CHAPTER 1: FRAGMENTED

Lyra

Tranquility never lasts.

They were the same words that had been repeated to her on numerous occasions throughout her younger years at Hogwarts.

Those words were first spoken to her when she was just a petite toddler. She only had a recollection of the event because it had sparked a sense of curiosity into her youthful thoughts that she would never forget. She wondered what could possibly interrupt the sense of calm that surrounded her in her family's small bungalow. Had she known what was awaiting her future self, she would not have had such misleading thoughts.

Once again, she came across the words, this time in her own mind, when, on a regular night in the Gryffindor common room, she was reading. This was an activity that had become quite the enjoyable hobby of hers. At the time, Lyra had been lost in the usual state of bliss she experienced while being enthralled in the pages of a book, when suddenly, Fred Weasley barged in through the Fat Lady's painting, and set off an explosion of magical fireworks. The interruption to her tranquility was brief, but it was enough to bring those words hurtling into the forefront of her mind.

The latest instance in which the words had been spoken to her was on a dark and gloomy day when she and Harry had been in Professor McGonagall's office discussing the return of the worst wizard to ever exist; Voldemort of course. The wise words had slipped through the professor's mouth during conversation. Despite hearing the words from her very own role model, whom she regarded with great respect, Lyra, being ignorant, still maintained the belief that tranquility would never cease to exist.

She could clearly recall the effervescent version of herself she kept stored away in the very back of her mind ever since her world had come crashing down. The version that would wake up to the mellifluous melody of birds chirping, and hop out of bed to initiate light banter with her muggle parents.

Never had she thought she would end up being a depressed witch.

Never did she think, no matter how many times she heard them from those with more knowledge then her, that the words could be true. Or worse, exceedingly accurate.

She vividly recalled when being a witch was a source of ebullience for her young mind. She was so damn oblivious then. The oblivion was comforting, that was something she could admit, but it was ephemeral. It didn't last. No. Instead, reality came as an even greater shock after having been ignorant to it for so long.

She woke with an abrupt start.

Lately, it seemed as if this was the only way she could wake up. Caught in the middle of a scream, cold sweat dripping down her spine, and her features pinched together into a tormented guise. It had become such a commonality for her that she simply ignored the sheer layer of sweat that had built up on her forehead, blinked away the residue of tears under her sunken eyes, and indifferently crawled out of bed.

Taking a brief glance at her awful reflection in the mirror, she looked down to avoid her rough appearance, and found that her hazel eyes wandered to the letter she had received by owl two weeks ago.

It was the very letter that had been haunting her ever since Nadine, her lovely eagle owl, had dropped it onto her desk.

Dear ,

We are pleased to inform you that the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been restored to its original state, and all 7th years will be required to retake their classes. We feel that after the unfortunate events of your last years at Hogwarts, it would only be proper to ensure that your education does not suffer as a result of such troubling times. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours truly,

Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

She would have to return to Hogwarts.

The place where she had witnessed the deaths of her friends; where families were forever torn apart; where she had fought against the vicious Death Eaters, and where she had ultimately been the one to kill Voldemort.

No one knew it of course, but she had been the one to hit Voldemort with the killing curse that ended his life. It was not Harry, her best friend at the time. It was her. And had it been Harry, she would not be suffering like she had been ever since that night.

When the killing curse had made impact with Voldemort's chest, just at the same time as he had shot an unsuccessful killing curse at Harry, a flash of images played in her head.

They were terrible. Screams filled every space of her brain and she collapsed. No one had noticed Lyra's sudden drop when they were celebrating the death of the Darkest Wizard of all time.

The images, she realized, were flashes of the past. Flashes of every awful, indescribable bit of history inflicted by Voldemort to ever exist. It seemed that somehow, Voldemort's death, had erupted the images into her mind, causing pounding pulses of blood to rush into her head as she viewed every death, torture, and pain that the Dark Lord had ever cast on another individual. It had broken her.

Voldemort had caused so much pain to those that had family members slaughtered by his followers, and to those that endured the pain of his cruciatus curse themselves. Let alone those who were left dead in the infamous Battle of Hogwarts.

But at that very moment, she didn't care. The only thing that she could think was to beg for the pain to stop. But she was unable to make a noise, and if she did, the others were too busy celebrating his death to notice her screams and the agonized expression she knew made up her features anyways.

Upon the end of the haunting images, she had blacked out and woke in the Great Hall. Her muggle family surrounded her wearing wistful smiles on their faces as she slowly got up. She almost smiled happily back at them, that is, until the memory of the images came rushing back.

Suffocating in the tight embraces from her mum and dad, she brushed them aside and looked around to push away the images when she noticed the bodies that encompassed the table she had been splayed across.

Fred's blank eyes stared back at her once her confused eyes fell upon his body, surrounded by the Weasley family. Her second family.

Molly was sobbing into the still chest of her dead son while George, whipping away the river of tears leaving his sad eyes, comforted his mum. Ron was close to his mum, attempting to shake his dead brother awake with futile effort. Ginny and the rest of her brothers were crowded around them releasing some more tears, and Arthur was staring straight ahead, seeming as though he could not comprehend his surroundings.

With the need to look away from the fragmented family, she moved her gaze to Harry who looked like he could use a gallon of firewhiskey. She followed Harry's stare to the couple laying down with their hands nearly touching. She recognized their faces.

It was Tonks and Lupin. The couple that had taken her in when she could no longer put her muggle family in danger by being in their presence. The couple who she had loved, and who had just had a baby.

Lastly, her eyes lingered on the white haired family that looked so out of place, she couldn't help but stare. Ugh. The Malfoy's. She hated the Malfoy's.

Overtaken by a violent sob that was caught in the middle of her throat, Lyra repositioned her now blurry gaze to her real parents and broke down into an uncontrollable blubber.

Since that moment, she has heard of the deaths of many of her close friends, and has become immune to the initial shock that she first experienced when hearing of such horrors. That doesn't mean that the nightmares ever stopped. It doesn't mean that she forgot the faces of those who died in the Battle. She would never forget.

So that was how she lived.

She would wake up in her boring bed back in her muggle home; avoid talking with anyone by locking her room and disregarding the pile of letters her owl brought, and she would sit in her room, barely consuming a small meal, all while enduring the silent tortures of the battle's remains. And then, repeat.

Now, the letter meant that she was being forced to break the cycle she had slowly become accustomed to, and she had to go back to bloody Hogwarts; the place where her life was destroyed and had lost all meaning.

How convenient.

Grumbling to herself, Lyra dragged her heavy trunk towards the brick wall in between platforms 9 and 10 at Kings Cross Station.

Nonchalantly, she leaned her body into the wall, to remain inconspicuous to the muggles that bustled by, and she sunk through onto platform 9 ¾. Her muggle parents, who still seemed amazed by the simple act, even after doing it for 7 years, followed closely behind her while holding hands.

Wearing a simple white top, low-waisted jeans, and a grey zip-up sweater, in order to blend in with the muggles, Lyra said rushed goodbyes to her parents, as she was already slightly late to boarding the Hogwarts Express.

She wore a penitent expression while walking towards the train's entrance because she honestly felt bad for her parents.

Ever since the battle, they had made sure to give her space to grieve and heal, but she sensed their trepidation when they spoke to her. It was as if they were frightened that she would crumple onto the floor if they said the wrong thing, much like she had throughout the first week following the event.

She didn't blame them because she knew that they were just attempting to ease her pain, however, they would never understand what ran through her thoughts in the darkest of times.

Stuck in the battle that was her musings, Lyra was unaware of the tall figure that stood in the way of the train's entrance she was headed straight towards.

Entirely insensible, she slammed straight into the hard chest of the figure, and stumbled backwards, thoroughly bewildered by her lack of awareness. Shaken, she straightens her wrinkled sweater and glances at the fuming face in front of her.

It was none other than Draco Malfoy.

He was the idiot who granted passage to the Death Eaters who murdered Dumbledore, the only man that guarded the unsuspecting students at Hogwarts from harm at the time. Then, once he was dead, it marked the point in which Lyra's life took a turn for the worst.

The fool that stood in front of her was also dumb enough to get that ugly tattoo stamped onto his arm eternally, yet he and his mother found a way out of a life sentence in Azkaban. At least his monster of a father was not granted the same mercy, and he was to rot there.

The worst thing of it all was that she couldn't bring herself to purely loathe Draco because she knew that he didn't have a choice. Even after all the years of torment he had put her through, calling her a mudblood, and harassing her in the corridors, she was aware that what he did, he did to survive. But she quickly pushed aside those unsettling thoughts, and decided that if she had been in his situation, she would rather have died then swear allegiance to the Dark Lord himself.

Having been only a few seconds, she attempted to shoot Draco a menacing glare, but due to her worn down features, it appeared more like a feeble strive at a pout. Regardless, she stared straight into his stubborn grey eyes and shoved him aside before he could utter any insults at her like he had many times before on the same train.

Making her way down the row of compartments, searching for an empty one in which she could remain uninterrupted and read her book, she thought about how strange Draco looked.

He was dressed in a fitted black suit as always, but he looked almost...fractured. She supposed the war had done as much damage to his ego as it had done to her previously cheerful attitude, but it seemed so unlike him to show vulnerability. Especially in front of a "mudblood."

Frankly, it suited him. It was...nice to see that the formerly tough and superior Malfoy heir could actually experience pain. It pleased her that she was not the only one suffering, but it disgusted her that she had found his pain attractive.

How odd.

Lyra made her way to an empty compartment all the way in the back, thankfully avoiding her friends who she hadn't spoken too since the war.

She sat down and pulled out her book, "Wuthering Heights," a piece of muggle literature that she had recently taken to re-reading. It enthralled her the way that two lovers could be so close to each other's grasps, yet never give into the sensation until it was too late.

Similarly, Lyra considered her relationship with Ron, Hermione, and Harry as something that was in her reach, but she couldn't build up the nerve to grab it and never let it go. It was not that she didn't want to laugh with them like they used to, but she felt it was unfair to bring her past friends into the spiral of despair that accompanied her presence.

She already felt horrid about disregarding the Weasley's letters that expressed their concern for her, but she couldn't bring herself to think about them for too long. Her last encounter with the family had been so melancholic after Fred's death that she could not bear to read their handwriting without succumbing to a bout of broken cries.

Pushing away the worrisome thought, like she had done with several similar thoughts during the summer, she resumed getting lost in the pages of Heathcliff and Catherine's complex love story.

After some time, Lyra decided to change into her robes, but when she arrived back at her compartment, it was now filled by another soul.

The boy turned to peer at her through long lashes, and with a mischievous look, he stated, "Oh- I was unaware that this compartment had been taken. That is quite unobservant of me."