Lyra
With the brevity of human life, she was regularly dodging a fusillade of overwhelming questions.
What was her next move? When would she figure it out? How was time so gilded in privilege when really, it was a condemnation?
Needless to say, she was fully aware of the societal structure to life. There was school, work, money, death—most of which were somewhat questionable norms. What kind of fucked up society was that? Well, hers obviously.
Clearly, it had never been the path she would have liked to take. She was not particularly inclined to slave around the rest of her life in order to have it all be worth absolutely nothing in the end. She wanted to live— really, fully, passionately.
She wanted to make mistakes that made her learn from them. She yearned to change the world. Invent. Prosper. Initiate shifts in the windows of time.
She'd always felt insignificant in that sense. In the sense of time itself. Perhaps, she kept thinking, she was just a blip in the timeline— an interruption, a miscalculation that was never meant to occur.
Her mind, for her own sake, told her that this was not true. She deceived herself into believing that she was more than that; she was not merely a person to be forgotten by the next lifetime.
Only then, did the truth hit her. Only in those moments. Those incandescent, perfect but rare moments when she was so utterly full of happiness and hope, that it became clear—she was not meant to exist.
It violated every scientific law, every bit of her knowledge— her existence. How could she— a person riddled in despair, silenced by hindering waves of anguish— deserve to experience any of it? Any of that fulfillment.
It was succinctly a mistake. She wasn't one to assume there was a mighty being that ruled over the planes of the Earth, nor was she too interested in the scientific explanation, despite her analytical, sensical approach to life.
However, if this concept of a being or explanation were real, then she was the glitch in the system. Or perhaps the bug, eating up all the software along with it. Either way, she was the discrepancy.
She shuddered. She couldn't stomach the thought without bile rising up her throat.
Perhaps, it—her insignificance, could explain precisely the reason behind the festering feeling of overwhelming resentment as she glided down the steps of the rejuvenated Great Hall. The telling bile up her throat was certainly present, though in that sense, nerves were partly to blame.
Her eyes were focused shallowly on the hem of her dress, distracting herself from the imminent prospect of regurgitating her last meal, watching the occasional glimpse of a heel peeking out— all while attempting to keep her balance on the impossibly thin sticks she was expected to walk properly in.
She was conscious of every movement. Every step, every tremble of her hand, every sweep of her hair, every tilt of her head, all the openings and closing of her lips as she exhaled shaky breaths, all the brushes of the dress on her skin with each footfall, shivering from the consequential prickling sensation that consumed her nerves.
She was not infallible, nor was she imperfect. She'd made countless mistakes in her short-lived animated happenings, though such thoughts failed to assuage the creeping sense of invulnerability in the instant she ripped her sheepish gaze away from her skirt to look below the steps.
She could only manage a small gasp as she registered the many faces tilted upwards to gape at her in shock. She held nearly everyone's gaze.
Her eyes landed on her friends— Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny, who were smirking at each other with a glitter of accomplishment in their eyes. They were the only ones who knew it was her under the mask.
Her gaze then drifted to the assemblage of people dressed in gowns and suits below the steps; their faces illuminated under the light of the corridor, particularly that of a blond aristocrat. As she looked him up and down—taking in the way his hands were neatly folded behind his back, his posture straight, his head turned up into the air, pointing out that sharp nose of his, every angle and disposition—her lips gave way to a small smile.
When her eyes landed on his face— that face of smooth and faultless porcelain— she observed his features slip into his signature bitter disinterest, the very expression she was admonished of— the type that indicated rooted ferality.
She unavoidably felt the chills that ran down her spine at the thought. At the slightest symptom of his untamed nature, she faltered a bit in her step, without fail, each and every time.
It made her want to crumble up into a heap on the floor, or flee from his vicinity, but she refused to grant him the pleasure of whisking away so much of her dignity.
He couldn't have known it was her under the mask, didn't seem to care quite frankly, and yet the bitter cold of his eyes, the triviality that filled them as he looked her up and down, was disturbing, to say the least.
She shivered, alarmed by the realization that she had stopped her descent and Malfoy had been the cause, and so she quickly redirected her nerves into finding another face to look at.
When she caught the familiar azure colored agony in the eyes of a Slytherin boy leaning arbitrarily against one of the many stone pillars within the Great Hall, she decided it was best to initiate conversation, seeing as the residual anger for being such an obnoxious prick was still eating away at her.
She started walking towards the opening of the Great Hall, immediately the recipient to dozens of congratulatory greetings.
"Mario," she began as she approached him, only nodding her head briefly at the various handshakes she dodged.
"Fancy seeing you here, considering our conversation earlier, I didn't think you would be attending." she intoned, her expression stern as she solemnly leaned against the spot beside him.
"You were obviously wrong," he said with a chuckle, not bothering to meet her stare.
She grunted in argument, questioning internally her choice to approach him.
"I had no reason to be," she countered. "You were slandering the idea of attending, therefore in all predictable circumstances, you would have obliged by your own words."
"You should know better than to ever think of me as predictable," he said after a pause, and she felt him shrug evasively before she pivoted to better read the implied abstruse significance of his statement.
"And why is that?" she asked, her voice hitching slightly as she glanced between his features, giving away nothing but the way his dark lashes brushed against his creamy skin or how his head tilted further each time he breathed in the air of the night.
He looked at her for the first time that evening, eyes blowing wide for only a sliver of a second before resuming their usual speculative boredom, resigning to the untelling character of each of his other facets.
"I am not a predictable person," he replied loftily, evasive as ever.
She eyed him with disdain, both at the equivocality of his words and the weariness that accompanied it.
"From what I've seen, you are predictable enough. Is brooding really such a dubious and unforeseeable characteristic of yours?" She laughed slightly at her own sarcasm but stopped when his face remained impassive.
"Not enough entertainment for you, am I?" she questioned, scanning his face for any hint of movement, yet not so much as a twitch of his lips escaped from their placidity.
She huffed. "Fine, don't talk."
Mario grumbled offhandedly. "Usually ignoring someone makes them take the hint," he admonished, a tremble of bitterness reaching his voice.
"There's no need to be rude," Lyra said as her eyebrows crinkled into a frown.
Her arms crossed defensively around her stomach. "I was simply starting a conversation with a guy who seemed to be sulking in a corner."
"Yeah, well I don't want your pity," he replied in his typical seasoned ignorance. She did not pity him, she thought internally, she envied him.
He was a mystery. No one knew him. He hadn't been a part of this war. Everyone knew her, though. She was not the enigma she wanted to be.
She decided against telling him all that, taking the conciliatory route; she couldn't fathom what it would do to his ego. "I don't pity you," she managed hoarsely.
It was dark in the Great Hall, save for the candles that rotated the chamber, as for the added hindrance of the mask shrinking her field of vision quite materially, there was not much that was perceivable. Still, the flash of something dark in his eyes, the way they seared into her, could not be missed.
They did that a lot—burn her. There was always something off about their intensity.
After a silent battle between their stares, one she miserably lost when she couldn't bear to see the anguish twisted deliciously into cerulean any longer—it was such a disconcerting combination— she crossed her arms over the fabric of her dress and pushed off from the perch of the pillar.
"Why bother coming if only to sulk?" she asked pointedly, almost flippantly, though she knew he wouldn't answer on account of the visible resignation in his posture— no matter how irreverent she sounded.
He stared ahead, his gaze only detectable through the sockets of his mask, a mask that did a poor job of hiding his identity. He gave an insouciant purse of his lips, unbatingly ignoring her.
She huffed in protest. She did not like being ignored.
Her steps were aggressive as she marched away from him, focused keenly on the rhythmic clacks of her heels, counting each sound of the heel clashing with the floor as if to calm herself.
"Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven." She whispered each number until she felt that she could see again, see through the red, stand through the unsteadiness of her anger.
She'd done that a lot recently— been so unbearably angry at the most trivial subjects, so much so that she would lose the air before it could even reach her lungs, stuck in her throat, rendering her incapable of breath. It was stupid, really.
She looked at the people surrounding her, briefly acknowledging how far she had stomped away from the pillar where Mario still leaned.
Each person, whether they were dancing to Celestina Warbeck— who had followed the Weird Sisters' performance— or were lingering with teacups of various drinks, they all held a rigid dichotomy to any semblance of normalcy in their faces.
It was as if she were an outlier in a world controlled by puppeteers. The girl twirling in the arms of a boy beside her wore a smile that was suspended by hidden strings in the corners of her lips.
The boy himself moved so mechanically that his limbs appeared to have hinges controlled by the rhythmic pull of more invisible chords, or by corroded gears concealed under sham flesh.
It was all too fucking rehearsed.
A thick red smog began to climb up her figure, reaching her ankles first as it twisted around her heels, pulling at her legs. It was choking her, wrapping around her neck in a sinful throttle, filling up her lungs and tinting them scarlet.
"Lyra."
Suddenly, a hand had wrapped around her forearm, launching her out of her panic attack and pulling her into a hard chest, where she was swept into a dance that fell harmoniously into the pulse of the song. The smog retreated.
"Harry," she huffed, falling into the rhythm.
"The Great Hall looks amazing Ly, I can't believe you designed this whole thing. It must have taken bloody ages." The words might have meant something if he hadn't stepped so hard on her toes in that exact moment.
"Ouch Harry!" She wheezed a bit as she doubled over to check that her toes were still connected to the rest of her body. "Merlin, you almost sliced my toes off you slimy git." She rubbed her feet as if the friction would stop her nerves from stinging so much.
"I'm sorry Ly," Harry exclaimed, rushing to grab her shoulders and steady her, flinching a bit when her hands found purchase by pulling at his collar on her way up. It was laughable— his instinct to touch people who were hurt. It was like he thought he had a healing ability or something, as if the pain would finely vanish under his care.
Who could blame him really? When it seemed everything he touched became christened these days, anyone would respond just as he had. So why did it bother her so much?
"It's fine Harry, but next time, think about wearing softer shoes," she commented flippantly. "Seriously, I think Ginny might get her toes severed off eventually."
Harry looked down at his feet sheepishly. Lyra thought he looked like he was sifting through excuses, but finding each one inadequate. Judging by the way his cheeks turned crimson, the excuse was more unbecoming than valid.
His hands just ghosted over the dip of her waist now, hesitating between continuing their dancing and giving up on it all together.
He decided better, and dipped his hand to the small of her back, guiding her to where Ginny, Padma, and Hermione were holding their teacups jovially, swishing the liquid around with each of their belly laughs.
She was glad they were enjoying themselves. At least, that's what she told herself.
Lyra crinkled the corners of her eyes at them, meeting their smiles with just as much enthusiasm. She faltered when Ginny's expression drooped into a frown, as if she could read her mind with a single glance.
"Everything alright?" Ginny questioned in a whisper, taking Harry's place beside her after he went over to talk Ron down.
From what she could grasp, the bunch of them had exchanged the butterbeer in the teacups for fire-whiskey, of which Ron had way too much to drink from. Harry's hushed protests and Ron's drunken yells of defiance could be heard from her spot a few yards away.
"Yeah…" Lyra answered distractedly, staring off to where Ron was turning the contents of his teacup upside down, laughing hysterically when the spell on them prevented any liquid from coming out.
Ginny's mouth hung open for a moment before she clamped it shut again, appearing like a fish breathing in water. Clearly, there was a battle going on in her mind that had reached a stalemate when she clamped her mouth shut firmly and it didn't open again.
Nevertheless, Ginny's hand remained circled around her upper arm, a reminder that she knew something was wrong, she'd just decided to pursue it later.
Lyra pursed her lips slightly, not sure if Ginny's obvious care for her was sweet or overbearing. She was sure her judgement was hindered by the fact that she was to be the subject of Ginny's worry.
A quick chiding look from Ginny and Lyra instantly felt like an insolent, undeserving bitch. Her anger dissipated into chagrin. Her anger was misplaced and Ginny did not deserve it for being anything less than a good friend.
Lyra returned her attention to the other girls.
Hermione and Padma were in an animated conversation, undoubtedly helped along by the alcohol in their systems, and soon enough, Ginny had been roped into the argument of whether or not the Daily Prophet was a valid source anymore.
Hermione argued that under Kingsley's leadership, he would surely not allow falsities to be printed into the paper. Ginny and Padma insisted that Kingsley would definitely print the untruth if it meant some sort of political gain.
"Arbitrary rule seems like one of Kingsley's kinks with the way he orders things around Hermione," Ginny insisted fervently, and Padma, who kept mirroring Ginny's expression exaggeratedly, nodded her agreement, before they both bursted out in laughter.
Padma, seeing the look of astonishment in Hermione's eyes, boldly mentioned the Prophet's tendency to print publicity stunts to allow former Death Eaters back into the good graces of magical society, glancing suggestively at Draco Malfoy across the chamber with a wiggle of her brows.
The conversation always circled back to him, didn't it?
Lyra tried to look on the bright side—the break in any type of conversation she was interested in, offered her the chance to observe her surroundings without her mind muddling all the details with her obnoxious influxes of anger getting in the way.
She could appreciate the glow of the fairies as they whisked around the hall, trailing after the floating teacups. She could watch the novel protective wards of the castle through the windows that had been thrown open to mix with the outside air, the shimmering of the magical bounds only noticeable from a certain angle or reflection of the light. She could laugh to herself as she watched Luna Lovegood twirling in the middle of the floor, her bright green dress fluttering all around her, and her identity plain as parchment despite the feathered mask she wore.
It seemed her planning was not all for nothing. The ball was a smashing success, despite what her messed up mind had tried to convince her of otherwise.
Her attention was suddenly diverted to the sound of Celestina Warbeck beginning her next song. She was typically a singer preferred by the older generation of wizarding folk, but her songs had fit perfectly with the Masquerade-esque she was going for.
The beat dropped into a lower octave, and Lyra was transported to the time her father had taken her to a muggle jazz club in the heart of New Orleans, where the lights shone in blues and yellows and the people were dressed in heaps of feathers and tailored suits.
She wouldn't be able to describe the shift in atmosphere even if she were dosed heavily with veritaserum.
The fairies seemed to adjust to the music as well, appearing to dim their lights and hum along to the song. She wasn't sure if that was even remotely possible as she recalled the book she read last month on the contrasting articulations and manifestations of fairies had clearly stated that they had diminutive intelligence as well as no way to communicate effectively, much less hum to a song.
Still, the fairies were undoubtedly moving in a sort of formation that wildly concurred with the dips and rises of Celestina's voice.
She looked at Ginny, Hermione, and Padma and couldn't help but wonder how they hadn't noticed the shift in atmosphere.
"Excuse me, I'm going to go find a drink," she mumbled, and despite the intended triviality of it, Hermione and Ginny gave her simultaneous looks of apprehension. Her voice must have failed her, telling and weak as it was, allowing the stark reality of her escape attempt to sink into them before she could get away.
"Are you sure?" intoned Hermione in a calming voice, as if Lyra were an animal that could grow feral at any moment, too emotionally fragile to speak normally around. It made Lyra sick.
She bit back. "Of course I'm sure, Hermione. What kind of person would be conflicted as to whether or not they needed to hydrate? We wouldn't want your reputation as the Gryffindor princess to be diminished for something as inconsequential as the inability to determine your own thirst."
"What-" Hermione flinched.
Lyra retreated. "Sorry— I," she didn't finish and stared down at her hands instead. "Why don't you guys go dance with the others? I'll catch up in a bit."
"Yeah," responded Ginny. "Maybe that will give you enough time to cool off."
Ginny linked both her arms with Hermione and Padma's and started moving in the direction of the boys, looking over her shoulder to give Lyra a piercing glare. She looked like a lion, with her fiery hair contorted to frame her face, and that look on her face, the face of a predator.
Lyra took in a harsh breath, and was about to head over to the girls and apologize, when George Weasley emerged from thin air, only discernibly himself from his fiery hair.
"Now why would a beautiful woman, such as yourself, be alone on a night of endless debauchery and plenty of masked fun?" George almost slid next to her, his white tux sharp and fitted, wearing his signature smirk,
Lyra laughed in return. "Oh Weasley, you give me too much credit." Her eyes glittered at the familiar lightness of their banter.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, darling. If I didn't have such a perfect wife, I would be thinking up ways to rip that dress off of you. In fact, I am sure I'm not the only male thinking about that right about now," George intoned with a slight suggestive raise of his eyebrows.
She followed his quick glance to a small group of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, all of which looked in the opposite direction the instant she caught their gaze. Pfft… cowards.
Her cheeks grew a shade redder. "Good thing Angelina's so perfect. I don't think you could handle me, Weasley." she answered, a smug expression encroaching on her features.
"If I hadn't heard the part about my perfection, your night may have ended on a more unpleasant note Ly." Angelina Johnson strutted up to them, her tall heels clicking loudly with each of her steps, and her hips swaying from left to right.
Since this was the first ball since the battle, family members of the deceased were each sent an invitation, along with a plus one. Not many of them had come, except, of course, for the recently graduated students who still felt a tie to the school.
George and Angelina were of the few that seemed to be staying for longer than to make an appearance and then a swift escape.
"Hey Angelina!" she exclaimed, her coy smirk lifting into a bright beam.
Angelina swept Lyra up into a squashing hug. Her strong arms were nearly bone-crushing from how fit she was from her regular Quidditch playing. Angelina had recently been recruited to play for the Holyhead Harpies with Ginny.
Ginny had been granted permission to leave Hogwarts on occasion, in order to meet with the captain and for practices, just as Harry and Ron had been doing for their Auror training.
"I've missed you Ly, you should come visit sometime." Angelina crossed her arms after releasing her and looked Lyra up and down. "You look good, anyone special?"
Lyra laughed dismissively. "Yeah right."
"Well, I would say that I am completely enthralled by this conversation ladies, but that would be a bloody poor lie." George began as he licked his lips and put his hands possessively around Angelina's waist. "I'd much rather be dancing with my wife."
Angelina giggled mischievously and glanced briefly at Lyra before grabbing George's hands from around her waist, flinging them off of her, and tugging them towards the dance floor by his tie. "Duty calls Ly! See you," she called over her shoulder.
Lyra watched their giggling figures as they got lost in the crowd of masked dancers, twirling, and spinning to the song.
She sighed and grabbed one of the teacups that had been lingering by her, swiftly repeating the spell she'd overhead Ron chanting earlier, transfiguring its contents into a firewhiskey. She tipped the teacup, pouring the searing liquid down her throat, relishing in the unfamiliar burn.
She rarely drank firewhiskey, especially not Blishen's firewhiskey, as potent as it was.
She swayed a bit, her dress getting caught on the band of her bracelet. She groaned in irritation and fumbled with the fabric, trying to untangle the threads attached to the metal band with her free hand.
"Why don't you let me help you with that, gorgeous." A tall man dressed in full black approached her. He must have been at least 6'4, his cheekbones sticking out starkly from under the edges of his mask.
His eyes were narrow and glacial. His stare was as sharp as diamonds. Those eyes were born with a predilection for all things illicit.
She stared up at him imploringly, her head adjacent to the steep dive of his collarbones, visible even under the shawl lapel.
"I don't remember asking for help," Lya mumbled under her breath. She was conflicted. Her mind told her to turn around. He was dangerous. But everything about him pulled her in.
"That's where you're wrong. Perhaps the words didn't come out of your mouth, but the way you were tugging at that dress was enough of a plea. "
The man pulled her wrist from the dress gently, maintaining eye contact as if asking her permission. When she nodded arbitrarily, he slowly grabbed her other wrist, and popped the band from the threads of her dress with a hook motion.
She gaped at him, shocked. "How did you do that so fast?"
He looked down at her with a self-satisfied smirk. "My mother tends to get things attached to her dresses often, and I'm usually the one to remove them."
She caught him muttering something under his breath. "The only bloody man consistent enough in her life to do anything for her."
She pretended not to hear him, instead trying to better gauge his identity.
He looked almost fake, really. He was chiseled from stone; every imperfection that might have been present, chipped away into the hollows of his cheeks or the sharps of his jaw. His eyes were dark and startlingly masculine.
Whoever he was, he was very attractive. Her lips nervously caught between her teeth.
"Do I know you?" She posed the question in a way that made a brow quirk. He had his head bowed to watch her, trying to grasp the intent of her query.
He looked her up and down. "Perhaps." She grumbled. "That's not much of an answer."
"It's not something you need to know." he said, shrugging and looking over her head at something in the distance. She considered turning around to see for herself, but decided no to. She was set on studying his every move. He was acting odd and she wanted to know why.
"What should I call you then?" she asked, her lips twitching up into an unwelcome smirk.
He considered her a moment, the whites of his eyes more clear now with the amused expression he wore. "Call me, detektiv"
She gave him a confused look. "Why detective?"
"So you speak Russian, huh?"
"Yes, now answer my question."
"It's either that, or vladelets."
The amusement flared in his eyes when her cheeks grew noticeably hot.
"Figured." He gave her a smug look and offered her his hand, bending down a bit until they were looking at each other, their eyes level.
"What am I supposed to do with that?" She arched her brow at him, giving him a curious look.
"Dance with me?" He ran his other hand through his hair as he straightened his back to peer down at her. His voice had changed, it was husky almost, sort of rushed, like he needed an answer now or it would be too late.
She squinted at him, unsettled by his change in tone. "Flattered." She answered with one word. She was worried that if she had said more, her voice would have failed her, giving away her suspicion.
Lyra took his hand and let him guide her with his other hovering over the small of her back. She hated it when people did that. Did they think she would fall or something?
He was right, as it turned out. She tripped over herself despite how many times Ginny made her practice in her heels and all the stabilizing charms she'd placed on them earlier when Ginny wasn't looking.
He caught her. Both his hands spread over her bare back, pausing their hovering to briefly stabilize her.
She was disgusted to find that she'd leaned into the touch. Maybe it was how his hands were so warm compared to the frigid air of the Great Hall, or perhaps it was her unfortunate lack of male contact.
She stumbled backwards. "Im—God, I'm sorry,"she said.
"Fuck, dont worry about it." He rubbed his arm, wincing. "Nearly broke my arm trying to catch you."
She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. "Again, I'm really sorry."
"Again," he emphasized, mocking her. "You're good. Although, you can make it up to me by letting me dance with you."
She looked up at him, abandoning her efforts to avoid eye-contact with him. "You'd still want to? I've already proven how clumsy I am."
He smiled, dimples showing at the balls of his cheeks. "Of course, what kind of gentlemen would I be to refuse a girl a dance after offering her one?"
"A piss-poor one," she answered, returning his smile.
He led her to where the others were dancing, and they jumped into the song almost instantly.
She wasn't familiar with the steps, but from what she could gather, everyone had their own primary partners, but they would jump from partner to partner before continuing their main dance when they finished each cycle.
They happened to jump in during the middle of a cycle, so they went their separate ways.
She was dancing with some random Hufflepuff boy for a bit before she was launched back into the arms of her mystery man.
"So…." she started, trying to trick him into saying his name.
"Detektiv," he finished for her.
"Damn it, I thought that might work." She watched him closely, but all he did was broaden his smirk.
"You thought wrong, gorgeous. "His hand slipped lower down her exposed back and she shivered lightly. She brought her hand back to cover his, bringing it back up and glaring at him.
"I thought that would work," he said, shrugging.
She scrunched her eyes at him. "I guess we were both wrong."
He laughed. It was a deep and throaty sound, almost intimidating, but she couldn't help but laugh along with him.
"You've got me there," he replied, his continued chuckles making his hand slide involuntarily lower on her back.
She fixed him with a stare and he moved it back up.
His hand caught on something at the small of her back and she chomped down on her lips when she realized what.
"What do we have here?" he said, looking between her eyes in question.
"So… what's with the detektiv thing? Huh?" she said in an overt change of topic. Possibly too overt.
"Nuh-uh, you are not getting away with this," he said as he brought his hand into view.
He glanced at the shrunken object, peered up at her with a roguish smirk, and whispered a spell under his breath. The object returned to its bona fide state.
"Of course," he muttered, a breathless laugh hidden between the syllables.
He slowly raised one, dark-haired eyebrow at her, and she was defeated.
She suspired harshly. "What? It's not a big deal," she began to blubber in her defense. "So what if I bring a book everywhere I go. You never know when it will come in handy."
He laughed in her face. "Of course—you of all people," he stopped to laugh again. "Would bring a fucking book to a ball." He emphasized each word as if that would somehow make it any more believable.
"I'm not a dolt. You don't need to speak to me like a child," she grumbled, struggling to keep up with the dance while he seemed to be continuing it effortlessly, despite the gigantic book in his hand.
"Mind you, shrunken and charmed to stick to your dress," he snorted, ignoring her like she hadn't just spoken a full sentence to him.
She rolled her eyes at him. "You are such an imbecile."
"Oh honey, I am never letting you live this down," he said with an impish way about him. He shrunk the book back down, and stuck it back to the spot on her dress.
"Like I said, imbecile."
"Takes one to know one, gorgeous."
She glowered at him, but eventually a smile broke away upon being the recipient of a huge grin plastered across his face.
His cheeks puffed up with a slow exhale, and he opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the cycle restarting.
This time she was in the arms of an oddly scrawny Hufflepuff she recognized from the Quidditch tryouts a few years back. She'd been in the stands, reading a book, supposed to be watching the Gryffindor tryouts, but the time had gone by so fast that she'd made it until the Hufflepuff tryouts.
She sighed when the guy stepped on her toes.
The music jumped, and she jumped along with it, happy to save her toes from further bruising. She landed flush against the chest of her mystery man, her hands on his broad shoulders trying to find some sort of grip.
His hands steadied her at her waist. "We've got to stop meeting like this," she joked.
"Really, I rather like it." He flashed her a tight smile and then he switched his gaze to a spot over her head.
His smile turned into a sly leer before he met her eyes again. "Do something for me?"
She looked at him, confused. "What?" His feet slowed down and he leaned into the crook of her shoulder, holding her even closer to his body.
"Run your hands through my hair," he whispered. She could feel the smirk in his words.
"Why?" she asked, her face contorting into one of skepticism.
He retreated from the crook of her neck and glanced at her before looking bad at the spot over her head, still wearing that devious smirk. It was as though he was putting up an act of some sort.
She tried to turn her head, possibly catching a glimpse of whatever or whomever he kept exchanging predatory stares with, but he brought his hand to her chin, his thumb swiping softly over her lips, and turned her head back to look at him.
"You'll see," he said, his eyes turning dark.
Her brows furrowed and the lines around her mouth deepened with her frown.
"Is this a trick?" she questioned.
"No."
She stared at him, her face blank. "A joke?"
"No."
"Then I don't understand—"
"For Salazar's sake, woman. This is not some ploy to embarrass you, and I assure you I am not some creep with a hair kink, if that's what you're thinking." he surveyed her briefly, and then sighed.
"This is going to be extremely beneficial to your future and that is all I can say," he made a locking motion against the corner of his lips. "Just trust me."
"Trust is earned," she said.
He ran his free hand against his face. "Fuck— I'm sure it's too late anyway, you are unnaturally stubborn."
"Too late for what?" she asked, grimacing in acknowledgement of the 'stubborn' comment. Fred had always called her stubborn.
"Nothing, It's not—" he was interrupted again by the next cycle of jumping and switching partners.
A Ravenclaw. "Hey-er… would you like to— I dunno— get outta here-"
"Stop," she said. "You'll only be disappointed."
The boy, who she was sure was too young to be here anyways, looked at her with his mouth open. He snapped it suddenly shut upon the realization of her rejection.
She sighed inwardly as she skipped and hopped along with the song before it was time to switch again.
"I think my plan may have worked anyhow gorgeous," said her mystery man as his strong grip returned to her waist.
He gave her a broad, boastful smile, the dimples at his cheeks pronounced enough she could probably stick a pair of knuts in them without trouble. It was boyish really, reminding her of Harry's wide grin after he caught his first snitch.
She smiled back at him, not really sure why, but it seemed she didn't have a choice. His smile was contagious.
He wasn't looking at her again, his eyes caught somewhere high above her head and a little to the right, but that childish smile remained.
"Get ready," he nearly growled.
"What in merlin's name are you—"
He spun her abruptly, the skirt of her dress cascading around her, but his hand in hers disappeared before she could complete the spin. She lost her balance without the insurance of his hand, and she gave a small shriek when the world around her appeared to be doing summersaults.
His hand returned, and she gave a sigh of relief. Their chests were pressed together and her hand grasped his lapels. That was when she realized that something was off.
She was looking down at a pair of oxfords lined in dragon skin. Her mystery man had been wearing classic black oxfords.
Now that she thought about it, her mystery man's chest had not been as high up or solid as the one her hand was currently gripping at.
He definitely did not have the blonde, almost white hair that was caught somewhere in her peripheral vision.
He smelt of smoke and potency. Specks of patchouli caught under the woodiness of amber. The earthy and musky aroma mixing with the rich and forceful savor of intoxication. Even the air surrounding him tasted of his scent.
Her hand against his chest told her all kinds of things. He was stronger than she thought, his hard muscles turned tense under her shaky touch. His heart was stronger. She could feel it beating rapidly, assiduous in maintaining a vigorous thrum that belied his actions.
He'd stepped right in to replace her mystery man. He was dancing in perfect coetaneous movement to the song. A man with a heart pounding so hard in his chest should not be able to hear, much less follow the choreography in synchronicity to the rhythm.
He was cold. Colder than anything she'd ever felt. the chill of his body seeping through her clothes and infiltrating her skin.
His hand rested low on her disrobed back. She didn't dare prompt him to move it up like she had with her mystery man.
She could feel their breaths intermingling in the air. Each breath of hers racked through her and she closed her eyes, struggling to contain the sound from reaching his ears.
His breaths were long and deep. She could feel them growing with her palm against his heart. She could make out the drifting sense of her hair each time one of his exhales fused with one of her strands.
She removed herself from his chest, settling on keeping her hands on his shoulders and her eyes pointedly averted as his grip on her waist grew unyielding in its cruelty.
Lyra was staring at his tie. It was the same colour as her dress; a dark green that looked black from afar. Her mind traced back who had given her the dress and she swallowed hard when she remembered Ginny shoving it into her arms.
A gift from all of us. We insist. Isn't it beautiful? You look great, Ly.
Did they plan this? Had they known Draco would be wearing the same colour tie? No. Why would they match her dress with anything Draco Malfoy was wearing? They hated him, and so did she.
He gave a keen, bitter laugh.
Her head shot up to look at him. They eyed each other warily, waiting for the other to speak first.
His eyes were silver liquid. She didn't move a muscle, except of course for her feet, which had slipped into a familiar deliberate movement. The song had switched to a slower dance and she hadn't even consciously acknowledged it. .
"You make it so blatantly obvious when you're overthinking things," he said, breaking the stillness.
Lyra watched him carefully, her heart aching along with her nerves. He stared right back at her, his head at an awfully uncomfortable looking decline. It took her a second to process his words.
There was obviously recognition in them. It was strange though, she thought he hadn't recognized her initially on the stairs, but she was almost certain he had not recognized her now. Why would he knowingly step in to dance with her?
"What- what made you think I was overthinking?" She tried her best to mimic the sound of dignity, an unachievable venture when all she could weigh upon was his cool skin against hers and his calamitous stare.
"For starters, you gnaw at your lip like a fucking- a fucking. You know what, nothing compares to the way you bite your lip," he spat. "Then your eyes go almost glassy, like you're off in some imaginary world, and you get shivers. I could literally see your body trembling."
She tittered. "Really Malfoy? That was most illuminating. I had no idea you'd observed so much about me," regaining a bit of her snarky self back.
"Oh no. No, no, no. You seem to be the observant one out of the two of us," she gasped in understanding but he continued. "That little book of yours sure does notice a lot about me."
He spoke with acrimony. She tried to fight the capriciousness from reaching her voice but it made her words sound strained, affected. "Stop talking." They came out in a strangled wobble.
If you so much as look at me accusingly again I will not hesitate to do something about it. Look at me, Wolf, Is that right?
She remembered his words clearly. "I'm not a test subject you know. I'm not someone to test out all your taunts on like some iterative or—or an experiment." The vestigial anger she'd been feeling all night pulsed through her.
He looked at her curiously. " I'm sorry." His pupils contracted and his face tensed up into blankness, as if someone had taken an eraser and removed any emotion from his features. She recognized it as Occlumency.
"I- what?" She almost stopped dancing but the force of his palm on her back got her feet moving again.
"Sorry, and don't fucking make me repeat it," he said, looking anywhere but at her eyes. She swore she could see the faintest blossoming of pink on his cheeks as his walls slowly retreated. It was astonishing how quickly he could build and remove the barriers of his mind.
"I started this rehabilitation program and the first thing I teach is to make amends and apologize for grievances. And I'm not a fucking hypocrite," he said, punctuating her thoughts.
Getting even a banal apology from Draco, let alone a sincere one, was unheard of, arduous even for those closest to him. The words had stricken her. As far as she knew, he'd never said those words in his life.
Most people had a scant regard for posterity, but not Draco Malfoy. The bloke had made a bloody rehabilitation program. Who this man was, he was not the Malfoy she knew and despised.
Draco took a prolonged, and profound inhale. His mouth hung open, but not a sound escaped. With a sharp shake of his head, he pinched his lips together and resumed his attention to the now soft moves of the music.
She made a similar motion, moving her lips in a silent awe-struck ramble, but she ultimately decided on returning her attention to keeping up with him.
She grumbled when she stubbed her own toe, but then she remembered something.
Her eyes flashed and abruptly looked up to meet the eyes of stone slates, flickering her gaze down at a certain spot on his stomach before flashing back up to meet his eyes. She hoped the movement had been conspicuous enough.
"What was that?" he asked, a note of suspicion tinging the last bit. She sighed disparagingly at her inability to remain subtle.
"Do me a favor and check to see if that-" the words caught in her throat as a laugh bubbled up to the surface. "If that image is still imprinted on your stomach."
"Are you saying it might be gone?" he asked, his face hardening, The mental agony of what his reaction might be to her confession was brimming.
She looked at him with a clear, transparent, mischievous joy, and then she was spinning.
He was twirling her in his arms as the music came to a crescendo. One hand lay, palm out, on his back, the other hanging loosely on her fingers as she spun. His feet stood still as he watched her struggling to maintain her balance.
Thank Merlin, once again, for stabilizing charms; her heels were beginning to wobble.
Just as she thought they would snap in two, leaving her with an odd pair of flats, Draco dipped her, bringing his mouth to her ear. "Will it be gone?"
She held onto his neck, pulling herself up, and looking him dead in the eye. "You tell me."
He fixed her with a stare. She didn't acknowledge it.
He'd had his mouth at her ear and Lyra wasn't sure if she'd taken a full breath since. He dragged her to the edge of the space cleared for dancing and turned away from the crowd.
He untucked his shirt to find that the tattoo had disappeared. "What the fuck did you do Wolf?"
"Nothing really. I simply held an experiment. That's all," she answered innocently.
He looked down at her, with a glare so palpable, it could probably cut clean through her ligaments, leaving his hands available for a quick scourgify to clean up whatever mess she left behind.
She thought about her blood pooling around those expensive dragon-hide oxfords, splattered stains ruining his pristine, most-likely hundreds of Galleons, tailored dress shirt, and couldn't help but laugh.
He must have thought she was laughing at him— which was not entirely false anyhow, because he slid his fingers from her lower back to her nape, tugging her closer to him. He tightened his hold when she automatically tried to pull back.
Her eyes searched the room, looking for anyone; anyone who could save her from Malfoy, or at least kill him after he killed her. She felt a mutual death would be favorable. If Malfoy killed her, and he was left to live, she'd be stuck haunting him forever.
It seemed her luck had run out a long while ago, probably when she and the trio were able to somehow kill Voldemort, because there was no one around to help.
Sighing, her wandering eyes returned to the mercury ones in front of her. "What do you mean by an experiment?" he asked her, his eyes tightening. "You just told me not to treat you like an experiment, and here we are."
Thanks to the ruthless grip he had on the back of her neck, she was forced to find purchase on the waistcoat he wore under his suit, clinging by the nails to its fabric.
"Well, you never tell me the truth when you talk to me—always coming up with these lame explanations for everything, going on and on about how you hate me and such. You know, the feeling is mutual. I hate you as much as you hate me, and there really is no getting ar—"
"Get to the point Wolf, or Merlin forgive me—"
"Merlin forgive me what?" she interrupted. "What could you possibly do to me in a room full of people." She immediately regretted it.
He smirked at her, quickly ushering away a strand of blonde that had fallen over his face. "There is a lot I could do that you don't know about."
She fixed him with a bewildered stare. Under the pretense of adjusting her dress, she brought her hand down to her thigh and started feeling around for the hilt of her dagger. Her nose crinkled when she couldn't get a grip on it.
Her eyes shot up when she heard an amused grunt above her. "Don't think I haven't thought about that Wolf. A wordless epoximise seems to have done the trick."
She glared up at him. "You bonded my dagger to the holster?" It wasn't really a question, more like a disbelieving exclamation.
He raised his eyebrows in answer, bringing his own blade to her abdomen, tucked between their bodies so as to hide the weapon from any onlooker.
"Fine," she mumbled quietly. "I figured, since you are always bloody rude and dishonest, I would charm a dick tattoo onto your stomach until you said something sincere to me."
She stared at him, expecting a defensive answer, but all she got was a blank stare back. "Do you not know what sincere means?" she questioned when his face grew confused.
"Of course I know what sincere means," he spat, loosening his grip on her nape. She let out a breath in subtle relief. "Then why do you look like I just told you muggles eat owls for breakfast."
His eyes widened. "They do?"
She gaped at him. "What- of course not! Why would you even come to that conclusion?"
"I don't know, it bloody well may be true," he responded offhandedly.
She pictured her owl with its beak hanging open to fit an apple, and its feathers nearly burnt off. She grimaced. Let's just say, she didn't particularly savor the thought.
"You're crazy, " she drawled.
"You're the one who put a tattoo of a cock on my stomach. You're crazy and immature." He let go of her completely and stuffed his blade into the inside pockets of his suit.
She thought he was going to turn around and leave, but he surprised her when he took her hand and brought it up to his cold mouth to kiss her knuckles with the softest touch of his lips.
Lyra gasped a little, but Draco's interest appeared negligible. He did not look up at her once before he stood straight and walked away.
And she just stood. Alone.
Alone with the spot on her hand where the cold of his lips still lingered, and the sound of her heart pulsing in rapid succession.