Chapter 2

Even flushed with the victory of tracking down the Boy-Who-Lived when all the other witches and wizards in the country had failed, going home managed to thoroughly crush any positive emotions she had managed to gain.

Druella Black nee Rosier lay in her luxurious bed surrounded by the wealth and grandeur of the Blacks and Rosiers. But the silk bedsheets and jewelled decorations couldn't mask the stink of potions that were keeping her alive.

"Hello Mother," Lyra greeted softly, closing the door behind her.

"Bella?" a weak voice croaked. "Bella, is that you?"

Despite expecting it, it still stung.

"No, Mother. It's me, Lyra."

Druella didn't seem to hear her. "Bella, my first child, my little witch. Come here, darling."

Lyra approached and took her wrinkled hand. Druella Rosier wasn't even seventy years old, not even halfway through the life expectancy of a witch, but she looked as if she already had one foot in the grave.

"Bella, you're such a good girl," her mother patted her hand and smiled at her with unseeing eyes. "I know you would never do what they said you did."

"Yes, Mother. It's all nonsense," Lyra agreed.

"What do the mudbloods know? They'll say anything to bring us down."

"As you say Mother," she agreed again.

"Such a good girl," she cooed softly, the same way Bella had done albeit far less manic, and the similarities made her want to cry.

"Such a good girl," Druella repeated as she fell asleep again.

Lyra left as sombrely as she came, heart heavy with grief. The visitor in the living room did not improve her spirits.

"Aunt Walburga." Lyra was shocked to see her aunt seated and having tea with her father. Ever since Regulus' death, Walburga had been haunting Grimmauld Place, growing steadily madder with only Kreacher and the portraits for company.

"Daughter. We were just speaking of you, join us." That was her father Cygnus, and it wasn't a request.

Lyra was glad she had changed from the poor garments of her Weasley disguise before returning, for Cygnus surely would have cursed her for daring to appear in such shabbiness.

"She needs a good match, to keep her from having any ideas like that no-good sister of hers." Walburga sniffed disdainfully, and Cygnus clenched his hand at the reminder of Andromeda. Lyra felt her heart sink and dread spread through her at the talk of marriage. She also felt angry – her mother was literally dying in the room above them, and they were speaking of marrying her off.

"Roland Yaxley is suitable. Or perhaps Marcellus Flint – he was recently widowed without issue."

Her father scoffed. "I wouldn't trust Flint with a pigmypuff, much less my daughter. And Yaxley? That family has been sniffing around for a Black bride for generations, the upstarts. Their bloodline may be suitable, but everything else leaves much to be desired. Roland even works at the Ministry," Cygnus sneered, as if working an honest job was a fate worse than death.

Walburga seemed to accept that and moved on. "Kingsley Shacklebolt is respectable enough, and his lineage is impeccable."

Notably, neither her father nor aunt asked for her opinion. Lyra also thought it laughable that they believed Shacklebolt – who had been a year ahead of her at Hogwarts and had since joined the Aurors – would ever consent to marry her. It's like they completely ignored the fact that the Black name was hardly worth anything now, what with Bellatrix's terrible crimes and the deeds credited to Sirius.

Their family had been torn apart by the war, and yet neither of them had changed. Lyra didn't know why she had expected anything to be different, and the last inkling of telling her family of Sirius' situation died. It was more likely Aunt Walburga would be utterly displeased to hear her son hadn't betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord.

It was a miserable evening, and Lyra ended up thinking longingly of Azkaban. She'd rather be there plotting with Sirius than listening to her father and aunt discuss her marriage prospects. It was a testament to how terrible her life had become that she could even consider Azkaban and the company of an estranged cousin in any sort of positive light.

In the aftermath of the Dark Lord's destruction and the House of Black's public shame, many of her friends had cut ties with her. Only Pandora Fawley kept in touch, but Lyra hesitated to impose on her because she had a newborn daughter. It hurt – of course it did. Lyra had grown up with the Black name hanging over her, but never had it cast such a dark shadow.

In a way, investigating Sirius' situation was a wonderful diversion from her present circumstances, and she found herself grateful she had visited him in Azkaban after all.

XXX

As promised, come Tuesday, Lyra Black re-entered Azkaban prison for the third time in three weeks.

"I hope you're not going to make a habit of this." The junior Auror was there again, the wizard who had guided her the first time. "I have better things to do than escort you."

Lyra blinked. "You do?" Most of the Death Eaters had been rounded up, and surely guarding them was an incredibly important job.

Her surprise had been entirely sincere. The wizard didn't see it that way.

Sirius perked up as soon as she came into view, both Blacks eyeing the Auror who hovered far closer than last time. He probably thought – not incorrectly – that they were up to something nefarious. The security check had been twice as thorough then the previous times, and incredibly invasive, what with them prodding her with Dark Detectors.

Lyra discreetly waved her wand, setting up the Black family privacy spell. Despite this, she leaned near the bars, face aglow with victory, unable to contain her triumph.

"I found him," she whispered, and Sirius' expression brightened to mirror her own. "He's with Evans' relatives, like you said."

"That's wonderful Lyra," he breathed. "I guess there's no need for me to stay here anymore, huh?"

"You-" she was shocked speechless. "You want to break out of Azkaban!?" If her spell hadn't been up, she would have gotten arrested right there and then.

Sirius smirked. "Not want – will. I will break out of Azkaban." When Lyra didn't look any less incredulous, he continued.

"Don't worry, I have it all planned out. I know the guards' routines, and I've been starving myself this past week so I can fit through the bars." At Lyra's horrified expression, he hurried on. "I'll change into a dog and sneak out at night. Then I'll swim to the mainland and meet you and Harry there. We can be out of the country before dawn."

The younger Black wasn't convinced. "This is crazy! Even if you can escape the fortress, how do you expect to swim all the way in the freezing water while half-starved!?" She demanded.

"I'll manage," Sirius insisted, expression stubborn, and she knew there would be no convincing him.

"You realise if you escape, everyone will think I helped you? We'll never be able to come back to Britain in our lifetimes!"

"Is that so bad?" The question took the wind from her broom, and she stared at his grim expression. "What is there left in Britain? You've only got some miserable pureblood marriage ahead of you-" she made a face "-where you'll pump out the next generation-" she made another "-and in ten years' time send them off to Hogwarts to continue the cycle."

"How do you know I don't want a miserable pureblood marriage," she retorted.

He snorted. "For one, you just called it miserable, and secondly don't you want to become an enchanter?"

Lyra was floored. "How do you know that?" she demanded.

Now he looked at her like she was the crazy one. "Isn't it obvious? You've wanted to be an enchanter for years."

She swallowed. Disregarding her parents, with whom she would never share such a secret, not even her friends knew of her dream – she hadn't thought anyone knew expect for Pandora. This had proven wise since all of them had dropped her like a hot potato, but still. Even though they had been estranged, Sirius must have kept an eye out for her at Hogwarts as well, just as she had been unable to ignore the gossip when it involved him. And she had never been a victim of the pranks the marauders would cook up, unless it was a school-wide indiscriminate one. Lyra hadn't – she hadn't known he had cared enough to be looking.

But-

"Mother…" she trailed off, heart twisting at the thought of abandoning her ill mother on her deathbed.

"Aunt Druella?"

"She's terribly sick," Lyra confessed miserably. "Ever since Bella – you know. I don't think she'll last much longer, and if I leave all of a sudden…"

Sirius looked at her, expression unreadable. "We could wait."

"Huh?" she gaped at him unattractively.

"We could wait until Aunt Druella… passes."

Lyra was floored at his selflessness. Sirius was volunteering to stay in Azkaban, literal hell on earth, just so she could spend a few more months with her addled mother. In all honesty, she never would have expected it of him.

The Black witch swallowed, lips trembling. "No. No, it's not fair to ask you to stay here, and-" her breath hitched, "-and Mother can't recognise me anymore anyway." She blinked back tears, and Sirius reached through the bars to hold her hand. It was this gesture that made up her mind.

Here he was, stuck in Azkaban, and he was comforting her.

"Alright," she whispered.

"Alright?" Sirius blinked, stunned. He probably hadn't believed she would agree, but he also didn't know she had nothing in her life that was worth staying for. A new start in a new country. Somewhere warm and sunny, where no one would judge them for the Black name.

"Yes," Lyra smiled, tremulously. "Let's do this."

XXX

Half an hour later, the youngest Black sister left Gringotts with the entire contents of her dowry vault in her purse, along with Sirius' own monies left to him by their Uncle Alphard, his key retrieved from his hiding spot near his old apartment. She apparated to her parent's home, sneaking in through the front door. Her father was passed out in the living room with a bottle of whiskey in hand, and she barely spared him a contemptuous glance before making her way silently up the stairs.

Her mother was where she had left her, so still that for a heart-stopping second, Lyra thought she had died. But no, there she was breathing softly, and she heaved an enormous sigh of relief, followed by a sigh of regret.

"Goodbye Mother," she whispered, kissing her on the brow. Druella didn't stir, and Lyra didn't have the heart to wake her.

XXX

it didn't take her long to start regretting her agreement.

This was a terrible idea, Lyra bemoaned inwardly. This was why one didn't give in Gryffindorish impulses; you ended up carrying out ridiculous plans that had a thousand and one ways to go wrong. She was going to be arrested, she just knew it.

'Stop by Gringotts, pick up Harry, and meet me by the north-eastern shore. Easy,' Sirius had said. Easy her arse!

Harry Potter's relatives would just hand him over and then they could go waltzing off into the sunset, unhindered and unremarked upon. She snorted inwardly. Yeah right.

Lyra gathered her courage and knocked on the front door of Number Four Privet Drive.

XXX

Lyra Black, a witch with thousands of years of impeccable magical heritage, was sitting in a disgustingly muggle living room. The pictures didn't move, there was an unidentifiable contraption taking up the centre of the far wall, and none of furniture even tried to strangle uninvited guests.

"-what with the chaos after the war, and there was a mix-up in regards to Harry's placement," she concluded her spiel of dragondung. She had claimed to be from the Ministry, a member of the Department of Child Services which didn't exist. Child Services, who could possibly conceive such a ridiculous idea? Luckily for her, Evans' muggle sister was quite dim and appeared to be buying it. "He should have gone to his godfather, Sirius Black, and I am here on his behalf to collect him.

The woman looked like she had won the lottery. "That's excellent to hear," she said primly. "We weren't expecting to have to care for another child, and he'd be better off with one of you lot."

Lyra blinked. Perhaps her family been telling the truth when they spoke of the intelligence of muggles. She must believe her, because what kind of Aunt agrees to give away their nephew to a shifty stranger? "Yes, quite. A wizard ought to be raised amongst his own kind. I'll take him and be on my way then. I don't imagine you shall see us again."

"Good, good." The woman who introduced herself as Petunia Dursley gathered the young child on the carpet where Harry was gumming on a wooden muggle vehicle.

"Here you go," she passed the Potter child to her, as easy as you please. Lyra couldn't believe it. She had gone in fully expecting to have to imperius the woman, and there hadn't even been any wards around the property to stop her.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Dursley." Before this extraordinary stroke of luck passed, she decided to leave.

Holding Harry rather uncomfortably – he was heavy and she had only held a few children before – Lyra disapparated to the north eastern beach to await Sirius. Once he reached the shoreline, he would be too weak to apparate far, so they had settled on the beach the whole family had visited on holiday, long, long ago.

Lyra waited anxiously for the sun to set, and had to feed and clean Harry twice. Thank Merlin she had remembered to send Kreacher out for appropriate food for children Harry's age beforehand. She was also even more grateful for magic – a simple cleaning charm and his diaper was as good as new. She shuddered to think of how muggles had to clean their children – by hand, most likely.

The sun set and the hours passed, and she expected to be set upon by red-cloaked Aurors at any minute. Or even Dumbledore himself to appear, wrinkled face scowling and wand blazing. It didn't happen.

Instead, when Harry had long since fallen asleep in the crib she transfigured him, and she had lost count of the number of times she had renewed her warming charm, there was a pop and a sodden black dog appeared.

Lyra leapt up. "Sirius!" she cried, forgetting about the sleeping baby next to her.

The dog transformed back and she hugged her cousin tightly. "I can't believe you managed to break out of Azkaban!" she said admiringly.

"I'm just that good," he grinned

Even his cocky swagger couldn't hide how exhausted he was. He looked terribly gaunt in his dripping prison robes, and Lyra immediately swished and flicked, drying, warming, and cleaning him as best she could. Sirius closed his eyes and moaned with pleasure at the sudden heat.

A gurgle reminded them of the third person on the beach, and both Blacks were a little ashamed to have completely forgotten Harry was there too. Sirius walked over to him, staring at his godson like he could scarcely believe he was there.

"You did it, Lyra," he said wonderingly.

She smirked back. "I'm just that good," she said, and he laughed.

"Yes, you are," he agreed wholeheartedly, and she felt a flush of pleasure at the rare, heartfelt praise.

"Here," she handed him his robes. "I raided your closet at Grimmauld Place. I'm not sure if they still fit, but they'll be a better sight that those filthy prison garments." And then she had to turn away, flushing, as he stripped right there and chucked said filthy shirt and trousers away. It was only because the situation was pressing that she held back a comment about his utter lack of propriety.

"I'll apparate us to London, you can navigate the muggle transportation to get us to the English Channel, and we can fly to France with a few disillusionment charms," she told him once he was in clean clothing, the other Black practically preening now that he was out of prison garb for the first time in over a month. His robes didn't quite cover his ankles, but he didn't seem to mind. "From there, the whole world is only a portkey away."

Sirius looked at her admiringly. "You've got this all planned out."

Lyra decided then and there to never tell him about her complete failure of planning at the Dursleys. "That's why Ravenclaws are the best," she smiled.

Her cousin laughed as he picked Harry up and held him close. "Hey, you won't hear any disagreements from me."

Lyra held out her arm and Sirius took it. They were gone in a crack of apparition, the beach empty as if they were never there.