CHAPTER 2: ENIGMA
Lyra
"Um… It's alright, I don't mind your presence," Lyra stuttered awkwardly. "I mean— well, what I meant was that— you know what, never mind."
She was a bit flustered by his appearance. The boys' hazy blue eyes stared expectantly at her shy stance, while her hazel ones swept his relaxed figure.
His damp hair was slightly tousled, meaning that he had most likely taken a shower before getting on the train. His deep mahogany scent had filled the compartment, apparently enhanced by the shower, and his hands ran across the rough surface of a leather journal.
She scrutinized his position in the compartment, where he was entirely draped across one side of the train, his bag under his head, and his journal raised over his body. His legs were crossed, and his feet were moving to a beat that she was unable to distinguish.
He was undoubtedly attractive, however, there was something about the manner in which he spoke that could make no one doubt his intensity either.
He was an enigma.
She had never seen him before, and she knew nearly everyone in her year at Hogwarts. Maybe he was a transfer?
Unfortunately, Lyra noticed a little too late that she had been standing in the same spot by the door, and staring at the peculiar boy for longer than what was customary.
"Enjoying the view?" he smirked. "Oh— um—sorry I was just thinking." she said softly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. What was wrong with her? She ignored his knowing gaze and walked to the other side of the compartment, picking up her book, and continuing where she left off.
There, much better. She was officially enthralled in the pages of Wuthering Heights for the third time that day (she kept getting interrupted), where she was once again puzzled by the masochistic and sadistic relationship between Katherine and Heathcliff. Her favorite line in the novel springing from the pages, as she read over the words to decipher their true meaning.
"Treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends — they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies."
Each time she read the words, they certainly resonated with her. This time, she thought about the war, and how her treachery, by not admitting that she had seen the worst parts of Voldemort's existence flash behind the whites of her eyes, was slowly eating away at her psyche.
It was a silent torture, to ignore the very thing that now rules the innerworkings of your mind, whilst pretending to be okay. To be "fine."
There are thousands, or for all she knew millions, of books that talk of a happily ever after, but perhaps it is just that; talk. The war will forever occupy the darkest corners of her mind, and no matter how much occlumency she learns, or how much effort she puts into forgetting, it is all futile in the end. Emily Bronte seems to be one of the few who knows this.
She must have let out a disgruntled noise because the boy was now looking at her oddly. Sighing, she grabbed her bookmark, and placed it on the page as it would be an incredible dishonor if someone were to doggy-ear the top of the page. Lyra placed the book into her satchel, and looked up at him.
"Sorry to annoy you, Catherine just happens to get on my nerves sometimes." she chuckled, inviting him to say something and stop looking at her like she was an incompetent child.
"Ah, yes, but I always found that Heathcliff was the one to shorten my temper. Although I do understand his reasoning behind everything; Catherine was a spoiled and outrageous woman with absolutely no sense of maturity," he said in a teasing tone.
So he knows his books; great.
Lyra's face contorted in irritation. She did admit that Catherine often made her vexed, but she admired Catherine's ability to love herself more than anyone else, despite being quite obviously self-absorbed. Yes, the quality ended up hurting everyone around her, but loving herself was the very thing that got her through life. It was self-preservation at its strongest.
She shifted in her seat and stared directly into the boy's eyes, "I was simply referring to the fact that Catherine can be— exasperating at times, but it doesn't mean I do not feel for her. Heathcliff completely disappeared and left her to fend for herself, yet she was able to find a husband that loved her unconditionally. I believe that takes a certain strength that most lack."
"Perhaps," he responded, never turning away from her gaze, "But she was selfish in doing so, and her sadistic tendencies were her ruin. She died and left everyone surrounding her miserable. At least Heathcliff was able to leave the place where he was being denied the respect he deserved, and come back a better man. That is more than Catherine can say."
Lyra could tell the argument was pointless so she scowled at him and reopened her book. "Whatever. I can see when an argument is not worth the effort." He scoffed and continued reading from his small leather-bound journal.
Unable to resist, she asked, "What are you reading, since it seems you are so easy to judge my choices in literature." He glanced up for a brief moment and reverted his eyes back onto the pages, "Nothing, it is just an old journal of mine that I discovered yesterday. I find that reading my past helps build my future."
"Oh— okay." Lyra awkwardly responded. She was beginning to think he was slightly strange, but before she could question him further, someone unexpectedly entered the compartment.
Looking quite startled, Draco Malfoy side-stepped his way through the doors, but came to a stop when he noticed it was taken. She took the time to analyze him and found that she had not noticed the dark circles under his eyes, and the way that he twitched unconsciously when she initially slammed into him and thought of only his aristocratic attractiveness.
He looked deathly. His previously pale skin looked grey at this point. His eyes were bloodshot, and he clearly had not slept for a while. His unusually perfect black suit was now wrinkled and faded, and his signature blonde hair was in a mess on the top of his head.
He was taller than she remembered, as she had to look straight up from her seat in order to meet his glare. Well, at least that had not changed. Draco Malfoy's trademark glare was now piercing into her eyes, but unlike the many instances in which she cowered under his attention, she glared right back at him, and added a snarl for effect, this time actually succeeding.
"Malfoy, I believe you have walked into an occupied compartment. Have you come to tell me that I am a filthy little mudblood, or is that no longer tradition?"
He flinched. "Bugger off Wolf; I'll go find another compartment that does not contain people who associate with scar-headed pricks." She smirked, "At least I do not affiliate myself with a monster like Voldemort."
Draco took a menacing step towards her and leaned down so that their noses were all but a few inches away from each other. "Have you finally grown the courage to say his name Wolf?" Her eye twitched with agitation, "I have always said his name Malfoy, you were just too busy wallowing over your mission to kill Dumbledore in 6th year to take notice."
He scoffed, "You know nothing. And if you are so mature, then learn how to properly put on a tie without help from someone else." She could feel her cheeks start to heat up as she thought about Fred's habit of tying her tie for her in the mornings before he and George left Hogwarts. Lyra gulped down a sob, and looked down at her Gryffindor tie hanging around her shoulders.
Before she could speak, Draco's hands roughly grabbed the ends of the tie, and made a perfect knot, a skill he probably developed from being the oh so prestigious Malfoy heir. He squeezed the tie around her neck to the point where she could hardly breathe, and slammed the doors to the compartment closed, leaving her red-faced and nauseous from the lack of oxygen.
She grumbled, and quickly unfastened the tie suffocating her, and looked at the boy who was reading his journal as if nothing strange had occurred at all.
Feeling her eyes on him, he turned his head to face her and stated, "That was pathetic." He turned back to the journal without another word.
Lyra, evidently dumbfounded by the boy's comment, let her mouth drop open in surprise for a moment before abruptly shutting it with a loud snap. Huffing impatiently, she fiddled with her skirt and deliberated her conversation with the blonde ferret.
For the first time ever, he did not take the opportunity to call her a mudblood. That was peculiar, but even so, what shocked her the most was his belligerent reaction to her remark regarding Voldemort. It seemed like he was genuinely insulted by implying he was one of his followers, and she could have sworn that she heard a hint of regret in his tone.
She grabbed her own journal out of her satchel and began writing her observations on Draco. She figured she would investigate more later. It had always been enthralling to compose a detailed analysis on individuals Lyra found compelling, and Draco Malfoy was surely one of the most complex people to study.
In her old analysis on Draco, the words "coward" "death eater" "murderer" and "misunderstood" were scrawled endlessly, however, she could never find any truly redeeming qualities to include in his file. The term "misunderstood" was just added as a gut feeling, but had no evidence to back up that Draco was indeed incorrectly interpreted. Perhaps her new analysis would uncover Draco's genuine intentions.
Her mind wandered to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, probably because Draco had just mentioned Harry in his argument with her. Their friendship started in first year when Hermione and her had barged into the boy's compartment to ask if they had seen Neville's toad.
Eventually, when the war began, Lyra helped them defeat Voldemort and destroy all of his Horcruxes. She was skilled at potions, and was able to develop a substance that coated daggers entirely, making them the most viciously lethal blades in all of the wizarding world.
The Thestral blood component meant that they were completely indiscernible to those besides the wielder, therefore making them nearly impossible to dodge. Quite honestly, without the blades, it is difficult to say that the Resistance would have won the war, had it not been for the many Death Eaters that were instantly killed by something so simple as a scratch from the sharp edge.
Only a few of the Resistance members were granted permission to use her deathly weapons, as they produced high conductivity when used in large quantities. Additionally, the ingredients were extremely rare and limited to create the potion, let alone to forge the blade strong enough to withstand being coated in a Hungarian Horntail's flame. Such supplies were particularly limited during the war, and most Order members were not skilled enough in knife work to properly utilize the weapon anyways.
Lyra's friendship with the trio stayed strong despite her constant need to develop the weapons, and advise the Order on battle tactics for the final skirmish, but now, with nothing to occupy her time or distract her from the reality of the war, she was unwilling to interact with them after so much had changed.
Now, she was drowning in her self-inflicted despair, and she was determined to not drag the trio into the chaos with her. She just had to hold on tightly to her last lifeline, and then maybe she would finally escape the turbulent waters.
The Hogwarts Express slowed down at the station, making her snap out of her reverie. The uncanny, yet for some unknown reason familiar, boy had rushed out of the compartment the moment the train had shown signs of coming to a stop. Again, she thought that his actions were a bit odd, but ended up disregarding it, and excusing it for being first-day nerves. She was sure that he was a transfer from some other magical school.
Lyra placed her journal back into her Satchel, thanks to the undetectable extension charm that Hermione placed on it while on their hunt for the Horcruxes, and she waited until enough time had passed for everyone to have gotten off the train.
Ironic isn't it? A Gryffindor's preceding reputation of being brave above the rest, while she, a Gryffindor, sat in her compartment, patiently awaiting the chance to leave undetected.