The summer Lyra and Regulus turned fifteen, the summer Sirius ran away to the Potter's, Orion Black called Lyra into his office and explained the Black family curse.

"The first part is that we die young, for wizards. The second is that something makes us reckless enough to do so," he said, flipping through a thick and dusty book.

She waited quietly, hands on her lap.

"Not one of us has lived to be a hundred in over a century. Your grandfather Arcturus is increasingly careful these days," he paused his search of the book, read the page, and kept turning.

"Why?" she asked, "Why are we cursed?"

"Your mother would have you believe it is penance for some imagined slight - her three times Great Aunt Isla married a muggle, or some other shocking family secret," Orion snorted, "Really, Lyra, some families just have a streak of recklessness in them."

Lyra tilted her head slightly, thinking. It was true enough, she supposed. Sirius certainly had 'a streak of recklessness', and she suspected Regulus did as well, though he was much better at hiding it. Cousin Andromeda as well - she'd gone off and married that muggle-born the previous summer - and something had always seemed off about Bellatrix.

"You see?" her father said, "It exists in every line of Blacks, in every generation. Alphard was the biggest offender in my generation, you grandfather Pollux in his, though he would point to his brother," he ran a finger down a page in the book, then back up.

She hadn't known her mother's father had a brother. Her eyes strayed to the small family tree pinned to the office wall, a simpler version of the one that hung in the drawing room. Sure enough, a black mark covered some unknown sibling of Pollux Black.

"The point, Lyra," Orion said, looking up from the book for the first time since she'd sat down, "is that your brothers are afflicted with this, and one day it will be up to you to support them both."

"Both?" Lyra said, "But Mother blasted Sirius -"

"If you think that petty outburst of feelings makes Sirius any less of your brother, you are not the daughter I thought you were."

Heat rose to her cheeks, "That's not what I meant," she said, her voice sounding petulant even to herself.

Her father raised an eyebrow, "I would hope not. I am not a Seer, but I always keep my ears open, and I would put galleons on dangerous times being ahead of us. This Dark Lord is grasping for power, and I do not think it will be quick or easy."

It was the first time she'd heard her father acknowledge the Dark Lord to her. Rumors were spreading at school, though, and some of the older Slytherins could be seen clustering in the common room at night, talking in low voices. They said he was a strong leader, someone who would reinstate the old ways, and bring the wizarding world to the glory it deserved. That he acknowledged muggles and muggle-borns as being lesser than pure bloods, and vowed to bring them to submission, or else exterminate them.

"If it comes to war," Orion continued, "you must be smart. Your mother relies on appearances and the approval of her peers far too much to allow her children to bring shame to the family - Regulus will certainly be her focus should it become apparent we need a player on the Dark Lord's board. Sirius will likely fight against the movement, if his ramblings on equality are anything to go by. You must be prepared to support both." he emphasized the last sentence, enunciating carefully.

"I do not envy you this," he said, quietly, "But I do not intend the Black lineage to end with me and I will do whatever it takes to ensure this."

Lyra realized she had dug her fingernails into the back of her hand, and relaxed her grip. Her head spun. She'd always known she would be used as a bargaining chip - pureblood daughters always were - but to have it so blatantly laid out to her, to be told that she must be prepared to support whatever looked most promising, that was something else. Had her father no loyalty? No values beyond winning?

Did she?

It almost scared her, how much the idea made sense. She wouldn't have to sacrifice herself this way, have to choose, and potentially choose wrong, lay down her life for a belief she didn't hold. After all, what did she know of politics and what was best for the world? At the same time, a small voice whispered to her. Coward, it said.

But Lyra was fifteen and self-doubts were nothing new, and so she shoved the voice aside and met her father's eyes.

"I understand," she said, "Where do we begin?"

An icy wind blew across the Quidditch pitch, far too cold for the early November morning. Black shapes swept across the grounds, heading for the mass of warmth, of happiness. There were gasps from the crowd, and someone screamed.

Lyra was on her feet, wand out, Charity Burbage beside her, looking pale but focused. Together, along with a few other present professors, they cast a patronus, silvery shapes charging the dementors. Lyra's crow flew alongside Charity's fox, closely followed by a cat, a ram, and then a phoenix. Dumbledore had arrived.

The crowd screamed again - someone - Potter? - was falling. Dumbledore was on the field faster than Lyra thought possible, casting a spell that slowed the falling body and cushioned its landing.

The dementors scattered, heading back toward the trees. The crow returned, resting briefly on her shoulder before disappearing in a cloud of silver mist. Minerva had taken the microphone from Lee Jordan, and was issuing commands, directing the student body back into the castle.

"I don't think I've ever seen Dumbledore so furious," Charity said.

Lyra looked at Dumbledore down on the pitch. His face was hard as he conjured a stretcher and placed the limp body of Harry Potter onto it. His eyes, usually twinkling and kind, burned, something she could see even from far away. She shivered.

"No, me either," she said quietly, then stopped. A lone dementor was gliding towards Dumbledore. The Headmaster sent the stretcher gliding towards the school, and turned to meet the dementor before it got too close.

"Do dementors speak?" Lyra wondered aloud.

Charity shivered, "Oh I hope not."

"Yes," said Flitwick, appearing behind her, "They regularly communicate with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Dumbledore has personally met with them several times since they were stationed at Hogwarts."

Lyra did not want to imagine what a dementor would sound like. Icicles breaking, maybe, or the wind on a January morning.

"Lyra, I think… I think Dumbledore wants you," Charity said, pointing.

Sure enough, Dumbledore was staring at her, gesturing slightly.

She shared a glance with Charity, and then began to descend to the pitch. The wind picked up again as she got close, and she began to wonder what she was even doing, how dare she walk across this pitch like she belonged here when she'd failed -

"Lyra," Dumbledore said, breaking her out of her spiral.

Lyra looked up. The dementor stared down at her from an empty hood, rasping noises coming from somewhere within.

A jolt ran through her, like her entire brain had been dropped in ice, and then a voice raked through her mind almost violently.

You taste like the one we seek, it said, but you are not, it seemed surprised.

"I told you," Dumbledore said, "Lyra is not Sirius Black, but his blood relation."

Perhaps we have been hasty, it physically hurt to hear the dementor speak, a painful scraping like a shovel over ice, digging through her head, piercing her ear drums. A flood of self-pity washed over Lyra, and she struggled to push it away.

We will return to our post. Forgive the intrusion, the dementor turned and glided away.

Dumbledore looked at Lyra, concern softening his hard gaze, "Are you alright? They claim they came because they tasted Sirius on the wind. I believe it was likely you, instead," he said with a faint tone of disgust.

She realized she was shivering, shoulders tense with the effort of keeping them still. A small voice, one she hadn't heard in years, giggled in her mind.

Coward, it said, coward, coward, coward.

With effort, she focused on the here and now, bringing the individual blades of grass into view, the feel of the wind at her back, practically warm compared to the icy chill of the dementors. The noise of the student body pushing its way back into the castle.

Lyra forced herself to nod, "Yes," she said, "Yes, I'm alright. I will be."

Dumbledore gazed at her, expression hard to read, but nodded, "Very well. Perhaps a visit to Madam Pomfrey, then?"

"I've got a meeting in town," Lyra said, "I will be fine," she checked her watch. She actually had a few hours before she had to meet Croaker, but she was certain he would be early, and something in her itched to be as far from here as possible. And she could use a drink.

She headed towards the village, fighting the urge to conjure her patronus just in case. She'd never considered that she could be mistaken for Sirius, but she didn't know how dementors sensed anything. Could they see? It had said they'd tasted her, a thought that sent a shiver down her spine. Her shoulders ached from holding in the shaking. Maybe Lupin knew about dementor anatomy; she'd have to ask him.

The Hogs Head was dimly lit and looked like it hadn't been cleaned properly in decades. The barman gave her a once over and pulled out a glass, filling it with a flick of his wand.

"Dwarven made," he said, sliding it down the bar to her, "you look like you need it."

Lyra accepted the glass of amber liquid, the scent of fire and forge wafting from it. It was unusual, but the flavor was unlike anything she'd ever had. Normally she was not a fan of the ultra smokey, ultra peaty drinks, but something about this drink warmed her fast. There was a hint of sharpness in it, and the image of a sword being honed drifted into her thoughts.

She blinked, and took another sip, "what is it?" She asked, another image, this time of a dagger, appearing in her mind's eye.

"Forged whiskey," the barman grunted, "Best thing for dementors. Fights off the dark feelings."

It seemed to be true, the sly voice that had curled in her head, the one that called her a coward, was getting quieter, the violent shaking of her shoulders slowed and halted.

"Amazing," she muttered to herself. There hadn't been much in the glass, and she found herself wanting more.

"Can't overdo it though. You'll end up crafting weapons until it wears off," the barman added, picking up a glass and inspecting it for spots.

"How long does that take?"

"I've only seen it once myself, and the man became a blacksmith," a ghost of a smile crossed the man's face, "Abe," he said.

It took her a second to realize he was introducing himself, "Lyra," she replied hastily.

"I know," Abe said, "Gave Rosmerta a fright; she half thought she had Sirius Black walking into her pub."

"We don't look that much alike."

Abe huffed in response, and passed her a different glass, half filled.

Lyra had it halfway to her mouth before she paused, "How'd you know about the dementors?"

"Huh?"

"When I came in I hadn't said anything about dementors, how did you know?"

"Had a look about you. Pale-like. Something in the eyes," he shrugged, "I've seen it a few times recently. Be glad when this dementor nonsense is done with."

She nodded, and took a sip. Goblin-made, a good one. She began to relax slightly; all she had to do was wait.

Saul Croaker entered the pub silently, sliding into the seat next to Lyra with practiced ease.

"Time check," he said, pushing up his sleeve to reveal two wristwatches.

"Castle set. One thirty-three, fifty seconds" Lyra said, checking her own watch.

Croaker cursed, tapping a watch face, "Ministry set. Two minutes and forty-two seconds off. Damn maintenance department won't listen to me when I tell them the clock is wrong," he pulled a third watch out of his robes, frowning at it.

"It's a losing battle, Saul," Lyra said.

Abe came back from a store room, and grunted a greeting. Far from looking offended, Croaker nodded in silent recognition.

"Come here often, then?" Lyra asked dryly.

"Often enough," Abe said, sliding a glass down the bar filled with clear, faintly bubbling liquid.

"I like Abe," Croaker said, shrugging, "Doesn't ask too many questions," he took a sip, and turned to give Lyra his full attention.

Being stared at by Saul Croaker was a rare, but uncanny experience. His eyes were a strange, almost colorless grey, like the midwinter sky. He never said quite what you expected him to, and while he was a brilliant research partner, this slight awkwardness made for jarring normal conversations.

"They've got spies everywhere," he said.

Lyra, used to his strangeness after nearly a decade of working with him, nodded, "You mentioned. Who's got spies?"

"Aurors. Sniffing around the workshop lately. Think they're trying to frame you for something."

Her eyes narrowed. Scrimgeour really was asking for a meeting with her solicitor.

"Not Scrimgeour," Croaker said, "Robards and his trainee, Dawlish. Keep asking Jones to get in your office," his voice was quiet, clipped.

"I didn't think Robards was on this case."

Croaker shook his head, "Not officially. Heard he's doing a favor for one of Fudge's people - senior undersecretary."

The mention of Fudge's undersecretary reminded Lyra of something.

"Jones said back in July that Fudge's undersecretary wanted to put me in Azkaban, for the crime of being related to Sirius," Lyra said, "I wasn't sure if I should take him seriously or not."

"Aye, that's her. Umbridge."

The sound of glass shattering made both of them look up. Abe waved his wand, repairing a broken cup.

"I don't like that woman," he said, darkly.

"You aren't alone," Croaker said, "Anyway, Lyra, you need to be careful. They aren't happy Black was able to get into the school last weekend -"

Lyra snorted, "Is anyone?"

"It doesn't matter, they're looking to point fingers, and one will land on you, mark my words," his gaze was intense as he dropped his voice, "You can't end up in Azkaban."

Had Croaker been anyone else, she would have made a joke at the way his tone was almost pleading. But Lyra had known Saul Croaker for too many years to brush off a genuine recognition of affection and concern. She nodded.

"I will need to find a solicitor then," she said, "I haven't needed one since the old Black retainer died."

At this, Croaker's grim expression turned practically cheeky, "Well," he said, "I didn't just ask you here because I like the atmosphere."

"Oh no you don't," Abe said, "I retired from that ages ago."

"Not even to give Umbridge a hell of a time?"

"No."

"No payback for what she did? How she made you feel, what she made you give up?" Croaker wheedled, fixing his strange eyes on the barman.

"No," Abe disappeared into the back room.

"I don't understand," Lyra said, "Why would I want a barkeep as my solicitor?"

"Wait for it," Croaker said.

Loud bangs were heard from the other room, dust falling from high shelves over the bar. A painting shook, and somewhere, a goat bleated. Then, Abe came back.

"Fine," he said, "But you'll owe me a favor to be redeemed when I see fit."

Croaker grinned, and it looked positively feral, "Lyra, meet Aberforth Dumbledore, your new solicitor."