"FINALLY . . ."
The darkness was Lyra's friend, it welcomed her with open arms like a parent greeting their favourite child after years of estrangement. At first the imminent pang of fear flooded her, she should have been terrified of the unknown, but her apprehension oozed out of her like a fever when the fresh coldness of the dark held her tight, stroking her back when they first felt her erratic breathing. It was protective, it felt good but extraordinarily familiar. She wasn't scared. The darkness knew her personally, it had been waiting for her. She felt safe.
"SO CLOSE . . ."
The darkness wasn't a feeling, it was a person. It was tangible, it was physically here with her. Lyra could almost feel the frosty fabric of its clothes in between her fingers, her skin stung at the connection but it didn't hurt like it should - the darkness would never hurt her. She couldn't see anything but she knew she wasn't alone, the arms wrapped around her were just as real as her and she felt every muscle of the darkness tense when she moved. It didn't want to let her go.
"I'VE BEEN WAITING . . ."
The darkness had a voice, it spoke so softly it was hard to pick up on the words but Lyra couldn't hear anything else. Her ears pricked, hypersensitive to the darkness as though her eardrum were finely tuned to the unknown, she shouldn't have been able to hear them but they were speaking directly to her. She had heard it once before… in a dream? Was this a dream? She didn't feel real anymore.
"Is this real?" whispered Lyra, pressing her face into the numbing fabric around her. The darkness enjoyed her proximity. It was like hugging a loved one.
"YOU'RE NOT SCARED. . ."
It wasn't a question, they sounded proud. Fear tried to stir inside of her, encouraging her logical side to think properly but Lyra didn't pay any attention to that particular emotion. Something far more powerful shot it down, swatting it away like a pesky wasp, and it latched onto her, digging its roots into her soul...
"Should I be scared?" She wasn't frightened of the dark, the ocean was worse.
"NO. . . I WILL NEVER HURT YOU, MY LOVE. WE WILL NEVER HURT YOU . . ."
Lyra already knew that, she felt it deep inside of her - not quite in her heart, somewhere deeper - and she squeezed the fabric with all her might, she felt its adoration and affection like sunshine on her skin. It wasn't cold anymore, it was warm. She needed them now more than ever. They loved her.
"Stay with me," she choked, tears welling in her eyes, "please don't leave me!"
"WE'VE ALWAYS BEEN HERE. . . WE'RE NEVER GOING TO LEAVE YOU. . . I CHOSE YOU."
But something broke the darkness and reality cracked the protection shielding her from harm. Feeling came back to Lyra and she felt the icy fabrics of her guardian slip through her fingers like silk, she was dragged back to the light and a tremendous ache rocked her body. Everything was thumping like a bass drum and she whimpered, hating how heavy she felt.
"-I want to speak to her, we are wasting time," said a voice impatiently and Lyra froze as she came into herself, she didn't dare open her eyes. Her brain tried to catch up with the rest of her body but it was going too fast, she couldn't keep up. She was lying on the ground, she could feel the cold stone through her shirt and on the back of her knees, ropes rubbed against her wrists binding them together, but that didn't matter right now. The polaroid, the absent stutter, the kidnapping, her Dark Arts professor and the terrifying face on the back of his head. The Dark Lord…
Stay still, she ordered herself, Lyra please, for the love of God, do not move.
"She is already awake," came a second voice, "she can hear us."
Aw damn it!
"No she can't," Lyra blurted out, unable to help herself, but suddenly a strong force dragged her up from the ground, forcing her to stand. Her knocking knees wobbled slightly as she kept her eyes firmly shut, she felt like a child's puppet and the strings holding her grew stronger the more she fought against them. She had never felt so weak and her face instinctively flushed red, betraying her shame.
"Black, open your eyes," commanded her Dark Arts professor, and she dared to open only one.
For a split second Lyra thought she was in the caves below Poor Man's Point and her heart spasmed out of sheer panic that they weren't at Hogwarts, but the more she grew accustomed to the dim lantern light she realised that they were in some sort of cavernous dungeon, possibly under the school. Steep steps made of ancient stone surrounded them like high council benches but her eyes were immediately drawn to the magnificent mirror standing behind Professor Quirrell in the centre of the stage, its golden hilted frame glistening as though it was purposely trying to catch her eye, but she snapped back to the man in front of her when she realised he wasn't wearing his turban. Voldemort was right there...
"Where are we?" Lyra stammered, hoping her sudden question would prolong her evitable death by Dark Lord, and Quirrell's top lip twitched, attempting a smile.
"I think you already know the answer to that question," he told her coolly, and Lyra held in her gasp, immediately thinking of Fluffy. Her eyes automatically flicked up towards the ceiling, searching for a trapdoor to confirm her hunch, but Quirrell's cold laugh made her freeze up again.
"Clever girl, but the cerberus wasn't the only security measurement guarding the stone, we are not near the third floor," he informed her, "there's not another soul for miles…"
"Well, that's not true," Lyra muttered, the memory of the scarlet eyes burning into the backs of her eyelids, but dread paralysed her again as another voice joined the conversation, beating the professor to his own witty remark.
"Fascinating… why do you say that?" hissed Lord Voldemort, hidden by the man before her, and Lyra shivered, refusing to acknowledge the truth. Of course that wasn't Voldemort, he's dead!
"I was talking about you," she explained, confused by the question, "...whatever you are. Do you count as a separate entity? I mean, you're technically one person-,"
"We should have kept her unconscious, My Lord," interrupted Quirrell sharply, glaring at Lyra in the hopes of shutting her up, "Black tends to ramble on, she means no offence."
"Yes, I am aware," said Voldemort spitefully, "let me speak to her."
Lyra thought she would avert her eyes the second Quirrell turned around but the urge never came, she was almost intrigued to see the face again, to make sure that it wasn't just a horrible hallucination her brain had conjured. The dark lighting exacerbated the slippery features of the parasite's face, the shadows darkened the red eyes that locked onto Lyra and she chewed on her bottom lip to stop the urge to verbally recoil. Quirrell must have some sort of snake living inside of him, did a magical serpent poison him? It wasn't human, it couldn't be Voldemort.
"Firstly I want to thank you, Lyra," murmured Voldemort, watching her carefully like an interesting painting, "the potion you dropped in the forest was awfully useful, it cleared my head and allowed me to think properly… for the first time in years."
The memory of the parasite howling in pain when the phial smashed into its face replayed in her head and she bit harder on her lip to stop her instinctive smile. She didn't exactly drop it… but she didn't remind him of that fact.
"Secondly," continued Voldemort, "I have a few questions for you, and I want you to tell me the truth." He was certain, firm, and demanding. His words settled on Lyra like a charm and she knew she needed to answer his questions in order to stay alive. She read about situations like these in her books, she had seen it over and over again in the movies she had watched with Danielle - you have to do what the kidnapper says or else you're dead. Play it cool and play along, Lyra, you've got this!
"Sure," she squeaked, struggling to maintain eye contact, "ask away."
"The Thestrals," he hissed, content that she was obeying, "they are fond of you… Why?"
"Uh," Lyra was expecting questions about Harry, or maybe what she knew about the stone - she didn't have an answer for him, "pass."
"You do not know?" wondered Voldemort, narrowing his eyes.
"I don't know," she mumbled, her freckled nose wrinkling in annoyance. She wished she did, "but I wouldn't say they're particularly fond of me. They liked Neville too."
"No, they were fond of you," he corrected sternly, "not the Longbottom boy."
Lyra tried not to take that as a compliment but she rather enjoyed the idea of the Thestrals liking her back and Voldemort sensed her appreciation as though he could read the blush in her cheeks. "Utterly fascinating…" he whispered, "you're drawn to dark magic."
Lyra blinked, blindsided by his assumption. "N-No I'm not," she stuttered, rather offended. She had never even thought about studying the dark arts, she wouldn't dare!
"Dementors," Voldemort continued, turning deaf to her protests, "Quirrell read me your essay and it was very positive, a young girl like you shouldn't have an affiliation with some of the darkest creatures that walk among us and yet you're drawn to them too. Why?"
Lyra's blush got worse as she thought back to the useless piece of homework, it wasn't even that good, but a dark thudding in her gut told her there was a sliver of truth in his words. When she was searching for a subject for her essay she saw that Dementors were the official guards of Azkaban and she couldn't stop herself from diving head first into the chapter, secretly yearning to know what kind of creatures were keeping her father at bay. They were the only creatures on Earth that couldn't be killed, their resilience and mystery were enthralling and Lyra felt strangely comforted by their existence - they kept her father behind bars, there was no way he could beat them. The positive emotion draining factor didn't bother her, she didn't have many happy moments - what was there to fear?
"They're strong," she told him, hating that she was saying this out loud, "I just thought they were interesting. I read that they can absorb a wizard's magic if they're near one for long enough… and…" but Lyra couldn't verbalise every thought. The idea of relaying her darkest idea was too much and she finally dropped her gaze.
"And?" prompted Voldemort, thirsting for more.
Lyra shrugged, succumbing to the hopelessness that shrouded her. The sadness that came when she thought about her mother was debilitating, she didn't want to feel like this - not here, not now.
"Answer the Dark Lord, Black," spat Quirrell suddenly, and the invisible force holding her yanked her head up by her chin, compelling her to meet the red eyes again. Her willpower snapped like a rubber band and she crumpled under the dark wizard's might, she could fight him no matter how hard she tried.
"They suck out souls and harbour them, no one knows what happens to the souls after the Dementor's Kiss and… I thought that maybe… that it meant... that they could…" Lyra blinked hard and let the tear roll down her face without shame, "no, it's stupid-,"
"It is not stupid, Lyra - tell me," breathed Voldemort, colder and much quieter than before. He was hooked on her every word and Lyra couldn't help it.
"I thought they might be able to communicate with the dead," she admitted. It was a fleeting thought that was born from a moment of weakness, her mind paused on that thought for a mere second as she read the chapter whilst doing her homework, but that one thought never truly left her mind. She tried not to think about it too much, from what she had gathered from her classmates and her textbooks it was impossible to converse with those who were no longer on this plane, but that didn't destroy her idea. The roots of the theory were still inside of her... The thought of somehow speaking to her mum…
The silence that had replaced the parasite's hiss was thick, remnants of the young girl's unfeasible dreams lingering between the group like the last notes of a symphony, and Lyra watched the face in front of her like her life depended on it. It processed her words, still staring at her with the start of a new thought on the tip of its forked tongue, and a tiny part of Lyra wondered what it was going to say before they were interrupted.
"M-My Lord," Quirrell's stutter was genuine this time, "the stone-,"
"We still have time, Quirrell," scolded Voldemort, irked that he had been disturbed, and Lyra noticed her professor was trying to catch her eye in the mirror.
"I can offer you those things, Lyra," murmured Voldemort softly, not wanting to spook her, "you don't need a Dementor to achieve that kind of power-,"
"Does that mean they can do it?" Lyra blurted out, amazed.
"That does not matter, I can help you bring your dreams into reality. Dementors do not deal in Death - that is a common misconception - but I do, and I can show you how to bring your mother back," he confessed, luring her in with everything in his arsenal and Lyra caught the bait without a second thought. She wanted nothing more than to meet Giselle, her heart was pining for that fantasy so hard it was starting to bleed.
"…Really?" She breathed, speechless at the opportunity before her.
"I can feel how badly you want her and I can bring her back to you, there's nothing that Lord Voldemort cannot do," he reminded her, and the muggy haze over Lyra slowly evaporated as the dark wizard's name rang in her ears. The parasite was tricking her, it couldn't bring Giselle back - it was a ruse.
"No you can't," she spat, puzzled, "that's impossible."
"Nothing is impossible to me, you do not know the extent of my power," said the parasite, its eyes growing as it relished in its own notoriety.
"But you're not Voldemort, you can't be," Lyra snapped back, embarrassed that the leech had distracted her from the real reason they were down here, "you're supposed to be dead!"
"So are you," said Voldemort coldly, "and yet here we stand. Alive."
"But-," Lyra spluttered in disbelief, but Voldemort was growing impatient.
"You still have questions to answer," he interrupted her, chopping her objections up with his sharpness, and Lyra winced, biting her tongue immediately. Playing along was a lot harder than she first thought.
"Where did you go?" he asked, "where do you live now, Black?"
Lyra blinked, feeling as though she was on the outskirts of an inside joke. The parasite said the strangest things, she couldn't help but answer him. "Uh… Weymouth? Why?"
"Who took you?" he hissed, quieter this time but it still echoed around the cavern and every hair on Lyra's body stood upright, unnerved by his insinuations. Why did he care? Why was he so concerned with her? What is going on?!
"I don't know what you're talking about and even if I did know I wouldn't tell you," she said strongly, holding her nerve. "Why do you want the stone? Why are you trying to kill Harry?"
The parasite laughed, humoured by her bravery.
"She has no memory, she doesn't know… no matter, we shall deal with her later," he snarled, addressing the poor man behind him. "Quirrell, remember - do not harm her, but keep her close. She does not need to remember for me to obtain what is rightfully mine…"
"Wait, hold on I'm not done-," Lyra said suddenly, rushing to defend herself but her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth and the invisible strings tightened, leading her towards the steep steps behind the mirror. The force commanding her body shoved her down and she sat obediently, glaring at the back of the strange mirror that now hid the dark wizards from view.
"It is inside of the mirror…" hissed Voldemort, returning to the main focus of their plight, "there is a trick to it, there always is when Dumbledore is concerned…"
"Perhaps we should wait, my Lord" suggested Quirrell, "the boy will be quick, I have no doubt that he is close-,"
Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, focusing entirely on the men's words as she tried to wiggle out of her bindings. The sudden realisation that the parasite actually was Lord Voldemort was seeping in and Lyra trembled violently, ice cold from the panic that she was in the presence of a dark wizard that was infamous for murdering people, but more specifically attempting to murder one of her closest friends… the man her father followed. Don't focus on that! She scolded herself, now is not the time! Pretend it's just a parasite!
"Never have doubt, Quirrell," murmured Voldemort, "that was your first mistake… Potter is near, I can feel him. The headmaster will be busy for the rest of the evening… and with the faculty out in the forest searching for Black, I shall be back before the sun rises again."
But I told Hagrid I wasn't going back to the Forest! Nice to know he trusts me! Lyra scowled at her knees, angry at the staff of Hogwarts for not believing her, but her racing heartbeat grew painful when she thought of her friends coming to save her. She prayed that they saw past the lies the teachers would have told them, they'd know she wasn't in the forest and that something bad had happened, she could count on them to suspect Quirrell - Harry knew she really wanted to win their bet, he knew she was with Quirrell.
But he was so sure it wasn't Voldemort… if he turns up here he's dead… this is hopeless. Her subconscious had given up, its whispers were defeating and depressed, the negative thoughts were back and louder than ever. What if her friends weren't coming? What if they were sitting in the Gryffindor Tower waiting for her to come out of the forest? Destroying her confidence seemed to be the voice's main goal and she hated that it was succeeding. She couldn't do anything, she didn't have a wand on her, her backpack wasn't in the room, she couldn't even speak let alone try to yell for help and the second she made a noise she knew she would be knocked out. All she could do was sit and listen.
"What do you see, Quirrell?" asked Voldemort, his voice raspy from overexertion, "has it changed?"
"I see myself presenting the stone to you, Master," he admitted, sullen at his own failure, "but it does not show me how to obtain it. That is my true deepest desire."
"You are not worthy, the enchantments guarding the stone do not govern me the way they do you but I cannot access that part of my power just yet… A little more will suffice…"
"M-My Lord?"
"We must-,"
But the hiss died and Lyra almost fell from the step when she heard it. Footsteps. They must have heard it too - they weren't alone anymore.
"...Severus?"
WHAT?! NO! Not him!
The shock of hearing her potions master's name felt like a kick in the back and Lyra fell from the step and hit the stone hard with an agonising smack. From her new position she could see two pairs of feet beneath the mirror, the Dark Arts professor was addressing him, his feet facing away and her breath hitched when she realised Voldemort was studying the odd mirror… he couldn't get the stone, she wouldn't let him.
"I knew you were up to something, Quirinus," said Professor Snape, his voice dripping with the same venom he produced when he was teaching her, "it was foolish of you not to join us in the forest, your absence was noticed."
"And yet you turn up to face me alone? It is not I who was foolish tonight, Severus," jeered Quirrell, and Lyra watched him take a step towards the heeled boots a few feet away. She continued to wiggle, struggling against the rough floor to find her feet and attempting to scream. He didn't know she was here.
"...He's not alone," hissed Voldemort suddenly, silencing the men who were keen to throw jabs at each other, and Lyra froze. Please! Do something useful for once, Snape! HELP! She tried so hard to catch his attention but it was too late.
"No… What have you done?!" Lyra didn't recognise her potions master's voice, she had never heard him sound so frightened before.
"Where's the boy, Severus?" whispered Voldemort.
The ropes had split Lyra's skin, she gasped as blood started to soak the thick bindings. Her foot caught the bottom of the stone step and she pushed against it with all her might, desperately trying to roll towards the mirror. Over here! Notice me!
"Quirinus… what have you done?" whispered Snape in disbelief.
"I told you we were friends… you know what needs to be done," growled Quirrell.
"NOW!" roared Voldemort.
The stark power of the confounding spell rocked the cavern and Lyra braced for impact, expecting to be showered with powdery debris as Snape smashed into the dungeon's wall, collapsed in a heap of black cloth on the steps nearby. A piercing ringing filled her ears as she changed paths, battling against her restraints to reach the unconscious professor in the hopes of waking him up but everything changed when Voldemort spoke again.
"I know you're there, Potter… Come out, come out…"
Lyra had never been more torn between horror and delight - Harry knew she was in immediate danger and he came to save her but he was about to meet the man who ruined his life. Snape's presence didn't matter anymore and Lyra rolled onto her stomach, her arms crushed beneath her as she tried to spot Harry's shoes underneath the mirror's stand. Her heart jumped into her mouth when she spotted his trainers heading towards Quirrell. He was here.
"Where's Lyra?" said Harry shakily, and Lyra's throat seared as she fought against her professor's hex.
"Gallivanting in the Forest, I presume," answered Quirrell smartly.
Liar! I'm here! She was getting closer to the mirror, she could hear Voldemort's weak breathing.
"Liar. You've got her, I know you do," said Harry, a little more confident this time.
"What else do you know, Potter? Do you know what this is?" asked Quirrell, moving slightly to accommodate for the massive mirror separating them from Lyra. She was drenched in sweat, fighting the forces as though she was swimming through sand as the dark curses pulsated through her muscles. It was wearing, she knew if she closed her eyes she'd pass out - but she couldn't give up.
"No," Harry sounded rather embarrassed but Lyra prayed for him to persevere with her, "but I know you're after the Philosopher's Stone. I know that…"
"Yes?" prompted Quirrell when Harry trailed off.
"I know who you really are," he confessed, "I know you're Lord Voldemort."
Lyra stopped struggling and glared at the trainers a mere metre away - he knew?! But he said-
"Let me speak to him…" hissed Voldemort, and Lyra panicked. No! Wait! Her chin scraped the floor as she propelled herself forwards on her stomach, tears welling in her eyes from her exhausting endeavour. She was so close…
"It's been years, Harry… you didn't believe the rumours of my demise?" The groans of the Dark Lord were faintly jovial, as though he didn't expect their reunion to go this well. "You are brighter than you seem."
"But… I don't understand," stuttered Harry, losing confidence the longer he stared at the face that had haunted his nightmares, "h-how are you alive?"
"The magic I possess goes far beyond your wildest dreams, you couldn't fathom the things I could do," Voldemort's words were sharper than blades, "this form isn't my last… I look in this mirror and I see the man I've yet to become, the all-powerful wizard I truly am… but I am missing one thing," Lyra heard Harry choke and gasp, he was fighting against something stronger than him, "look at yourself, Potter - what do you see?"
Lyra used the last of her strength to twist her body into position, the mirror was right in front of her, engulfing her in its shadow hiding her from view. Her legs were numb but she rocked as hard as her restricted body would allow, gritting her teeth until her back tooth cracked. The momentum built quickly, she only had one chance at this. Come on Black! Harry needs you!
"I-.. I see-," Harry couldn't speak, the curse crushing his windpipe and lifting him from the floor intended to kill him. The Dark Lord showed the boy no mercy, he had control of Quirrell's wand hand now.
"Do you see the stone?!"
"I see me killing you," spat Harry, "I see you dead."
Lyra fought the curse one more time and kicked the mirror's stand, giving everything she had to push herself forwards. The mirror slipped, startling the pair from their encounter, and it hurtled to the ground with a magnificent, ear-piercing SMASH! The glittering mirrored shards scattered across the floor like fallen stars, flashing for attention as the enchantments escaped from its skeleton like twirling fog but Lyra could only look at Harry.
"Lyra!" He sounded so hopeful, and she shoved her arms in the air, indicating that she couldn't move. "Help me!" She mouthed, the ache in her bones lightening slightly now she had been acknowledged.
"BLACK!" snarled Quirrell murderously.
"IGNORE THE GIRL - KILL POTTER!"
Harry dropped to the floor, stumbling over his feet and Quirrell lunged at him, and Lyra could only watch. Her eyes dilated from fear as Harry defended himself, throwing his arms out to push the man off of him, but the most peculiar sensation gripped her the moment Quirrell started to burn. It started in her chest, swelling like a bubble and growing faster than she could comprehend, but then she felt it in her fingers and toes. It was like scorched ice, or freezing fire? It was new, but she had felt this feeling before. It was everything to her but nothing at all. Her lungs constricted and Lyra gasped for breath, trying to breathe through the weird sensation.
"Grab him, you fool!"
"Master, I can't! My hands! He's using dark magic! What is this?!"
The howls of agony were unbearable, Lyra heard the deathly battlecry and succumbed to the feeling inside of her chest. The scene before her played out as though it had been written into the history books already, she couldn't help her friend as he collapsed, overwhelmed by the dark magic that had just saved his life - but none of that mattered.
As Professor Quirrell's corpse hit the ground, Lyra watched his very lifeforce evaporate from every shiny pore of his burnt body, floating into the air like fireflies entertained by the magic all around them. She followed the glistening lifeforce for a moment, enthralled by its prettiness, but she jolted and the ropes pinged from her body when she realised that she wasn't alone.
Nine figures surrounded the room, different in height and nature - all there for the same reason. They were darker than the night, they weren't really here but they took the form that this plane told them to take. Some were together, some were alone, some were promised to others, some were stronger than most, one could barely stand on its own feet but another was broken beyond repair... and one loved her more than life itself. Lyra gazed at the cloaked figures, more confused than she had ever been before, but she didn't feel afraid. The figures couldn't hurt her, but she could hurt them.
". . .SO?"
The darkness was here again, it kept its promise. Lyra blinked. Suddenly she realised she was standing above the man who had been burnt alive, blistened beyond recognition. The back of his head was bare, it intrigued her. Where did Voldemort go? Without thinking, she bent down and brushed the blistered skin on his cheek. Was he really dead?
"AS YOU WISH, MY LOVE. . ."
The bubble in her chest burst and Lyra choked, falling to her knees as she clutched her throat. She couldn't breathe properly. The figures disappeared, they were no longer needed but Lyra felt a sort of sadness now they were gone. She wanted to know them better, who were they? The mysterious mirror shards wanted her attention but she refused to gaze, she knew it would only lead to trouble. The air settled, the presence of something unnatural was harsh on the living and Lyra took a deep breath, feeling more real than before. Massaging the dried blood from her stinging wrists, Lyra finally looked up and locked onto Harry who was sprawled on the floor, bleeding from his head. Her heart skipped.
"Oh crap!" croaked Lyra, getting used to moving and talking again, and she started to crawl towards him to make sure he was still alive, but suddenly Professor Quirrell sat bolt up, gasping for breath as he prodded his scaly, red face. His skin had flayed from its contact with Harry, whatever magic he had performed had eroded his entire body and Quirrell resembled a skinned red grape, he blinked and turned to Lyra, breathing heavily.
Lyra froze, paralysed in fear. But… he was…?
Before Quirrell could muster his first word, the sounds of footsteps filled the cavern and Lyra almost burst into tears at the sight of Professor Dumbledore storming down the steps towards them as though he were decades younger, his face lit up in fury.
"Help!" Lyra squeaked, not quite knowing what to do, but the headmaster was already two steps ahead. His wand barely twitched and the Dark Arts professor was on his feet, arms cuffed and his wand safely in Dumbledore's free hand.
"Quirinus, I don't believe I can verbalise my true thoughts in front of Miss Black," he said rather calmly, observing the man through narrowed eyes, but Quirrell wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on Lyra.
"How?" he whispered in awe. Dumbledore followed his gaze, mildly concerned.
"Huh?" Lyra squeaked again, rather disorientated by the chaotic events.
"How did you do it? Black, tell me," pleaded Quirrell, desperately trying to maintain her shaky eye contact but his new appearance was rather disturbing. His skin was weeping, glistening in the dim lantern light like.
"Lyra, what is he talking about?" asked Dumbledore, a flash of anger appearing on his face, and she cringed, shying away from the headmaster.
"I don't know!" she whimpered, terrified and feeling somewhat guilty. Did she do something? "Lord Voldemort was here, he was on the back of his head and he tried to get the stone. I broke your mirror though, I'm really sorry about that but I didn't know how else to stop-,"
"Lyra, calm down," Dumbledore rushed to calm the upset girl, distraught that he had brashly accused her of doing something wrong, "I'm not scolding you, you're perfectly safe now."
The headmaster adapted to the strange circumstance with ease, nothing seemed to faze him. Lyra watched in silence as he roused the unconscious potions master and thanked him for his message, the pair muttering amongst themselves as the now gagged and restraint Dark Arts professor watched Lyra as though she were the rarest magical creature in the land, and she squirmed uncomfortably, praying that he would be gone soon. A soft stretcher made of canvas had been conjured for Harry and Lyra kept close to him as the professors led the way out, training her eyes on her friend instead of the obsessed professor behind her. Snape never acknowledged her and she was thankful for his silence, she didn't have the energy to think of something witty to defend herself and he was too absorbed in controlling Quirrell to bother her.
"I must say, Lyra," Dumbledore murmured before they left the basement of the school, and she looked up at him, chewing on her bottom lip to stop any tears, "I commend you on your efforts in stopping Voldemort from obtaining the Philosopher's Stone, I didn't expect to see the Mirror of Erised destroyed tonight." The Mirror of what?
"Where's the stone, sir?" Lyra asked automatically, thinking back to the mirror smash. She had half-expected the stone to roll out of the frame but it never appeared. "Voldemort said it was in the mirror, but the mirror is kinda... you know…"
"Ah, that is the question I have been pondering as well. I genuinely have no idea where the stone is now… it is lost amongst the stars for all we know," he sighed, chuckling to himself as he gestured for Snape and Quirrell to head off first. "Nicolas won't be expecting this letter, I can assure you."
Lyra nodded, stifling her smirk as she thought of the enigma that was the strange mirror, and carefully she slipped a single shard into her skirt pocket just as the headmaster called for her to follow him out, making sure she kept the shining glass hidden. She never had a chance to look for herself, maybe she'd save it for a rainy day...
thank you to everyone whose been following, I see you! Everyone in my life right now is either pregnant or getting married so I am all over the place so updates will be slower than usual, lol my best friend is having an actual human child and im sat here writing fanfic hahah I love my life! fuck yo kids!
thank you for reading xoxo