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Diagon Alley was busy that afternoon. The narrow, crooked street was filled with witches and wizards preparing for the coming school year. Cauldrons clattered behind shop windows. Owls called from their cages. Children moved between their parents, some excited, others overwhelmed by the noise and colour of the wizarding world. Among them stood a girl with pale blonde hair. Lyra Malfoy stood on a small wooden platform inside Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, perfectly still while the shopkeeper measured the length of her robes. She did not fidget. She did not complain. She had been taught better. A Malfoy was expected to possess composure. Even at eleven. Her long blonde hair fell neatly around her shoulders, almost untouched by the summer heat outside.
Her expression remained calm as Madam Malkin adjusted the black fabric around her shoulders and pinned the hem. "Hold still, dear." Lyra Malfoy barely moved. "Of course." Her voice was soft. Controlled. There was already something practiced about the way she spoke. Something inherited. Madam Malkin smiled faintly before returning to her work. "Hogwarts robes are always a little awkward at first. You'll grow into them quickly." Lyra Malfoy looked at herself in the tall mirror beside the platform. Black robes. Silver-green lining. The beginning of a new life. Hogwarts. She had heard about it since she could remember. The castle. The four houses. The Great Hall. The professors. The traditions. And, most importantly, Slytherin. There had never really been another possibility.
Her family had made that clear. The Malfoys had been sorted into Slytherin for generations. Her father had been. Her mother had been. The name itself seemed almost inseparable from the green and silver colours. She had no intention of being the first to break that tradition. She looked at her reflection again. A Malfoy. That was what she was. It was more than a surname. It was an expectation. A reputation. A responsibility. Her father had made certain she understood that. Her mother had, too. Not through long speeches. The Malfoys rarely needed them. A glance was often enough. A correction delivered quietly. A reminder of who they were. Who they associated with. Who they did not. What they valued. What they avoided.
Lyra Malfoy had learned early that the wizarding world was not a place where everyone stood on equal ground. Some families mattered more than others. Some names carried weight. And the Malfoy name carried plenty. She remembered her father's voice from earlier that morning. Remember who you are. She had answered without hesitation. I'm a Malfoy. She had believed it completely. At least, she thought she did. Madam Malkin finished the final adjustment. "There we are." Lyra Malfoy stepped down from the platform. She looked at herself once more. The robes fitted perfectly. Of course they did. Everything about the day had been carefully arranged. Her books would be collected. Her wand would be chosen. Her school things would be purchased. And soon, she would finally see Hogwarts for herself.
She reached for the edge of her sleeve and adjusted it slightly. Perfect. Outside, the bell above the shop door rang. She barely looked up. Another customer. Another first-year. Another child preparing for Hogwarts. Nothing unusual. Until the boy walked inside. He was small. Smaller than she expected. His black hair was untidy, as though someone had attempted to comb it and had given up halfway through. Round glasses rested on his nose. His clothes looked old. Far too large in some places. Far too worn in others. She glanced at him once. Then again. Something about him seemed familiar. Not his face. His name. She didn't know it yet. The boy walked toward Madam Malkin, looking around the shop with the unmistakable expression of someone seeing almost everything for the first time.
Lyra watched him quietly. He didn't look like someone from an old wizarding family. He certainly didn't look like someone important. And yet there was something strange about him. Something she couldn't immediately place. Madam Malkin greeted him warmly. "Hogwarts too?" The boy nodded. "Yes." Lyra Malfoy's attention returned to the mirror. She had no reason to care. He was simply another first-year. Another stranger. Another child who would soon discover that Hogwarts had rules. And that those rules mattered. She folded her arms. Then she heard Madam Malkin ask the boy about his school robes. The boy answered politely. Lyra looked over again. He seemed nervous. Not frightened. Just overwhelmed. She almost smiled. Almost. Then the boy turned slightly. Their eyes met through the mirror.
For a brief moment, neither spoke. She looked away first. She told herself it was because she had no reason to stare. That was all. She had never seen him before. She didn't know his name. She didn't know his family. She didn't know anything about him. And yet, somehow, she had the strange feeling that she would. Soon. Very soon. The boy turned back toward Madam Malkin. Lyra remained beside the mirror. Still. Composed. A Malfoy. And somewhere beyond the shop window, Diagon Alley continued to move. Neither of them knew it yet. But the boy who had just walked through that door was about to become the one person she would spend years pretending not to care about. The bell above the door rang. Lyra looked toward the entrance.
The boy who stepped inside did not look like anyone she had expected to see. He was small. Smaller than Lyra, at least. His black hair was untidy in a way that suggested it had never once obeyed a comb. Round glasses rested on his nose, slightly crooked, and behind them were green eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. His clothes were strange. Not wizarding clothes. Muggle clothes. They looked old and much too large for him, as though they had belonged to someone else before they had belonged to him. Lyra watched silently. The boy stopped just inside the shop. For a moment, he simply stared. At the robes. At the witches and wizards. At the shelves. At the strange and unfamiliar world surrounding him. He looked as though he had stepped into a place he had only ever imagined.
Lyra knew that feeling. Not the feeling of being new to magic. She had never known what it was like to live without it. But she knew what it meant to enter a room and understand, immediately, that everyone expected something from a Malfoy. She straightened slightly on the stool. The boy looked around again. Then his eyes met hers. Lyra did not look away. Neither did he. There was something peculiar about that. Most children looked away when Lyra stared at them. Adults sometimes did too. Her father had taught her that a Malfoy's gaze was not something to be wasted. It was supposed to make people uncomfortable. This boy, however, merely looked curious. Not frightened. Not impressed. Curious. Lyra tilted her head almost imperceptibly.
The boy's eyes moved briefly to her pale hair before returning to her face. Then Madam Malkin spoke to him. He climbed onto the stool beside Lyra. Only a few feet separated them now. Lyra glanced at him again. He looked even stranger from closer. There was a small scar on his forehead. She noticed it because it was difficult not to. A thin, lightning-shaped mark. Lyra stared at it for a moment. The boy noticed. She looked away. She had been taught better than to stare. Besides, she had more interesting things to think about. Hogwarts. Her robes. Her house. Her father had told her enough about the school to make the outcome seem almost inevitable. Slytherin. The Malfoys belonged there. Everyone knew that. At least, everyone who mattered.
The boy beside her shifted slightly as Madam Malkin adjusted his robes. He looked uncomfortable. Lyra watched him through the mirror. He seemed to be trying very hard not to show that he was overwhelmed. That was interesting. Most children would have asked questions. He didn't. At least not yet. Then the boy spoke. "Hogwarts too?" Lyra turned her head. His voice was quiet. Almost uncertain. She studied him for another moment. The answer came from him almost immediately. "Yes." Lyra raised one eyebrow. The boy looked at her. For the first time, there was something approaching awkwardness between them. Neither seemed entirely sure what to say next. Lyra decided that she would not be the one to break the silence. She was a Malfoy. Malfoys did not chase conversations.
They allowed other people to come to them. The boy, apparently, had no such rule. He looked toward her again. Lyra noticed that his eyes were still curious. Then a thought occurred to her. Perhaps he had no idea who she was. That was almost amusing. She wondered what he would think if he did. The Malfoys were known. Their name had weight. Her father made certain of it. Her mother made certain of it. And Lyra had been raised to understand that there were families whose names opened doors before they even knocked. The boy didn't look as though he belonged to one of them. He looked as though he barely knew which doors existed. Then he mentioned his clothes. Or rather, Lyra noticed them again when he shifted. She glanced down. Definitely Muggle. Interesting. Her curiosity sharpened.
"You're Muggle-born?" The question left her before she had considered whether she should ask it. The boy looked at her. "No." A pause. "My aunt and uncle are Muggles." Lyra's expression changed slightly. Only slightly. She had never met anyone who had wizarding blood and lived with Muggles. Not someone her age. Her father would have found the arrangement distasteful. Lyra wasn't entirely sure what she thought. She looked at the boy again. He didn't seem particularly ashamed of it. That was strange. "You live with them?" He nodded. Lyra said nothing. The boy's clothes suddenly made more sense. She looked back toward the mirror. There was something about him that didn't fit. Not merely his appearance. Something else. She couldn't explain it.
Then the boy mentioned something that made Lyra's attention sharpen. He had been to the zoo. He had seen things he couldn't explain. Magic had happened around him. Lyra listened. She had never thought much about Muggles. Her world had always been too carefully separated from theirs for that. But this boy seemed to have spent his entire life standing on the wrong side of a door without knowing there was another side. And now he had opened it. Lyra looked at him again. "What is your name?" The boy hesitated. Then he answered. "Harry. Just Harry." Lyra waited. He looked at her. "Harry Potter." For a moment, the shop seemed quieter. Lyra's eyes widened. Not dramatically. She was a Malfoy. Malfoys did not gape. But something inside her changed. Harry Potter. She knew that name.
Of course she knew it. Everyone did. She had heard it at home. In conversations that stopped whenever she entered the room. In stories told by adults who lowered their voices when speaking about the past. The Boy Who Lived. The child who had survived the Dark Lord. The boy whose name had become part of wizarding history before he had even learned to walk. That boy was standing beside her. And he looked... Ordinary. Lyra studied him again. Messy black hair. Round glasses. Old clothes. A thin scar. He did not look like someone who had defeated the most feared wizard of his generation. He looked like a boy who had just discovered that magic was real. Harry seemed to notice the change in her expression. "What?" Lyra blinked. "Nothing." He continued looking at her. She looked away first.
For some reason, she didn't like that. Not because she was embarrassed. That would have been ridiculous. She simply didn't like being caught staring. Harry Potter. The name echoed through her thoughts. She had imagined him differently. Older, perhaps. More imposing. Someone surrounded by people. Someone who knew exactly what he was. Instead, there was only this quiet boy beside her. And, somehow, Lyra found herself wanting to know more. That realization lasted only a second. She pushed it away. She was a Malfoy. She knew better than to become interested in people simply because they were unusual. Still... She looked at him again. Harry Potter was looking at the robes. At the shop. At everything. Then he looked at her.
And Lyra wondered, for the first time, what Harry Potter thought when he looked at a Malfoy. She did not know it yet. But years later, she would remember this moment. Not the robes. Not the shop. Not even the famous name she had heard so many times. She would remember the boy. The round glasses. The untidy hair. And the strange feeling that had appeared when she realized that the most famous boy in Britain was, in the end, simply a boy. Just Harry. And somehow... That was much more interesting. For a little while, neither of them spoke. Madam Malkin moved around the shop, attending to another customer while the two children remained on their stools. Pins and measuring tape were scattered across the counter. Somewhere behind them, a bell rang as another customer entered.
Outside, Diagon Alley continued its familiar commotion. Inside, however, Lyra had found something far more interesting than the robes she was wearing. Harry Potter. The name had changed the way she looked at him. Not entirely. He was still the small boy with untidy black hair and round glasses. His clothes were still rather peculiar, and the little scar on his forehead remained as noticeable as before. But now she knew who he was. And knowing who someone was, in Lyra's world, usually meant knowing something about their family. It was an important distinction. A Malfoy was never simply a Malfoy. There was a history behind the name. Generations of witches and wizards. Marriages carefully arranged. Family connections that stretched across the wizarding world.
Her father had explained these things to her many times. Names mattered. Blood mattered. And a person’s family could tell her almost everything she needed to know about them. Almost everything. Lyra turned slightly toward the boy beside her. "Are your parents wizards?" Harry looked at her. The question seemed to catch him off guard. "My parents?" "Yes." He hesitated. "They were." Lyra blinked. Were? There was something about the way he said it that made her pause. "Oh." She looked down at her robes for a moment. Then, remembering the question, she continued. "So, they were both magical?" Harry nodded. "Yes." "And they were married?" He looked at her again. "Yes." Lyra seemed satisfied with that answer. At least, for the moment. "Then you're from a wizarding family." Harry frowned slightly.
"I suppose." "You suppose?" "Well, they were wizards, weren't they?" Lyra considered that. "Yes, obviously." "Then I don't see why you're asking." It wasn't an especially sharp response. Harry had simply answered the question. Still, Lyra found herself looking at him for a moment longer than necessary. Most children she knew understood these things without having to be told. There were old wizarding families, families that had been magical for generations, and families with Muggle relatives. There were also Muggle-born witches and wizards, who came from entirely non-magical backgrounds. It was all perfectly straightforward. At least, it had always been straightforward to her. "It's important," she explained. "Why?" Lyra looked at him.
"Because some wizarding families are older than others." Harry waited. She continued. "Some have been magical for hundreds of years." They have traditions. Connections. People they know. "Like your family?" Lyra straightened a little. "Yes." There was no hesitation in her answer. "The Malfoys have been a wizarding family for generations." My father knows practically everyone worth knowing. Harry glanced at her. "Everyone?" "Well, nearly everyone." He seemed unconvinced. Lyra noticed. She didn't particularly appreciate it. "There's the Blacks," she continued. "And the Lestranges." They're old families too. There are others, of course. She paused. "And the Potters." Harry looked at her. "My family?" "Obviously." Lyra spoke as though he should have known.
"The Potters are an old wizarding family." I suppose you know that. Harry shook his head. "No." Lyra stared. "You don't?" "Why would I?" For a moment, she had no answer. She looked at him as if he had just admitted to never having heard of Hogwarts. "You're a Potter." "I know." "And you don't know anything about your family?" Harry's expression changed. Only slightly. "I know my parents were wizards." Lyra waited. He looked away. "And that they died when I was a baby." The words were quiet. There was no dramatic pause. No attempt to make her feel sorry for him. Harry simply said it. Lyra's expression softened for the briefest moment. She had not expected that answer. At home, the deaths of Harry Potter's parents were rarely discussed in ordinary conversation.
Their names were associated with a much larger story, one that adults seemed to approach with a mixture of reverence and caution. She had never really considered what it meant for the boy himself. To her, Harry Potter had always been a name. A famous one. Now, for the first time, she was beginning to understand that there was a child attached to it. "I'm sorry," she said. Harry looked at her. "It's alright." It clearly wasn't. But Lyra didn't know what else to say. She looked back toward the mirror. For a moment, she considered asking another question. Then she remembered something her father had told her. A family was not defined only by its name. It was defined by the people who carried it, the company they kept, and the standards they upheld.
That was why the distinction between wizarding families mattered. That was why certain names deserved respect. And that was why, as far as Lyra had been taught, there was nothing wrong with knowing where someone came from. She turned back toward Harry. "Still, you should know these things." "Why?" "Because they're part of who you are." Harry looked down at his sleeves. "They don't really tell me much about who I am." Lyra blinked. "What do you mean?" "I mean, I don't know them." He paused. "I don't know the Blacks or the Lestranges." I don't know what my parents' families were like. I don't know any of those people. Lyra opened her mouth. Then closed it. Harry continued. "So why should it matter?" It was a simple question. An almost innocent one.
But Lyra had never heard anyone ask it that way. It wasn't that he disagreed with her. It was that he didn't seem to understand the importance of the things she was describing. And that was considerably more confusing. "Because they're important families," she replied. "To you?" "To everyone." Harry considered that. Then he shrugged. "I don't know." Lyra stared at him. She was accustomed to people recognizing the Malfoy name. She was accustomed to adults greeting her father with respect, to children looking toward her whenever she mentioned her family, and to the quiet satisfaction that came from knowing she belonged to something old and influential. She had never questioned whether those things mattered. Why would she? They were simply part of the world.
But Harry Potter seemed to be standing outside that world entirely. He had heard the names. He knew what they meant to her. And yet, none of it appeared to impress him. Not the Blacks. Not the Lestranges. Not even the Potters. Lyra found that increasingly difficult to understand. "Don't you care?" "she asked." Harry looked at her. "About what?" "Your family." His expression became thoughtful. "Of course I do." "Then why don't you want to know about them?" "I do." He paused. "But I can't exactly ask them, can I?" Lyra fell silent. There it was again. That uncomfortable feeling. She had asked a question because she expected a particular answer. Instead, Harry had given her something she hadn't considered. It was becoming a rather irritating habit.
"You could ask other people," she suggested. "Who?" "Your relatives, perhaps." Harry's expression changed. It was subtle, but Lyra noticed. "I don't think they'd tell me." "Why not?" He shrugged. "They don't like talking about magic." Lyra looked at him with renewed curiosity. "They're Muggles, aren't they?" "Yes." "And they raised you?" Harry nodded. Lyra glanced at his clothes again. It explained a few things. Not everything, perhaps, but enough. She had heard about Muggles from her parents. She knew they had no magic, that they lived without wands or spells, and that most knew nothing about the wizarding world. Her father had little patience for them. Her mother had taught her to be polite when necessary, though Lyra had never been encouraged to consider them particularly important.
But Harry was different. He was a wizard. A Potter. And he had grown up among Muggles. It was a strange combination. "That's unusual," she said. Harry looked at her. "Is it?" "Yes." "Why?" Lyra let out a small breath. "Because most wizarding children grow up with wizarding families." Harry considered that for a moment. "Maybe." There was no embarrassment in his voice. No shame. No attempt to explain himself. He simply accepted that his life had been different. Lyra looked at him again. She wondered whether he had always been like this. Whether he had always answered questions with more questions, or whether it was something he did because he knew so little about the world she had grown up in. Perhaps he really didn't know how important the names were.
Perhaps no one had ever explained them properly. That thought made her feel strangely responsible for doing so. "My father says that knowing where you come from is important," she said. Harry looked at her. "Does he?" "Yes." He says a family name carries its history with it. Harry glanced toward the window. Then back at her. "I suppose that's true." Lyra seemed pleased. Until he continued. "But it doesn't tell you everything about a person." She frowned. "What?" "Your name, I mean." Harry looked at her. "Just because someone comes from a certain family doesn't mean you know what they're like." Lyra didn't answer. The words were not particularly complicated. She understood every one of them. Yet she found herself struggling with the idea. A Malfoy was a Malfoy. A Black was a Black.
A Lestrange was a Lestrange. Those names carried expectations. They carried reputations. They carried histories. And Harry Potter was suggesting that none of those things could tell her what someone was really like. Lyra wasn't sure she agreed. But she wasn't sure how to argue either. For the first time since the boy had entered Madam Malkin's shop, she found herself without an immediate response. Harry, apparently satisfied with the conversation, returned his attention to the mirror. He looked at his robes. Then at the sleeves. Then at his reflection. "Do you think they'll fit?" Lyra blinked. The question was so ordinary that it almost startled her. "What?" "The robes." She glanced at him. "Oh." A small silence followed. "They should," she replied. Harry nodded. "Good."
And that was apparently the end of it. No further questions about ancient families. No admiration for the Malfoy name. No attempt to discover whether she knew important people. Harry Potter had simply moved on. Lyra remained seated beside him. She looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was still the same boy. The same messy hair. The same round glasses. The same old clothes. But now there was something else she couldn't quite ignore. He had listened to her. He had answered her questions. He had even apologized, in his own way, when he realized she might have expected something different. Yet he had not once seemed impressed by the things she had been taught to value. And Lyra couldn't decide whether that made him terribly ignorant... Or terribly unusual. Perhaps both.
She looked away before he could catch her staring again. There were many things she still wanted to know about Harry Potter. His parents. His relatives. His life. The scar on his forehead. And, perhaps most importantly, why he seemed so entirely uninterested in the world that had already decided he was someone extraordinary. Lyra Malfoy had been raised to believe that bloodlines told stories. That names mattered. That a person's place in the world could often be understood by knowing where they came from. But the boy sitting beside her had just introduced her to an unfamiliar possibility. Perhaps a person could be more than the name they carried. She didn't know what to make of that. Not yet. And so, for the moment, she did what she had always been taught to do. She held her head high.
She straightened her robes. And she remained a Malfoy. Lyra remained quiet for several moments. Harry had returned his attention to the mirror. He seemed perfectly content to let the conversation end there. Lyra wasn't. There was something about him that bothered her. Not in the way an unpleasant person bothered her. Harry Potter wasn't unpleasant. He simply refused to react correctly. Lyra had spoken about old families. He hadn't been impressed. She had mentioned names that carried centuries of history. He had asked why they mattered. She had explained that the family told a person where they belonged. He had disagreed. Not rudely. Not angrily. He simply hadn't accepted it. That was what made it difficult. Lyra was accustomed to people disagreeing with her.
She was not accustomed to people doing so without seeming to realize that they were disagreeing with a Malfoy. She glanced toward him. Harry was still looking at his robes. "You don't know much about Hogwarts, do you?" He looked at her. "No." "I do." Harry seemed interested. "How?" "My father has told me about it." "What did he say?" Lyra considered the question. "That it is one of the finest schools of magic in the world." Harry nodded. "Is it?" "It is." "How do you know?" Lyra frowned. "Because it is." Harry smiled faintly. It wasn't mocking. If anything, he seemed amused. Lyra didn't understand why. "There are four houses," she continued. Harry listened. "Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin." "Slytherin." Lyra nodded. "That is where I'll be." "You already know?"
"Of course." Harry looked thoughtful. "Can you choose?" "No." "So how do you know?" Lyra paused. She hadn't considered that question before. "My family has always been in Slytherin." Harry nodded. "So you'll be there." "Yes." "And what if you're not?" Lyra stared at him. "I will be." Harry smiled again. "You seem very sure." "I am." There was something almost comforting about that certainty. Lyra had grown up surrounded by certainty. Her family knew who they were. They knew where they belonged. They knew which families mattered. They knew which families did not. And they knew what sort of people Lyra was supposed to become. There had never been much room for doubt. So she continued. "You should be careful about who you associate with." Harry's expression changed. "Why?"
"Because Hogwarts is different from what you're used to." "I've never been to Hogwarts." "Exactly." Lyra turned slightly toward him. "There are people you should know." "And people I shouldn't?" "Yes." Harry seemed to consider that. "Who?" Lyra began counting them almost instinctively. "People from respectable families." Harry waited. "Old families." Another pause. "Families who understand how the wizarding world works." Harry frowned. "And what about everyone else?" Lyra looked at him. "They can still be friends with you." The way she said it made the distinction sound generous. Harry noticed. "I thought you said I should be careful." "You should." "Why?" "Because not everyone is worth knowing." Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why not?" Lyra opened her mouth. Then stopped.
She had an answer. She simply didn't know how to explain it. Because some people were beneath them. Because some families had no history. Because some people didn't understand the importance of blood. Because that was what she had been taught. But saying it aloud suddenly sounded less convincing. She searched for another answer. "Because you'll want to make the right friends." Harry looked at her. "What makes someone a right friend?" Lyra blinked. The question was beginning to feel familiar. Harry had a strange talent for taking something she considered obvious and turning it into a question. "Someone who understands you," she said. "And how do I know if they do?" "You'll know." "That doesn't help." Lyra almost smiled. Almost. "You ask too many questions, Potter." Harry shrugged.
"You started it." For the first time, Lyra smiled. It was small. Brief. But real. Then she looked toward the window. Something had caught her attention outside. A family was passing through Diagon Alley. Several red-haired children moved together, accompanied by a red-haired woman who was trying to keep them all in sight. Lyra recognized them immediately. "The Weasleys." Harry followed her gaze. "Who?" Lyra looked at him. "The family outside." Harry watched them. The children were laughing. One of the older boys was carrying books beneath one arm while trying to keep up with the others. The youngest boy seemed to be struggling with something. Lyra knew the family well enough by reputation. The Weasleys. Pure-blood. Old. But not wealthy.
And, in her father's opinion, far too friendly with Muggles. She watched them for a moment. "They're Weasleys." Harry continued looking. "They seem nice." Lyra turned toward him. "You don't know them." "No." "Then how do you know?" Harry shrugged. "They look nice." Lyra almost laughed. "You can't tell what people are like just by looking at them." Harry looked at her. The irony seemed to escape him. Lyra realized it only a moment later. She had spent the last several minutes telling him exactly what she thought people were like based on their families. Harry hadn't missed the contradiction. "You said families matter," he reminded her. "They do." "Then why don't the Weasleys matter?" Lyra hesitated. "They're an old family." Harry looked back through the window. "So?" "So they're not..."
She stopped. Harry waited. Lyra struggled to find the right word. "Not what?" "Not like my family." Harry turned back to her. "Because they're poor?" Lyra's expression hardened slightly. "That's not what I said." "You didn't have to." The conversation had changed. It wasn't an argument. Not yet. But something sharper had entered the room. Lyra looked at him. Harry wasn't angry. He simply didn't seem willing to accept the answer she had given. And that was beginning to irritate her. "You don't understand," she said. "Then explain it." She did. Or at least, she tried. "There are families that have been part of the wizarding world for centuries." They know the traditions. They know the right people. They know how things work. "And the Weasleys don't?" "They do."
"Then what's wrong with them?" Lyra frowned. "Nothing." Harry raised an eyebrow. "Nothing?" "They're just… She stopped again." She knew what she wanted to say. She had heard it many times. But the words felt strangely uncomfortable now. "Different," she finished. Harry looked at her for a long moment. "Different isn't bad." Lyra didn't answer. She looked toward the window again. The Weasleys were disappearing into the crowd. For some reason, Harry continued watching them. Lyra noticed. "You shouldn't get involved with people like that." Harry looked at her. "Why?" "Because you don't know what sort of people they are." "You don't either." Lyra's eyes narrowed. "I know enough." "How?" "Because I know their family." Harry stared at her. Then he shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."
Lyra felt the first genuine spark of frustration. "It does to me." "Well, I don't understand it." "You will." Harry said nothing. Lyra turned back toward the mirror. She could feel the silence between them growing heavier. She had expected him to accept her explanation eventually. Most people did. But Harry Potter was proving increasingly difficult. And, somehow, Lyra found herself wanting to keep talking. "You'll learn soon enough," she said. Harry looked at her. Lyra met his eyes. "Once you get to Hogwarts, you'll see how things work." "What things?" "Who matters." Harry didn't answer. Lyra continued. "Which families are respected." Another pause. "Which people are worth knowing." Harry's expression remained calm.
"And you'll learn, "Lyra added, "that some families are worth knowing." There it was. The closest she had come to saying exactly what she had been taught. She expected Harry to understand. Instead, he looked at her for several seconds. Then he said: "I'll decide that myself." The words were quiet. Almost casual. But Lyra felt them more sharply than she expected. She stared at him. Harry stared back. Neither moved. For the first time in her life, Lyra Malfoy understood what it felt like for someone to reject the authority of her family name directly to her face. Not mock it. Not insult it. Not fear it. Simply reject it. She didn't know what to say. Harry looked away first. The moment passed. Madam Malkin returned to adjust the robes around Harry's shoulders. Lyra remained perfectly still.
She could hear the faint movement of fabric. The soft clatter of pins. The voices of other customers. Everything in the shop continued as though nothing had happened. But something had. Lyra had spent her entire life believing that certain names carried weight. That the Malfoy name was one of them. That when she spoke about families, people listened. Harry had listened. He simply hadn't obeyed. And that was different. Very different. Lyra looked at him again. The boy with the round glasses was once again staring at himself in the mirror. He didn't look particularly impressive. He didn't look powerful. He didn't even look like someone who understood how unusual his own life was. Yet he had just challenged her more effectively than anyone ever had. Not by shouting. Not by insulting her.
He had simply refused to let her decide for him. Lyra didn't know whether she disliked him for it. She suspected she should. It was what a Malfoy would do. But instead, something else stirred quietly beneath her irritation. Curiosity. She wanted to know why. Why didn't the Malfoy name impress him? Why didn't the names of old families impress him? Why didn't he simply accept what she had told him? And, perhaps most strangely of all... Why did she suddenly want to hear him say it again? I’ll decide that myself. Lyra looked away. She did not know it yet, but she would hear those words in her mind many times over the years. Sometimes as a challenge. Sometimes as an irritation. And, eventually, as something she would come to admire. For now, however, she was eleven years old. She was a Malfoy.
And Harry Potter had just become the first boy she had ever met who refused to let her family name decide what he thought. She wasn't sure whether she had found an enemy. Or something far more troublesome. A person she wanted to understand. The conversation ended without either of them saying much more. Madam Malkin finished adjusting Harry's robes. Lyra watched through the mirror. The boy looked different now. Not dramatically. The robes were still new. His hair was still untidy. His glasses still sat slightly crooked on his face. But he looked more like someone who belonged in the wizarding world. Harry glanced at himself. "Are they finished?" "Almost, "Madam Malkin said." Lyra remained quiet. She was thinking. About Hogwarts. About the houses. About the Weasleys.
About the strange way Harry Potter had dismissed everything she considered important. And, most of all, about what he had said. I'll decide that myself. She didn't like the sentence. She also couldn't stop thinking about it. Eventually, Madam Malkin finished with Harry. He stepped down from the stool. Lyra watched him. He looked toward the door. For a moment, she thought he was going to leave without saying anything else. Something about that bothered her. They had spoken. She had told him things. He had challenged her. Surely there was supposed to be something at the end of a conversation like that. An introduction, perhaps. A proper one. Lyra stood. She smoothed the front of her robes. Then she looked at him. "You never told me your name." Harry looked at her. There was a brief pause.
"I did." "You said Harry Potter." "Yes." Lyra frowned slightly. "That isn't what I meant." Harry seemed confused. "What do you mean?" She took a small breath. Her father's voice seemed to echo somewhere in the back of her mind. A Malfoy should always introduce herself properly. Her name was not merely a name. It was a statement. A history. A family. She turned toward him. "Lyra Malfoy." She said it clearly. Proudly. Not loudly. She didn't need to be loud. The name was enough. Harry looked at her. Lyra waited. Then, because it seemed obvious what came next, she extended her hand. Her palm faced sideways. Her fingers remained steady. It was not exactly an invitation. It was an expectation. Harry looked down at her hand. Then back at her. Lyra waited. A second passed. Then another.
Harry's expression changed. Not into disgust. Not anger. Nothing so dramatic. He simply seemed uncertain. Lyra's confidence faltered by the smallest degree. She wondered whether he had misunderstood. Perhaps he didn't know. Perhaps no one had taught him. She glanced at her own hand. Then back at him. Harry looked at her. "Harry Potter." Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes." He said nothing else. He didn't take her hand. He turned toward the door. Lyra remained where she was. Her hand was still extended. For one brief moment, she simply stood there. Frozen. She could hear the noise of Diagon Alley beyond the door. Voices. Footsteps. The distant sound of laughter. Everything continued normally. But Lyra could not move. Her hand remained between them. Empty. She slowly lowered it.
Harry had not insulted her. He had not laughed. He had not called her a name. He had not even said no. He had simply... Not taken her hand. Lyra stared at him as he walked away. She had expected resistance. She had expected him to challenge her. She had expected perhaps another question. What she had not expected was indifference. That was different. Much worse. Or at least, much stranger. The Malfoy name had always mattered. At home. Among their acquaintances. In conversations with adults. In the way people looked at her father. In the way people looked at her. It was something she carried without having to think about it. Something visible. Something powerful. Something that made her different. Harry Potter had looked at it... And apparently seen nothing extraordinary.
Lyra lowered her arm completely. For the first time in her life, she wondered what it would feel like to be treated as ordinary. She didn't like the feeling. She watched the door after Harry disappeared through it. Her expression remained composed. A Malfoy did not show disappointment over something so insignificant. At least, that was what she told herself. The problem was that it didn't feel insignificant. Not anymore. She looked down at her hand. The same hand she had extended only moments before. It had been an ordinary gesture. A simple introduction. A greeting. Yet somehow, Harry Potter had made it feel like a rejection. Not of her. Not exactly. Of what her name meant. Lyra slowly curled her fingers into her palm.
She had never before considered that someone might not care about the Malfoy name. She had never needed to. Why would she? The world had always treated it as important. But Harry hadn't. And that bothered her. It bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She looked toward the door once more. The boy was gone. Just Harry Potter. No title. No family introduction. No bow. No hesitation. He had simply walked away. Lyra remained still. Then she straightened her shoulders. Her chin lifted. The expression returned to her face. Calm. Controlled. Unbothered. A Malfoy. She would not allow a boy she had met less than an hour ago to make her question everything she had been taught. She wouldn't. Of course she wouldn't. And yet...
As she left Madam Malkin's a short while later, Lyra found herself looking back once. Only once. Toward the street where Harry Potter had disappeared. She wondered where he was going. She wondered who he would meet. She wondered whether he would remember her. Then she immediately dismissed the thought. It didn't matter. Harry Potter was just a boy. And Lyra Malfoy was just a Malfoy. At least, that was what she believed. For now. The door closed behind Harry. Lyra remained still for a moment. She could still see him through the glass. He had stepped back into the crowded street, where the noise of Diagon Alley immediately swallowed him. A large man stood waiting nearby. Lyra recognized him. Hagrid. The half-giant spoke to Harry with an ease that suggested they already knew one another.
Harry looked up at him. Then the two of them began walking. Lyra watched. She told herself she was only curious. There was nothing unusual about watching someone leave a shop. Nothing at all. Harry and Hagrid moved farther down the street. Harry turned his head once. Lyra couldn't tell whether he was looking back at the shop. Or at her. Then the crowd passed between them. He disappeared. Lyra's eyes remained fixed on the street. Gone. She lowered her gaze. Her hand still felt strangely warm. Ridiculous. She curled her fingers slightly. The handshake. Or rather... The lack of one. Lyra had never imagined that someone could simply refuse a gesture like that. Not because the gesture was complicated. It wasn't. It was merely a hand. A greeting. A name. An acknowledgment.
But Harry had looked at her hand and decided that he didn't want to take it. That was all. Lyra told herself that was all. The shop door opened again. A familiar voice interrupted her thoughts. "Lyra?" She turned. Her mother stood outside. Narcissa Malfoy looked as composed as ever, her pale hair falling neatly around her shoulders. She glanced toward the street before looking at her daughter. "You took longer than expected." Lyra stepped outside. "I was talking to someone." Narcissa raised an eyebrow. "Were you?" Lyra nodded. Narcissa's gaze moved toward the crowd. "Who?" Lyra hesitated. There was no reason to hesitate. The answer was obvious. "Harry Potter." Narcissa stopped. Only for a moment. But Lyra noticed. Her mother's expression changed almost imperceptibly. "Harry Potter?" "Yes."
Narcissa looked toward the street again. The name required no explanation. Everyone in their world knew it. The boy who lived. The child who had survived. The name that had become a part of wizarding history before the boy himself was old enough to understand it. Narcissa looked back at her daughter. "You met him?" "At Madam Malkin's." "What did he say?" Lyra shrugged. "We talked about Hogwarts." Narcissa studied her. "And?" Lyra wasn't sure how to answer. "He doesn't know much about wizarding families." Narcissa's expression softened into something almost amused. "He was raised by Muggles." "I know." "And what did you think of him?" Lyra looked toward the street. She could still remember the boy's face. The round glasses. The messy hair. The quiet voice.
And, most irritatingly, the complete lack of hesitation when he had refused her hand. "He was… She stopped." Narcissa waited. Lyra searched for a word. "Rude." Narcissa's eyebrow rose. "Rude?" "Yes." "Did he insult you?" "No." "Did he say anything offensive?" "No." "Then why was he rude?" Lyra looked at her mother. "He wouldn't shake my hand." For a moment, Narcissa said nothing. Then she understood. Not the whole story. But enough. Her daughter had extended the hand of a Malfoy. The boy had refused it. Narcissa's expression became more thoughtful. "I see." Lyra looked away. "It wasn't important." Narcissa said nothing. Lyra glanced back toward the street. The crowd had already swallowed any trace of Harry and Hagrid. "He wasn't what I expected." Narcissa looked at her.
"What did you expect?" Lyra considered that. "I don't know." She had expected someone larger. Older. More impressive. Perhaps someone who carried the weight of his own legend. Instead, she had met a boy who seemed almost unaware of it. A boy who asked simple questions. A boy who challenged things simply because he didn't understand why they mattered. A boy who had looked at the Malfoy name and apparently seen no reason to be impressed. Lyra folded her arms. "He doesn't seem to care about names." Narcissa studied her daughter carefully. "That may be because he doesn't understand their importance." "Perhaps." Lyra didn't sound convinced. Narcissa noticed. But she didn't press. Instead, she placed a hand lightly against Lyra's shoulder. "Come." Your father will be waiting. Lyra nodded.
She began walking beside her mother. They moved through Diagon Alley together. The street was busy. Witches carried parcels. Children pointed toward shop windows. Owls called from cages. Somewhere nearby, a shopkeeper was arguing with a customer about the price of something. Lyra usually enjoyed Diagon Alley. Today, however, her attention kept wandering. Every time she saw a dark-haired boy in the crowd, she looked twice. None of them were Harry. She became annoyed with herself. This was absurd. She barely knew him. She had spoken to him for less than an hour. Why should she care where he had gone? He was simply another student. Another first-year. Another boy she might see at Hogwarts. Nothing more. She repeated the thought until it sounded almost convincing. Harry Potter.
The name came back anyway. She remembered the moment she had said her own name. Lyra Malfoy. She remembered extending her hand. She remembered waiting. And then... Nothing. He had simply looked at her. Harry Potter. And walked away. Lyra's fingers curled slightly. "How rude," she muttered. Narcissa glanced at her. "What was that?" "Nothing." Her mother continued walking. Lyra looked ahead. She tried to think about Hogwarts instead. The castle. The houses. Slytherin. Her future. The Malfoy name. All the things she already understood. But Harry Potter kept returning to her thoughts. Not the famous Harry Potter. Not the boy who lived. Not the child whose survival had become a story repeated by adults. Just Harry. The boy with the round glasses. The boy who had looked at her without fear.
The boy who had disagreed with her. The boy who had refused her hand. That was what bothered her most. He hadn't looked frightened. Most people respected the Malfoy name. Some admired it. Some disliked it. Some were intimidated by it. Harry had seemed to do none of those things. He had simply looked at her as though she were another eleven-year-old standing in a robe shop. Nothing more. Lyra didn't know why that bothered her. She didn't know why it made her curious. She didn't know why, when they reached the end of the street, she looked back. The entrance to Madam Malkin's was still visible in the distance. Harry was gone. Of course he was. She knew that. Still, she looked. Just once. Then she turned away. "Lyra." She followed her mother. Her face remained composed.
Her posture remained perfect. She was a Malfoy. She knew who she was. She knew where she belonged. And she certainly wasn't going to waste another thought on some boy she had met in a robe shop. Not today. Not tomorrow. Probably not ever. But as she walked away from Madam Malkin's, Lyra found herself thinking one final thing. She wondered whether Harry Potter would remember her name. She immediately dismissed the thought. He probably wouldn't. For some reason... That disappointed her. Lyra kept walking. She didn't look back again. This time. Diagon Alley swallowed Harry almost as quickly as it had introduced him. One moment, he had been standing inside Madam Malkin's, staring at a girl who seemed to have an answer for everything.
The next, he was walking beside Hagrid through the crowded street. Harry looked back once. The shop was already disappearing behind them. He turned forward again. Hagrid continued walking. The half-giant carried several of Harry's purchases with remarkable ease, leaving Harry to stare at everything around him. There was still too much to see. Every shop seemed stranger than the last. Every window contained something Harry had never imagined existed. Owls. Cauldrons. Brooms. Books with moving pictures. Wands. Things that Harry couldn't even name. It was difficult to remember that, only a short while ago, he had thought magic was something that existed only in stories. He had learned more in one day than he had in his entire life. And yet one particular thing kept returning to his thoughts.
The blonde girl. Harry glanced at Hagrid. "Hagrid?" "Hmm?" "Who was that girl?" Hagrid looked down at him. "What girl?" "The one in Madam Malkin's." Hagrid's eyebrows rose. "Oh." He seemed to know immediately. "Malfoy." Harry frowned. "Malfoy?" "Yeah." Hagrid's expression changed slightly. "Lyra Malfoy." Harry repeated the name silently. "She's a Malfoy?" "That's right." Harry waited. Hagrid continued walking. Apparently, that was supposed to explain everything. It didn't. "What does that mean?" Hagrid looked at him again. "What does what mean?" "Being a Malfoy." Hagrid's face became thoughtful. "Well..." He adjusted the parcels in his arms. "They're an old wizarding family." Harry waited. "Very old." "How old?" "Old enough." Harry frowned. That wasn't especially helpful. Hagrid continued.
"Rich, too. Very rich." Harry looked at the shops around them. "So?" "So they got a lot of influence." Harry still didn't understand. "What kind of influence?" Hagrid gave a small shrug. "Know a lot of people. Ministry people. Important families. That sort of thing." Harry thought about Lyra. She certainly acted as though she knew what she was talking about. "She said her family was important." Hagrid grunted. "They'd probably say that." Harry glanced at him. There was something in Hagrid's voice that made Harry think he wasn't especially fond of the Malfoys. "Are they bad?" Hagrid slowed slightly. "Wouldn't say that." He paused. "But they’ve got a reputation." "For what?" Hagrid sighed. "Let's just say the Malfoys have never been shy about thinking they're better than everyone else."
Harry remembered Lyra. The conversation inside the shop came back to him. The names. The families. The warnings. The way she had spoken about people she had never met. Harry frowned. "She was talking about families." "Malfoys like families." "She said some were better than others." Hagrid's expression became more serious. "Yeah." "Why?" "Because that's how some old wizarding families think." Harry looked ahead. Hagrid continued. "Pure-blood families, mostly. Families who've been magical for generations." They think that makes them special. Harry was quiet. He thought about the Dursleys. They had always acted as though being normal made them better than him. They had told him that he was strange. That he was different. That he was less important than Dudley.
Now he had entered the magical world and found another group of people who believed that some people were simply worth more than others. The details were different. The feeling wasn't. Harry didn't like it. "What about my family?" Hagrid looked down at him. "The Potters?" "Yes." Hagrid smiled faintly. "Your mum was a Muggle-born witch." Harry looked surprised. "She was?" "Yeah." "And Dad?" "Wizard." Harry thought about that. "Then would the Malfoys think my mum was… He stopped." Hagrid understood. "Don't worry about it." "But would they?" Hagrid was quiet for a moment. "Some of them might." Harry looked down at the pavement. He didn't know much about his parents. He knew even less about wizarding families. But he knew one thing. His mother had been a witch. His father had been a wizard.
They had loved each other. Whatever the Malfoys thought about that didn't seem particularly important. Harry looked ahead again. "Lyra didn't seem to like the Weasleys." Hagrid chuckled. "Course she didn't." "Why?" "Another old family." Harry waited. "Just not rich." Harry remembered the red-haired family he had seen earlier. They seemed perfectly ordinary. Warm. Loud. A little chaotic. He liked them immediately. "That's silly." Hagrid laughed. "Welcome to the wizarding world, Harry." Harry smiled. They continued walking. For a few moments, neither spoke. Harry's thoughts returned to the girl. Lyra Malfoy. She had been strange. Not frightening. Not exactly unpleasant. Just... Strange. She seemed to know everything. Or at least, she seemed very certain that she did.
She had told him where he should go. Who he should know. Who he shouldn't know. What families mattered. And when Harry had disagreed with her, she had looked genuinely confused. As though nobody had ever done that before. Harry thought about the moment she had offered her hand. He hadn't understood why she had done it. He had simply looked at her. Something about the gesture had felt like another expectation. Another rule. Another thing he was supposed to know. So he hadn't taken it. He hadn't meant to be cruel. He hadn't even really meant to offend her. He just hadn't wanted to. Harry glanced at Hagrid. "Was I rude?" Hagrid looked surprised. "What?" "With Lyra." Hagrid gave him a thoughtful look. "Don't reckon so." Harry nodded. "Good." He walked a few more steps.
Then he looked back toward the crowded street. She was gone. He couldn't see her anywhere. Harry shrugged. There was no point thinking about it. He had more important things to worry about. Hogwarts. His wand. His new books. The fact that he was actually going to a school for witches and wizards. And, perhaps most importantly, finding out what sort of life waited for him there. The girl from Madam Malkin's was simply one part of the strange new world he had entered. Nothing more. At least, that's what Harry thought. He turned back toward Hagrid. "What's next?" Hagrid smiled. "Gringotts." Harry's eyes widened. "What happens there?" "Plenty." Harry immediately forgot about the blonde girl. For the moment. Across Diagon Alley, Lyra Malfoy was thinking about him. Not the famous Harry Potter.
Not the Boy Who Lived. Not the name that had already become part of wizarding history. She was thinking about a boy with messy black hair. A boy who had asked too many questions. A boy who didn't seem impressed by old families. A boy who had looked directly at her and said he would decide for himself. And, most irritatingly... A boy who hadn't shaken her hand. Lyra couldn't understand him. Harry couldn't understand her. Neither knew that this would become a pattern. For years. Two children. Two worlds. Two completely different ideas of what mattered. They had met only once. They had already disagreed. And neither of them had the slightest idea how important the other would become. The Malfoy household was quiet that evening. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
Lyra's robes had been folded carefully and placed where they could be packed. Her books had been purchased. Her school supplies had been checked twice. Her wand rested safely among her belongings, waiting for the day she would finally carry it through the doors of Hogwarts. There was nothing left to prepare. Nothing that had been forgotten. Nothing that required her attention. Everything was perfect. Lyra sat at the edge of her bed and looked over the things she would take with her. Hogwarts was only days away. She had imagined it many times. The castle. The Great Hall. The Sorting. Her first lessons. Slytherin. She knew where she belonged. She knew what was expected of her. She knew what being a Malfoy meant. There should have been nothing else occupying her thoughts. And yet...
There was. Lyra looked down at the book in her hands. She had been staring at the same page for several minutes. She turned it. Then she realized she hadn't read a single word. She closed the book. Harry Potter. The name appeared in her thoughts without invitation. Lyra frowned. She leaned back against the headboard. "Arrogant." The word left her mouth quietly. She considered it. Yes. That was accurate. Harry had challenged nearly everything she had told him. He had questioned her. He had disagreed with her. He had looked at the Malfoy name as though it were simply another name. Arrogant. Definitely. Lyra nodded to herself. That explained everything. She picked up another book. She opened it. She read the first line. Then stopped. Harry's face appeared in her mind again.
Those round glasses. That untidy hair. That irritatingly calm expression. Lyra closed the book. "Rude. That was even more accurate. Who refused a handshake?" She had offered her hand properly. She had introduced herself properly. She had done everything exactly as she was supposed to. And he had simply looked at it. Then walked away. Rude. Very rude. Lyra crossed her arms. There was no reason to think about it anymore. She had already decided. Harry Potter was rude. That was the end of it. She stood and began arranging her belongings again. One book. Then another. Her robes. Her school supplies. Everything had its place. She checked the trunk. Then checked it again. Nothing was missing. She closed it. Harry Potter. Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Probably an idiot." She paused.
That seemed reasonable. Perhaps he simply didn't understand. Perhaps he didn't know how things worked. Perhaps growing up with Muggles had left him completely unaware of proper wizarding manners. That had to be it. He was probably an idiot. Lyra nodded. Satisfied. She turned away from the trunk. Then stopped. The thought remained. Harry Potter. She sighed. "Why am I thinking about him?" There was no answer. She walked toward the window. Outside, the grounds were quiet. The evening sky had darkened. Lights glowed from the house. Everything around her was familiar. Safe. Ordered. The world she had always known. And yet, for some reason, she kept thinking about a boy she had met for less than an hour. A boy who had entered Madam Malkin's wearing oversized Muggle clothes.
A boy who had looked at everything as though magic itself were something impossible. A boy who had listened when she spoke. A boy who had questioned her. A boy who had refused her hand. Lyra frowned. She touched the glass of the window with her fingertips. Perhaps that was what bothered her. Not that he had refused. That he had done it so easily. There had been no hesitation. No fear. No nervousness. He had simply looked at her. And decided. Lyra had never seen anyone do that before. People made decisions about Malfoys carefully. Adults measured their words. Children watched them. Families remembered the name. Harry Potter had done none of those things. He had simply looked at her as though she were... Lyra stopped. She didn't like the thought. Ordinary.
She pulled her hand away from the glass. No. That wasn't right. She wasn't ordinary. She was a Malfoy. She had a family. A history. A name. She knew who she was. Harry Potter simply didn't know better. That was all. Lyra turned away from the window. She walked back toward her bed. Then stopped again. The thought returned. Quietly. Persistently. Almost against her will. Why hadn't he shaken her hand? She looked at her own hand. It was the same hand she had extended in the shop. The same hand she had slowly lowered after Harry walked away. Lyra stared at it. There had been no insult. No argument. Nothing dramatic. Just a refusal. And somehow, that tiny moment had stayed with her longer than anything else that had happened that day. She lowered her hand.
Perhaps Harry Potter really was arrogant. Perhaps he was rude. Perhaps he was an idiot. Lyra considered all three possibilities. They seemed perfectly reasonable. She climbed into bed. The room became quiet. She pulled the covers over herself. Hogwarts. She thought about Hogwarts. The castle. The Sorting Hat. Slytherin. Her future. Tomorrow. Anything but him. Harry Potter. Lyra closed her eyes. A few seconds passed. Then she opened them again. She stared at the ceiling. "Why didn't he shake my hand?" The question sounded different when spoken aloud. Smaller. Less certain. She didn't know. And that bothered her. Lyra turned onto her side. She tried to dismiss it. Tomorrow, she would forget. Soon, Hogwarts would begin. There would be lessons. Friends. A new life.
Harry Potter would become just another student. Just another boy. Nothing more. That was what she told herself. And eventually, sleep came. But before it did, one final image remained in Lyra's mind. A small hand. Extended. Waiting. And then slowly lowering. Lyra didn't understand why she remembered it. She only knew that she did. And, for the first time, she found herself wondering about something she had never wondered about before. Not what Harry Potter's family name meant. Not what his bloodline was. Not what house he would belong to. Just Harry. What was he really like? The thought lingered. Then the room fell quiet. And Lyra Malfoy finally slept.
TO BE CONTINUED…