult. But you— you made a choice.»

«Yes, I did!» he exploded, raising his voice, then lowering it a moment later so as not to attract attention. «Because with you, it's not just one night. It's not a stupid dance or a fancy dress. With you, everything is different, it always has been, and it scares me to death.»

The silence that followed was louder than the music itself, drowning it out. Lyra swallowed slowly, her heart pounding in her ears, but her gaze did not waver. «Then why did you choose her?»

George hesitated. Then he whispered, almost breathlessly, «Because with her, I'm not risking anything. With you, on the other hand, I could lose everything.»

Lyra stood up and stared at him, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, her chest burning with anger and pain.

«And maybe you really have lost everything, you know?»

Those words hit the boy like a ton of bricks. «You hurt me, George. You made me feel like a discarded object, a second choice. All my life I've watched others move forward and be happy, as if it were normal for them to be desired, cared for and understood. And every time a boy approached me, I believed that maybe I too would feel those same things. But instead...» Her voice trembled and a sob escaped her, yet she remained steadfast. The words came out of her throat like molten lava, and George seemed unable to respond. «Instead, I was put aside, again, because no one ever has the courage to really go for it with me. Including you.»

George closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his throat dry up and his heart slowly break as he heard those words come out of the girl's mouth. «I never did it with the intention of hurting you, Lyra. I was afraid of losing you if we moved too fast, afraid that I wasn't ready and that I would ruin what we had. I made the wrong choice, but not because you weren't important to me. It was precisely because you were, because you‘re too important.»

She shook her head and laughed bitterly. «You have a strange way of showing it.» George took a step towards her and looked as if he was about to say something, but Lyra stopped him with a glance. «I'm tired of being an afterthought, or feeling like a convenient choice only when it suits you. You left me there wondering what I’s done wrong to deserve this, as if I had to make myself small to deserve you. I was lowering every barrier one by one just for you, and for once I hoped there would be something real...»

«I know, Lyra. I'm just a fool and a coward. And now I'm paying for it, and I'll continue to pay for this choice I made,» he whispered, his words laden with pain and regret.

«No, George,» she said with icy calm. «I'm the one paying. I trusted you, I believed you were different. I put my heart in your hands, only to have it returned to me in pieces.»

They both remained silent, physically close yet light years apart in terms of understanding each other, with unspoken words hanging heavily between them like an invisible wall. They both felt the wound throbbing inside their chests, and felt the emptiness of something so precious and beautiful that had been lost, perhaps irretrievably. Finally, it was Lyra who broke the silence again, slowly moving away from him with tears still streaming down her face.

«I wish I had never met you, George. At least then I wouldn't have felt all this pain.»

And as she walked away, George remained seated in that dark corner, feeling the echo of those words resonate within him, leaving him with a pain so intense and deep that it took his breath away. And he remained there, motionless, as if just moving could cause the floor beneath his feet to collapse completely. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, and he didn't know if it was because of the anger he felt towards himself or because of the sudden emptiness Lyra had left behind when she turned her back on him and walked away without waiting for a word from him. An explanation. But perhaps he had no right to one.

It was then that he heard decisive, rapid, unhesitating footsteps. He didn't have time to turn around before Fred was already there in front of him, with a fiery look in his eyes that he rarely saw. «Well done, genius,» Fred shouted. «You've just destroyed the only good thing you've had in front of your eyes for months. And for what, George? For fear? Because you can't accept that something might go right for you for once?»

«Did you really invite Alicia? After everything you went through with Lyra? After all the looks, the words, the attention... Merlin, George, even the paintings in the castle noticed you!» Ginny continued furiously, who had appeared just behind Fred, her face red. «And you made her feel like trash, again.»

«Shame on you,» hissed her sister after a few moments, her eyes shining with anger. «You did what everyone’s done to her for years. You made her feel invisible and worthless, and you confirmed it yourself tonight that you prefer the easy, comfortable choice, the one that isn't scary. But Lyra isn't comfortable, she's real, and she's everything you didn't have the courage to hold on to yourself.»

«Ginny, I—» George tried, but it was useless because his sister took a step back, shaking her head.

«Don't even try. Come on, Fred,» Ginny said as she turned to leave. «We have to find her.»

And so they left, walking past their brother who remained there staring at the floor, as if searching for a way to put back together what had just been shattered.

George couldn't get the image of Lyra crossing the Great Hall to leave out of his head, thinking back to her emerald green dress brushing the floor, her tense profile and the way she avoided his gaze. They had never been officially anything, yet deep down he had always known how he felt about her from the first day he saw her on the train. He had recognised Lyra's beauty before anyone else, before they saw her dance, before those glances admired her in silence. Because when Lyra walked, smiled, or simply breathed near him, everything else lost its importance. George had always dreamed of that moment in a thousand different ways: being able to accompany her, proudly offering her his arm, silently showing her that all he wanted was to make her smile, to be the reason for that special, sweet smile she had always kept hidden from everyone except him.

But that evening, he himself had destroyed everything.

George had hoped that a glance would be enough to make her understand, to tell her, 'I'm sorry, it's still me, it's always me', but Lyra was no longer the one he could approach with half a step, with a whispered joke, with a touch of his fingers. She had chosen to protect herself, and he had seen her do it: wearing that polite smile, dancing with someone else, granting others the privilege he had had in his hands — and had not been able to cherish. He didn’t have the courage, he hadn’t been able to live up to the feeling he felt exploding inside him. He had chosen to hide behind another girl, behind smiles of convenience, for fear of ruining something precious that he couldn't even define. And now, as he watched Lyra from afar, so distant and closed off, he realised how much he had hurt her without realising it, because he hadn't understood how much she expected him to show her that she was different from all the others.

In that room full of people, he realised too late that he had hurt the person who least deserved that pain, the one he had secretly dreamed of and who, perhaps, had dreamed of him in return. He had been selfish, and a coward, and he knew it perfectly well. He wished he could go back, offer her his arm and tell her, with every gesture, with every whispered word, that she was the only choice, the one he had always wanted to make but hadn’t had the courage to make. Now, all that remained was a deafening emptiness, a sense of loss for what could have been and would never be — at least not in that way. And as George looked at Lyra, he could only hope that it wasn't too late to fix a mistake he never wanted to make.

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Astronomy Tower

10:29 pm

The music had now become distant and imperceptible, and all that could be heard were Lyra's footsteps echoing on the stone floor of the corridors in the Astronomy Tower. The echo of her heels mingled with the disordered beating of her heart, and each step seemed like a clumsy attempt to leave behind something she had not even had the courage to face. Her fingers sank slightly into the satin fabric of her dress, clutching it to lift it slightly as she climbed the steps of a secondary staircase, ignoring the fleeting glances of a few latecomers who passed her, wondering where she was going with her tense face and teary eyes. She needed air and solitude.

«Lyra! Wait!»

Fred's voice boomed behind her, and a moment later a second red figure appeared in front of her — Ginny — blocking her path with an outstretched hand. «What are you doing? Where are you going?» the redhead asked, concerned.

«Somewhere where no one thinks they know how I feel just because they look at me from afar!» Lyra snapped, pushing her aside. «And no, I'm not going back to your brother, so I kindly ask you to leave me alone if that's what you came here for!»

Fred immediately approached, still panting and clinging to the railing. «Are you running away? Seriously?»

Lyra turned abruptly, her face marked by an emotion too intense to hide. «I'm not running away. I'm just... breathing. Is that allowed?»

Ginny slowly approached her, her eyes showing a kind of respect for the girl, mixed with immense and sincere affection, and took her hand. «Of course, Lyr. But don't shut yourself off, especially tonight.»

Lyra lowered her gaze and pressed her lips together. «I can't do it, Gin,» she admitted. «It's like I've been waiting for something that never happened and never will, and I've hoped for it too much. I look at the others, and I see people who have found their place and their person, who know exactly where they belong. And then there's George, with whom I...»

Fred took a cautious step forward, an unusual gentleness in his voice. «George’s an idiot, Lyra, and we all think so. But he's not blind, he's afraid.»

Lyra slowly looked up at him, her eyes full of uncertainty and pain. «Then why was he there with someone else, Fred? Why did he spend the whole evening staring at me from afar as if he had something to say to me, and when he had the chance, he only made things worse? Because there's no justification for what he did.»

Fred ran a hand through his hair, sighing softly. «Because he's scared of how he feels about you,» he said finally, without beating around the bush. «When it comes to you, George almost forgets who he is and how to behave, how to talk, he doesn't know where to put his hands, and he's terrified of ruining everything. I've told him, Lyra, I swear I've told him a thousand times... but I can't force him to come forward if he's terrified of the idea.» Ginny nodded, looking at Lyra with deep affection, almost as if trying to comfort her without really being able to erase the sadness that surrounded her.

«He looks at you as if getting too close might make him lose everything he's ever really wanted. You're precious to him. George has never looked at anyone the way he looks at you, but the more he wants something... the more he fears destroying it. That's why he's stuck halfway: with you, he has everything to lose, darling, and that's what terrifies him more than anything else.» Ginny sighed and took both of Lyra's hands, stroking them. «Now, we're going back home tomorrow morning for a few days— I don't know if he mentioned it to you...» Lyra nodded. «We'll be back just before New Year's Eve. But if you need anything, Lyra, if you need anything at all, send an owl to one of us, and we'll be here.»

Lyra nodded again and tears rolled down her cheeks, but she smiled at them both with immense gratitude. Ginny hugged her without warning, holding her so tightly as if she wanted to protect her from everything that had been left unsaid, from every glance that had hurt her, and from every word that had been kept silent for too long. And it was there, in those small but stubborn arms, that Lyra felt something melt inside her: that knot she had had all evening. Fred approached immediately afterwards, wrapping his arms around them both; it became an awkward, slightly crooked hug, but a true, deep and silent one. Almost too sweet.

It was there, in the arms of two people who had never claimed to understand her, but who at that moment understood her better than anyone else, that Lyra felt seen. Perhaps for the first time ever.

«Please...» she whispered softly, unable to finish her sentence.

«You don't have to say anything,» Ginny whispered, gently stroking her back. «You don't have to explain to us how you feel.»

Fred nodded. «You're not alone, Selwyn.»

Lyra smiled softly through her tears. «I feel stupid...»

«Then welcome to the club,» Fred chuckled. «I'm the president, but I accept vice-presidents with a talent for elegant melodrama.»

«You're such an idiot!» whispered Lyra, laughing weakly as she wiped her tears with her hand and then patted him on the shoulder.

The air in the corridor was cold, but lighter; and in that new, almost imperceptible lightness, there was already the promise that, one way or another, she would find a way to move forward.

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Slytherin Common Room

11:52 pm

After spending more than an hour relaxing with Ginny, Fred and Daphne, Lyra and her friend returned together to the dungeons; they didn't talk much, but Daphne's little caresses and hugs helped her a lot on the way back to the dormitory. The Slytherin Common Room was shrouded in darkness when the two returned, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor, cloaks still draped over their shoulders even though it wasn't cold. The greenish light from the bottom of the lake rippled against the walls as if Hogwarts itself were breathing slowly, and in that gloomy atmosphere, the silence seemed more like a refuge than a condemnation.

Theo Nott was there, sitting on the dark leather sofa in front of the fireplace, his legs crossed and a glass of grape juice in his hand, which he was slowly twirling between his fingers. He turned as soon as he saw them enter, but said nothing. It was as if he had been waiting there for Lyra, and Daphne immediately understood that she had to go to the dormitory. He looked at her for an indeterminate amount of time, and she felt naked under that gaze — not in the trivial sense of the word, but in the deepest and most vulnerable way that exists: seen, read, understood.

«You didn't come back earlier.»

Lyra shook her head, then took off her cloak and placed it carefully on a nearby chair. Then she slowly went and sat down next to the black-haired boy, leaving a few inches between them. «I'm sorry, Theo.»

He stared at her. «For what, exactly? I don't understand.»

She looked down at her hands, which she was clasping in her lap. «For giving you false hope, even if only a little. For not being clear. And above all for accepting an invitation that I hoped would come from someone else.» Theo nodded. He didn't seem angry, just tired.

«George...» he said, and it wasn't a question.

Lyra took a slow breath. «I don't even know what I feel anymore. Really. But every time I try to look elsewhere, I come back to him. It's like when you try to read another book, but your mind always returns to the page you can't finish.»

Theo smiled slightly, a toothless, bitter and beautiful smile. «Do you know that I once thought something could happen between us again? Not necessarily right away, but with time and patience. Because I thought we were good together, despite what happened last year. And because it seemed to me that you needed someone who understood silence, and I thought I knew how to listen to it.» Lyra looked at him, and there was a lump in her throat that she couldn't swallow.

«You did. You understood me as much as you could, Theo. More than many others at a time when I needed to understand myself. It's just that I'm not whole when I try to be with someone just to fill a void.» There was a moment of silence between them, but it wasn't heavy. Then Lyra reached out and placed her hand on his arm.

«Thank you for tonight. For not asking me anything, and for making me feel safe, even if only for that hour.» Theo nodded and smiled at her, then placed his glass on the table. He turned to her, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and then smiled at her again with the kindness of someone who has decided to let go, but not to forget.

«It may be true that in many ways you are just like a Slytherin...» he whispered. «But when you choose, you choose with all your heart. And whoever you choose in the end will be lucky.»

Lyra closed her eyes for a second, letting those words sink in. Then she stood up and smiled at him before heading off to the dormitory.

«Goodnight, Theo.»

«Goodnight, Lyra.»

Chapter Text

The Burrow

December 26, 1994

The morning after the Yule Ball, the Burrow was wrapped in a quiet and peaceful atmosphere, as if the entire house had been trapped in a limbo suspended between sleep and dawn, typical of the winter mornings in December when it was cold outside — but under the blankets it was wonderfully warm and cosy, enveloped in the warmth of the house.

The sun struggled to creep through the grey clouds, tinging the windows with a pale, gentle light that barely caressed the faded, colourful walls of the Burrow, highlighting a few cracks and scratches here and there and the constantly moving photographs, like traces of memories preserved in time — occasionally waving or smiling.

The Burrow was anything but a normal house: narrow, tall and decidedly crooked, it seemed to have grown upwards somewhat casually, as if each new floor had been added out of necessity rather than logic, with smoking chimneys and sloping roofs that defied every law of physics. The chipped red bricks and creaking wooden beams told stories of generations, of laughter and confusion, of crowded dinners and hand-knitted jumpers. It was also surrounded by a large, wild garden full of free-range chickens — as well as gnomes who enjoyed wreaking havoc — while inside the house always smelled of herbs, freshly baked bread and domestic magic. in fact, the objects moved by themselves, the dishes washed themselves with no need for hands, and every corner seemed to be inhabited by a gentle little spell, ready to welcome anyone who crossed the doorway. Inside, the house was warm and lived-in, with walls decorated with enchanted photographs depicting the Weasley family laughing and waving.

The living room was, as usual, slightly messy, the fire was lit, and the worn armchairs were so comfortable that they seemed to embrace you. The kitchen was the beating heart of the house, filled with clattering utensils, floating pots and pans, and the lingering scent of something delicious that had been cooking for hours. There were piles of enchanted boots by the entrance, books scattered about, and a few garden gnomes that occasionally tried to sneak inside but were chased away by Molly with a stern but affectionate look.

Ron, Ginny and the twins had returned late the night before, amidst puffs of fireplace dust and half-closed suitcases containing only the bare essentials; and so the morning of 26 December 1994 passed slowly, punctuated by lazy footsteps and long yawns. They had all got up late and were dragging themselves around the rooms and down the stairs, their eyelids still heavy and their steps slow, wanting to sleep a little longer to stop the headache caused by the loud music, or to give their feet a rest from tight, uncomfortable shoes. Molly Weasley was the first of the family to get up shortly after dawn, and she moved quickly between pots and pans, preparing with care, attention and love what would become one of many family holiday meals. and when the children got up, she took care of the bedrooms and the sheets to be tidied, the corners to be tidied up — as if all this could compensate for the physical and emotional exhaustion of her children that she had sensed that night.

Arthur Weasley helped her as soon as he woke up, perhaps taking care of the fire in the fireplace or bringing extra wood to the back of the house. Percy was the first among the lads to come downstairs looking impeccable early in the morning, and he began reading the Daily Prophet aloud, commenting with annoyance along with his parents on new developments at the Ministry or something about the Triwizard Tournament. Next were Ron and Ginny, who continued to yawn as they dragged themselves towards the chairs, Ron still fighting sleep and Ginny wrapped in a large woollen scarf, spending most of the morning sitting in her chair, silently watching her mother prepare lunch.

Fred and George were the last to wake up and drag themselves downstairs, communicating with each other only with grunts and gestures; the first tried to crack a few jokes to liven up the atmosphere, but George remained quieter than usual, simply flashing brief smiles that did not light up his eyes.

The kitchen at the Burrow was filled with warmth and smells that brought comfort and serenity: hot soup simmered gently on the stove, filling the air with steam, sweet onions, pepper and spicy aromas that fogged up the windows, and beef stew bubbled slowly in the pot next to it, enveloping everything in a warm and inviting scent that was almost enough to awaken even the most numb spirits. On the table, laid with a tablecloth that smelled of family and memories, were carefully arranged baskets full of fresh, crusty bread, soft butter, cheese and vegetables freshly picked from the small garden at the back, even in the middle of winter. When everyone finally took their seats at the table, the warmth that lingered in the room seemed to melt away some of the fatigue that had built up over the previous days.

Molly began to serve with care and affection, moving between chairs to prepare plates full of food, while Arthur poured pumpkin juice for his children with his usual calm and patience. Everyone began to chat about this and that, and about everything that had happened at Hogwarts in recent months, including the Tournament, lessons and much more. George, however, who was sitting at the end of the table, still seemed distant. His gaze was lost on his plate, he had barely touched his food, and he was still clutching a cup of orange tea that had now lost all its warmth. Every now and then, he would slowly raise his gaze and stare at an undefined point in front of him, as if trying to find something he had lost and could no longer recover. His red hair seemed more messy than usual, and the dark shadows under his eyes hinted at a night spent tossing and turning in bed, haunted by thoughts and regrets he couldn't get out of his head.

Fred, sitting beside him, watched him out of the corner of his eye with a mixture of concern and frustration, but preferred to say nothing, aware that sometimes silence was worth more than any words in certain cases. Molly, on the other hand, couldn't ignore the silence, which was so heavy and unusual for her son, so when she walked past him to pour him some more tea, she paused for a moment and gently stroked his shoulder tenderly.

«George, honey, you need to eat something. It'll do you good.»

He looked up at his mother, attempting a smile that turned out to be more of a melancholy grimace. «I will, Mum. Don't worry.»

She said nothing more, but her gentle, understanding gaze seemed to say clearly that she had already guessed enough; and so, as lunch continued amid light chatter and brief laughter, the Burrow remained enveloped in that familiar warmth, but also in the suffused silence that George brought with him, steeped in unspoken questions and silent regrets that had only one name: Lyra. But then, it was his father's voice that woke him up a little.

«So, kids...» Arthur began with a smile. «How was this famous Yule Ball? Did it live up to your expectations?»

Fred, who still had a trace of sauce on the corners of his mouth, was the first to react. «Oh, Dad, it was like something out of a magazine! Sparkles everywhere, magical decorations hanging from the ceiling, and the music was amazing!»

Ginny giggled, stirring her plate. «Angelina looked beautiful. I don't know how Fred managed to convince her. And I had fun, not too much in the end, but it was nice.» Molly smiled as she served another spoonful of potatoes to Ron, who was muttering something about his misfortune of ending up with Padma Patil and how much he hated the waltz.

«What about you, George?» Arthur finally asked, glancing at the second twin, sitting at the end of the table, his chin resting on his palm and his gaze lost in space. «How was your evening?»

George didn't answer right away. He had stopped eating some time ago and was absent-mindedly turning peas around with his fork, almost as if they were going to reveal some great truth to him. He seemed light years away from his family, his mind clearly tangled up in thoughts that had nothing to do with lunch.

«George?» Molly intervened, this time in a more direct tone. «Are you all right, dear?»

He jumped slightly, as if he had just been brought back to reality. He sat up straight in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. «Yes... yes. Everything went well,» he replied quickly, carefully avoiding his parents' gaze. «Alin— um, Alicia, she was nice. We danced a lot.» Fred raised an eyebrow at Ginny, who responded with an eloquent grimace. Arthur smiled, albeit with a hint of hesitation.

«I'm glad to hear it, but you seem a little... distracted. Everything all right, son?»

George nodded, shrugging his shoulders. «Just a little tired, dad. That's all.»

Percy, who until then had been leafing through the paper as if it were a ministerial report, turned to his father. «It's understandable: occasions like this are demanding, with inter-school representation, etiquette...» he said haughtily, placing the paper down. «I hope at least that you behaved in a manner befitting the prestige of Hogwarts.»

Fred gave him a sharp smile. «"As befitting" as your waltz with the Ministry files, Perce.» Ron chuckled under his breath; Arthur adjusted his glasses so he wouldn't have to comment.

Molly, on the other hand, looked back at George, without losing her gentle expression. «Honey, you've only eaten a couple of bites. Would you like some more stew? Or a slice of bread?»

«Maybe later, Mum.» He looked at his plate and, not wanting to reveal too much, added, «There were lots of people. Loud music. Everything... everything was very nice.»

«Good,» Arthur interjected good-naturedly, sensing the rift and trying to steer the conversation onto broader ground. «The important thing is that you all had fun.»

Molly watched him closely for a few more seconds; like all mothers, she had that subtle intuition that allowed her to pick up on what was left unsaid. But she decided not to press the issue, at least for the moment. «All right. But if there's anything, you know...» she said gently, and George nodded. Percy, however, snapped out of it, as if he had been waiting for an opening in the conversation to slip in and get some clarification.

He turned to George, interlaced his fingers on the table and tilted his chin slightly. «So,» he said with his usual professional air. «I can also deduce that, thanks to... um, Alicia's presence, you've finally stopped thinking about that Slytherin girl? You know who I mean: I saw you a couple of times when I was escorting Mr Crouch to Hogwarts... I ran into you in the corridors, and you always seemed very... very close, that's it. I don't remember her name, but...»

George's fork clattered against his plate. He looked up slowly, his jaws clenched, and tried, unsuccessfully, to keep his voice calm. «It's none of your business, Percy,» he replied, more blunt than he intended.

Percy didn't take the hint, or pretended not to, adjusting his glasses with two fingers and continuing. «I'm just talking about opportunities, George. Sometimes the company you keep... well, it matters. A Slytherin from an old family isn't exactly the kind of person you should be seeing—»

«Cut it out, Perce,» Fred cut him off, without raising his voice. «You're not at the Ministry, and no one asked you to write a report on our brother's love life.»

Ron, with his fork suspended in mid-air, nodded vigorously. «Yeah. Maybe try writing about the soup, you'll be better at that.»

Arthur looked at each of his sons in turn, then shifted his gaze to Molly, raising an eyebrow as he tried to understand the situation. «Who are we talking about, exactly?» he asked curiously.

Molly, who until then had been keeping time with the dishes, froze with her ladle in mid-air. «Yes, really, who is it?» she asked cautiously.

Percy clicked his tongue. «An acquaintance, dear mother and father... not entirely appropriate, I suppose. At the time, I understood that—»

«Enough, Percy,» Fred repeated, more sharply. «We don’t care about what you think.»

George took a deep breath, put down his fork and clasped his hands in front of him, as if to anchor himself to the table so as not to say more than he should. «Perce, Alicia is a friend,» he said slowly, choosing his words as carefully as one chooses where to place one's feet on thin ice. «And she has nothing to do with me. And nobody cares about anything that's none of their business,» he sighed deeply. «And besides, I'm not going to stop thinking about anyone to please you or anyone else.»

Percy stretched his lips into a polite smile that felt like a warning. «George, it's not about pleasing me. It's about common sense and image. Mixing... how shall I put it... certain surnames, you know—»

«Percy!» Ginny blurted out this time, blushing with indignation. «Don't talk about people as if they were entries in an address book.»

Arthur raised a hand, peacemaker. «Come on, kids. There's no need to put on a show at the dinner table,» his gaze then fell on George, and he addressed him directly: «No one has to justify who they associate with. Especially in our house.»

Molly nodded, finally putting down her ladle and bringing George a basket of warm bread, as if that gesture could extinguish a fire. «And certainly not by using hurtful words,» she added quietly, looking at Percy just long enough.

Percy let out a small nasal sigh and straightened up. «If you feel I have overstepped the line, I apologise,» he conceded, without actually backing down. «The fact remains that certain... infatuations can distract one from—»

«From what, exactly?» Ron interrupted, tilting his head. «From being happy?»

A silence as thick as felt fell for a moment. George ran a hand over his face, trying to gather his thoughts. «There's no 'crush' for you to write down. There are people, Percy, people you care about. And when that becomes something else, only those involved have a say,» he swallowed and lowered his eyes again. «End of discussion.»

══════════════

07:37 p.m.

Molly had noticed George's absence at dinner, as well as the fact that he had been quieter than usual during the day, perhaps even too much so. She had even noticed the way he lowered his gaze, bit his lip or played nervously with his hands when someone mentioned Hogwarts or the Yule Ball: he wasn't his usual self, and she knew something had happened. When she saw him enter the kitchen with hesitant steps, his hands buried in the pockets of his nightgown, his face tense and his lips trembling, she knew that there was pain bigger than any visible wound.

George said nothing at first: he just stood there, next to the sofa where his mother was sitting sewing one of her usual jumpers, his hands still in his pockets as if they could contain the weight of his broken heart. His eyes, which were usually bright and full of life, were glossy and red. It was only when Molly approached him and touched his shoulder that the mask fell from his face.

«Mum, I...» he whispered, but before he could continue, his voice broke halfway through the word, and the tears came before he could stop them. Molly sat him down next to her, holding him in her arms with the strength that only a mother can have, resting his head on her shoulder and gently stroking his back, as if those caresses could mend the cracks that pain had carved.

«Shh... it's all right, my love... it's all right to cry. Would you like to tell me what happened? Why have you been like this since last night?» George clung to her as he hadn't done in years, perhaps since he was a child and hurt himself flying too high on an old broomstick — but this time there was no bruise on his knee or blood to stop, there was a hole in his chest.

«I... I ruined everything, Mum,» he managed to say between sobs. «I ruined everything with her. With Lyra. I didn't mean to, I swear on my life... but I did the stupidest thing in the world. And now she looks at me as if I'm nobody to her anymore. As if I really hurt her.»

Molly pulled back just enough to look at his face and understand who this girl was that her handsome son was thinking about with a heavy heart. «Tell me about her, Georgie. Tell me about Lyra, what happened between you?» George closed his eyes, as if trying to hold back the flood of tears that were spilling out.

«It's just— she's different from everyone else, mum. Not just because she's brilliant, intelligent or because she can keep up with me even when I'm being loud. It's the way she looks at me even when I don't deserve it, or the way she manages to calm me down by staying silent, or the way she laughs when I make a joke that everyone else ignores but she thinks is the funniest thing of the day. But when she caresses my face and looks at me with those sweet, deep eyes as if... Mum, to her, it's as if I'm something beautiful to remember and give lots of love to. I've never felt anything like that for a girl.»

Molly listened to him in silence, her eyes filled with the tenderness that only love for a child could bring out. «So why did you push her away, then, dear?»

The boy shook his head, rubbing his eyes angrily. «Out of fear, I guess, because I'm a coward. When I realised how important she was to me, I thought that ruining something so precious would be worse than never having it. And so, even though I love her with all my heart, and perhaps even more than I can admit, I invited Alicia to the ball. To keep Lyra away and not give her the chance to... to realise that I'm not good enough for her, that I'm not ready to give her all the love she deserves from someone.»

Molly felt sad, and her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't scold him. Instead, she took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. «You are more than enough, George. You’ve always been enough, more than you realise. But love isn’t a safe place, because it’s a jump into the void, and if you avoid it out of fear, you end up hurting yourself twice. And worse still, you also hurt the one you love.» George lowered his head, as if to protect himself from the truth.

«But do you know what the worst thing was, Mum?» he said, his voice breaking right there, on the verge of a confession that hurt even to utter. «It was that she treated me as if I were fragile and precious at the same time. One evening—one evening she was in our Common Room, and I was resting my head on her lap. She was stroking my hair and face with a calmness that I didn't think would make me feel so good and peaceful. I felt like I was in heaven, and it was as if... as if I were something she had to protect, something to hold in her hands with reverence.» Molly stared at him, motionless, as he felt the tears welling up more violently, more hotly.

«And then...»he whispered again, bringing his hands to his face and pointing to his freckles. «Then she started... counting my freckles. One by one, as if she had nothing more important to do. She traced paths, as if my face were a constellation, and she stopped here,» he said, touching the corner of his eye.

«Where a curve forms when I smile... and you should’ve seen her eyes, Mum: they looked at me as you look at something with love, and I didn't have the courage to ask her anything. And I ruined it all myself.»

At that moment, the tears burst forth with an intensity he had not allowed himself until then, and George let himself go against his mother, almost bending over double under the weight of regret. He sobbed and felt a deep knot in his throat, the knot of someone who had touched something real, something he had wanted all his life, and let it go without knowing how to behave. Molly held him tighter and stroked him; now the pain was inside, but it was harder to heal.

«She shouldn't have counted my freckles, Mum. She shouldn't have made me feel so safe in her arms, because I'm not good at keeping such beautiful things safe, I'm not used to all this.»

«Yes, you are, oh Georgie...» whispered Molly in a firm voice, and her fingers did not stop caressing him for even a second. «You were just afraid, but you can still make up for it if you're willing to throw yourself into what love is.» Arthur, who until then had been standing motionless in the doorway, lowered his gaze slightly. And in the silence that followed, George's crying seemed to fill every corner of the kitchen and every inch of the rooms nearby.

«And true courage,» he said, advancing slowly, his hands in his pockets and a thoughtful look on his face. «It's not about not being afraid, but choosing love anyway, despite everything.»

George looked at both of them, his parents, and for the first time truly understood how strong that kind of love could be, the kind that remains, unafraid of the mess, even when everything else around it seems to be falling apart.

«I thought that by doing all this, I would protect her,» he admitted. «But I realised that I only made her feel the way everyone else always made her feel: like a second choice. And that's something I'll never forgive myself for.»

Molly hugged him again, shaking her head. «Then show her she's the first and only one for you, George. Even if you say you're afraid.»

And as the moonlight began to filter through the curtains, George finally felt a little lighter, ready to put the pieces back together. Not far from the kitchen, in a corridor, Fred, Ginny and Ron stood motionless, listening to the conversation: none of them had had the courage to enter. Ginny had brought her hands to her mouth, clutching her jumper to her chest as if to hold herself together, her eyes filling with tears almost instantly. Fred stared straight ahead, as if he had just been punched in the stomach: his twin, his lifelong accomplice, was suffering for love in a way he had never seen before. Ron, on the other hand, remained silent, for once unable to find words or strange verses to say.

And when George spoke of those fingers counting his freckles, it was as if all three of them could feel that gesture on their skin — so intimate, so tender, so full of meaning that it seemed almost like a spell never spoken aloud.

«Merlin...» whispered Fred, his voice cracked and almost unrecognisable. «I've never heard him like that before.»

«Me neither,» Ginny replied softly, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

«It's like— like his heart is broken and he doesn't know where to put the pieces.» Ron ran a hand through his hair, breathing slowly. «It's not just sadness. It's like he's lost something that gave him a reason to be better.»

Fred nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the closed kitchen door. «And if he doesn't find the courage to make up for it, he'll carry that regret with him forever.»

They stood there, motionless, not daring to interrupt this moment, which was not just an outburst but a piece of truth that George had kept inside for too long. In that shared silence, they looked at each other with a silent understanding: they would do anything to help him stay grounded, so that he could learn to swim towards what he loved: Lyra Eileen Selwyn.

══════════════

Hogwarts — Great Hall

December 26th, 1994, 07:39 a.m.

At Hogwarts, that morning didn't seem to be going any better for another person.

Lyra lay motionless under the blankets of her bed, staring at the ceiling of the room with her hands intertwined on her stomach. She had just opened her eyes but didn't know if she'd really slept or not: she had spent the night with a flood of thoughts in her head, and her body felt a tiredness that was not so much due to lack of rest as to what she was feeling inside. The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of the Slytherin girls' dormitory, tinging the walls with a milky grey, as if even the sun hesitated to show itself after everything that had happened the night before.

The room was too quiet for her liking; perhaps her roommates were still asleep, or perhaps they had already gone down for breakfast, but Lyra didn't bother to check.

She ran a hand through her messy hair, letting her fingers linger for a few seconds on her temples; then, with immense effort, she sat up in bed and took a deep breath. She would get up, even though every part of her wanted to stay there that day and the rest of the holidays hidden under the covers, invisible to everyone.

She slipped on a sweatshirt that was too big for her liking — which was probably why it was in the drawer of clothes she never wore — paired with simple black jeans, and wrapped her usual green and grey House scarf around her neck before putting on her shoes. Her feet touched the cold floor, yet for the first time she didn't complain, because she was fine with it — let the world outside be colder than her, at least for a while.

The hallways of the dungeons were deserted, bathed in a cold, blueish twilight, but she expected that because the Ball surely continued well past midnight, from what she had heard from some of her roommates. As she climbed the stairs to the ground floor, she felt the moments of the previous evening come crashing down on her like a fine, annoying rain: George, his gaze, that pain in his eyes, and then the way he had spoken to her — as if it were too late to make it right.

Or as if she were already somewhere else, but she wasn't.

Not yet, at least. But it depended on how things went once the Weasleys returned to the castle; even though, inside her, the pain was too strong.

And as the outline of the Great Hall came into view at the end of the corridor, with the smell of toast and freshly brewed coffee beginning to fill her nostrils, Lyra forced herself to keep her shoulders straight and her chin up. The Great Hall was not as crowded as usual — in fact, there were still many things to clean up and tables and garlands that needed to be removed from the previous evening. Lyra scanned the people present that morning, feeling like the new girl who didn't know anyone.

But then she saw them, sitting together at a table: Hermione and Harry sitting close together and talking quietly, Blaise opposite them leaning on his palm with his eyes still half-closed, next to Daphne who had a hot chocolate and... Draco was there too, slightly lost in thought and silent, playing with his fork on his plate. Hermione was the first to notice her, and she gave her a slight nod with a smile, pointing to the seat next to her. One by one, they looked up and waved cheerfully at her. Lyra approached, puzzled but intrigued, and sat down with a half-smile between Hermione and Harry, knowing that perhaps she would not really be alone those days, and she was happy about that.

«Good morning, everyone. What a... um, unusual group I find myself in front of,» she murmured, trying to ease her tension by wrapping her scarf tightly around her neck.

«Daphne and I were thinking,» Hermione began, «That it would be good for you to have the people you always have around you close by, so... here we are.» Her voice was sweet, and for a moment Lyra allowed herself the luxury of loosening the tension in her shoulders and gave her a half-smile in return. She took off her scarf and placed it beside her, noticing that Draco had already put a steaming cup of coffee and a plate with some fruit and a generous slice of caramel and vanilla cake, her favourite, in front of her.

«Thanks, guys, but I don't want you to start a "Save Selwyn" club... there's no need for one,» she said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice, a slight smile and teary eyes as she looked at them all; and they knew that was her way of thanking them.

«No club on the near future, don't worry,» Blaise yawned, still looking sleepy. «It's just that, since you disappeared last night, we were getting worried. You can't leave us like that without warning: you're ruining us Slytherins' reputation as imperturbable people, you know?»

Draco nodded. «You know... We're all sorry about last night, and we thought you shouldn't be alone at a time like this. Not just because you're our friend, but because no one deserves to feel that way. What did you do last night?»

Lyra shrugged and looked down at her cup. «I lay awake staring at the ceiling, and it stared back at me, but it's less tragic than it sounds. I promise.»

«Anyway,» Daphne chimed in, sticking her fork into her slice of cake. «Word is that the Ball was a disaster for most of the students.»

«And for the survivors?» Draco asked distractedly, twirling his fork between his fingers.

«The ones who did well came back to the dormitories drunk enough not to remember anything,» Harry said with a chuckle, remembering Neville and his return.

«Nice life they have,» Lyra commented as she brought a forkful of cake to her mouth.

«Um... I can confirm that I had a bad night as well,» Hermione said, with an expression somewhere between amused and resigned. «Ron managed to ruin my evening just before midnight. A record, I'd say.» Lyra gazed at her empty coffee cup, her fingers tracing the edge of the handle distractedly, as a light silence slipped between them, leaving room for thoughts. Then Hermione spoke again, with her usual delicacy that she knew how to use only at the right moments.

«We know, you know? How much you cared about what you had... with George.»

Lyra looked up, surprised by that frankness, her lips curving slightly into a tired half-smile. «Had,» she repeated softly, tilting her head slightly. «Nice tense, thanks, Hermione.»

«I didn't say it was over. Just that it's... complicated right now,» her friend replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Draco and Daphne looked at each other, and the girl moved a little closer.

«Listen to me, Selwyn...» she said in a rough, sincere voice, a tone her best friend used to use with her in desperate situations to make her see reason. «He looks at you as if you were the only person in the world, and you look at him as if you were afraid he might disappear at any moment with one of his strange joke stuff.»

Blaise looked up and nodded. «It's very romantic, yes, but also quite tragic if one of you insists on not saying anything or doing anything about it.»

Lyra sighed. «It's difficult, guys. I've spent my whole life being the second choice, or the girl who was rejected because of my particular and swinging temperament and emotions. I thought he’d be different! I told myself and promised myself not to expect anything and to be satisfied with what we had, but the way he looked at me and talked to me, as if I were really special to him...» She paused for a moment to drink her coffee. «But the same thing always happened, and now I'm convinced that I'm probably not meant for love, or to be loved. And I think it's too late to fix it.»

Harry, who had remained silent until now, looked at her with those clear, sincere eyes he had inherited from his mother and shook his head slightly. «It's never too late, Lyra. If someone made you feel like you were second best, it's because they didn't have the courage to handle how special you are.« A bitter smile escaped her lips at the boy's words.

«You didn't see how he looked at me last night,» she replied, her voice trembling imperceptibly. «He seemed— he seemed like he didn't want to know anything anymore. About me, or about us.»

Hermione looked at her sternly. «Or he just seemed like a heartbroken boy who didn't know where to start to make up for the things that have happened.»

Silence returned for a moment, and Draco, who had been silent until then, cleared his throat. «Weasley’s a jerk,» he said. «But he's not stupid, and I don't think he'll let you go that easily.»

Lyra rolled her eyes and smiled at him. «Thanks for the support, Malfoy.»

Draco just shrugged, unfazed. «I don't care much about him, but I do care about you and you know it,» he said nonchalantly in front of everyone (and Lyra was shocked because he wasn’t exactly the person to do this in a typical day?), immediately returning to playing with his fork. «But don't think I'm going to fix this one, eh? I've got enough problems with my own ruined evenings...»

Everyone laughed heartily, and Lyra felt a little lighter for the first time in hours.

They stayed talking in the Great Hall for almost an hour, but their overlapping voices were suddenly interrupted by a sudden flapping of wings: a light shower of feathers fell on the tables as owls hovered above the students' heads, their talons clutching letters, parcels and fresh copies of the Daily Prophet. One owl in particular swooped down onto their table, dropping the newspaper right next to Lyra's cup with a soft splat. She stared at it for a moment, hesitant, then reached out and unrolled it slowly, while everyone else leaned in discreetly to read.

On the front page, the headline was printed in gold letters, surrounded by small moving photos of the evening's most prominent couples.

“Yule Ball: scandals, jealousy and... new couples?”

Below it, a string of images of students moving against the glittering backdrop of the Great Hall decorated for the party: Fleur Delacour smiling ethereally next to Roger Davies as they waltzed, Viktor Krum and Hermione dancing with a certain awkwardness, Cedric and Cho hand in hand. And then a blurred but clearly recognisable shot of George talking to Alicia Spinnet, his face serious, his gaze seemingly lost in the crowd; it was here that Lyra felt her stomach tighten slightly, but she said nothing and just kept reading.

Hermione leaned over, her eyes scanning the lines. «It looks like Rita Skeeter’s managed to infiltrate in the castle again... she's practically managed to get a special edition of the Gazette out overnight!» she muttered, grimacing in disgust.

«I swear, if I catch her, I'll enchant her quill and make her swallow it,» commented Daphne, sipping her chocolate carelessly. Lyra smiled slightly and continued reading. Immediately below, the tone of the article changed.

“And while the students' hearts beat to the rhythm of music... the Triwizard Tournament continues to keep us in suspense. The second task is approaching, and it seems that the waters of the Black Lake will not be merely decorative."

«Great,» Blaise snapped, stretching. «We're literally risking our lives, and Skeeter manages to turn it all into a soap opera. What more could we want?»

"Reliable sources speak of a mysterious and dangerous underwater task that will test the Champions' abilities, courage... and perhaps even their deepest affections. Hogwarts is ready to dive, literally, into the heart of the competition."

«Wonderful,» Blaise blurted out, stretching like a bored cat. «We're risking our necks and you're playing it down like a soap opera. What is it, the Lake of Murmurs?»

Lyra felt a slight shock run down her spine: the word 'waters' sounded like a bell she had heard somewhere else, in the library, when she, Hermione and Ron were trying to help Harry with the dragon's golden egg. She ran her thumb over the edge of the newspaper, her mind racing to the golden egg and that unrecognisable sound that was perhaps just waiting for the right place to be understood.

Draco clicked his tongue, his eyes cold with boredom. «Reliable sources, in Skeeter's language, means 'I eavesdropped behind a curtain,'» he said, pushing the newspaper away with two fingers as if it were contaminated. «But,» he added, glancing sideways at Harry, «if water really is involved, someone will have to find air somewhere.»

Harry stiffened beside her, his face tensing as his eyes dropped to his plate as if he wanted to sink into it. Lyra watched him and a flash of insight crossed her gaze. «You...» she whispered, passing the newspaper to the others. «You still don't understand how it works, do you?»

The boy shook his head. «Not completely,» he admitted. «But I'm working on it, I still need to figure out how to open the egg. Maybe I can ask Cedric when I see him.»

Lyra nodded and leaned on the table with her elbow, her chin on her hand, her gaze shifting between their faces. «Then we'd better get started on it. This afternoon, you and I will go to the library and take Hermione with us, all right?»

And for the first time that morning, despite everything, a subtle sense of teamwork emerged between them: the Ball was over, as were the romantic disasters — at least for the moment — while the actual Tournament was about to begin.

Chapter Text

December 26th, 1994

The cold air that afternoon seeped annoyingly through the folds of the students' coats and scarves, turning every breath from their half-open mouths into clouds of condensed breath in the air. The sky was a milky gray color typical of winter and very cloudy, and the snow-covered ground of the park crunched slightly underfoot due to the frost covering the grass and stones. Under the long wooden canopy near the park, the silence was thicker and was broken only by the faint sound of the wind slipping through the leafless branches and beams.

Lyra walked alongside Harry, her hands buried in the pockets of her black coat; they strolled without hurry, and every now and then their gaze turned between the castle rising in the distance and the landscape that surrounded them. Harry had picked her up at the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room, with the excuse of wanting to get some fresh air in company — or so he had told her —a nd then taken her for a walk along the path that led to the arbor near the park. He too had his hands in his pockets and a red and gold scarf hanging crookedly from his shoulders, his eyes lost in staring at an undefined point in front of them; his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, his mouth pulled into a thin line, and everything about the way he walked seemed to speak of tiredness and heavy thoughts buzzing around his mind — something Lyra understood perfectly.

«Sometimes I miss spring, when the weather is like this…» Lyra murmured, a shiver running down her spine from the cold.

Harry turned to her and nodded. «Me too, honestly. Then I remember that in two months there's gonna be the Second Task, and I'd rather stay in this moment, you know?»

«Are you so pleased to remind me of that?» she asked ironically, but with a slight hint of nervousness that she couldn’t hide when talking about the tournament. «I was doing my best not to think about it, but if you want to talk about it, Harry…» 

Harry smiled, adjusting his scarf around his neck. «I just wanted to know if you were ready to be my advisor like last time! I need it,» he said, rolling his eyes and laughing. «I promise you, um... weekly supplies of those chocolate brownies from last night.»

Lyra stared at him. «Oh yeah? And who says I actually liked them?»

«You went back to the dessert table at least three times, and you usually don't even touch anything at lunch or dinner that doesn't involve chocolate, vanilla, or caramel, or brownies.»

«Wait— Excuse me? Well, you caught me red-handed, Harry,» Lyra murmured, lowering her gaze and smiling. «Those brownies were delicious, they remind me of home. They're one of my favorite desserts, one of the only I actually eat.» 

Harry laughed. «I like them a lot too, especially when they're warm and slightly crispy around the edges.»

«I prefer the squares in the middle because they're softer,» she admitted. «And since we're confessing... I prefer simple desserts, without weird frostings or sprinkles that crunch between your teeth. Simplicity is more tasteful and delicious when it comes to sweets.»

«Yeah, agreed,» Harry replied, laughing. «It amazes me that we have such similar tastes.»

«Yes, me too, but I hope we never fight over the last piece of a dessert we both like.»

«Anyway... I wrote to Sirius a few days ago. My godfather, remember?» he said with a sigh after a few minutes of silence.

Lyra stopped just behind him and stared at him. «And? What did you say to him?» she tried to keep her tone indifferent, but her large green eyes betrayed her apparent indifference with curiosity and a note of concern that never went away, which only a few could notice. Harry stopped in front of her, his gaze shifting between the worn wooden planks of the shed.

«I talked to him... I told him how things are going here at Hogwarts. The tournament, my thoughts, and I also told him about you,» he murmured, lowering his head and scratching the back of his neck. «And he replied this morning, and between the lines he told me he'd heard about you.»

Lyra raised an eyebrow, surprised. «Really? But— I mean, what did he say about me?»

«Wait, you're always in such a hurry to get things under control,» he said, nudging her gently in the side and smiling. «We'll get there. Are you feeling better than you did at breakfast this morning? Be honest, though.»

Lyra wrapped her scarf a little tighter around her neck. «Right now? Better than this morning, but worse than tomorrow. I have a list of things I don't want to think about, including the Ball, and a list of desserts I want to try before the holidays are over,» she said with a half-smile. «In order: avoid drama, avoid my thoughts, and face winter. And get at least three more brownies as soon as possible.»

«We can make it four,» Harry suggested. «That's two each, and maybe some hot tea.»

She snorted with laughter and nodded. «Deal. How about you? How are you, besides wanting to freeze the time in December?»

Harry thought about it for a second. «I'm tired of everything, Lyra. I always feel stressed, I have a thousand thoughts in my head, and it's like I have to pay attention every second to where I walk and what I do. But...» he looked at the lake in the distance, a sheet of lead under the sky. «Being here right now helps. Being with you helps: you manage to calm me down without even trying, it’s a strange feeling but… I appreciate it. And you, of course.»

They walked a few more meters to a bench under the arbor, and the faint smell of smoke wafted from Hagrid's hut; somewhere, owls could be heard flapping their wings. Lyra sat down, rubbing her palms on her frozen knees; Harry stood for a moment, then sat down beside her and rested his head on her shoulder, pulling a crumpled envelope from the inside pocket of his cloak, yellowed at the edges from the journey—Sirius' letter.

Flashback — December 22nd, 1994

Gryffindor Dormitory, late at night

The dormitory was enveloped in the muffled silence of the night, broken only by the soft ticking of the wind against the windows and the low crackling of the fire still burning in the common room fireplace downstairs, as well as the breathing of his roommates. Dean snored intermittently, Seamus tossed and turned under the covers, muttering words, and the lamp on the desk where Harry had settled cast a warm, flickering circle that made the ink in the bottle and the worn spines of the textbooks glisten. His gaze was lost on the still almost empty parchment in front of him; he had paused for a few seconds to figure out what to write to Sirius Black, his godfather. Although fatigue weighed on him more than usual—and you could tell by the way he rubbed his eyes—he felt the need to update him, and he resumed writing.

"Dear Padfoot,

I hope you are well, or at least as well as can be expected, wherever you are now. 

Things here at Hogwarts are complicated: the surrounding countryside is beautiful with snow (as always), and this year, with students from other schools, the castle seems bigger and more alive. Inside my head, however, it's different... I'm writing to you because the Triwizard Tournament is weighing on me more and more every day, more than I imagined. Of course, Ron and I have cleared things up, thankfully, but I feel angry, confused, and... tired. Sometimes I wish people around me and in the corridors would stop talking, or staring at me, or asking me how I feel all the time. I wish I could enjoy the Tournament from the outside and not be one of the Champions myself. I wish I could just be a normal 14-year-old!

I thought about you a lot before writing to you, about what you would say or advise me if you were here. Maybe you would drag me away from the castle just to let me breathe a little without everyone watching me, if you could. I know you miss your freedom, I can tell from your letters; yet you are the only one who understands what it means to feel imprisoned even when you are free."

Harry sighed. He wanted to end the letter there, but there was still one thought in his mind that he had been unable to ignore for some time. 

"At least I know I'm not alone. Hermione is amazing as always, and things have calmed down with Ron. And then there's Lyra Selwyn... I don't think I've ever told you about her, I mean, I've never mentioned her name clearly. I know her name might not mean much to you, or maybe it does? She helps me more than almost anyone else, and she's really smart and cunning, and she always tells it straight, and I'm happy about that. She's a smart girl for my age. Did you know we share the same birthday? It makes me laugh, honestly. Anyway, it seems like everyone knows bits and pieces of her story, but no one ever puts it all together, you know? Like... you know when you meet someone and you get the feeling that everyone knows them, even though you still have to figure out their story?

However, I trust her a lot, maybe too much, considering she's a Slytherin and a great friend of Malfoy and his group, but there's something about her that puts me at ease, and I know she's always there for me and understands me without me having to explain everything!

But I always try not to make her angry... believe me, Sirius, she's worse than Hermione when it comes to keeping you in line.

I hope to hear from you soon!

Yours, H."

Harry reread it in one breath, letting the words resonate in his chest, then put down the quill. The lamp gave a little jolt, casting the shadow of his hand onto the parchment; outside, a gust of wind blew a tuft of snow off the windowsill. He carefully folded the letter, sealed it with a touch of warm wax, and wrote “To Padfoot” in slower handwriting than usual. He paused for a moment, his fingers on the edge, as if the parchment could give him an immediate answer. It didn't come, but his breathing seemed more regular. The next morning, at dawn, he would hand it to Hedwig; he blew out the lamp, slipped under the cold covers, and stared into the darkness where the words, at last, made a little less noise.

Flashback — December 26th, 1994

Gryffindor Common Room, after breakfast

Harry had just returned from the Great Hall with Hermione, and they were both sitting on one of the sofas in front of the unlit fireplace. She was leafing through a book distractedly, while he was watching the snow falling slowly outside the window — but then a noise made them jump. Hedwig had flown in through a side window of the tower, and in her talons she held a rolled-up parchment sealed with a seal that Harry knew well: it was from Sirius. He took the parchment, unrolled it, and together with Hermione began to read.

"Harry,

I'm glad you wrote to me. You don't know how much it means to me to hear from you every now and then. First of all, don't worry about the people in the corridors, let them talk. You got into this mess without intending to, but you're smarter than you think, and you prove it every day. The Triwizard Tournament is dangerous, Harry, but you're doing your best despite everything, and I'm proud of you.

As for the girl... Lyra. The name is familiar to me, perhaps I heard it years ago or maybe someone mentioned it to me — I can't say for sure. Let's just say that in our world there are so many connections and intertwined stories that you couldn't imagine, people are much more than their family trees.

But if I'm right, and if your instincts tell you to trust her, then you're right to do so. In any case, it's clear from what you say that she helps you and is close to you, and if she helps you deal with all this, I can't help but be grateful to her, even though I don't know her personally.

You asked me if things are calm... and the answer is no, not entirely yet. But don't worry about me, think about what you have to do. Also remember that there are secrets that will come out sooner or later, Harry. But until then, trust the right people.

I always think of you,

S."

End of Flashbacks

«See? He said he thinks he knows you, but he's not sure,» Harry said, lowering his head with a half-smile. «And if you are who he thinks you are, then you'll be a great help to me... oh, and he told me not to make you angry.» 

Lyra stared at him for a moment, somewhat surprised, and then burst out laughing at the last sentence. «What wise advice... he's right, watch out, Potter!» she said, resting her head on his, which was still leaning on hers. «But how does Sirius know about me, exactly? Why would he—»

She couldn't finish her sentence because a voice behind them interrupted them almost abruptly: it was Cedric Diggory running towards them, his yellow and black scarf fluttering.

«Harry!» he said, waving his hand. «I've been looking for you for a while. Can I talk to you for a second? It's about the... Tournament.» Harry hesitated for a moment, then looked at Lyra with an apologetic smile. 

«Do you mind...?» Lyra shook her head slightly, raising a hand. 

«Go on, Champion,» she said ironically. «I think I'll go back to the Common Room, I'm freezing! See you around, Harry... Diggory...»

She smiled at them both and turned in the opposite direction to return to the castle. She turned one last time to see Harry walking away with Cedric along the path and stood still for a few seconds, her head still full of the question she hadn't had time to ask.

How did Sirius Black know her?

══════════════

The afternoon of the following day passed slowly in the Slytherin Common Room, where the green light from the bottom of the black lake reflected off the stone walls, creating an atmosphere so unique that it could only be found underground. There weren't many people scattered around the sofas and tables, but those who were there were busy chatting quietly, reading a book, or writing formulas on parchment. 

Or at least, everyone was busy doing something except for one person in particular.

Lyra was sitting in one of the armchairs near a table with Daphne and Blaise, with a Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook open on her lap and her gaze lost for quite some time in its pages; Daphne, on the other hand, was slumped with her elbows resting on the table, a Charms textbook open in front of her and a quill pen twirling between her fingers, while Blaise, sitting on a stool, watched them both with his usual lazy air.

«You've been reading the same page for ages, Selwyn,» he finally muttered, tilting his head. «I don't think advanced protection against dark spells is really that interesting, or maybe the page is staring at your beauty?»

Lyra barely looked up from the pages, as if she’d just woken up from a daydream. «I'm studying, unlike you,» she replied quietly, but her tone betrayed her obvious distraction. 

Daphne leaned forward slightly. «But if I ask you to explain what the chapter is about and you mention that boy, I swear I'll rip the book out of your hand and hit you over the head with it!»

Everyone burst out laughing, but Lyra then closed the book and stared at the walls, which still had some Christmas decorations on them. «Luckily, not everything revolves around George Weasley, you know?»

And it was true: even though her thoughts had returned to that Christmas Eve for a moment, there was something else on her mind that afternoon. Harry's words about Sirius kept running through her mind. 

«Lyra,» Daphne continued, in a softer tone. «I know you're good at pretending, but it's obvious that your mind is elsewhere.»

Lyra nodded without looking up as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, because her friend was absolutely right. She was thinking about what Harry had told her the day before about Sirius and the question that was buzzing around her head; she was thinking about George and how much she missed him every time someone mentioned his name. But worse than that, she was thinking about that very morning when Harry had whispered to her after breakfast that he was going to the Prefects' bathroom on the fifth floor with the egg that evening and would update her. She hadn't even had time to reply.

Blaise touched her shoulder. «Lyr... what's wrong? I can see it's not about George this time. If you want to talk about it, we're here to listen.» Lyra looked down at her book and bit the inside of her cheek, an old habit she had when she was nervous or thoughtful: she couldn't talk openly about Sirius or the tournament, let alone the sleepless nights she had spent awake thinking about who he really was and everything that had happened to her recently.

«I know, guys, and I appreciate it,» she murmured. «It's just that it's... complicated, and I'm tired. I have too much on my mind, and I don't want to talk about it right now, if you don't mind! I think I'll fix the trunk and my side of the room, because it looks like some cannons have exploded.»

The door closed behind her with a slight creak, and the absolute silence of the room, which she liked so much, welcomed her. She calmly approached her bed and sighed when she saw how much she had to tidy up. No matter how hard she tried to stay organised, it was often as if, after any negative event, her head went into a tailspin and disorder took over — as a reflection of what she was feeling inside — even though she remembered perfectly well where everything was in that mess: every sheet of paper, every jumper, everything.

So, it was only apparent disorder, but it was annoying, and tidying it up at that moment seemed like a way for her to take charge of the day and have some control over her life. 

She rolled her eyes in resignation, knelt in front of the trunk before moving on to the unmade bed sheets, and her fingers began to mechanically gather jumpers, jeans, sweaters, everything, without thinking about how they came to be there. And no matter how bored she was, the seconds passed more and more slowly, and the more she felt an annoying restlessness inside her that prevented her from concentrating and would only make her throw herself into bed without getting anything done. Her mind kept returning to Sirius, to Harry, to that absurd feeling that the whole world knew more about her existence than she did; and of course she also thought about George and what had happened. She pressed her lips together, and as her eyes slid over the piles of clothes still to be sorted and the books scattered at random, she murmured, «I just want to get everything in place right away.» 

And it was at that moment that the impossible happened.

Almost without realising it, a slight burning sensation spread rapidly under her left shoulder blade, in that annoying area where she had a scar that occasionally emitted painful and inexplicable twinges that she had learned to ignore.

Only this time, along with the burning sensation, came the strange feeling that the world around her was slowing down and that she was the only one able to move at what she considered to be normal speed: the pendulum of the clock in the room lengthened its tick, the rustling of the curtains unravelled into separate threads, and even the dust remained suspended in mid-air like small sleeping constellations. She, on the other hand, was not, because she was like the only living thing in a motionless painting.

It was as if she had slipped through the cracks of time: every gesture generated a sigh of air, and Lyra saw the details of every object with an almost painful clarity and slowness: the thread pulled up on a cuff, a crescent-shaped ink stain on the edge of the notebook, a speck of dust stuck in the filigree of the brooch — and, at the same time, the overall view of the room recomposing itself like a painting put back in its frame. Her hands moved and folded, picked up and put down, and each object seemed to know where to go, as if the whole world were just waiting for that click to return to its rightful place.

Her hands moved around the clothes and books normally, or so it seemed to her, except for the way they left a slight white trail behind them that appeared and then dissolved every time she moved; she wasn't sure she remembered how it had happened, and she wasn't sure she had really done it. Her initial thought had been simply to move and hurry to tidy up, and her body had obeyed efficiently.

Yet immediately afterwards, in the blink of an eye, all the chaos around her had been halved: almost everything had been arranged in an unreal order, as if all the elves had tidied the room in less than a second. 

«What the...?» she whispered, looking around, her breathing quickening as she tried to make sense of what had just happened; she couldn't understand or explain what she had done, and that alarmed her. She stood up, trying to recall that moment and how it had happened; then she took a deep breath and tried to concentrate, closing her eyes.

But nothing happened.

The world and time remained still and normal, and only her heart was beating too fast in her chest and she was left with a slight familiar burning sensation in her shoulder, but nothing more. She sighed and bit her lower lip, and finished adjusting the rest calmly, thinking about what had happened.

She knew she couldn't tell anyone about any of this, except perhaps her parents, even if they wouldn't take it very well; or perhaps Dumbledore? But it was a tempting and foolish thought on her part: showing up in his office with a story about time slowing down and white trails — he might think she was crazy, she thought.

Her thoughts stopped, however, when, while adjusting the folds of the sheets, she saw something: it was a small black box with green and silver stickers, protruding slightly from under the pillow. She recognised it immediately, and her heart skipped a beat because she knew what it contained, even though she would have denied to her dying breath that she had filled it almost entirely with memories of the previous three months with a particular person.

George.

It was a box he had given her a few days after they met, and at first it contained only vanilla candies, soft and very sweet, which she had eaten almost immediately — even though she initially thought they were a strange joke by Fred and George (but fortunately she was still alive), and from then on it became a sort of pocket archive. She opened it by removing the bow, and the various notes and photos fell out as if they were happy to have finally been freed. She sighed and began to read them one by one, tears welling up in her eyes and then rolling down her cheeks, despite the big smile that had formed on her lips.

“The next time I see you walking like that in the corridors, I won't be responsible for the consequences,” read one of the most recent notes, signed with a crooked G and a small star drawn next to it, and Lyra chuckled softly as she remembered the looks George gave her that time as she walked past the library. Or another that said, “I don't know what's worse, Selwyn: the way you look at me when you think I don't notice, or the way I look at you knowing I can't stop :)”

“Today I humiliated myself in Potions because of you. Can you stop smelling so damn good? At least that way I can try to concentrate.” Lyra laughed heartily and remembered the way Daphne had looked at her when she glanced at it, and then asked her to tell her what had happened in the sixth-year classroom and why a boy was so obsessed with her perfume. As well as one of the first notes he left her: “Next time you forget a book at the Gryffindor table... I'll keep it. Or maybe just to have an excuse to see you again. I haven't decided yet. G”

Lyra sat up straighter on the bed, her legs crossed and her fingers clutching one of the only photographs George had taken of her alone, and perhaps a little too close to the lens. It was a small close-up of her face seen from too near, with her brown hair slightly messy (whose fault if not George's?) falling over her face, her eyes fixed on the lens... and a part of her face that Lyra had always hidden since she entered Hogwarts: the freckles, so tiny and light, that had always been there on her cheeks and nose; but she had always stubbornly concealed them with a thin line of concealer. 

But on that particular day, George had played a joke on her: with a trivial spell used for fun, he ended up exposing what she was hiding in that area of her face. She looked down at the back of the photo and read those few sentences as if for the first time, as if they took her breath away. 

“Stop hiding your freckles, Selwyn. Next time, you don't have to use concealer, I think they're perfect just the way they are. And if you give me enough time to look at them, I might memorise them... I've seen them now anyway.”

Lyra closed her eyes for a moment, pressing the moving card against her chest. A small smile appeared on her lips, and then she bent down to the bedside table next to the bed in search of the mirror she always kept there next to her books. She opened it with a click, and the reflection showed her the image of a girl who was probably too tired, with bright, clear eyes and pale skin after nights that were too long and full of thoughts; then, with slow movements, she removed the veil of concealer that she had continued to apply anyway, and then she noticed them: small, imperfect amber spots dotted her cheeks and a little on her nose. She stared at them for a long time and almost began to count them, and perhaps for the first time it occurred to her not to cover them up anymore.

Her eyes moved back to the note and the thought that crossed her mind was inevitable and all too simple: how could he see all these facets of her more than she could see them herself? And why did he care so much about pointing them out to her? 

She bit her lower lip, and another smile escaped her. And as she put the note down, something light and almost dangerous slipped into her thoughts: despite everything, George Weasley was becoming the only person who could make her feel less invisible than she was trying to be. Even though everything between them seemed to be over now. She decided to rearrange the notes scattered on the bed in an order that only she could understand, and as she was about to put them in the box, she found that note. It wasn't enough for her to fold it, because she had even tucked it into the bottom of the box so that she wouldn't think about it if everything between them went wrong, or perhaps it was there as if it wanted to be read only at the end. Lyra couldn't even remember what it said.

“Whether you like it or not, Lyra... one day you may admit (and not pretend otherwise) that we are a disaster. And you will admit that we are your favourite disaster, as I believe. Always yours, George.”

For a moment, her breath caught in her throat, because that sentence struck her like a blow to the chest. She felt her heart skip a beat, then two, then three, as an uncomfortable knot formed in her stomach; but her face flushed with a blush she couldn't control — and for which the boy would tease her about how it was his favourite shade of red. Her fingers trembled slightly as she caressed the writing so familiar to her, while her mind raced back to all the times she had pretended not to hear, not to understand or not to want to see what was happening between them.

They were a disaster from the moment they met in the train compartment on September 1st, 1994: she with her defences stronger than armour, her secrets and her pride; he with his intrusive and natural way of making her feel vulnerable, but with his fears of not being good enough and of not being able to show how intensely he felt, which frightened him first.

They were a mess of emotions, tension, and unspoken words, but they had always pretended not to see it. Her smile grew wider as she reread those two words, “always yours”: two banal, ridiculous, common, almost childish words; yet written by him, they frightened her more than any spell, glance, or anything else he had said or written to her in the past months. Because after all, behind the cheeky smiles, jokes and theatrics, George Weasley was not one to use words randomly. There was always an unsettling sincerity that could not be ignored; he had his own way of showing things, as if one had to read between the lines to understand the meaning of his actions and words. 

But what frightened Lyra most was not so much the “yours” as the “always”: a damn, cheeky ‘always’ that he had put there, black on white, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and as if it had been clear to him for a long time what she did not even dare to say out loud. 

And Lyra wasn't used to this kind of certainty, she had never had it. 

She had always been good at running away from everything, from every feeling and every complication; but perhaps she was realising that she couldn't run away from him. And perhaps, deep down in her heart, she hoped that there would be a confrontation after the Ball; as much as it hurt her, and as much as she was willing to give people a chance, she still had a glimmer of hope. 

But she would take it slowly. 

And even when she returned to her room after dinner that evening, she continued to think about the note she had hidden in her pyjamas that afternoon to avoid losing it or letting others see it; and under the covers, she read it thousands of times.

At the Burrow, however, the evening of 27 December seemed to have a different atmosphere. The house was a flurry of trunks and rucksacks being opened and closed, piles of clothes and objects scattered everywhere in the rooms, while the warm smell of wood in the fireplace and wool mingled with the smell of Molly's caramel and cream cake, which was still cooling in the kitchen. It was the usual pre-departure chaos of the Weasleys who were still at Hogwarts, filling the house with chatter and cheerful laughter that filled every room. 

These were the final preparations, because the next day, immediately after family lunch, they would return to the castle. Everyone was delighted, except for one person.

George was leaning against the doorframe of the room he had always shared with Fred, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze lost among the things piled on the bed: clothes, cloaks, books and the red and gold scarf. His mind, however, was elsewhere: with Lyra.

The scent of lavender and vanilla came back to him like a warm, cruel wave, the feeling of her fingers in his hair as he pretended to be asleep, the line of freckles she counted with her index finger as if she were learning a map. Above all, he saw again the moment when Lyra had turned around in the Great Hall, telling him that perhaps he had really lost everything... those words that, to this day, still took his breath away. He still felt like the coward who chooses the easy way, the hand that takes the wrong path for fear of losing the only right one. He thought of everything he hadn't told her: that silence with her wasn't emptiness but home, that every joke was a way to stay, that his fear didn't come from not feeling good enough, but from realising he wanted to be everything. And if he had tried to talk to her right away, he would only have made things worse—he knew that. But the time to run away was over. When he returned, he would have to find words as precise as spells, as simple as truth.

Fred walked past him dragging a trunk and looked at him. «Do you need help or do you need a kick?» he asked with his usual irony. «What's wrong? You're standing there as if you're leaving for Azkaban tomorrow.»

George gave a tired smile but didn't reply immediately. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his eyes downcast and his hands nervously intertwined. «Fred... do you think...» he began slowly, his voice lower than usual, almost uncertain, «Do you think that when you really care about someone, you have to let them go if you think it's the not right thing to do? Or should you take a risk and hold on to them even if you're afraid of hurting them?»

«You're talking about Lyra, aren't you?» he asked, sitting down nearby. George nodded slowly, his eyes downcast. 

«I don't know what to do!» he admitted after a while, biting his lip. «I mean, I know what I want: I want her close to me. But I don't know if it's right for her—or rather, if I'm right for her. When I don't think too deeply about Lyra and me, it's easy because I think about how much she makes me laugh, how she calms me down, how she messes with my heart and how much I want her to be mine... but when I start to think about my character, my insecurities, my fear of not being good enough. Freddie, what if I'm not the right guy for her?»

Fred sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. «Georgie, no one can be sure that you won't hurt her, or that she won't hurt you. We're teenagers, we still have to grow up and understand each other... but if you try to stay away from her to protect her, you'll end up hurting her even more, and yourself too. And I know you wouldn't want that to happen.» He was about to add something else when the door opened and Arthur came in, looking at them with his usual calm and patient gaze that could read every expression.

«Everything okay, boys?» he asked, but paused for a moment when he saw the seriousness in their eyes. Then he sat down on the chair next to the bed. «Relationship problems?»

George sighed, lowering his gaze, but it was Fred who replied with a hint of a smile. «Him more than me, dad. I'd say the right word is: existential confusion.»

Arthur smiled slightly, then turned directly to George. «When it comes to love, there’s no right choice that applies to everyone. Everyone has their own way of being, and the only thing I've learned over the years is that you have to be honest with yourself and with her. If you love her... and if you're ready to grow together, even if you make mistakes... then give it a try.» He looked at him with those kind eyes and sighed. «Running away for fear of hurting her... often ends up hurting her even more.»

George was silent for a moment, then nodded slightly. «Thanks,» he murmured.

Fred stood up, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. «The hard part isn't understanding it, dear brother, but accepting that you're already in it up to your neck. And you're really cooked.»

George let out a laugh, and a tired but genuine smile escaped his lips. And while outside the suitcases were being closed and the fireplace crackled, a light silence fell in the room, full of questions but also of first, small certainties.

That night, both of them stayed awake longer than they should have, lost in the thoughts that enter their minds when the rest of the world goes to sleep and all that remains is to come to terms with what they really feel. Lyra lay on her dormitory bed with the light filtering through the lake and silence around her; and right under her pillow she still kept that note written by George, whose words continued to echo in her head as if the boy himself were saying them to her. Hundreds of miles away, in the dim light of the Burrow, George was also lying in bed under heavy blankets, staring at the sloping ceiling of the attic. He couldn't stop thinking about Lyra and all the courage he had lost along the way recently, and as he fell asleep, his lips curved into a tired smile. And the last thing he thought was that he would do everything he could not to lose her, how he would find a way in the midst of this mess to repair the pieces and build something real. Even if it took time, and even if she probably wouldn't make it easy for him.

══════════════

December 28th, 1994

Hogsmeade — 03:23 p.m.

Snow enveloped the village of Hogsmeade, transforming it into a white canvas where only the smoking chimneys and warm lights in the windows seemed to remind one of life. There weren't many people out at that hour, so the streets were deserted, due to the cold that crept into their clothes so sharply and annoyingly that the air stung their cheeks and almost turned their noses red.

George walked slowly and wearily behind his brothers along the snow-covered path leading to the castle; they had arrived just a few minutes earlier through one of the fireplaces kindly opened by other refreshment points for travelling students. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his heavy cloak and his red and gold scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, covering half his face — but that didn't stop his breath from condensing into little clouds in front of him. 

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost failed to notice a familiar face in the distance; but almost by chance, when he finally recognised her, his heart skipped a beat: Lyra Eileen Selwyn. 

She was alone, standing in front of the entrance to a small café tucked away on the corner of a side street; he knew perfectly well that this was Lyra's favourite place during the winter. The girl was wearing a dark coat that she had tied tightly around her waist to ward off the excessive cold, her hands tucked into her pockets, her long brown hair falling softly below her shoulders and swaying in the icy wind — which was indeed making her shiver a little. She seemed to be hesitantly looking at the wooden door and did not notice George or his other brothers before entering and disappearing from view. 

George slowed his pace, letting Fred and the others continue ahead without him, almost unaware that he had stopped. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to head for the small café, his heart pounding furiously in his throat.

«I'll meet you in the Common Room in a minute, I need to pick something up...» he said aloud, more to convince himself than his brothers, who were now far away, and who nodded slightly.

Then he crossed the street in a few steps and threw open the door of the small café.