RETURN FROM UBAR

July 20, 1995

The bell above the door jingled as Lyra stepped into the small cafe to escape the pouring rain and shrugged of her coat, shaking off the droplets of water that clung to her waist-length brown hair. Lyra felt at home as she breathed in the familiar scent of coffee. A Magic Brew' looked exactly the same as it did when she left three weeks prior. The painting of the Thames by Marigold Grey hung proudly on the wall, across from it stood a large bookshelf filled to the brim with books. Tables with leather chairs tucked in were filed across the room, and two love-seats faced each other by the windows.

It was late and the summer rain was wrecking havoc in London. Lyra missed the wet weather when she was off adventuring in the Empty Quarter. Her olive skin ached from the burning sun and thinking of the never-ending sea of sand made her knees shake.
Yes, Lyra was happy to be back; and glad her cafe was still standing. With the inconvenient rain, she had expected the quaint locale to be empty, however, she was pleasantly surprised that wasn't the case. A couple sat at a corner having a quiet dinner, and an elderly man read a book at one of the sofas. By the display case filled with sweets, a bloke and a small familiar blob of red hair stood chatting. The young-girl turned to her at the bell and beamed, "Lyra! You're back!"

She didn't have much time before the eight year barrelled into her and held her tight.

"Hello, Princess," Lyra laughed and hugged the girl. "I hope you have been good for your father while I was away."

Hope Twist was a bundle of energy. Lyra met the girl when she was two years old, and even then, the girl was a hurricane everywhere she went. Lyra hired Mathew, Hope's father, six years ago, when she opened shop. Compared to the other applicants, he wasn't the most qualified, but she didn't know the others like she did Matt. They had the unspoken camaraderie of orphans.

They had both been in the same group home in Surrey with the terrible wench that took care of them. To be frank, she only knew him briefly. She was eight years old when she was placed in Beecham's Home for children and he had been fifteen. Three years later, she was sent of to boarding school and he was old enough to escape the hell they called home. They never expected to see each other again: most orphans get caught up in the world of drugs, violence, and depression and meet premature deaths. They were both shocked to meet again 18 years later as cafe-owner and potential employee.

"I don't want to be a princess, anymore," Hope beamed up at her.

Lyra grinned back and indulged the girl. "Yeah? What do you want to be?"

Hope grabbed her hand and lead her to the back of store, where the smell of food drifted in from the kitchen. "I want to be a fairy!"

"A fairy?" Lyra wrinkled her face in confusion, "Why?"

"Magic!" Hope drawled like it explained everything.

"Why not be a witch, then?" Lyra stepped behind the counter and began to make herself a cappuccino.

"No! Witches are evil!" Hope exclaimed, her head barely peeking over the counter as she stood next the bloke with shabby clothes. Lyra rolled her eyes, "Hope, darling. I'm a witch."

"No, you're not!" Hope vehemently denied and the bloke coughed but it sounded more like he was choking on air. "You're nice! You're a fairy like mine!"

"Of course, darling," Lyra laughed lightly to herself. She told people often that she was a witch. Most of the time, people thought she was taking a piss. Other times, they believed her to be terrible at cracking jokes. Quite often, people thought her to be mental.

Nevertheless, her confession never failed to get a reaction. No one ever believed her. The irony cracked her up because she was telling the truth: she was a witch.

She had always known what she was. Her mother was a witch and she had shown her the magical world they were a part of; although her mum didn't say jack shit most of the time.

Lyra was a natural Legilimens: she could very easily slip into the surface layers of someone's unprotected mind with her magic and once there, she could hear — feel — their thoughts. Using legilimency, Lyra saw the world through her mother's mind as she was sheltered and protected from the dangers outside.

When her mum died, she found herself on muggle streets of London alone and nowhere to go. It was during that time of begging and stealing that Lyra learned how unforgiving the world was. Her fragile mind cracked at the extreme conditions but she remained sane by building a fortress within her mind and hit back stronger at the world.

She became a notorious pickpocket. Out of necessity, she mastered her magic to levitate objects wandlessly. It gave her an edge on the dark streets by making wallets dance out of pockets and into her hands. She was caught eventually and thrown into her first orphanage, where she became Lyra Fairchild. Orphan. Muggle-born.

The machine growled softly as the dark brown liquid spilled out into the wing with frothed milk. Lyra turned — cappuccino in hand — and leaned back to gaze at the tall bloke who looked at her with wide brown eyes.

He wore a shabby suit with patches. He looked ill and exhausted, and though he looked to be the same age as her, his light brown hair was freckled with grey. He sported a rough beard; and — despite the scars marring his face — there was something charming about him. Lyra was not sure what was drawing her towards the man but he looked oddly familiar. She was tempted to peer into his mind but she knew better than to invade someone's privacy.

The blokes lips twitched and, with knowing eyes, he asked, "Do you normally tell people you are witch?"

"Ay," Lyra smiled lazily, her dark grey eyes sparking with mischief. "I'm trying to see how long it'll take to have me thrown into an Asylum."

"How's that going?"

"28 years, if you can believe it."

"Seriously?" He looked surprised.

"Yeah," Lyra grinned. "Started off by telling nuns I was the wife of Satan."

Hope gasped quietly, looking up at her with wide eyes. Her mother was a religious zealot and was always dragging the poor girl by the ear to church.

"I'm surprised you haven't been hounded on by the Ministry," the bloke chuckled.

Lyra snapped her gaze to the man and he flinched at the change of her demeanour as she stared him down with piercing eyes. She knew she could be terrifying. Her adopted brother always told her some sort of switch flips when startled and for a brief second it's she like she is a snake getting ready to strike. It is probably why she was sorted into Slytherin when she went off to Hogwarts — School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Lyra liked being clever. She enjoyed being shrewd. She was a proud cunning witch but she could only be that if she was aware to all around her — all the time. She had be all-knowing if she wanted to control a situation in her favour, being perspicacious was for the sake of her mental fortress.

Lyra scrutinised the man in front of her — no, the wizard. He was familiar and she was sure she had met him before. During her travels, perhaps? No. The scars and shabby clothing did make him out to be a werewolf, but werewolves don't have the money or time to travel. Who was he? What was a werewolf doing in Islington? Why would a werewolf live in this part of London? Did she take money from him during a poker game? Was he here to retaliate?

"So," Lyra smirked lightly, "A fairy, a witch, and a werewolf walk into a bar..."

"What does that mean?" Hope asked curiously but Lyra ignored her in favour of watching the werewolf's eyes widen in surprise, flickering briefly with fear, before a scowl fell on his face.

"Hope, why don't you go help your father?" When the girl went to voice her protest, Lyra fixed a stern glare on her that had her scurrying off.

The werewolf and the witch shot daggers at each other with their glare.

"Is there a problem, Fairchild?'' the werewolf growled. So he knew who she was, but who was he?

Lyra set her mug on the counter that separated them and leaned in, tilting her head questioningly, "I don't know, is there?"

"You've clearly taken up the ideals of your Slytherin friends," his eyes narrowed. "Are you a Death Eater too? A bit odd for a muggle-born."

Bloody hell. He knew loads more about her than she anticipated and she took a deep breath to ease her nerves. Lyra rose a brow and retorted, "Why would a death eater own a cafe in muggle London?"

"Easier pickings."

"What?" Lyra shook her head at how easily he assumed her beliefs due her House. She muttered under her breath, "Every wizard is fucking bigot."

The man leaned over the counter angered, "Me? Bigot? You're the one judging me, Fairchild."

Their faces were inches apart and the air cackled around them. Lyra seethed, "Whatever money you gambled, you lost. Deal with it, mate. You're not getting it back. If I see you sniffing around Hope or her father, I'II hex you so that not even Dumbledore will be able to help."

"Gambled? What are you talking about?" The werewolf furrowed his brows.

"Sod off," Lyra snapped. "You and your pack of gambling —"

"— I don't gamble," he bit back.

"Then how the fuck do I know you?"

"I'm—" He stepped back with a small frown and flittering eyes, "I'm Remus Lupin."

"Oh." Lyra released the tension in her shoulders.

Remus Lupin was in her year whilst in school. He was a Gryffindor and one of the four Marauders — actually, the last Marauder since Black essentially killed Potter and Pettigrew. In school, Lupin had been a kind and sweet classmate and Lyra never understood how a caring person like himself became best mates with the likes of the conniving pair of Potter and Black.

They had been in first year when he had been fidgeting and tapping his foot so incessantly next to her during a Transfiguration lesson that she had snapped and delved into his mind to find out what had his knickers in a twist. Lyra never expected to hear:

'No one can find out I'm werewolf.'

That's how she first became aware of Remus Lupin. He had been so scared and he had every reason to be. There was prejudice against his kind and they were discriminated against out of fear. It was warranted but their transformation was out of their control.

She had kept an eye on him during their time at Hogwarts. She had observed as he became friends with Black, Potter, and Pettigrew and had watched their friendship evolve when they had learned the truth of why he disappeared every month. She had fretted at the amount of chocolate he consumed worried that he'd get diabetes but he had in turn cultivated her palette for sweets. She had kept an eye out for when he would be let out of the Hospital wing after gruelling transformations and she had owled him notes from the lessons he missed and had sent outlines for essays to make work easier.

Lyra had watched as the Marauders pranked students and had shrugged off the embarrassment when they pranked her for being a Slytherin. She was there when his friends became animagi to help him during full moons.

Of course, no one had known about her interest in him. Lyra knew she was a bit of a stalker when she was younger but Lupin had just interested her. Despite being cursed with lycanthropy, he was the most gentle and kind person she had ever met.

He was a beautiful anomaly she hadn't seen since she left Hogwarts 17 years ago and she had just been an absolute prat to him.
"You seemed familiar but…" Lyra let her voice die out as they shared an awkward stare. Lupin cleared his throat and swivelled around, "I get my kind aren't welcome—"

She rushed out and grabbed his arm. "If I had a problem, I would have been screaming monster when we were in school."
Remus blinked and his eyes raked over her features. In a quiet tone, he asked, "How long have you known what I am?"

Lyra released his arm as realisation struck her. She just admitted she had known he was a werewolf when they were students. Only Lupin's closest friends knew what he was and throughout their seven years at school she had never given any inclination to being aware of his true nature.

She had been the muggle-born idiot that fell asleep during classes. The girl who had napped across the castle. She was the Slytherin that lost her House points with her carelessness. She was the ignorant witch that knew nothing about what happened around her.

Everyone always thought she was a disgrace to magic — not that she cared. Their lack of attention let her read anything she wanted: from healing scripts to Dark Magic texts. Lurking in the shadows, away from prying eyes, let her explore the grounds and, in fourth year, she became an Animagus. She consumed her time learning what she wanted rather than spend it writing essays on things she already knew. Her scores were shite but Lyra knew she was skilled far beyond her peers and had been prideful knowing she was the blithering idiot of Hogwarts: the Slytherin Dunce. But only a Slytherin could con an entire school.

Of course, for a genius, she was an actual idiot. She should have been more careful with her words. "Transfiguration first year. I was reading a book about werewolves and you looked sick."

Lupin looked at her incredulously.

It was the truth. She did find out in a first year Transfiguration lesson, and she did read a book about werewolves at some point during that year, and he did look sick a few times. However, she was most definitely not going to mention she was a Legilimens at age eleven and invaded his mind to find his dirty secret.

There was a ding from the kitchen and Matt stepped into the cafe, carrying two bags filled take-out. "Remus, your order is ready," he put the bags on the counter and rung up the till, "the total is 17. 27."

When he looked up, Lupin and Lyra stared him down with clenched jaws. Lyra nudged her head to the werewolf and asked, "Know him, Matt?"

"He's the newest regular," the muggle's eyes flickered between the two. "Started coming in the week before you left for the scorching desert."

"Right," Lyra gazed back at Lupin only to find he was already intently staring at her. She gave him a tight-lipped smile and shuffled away to put a chocolate cake, in all it grandeur, in a box. "It's on the house," she told him.

"Do you two know each other?" Matt asked. The witch and the werewolves eyes met and Lupin answered, "We went to school together."

"Really? You don't seem like one of the posh prats with sticks shoved up their arses that she always talks about."

Lupin chucked, "I'm not but I know who she is referring to."

"Say," Matt inquired, "How does one get their kid into that school? Lyra was an absolute monster when she was a kid and she's turned out pretty well despite being a delinquent."

"Never caught. Not a delinquent," Lyra commented nonchalantly.

"I'm sure Fairchild would be more than happy to explain the process," Lupin answered, shooting her a look.

The blond muggle blandly said, "Don't count on it. Every time I ask, she says I need to go to an old man's shop and grab different sticks."

Lyra grinned knowingly at Lupin. To witches and wizards, they'd all understand she was referring to Ollivanders and acquiring a wand before their first year at Hogwarts; however, to unaware muggles, it sounded as if children had to do unspeakable things to get accepted to the school.

Lupin smiled, eyes twinkling with mirth, "Going to Ollivanders isn't as terrible as it sounds."

Matt looked between them, mouth wide open. Lyra raised her brows innocently to him and said wryly, "You ought to get your head out of the gutter, Matty. Mister Ollivander is a really sweet guy."

"You're both terrible people," he grumbled as he walked back to the kitchen. "My princess isn't going to your demented, posh school."
Lyra chuckled lightly under her breath. As she pivoted back to Lupin, she pushed the bags towards him. "Its all on the house. I was an absolute prat."

"Thank you," Lupin's warm brown eyes bore into her. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Ah, he meant why did she never confronted him about knowing his secret?

"Why should it matter?" She shrugged. "Last I checked, werewolves are still people."'

"You weren't scared?"

"Only during full moons. You were honestly very kind so I didn't mind. It confused me, actually. All the texts on werewolves paint them to be these awful wizards that terrorise the Wizarding community," Lyra smiled impishly up at the tall wizard, "It made my wonder how could the kind Gryffindor boy that liked reading be planning to murder us all in our sleep."

Lupin shook his head and dryly retorted, "Glad to know you weren't scared."

"Seriously," Lyra assured him, "I was never afraid." She pulled a stick out of her boot. The wand was thin and made of a pale wood with a twisting design, engraved darkly with magical runes. She cast a charm to keep the food warm and exhaled, "Listen, Lupin—"

"—call me Remus," he smiled sweetly at her and Lyra felt butterflies in her belly. Smiling back, she echoed, "Call me Lyra."

After a moment of silence, Lyra coughed awkwardly, "Right, what I meant to say, my sincerest apologies for how I handled meeting you. The Magic Brew would be delighted to have you as a regular customer; and as our only wizarding client, I'll give you access to my stash of magical sweets."

"Your stash?"

"Ay," Lyra nodded, smirking, "I've got plenty of stuff from Honeydukes, but most of the sweets I bring back from my trips around the world."

Lyra shoved her hand into the small handbag at her side with an undetectable extension charm and pulled out a small box that Remus gingerly grasped. Inside, there were human fingers made of deeply fried dough. "These are Zainab's Fingers. They either bleed sugar, honey, or chocolate."

Remus met her gaze dubiously.

"They are very popular in Ubar," she explained. Ubar was a wizarding city in the Empty Quarter; the muggles often referred to it as the Atlantis of the Sands.

"I'm not sure how I feel about eating these," he said with a small frown that had Lyra laughing. She plucked a finger out of the box and bit it.

"Honey," she remarked before dumping the rest of the finger in her cappuccino. "They normally eat the fingers with tea or milk since they work really well as sweeteners."

"That's quite brilliant," he smiled lopsided Lyra at her. "I can't take them, though. You've already given enough."

Lyra waved her hand dismissively, "The rest was an apology. The fingers are an award for being the first wizard we've had since I opened shop six years ago."

"That can't be true."

"Perhaps. Do you not want free treats?" She rose a brow and commented drily, "There's an eight year-old in the kitchen that would burn you at the stake for rejecting sweets. She considers it blasphemy."

"I don't remember you having such a dark sense of humour."

"I'm an onion. I have layers."

"Clearly," Remus shook his head, chuckling. "Thank you for the fingers."

"Your welcome."

He took hold of the bags after slipping the box inside. "Enjoy the food," Lyra flashed him a dimpled smile.

"Bye, Lyra."

"Bye," Lyra watched as Remus stepped out into the pouring rain and disappeared from sight for the first time in 17 years.