Lyra
She despised social events, most of all balls.
It was all she could think about as she and the prefects worked on decorating the Great Hall for the Masquerade Ball tomorrow evening.
The room was silent, save for the occasional whisper of a spell, very brief conversation, and the soft ruffle of decorations procuring from thin air.
There was not much to make conversation about, especially seeing as small talk was one of the few things she despised more than social events themselves.
The others seemed just as unwilling to be there as she did, though they were evidently better equipped in the effort category. After all, they had shown up at exactly eight o'clock that night, wands wiped out, prepared to participate in the decorating.
She supposed it was nice—nice to experience some sort of normalcy at Hogwarts; however, the thought of those who would not be joining the festivities— those who died in the battle— utterly destroyed any trace of enjoyment that might have escaped from its meticulously regulated confinement.
Had it not been for the weight of the dead, perhaps her deep loathing for the ball could be accredited to the ever-present, though frivolous expectation withheld by society that claimed women were to appear "delectably put together" when attending such events.
She utterly detested the level of systemic misogyny women were usually subject to at these types of events.
It was a supposed "unwritten rule," though in truth, it was a concept that merely put a definition on women being suffocated under pounds of unnecessary products, their circulations threatened by tightly fastened corsets, and their hair so secured that pounding headaches were usually forthcoming.
Then again, perhaps it was simply her lack of appreciation for any event that meant wearing a gown, demeaning herself to those very levels she detested, that got the blood coursing through her veins.
Anyhow, under the obligations of Head Girl, she was responsible for thinking up the theme for tomorrow's event, and considering the likely masquerade motif, she's rolled with the concept of personified obscurity.
Don't they say, "After dark all cats are leopards?" If so, she could concede that tomorrow would fit perfectly within the threshold of things concealed by darkness.
If she was flattering herself, she'd say it was quite the genius concept. Darkness has been a common theme over the past couple of months and what better way to express that than to throw a ball illuminating the very obscurity they've been experiencing?
Surprisingly, the original idea for the ball had come from Malfoy, or at least that was what Minerva had told her last week after she'd been beseeched to appear in the Headmistress' office.
McGonagall had appeared slightly shaken upon Lyra's tentative knock on the door, to which the Headmistress had responded with a swift flick of her wand, prompting it to swing open. Lyra could only attribute her obvious discomfort to the glimpse of strikingly trademark blonde she'd noted when starting up the spiral entrance.
Frankly, Malfoy had an unruly proclivity for making people tense.
The headmistress had informed her of Malfoy's suggestion to include floating teacups in the decorations for the event. At the time, it seemed rather aimless and presumptuous of Malfoy to suggest that she would need any assistance in procuring proper decorations, but she could admit that the teacups fit well with the overall theme and solved the conflict of possible beverages.
McGonagall had not relinquished whatever it was Malfoy did that clearly caused her distress, but when Lyra had asked if everything was alright, she'd figured it would be brazen of herself to expect anything less than a calculated fabrication of excuses from her professor.
The headmistress had simply brushed away the question with a soft wave of her hand, claiming she was fatigued with the chaos of the new year, and that Lyra had nothing to worry about.
Thinking about it now prompted Lyra to believe there might have been something seriously wrong that night. She should have pressed for more.
Just when she decided to step back and give the decorating a break, Lyra stumbled as a Ravenclaw prefect bumped into her from behind.
"Oh— I apologize, I wasn't paying attention." The girl, who she couldn't recall if her name was Pamela or Paula, mumbled the apology under her breath, her hand coming up to her heart as if to shield it from harm.
Lyra, adjusting her skirt, tilted her chin up in a defiant manner, and answered, "Don't worry about it," even though she was quite annoyed with the girl's carelessness. However, she did not have the chance to say so, as the girl had already jogged over to the other prefects nearby, holding a number of teetering cages in her arms.
Lyra watched as another Ravenclaw prefect rushed over to the girl and with a worried expression, called out, "Pauline— you're carrying too much, let me help." Pauline. She knew her name started with a "P."
Pauline's friend hurried to her side, grabbing two of the cages from her arms. Ravenclaws, Lyra thought with a roll of her eyes, their obsession with perfectionism never wavered.
"Wow, I can't believe they've allowed fairies into the ball," started the friend as she inspected the particular one in the cage she carried. "They can be quite dangerous, though I've heard they've been used as decorations in social events for the Sacred Twenty-Eight. They couldn't possibly be that dangerous if they were permitted in such events."
Lyra observed Pauline giggling hysterically at her friend's quip, and as to not raise suspicion, she pretended to be dusting off the tables closer to where the two are talking before turning back and listening intently to Pauline's response.
"Think of the headlines in the prophet," she started to say when her laughter died off, "'Sacred Twenty-Eight Bombarded By Fairies At Local Gala' Wouldn't that just be hilarious?"
The other girl giggled, and with a smirk said, "Well, most of them don't have much of a reputation to uphold anymore. All of them were associated with You Know Who and thrown into Azkaban. It's quite the miracle the Ministry allowed Malfoy back into Hogwarts in the first place. He's not the worst to look at but, honestly, he's such a liability."
Lyra scoffed under her breath at the mention of Malfoy. It seemed like lately, she couldn't escape him.
Not bothering to eavesdrop on Pauline's response this time, Lyra backed away from the corner nonchalantly, still worried about raising awareness to her obvious snooping, and headed in the direction of her dorm.
It was getting late and the thought of waking up tomorrow morning with bags under her eyes was getting increasingly more harrowing. The number of glamour charms she had recited lately were beginning to reach concerning levels.
As she walked out of the Great Hall, she took a second to admire their work. A few prefects remained in the corners of the room, finalizing the small details, the ones that really made a difference, but all in all, the results were astonishing.
The grand staircase that led to the Great Hall had been charmed with lanterns floating overhead, emitting beams of glinting oranges and yellows. A long embroidered carpet made a path down the steps, ending at the palatial double doors that greeted the main chamber, where the theme came crashing into a crescendo.
Dark feathers and white rose buds were stuffed into every nook of the room; diamonds shone from chandeliers and decorations while strings of black cloth were draped from the ceiling, encircling the enchanted night sky, curiously similar in appearance to the Divination classroom.
A nostalgic smile found its way across her face as she climbed up the steps towards Gryffindor Tower, picturing tomorrow evening, when the steps would be occupied by girls in gowns and boys in their dashing dress robes. She wished she still had the ability to enjoy those things.
All she saw now were shadows of the past. Every glance at the grand staircase was a glance into the Battle of Hogwarts, watching as Lavender Brown was ripped to shreds by Fenrir Greyback. Every sight of the Great Hall awakened the flashes of the dead, lined up on the ground awaiting identification by devastated loved ones.
The most painful of all, admiring the light that filled the magical lanterns, thinking that the light from Fred's eyes, the glimmer he always carried, was stolen from him by death. His eyes were empty, lifeless, fixated on nothingness that day she watched his family surround him.
Lyra turned her head to take a final glance at the Great Hall below, appreciating the change from war to ball with a bittersweet filter. The chamber had altered drastically from before, yet it was not as different as she'd hoped.
There was a space cleared for dancing, just as there had been for the injured and dead; tables draped in sheen black bordered the walls, prepared to host the towers of food the elves were currently preparing, similar to the ones that housed the bodies prepared for burial; chandeliers hung low from the star filled ceiling and candelabras floated in the air, reminiscent of the darkness that shone from the enchanted ceiling on the day of the battle, forcing the remaining fighters to use candles in order to ensure that healers could see the wounds of their patients.
It was all similar in a way, but she figured this was how it would be the rest of her life; finding the dark in the good, so she must deal with it. It was the only mechanism that allowed the smile she wore to remain on her face. It was safer in that sense, to only expect the worst.
Thus, when the worst did happen, as it undoubtedly would, she would have been prepared, and would have expected it in a world viewed only in black and white. She saw the grey areas too, of course she did, but why overwhelm herself with the in between amidst the already disastrous beyond: the black and white.
Something akin to contentment overwhelmed her in that moment. It hadn't fully reached its greatest potential, yet the realization that she could focus on marshaling the strength to take one step at a time, worrying about the next only when the time arrived, was comforting, almost gratifying.
"Hello Lyra." Luna Lovegood spoke from a window sill across from her, her legs curled up to her chest, and her eyes in perfect juxtaposition with the night sky. Though it glimmered like the stars, her silver gaze held a palpable weight to it, the kind that could only be attributed to another sense.
Lyra hadn't realized that she wandered so far from the Great Hall already. It seemed like a few seconds had passed since she was climbing up those steps.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Lyra looked at Luna in an almost dazed state. She had always believed Luna knew more than she let on, and while Harry and Hermione had been quick to say differently, her suspicions never faded. It seemed now was one of those instances where Luna would surprise her with words that were shockingly accurate.
"Hello Luna," she said with a smile to her voice.
Luna turned away from the barren view of the Hogwarts grounds to peer at Lyra with a calculating expression. "I've interrupted your thoughts, haven't I?"
For lack of a better reply, Lyra asked a question instead. "How did you know it was me?"
Luna smiled wistfully in the way only she could, and answered, "Whatever do you mean?"
"I mean, were you not looking out to the grounds when I came? How did you know to say my name when you said hello?" Lyra watched as Luna shrugged casually and patted on the empty space beside her, silently requesting that she sit. She should have known better than to expect a response.
When she took a seat beside her, Luna brought up her hand to tuck a loose strand of Lyra's hair behind her ear. "You are very observant Lyra. I am glad to see that the Nargles haven't affected you."
Lyra couldn't help but let out a laugh, and when Luna joined in, it took a while for it to stop. "You see Lyra, many people do not understand the importance of laughter, you truly are special."
Lyra made an embarrassed sound and looked at Luna with an ambivalent expression. "Thank you Luna, but I am pretty sure you're the only one who thinks that."
For the first time in a while, Lyra watched as Luna's features contorted into one of anger. "Do not say such a thing when it is obviously untrue. I can only hope that you realize this before it's too late."
Lyra took a moment to let what Luna had said sink in. Perhaps, it was time she started believing in herself for once. She'd always relied on the trio to be her support system, but now that their relationship was not as close as it used to be, she could discover what it was like to not have the entire school watching her every move.
"I can tell you have something to do. Goodbye now Lyra." Luna turned back to the sky, as if to dismiss Lyra, and so she got up and made the rest of the way to her dorm. She was an odd sort, Luna, but Lyra couldn't help but love that about her.
Her body shivered even under the thick material of her comforter.
Lyra had long given up hope of any change in temperature. The moonlight that shone through her window had become hazy since the downpour began; now, it only served to create shadows on the walls, flickering and daunting with each change of the wind.
The wind was perhaps the worst part. The noise it made against the window was eerie, its uncertainty and abruptness was unsettling to her. She would have rather preferred silent solitude, not this vociferous version of it, in which she could not predict when the next gust of wind would be the one to finally break through.
Her mind told her this was not possible; the magic of Hogwarts would not be broken by a turbulent gust of wind. She knew this, yet she still worried and jumped with each of the wind's knocks.
Nights like this one were the ones she didn't sleep. She'd cast a silencing charm, only for it to be a short reprieve, forced to recast it once it began to fade. She gave up on the charm after the first ten times.
Hours passed where she counted back from impossibly high numbers in intervals of seven; she replayed conversations, thinking of ways she could of reassembled her words to sound more certain; she mentally completed her arithmancy and alchemy homework, tucking it away to transcribe later; she even planned out her appearance for the ball tomorrow.
Hermione and Ginny had knocked on her door minutes after she came back from the Great Hall. Ginny was pulling Hermione along by the wrist, pushing Lyra aside to enter her dorm.
"Lyra, you are going to the ball tomorrow." Ginny had started then, her words coming out in a near robotic rush. "Do not say you don't have a dress because I have the perfect one for you, and Padma has already agreed to come over and do your makeup. It would be incredibly rude to refuse her, consequently depriving her of business, don't you think?"
Lyra, who had been left staring at the empty spot where Ginny and Hermione were previously standing at her door, turned around to face the two on her bed, exchanging glances between their shared expectant expressions.
Hermione shrugged as if to say "Not my idea," and Ginny sighed audibly as she swept Lyra's features, who had her mouth agape with incredulity.
Ginny sprung up, pulling out something from her bag and holding her wand to it, "Hermione helped me rehearse that so you better have been paying attention. Here's your dress, It was designed especially for you, and I hope you don't mind but Hermione, the boys and I have been saving up to buy you it because lately you've been..."
Lyra zoned out of Ginny's nerve assisted rambling as the shrunken dress was reverted back to its normal size. She was in raptures of fascination because… Well, it was spectacular.
The dress was elegant, with a long torso that pooled down to skim the floor. The neckline dipped in a way that would complement any figure, the back starting just below the base of the spine, leaving it mostly exposed, and the delicate slit on the side preserving just the amount of covertness required for the event, yet still maintaining the risk-factor that made her hands tingle and stomach twist.
The fabric was midnight black, under a certain angle of the light she could have mistaken it for a dark, Slytherin green, though it glittered, reminiscent of the night sky and its stars. A mask was attached to the neckline by a black ribbon. It was made of a silky filigree, see through with its lace, but dark and retaining the concealment required from a mask. Lyra had stared at Ginny, shock written on her face, as she said, almost regretfully, "I'm sorry Ginny, this is—-well this is wonderful, and I appreciate the thought from all of you, but I really can't accept this. It's too much— Merlin, it must have cost a fortune."
Hermione had sat up, wearing the expression she always wore when scolding either Harry or Ron, her eyebrows furrowed in a knot and her chin turned up in an almost superior way, and exclaimed rather astutely, "I agree entirely with Lyra. This is all too much, too soon. I have an exam coming up in two weeks anyhow, and I must study tomorrow. Why do you insist on making us go anyways Ginny, it's truly a ludicrous notion?"
It was Ginny's turn to look between the two of them quizzically. "Because" started Ginny, "— oh shut it with the complaining you two— because we must do something for ourselves for once. Throughout the war, you two have been preoccupied with making potions and defeating Voldemort, and of course I am aware of how important it was, the whole world was depending on you guys for Godric's sake, but you lost your childhoods in the process."
Lyra stared in horror. She hadn't realized how important it was to Ginny that she attended. It seemed there was no way of getting out of it then. Hermione appeared to be following her same thought process as they both vehemently agreed to go.
"Good it worked, here's your dress, I'll be off to bed now, see you two tomorrow." Ginny's expression transformed from sullen to beaming in a matter of seconds before she trotted out from Lyra's dorm, humming victoriously. They'd been played.
Hermione turned to Lyra, wide-eyed, and nodded her head, perplexed. "She can be so manipulative sometimes."
Lyra laughed and shrugged in response, giving Hermione a reciprocating smile. "That's one of the many reasons we keep her around, isn't it."
Hermione walking out from her dorm was only hours ago, yet it felt as if a lifetime had transpired since then. The only reason she knew it hadn't been a particularly realistic dream was the fact that she held the dress in her hands, watching as the wind caused shadows to sweep across the fabric, shimmering and shifting against the collocation of moonlight.
After taking a closer look at her dorm's walls, still paranoid that Malfoy would clamber out from the supposed passage that connected their Head Dorm's, she'd glimpsed the dress draped across her chair from the corner of her eye. When she approached it, taking in its exquisiteness for the second time that day, she couldn't help but smile wistfully.
Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow could be a good day. Not great, but good would be nice. She could be satisfied with good.
Still, the wind came knocking again, and she was reminded that good was impossible for her.
It was a bright and sunny day out on the Hogwarts grounds. The metaphorical contiguity of it from the escapades of last night's rain storm was so blatantly incompatible, it was hard to believe the storm had occurred to begin with.
Similarly, her mood was nothing like the cheerful weather that bathed the scene outside.
Surviving solely on the crumbs of a few minutes sleep, or otherwise the adrenaline that came from intense insomnia, Lyra was a walking disaster as she scrambled to satisfy her perfectionist nature for that night's ball.
Since the decorations for the event had been put up the night before, all students were restricted from entering the Great Hall. She'd argued that the decorations should have been prepared at least by today, but Malfoy had combated her point with explanations for why putting up the decorations early on would be most convenient for the prefects and students.
Of course, he hadn't even shown up to decorate, and he was most definitely not the person who had to devise a way for the students to eat breakfast due to the restriction of the Great Hall. She was.
Thankfully, a spur of genius had hit her that morning, and she convinced, rather easily, the elves in the kitchens to apparate each house's breakfasts to their common rooms. Classes had been suspended for the purpose of the ball, so students were enjoying the weather outside while she fussed about the final details.
Shedding her coat and collapsing into the Gryffindor common room's loveseat, opposite of the fire with a dramatic flourish, her eyes began to droop, feeling suddenly like a weight on her face.
She was about to doze off, finally finished running around like a maniac trying to make everything perfect, when Ron huffed impatiently and tumbled into the seat beside her.
"Blimey, Ly— I haven't seen you in ages." Ron turned to watch her, but his extinguished expression quickly altered to one of panic as he noticed the cold that had overcome her features. "Are you—" He started to say as he sat up rushed. "Are you okay?"
She stared at him impassively then. What was she supposed to respond to that? No? That would just make him anxious, and Ron was not brilliant at handling such situations.
"I'm fine Ron, thanks for asking." And it must have been something in the way she said it, the sheer mix of apathy and numbness to her words, the clear desperation written between their lines, that made him say, "We both know that's not true."
Her eyes slipped back shut and she let her head fall onto his shoulder. She and Ron were close by association. The few moments they shared to themselves were usually filled with jokes and laughter, never discussing anything about their darkness. Those conversations, the tough ones, were always reserved for Hermione and Harry.
As Ron's hand came up to pat her head affectionately, she couldn't help but wish their relationship was different. She knew Ron struggled with self-esteem, especially being Harry's shadow for all these years, never smart enough to outshine Hermione, never glorious enough to be named the Chosen One. When she thought about it, they really weren't too different.
A small smile reached her lips as she said with a sigh, "I know."
"Hey, why don't you come with me to the ball tonight? Hermione, surely wouldn't mind if you tagged along with us. It should be nice," Ron offered.
Lyra lifted her head from his shoulder to look at him offended. "Ronald Weasley, if you really think I'm going to be the third wheel, I'd like to make it clear that you are mistaken. Besides, I prefer going by myself. Independence is sort of my thing." She gave him a cheeky grin.
He nodded and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Trust me, I'm aware of your raging feminism."
They sat there for a moment, in a comfortable silence, their minds churning almost audibly. When Lyra's eyes began to drift closed yet again, Ron shifted beside her and whispered, "I'm off then, see you later mate."
He untangled his arm from around her shoulder and headed for the fat lady's portrait. When the portrait swung closed, she slumped further into the seat, her half-smile fading away. She shook her head vigorously, as if to forcibly rid herself of the baneful thoughts. That was a fast exit, even for Ron.
What better way to distract herself, she thought, than to go outside and relish the fresh air?
She quickly ran to the Head's dorms to grab a book and blanket, and began the walk towards the grounds. As she scanned the student-ridden area, she chose to drift a bit from the others, settling on a quiet spot under a tree near the Black Lake.
She hummed softly to herself, straightening out the blanket on the ground and finding a comfortable position against the tree trunk. As she picked up the book she brought, she realized she must have grabbed the wrong one, probably another consequence of her persistent insomnia.
Opening its pages, she found herself staring at words of The Tales of Beedle and Bard. Sighing loudly, she placed the book down beside her, bringing her hands up to cover her face. The amalgam of her bygone emotions was something she'd been trying to avoid for as long as possible.
In fact, she'd sworn off exhuming any of the memories from the horcrux search promptly after Voldemort had died, sure that it would be the destruction of her already fragile mental health.
She was quite tired. The inexplicable lack of sleep along with her outright disappointment for not being able to enjoy just one day to herself without her past stealing the spotlight, were unfortunately catalysts for an insatiable feeling of exhaustion.
One could tell the second she fell asleep; the anguish twisting her features disappeared almost instantly from the planes of her face. She was all shadows and angles when awake and encumbered, but when asleep, she was no longer addled by the sinister coercion of devastating memories.
Unknowing to her was the soul who furtively observed such blissfulness assume control.
Lyra woke to a particularly chilly gust of wind stinging her skin, goosebumps following the chill almost as if it were a well practiced routine. Considering the position of the slightly ambiguous sun, it was safe to assume much time had passed since she'd last been awake to look.
She only opened her eyes for a second before forcing them shut again. She was determined to appreciate the moment, the moment in which her hectic, directionless life was only a very, very bad dream.
"It seems you've finally woken up darling," said a voice surreptitiously. Alright, it appeared she wouldn't even get the full moment.
The speaker was talking so slowly and plainly, it seemed they were playing the part of someone attending a clandestine meeting, trying to prevent suspicions from being peaked. If so, the voice was most definitely failing at repressing her suspicions.
She drowsily raised her gaze to pinpoint it's source, surprised to find a handsome face staring at her intently. It was Romeo, the boy she titled "the enigma" in that journal of hers, or in her brain, was referred to as "the boy from the train."
As she peered at him imploringly, her gaze seemed to alter between his eyes, enthralled by the hues of a dark secret entwined with the shades of cerulean and azure held in those irises. Whatever the darkness was, it hindered her movement. She was inhibited by the restraints constructed from an unsolved mystery.
The secrecy made her seethe. What was he hiding that incited such darkness to become tangled within him?
She asked him as much, giving in to the curiousness that plagued her mind. "Why, do your eyes look like that?," she queried in a voice that supplicated for an answer, dragging her tongue over her lips that had dried against the frosty gusts of wind.
Instantly though, as if the darkness could hear her questioning, any trace of it withdrew from his pupils and all that remained were the subtle hues of blue she last remembered belonging to the distinct version of him she met that day on the train.
Had she imagined it, or was it the pretense to her insomnia-assisted reflections? The precariousness of it made her nearly question her competence. Nearly.
His sudden laughter was dull, almost threatening. It was like some tenuous warning that told her to stop imploring, because it would get her nowhere. His response told her otherwise. "Now, now, don't get lost in my eyes."
It said something: he was deflecting. She could manipulate deflection.
"I wouldn't worry about that, they're not particularly enrapturing," she lied smoothly. Of course they were enrapturing, they were practically pulling her in with each flash of light or gleam of callousness.
"If so," he began brusquely, "Tell me why you haven't looked away since you woke up." There was triumph in his tone, he thought he had won.
She turned away, feigning indifference, yet her eyes flashed dangerously and her smile grew malicious. "Your narcissism is refreshing, but I've only been staring due to the pollen stuck to your eyelashes."
He glared at her startled, the entitled expression he wore washing away, and then he wiped his eyes, looking down to see the smudge of pollen left on his finger. His voice turned icy as he said, almost boyishly, "I am not narcissistic."
She blinked. "Yes, you are."
He searched her face intently, before leaning more reliably onto the trunk he watched her from, responding, "No, I'm not."
"You do realize that you only prove my point the more you try to deny it, right?"
He scoffed, he was always scoffing at her, she could only believe that he was trying to buy his time to come up with a good enough response.
She felt a pang at the thought. She'd missed the back and forth of an argument, the rush it gave her. Her only source for such a rush had come from Malfoy, and she was particularly opposed to the idea of any sort of adrenaline coming from him.
Swiftly, he got up, tucking a book into his robe pocket, and started walking away without another word.
"Seriously, you're not even going to answer?" She called at him angrily, getting up from the ground and putting her hands on her hips. What a coward.
As she watched him retreat to the castle, she realized that students were no longer lingering on the grounds. In fact, it was nearly empty.
He turned around promptly, giving her a two-fingered salute before turning around again and shouting over his shoulder, "Looks like you are going to be late for the Ball, how disappointing."
"Fuck you," she answered haughtily, though in all honesty, she was more panicked than boastful in that moment.
Ginny was going to murder her if she didn't show— brutally too.
She felt, in a rare moment of diffidence, unsure about herself. She'd promised Ginny she would go to the ball, everyone expected her to go, yet she couldn't shake the feeling of her guts being pulled apart. She was anxious, but she... liked it?
That was precisely the issue. She should not like the feeling of her guts wrenching, her airway constricting, the aching symptoms of her nerves, and still, the imperfectness of it was stimulating, like a breath of fresh air, one that she didn't know she'd needed.
She was getting anxious about something as silly as a school ball; not the possible death of her friends, the probability that she would encounter a death eater, the chance that she would die.
None of it was a concern anymore. No, now she was worrying about insignificant things.
It would have taken a paragon of willpower not to feel elated at such progress.
Lyra rushed, grabbed the discarded book and blanket on the floor, and ran towards her dorm where she fully expected Padma, Ginny, and Hermione to be awaiting her belated arrival rather impatiently.
Per usual, she was not wrong.
"Where in the world have you been?" exclaimed Ginny as soon as Lyra came panting into her dorm, putting a hand against the doorway to catch her breath.
"Give me— a second Ginny," She wheezed, throwing her book and blanket onto the bed to free her other hand.
Hermione was sitting on a bench in the bathroom, she must have conjured it earlier, where Padma was smoothing out her unusually tamed hair into an elaborate hairdo.
She noticed both Hermione and Padma looked quite pretty— they each wore beautiful gowns, their makeup was light, though regal, and their skin was glowing.
Ginny on the other hand, was a mess.
"I am not giving you a second, Lyra Wolf! You had plenty of seconds to actually get here on time, and you were still late."
Eager to change the subject, Lyra commented weakly, "I love your dress Gin, It really brings out your eyes." But Lyra was so wildly mistaken, wasn't she? To think that Ginny— who despised clichés—would accept such a deflection from her.
"Don't change the subject," she said stonily. Ginny made to grab Lyra's wrist, though Lyra noticed her wicked smirk and instantly pulled away.
"I know that face Ginny, and I am not going to willingly let you take my wrist while you wear it," she said, shutting her eyes as if to brace herself from Ginny's rebute.
It seemed she didn't have much of a choice, as Ginny grasped her wrist anyways, and pulled her into the closet where the wonderful obsidian dress was draped over the armchair opposite the full length mirror.
Ginny led her to the chair, pushed her shoulders down until she collapsed into it, and said, "Put it on and then come out, Padma will do your makeup once you're done." She said it, uncharacteristically stoic.
One of the many things Lyra loved about Ginny was that she was always positive, even during the hardest of times. Hearing Ginny's currently defeated tone was more than upsetting.
Struggling to form the words of an apology in her head, she stared imploringly at Ginny. Seeing her body turned away from the chair, avoiding Lyra's eyes, launched the sincere words into the forefront of her mind.
"I'm sorry Gin, I didn't mean to be late. It won't happen again, I promise," Lyra vowed with a small smile, trying to meet her friend's eyes.
Ginny faced Lyra, fighting the moroseness that overtook her senses, brightening a bit at the sight of her running her hands absently over the silkiness of the gown.
"It's alright, I'm just glad you're wearing that bloody dress, It's brilliant," Ginny said offhandedly. She hadn't thought she would forgive Lyra so soon, and yet the inferred acceptance had made its way out.
Ginny stepped out, closing the closet door behind her, and at the click of the lock, Lyra was barreling to put on the dress, impatient to have it hugging her curves and kissing her skin.
She stood, unnaturally still, outright stunned by the reflection in the mirror. Who was that girl? She certainly was not the Lyra Wolf that she knew.
The dress was even better on. Lyra ran her hands tentatively over the detailed sequences from the tops of her hips to her mid thighs, amazed at the shape it gave her. She was inarticulate when Padma came in to apply her makeup and do her hair.
"Lyra, I have no idea how you have gone this long without putting on so much as blush." She said, taking a deep breath as if the work ahead was going to be a long and strenuous process.
"Am I that much of a mess?" she laughed breathily, that is until she noticed the serious face Padma wore. "Oh—."
"You know, I can teach you whenever you'd like, it's no trouble really," offered Padma.
"No," she answered, voice sharpening, "I'd rather not."
"That's acceptable," rigid smile. "Whatever you want."
"Was that the wrong answer?" Lyra asked, her ears burning with mortification. Perhaps she should learn.
Padma assembled a range of brushes and palettes, putting up powders and creams next to her face, for what Lyra assumed was to match her shade.
"No," Padma said after a moment of deliberating between two shades of some goo that looked extremely similar, but to Padma, were supposedly entirely unalike. "Like I mentioned, it's your choice."
"I'm not sure I'd get anything out of it," She said uneasily, glancing at Padma to see a brow lifted in her direction.
"Lyra, what you get out of it is confidence. You become more assertive, more powerful, seductive, more sociable with it on. Maybe it's not for everyone, but it makes you feel like someone else for just a moment. And that's all anyone needs— a moment."
"Padma, I'm not all that. I'm not seductive… that is… the idea is just…" She stammered while Padma glared at her. "That could never be me."
"Why not?" Padma snapped.
"Because that's just not who I am," Lyra exclaimed, trying to sound rational.
"You don't know yourself then," Padma huffed, arching her brow even further.
Lyra looked at her ashamed, trying to form the words that would redeem herself, but they never came. There was nothing she could say when she knew Padma was right.
After a few minutes of pressing in powders, swiping sticks on her face, and combing, Padma capped a stick with a pop and swept her eyes over Lyra's face to examine the finished result. She'd turned the chair to look away from the mirror, so Lyra had no way of knowing if she currently appeared like one of those clowns that showed up to kids Birthdays.
"Wow Ly," she clapped her hands with a wide grin. "You look great, wait until the guys see you," Padma commented as she fiddled with the brushes, stuffing them into a little baggy— the brushes that all looked the same to Lyra.
"What—guys?" Lyra attempted, questioningly.
"The hoard of guys that have been at your mercy since the beginning of term of course," responded Padma soberly, as if what she was saying was the opposite of complete nonsense.
Lyra stared up at her, mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with confusion. "You must be kidding," she said, as she didn't particularly savor the thought of a bunch of guys being at her mercy. Padma, she thought, was only being magnanimous in her description.
"Merlin, I'm being serious."
"Oh, stop that nonsense."
"Whatever you say, love," Padma said, hiding a dubious smirk under impeccable restraint.
Lyra scoffed loudly, her eyes popping at the implication of Padma's words.
"I don't know…" she said with uncertainty.
Padma rolled her eyes teasingly and then lit up as a smirk reached her lips. "Are you ready for the grand reveal?" she questioned, giddy with excitement.
"Erm...No?" Tried Lyra, but Padma was already spinning her around.
Lyra stopped breathing. She was someone else in that mirror. An illusion, a phantom. She'd never seen anything quite like it. Her cheekbones were pronounced, her eyes dark and icy. Her eyelashes were full and thick, her eyebrows were implausibly artistic, maintaining their usual thickness, yet fuller…more shaped. Her hair was kept simple— animalistic curls curated into sweeping slopes and daunting, sinuous waves.
"It's great, isn't it?" Padma said, putting her hands on Lyra's shoulders and squeezing them reassuringly. "Well," she started when Lyra didn't answer, "Let's go see Gin and Mione."
Lyra followed Padma out of the closet blindly, still stunned by the women in the mirror. Ginny and Hermione both looked impeccable, wearing long gowns with plunging angles and dark makeup around their eyes. Hermione seemed particularly displeased with that part.
"Wow…" Ginny gaped as she caught sight of Lyra. "You're bloody gorgeous."
Hermione looked up at Lyra approvingly. "You did quite well Padma," she commended, her lips turning up unexpectedly.
"Thank you, thank you," Padma said, applauding herself after taking a small bow, looking altogether remarkable herself.
Hermione glanced between them and declared worriedly, "We must go meet our dates, It would be terrible if we were late."
"Finally, you want to go, huh Mione?" teased Ginny.
"Well of course," she answered astutely.
"You guys are the ones that have to meet your dates, I'm going solo." Lyra boasted.
"Even better," Ginny leered, and Lyra grumbled in response.
Ginny and Padma murmured instructions for Hermione and Lyra on how to walk properly with heels, as the two were stumbling out of Lyra's dorm, but all Lyra could focus on was the edge of nervous energy buzzing inside of her which she just couldn't shake off.
Maybe tonight, she could be that woman in the mirror. Maybe then, she'd understand what Padma had meant.