It takes some time. A few days of helpless confusion and bewildered screaming before she understands what's happening.

No, she isn't as dead as she thought she was nor is this some strange kind of purgatory. At the very least, she could have done without the trauma of being born because, damn, would she have preferred to be entirely unconscious for that ordeal.

But as she lies in the arms of the giants whom she can only assume are her parents, exhausted into silence from being terrified and screaming her indignation about it to the world at large, nestled beside another tiny baby who can only be her twin sibling, she finds she doesn't particularly mind the concept of a redo. The opportunity to do it all over again and perhaps if not better than at least different to how she went about things last time.

And, looking up at her ethereally beautiful new parents (she didn't know people could possible be this pretty), at the helpless love and tenderness in their eyes as they stare down at her, it looks as though she won't be lacking in the loving parents department.

That's one tick in the box at least.

And she's got a sibling too! Tiny and pink and scrunched up potato creature as her brother/sister currently appears (newborn infants are never pretty things), this will certainly be a new novelty for her.

She's never had a sibling before.


Infant screaming snaps her out of sleep for the thousandth time and the original promise to be a good big sister is starting to waver.

Her twin is a whiny little fusspot and she knows babies don't know any better but that's not helping her annoyance any because her as yet unknown gendered twin is loud and disturbing her sleep.

Cardinal offences, both.

You're lucky you're a cute potato, she silently grouches, wiggling helplessly in the swaddle until she manages to get an arm free enough to reach over and pat his rosy cheek.

There, there, grumpy.

At least the screaming cuts back and big teary grey eyes turn to focus on her.

Very lucky he's so cute.


Her father is either a French Englishman or an English Frenchman because he seems to enjoy crooning to her in French whenever he holds her. He barely looks like a real person with how pretty he is. Miles of pale blonde hair, austere features and pale blue eyes that would look terrifyingly piercing if he didn't stare down at her with such tender love and the biggest goofy smile ever.

She's got a hot dad and mum is somehow more stunningly gorgeous. It doesn't seem possible.

Knowing her luck, she's going to look like a goddamn troll in comparison.

"Hello there," dad croons down at her, smiling in delight to find her studying his face, wiggling a big finger into a tiny hand and reflex more than any real desire has her fingers curling around it. "Ah, my Lyra, ma petite étoile, so strong," he purrs and gently presses his nose to hers in a tiny Eskimo kiss. She can't help the little laugh it inspires from seeing such an austere looking guy acting like a huge dope. "Cissy! Cissy, come look, she's smiling!"

Drop dead knockout mum appears at his shoulder, smile incandescent as she stares down at her.

Man, these people are easy to please, she laughs again and waves her stubby little arms at mum just to see if her parents can smile any harder.

"Oh, Lucius," mum sighs happily, leaning against dad's shoulder, her sibling sleeping soundly in her arms. "She's so beautiful. We've been so blessed."

"Little Lyra and Draco," dad croons before leaning over to kiss mum maybe a little too passionately for parents still holding their impressionable little babies. "Your best work yet, Narcissa."

Wait.

The smile drops from her face as she squint up at them.

They can't be…

Both parents jump at the sudden indignant shriek from their only daughter.


Apparently she's in fucking Harry Potter world.

It's been decades since she last read the books, one of the most iconic stories of her generation. She'd despised the movies only slightly less than she'd hated the Twilight movies so she'd never really expected the Malfoy's to be so goddamn pretty.

Centuries of inbreeding shouldn't produce this. She and her brother, Draco holy shit is that weird, should be misshapen lumps with debilitating health issues alongside extreme cases of being plain old bat shit crazy.

Genetic breakdown aside, she does remember the general plot of the story.

And there had been no mention of Draco having a twin sister.

An anomaly? A breakaway from the original story? Or is she doomed to die sooner rather than later?

It doesn't explain why she's got memories of another life. Doesn't explain how she can be here in a fictional fucking story.

Multiverse theory is starting to gain some goddamn traction, she thinks a little hysterically.


Even if she has been born into the Malfoy family, canonically evil and bad guy supporters, there's no way she can do anything but love them just as fiercely as they love her.

Maybe its a baby instinct, maybe its because she can understand all the mushy feelings they vomit all over her at every opportunity. Maybe its because she can see how incandescently happy Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are with her and Draco.

Or maybe it's simply because she's already vowed to love Draco and even though he cries all the time, he clutches at her like a beloved teddy bear at every opportunity.

The Malfoy's are hers and she'll cut a bitch before she lets them hurt her family.


Meeting old Voldemort isn't part of the agenda.

Six months into this new life and she's pretty sure she's going to find out why the original story doesn't show a Malfoy daughter.

To be fair, the creepy jerk shouldn't have tried to touch her Draco. Not that her tiny hand or protective fury-inspired accidental magic could really do him any real damage but the thought counts and she's most likely not going to be the-girl-who-survived-bitch-slapping-the-dark-lord.

In for a penny, as the English would say.

She adds an angry hiss for emphasis as she glares up into those creepy red eyes, Draco making a grumpy noise from where he's mostly squished beneath her. Blocking him from any more creepy dark lord bad touches.

She takes her big sister duties very seriously okay?

When the fuck was Harry Potter going to ghost this jerk already?

"You dare-!" a lady with crazy eyes and crazier curls snarls, wand in hand for a moment before mum is suddenly blasting her through a wall, beautiful face twisted into a no less beautiful snarl of fury.

"You dare raise your wand to my babies?" mum hisses like an enraged velociraptor, stalking after the woman while poor dad hurriedly scoops them up off the chair they'd been parked on for the dark lord's viewing pleasure. "I'll kill you!"

Old Tom Riddle chuckles as he peers down at her, not yet at the shitty nose-less snake-face bad synthetic props she'd seen snapshots of from the movie she'd refused to watch. He'd almost look normal if not for the red eyes and death pale skin.

He can hurry up and become a ghostly shade of himself any time now please and thanks.

"Your little Lyra takes the unofficial Malfoy words very seriously, Lucius," he turns an amused smile to dad who clutches them maybe a little too tightly to his chest, if Draco's squirming is anything to go by. Heart thundering under her ear in panic. Everyone seems to be politely ignoring the screaming, exploding fight happening somewhere behind the new hole in the wall. "Magical twins are exceptional, and for your daughter to already display accidental magic, it is quite promising indeed. My congratulations."

"Thank you, my lord," dad bows as deeply as he can with them in his arms.

Draco, the darling, predictable baby that he is promptly bursts into tears.


So. It has come to her albeit belated attention that she needs a plan.

Gripping Draco's tiny hand with her equally midget paws, she stares hard into her brother's sleeping face. Contemplating her options.

She's been born into a pureblood family with a history steeped in dark arts and unfounded pureblood superiority.

But her parents aren't crazy, aren't frothing at the mouth bat shit insane like Bellatrix or the Lestrange family. They love her and Draco. It doesn't take a genius to see that.

Even though they've got the kind of sexist views to make the 1800's turn and squint at them with an incredulous 'bro' (getting her dusty feminist heart flailing in a frothing fury, for fuck's sake, she's one, they shouldn't even be thinking about her fucking marriage prospects), and she's pretty sure they'd sooner cover up her committing murder than accept her going against their ridiculous views about muggles and muggleborns.

So on those particular topics, she has to plant the seed of doubt, or at least make it seem less out of character from the get go. If she can get Draco on board for both but preferably the latter, it'll make things easier but there's no guarantee of that. He's just a kid and going to look up to his parents like they hung the fucking moon for him. But planting the seeds of doubt or simple curiosity in the minds of the younger generation of purebloods might be doable.

Masterminding a generational revolt sounds pretty fucking gnarly. For both feminism and racial equality, eat your fucking heart out SJW's.

Or, alternatively, get stupidly powerful because with the whole Voldemort debacle and even what she recalls of Dumbledore in the story, its quite clear that the wizarding world believes in might makes right. Or at the very least too chickenshit to go up against the person with the biggest stick. Do a Voldemort, as it were. Minus the gratuitous waste of life and silly little death cult bullshit, of course.

And to get power, she needs knowledge.

Urgh.

She's gonna have to read so many goddamn books.


They're discovering that their little Lyra is an observant little thing. While Draco demands the world pay attention to his every need and whim, she quietly observes the world around her. Quietly soaking in everything she sees and hears.

A veritable angel in comparison to her brother's more...loud temperament.

They notice her oddities because they spend nearly every waking moment watching them, still marvelling at the concept that they're parents. That their little family has expanded not by one but two.

Their darling little miracles when they'd feared they'd never bring a child to term, let alone two.

So they notice that little Lyra waits for Draco to achieve his formative milestones before mimicking usually if not immediately after, then a day later. As if entirely capable of the feats beforehand but nonetheless waiting for Draco to catch up.

It is startling and endearing all at once.


Draco's first word is 'mama' and while his darling wife crows in triumph, little Lyra turns to him with a beaming smile, outstretched arms and cries out for 'papa'.

Gathering his daughter in for a twirling hug, listening to her delighted giggling, he would never have believed such happiness could exist.


Neither parents realise that neither 'mama' or 'papa' are their first words.

Draco's first word of 'Ra-ra' is uttered in the dead of night while they curl around each other in their crib and she's been speaking to him for months now, struggling to relearn how to shape her stupid baby mouth to form words that shouldn't be so frustratingly difficult and doing her level best to mimic the posh British accent of her parents (definitely bad form to start speaking with an accent). Bouncing ideas and trying to remember the full plot of the story she's now in. Pretending his baby babbling are well thought out arguments to her plans and trying to argue her case with less coherence than she'd like.

She calls him 'Co-co' in retaliation.


The dark lord is vanquished and much of the wizarding world sighs in relief while its alleged saviour disappears into the ether.


Harry Potter is going to be an issue she'll figure out when she finally gets to Hogwarts. Not that it doesn't sit poorly to imagine that poor kid getting treated like a bloody house elf. Locked in a fucking cupboard. Honestly.

For now, she needs to get a goddamn handle on this magic nonsense.

And pretend that she's just a dumb little baby that can barely string a sentence together so she can eavesdrop from her mother's lap on all the political gossip in the pureblood circles.

It's not all stuff she's interested in and not always necessarily relevant or useful but damn is it fucking funny to listen to sometimes. In the absence of television, she'll take what entertainment she can get.


Magic isn't some kind of sentient beast one brings to heel. As best as she can figure, it's an ambient, ephemeral energy that has no logic behind it at all. After months of focusing on it, of trying to channel it through her tiny useless baby body, she realises some fundamental facts. One: It is a study in focus and willpower to harness and direct it. Two: It's wild and wacky and so unscientific it should by all rights be anathema to her.

And three: magic is the love of her fucking life.

It's fascinating and she will happily spend the rest of her life trying to figure it out.


Bath time is always an adventure.

How two tiny children can suddenly become more slippery than a bar of soap in barely two inches of water is quite beyond him. But at least they can be easily distracted by the animal shaped multicoloured bubbles enough to get them clean for at least the next ten minutes.

Or he thinks so up until he rolls his sleeves up in a hopeless attempt to spare at least one shirt from getting soaked and little Lyra's eyes snap to the dark mark marring his otherwise pale skin.

Her little fingers press gently against the curling snake and grinning skull.

"Papa ouch," she scowls fiercely at it like its mortally offended her with its existence.

"No, darling, it's a tattoo," he helplessly tries to placate her even as all the bubbles in the air abruptly pop inducing an outraged squawk from her brother. "It doesn't hurt."

"Papa ouch," she insists, as if she can feel the echoes of pain from when it was first seared into his flesh so long ago. His gentle little star, so empathetic and kind. How is it possible to adore something that terrifies him so much?

"This is a mark I took willingly, ma petite étoile. It doesn't hurt anymore," he tries to gentle her, feeling the currents of her magic swirling around her, building to a violent crescendo. Her little face scrunched up in fury a clear indicator that she is not placated in the slightest. Circe's tits.

"Who ouch papa?"

The water starts to grow violent and Draco screams in startled anger when a wave slaps him in the face.

And like the bubbles popping before, she immediately snaps her attention to her little brother and the swirling vortex or her magic dissipates. Seeing her disgruntled brother, she plops back down into the water and clumsily pats Draco's little arm, distracted out of her anger.

"Sorry, Co-co."

He breathes out an exhausted sigh.


The women in Narcissa's social groups complement her on having such a well behaved little girl.

"Such a dear little thing," Lady Parkinson coos and sneaks little Lyra a strawberry just to watch the

adorable girl's grin light up her face. "My Pansy can barely stand sitting still for a minute at a time."

Narcissa preens happily, stroking a fond hand over her daughter's blonde hair as the child nibbles on her strawberry and snuggles deeper into her lap. Such a happy little cuddle bug, her daughter. "She's already casting accidental magic," she boasts, smug as a sated lion.

The circle erupt in delighted chatter.

If her daughter is this strong magically now, oh, she'll be powerful enough to have her pick of suitors. She'll be beating them all off with a stick. As expected of a perfect Malfoy and Black pedigree.

"Mama?"

She peers down at her darling daughter. "Yes, my little star?"

"May I play with Co-co, please?" the child enunciates slowly as if battling against her adorable, childish lisp and the women all coo. Jealousy lighting a few of the other mothers. As is only right. Narcissa Malfoy nee Black will always have the very best and her children are no exception to this rule.

"Of course, darling," she smiles, so achingly proud as she sends the little girl off with the house elf to find her brother.


Initially, she's wary of Snape.

And who wouldn't be? The man stalks around like a fucking assassin with his black on black getup billowing out behind him like a cartoon villain. She remembers his dripping disdain from the books and has zero desire to have any of that hate directed her way.

But when they're first introduced, when she's passed over to him (after Draco, of course, because as much as her parents love her, she's still the daughter. First born, sure, but female and apparently that makes a world of difference) she sees his eyes soften just a fraction. The flat line of his mouth quirking up in just a hint of a smile as she meets his gaze and quietly holds it.

The books hadn't been kind describing the man but here in a whole new reality, she sees the noble line of his nose, the smoky darkness of his eyes and thinks he's handsome in a Gothic kind of way. Very Addams family. Its an aesthetic she can dig.

She smiles up at him and those dark eyes soften even further.

Ha. Gotcha, you secret softy.


Tiny fingers grip the edge of his workbench and a tiny pale blonde head of hair and wide grey eyes follow soon after to peer over it, flickering curiously over the items on his workbench, the bubbling cauldron before flicking up to his face.

At finding him watching her in return, the tiny girl squeaks and hastily ducks out from sight, as if he cannot still see her fingers still curled over the bench.

He pauses his work and watches on with some amusement to see what the little girl decides to do next.

That blonde hair slowly comes back into view, as if she expects him to have forgotten about her.

When grey eyes peer up at him again, she holds his gaze for a long moment, blinking.

"Will uncle fix Co-co?"

Lucius and Narcissa's beloved daughter has been beside herself ever since her equally beloved brother took ill. Barely stepping away from his side as he lay coughing and snotty in bed.

If one saw the utter misery in her little face, one would think her brother was dying rather than merely down with a mild case of the flu.

"Of course," he drawls, remaining impassive even as her eyes somehow, impossibly, manage to grow even wider, shining in wonder. "I'm brewing a potion for your brother right now."

She nods and then fixes her eyes on the ingredients under his hands with startling intensity for a toddler. Such a quiet little thing, Lyra Malfoy. At odds with her loud, demanding twin.

It was the first thing he noticed when he'd held her in his arms for the first time, her quiet. The way those intelligent grey eyes had peered up at him wondrously but hadn't reached up to touch like her brother had, had kept her tiny paws to herself and just smiled that charming, dimpled little smile.

"Would you like to watch?"

A shy nod. "Yes please," she says with such careful diction indicative of Narcissa starting them on their manners early, certainly better than majority of the stupid dunderheads he has to teach potions to.

With a wave of his wand he conjures a second stool beside him and keeps an eye on her as she clambers up with surprising coordination.

She then promptly sits on her hands and quietly watches him work. Silently mouthing names of the ingredients as he explains them to her after a new moments of not being inundated with questions as he'd expect from such a young thing, even quiet as she is there's such curiosity in those eyes. Even manages to remember them when he asks to test her memory.

Quite an advanced little one.

For once, Lucius' boasts may actually hold some water to them.


She sits up in the middle of the night, Draco fast asleep beside her – her dear brother refuses to sleep without his sister within grabbing distance and she can sleep through the fucking apocalypse by this point.

A terrible thought occurs to her.

She's in a pureblood wizard household.

She will never have access to the Internet.

Her screams send the entire manor into a panic.


Narcissa sits behind her daughter, running a brush through her long, pale blonde hair that's as pin straight as her own while the little girl fiddles with a length of green ribbon.

As she hums and pulls the brush through her daughter's beautiful hair, she watches with interest as small fingers show surprising dexterity, weaving the ribbon into more and more complicated patterns until she's managed to fashion what looks like some kind of Celtic knot she's not certain anything bar magic could unravel.

How curious.

"Perhaps the blue ribbon today, my darling?"


They are seated before a woman who proceeds to instruct them on how to be bigoted assholes with delusions of royalty. Draco is far too young to understand the underlying social conditioning happening here but she isn't actually a toddler. She understands exactly what is going on and she disapproves the hell out it all. They are toddlers. Filling their tiny heads with such overinflated grandiose images of themselves is only going to breed a crippling sense of baseless arrogance.

They are to be taught their place in the world, where the Malfoy family sits in the overall hierarchy of their society. Instructed on who stands above them (nobody now that there are no Blacks left that aren't in prison or disowned or married into other families) who stands as their peers (very few that a Malfoy would acknowledge) and stands as their inferiors (pretty much everyone she and her brother will ever interact with).

To say she is furious with the entire concept is an understatement. And because her darling twin is so deeply tuned towards her just as much as she him, he voices her silent rage in her stead, too young to understand but enough to emote. As a toddler is wont to do.

Serves the old shrew right, she thinks with a mean smirk as Draco's untrained magic lashes at the room in his rage and only sets the woman on fire a little, really, there's no need for that much of a carry on. Introducing toddlers to politics of all things is only ever going to be a recipe for disaster.

They are excused from such lessons hence forth and their parents take decidedly subtler routes to push their pureblood agenda nonsense.


"A big pillow there please, Dobby."

"Yes, little missus," the house elf dutifully snaps an enormous pillow into existence, positioned just so after many, many trials. His poor little elf heart surely can't take much more strain than this. With Master and Mistress away, the little mistress is so quick to do all the things she's not supposed to but hasn't been expressly forbidden from and thus, he cannot stop her.

"Okay, Dobby, are you ready?"

"Yes, little missus."

"Go time."

And then a tiny blonde blur in a light blue sundress is surfing down the long banister railing leading into the reception foyer, whooping like a hooligan as she launches herself off the end directly into the pillow, bouncing with an explosion of giggles.

"Test successful, Dobby!"

"Dobby is glad the little missus says so."

"A few more trials just to be sure."

The little house elf is too polite to sigh but he desperately wants to as he follows the little girl back up the stairs.

"This time I'm going to try a back flip."

At the very least, Draco isn't quite as much a handful as his sister.

"Co-co, come play!"

Oh no.


"Ra-ra," Draco whines pitifully, swinging on the edge of the table. "I'm bored."

"Hi, bored," his twin drawls without lifting her head from the book she's reading. "I'm Ra-ra."

"Ra-ra!"

She finally lifts her head to peer at him over her book and he makes sure to pout extra hard. It works wonders on mama and papa but he's yet to convince his sister with it. Maybe its a twin thing because Lyra sees through him far too easily.

"Let me finish my chapter," she tells him firmly and he's about two seconds away from a tantrum because he wants to play now. "And then we can go out and build snow dragons."

The fury instantly disappears because snow dragons!

"In the meantime, why don't you go look up some pictures of dragons so we can decide which kind we want to build."

"Okay!"

Lyra always has the best ideas.


"What is my little Ravenclaw reading today?" Lucius coos at his five year old daughter when he finally tracks her down out in the garden, grass stains marring her skirt and bare feet wiggling in the perfectly manicured grass.

An unbecoming appearance for a Malfoy princess. Perhaps he needs to be a little firmer with her on these kinds of matters. Or set Narcissa upon it. Yes. That sounds better. It's a mother's duty to instruct the daughter on proprietary and what is acceptable.

Her little blonde head shoots up from her book with a decidedly shifty look.

"Bonjour, papa!" she fixes him with a cheeky grin.

"Have you been raiding the library again, mon coeur?" he eyes the cover severely.

Moste Potente Potions? Sweet Morgana, Severus has been a terrible influence.

"You have your own books, Lyra," he reminds her perhaps a little less firmly than he ought to.

The girl spends far too much time with her nose in a book as it is. The last thing they need is her getting her little fingers on the Malfoy library at large. She'd disappear and never come out again. Her tutors are already at their wits end to keep her interested.

Although he fully intends to crucio whichever one got her so fascinated with mudbloods. Especially when she seems so unsatisfied with the answers he and Narcissa offer to her questions. He dearly hopes that this is simply a phase. Soon another topic will pique her curiosity and draw her attention away from the subject of damned mudbloods.

"But they're boring, papa," she moans theatrically, likely copied from her dear brother's antics (or his own, as his dear wife likes to tease). "I don't need baby books."

"You need to play with the other children your age, darling," he chides gentle, beckoning her to follow him and she obediently trots to his side, bare foot. Likely didn't even put shoes on before heading into the grounds. "And wear your shoes."

Her adorable little face scrunches up mutinously at the mention of shoes, book hugged tightly to her chest. "Yes, papa," she replies dutifully but he already knows she will conveniently forget the next time and every other time after.

Shoes are apparently the enemy this season.

Children are such baffling creatures sometimes.

"Pansy Parkinson and her mother are visiting for tea today," he informs her and bites back a grin at the barely contained excitement vibrating through his daughter. "So you best clean up and be ready to receive them."

"Yes, papa!" she gives him another breathtaking smile before reaching up one hand to curl in his own, boisterously swinging their linked hands between them as she begins expounding on the very detailed tea party she and Pansy have been planning with their dolls.

He completely forgets about the book she was reading.


"Pansy, you can't poison the princess," Lyra huffs at her, standing up from their little table. "We still need her to negotiate with the dragon."

She scowls at the blonde girl and stands too. "But I wanna marry the prince and become queen!"

Lyra looks at her in confusion, head tilted to the side and long pretty hair that Pansy is very jealous of slipping over her shoulder. "Why do you have to marry the prince to become queen?"

That pauses her in her tracks, frowning back in equal confusion. "You have to marry a prince to be queen," Lyra just looks even more confused. "Right?"

"Why don't you just poison the prince and take his crown?" she shrugs like that's the obvious

thing to do. "Who says you have to marry anyone to be the boss?"

Pansy stares down at the vial of 'poison' (honey) in her hand in shock. "Huh."

And a seed is planted.


Lyra moves to follow her father and brother but she gently catches her hand, drawing her back to her side. Those big, beautiful eyes turn to stare up at her in hurt confusion.

"Why does Co-co get lessons and not me?" she looks utterly heartbroken by the concept and she smooths a hand over her hair.

"Because, my sweetling," she bends down and gives her daughter a conspiratory wink. "You are going to have a few lessons with mama instead. I'm going to teach you some secrets about being a pureblood witch."

"Secrets?" the little girl looks delighted by the concept.

"Yes, my love. I'm going to teach you how a witch of our standing can wield her power."

Her daughter is always so very pleased to learn new things. A quick learner in every regard and devious enough to have charmed Salazar Slytherin himself out of every form of wealth he held.

She proves to be an outstanding student.


Separating them for individual lessons is a very clever move on their parents' part, she grudgingly allows as mama hands her off to papa and takes Draco in turn. They've already identified that she is too intelligent for her own good and that Draco isn't half as cognisant of the indoctrinating practices they are pushing.

As much as she loves her parents, she does not love their bigotry.

She hasn't the space in her heart for baseless hate. Hating an entire race is an exhausting concept. Hatred itself seems far too taxing an emotion to bother with. After all, why waste time with hate when you can just get even? She'll settle for destroying anyone that dares threaten her family instead. Much easier and far more efficient.

Practical too, she might add.

She also has exactly zero time for the stupid misogynistic bullshit they keep trying to push on her. Trying to file her down into the shape of a perfect obedient little princess they can barter off for more power and money. She's not a fucking thing and she's already making inroads with Pansy and the other little girls she is forced to call playmates in that regard.

Sedition isn't as hard as she thought it would be when your subjects are impressionable toddlers.

Papa is not half as subtle as he thinks he is, even at his best and he's never at his best with her. Too much of a doting father to get truly cross with her for wilfully failing to understand the dumbass concepts he keeps trying to ram down her throat.

She may look like a child but she's got the critical thinking skills and common sense of a disenchanted millennial.

Papa never stood a chance against her even at her current age.


"I think that's enough cakes, Millie-dear," the poor girl's mother scolds, tone gentle but eyes sharp enough to cut and Millicent Bulstrode hastily retracts her hand from the plate she'd been reaching for, flushing.

What the fuck. The kid's five. Of course she's gonna have some fucking puppy fat.

It's not Millicent's fault she looks healthy and strong rather than pale and twiggy like her. Fuck, she probably wouldn't get sick half as much if she had even half of Millicent's vitality. Fucking inbreeding.

"Would you like to see the gardens, Millie?" she chirps brightly to diffuse the situation before Lady Bulstrode gets the chance to be even more of a raging bitch at her daughter for daring to have an ounce of fat on her.

The girl gives her a shy nod and lets her twine their fingers together as she tugs the girl out to the gardens after the perfunctory excuses and farewells to the adults. Mama has been getting stricter about her manners and its simply easier to pretend to be the obedient, perfect daughter than bother making waves at this point. It's only her pride after all. What's a little pride in the grand scheme of things.

Once they're safely hidden out amongst the perfectly maintained roses, she turns a conspiratory smile on the little girl beside her.

"We'll have our own tea party, Millie," she whispers to the girl as she snaps her fingers, drawing Dobby forth who already has the tea set and cakes on a silver tray, pointedly grabs a fruit tart and hands it to the girl.

"I shouldn't," Millicent looks conflicted, glancing back in the general direction they'd left the adults. Frightened of her mother catching her and scolding her again. Poor kid. "Mother says I'll get...fat," fatter she hears in the girl's hesitation and has to grip the leash of her roiling fury with both metaphorical hands to yank it back.

"You're not fat, Millie," she frowns cutely at the girl, casting an obviously jealous look over her solid frame. "I'd love to be a strong as you are. I bet you never get sick."

She ducks her head shyly but she can see the pleased smile.

"I bet you'll be able to wrestle a griffon when your bigger," she sighs longingly. "Or be the fiercest beater in all of Quidditch."

"I do like flying," the girl offers timidly, peeking up at her from beneath her bangs, probably searching for the incoming insult while hoping it doesn't come.

God, how cruel can adults fucking be? She's a sweet little girl. She doesn't deserve any of this bullshit.

"See?" she gives the kid her biggest smile, knows how charming her stupid dimples are. "There's nothing wrong with the way you look, Millicent Bulstrode. You're strong and healthy. Don't you let anyone tell you different."

After a pointed look at the tart, Millicent picks it up, a new confidence peeking through the shyness.

"You're awfully nice, Lyra," she offers after a half hour of nibbling on cakes and discussing flying and future play dates, looking a little bewildered.

"So are you, Millie," she asserts because its true. Millicent is one of the kindest girls she's ever met, though, that's not really a high bar to set in the company she keeps. Most of the children of pureblood families are self-important little shits. Millicent is a rare diamond in the rough she intends to buff to a brilliant shine if only because no kid deserves to be made to feel self conscious about their body. "So I hope you'll be my friend. I very much enjoy your company."

The girl goes bright red and stammers out an agreement, looking enormously pleased even through the embarrassment.

Team Sedition gains a new member.


Daphne Greengrass does not appreciate the threat to her little kingdom of influence that Lyra Malfoy represents.

The Ancient and Noble House of Greengrass is almost as ancient as House Malfoy but not quite and that, apparently, makes all the difference in their power.

Worse still, Lyra Malfoy is pretty. As pretty as her and thus, she loses before she can even hope to compete because being pretty as a woman is all the currency she has outside of her bloodline.

That's the lesson her mother has instilled in her above all else.

Etiquette is important but appearance is more so.

If Lyra Malfoy didn't exist, Daphne would be queen of the British wizarding court and the fact that it is all already lost to her before she even got the chance grates.

But showing anything but a pretty smile is social suicide so she grits her teeth behind her smile and bears it because there's nothing else she can do right now. Perhaps later there will be opportunities. A Greengrass can wait. They're a patient family.

And maybe, if she's lucky, Lyra Malfoy will go the way of her mad aunt and uncle. Maybe the Black madness will take her off the board entirely and Daphne can step into the vacancy. It doesn't seem to have taken Narcissa Malfoy but perhaps it skips a generation sometimes?

Lyra's dress is stunning and her elaborate braids are going to become the new fashion in their circle, she just knows it, positively dripping in wealth. The bright emerald brooch makes her look like the Fair Folk returned. It just isn't fair.

It doesn't matter that those lovely grey eyes look utterly bored with the entire party, it only seems to add to her charm. Like she's above and beyond all the foolish mortals swanning around her, simpering and reaching for even a fraction of her favour.

Urgh.

And somehow Pansy Parkinson of all people, has managed to get her pug nose into the very insular circle of the twins'. House Parkinson isn't half as powerful as House Greengrass but they apparently know how to weasel their way into the right circles.

It takes enormous willpower not to angrily stomp her foot.

She doesn't want to play nice with Lyra Malfoy. Wants to tear all her pretty blonde hair out by the roots and scar up her perfect pale skin. But she can't allow Parkinson to have any more influence than her. And it isn't likely that she can catch Draco's attention, not like that. Not yet. The boy isn't half the threat that his sister poses. But Draco is the better avenue. The safer route and she's heard about how close the twins are. If she can win Draco, she might be able to win over Lyra.

Pasting on her best smile and keeping her spitting venom locked tight behind her teeth, she makes her way over to ingratiate herself to the twins.

Draco's easy enough. A little simple flattery and he's all smug smiles and puffed out chest. As arrogant as any little heir.

Lyra, though...those grey eyes flicker over her, watching her make inroads with her brother easy as breathing, quiet and watchful even with Pansy nattering in her ear. Assessing. Weighing up her worth and hopefully not going to dismiss her. It's frightening how little she can read on the other girl and in her panic, she cranks the charm up tenfold when she finally addresses her true target.

And then Lyra Malfoy smiles.

Oh. Oh no. She stares at the crocodile grin gleaming back at her. At the way those grey eyes see her.

Lyra Malfoy is a whole lot more dangerous than she'd originally anticipated.

"Hello, Daphne," the Malfoy heiress purrs, still smiling that terrifying smile, amused interest glimmering in those moon pale eyes, a cat with a mouse caught between its paws. "It's lovely to meet you."


Her daughter has been very quiet since the Yule ball. More thoughtful than usual.

She'd noticed her daughter approach the Malfoy twins. Had been pleased at her daughter's forethought and initiative to attempt forming ties with, perhaps, the most influential children of their generation without parental interference. Daphne would do well to get within that particular social circle.

Would be a far better influence on the Malfoy heiress than that uncouth Parkinson upstart.

But if her daughter's attempts had been overall successful, there would be no call for this introspective quiet. It bears investigating.

"I just..." her daughter hesitates, blinking up at her like she's never seen her before. "...I think I've made a connection with Lyra Malfoy, mother. She has some very...interesting ideas."

Well. So long as she's gotten a foot in the door, as it were.

Perhaps she'll organise a play date.


"Well I haven't met one but my father says that mudbloods are animals that live in the dirt," Theodore Nott sneers with all the authority of a six year old's faith in everything his parents tell him.

"Papa says they're beasts and they'll eat you up if you're naughty," Draco counters, grinning when Vince and Gregory gasps in fright, proud because papa obviously knows best.

"I'd very much like to meet one."

All boys turn to the lone girl in their group who's tickling her chin with an enormous white peacock feather. She must have found it somewhere on the grounds. Papa forbid them from chasing the peacocks much to his and his twin's dismay, they made the best noises when startled and their feathers were very pretty.

"You want to meet one?" Theodore gapes at her.

"Ra-ra, don't be silly," Vince rolls his eyes. "They'll definitely eat little girls."

"I don't think so," she sweeps the long feather out to point at them like a sword, one hand tucked behind her back. "I think they're just like us except they don't have magic."

"How can they be anything like us without magic?" Gregory sneers like she's dumb and Draco fixes the other boy with a fierce scowl for the perceived slight. Nobody is allowed to insult his sister. Nobody.

"I wonder what they use instead of magic," she muses, seemingly unbothered by the scorn of her peers and gives the feather a few testing jabs, stepping forward and then back before falling into an en guard stance, feather standing straight up. She must have been watching papa practice. "I bet they're really smart. They'd have to be to survive without magic."

"They're nothing but animals," Theodore spits, suddenly furious but flinches back when the feather whips around to point between his eyes, faltering further still when he sees whatever expression must be on his face.

"How do you know?" her grey eyes are so bright they almost look silver in the afternoon light. "You said you've never met one."

"Ra-ra," Draco draws her attention and the pointing feather. "If papa says so..."

"Papa's not always right, Co-co," she counters and he's shocked for a moment but now he can see the mischief curling in the corner of her lips, hinting at the dimple in her left cheek. "Remember when he got white roses instead of red for mama's garden party?"

She's just causing trouble because she thinks its fun. He relaxes and playfully bats at the feather. "Papa may not always be right but mama is."

Stepping back into en guard, she purses her lips thoughtfully before nodding in agreement. "Agreed. Mama is always right."

"I'm glad you think so, my darlings," mama smiles at them from the nearby gazebo where she sits with Uncle Severus for afternoon tea and cake.

Theodore shivers and casts mama an almost frightened look. "Your mother has very good hearing," he whispers, as if afraid she'll hear him, which is dumb because of course she can.

"You didn't know?" Lyra grins impishly, both dimples on full display now. "Mama hears all and sees all. She's actually a witch warrior from Themyscira. Practically a goddess. Doesn't matter where you go, she can always hear you, Theo."

Uncle Severus chokes on his tea and mama calmly hands him a napkin before turning a kind smile to them all. "So I get hear all the nice things you have to say, Theodore."

Mama throws him a wink before turning to continue talking with Uncle Severus.

He grins hard enough to hurt his cheeks.


She is constantly in a state of awe at how tiny she is.

Draco is only slightly bigger than herself but as he is an actual child, it doesn't seem half as strange as her own body. The dysphoria isn't as bad as it could be. She knows what she is, understands on an intellectual level that she is seven years old and given the genetics handed down from her current mother and father, she is bound to look similar to them. Hell, looking at Draco might as well be like looking in a mirror.

But her limbs are so thin, so frail and pale when she was once so big and powerful and brown.

She remembers being strong and heavy with muscle necessary for the tasks she put herself too. She remembers people stepping back to give her space without conscious thought because she'd been tall and strong and fierce. An Amazon wading through wheat stalks.

Here she is something dainty. Tiny and fragile as a little bird and it is so very strange being on this side of things. Of being in the kind of body she had once envied before she'd decided to value strength and health over beauty she could never hope to achieve.

And now she is a beautiful, fey little thing.

Turns out that troll prediction was very far off the mark.

It is something she still struggles to comprehend no matter how often mama sits her before a mirror and instructs her on how to dress herself, how to style her hair, how to apply the products that will ensure her skin maintains its milky pale purity.

She is once again forced to give half a shit about her appearance because, to a Malfoy, appearance is vital.

At least she can have her fun by speaking like a fancy, poncy pom. That'll never get old.


"Uncle's here!"

He pauses in the entry hall to hang up his cloak and listens to the patter of running feet until his godchildren erupt into sight.

And then very promptly slip right back out as their socks send them skidding across the marble floor, carrying them off into the sitting room in a hail of giggling.

There's a short scuffle before they reappear, both red cheeked and grinning.

"I won!" Draco crows, fists pumping the air in victory.

"Good morning, uncle," Lyra greets with a little curtsy that is surprisingly good for such a little thing. Her etiquette lessons are clearly much more fruitful than her brother's.

"Morning, uncle!" Draco belatedly greets with more gusto than grace.

"Good morning, children," he can't help but be fond of them, amused by their antics and their bright eyed delight to see him.

Children are, as a rule, usually not at all thrilled with his presence. It is somewhat heartening to find his godchildren to be the exception. And while Draco is an amusing little boy, Lyra has seemingly effortlessly charmed her way into his cold, shrivelled heart, much like their mother has done. Her mother's daughter indeed.

"Mama and papa are out in the garden, uncle," Lyra informs him, skipping forward to catch his fingers in her little hand, her blonde head barely coming up to his waist. "There's a patch of delphinium in the east garden and I've managed to harvest the seeds -"

"Wearing gloves, I hope," he cuts in sharply, already having visions of his god niece poisoning herself in a fit of overenthusiastic academia.

"Of course, uncle," she sniffs primly, looking remarkably like a miniature Narcissa before breaking character to grin those damn dimples up at him. "I used the dragon hide ones you got me for Yule. Anyway, I got some of the flowers too and did you know the juice from them can make the prettiest blue ink? I want to dye some of my dresses in it but I think its also highly toxic."

"Yes. I wouldn't recommend using it for anything that's likely to touch your skin," sweet Merlin's saggy ball sack, the girl is going to be an utter nightmare when she's older. Too damn clever for her own good.

"Okay, uncle," there's a thoughtful mien to her face, as if thinking of other ways to utilise what could be considered a deadly poison. The little brat is seven, she should not be making plans with poisons, let alone playing with them. Her father will have a fit. "Are there any potions other than poisons I can use delphinium in?"

And of course, she knows exactly which angle to strike to distract him from tattling to her father.

Right in the academics.

What a monster. He couldn't be prouder.


If Lord Selwyn's brat of a granddaughter comes down with a most curious case of mild poisoning a few months later, well, he hasn't the foggiest of how it could have been introduced to her system.

He certainly doesn't say he suspects the lovely scarf she was 'gifted', or the particularly charming blue colour of it. Simply provides an antidote that tastes far more vile than it really needs to and charges a truly exorbitant fee for the work.

Also turns a blind eye to young Miss Parkinson, Miss Greengrass and little Miss Malfoy discretely high fiving each other when he brings word of it back to the Malfoy family.


His daughter's eyes go impossibly wide as he brings the abraxan mare out from the stables.

"This is Athena," he introduces, pleased at the delighted smile beginning to spread across her adorable face. "She's going to give birth in a few weeks so we're keeping her separate from the herd."

"She's beautiful, papa," Lyra looks like she's vibrating in place, leaning towards the winged horse as though magnetised to it.

"You may pet her, darling," he chuckles as she very carefully steps forward and holds out a hand for the abraxan to sniff.

"Hello, Athena," she breathes out and gently rubs the horse's nose. "My name is Lyra. It's very nice to meet you."

Even with animals, she proves to have excellent manners.

The beast lowers her regal head and presses closer for more pats which the girl provides without any hesitation while he explains the Malfoy side business of breeding and training abraxan and the occasional griffon although he hasn't the time for it much these days. Griffons require a great deal more attention than abraxan and he has two children that are chaos incarnate that keep him very, very busy.

"May I help care for them, papa?" she asks, pretty grey eyes pleading up at him.

Lyra rarely asks for things, nothing like her demanding brother so he is hard pressed to deny this simple request. Especially since this was what he'd intended all along, getting the girl away from those damned experiments of hers and pursuing a much more appropriate and cultured hobby. And if Athena likes the girl then he doesn't doubt the remainder of the herd will take to his daughter quickly enough.

"Of course, ma petite étoile," he runs a hand over her braided hair fondly.

"Merci, papa," she beams up at him and his breath catches in his throat at how beautiful she is.

His gorgeous little star. The light of his life.

He didn't know it was possible to love anything as fiercely as he loves his children.


When Athena gives birth to a beautiful silver furred male foal their daughter is immediately smitten with the creature. It doesn't matter how much he could have sold the animal for, the brilliant look of utter delight in her face when he says the foal is hers is worth more than all the gold in the world.

Even if she does name the beast Virgil of all things.


"Little missus, this is being a bad plan, oh. Dobby is a bad elf, Dobby will iron his ears for this. Oh no, oh no," the little elf wrings his hands in distress as she sighs and catches them before he can hurt himself.

"No self harm, Dobby," she orders firmly, making sure he's looking at her with his enormous (and enormously creepy, god, house elves are frighteningly ugly. They're like a cross between a hairless cat, and a wrinkly slow loris). "We talked about this. You aren't a bad elf for doing as your little

missus orders. Unless you think your little missus is bad of course."

Ha. Got him there. Those big eyes somehow go wider and then he's tripping over himself to launch into a furious litany of why she could never be a bad little missus and promptly forgets to be upset at what they're doing. Success.

This is...probably not one of her best laid plans but she's got to do something and she's exhausted the Malfoy library already. Only took her four fucking years but now she needs more resources and the Black library is likely her best bet. And so long as she doesn't get caught by the wrong people, she's not liable to raise any unwanted eyebrows.

There's no fidelus on 12 Grimmauld place. Not yet anyway.

And with everyone either dead or in Azkaban. It's free game to anyone of Black blood which she thankfully has on her mother's side.

"Please stay out here unless I call for you, Dobby," she gives the elf a gentle pat on the shoulder.

They're both under concealment because even though she's a Malfoy, she's still an eight year old little girl who's far too pretty for her own bloody good to be walking the streets of London alone.

Trotting confidently up the porch steps, she knocks politely on the creepy-ass door.

A moment later, it cracks open to reveal a grizzly old house elf that's the ugliest one she's met to date and the Nott's family elf was particularly hideous.

"What does the little girl want?" the elf wheezes suspiciously at her.

"I wish to speak to the master or mistress of this home," she declares with a straight back and the haughty air she's practised from watching her mother and father effortlessly talk down to just about everyone they meet.

Snobby pricks. God she loves the shit out of them.

She's figured behaving like a snooty pureblood is the best way to approach this particular house elf.

"The Mistress is gone," the house elf croaks, looking genuinely sad about it.

"When will she return?" she purposely misunderstands.

All she needs is a foot in the fucking door. Come on, you ugly old thing.

"The Mistress is-" the creature pauses, squints at her a little harder as if just noticing her features, if nothing else, her eyes give it away. "The little girl is of Black blood."

"Quite. You have the honour of addressing Lyra Druella Malfoy, daughter of Narcissa Malfoy nee Black," she gives a proud toss of her hair and internally fist pumps at the delighted look on the house elf's gross face.

"A fine pureblooded little mistress," the elf bows to her before swinging the door wide open. "Kreacher will escort the little mistress to Mistress' portrait."

Fuck yeah, she's in.


The daughter of Narcissa is a pretty little thing, the shade of Walburga Black thinks as she stares down at the audacious child before her.

"Lady aunt," the girl dips into a perfect curtsy, head angled just so and suitably low for one of her standing. "I am Lyra Druella Malfoy, daughter of Narcissa Malfoy nee Black. It is a great honour to meet you."

"Humph," she glares down at the child, irritation fading at such impeccable manners.

If nothing else, Narcissa is at least raising a polite child.

"I've come to seek your guidance, lady aunt," that blonde head bows demurely.

"Speak," she snaps but with barely any of the heat she feels she ought to for having her day interrupted so.

"I've had lessons on the Malfoy family but know little of the Black lineage. I hoped to learn of the heritage on my mother's side to pay proper respect to your line," grey eyes well known in the Black line lift to meet her, appropriately respectful. "It is presumptuous of me to ask for your time, lady aunt, but I cannot think of a greater teacher to learn what I should know of the Black family."

She'd always been jealous of Druella and Cygnus for producing daughters. All she'd gotten were two ungrateful brats that grew up to be useless men. Always, she'd dreamed of a daughter such as the girl before her. The only difference would have been black hair instead of blonde.

A good, filial daughter of impeccable breeding. Oh how she'd dreamed.

Well. This little one may not be her daughter as such but she is of Black blood and her pedigree immaculate. She has done well to come here to learn what she must, as is only proper.

"Kreacher," she snaps and the little beast stands ready for orders. "Allow young Lyra access to the Black library. Ensure there are no cursed objects to harm her," young thing as she is ought not to be harmed by the homestead defences.

"Yes Mistress."

"You will find everything you require there, young lady," she sniffs haughtily.

"You have my deepest gratitude, lady aunt," she curtsies again, just as perfect as the first but pauses instead of leaving with Kreacher. "May I ask another presumptuous question?"

"Go on."

"May I speak with you again?" her little face stares up at her with such hopeful awe it warms even her painted cheeks. "I would very much like to hear stories of your life if you care to share them."

She is reluctantly charmed by the question. "I will permit it," she allows primly, hiding just how pleased she is with the request. It has been some time since she's had the opportunity to speak to an attentive audience.

The girl's smile is perhaps too broad to be entirely polite but she is young and has time to learn. "Thank you, lady aunt."


"Kreacher, you have served the Black family for many years, correct?"

"Yes, little mistress."

"I've little interest in Sirius Black. There's quite enough written about him but I know very little of cousin Regulus. Did you know him?"

The elf's eyes glisten with pride. "Kreacher has many stories of Master Regulus."

Hook. Line. And sinker.

It's like taking candy from a fucking baby.


And thus, she's won herself access to the Black library.

Kreacher is so well wound around her tiny finger he's even agreed to bring books to Malfoy manor so she doesn't even need to fabricate reasons to escape.

If all goes well, she should be able to wrestle Slytherin's locket off him before they even start at Hogwarts. Then she'll be one step closer to fixing this whole bloody Voldemort issue before he can come back and ruin all her plans to protect her family and smash to smithereens all the stupid bigotry and misogyny of the wizarding world.

She's even gotten Walburga fucking Black's portrait shade wrapped around her dainty finger. Who knew the woman had desperately wanted a daughter rather than the sons she'd gotten. It's easy as pie to sit politely and listen to the horrible stories the woman deigns to tell her. She's had enough practice pasting on an awed expression when some pureblood idiot was prattling on, imagining they're the best thing since Merlin.

The reason she even bothers after that first meeting is because there are treasures in Grimmauld Place that she didn't even know she wanted until Walburga snapped at Kreacher to bring them out.

The best prize so far being a hair ribbon she can change the colour of to match any outfit with tiny runes painstakingly embroidered all along its edges, barely noticeable unless one very carefully runs their fingers over it. Runes for protection and very, very violent defence, Walburga smugly informs her, eyes glimmering with madness even as a painting.

There are other treasures she's gifted with but the ribbon is the best of the lot.

It chars a man's hand down to the bone when he'd dared attempt to grab her by her braid in a botched kidnapping attempt during one of the lesser house parties. The adults believed it to be a case of powerful accidental magic and she'd been the talk of the Sacred Twenty-Eight for weeks after.

Still, the library is the true prize of the lot.

There's even a book on Parsel magic though it doesn't actually provide any means to actually learn the language. She'll have to pick Potter's brain when she finally meets him.

Which is most likely going to cause one hell of a rift between her and Draco if she becomes friends with the Boy-Who-Lived. Already, they've caught a glimpse of the poor kid's fame while out in Diagon Alley with mama and papa. They'd been quick to steer her and Draco away from the brightly coloured books on the alleged saviour of the wizarding world but the damage is already done.

Draco is fascinated with the Boy-Who-Lived.

Which probably explains why he turns into such an absolute shit towards the kid when his overtures of friendship get snubbed in the story. Draco does not take rejection kindly and can hold a grudge like nobody else she knows.

Ernie Macmillan has no idea how big an enemy he gained when he insulted her by saying a woman's value was her appearance and then preceded to inform her that she's not nearly pretty enough to be his wife.

And yes, he certainly hasn't gained any friendly feelings from her (motherfucker, she's eight. Saying that sort of shit to any eight year old is a black mark in her book) but her dear, beloved twin has decided that such insult to his sister means that house Malfoy must now go to war with the Macmillan family.

It's going to be very fun when they start Hogwarts together.

Especially when she caught him grilling dear uncle Severus about learning particularly vicious curses.

But back to the topic of Harry Potter. Perhaps there's a way she can ease the animosity that will undoubtedly grow between her brother and the Boy-Who-Lived if she allows the story to unfold organically. Manipulating children isn't exactly difficult, simple things that they are but she's finding that they are very difficult to predict.

For example she hadn't expected so stalwart an ally or so delightful a frenemy from Pansy and Daphne respectively after the girls got the silly notion of marriage and social pandering being the only way to power out of their little heads. Their strange friendship – or maybe sisterhood? - firmly cemented after their successful poisoning of that little bitch of a Selwyn with a scarf for daring to attempt bullying Millicent (the only one of them that the brat thought she could safely target, the cruel little bint).

There is little doubt that the girls' newfound fascination with poison is going to become very useful in the future.

It's always a good idea to have a poisons mistress or two on one's side.

Though she's very careful to keep a bezoar in her pocket whenever the girls comes around and they inevitably end up in the garden finding whatever poisonous plants they can and driving papa into entirely new levels of stress when he catches them discussing potions they can make with whatever poisonous plants they've found. Uncle Severus will never say it but she can see he's enormously proud of her whenever papa flails at him about it.

And sweet, shy little Millie is just happy to have two new friends in her slowly expanding circle.

So, considering the horrific life Harry Potter is living, the state he will be in when they finally meet, he will be desperate to make any kind of connection with the children around him.

The poor kid just needs a goddamn friend.

She can be that. And hopefully snag Hermione Granger in the process because while she loves Draco and her sisterhood, none of them come even close to being on her level intellectually.

Granger is an actual child but anyone that smart should be able to keep up with her at least academically and she is so desperately bored with the other pureblood children her parents deem acceptable for her to 'play' with. And while she'll gleefully defend Millie to the death, the girl is just that. A little girl with little girl hopes and dreams and not altogether very interesting.

Pansy and Daphne the exception of course, now that they've becoming fun.

Though that might just be because all of their interactions have the delightful possibility of ending up poisoned. Nothing makes a friendship more exciting than when they're casually trying to murder each other. It's all very Addams family and she fucking loves it.

But if she can get the Boy-Who-Lived in her pocket, she should be able to protect him from the worst of Dumbledore's machinations by beating the old man to it (getting her little paws on the Philosopher's Stone is very appealing). And, really, there's no need for Potter to be sent back to his horrific relatives. He's Sirius Black's godson and the magic that binds that connection, alongside being the heir of the Noble House of Potter gains him just as much protection as the blood magic Lily Potter left him. Fascinating stuff, blood magic, and she's only just beginning to touch on the subject in the Black library.

Auntie Walburga's portrait has been a wonderful font of information on the subject.

And because Potter has Black blood from his grandmother on his father's side, he's technically a cousin of theirs. A few times removed, yes, but she's already become known for being fiercely devoted to family. It won't be considered overly strange for her to take poor little Harry Potter under her wing when she exposes the truth of his unfortunate childhood to all.

Perhaps she can convince Draco to cool his jets on the Potter animosity with the concept of him being family. And 'Family Before All Else' is the unofficial Malfoy family motto. One that they tend to follow a lot more closely than Sanctimonia Vincet Semper, 'Purity Will Always Conquer'.

Although to properly win the kids over, she's going to have to wait for them to discover it. Potter will be much more inclined towards the concept if he thinks its his idea.

And in such a way that Dumbledore can't interfere.

Meddling old coot.

So the plan is to wait and continue learning everything she possibly can. Strip mine the Black library until she can access the Hogwarts library.

So much reading. Urgh.

Her kingdom for a fucking library search engine. Her soul for Cliff-notes.


Kreacher pops into her bedroom with a new pile of books for her and a thought occurs to her.

"Kreacher?" she sits up from where she'd been contemplating the ceiling.

"Yes, little mistress?" he turns attentively to her, something soft in his horrific face, something that looks almost like love. Amazing what a little kindness can win someone. All these wizarding families are doing this damn house elf business wrong. Why enslave anything when you can win their undying loyalty just by treating them like human beings? Its truly bizarre.

"How can you bypass the Malfoy wards?"

Nothing should be able to enter the manor without tripping the alarms or being broken down into component parts and then set on fire for the audacity.

"House elf magic, little mistress," the elf smiles at her. "Is different to wizard magic so Kreacher can get through wards to serve little mistress."

She leans forward with interest. "Can a witch learn elf magic, Kreacher?"

He gives her an unsure look. "Is not being wizard magic, little mistress."

"But it's still magic, Kreacher," she slides off the bed and crouches before him. "And if I want to be a powerful witch and bring honour to my family, I must understand and wield all magic. You are already helping me immensely, Kreacher, you've been a very good elf," his little back straightens proudly at the compliment. "And I am a very selfish little mistress to ask still more of you."

And, as expected, he falls over himself to deny her claims. So gullible. So easy.

"Kreacher will teach the little mistress if it's the little mistress' wish," he vows with a bow. "Elf magic is being very different to wizard magic. Kreacher hopes the little mistress will be learning every magic to help her."

Her grin perhaps shows a few too many teeth but she's too delighted to care. "I very much look forward to learning from you, Kreacher."


She's ten years old, has read every book in the Malfoy library, has read almost every book in the Black library and can already perform feats of wandless magic that would have full grown wizards' jaws drop in shock and claim it impossible if they were to ever witness it. Which they haven't because she isn't fucking stupid.

Her parents have scrambled for tutors capable of holding her attention since she was five years old.

Runes has held her attention the longest. As wide and varied and applicable to nearly every facet of life, she can be forgiven for turning her focus upon it with all the formidable intensity she has applied to everything else she has sought to learn. To this day, she is still learning all the incredible ways runes can be implemented into all magic disciplines. The limits are entirely non-existent.

It is preferable to other magical disciplines in that it follows a certain level of logic that magic simply doesn't. Magic is intent and will and stupid shit like light and dark and grey and creature is incredibly misleading. Magic is magic. The only difference to be found is down to the individual that wields it.

Magic doesn't take sides. Like the cold void of space, it simply is.

Which doesn't help her figure out why learning elf magic has required such a concentrated effort to become even barely proficient. Kreacher has done his best and even Dobby has been brought into the fold to help teach her. Perhaps she just lacks the correct mindset, the unique understanding that elves have of the universe, as close as they are to the departed Fair Folk as the world is likely to find these days. Even with the paltry amount she has to show for her efforts, she is capable of more than any wizard or witch in the past has been in performing elf magic.

Of course, only she and the house elves are aware of her magical prowess. That at least, she has kept very carefully under wraps. Being book smart is easier to pass off than being a magical prodigy and she'd rather people underestimate her. It's far more useful than whatever fame and glory she'd gain from it at this point. She's got enough of that bullshit as it is, any more attention and she might just start dealing with her problems by setting fire to them.

She is ten years old when Kreacher finally hands over the horcrux locket.

"I promise, Kreacher," she tells the elf as she floats the locket into a silver and lead lined jewellery box covered in runes to contain the malevolent magic radiating off the damn thing. "I'll find a way to destroy it. To honour cousin Regulus' final wish."

She's spent countless hours of trial and error working with runes and delving deep into both the Black and Malfoy library to manage the, frankly, brilliant piece of warding work she has turned the little jewellery box into. Hopefully it will hold against the corrosive dark magic permeating the locket long enough for her to figure out how to extract and destroy the horcrux. Maybe she won't even have to destroy the locket itself.

Would be a damn shame to destroy an heirloom as ancient and priceless as this.

"Thank you, little mistress," Kreacher sobs, bending down and kissing her perfectly polished shoes. All but grovelling. "Thank you."

Urgh.


She's bored out of her mind and wishing she was lying with Virgil out in his paddock with that fantastic book on warding rather than being here at yet another pureblood ball filled with people jammed so far up their own assholes they can't even smell their own hypocrisy. Daphne is currently trapped with her parents, busy making the social rounds, Pansy is on an even shorter leash than normal after she managed to poison her toad of a cousin and poor little Millie has come down with an acute case of dragon pox and is currently wallowing in quarantine.

She's about ready to drop a few dried aconitum leaves in the punch just for the sheer chaos it will create when Miles fucking Bletchley outright demands she dance with him, audacious little shit.

"No, thank you," she fixes him with a cold smile she learnt under mama's tutelage.

The things mama has taught her will be incredibly helpful to achieve her goals, has given her ideas she'd not even thought of to avoid stupidly dangerous situations. She thought she understood manipulation, of faux passivity but mama has proven that she is not just a beautiful face sitting pretty behind her vapid social persona.

Mama is a viper. Coiled and waiting for the next fool to try being cute with her. Everyone always seems to forget that she was Narcissa Black before she became Lady Malfoy. It is an incredible new facet to the woman she thought she understood and she can do nothing but be in absolute awe of the woman who brought her into this world.

Mama is the best.

"You're going to be my wife one day," thirteen year old Miles fucking Bletchley declares like the smug little turd he is before holding out his hand as if he expects her to take it with blushing praise rather than bite it the fuck off. "So you must dance with me."

"I'd sooner marry a spoon," she replies, too annoyed to censure herself like a good, polite little heiress. Mama did say that she was not obliged to suffer fools with delusions above their station and while she hates this bullshit caste system, Miles fucking Bletchley is seriously punching way above his weight. "At least a spoon is useful for something."

Daphne and Pansy who have just arrived to rescue the entire party from her boredom, hopefully for a delightful continuation on their last conversation for taking over the wizarding world, one manticore at a time, dissolve into helpless giggles as Miles fucking Bletchley's face goes bright red in furious embarrassment.

"You audacious little bastard," she continues, well committed to publicly eviscerating this little idiot. What the fuck even? She's ten and he's thirteen. A fucking infant. The fuck is he doing thinking about marriage? Much less to a little girl who hasn't even hit puberty yet. Gross. "You think my lord father would ever deign to marry his only daughter off to some pathetic excuse of a rat like you? Should I call a healer for you? It appears you've been dropped on your head as a baby."

Daphne and Pansy shriek with laughter and the boy's face goes dark with rage.

"Go away, little boy," she waves an imperious hand at him, papa's lessons in being a superior asshole have at least taught her how to behave like an entitled brat akin to royalty in this wacky world. "Before you embarrass yourself and your house any further. Married to you, honestly."

"You bitch," he screams and snatches up a drink to hurl the contents at her.

Only for the liquid to freeze in mid air inches from contact. It hovers in place as she peers over it into the idiot child's wide eyes.

Daphne and Pansy ceased laughing at his screamed insult and everyone nearby has stopped and turned to stare. Eyes greedily awaiting the future bloodbath. The fact that she'd caught the liquid before it drenched her is likely the only thing that will spare the stupid child's life. Not from her (she doesn't murder stupid little boys, just lets her friends poison them a little), but from her parents and every other house that wants to curry favour with house Malfoy.

That is, if uncle Severus doesn't get to him first.

Adieu, House Bletchley, you had a good run, pity your latest heir is an arrogant dickhead.

"Care to repeat that, little boy?" she asks sweetly, laced with venom.

"I-I..." he stammers, looking progressively more and more frightened as the liquid remains frozen in place. Likely realising just what doom he's levelled upon himself and his entire family. One does not simple insult a Malfoy and get away with it with all limbs intact.

"Mm," she hums and idly sweeps her hand to gather the liquid up into a ball above her palm. It's orange juice, she realises. She might have killed the kid herself if that had gotten into her hair. The stickiness alone. "That's what I thought."

And then she very calmly floats it over his head and releases it. He barely flinches, still staring at her with wide, frightened eyes, dripping with sticky juice.

"Go away now, little boy," she flicks her fingers at him with a cruel smile.

He doesn't need telling a third time.


"That was brilliant, Ra-ra," Pansy hisses at her while Daphne goes to get them fresh cups of punch and they dance together across the ballroom. "Can you teach me to do that?"

"It's a secret, I'm afraid," she replies airily with a wink while secretly hoping to all the gods in this world and her last that her parents will be too busy being on the warpath to get on her ass about the wandless magic. Yes, it was boss as fuck but she doesn't really need any more attention than she's already gotten.

Maybe she can pass it off as very controlled accidental magic? Might be able to swing it. They know her anger is a honed, precision weapon by now.

Papa is currently too busy very regally foaming at the mouth about the Bletchley family's blatant presumption and mama is stalking the ballroom like an angry tiger, fangs bared behind her powdered smiles and sending the lesser mortals scattering in fear. Even Draco is looking bluntly furious, tiny baby dragon fangs bared, the darling.

Suffice to say, they're all very distracted right now.

RIP House Bletchley, can't say it was nice knowing you.

"Aw," she pouts and then giggles when she spins the girl. "Not even a hint?"

"Nope. Besides, you're going to be the poisons mistress. If we're going to battle it out for the position of queen of everything, I've got to have something to fight you and Daphne with."

Pansy's grin has far too many teeth in it to be a nice smile.


The incident seems to have kick started her parents into once again broaching the topic of marriage with her and her brother (fuck you, Miles fucking Bletchley). It hadn't worked out well last time they'd tried thanks to a truly spectacular tantrum from Draco and the matter had been promptly dropped until now, it seems.

At the very least, the wandless magic incident has been swept aside for the apparently far more important topic of who the fuck she and Draco deign to wed one day.

Bold of them to assume she'd ever deign to marry anyone.

Draco shoots her a disgruntled look and she returns it. Neither of them particularly pleased with the words coming out of their parents' mouths. At least Draco is limiting himself. Age has not made his screaming any less shrill.

"No one if good enough to marry Ra-ra," he declares flatly and she gives his hand a squeeze in thanks. They are firmly in agreement of this matter. She's told him quite firmly that she doesn't want to marry anyone and he accepted that fact and therefore, she will never marry anyone. Because he's a good kid like that. They've quietly agreed that they will fight their parents every step of the way on this on a united front.

"Anyone that wants to marry Co-co has to go through me first," she declares just as flatly, the agreed upon parameters for if Draco is to marry someone. "And I won't even consider anyone until they've defeated a dragon in fair open combat."

Draco sends her a beaming grin.

Mama sighs in fond exasperation. "Not even Pansy or Daphne?"

She pretends to give the idea serious thought. "If either of them can defeat a dragon, I'll consider them, but only then."

Draco's scowl doubles down. "No one is good enough for Ra-ra."

She nods in agreement. "If one of us has to marry, Co-co can do it and make you grand-babies," she decides, glancing at her twin to see if he agrees, all good on that front. Awesome. "I'm going to be too busy conquering the world to marry."

"You will have to marry someday, Lyra," papa tells her gently, fondness in his eye.

"Maybe one day," she allows with a thoughtful mien but actually, no, she fucking doesn't. Yuck. "And Pansy and Daphne said they want to be queen of everything too so I'll probably have to defeat them anyway. Sorry Co-co," Draco shrugs like its a foregone conclusion, he might be an unholy brat but she wouldn't give him up for the world. "After I'm queen of everything, I guess I could marry uncle Severus."

"Hmm, uncle Severus would be okay," Draco grudgingly allows while mama turns her head away so they can't see her laughing and papa just stares at them both in horror. Just as they'd planned to successfully derail this entire shit-show of a conversation. "Or you could marry Pansy or Daphne? Or both of them? Then you won't have to fight for being queen because you'd all be queen."

God she loves this kid. "That's an excellent point, Co-co. But then who would you marry?"

They stare at each other in thoughtful silence for a moment then point at each other in excitement.

"Uncle Severus!"

Mama has to leave the room but they can still hear her screaming laughter through the door while papa drops his head into his hands in defeat.

She high fives Draco under the table.

Argument won.


The twins' Hogwarts letter come with the same owl and they dance around the living room shrieking their heads off in excitement and for once Lucius allows it without a single protest, just gathers them both up in his arms for a tight hug.

"We're so very proud of you both," he tells them firmly, squeezing his children until they squirm and peppers them with kisses while she envelops them from the other side, pressing her face against their red, smiling little cheeks. "Mes mervielleux enfants, je suis si fière."

"We love you very much, my darlings," she tells them, feeling so warm and happy in their home, so blessed to have such love in her life.

"Love you too, mama, papa," the twins reply, Draco beaming up at her while Lyra presses a kiss to her father's cheek.

"One step closer to world domination, my little star?" she beams at her beautiful daughter who grins back, dimples proudly on display.

"One step closer to protecting my family from everything that would hurt them," the little girl declares with all the fierceness of a mother dragon and her breath catches at the words.

Oh, her little star child. How brightly she already shines.

How the world will tremble before her soon enough.

She's so damned proud.


She's standing on the little stool, bored out of her mind and wondering if Draco has managed to wheedle another broom out of papa and what she could potentially wheedle out of him in recompense as the little tape zips around her, taking measurements when another boy steps onto the stool beside her, looking nervous and wide eyed.

The breath catches in her throat for a second when she notices the lightning bolt scar partially concealed behind his messy fringe.

In the movies, they'd portrayed Harry Potter as a white kid. And the books hadn't exactly described the colour of his skin, she'd just run with the assumption.

The boy standing beside her, looking half terrified, half thrilled is definitely not Caucasian. The kid looks like he's at least half Indian. How interesting. How diverse. You go, J K.

"Hello," she offers Harry Potter a friendly smile. "Are you going to Hogwarts this year too?"

He blinks gorgeous bright green eyes at her from behind thick glasses that are clearly broken over the nose given the level of tape being used to keep them together. He's dressed in ragged clothes several sizes too big for him and his little neck is so thin it looks frighteningly fragile.

The smile he offers in return is timid but hopeful. "H-hi. Yes, I'm a first year."

"Oh, me too!" she widens her smile in delight. This is way too good an opportunity. She didn't remember this happening in the books. Just that Hagrid brought the kid here to get his supplies. She doesn't recall him meeting any of his future school mates. "I'm so excited to start. What subjects are you looking forward to?"

"Er," he ducks his head shyly. "I don't really know yet. I, uh, I don't really know anything about Hogwarts. I only just found out I was a wizard yesterday."

"Really?" she gives him a sympathetic look, but not too sympathetic, going by her interactions with Draco and all his little male friends, pity and sympathy is entirely unwelcome to their proud little souls. "That must have been quite shocking for you. I can recommend some books if you'd like to read up on the wizarding world. And Hogwarts, a History should tell you a lot about the school and the houses. Perhaps I can answer a few questions now if you have any?"

"That's..." he stares at her in confusion, as if he has no idea why a stranger would be kind to him. Those fucking Dursley bastards...Wow. That was some unexpected viciousness there. Was that disproportionate? That was probably disproportionate. Put a pin in that. She'll look a little closer later. "That's awful nice of you..."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she extends a hand over the distance between them with a grin. "My name's Lyra. It's nice to meet you."

"Harry," he shakes her hand, wrists bird thin and smile a little less timid. Clever kid, not telling her his full name, already coined on to how famous his name is. "And likewise. I think I have so many questions, I don't know where to start."

"Well," she hums thoughtfully, trying to think of somewhere to start that might interest an eleven year old boy. "Do you know about the four houses at Hogwarts?"

The boy shakes his head. Oh good. Maybe she can start on reducing that inter house animosity sooner than expected.

"Well, there's Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw," she ticks them off with her fingers. "Hufflepuff is the house known for hard work and loyalty, Gryffindor for chivalry and bravery, Slytherin for leadership and resourcefulness and Ravenclaw for intelligence and wit. There's some kind of process for sorting students into their respective houses but I'm not sure how," the sorting hat isn't mentioned in any book, likely censured for whatever bloody reason.

"Do you know which house you're likely to go to?" he asks, eyes shining.

"I think either Ravenclaw or Slytherin," she shrugs casually. "My parents were in Slytherin but I really like to read so who knows. Papa says there's a big rivalry between houses but it sounds quite silly. Terry Boot's big brother got sorted into Hufflepuff and his best friend went to Slytherin and apparently that meant they couldn't be friends anymore, can you believe it?" she gives the kid a bewildered look and he looked equally shocked at the idea.

"That sounds terrible!"

"I know! Imagine if my brother got sorted into Gryffindor and I got sorted into Slytherin and suddenly they expected that we'd fight about it? Honestly," she shook her head, braid swinging. "I'm not going to let something silly like my house stop me from being friends with who I want."

"Same," Potter nods firmly and sends her a friendly smile. "If you end up in a different house, I'd still want to be friends with you," then promptly goes bright red in embarrassment.

Good boy. She beams at him in reward. "Thank you! I hope we become good friends, Harry. You seem really nice."

"You too," he ducks his head but looks pleased by the compliment, the adorable little cinnamon roll. "You said you have a brother?"

"Oh, yes. My twin, Draco," she rolls her eyes in fond exasperation. "He's a little prickly but if you get him talking about Quidditch he'll gnaw your ear off."

"What's Quidditch?"

"It's a sport played on brooms with a ball you have to get through one of three hoops on either side of the field while two other enchanted balls try to knock you off and the game is finished when one player called a seeker catches a really small golden ball. I don't have much interest in the game, I'm afraid. I don't like flying on a broom. I much prefer papa's carpet or my abraxan Virgil."

Who needs a pile of sticks and twigs when she can have a motherfucking Pegasus? Draco doesn't know what he's on about.

"That sounds mental," Potter looks horrifically confused by the concept of Quidditch, or perhaps the idea of flying on a carpet.

"You'd probably make a good seeker, I think," she muses, giving his too skinny frame a deliberate once over. "You look like you'd be very fast on a broom."

"Oh. Um, thanks? I think?"

"That's you finished, Miss," one of the attendants informs her before sweeping back out.

"Well it was lovely meeting you, Harry," she gives the boy another beaming smile. "I hope we can be friends at Hogwarts no matter what house we end up in."

He smiles back, looking a little less frightened of everything. "It was really nice meeting you too, Lyra. Look forward to seeing you at school."

"Bye for now."

Mission: Win Harry Potter's Friendship is a go.


Her wand is beautiful.

Ebony with a Thunderbird feather.

"Unyielding," Ollivander, the huge creep, intones as if foretelling the doom of the world. "That is a very powerful wand for a little girl."

"But perfect for a witch," she shoots back with a grin full of teeth, misogynistic bastard, but unable to take her eyes off her beautiful black wand to glare properly at him. "Thank you very much, Mr Ollivander."

"Not at all, Miss Malfoy," his big creepy eyes stare down at her like a giant praying mantis. "Not at all."


"But father, I want one," Draco whines piteously to him and he casts the boy a sharp look.

Whining like that is hardly befitting a member of House Malfoy. Doubly so in a public setting.

"What are you even going to do with it, Co-co?" his darling daughter Lyra queries curiously across the table, delicately sampling her ice cream with the same grace as her mother. "First years aren't allowed to bring their own brooms. It'll just gather dust in your room."

"But its a Nimbus 2000, Ra-ra," he complains, though thankfully mindful not to carry on as before. "I need it."

"If I can't bring Virgil then I don't see why you should get to bring a broom to school. Perhaps if you ask nicely, mama and papa will get you one for Yule," she muses slyly and he resigns himself to purchasing his son his precious broomstick. So many galleons. His children truly are spoilt and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Please, papa?" Draco pleads with wide eyes. Oh, now its 'papa', is it?

"We'll see how you perform at school," he threatens even though he's already planning his next trip to Gringrotts to withdraw the galleons. At least now he has a gift ready for at least one of the twins.

Knowing his daughter, she'll want obscure books that will cost him far more than a bloody broom.


"I cannot believe those two are starting Hogwarts in a week," Lucius shakes his head, disbelief shadowing his face as he watches Draco and Lyra perched on the fence patting Virgil, their blonde hair almost as pale as the abraxan's coat in the sunlight. "They can't possibly be eleven already."

Severus pats his friend on the shoulder with his free hand, feeling Narcissa squeeze his other arm in what must be some form of self soothing while they all watch the children chatter to each other over the abraxan's curious nose as it seeks out more sugar cubes.

"It seems just yesterday they were tiny babes, barely big enough to fit in the palm of my hand."

"They were never that small, Lucius," he scoffs at the man. Clearly fatherhood has addled his mind, the sappy fool.

"Draco will definitely end up in Slytherin," Lucius continues like he hadn't heard him. "Lyra...I suspect she will go to Ravenclaw. Its rare enough to see her without her little nose in a book."

Both he and Narcissa cast the man an incredulous look.

Really?

Does Lucius even know his daughter?

"Dear husband, I cannot fathom any world where Lyra will not be wherever her brother is," Narcissa smiles as Draco wobbles on the fence after a particularly hard flap of the abraxan's wings and Lyra's little hand shoots out to steady him, both children laughing. "There's ambition in her heart enough to rival the dark lord's."

One need only look at how terrifying her little friends are becoming and how she still rules supreme over them.

"She intends to be queen of everything, after all," he chuckles in agreement, fondness sweeping through him without his permission.

He does hold a special place in his heart for little Lyra. As if he could feel anything else when the audacious little chit beams such bright smiles his way whenever she sees him. At the awe and wonder she regards him with anytime he produces a potion to soothe her or her brother's illnesses. At the terrifyingly intelligent mind behind those grey eyes, some of her questions clean snatching his breath away in shocked awe at their depth and cleverness. Or her very clear love of potions. He isn't a good enough man to be without bias and he is so very, very weak when it comes to her obvious delight in learning potions from him.

No. He cannot imagine his too clever goddaughter anywhere but within Slytherin. She'd eat any other house alive if the hat dared place her elsewhere. After setting the sorting hat on fire for the indignity.

"You'll keep an eye on them won't you, Severus?" his dearest friend squeezes his arm again, turning beseeching grey eyes up at him.

"Of course, Cissy," he can do nothing but promise.

After all, it was his intention all along.


She promised herself she wouldn't cry. It's unseemly.

But her little babies are going to be leaving her for months. The manor is going to be so quiet without her children's bright vivacity filling it. So empty without her son tearing about the place on his latest imagined adventure or her daughter tucked in a corner somewhere with her head buried within dusty old tomes.

Oh, blast it, here come the tears.

"Don't cry, mama," little Lyra smiles up at her gently, offering her a handkerchief, the darling. "We'll write you every week and I'll keep an eye on Co-co. Promise."

"You have your uncle let you fire-call us every month," Lucius sounds like he's struggling to maintain his composure too, the sap. "We'll miss you every day, my stars."

"Tu vas me manquer, papa" Lyra reaches up to hug her father and he clutches her like a drowning man, fighting to maintain his composure just as hard as herself. Oh, they're going to be such a mess when they get back home.

"We won't be gone forever, mother, father," Draco, bless his blunt little heart, rolls his eyes but looking suspiciously damp eyed. "No need to make a scene."

He squawks when she drags him into yet another fierce hug but doesn't fight her, hugs her back just as tightly.

"Alright, mes enfants," Lucius is blinking a great deal more than usual as he straightens, clearing his throat and forcefully gathering his composure once more. It is quite unseemly to be so emotional where anyone can see. Already, she's noticed Augusta Longbottom casting them looks. Of course she can be so calm and composed. Her grandson is practically a squib. Hogwarts is doing her a favour by taking the witless Longbottom heir. "Get on the train before I change my mind about you going."

"Bonne journée! On vous aime!" Lyra waves as she and her brother scamper into the train and find a compartment to wave at them from.

Lucius wraps an arm around her waist and she leans into her husband, desperate for support as the train takes her precious children away from where she may follow.

It's awful that they have to grow up but she couldn't be prouder.


She gets too caught up in a fierce discussion with Pansy, Millie and Daphne on the appropriate use of Amortentia (her stance is never) to notice Draco leave with Greg and Vince.

And by the time he returns, looking furious, she realises he's gone and failed to make friends with Harry Potter. He's been talking about little else for weeks. Seems like that plot line is still on track.

"Failed then?" she asks when he stomps over and flops into the seat beside her, huffily folding his arms across his chest and preparing for an epic sulk.

"Harry Potter is too busy being mates with a Weasley," he grumbles, saying Weasley as if its akin to a flesh eating disease. Neither of them have had the pleasure of meeting any of the Weasley horde before now. They simply didn't grace the same social circle but papa can go on an incredible tear about Arthur Weasley with the barest nudges.

"I bet you were rude," she scoffs and rolls her eyes at his injured look. She may love her brother to perhaps an unsettling degree (she would set the world afire and kill everyone and then herself if anything ever happened to him) but she does know his faults. "You can be a smug little bastard when you're trying to impress someone, Co-co. I imagine the famous Boy-Who-Lived isn't likely to be awed by Draco Malfoy since he atomised the Dark Lord already."

"Weasley made fun of my name," he sulks.

Oh no he didn't. Bitch is gonna get cut.

It's amazing how one track her mind has a tendency of getting when it comes to Draco. But still. No one gets to make fun of her brother.

"Want some poison?" Pansy asks, eyes bright with the promise of mayhem.

"No, thank you, Pansy, my darling friend," she cracks her knuckles as she contemplates her angle of attack, an amazon preparing to dive into battle. "While I like the way you think, I believe this will require a much more, concentrated approach."

Greg and Vince start looking very scared. For all they lack in intelligence, they both have a very healthy sense of self-preservation. And they've had a childhood to figure out which of the twins is the more dangerous no matter how prettily they smile.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me," Draco sniffs and fixes her with a haughty expression he likely picked up from papa. It's adorable.

"It is my duty as big sister to look out for my cute baby brother," she intones with mock severity. "No weasel may insult Heir Malfoy and escape my wrath."

Immediate retribution is tempting but she thinks that she can hurt the bloody weasel much worse than a simple bloody nose. After all, he intends to become best friends with the Boy-Who-Lived and ride the secondhand fame out of mediocrity. What better way to get her revenge than ruin his best laid plans. Mm, revenge will be so very delicious.

"You're only two minutes older than me!" Draco screeches in protest, scowling not nearly as hard as he usually does when she crows about being the eldest, he likely recognises the scheming look on her face. "That hardly counts!"

She stares at him like he's utterly daft. "Of course it does."


A pretty blonde girl steps aside for her to pass in the corridor, grey eyes bright with interest when their gaze meets.

"Hello," the girl greets with a friendly smile and all she can think is gosh, she's pretty.

"Have you see a toad around?" she blurts out, flustered and clumsy with it. Good thing her skin is too dark for the blush to be very noticeable. "It's only, Neville has lost it and I'm helping look for it. It's called Trevor."

"I'm afraid I haven't, no," the girl scrunches her forehead in thought and even manages to look cute

while doing so. The mean girls in her primary school told her she looked like a constipated hedgehog when she was thinking hard on something. "Have you checked the bathrooms? A toad will likely seek damp places, I should think."

"Oh, great idea!" she beams, wondering why she didn't think of that herself. To be fair, she supposes, she hasn't read much on amphibians. Perhaps she should try and find a book on them. She offers the girl a brisk handshake to cover her nerves at talking to a girl who isn't immediately scornful of her or her bushy hair and buck teeth. "I'm Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger."

"Lyra Malfoy," the girl smiles even brighter, displaying gorgeous dimples that have her positively green with envy.

Her hand looks so very dark in comparison to Lyra's ivory skin and she can't help but be fascinated by the contrast.

"Well," she coughs awkwardly, dropping the other girl's hand when she realises she held on for too long. "I best see about finding that toad."

"Lovely to meet you, Hermione," Lyra Malfoy tells her as she moves past. "I hope you find Trevor."

What a nice girl.


Harry spies Lyra standing beside that rude Draco boy as they wait to be sorted and suddenly feels like smacking himself.

Lyra had even told him her brother's name was Draco! Hell, they look identical! If Lyra cut her long hair and slicked it back, they would be impossible to tell apart.

Everything had seemed like a dream that day in Diagon Alley and he'd been afraid that he might have made Lyra up entirely in his shock. But here she is, long blonde hair pulled back in a smart braid by a pretty white ribbon and dressed so nicely he suspects her family are quite wealthy. He remembers feeling like a grubby little street urchin next to her in her cute dress.

Most of all, he remembers that friendly smile.

If he'd remembered what she'd told him, perhaps they could have avoided that whole unpleasant interaction with her brother. Looking at them standing together, whispering to each other as children are called forward to be sorted he feels his heart fall. She likely wouldn't like that he'd all but snubbed her brother, even if he was a rude prat.

Would she still want to be his friend?

Ron had said the Malfoy's were the worst sort of pureblood wizarding family. That they were all muggle hating, evil gits that you could only trust to stab you in the back at the earliest opportunity but how could that be true when Lyra had been so kind to him? She hadn't even known he was the Boy-Who-Lived when they'd spoken in Madam Malkins. And! And he'd told her he'd known nothing of magic so she must have realised he'd been raised by muggles. If she was a muggle hating git, she would never have deigned to speak to him let alone be as nice as she had been.

There's clearly some kind of old grudge between the Weasley and Malfoy family. So that must have been Ron's bias speaking.

She had said that her family had been in Slytherin and she might be too and even though Hagrid had said that Slytherin was where all the bad sort went, there's no way she's like that.

He resolves that he will still try and be Lyra's friend. No matter what house either of them end up in.

That's what they'd promised each other and he won't go back on his word. Not for anything.

"Malfoy, Draco!" Professor McGonagall calls and Lyra's twin casts his sister a confident grin before swaggering up to sit on the stool.

The hat barely touches his blonde hair before its roaring out "Slytherin!"

Lyra claps just as loud as the Slytherin table before she's called up to sit under the hat.

Silence descends as the little girl sits primly, hands folded elegantly in her lap and he can just make out her lips moving, as if speaking to the hat but far too quiet for him to hear.

He wonders what they're saying to each other.


"You can't honestly think I'm fit for any house besides Slytherin," she can't help but grin a little at the hat's prevaricating.

"I've never had to sort a child like you before," the hat grumbles, sounding thoroughly put out. "You are not making my job easy."

"Just place me with my brother and I won't have to burn you to ash," she offers sweetly. "Surely I am ambitious enough to be a Slytherin."

"Aye, and cunning enough to thrive," it concedes with a gusty sigh. "Ravenclaw would still work with your thirst for knowledge. Gryffindor for your incredibly reckless bravery – what eleven year old would seek to destroy the dark lord before he can return? And you possess the most incredible loyalty that would put a Hufflepuff to shame. You are very difficult to place."

"I would eat those children alive and you know it, you bloody dust rag," she arcs an eyebrow, hidden beneath the brim. "Face it, Slytherin is where you're going to place me and all this arguing is a waste of both our time."

"Very well. I suppose it must be Slytherin!"

"Thanks ever so much," she drawls before plucking the hat up and handing it back to stern old McGonagall with a cheerful smile.

Draco is cheering louder than anyone on Slytherin, delighted grin stretched across his cheeks as she strides over to take her place at his side, as is only right.

"I knew you'd be in Slytherin with me," he beams at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders for a fierce, sideways hug.

"Malfoy's stick together, after all," she agrees and pecks a fond kiss to his cheek that sends him into an immediate blushing, flailing fit, the dork.


Severus finishes giving the last of his orders to the prefects, preparing to head for his own private quarters now that the first years are settled when he spies little Lyra making a determined beeline for the boy's dormitory.

"Miss Malfoy."

She stops and spins on her heel, fixing him with a bright smile. "Yes, Professor?" she seems to have managed to seamlessly transition from calling him 'uncle' to 'professor' as if they are entirely synonymous, the cheeky brat.

"You are not permitted in the boy's dormitory," he reminds her, fairly certain the rules had been explained to her and the little lady Malfoy never needs to be told a thing twice.

"But Draco is up there, sir," she cocks her head at him, looking thoroughly perplexed by the notion she cannot have immediate access to her twin at all times.

"And if you wish to see him, he must come down to meet you," he gives her a warning look. Yes, he is enormously fond of the twins but he is also the authority here. He won't take kindly to either of his godchildren trying to lean on his affection for them to skirt the rules.

"Understood, sir," she shoots him a cheeky, dimpled grin and then spins back to stand at the foot of the dormitory, careful not to step past the archway.

He nearly jumps out of his damned skin when she opens her mouth and roars like a bloody dragon.

"Draco!"

The entire common room falls into startled silence so they easily hear the boy's bellowed reply.

He should have bloody well known better than to think she won't find ways to give him a heart attack even whilst not breaking a single rule. Too clever little girls are going to be the absolute death of him.

Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode and Daphne Greengrass giggle into their hands as Draco comes stomping out a few minutes later in his pyjamas, looking thoroughly annoyed.

"Why didn't you come through, Ra-ra?" the boy demands. "I don't want to have to come out here every time you want to see me."

"I'm not allowed in the boy's dormitory," she informs him primly, rocking on her heels with her hands tucked behind her back.

"What?" he squawks in outrage. "But you're my sister!"

"Professor Snape was very clear on the matter," she intones pointedly and he relents with a pout, knowing better than to challenge his orders. Good boy.

"Well, what did you want, anyway?"

"A hug!"

And then she launches herself at the boy who barely manages to catch her, whining about propriety and dignity even as he hugs her just as tightly back.

The scene is sickeningly sweet and more than a few of his older students coo quietly, sucked in by the adorable display. Quite well done, if their intention was to garner sympathy. They're disgustingly adorable.

As he is made of sterner stuff, he turns his back to the sight of his godchildren being tooth-rottingly cute and leaves at a brisk walk that cannot possibly be misconstrued as fleeing.

If he saves the memory in his personal pensieve, well, that is nobodies business but his own.


Harry Potter still ends up in Gryffindor but she never expected anything else. Slytherin would likely have not been a kind place to the boy, not so much from the Slytherin students but from the other houses.

This way, she might be able to bridge the gap between all this stupid prejudice and what better way to do so than with the most famous boy in the wizarding world?

Ah, speak of the devil.

"Um," he blushes as he meets her eye. "Hi, Lyra."

"Harry!" she grins at him, stepping away from a startled and then viciously calculating Daphne to stand before the Boy-Who-Lived. "It's great to see you again. Congratulations for getting into Gryffindor. I suspected you might."

He grins back, looking relieved. "I'm glad you got to be in the same house as your brother. I, uh, I don't think I made the best first impression with him."

She laughs and rolls her eyes. "I imagine he was rude. My darling brother can be mighty prickly at times."

"Yeah," he laughs softly, rubbing the back of his head. "You mentioned that. I didn't realise who he was until I saw you two standing together at the sorting. How's Slytherin?"

"Oh, it's amazing," she gushes with utter sincerity. "The dungeons are under the black lake and our common room has enormous windows looking out under it. I saw a merperson last night! I can't wait to catch a glimpse of the giant squid. One of the older girls said it swings by from time to time to say hello. And you? How's Gryffindor? I heard they throw the best parties."

"Gryffindor is great," he smiles so warmly, green eyes shining and she suspects that this is the first place he's ever felt truly at home. Just another reason to get him away from those bloody Dursleys as soon as humanly possible, she'll need to find a way to get a hold of that damned rat. "We're in a tower so you can see out over the forbidden forest. Everyone is really nice. I can't wait to start classes."

"Oh, me too. But just a word of warning," she leans forward conspiratorially and has to bite back a smile when he mimics her. "I heard Professor Snape, the potions professor, is quite strict. One of the older students warned me he likes to ask questions in the first class on stuff in our books to see if we've actually tried to prepare. So I'd study up if I were you. He's apparently not overly fond of Gryffindor students."

"Oh," his green eyes go wide in understanding and casts her a grateful smile. "Thanks for the warning. I'll make sure to study our potions text."

"Good," she nods and smiles back. "I'd hate for you to get put on the spot."

"Maybe...we can study together sometime?" he gives her the most hopeful, puppy dog look she's ever seen. The adorable little scamp, it takes so much willpower not to squish his little cheeks.

"Of course!" she gives him a warm look that sets him to blushing fiercely all over again. God, it's way too easy. "I'm really glad you still want to speak to me, even though I'm in Slytherin, Harry."

"Of course. It doesn't matter what house you're in, Lyra," he rushes to assure her, desperately sincere. It reminds her of Dobby. "I'd still want to be your friend."

Ron Weasley chooses that moment to step around the corner and nearly chokes to death in indignation.

"Me too, Harry," she grins brightly. "I best be off to class but maybe we can meet up in the library after?"

"Sounds good," he nods and allows his furious red-haired friend to drag him away.

Daphne gives her an incredulous side-eye as they start walking again.

"Of course, you'd know the bloody Boy-who-Lived," she scoffs more to herself than anything, shaking her head and looking reluctantly impressed.

She grins all the way to class.

Everything's coming up Malfoy.


Lyra meets him at the library after classes finish for the day, looking as pretty and put together as before, toying idly with the end of her long braid as they settle in a little nook that had been incredibly dusty before she cast a cleaning charm to banish the dirt and dust away. An effortless display of magic that must be an everyday occurrence for her.

She places her books gently down on the table before taking a deep breath. As if preparing herself for something and he is immediately on guard. Nothing good ever happens to him when people look like this.

"I'm sorry I didn't realise you were Harry Potter," she tells him, something earnest and a little sad in her pretty eyes as she stares into his own.

Oh, he blinks in surprise, not expecting this of all things. Oh no. "O-oh. That's...um. That's fine. I didn't tell you my last name after all," he feels horrifically out of place now. Is she going to be weird about him being famous now? He hopes not.

"I just wanted to say," she reaches out tentatively for his hands across the small table and he awkwardly reaches back, her fingers tiny and pale against his own rough, dark palms, surprisingly warm. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

Eh?

"It's only," she flushes prettily, dropping her eyes to stare at their linked hands. "I heard the other children going on about your scar and how you're famous and everything," those grey eyes lift to meet his, achingly sad. "But I don't think they understand the true sacrifice you suffered," she clears her throat, obviously awkward but doggedly moving forward. She can't possibly know how much this conversation is making his throat close up with emotion. "So I just wanted to offer my condolences. For your family. I can't possibly imagine how hard it must have been to learn of it."

Oh dear. He hopes he doesn't burst into tears. Tucked away in the library with a kind girl he desperately hopes to be friends with is not a good place to cry.

"No one's ever actually said that to me before," he whispers, trying not to sniffle. Because no one has. They all talked about how great his parents were and how amazing it is that he managed to defeat Voldemort as a baby but he doesn't remember any of it and he's grown up an orphan without ever knowing the love of his parents. The only memento being the stupid scar on his forehead that everyone is always so callously staring at as if it's not a reminder to him that his parents are dead and he inexplicably is not. How they could possibly have the gall to thank him for it is quite beyond him.

Lyra Malfoy is the only one that thinks its sad for what he's famous for.

"I hope I haven't overstepped," she tells him quietly, fingers squeezing his own gently before moving to withdraw and he hurriedly tightens his grip, desperate for the contact.

"No," he blurts out and then forces himself to calm down, blinking the wet from his eyes and clearing his throat. "No. Um. Thank you. Everyone is always going on about my scar and thanking me and asking if I remember a madman trying to murder me as a baby but no one has...thank you for being more considerate than anyone else in this bloody school," he lets out a watery laugh and her fingers close firmly around his hands.

"I don't think the other children have any idea what it must be like for you," she gives him a gently smile.

"But you do," he gives her a confused look. As far as he knows, Lyra has a family. At the very least, she has a brother.

"No," she shakes her head. "But the unofficial Malfoy motto – which I intend to make the official motto when I am Lady Malfoy – is Family Above All Else. We are dreadfully protective of our own," her expression darkens into something cold and terrible. "I tried to imagine what I would have done had I been in your shoes and...it is not something I dare think about for long. No fame is worth your family."

He shivers and thinks he understands why Lyra Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin.

It takes her a moment to gather herself and the darkness slides away from her expression into something lighter, friendlier. Back to her normal self. "But that is all I wanted to say, Harry. Thank you for indulging me," her hands slip from his to grasp the potions text book beside her. "Shall we begin going over your potions book?"

Of course, the longer they spend going through it, the more it seems as if she's got the whole damn thing memorised.

The only other witch he knows that has the curriculum memorised is Hermione Granger. Lyra, he's beginning to realise, is dead clever.

"I've had a lot of tutors growing up," she smiles at him when he asks about it. "So I've got a lot of advantages over other children. Particularly people like you who didn't even know about magic before coming here," there's an apologetic twist to her mouth, as if sorry for how dreadfully unfair it all is even though it couldn't possibly be her fault. "So I'm happy to help in any way I can to catch you up. Potions is a good start."

Lyra Malfoy is singularly far too nice for her own good, he decides.


Harry is a sweetheart but Hermione Granger is by far her new favourite.

She'd never really cared that much for the girl in the books, had seemed more as an encyclopaedia than a person. But here and now as a living, breathing human being, Hermione Granger is the best damn thing that's happened to her since the Black library and her fancy rune encrusted, hand burning hair ribbon.

The girl is a genuine genius with an eidetic memory. The amount of information that brain can memorise is honestly incredible.

And the girl actually has a chance of keeping up with her.

Her, an adult mind in a child's body with her second childhood dedicated to learning everything she possibly can about magic and all its facets, with every advantage handed to her on a silver platter along with the enthusiastic approval of her parents cannot possibly compare to the sheer, raw genius of this little girl, born to normal parents and raised without the knowledge of magic.

Hermione Granger picks up magic as though she's been knowingly wielding it her entire life. She has the natural honed instincts for it that fills her with utter delight.

Oh the things they could do together.


"Er, draught of living death, sir," he quivers under the intensity of the potion's professor's black glare. So terrible grateful that Lyra had warned him ahead of time. Desperately glad he'd taken the time to read his potions text book cover to cover and back again.

"And where would I find a bezoar, Mr Potter?" Professor Snape's voice is a velvety purr, threatening like a panther crouched in the grass, waiting to pounce and tear his throat out.

"T-the stomach of a goat, sir," he gulps but forces his posture to be straight and attentive. After that little celebrity comment, he doesn't doubt that the professor has it out for him specifically. Best not give him any ammunition.

"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?" the tall man is utterly relentless, black eyes like tar pits threatening to suck him into the abyss.

"Er," he frowns, trying to think through his panic before realising its a trick question, the sneaky bastard. "They're the same plant, I think? Also known as, um, aconite, sir?"

"Hmm," the man hums, still looming over him like a pillar of darkness and doom. "At least you deigned to open your book before coming to class," those dark eyes snap to the rest of the class, growing colder even though he could have sworn his expression hadn't changed since beginning the sudden interrogation. "Well?" the man snaps sharply, causing half the class to jump in fright. "Why aren't you writing this down?"

Finally out from under the intensity of professor Snape's focus, he lets out a shaky breath.

Professor Snape is singularly the most terrifying man he has ever met.


Draco thought that these idiots would have gotten the message after Miles Bletchley single- handedly sent his House spiralling into oblivion for daring to approach his sister.

He glares across the common room where his sweet sister is surrounded on all sides by boys that should know better. There's even a bloody fifth year trying to flirt with her! The only reason he isn't stomping over there to breath fire at them for the presumption is that Lyra looks far too amused and he's reluctant to spoil her fun, whatever it may be.

Also Daphne and Pansy are already on their way over. It's good that such terrifying witches have taken Lyra under their protective mantle. Lyra's far too nice for her own good sometimes and at the very least Pansy might poison the lot of them out of boredom.

The idiot boys scatter rather quickly at the other two girls' arrival, not stupid enough not to be wary of them at least. They're only eleven but their reputation proceeds them quite nicely.

He may have to write a letter to father about this. Or better yet, take his concerns to uncle Severus.

Yes, that will be perfect. After all why go with the killing curse when he can send fiendfyre instead.

Lyra is off limits and if the fools of this school aren't aware of it now, uncle will ensure they will be with extreme prejudice.


She'd memorised all the first year school books, known all the answers to the professors' questions and already won Gryffindor twenty points.

Even though the other children sneer and jeer at her, call her a know-it-all and a teacher's pet, she feels like she's walking on cloud nine.

She's good at magic and she has all the evidence to prove it, not just straight A's on her written work but a real, physical display that she is the best of her age group.

And then pretty blonde Lyra Malfoy with her lovely straight hair and cute dimpled smile succeeds in turning her matchstick into a needle on the first try in Transfiguration class.

Her eyes narrow in silent rage as Professor McGonagall compliments the Slytherin girl's work, giving house points that should have been hers. That should have gone to Gryffindor.

Focusing on her own work, she smiles in satisfaction as her succeeds in transforming her matchstick too, although it is a little thick and the eyelet is too small.

"Excellent work, Miss Granger," McGonagall tells her, stern face displaying just a hint of pride. "Two points to Gryffindor."

Her hand clenches around her wand. Professor McGonagall had given Lyra Malfoy five points. Was her needle just that much better than hers?

Once the professor has moved on, she casts a look at the blonde girl through the shield of her frizzy hair. Sees the girl tap her needle and turn it back into a matchstick with a pleased little smile on her pretty, perfect face before turning to help her twin brother.

Jealousy is an ugly emotion. Her mother said that nobody should compare themselves to others because you should only ever compare yourself to past versions of yourself. That jealousy can turn anyone ugly and unkind and she never wants to be either of those things.

So she decides she won't be jealous of Lyra Malfoy.

No. She'll just be better than her.


But, okay. Flying lessons don't count. That's practically PE class and nobody cares about PE class. She refuses to count flying lessons because flying on a broom simply isn't logical.

"Brooms aren't even aerodynamic," she hisses down at the offending broom that rolls lazily on the ground when she commands it up rather than leaping into her hand like it does for Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

Both boys grin eagerly over at Lyra who is looking almost as displeased by flying lessons as she is.

"Come on, Ra-ra," Draco cajoles with a teasing lilt. "Flying on brooms is brilliant fun."

"They're a disgrace to aeronautics," Lyra sniffs disagreeably, glaring down at the broom she hasn't even bothered trying to order up, hands tucked into her robe sleeves like a little monk. "I'd rather fly on Virgil. Or enchant my own boots."

"Who's Virgil?" Harry asks and both blondes turn to the boy.

"An abraxan," Draco drawls dismissively and she latches onto the unfamiliar term. Some kind of magical creature, obviously. Something capable of flight. Some kind of giant bird? Like the giant eagles from Lord of the Rings?

"You would know them as a Pegasus, I believe," Lyra explains at Harry's confused look. "A winged horse. Papa breeds them and gifted me one of the foals. Virgil is a precious darling and much better than some silly old broom."

"Hey!" Draco looks immediately offended and mounts his broom as though he's done it a thousand times before. "At least a broom doesn't bite."

"He only bites you because you're unconscionably rude, brother dear," Lyra smirks, a decidedly not nice expression, one of the few she's ever caught on the girl's face.

"No more chit chat, children!" Madam Hooch bellows and the conversation dies away. "Everybody call your brooms up and mount if you please."

She scowls down at her own misbehaving broom and demands it up.

The blasted thing rises like a recalcitrant child, dragging its metaphorical heels the entire way.

"Up."

And of course, Lyra Malfoy's broom obediently leaps up into her hand when she finally deigns to call it, settling primly upon it side-saddle and decidedly not how Madam Hooch instructed.

Grinding her teeth, she swings a leg over the cursed cleaning implement like the rest of the class.

She's not under the assumption that she's too good to follow the teacher's instructions.


"Look! The stupid oaf dropped his remembrall," Draco smirks, plucking the little glass sphere out of the grass once Hooch and Neville have disappeared into the castle.

"May I see it?" she steps in before Harry or the weasel can get their knickers in a knot. "I want to know if I've forgotten anything."

He rolls his eyes but obediently hands it over and she peers into the grey clouds roiling within it. Inert. Oh good. She must not have forgotten anything too important just yet. Not that it means anything, really. The device is hopelessly inaccurate. At what level of severity must one have forgotten something before it can activate? What's the time frame? How many things could one have forgotten? Imprecise. She deplores things that are not precise.

"Give it-" weasel starts up, bristling like a little porcupine but she's already turned to Harry with a smile, holding it out to him, thoroughly ignoring the red little bastard.

"Pass this back to Neville, won't you, Harry? Along with my wishes for his good health."

He grins and lets her drop it into his palm, eyes flickering over her shoulder to where Draco is most definitely sulking, the brat. You'd think the world has ended for how he carries on sometimes when she stops him behaving like a bully. Good thing Greg and Vince are too thoroughly cowed to cross her, otherwise they would be hopeless enablers to her brother.

"Of course," Harry smirks at her wink and pockets the ball.

The boy needs to focus on his studies more than playing some ridiculous sport and the last thing he needs is more attention at being the focus of equally ridiculous favouritism.

If they want to get in his good graces, they should remove him from the fucking Dursleys.

If nothing else, this is an excellent way to prove that the timeline of this damn plot can be altered.


It seems Hermione has finally noticed her.

The banked fury in those brown eyes is delightful whenever she gets a spell right before the frizzy- haired girl can. Little Miss Bookworm likely doesn't like coming second best academically. It's probably quite the unwelcome novelty for the little girl.

She can't imagine there's been many her age that could possibly match her, let alone surpass her.

Better yet, the girl seems to have decided striving to beat her rather than sink into a jealous fury is the correct course to take. Or perhaps she's multitasking. A few of those glares she's been pretending to be oblivious to are particularly vicious.

She can't decide if the angry, burning looks that girl sends her during charms and transfiguration class whenever she gets the spell correct before her or the smug smirks she slants her way whenever she allows the girl to perform the spell of the day first is more hilarious.

Hermione Granger is proving to be the best kind of fun.

Maybe they could be rivals. How quaint would that be?


He and Lyra have a standing study session in the library after classes let out for the day and they spend at least an hour studying, him usually his potions book and she some thick tome on runes or whatever else has caught her fancy in the library that day before she allows him to distract her with questions about the wizarding world in general. Some she can answer in ways even he can understand but others are a little harder to grasp. Particularly politics. There's just so much he doesn't know.

It's enormously frustrating.

"You can't expect to know everything about everything in so short a time, Harry," she laughs at his disgruntled expression. "But I commend your curiosity. Asking questions is always a good approach and if that fails, there's always books," her eyes turn fondly towards the towering rows around them. "Books have always been a comfort for me when adults refuse to be forthcoming with answers."

"Asking questions usually got me smacked," he grumbles without meaning to and freezes in terror, wishing he could cram the words back into his mouth when she slowly turns away from the books to pierce him with a very curious look.

"What was that?" she tilts her head quizzically at him. "Did you say you got smacked?"

"Ah, no, it's nothing," he laughs, sweat beading on the back of his neck in panic. "Just a dumb joke. Ha, ha!"

"Oh," she frowns at him, looking faintly concerned before blinking in realisation. "Is that some kind of muggle joke? I'm afraid I don't know much about the culture. Can you explain it to me?"

"Uh," oh crap. "Sorry, it's not a very funny joke. My, ah, my uncle just doesn't like me pestering him with questions is all."

"My uncle isn't very fond of being pestered either but he's never forbidden me from asking questions if they're well thought out," her brows furrow sweetly, looking faintly appalled. "But he wouldn't ever strike me for it. Is that a muggle custom? It sounds barbaric."

"God no," he scoffs before he can help himself. "My aunt and uncle aren't exactly the nicest of muggles. You shouldn't go by what they're like to understand muggles."

"Are they unkind to you?" she looks genuinely worried for him and it warms something in his chest at the same time it sends ice up his spine. The last thing he wants is for Lyra to pity him.

How pathetic would that be? The bloody Boy-Who-Lived could defeat the dark lord as an infant but whines when his family are mean to him. And given past incidents, the Dursleys will just lie their way out of trouble and take it all out on him. No. Absolutely not.

"They aren't the nicest but its fine," he waves off her concern, unable to help being touched by it. Nobody has really cared much about him like that since that one teacher back in primary. "Do you think we could go over that herb-"

"You are Lord Potter, Harry," Lyra's eyes are narrowed thoughtfully at him, far shrewder than he's given her credit. "You know that right? House Potter is rather wealthy even with you being the last remaining of your line. There are other residences you can stay at if your current home in untenable."

"W-what?" a lord? Him?

"I know they're your family," she gives him an apologetic look, as if sorry for even mentioning that he might not be happy with the Dursleys. "But you should know that you have other options. That is, if you didn't already know."

"How would I know that?"

"Well, I think most people just assume you know all this. You don't exactly go on about having lived with a muggle family," she shrugs apologetically. "Point stands, however. You do have alternatives."

"But I'm a minor," he frowns back at her, fighting hard not to allow hope to batter his heart. He doesn't think he'd survive having literally anywhere else to live yanked out from under him.

"The laws are a little contradictory," she shrugs and rises from her chair, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she turns to look over the stacks. "But there's a few odd clauses, especially with you being the last living member of a house in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I remember reading about it a while back. And really, with an army of house elves, its entirely conceivable to file for emancipation even at your age. Just a thought."

"How do you know about the Potter family?" he rises to follow her down the stacks as she peruses the shelves.

"I'm a Malfoy, Harry," she laughs over her shoulder at him. "I'm obliged to know at least a little about all the twenty-eight houses. The only house more Ancient and Noble than mine is House Black and I'm half Black on my mother's side. You can't get much higher in the ranks than Draco and myself. Ah, here it is."

She reaches up on her tip toes and draws down an old, heavy tome, flipping quickly through the pages before handing it over to him.

"This is the ancestral tree of House Potter," she informs him as he reverently takes the book from her hands, staring down at the names in curling script rising up the page like a tree.

Traces the names down until he lands on Charles Potter. His grandfather.

There's nothing after it. No mention of his father, his mother or him.

"It's quite outdated," Lyra confesses, frowning down at the page. "I'm sure there's a more recent copy in my common room I can lend you. Draco's much better at tracing the family trees of all the Ancient and Noble Houses. I'm sure he'd be happy to help you if you ask. He loves to find all the blood ties to house Malfoy. We wouldn't have known Millie was our third cousin without him."

"That's..." he trails off, still hungrily staring at the page, at the names of his family. "Thank you, Lyra."

"Oh posh, Harry," she flaps a hand and grins at him fondly. "I'm simply doing my duty to ensure the education of the latest Lord of House Potter. I'm surprised the Goblins didn't drag you off to sign all the paperwork for at least your heir ring."

"Do you think, that is, do you know when Draco might be available?" he clears his throat and finally tears his eyes away from the book. "This is probably important to know."

"Of course," she herds him back to their table and starts, bizarrely, folding a scrap of parchment into a little paper dragon. She taps it with her wand and it comes to life, leaping into the air and soaring up and out of sight over the stacks. At his gaping, she giggles. "One of the prefects showed me the trick. Draco and I aren't permitted up into each other's dormitory, silly rules, really, so to stop us screaming for each other from the common room, we use origami dragons to get each other's attention. Professor Snape threatened to use our voice boxes for potion ingredients if we didn't find an alternative," she laughs like its hilarious and not utterly terrifying.

Professor Snape doesn't seem the type to utter idle threats.


Draco casts his sister a quizzical look to find her helping Potter go over their latest Herbology essay. Its not due until next week! Disgusting overachievers, the both of them.

"You called, princess?" he drawls sarcastically as he surveys the situation before him.

It all looks above board and innocent. Just homework and some additional books that must be Lyra's latest fascination. It might be Gryffindor's golden boy, the revered Boy-Who-Lived who can do no wrong in the eyes of the world at large but he's still sitting alone and awfully cosy with his sister.

It bears investigation at the very least.

"Ah, Co-co," Lyra beams up at him and he can't help reflexively smiling back at her. "I hope you don't mind but I've volunteered your services to help Harry here. You're much better at following ancestral lines than me," he proudly smirks at the compliment because yes he is. It's nearly impossible to be better at something than his sister but he is Draco Malfoy, Heir Malfoy, of course he can manage it. It was him, after all, that discovered that kind but unfortunately less than beautiful Millicent Bulstrode was their third cousin. "Nobody thought to tell him he's Lord Potter, can you believe it?"

His pleased air immediately disappears in an appalled puff. "What?!"

Potter looks embarrassed and faintly mulish like he's expecting Draco to tease him about this travesty of justice.

"This is outrageous!" he cries and slams the latest copy of the Ancient and Noble Houses of the Sacred Twenty-Eight histories on the table before throwing himself into the nearest chair. "Right, Potter," he snaps points imperiously at the startled boy. "I'm going to show you your family tree and explain the House Potter histories and you will listen," he peers suspiciously at the boy's hands and just feels even more appalled. "And afterwards, we will compose a letter to Gringrotts to get your Heir ring at the very least. Honestly. Who, in Merlin's bloody beard, is responsible for this gross incompetence? I'll have their job!"

Potter is staring at him like he's afraid he'll bite the idiot. And yes, he certainly is angry enough to bite but not Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived appears to be the least at fault in this enormous cock-up.

Instead of screaming his rage to the heavens, he flips open the book and moves his way to the section on House Potter before spinning it enough for Potter to see.

"Right. So the Potter house is technically an Ancient and Noble House of England but they're also Zamindars from India. I'll need another book to find out more about the Indian histories so you'll just have to wait for that..."

If no one else is going to be bloody competent, he'll just have to take up the slack. It's his duty as a Malfoy and future leader of the pureblood nobility. If he can't help a single lost lord, he doesn't deserve his bloody title.

He's too busy pointing out bloodlines to Potter to notice his sister giving them a quiet smile with too many teeth to be nice.


Finding the Room of Requirement takes her far longer than anticipated. It doesn't help that she forgot where it was supposed to be in the books. All she could narrow it down to was the seventh floor and while that does make the searching easier, the entire bloody seventh floor isn't exactly small.

But find it she does and after a terrifying battle of wills where she was nearly compelled to put the bloody thing on her head, Ravenclaw's diadem joins Slytherin's locket in her warded jewellery box. Only displaying the slightest hint of tarnishing in the corners from the corrosive dark magic. The wards still holding strong, thank god.

Two down, the cup, the book, the ring and the snake to go.

The ring, she intends to collect over the Yule holiday. Kreacher will transport her to the Gaunt shack and she is confident enough in her abilities to sneak past the wards the ring is hidden behind to retrieve it.

The book, she still hasn't found within the manor but from her studies of the locket, she thinks she should be able to match the magical signatures to scry its location.

As for the cup, well, she might not be a Lestrange and thus technically not eligible to access anything in the Lestrange family vault but! Since dear auntie Bellatrix drew her wand against her with the intent to harm back when she bitch slapped the Dark Lord as a wee baby, there's reparations she's personally still owed. There's some serious fucking laws against attacking Noble families like that, particularly threatening heirs as precious as her and Draco. And you can bet your ass that Narcissa Malfoy saw the legal proceedings through just to spite her mad sister.

Legally, she can stroll in there and take anything from the Lestrange vault up to the amount set down by the Wizengamot. One measly little cup ought to make up maybe a third of that reparation cost. It would have been cheaper for them to make her Heiress Lestrange but old Auntie Bella is just as spiteful and chosen to bankrupt her husband's house instead. Cutting off her nose to spite her face, really.

Discreet talks with the Goblins are already underway even if she likely won't see the cup until she can open her own private vault when she turns fourteen.

Finding the snake will be the trickiest. There's no telling where the damn thing is. It will be her summer project. If she can scry out the location of the book, she should be able to find one stupid snake.

And finally, there is Harry. She hasn't the foggiest on how to approach that disaster. Also part of her summer project although she absolutely refuses to consider killing the poor boy.

No. She's already far too invested in Harry Potter to allow anything to happen to him.

He's suffered more than enough.

She can't afford to make any mistakes.

She got cocky, she thinks, sprawled out on the floor of the room amongst all the discarded junk from centuries of students, sweaty and shaky but triumphant. There's a lot more work she needs to do. Occlumency barriers being a chief concern.

Now that she's stepping deeper into the game, she's going to need it more than ever now.

"And cardio," she groans to the room at large, still out of breath. "I need to do so much more fucking cardio. This is ridiculous."

Well. At least now she's got somewhere she can try bulking up away from the ever present eyes of her peers who are always just waiting for her to trip up, to do something a little too indecorous for Heiress Malfoy. The little fuckers.

In fact, she slowly lifts herself up onto her elbows, staring at the towering piles of crap, she's got a hell of a lot more out of this room than a fancy cursed tiara. There's stuff in here that could be almost as old as Hogwarts itself.

If nothing else, surely there's books here that have survived the purge of anything even hinting at being anything but 'light'. The excitement of possibility turns a little wry after a while.

"I'm such a fucking nerd."


Lyra Malfoy does not seem to realise that there is an academic feud going on between them.

She can't quite decide if she's furious about that too on top of everything else.

The perfect little Slytherin princess has the audacity to blink in confusion during charms when she thumps down her book bag on the desk beside her, beating her twin brother before he can take the spot as he usually does.

"Hello, Hermione," Lyra shrugs off her confusion and smiles her pretty, perfect smile. Urgh.

"I'm sitting here," she snaps sharply, daring the girl to argue with her. Not even caring that she's making a scene.

Today is the day she beats this girl and then everyone will know that Hermione Granger is the best witch in first year.

"Okay," Lyra Malfoy just smiles, friendly and open and some of the bitter fury that's been keeping her poised to go for the throat fizzles away under it. "You're really good in this class. I would very much like to see your process for learning new spells."

The last of her jealous hatred flees her under the friendly compliment and she finds herself floundering in confusion. Lyra is a Malfoy. The highest of purebloods in the sacred twenty eight houses now that the Black family is all but extinct. Hermione has done her research and calling Lyra a princess is not far off the mark, especially since she has Black blood from her mother's side. The girl is practically British royalty and she should not be so friendly towards some no name muggleborn witch being aggressive at her.

If anything, Lyra Malfoy ought to be treating her like something unfortunate stuck to the bottom of her shoe. It makes it awfully difficult to dislike the girl when she's so damned nice.

It also kind of makes her feel bad for being so rude to her.

"You're in my seat, mudblood," Draco Malfoy's voice sneers from behind her and she turns to find

Lyra's twin glaring at her with the kind of disdain she'd expected from Lyra.

"Draco," Lyra's voice is startlingly sharp and the boy subtly flinches, disdainful expression dropping into something perhaps a little startled and contrite although he completely ignores her in favour of his twin.

"Apologies, sister," he regally dips his head to his sister who watches him with the posture of a little queen gazing upon her subjects.

"You can sit with Blaise, brother," she directs his attention to the very handsome boy sitting a table over from them.

The boy moves off without complaint and she finds herself frowning at Lyra Malfoy with new eyes.

"I do apologise for my brother, Hermione," Lyra tells her, earnestness filtering through the cold expression of before. "I'm afraid he has learned some poor habits I am currently attempting to break him of. A gentle-wizard must be respectful towards a witch," a sharp side-eye to her contrite brother. "Regardless of blood status. I will not have any of my family behaving like a brute."

"I said I was sorry," Draco grumbles sulkily.

"That's, quite alright," she decides. Whatever politics going on here is ultimately unimportant in the face of proving that she is the best, academically speaking. "I've noticed you are also quite adept at this class. I'd like to suggest a small, game?"

Those grey eyes focus back on her, curiosity making them very bright and sparkly. "What kind of game?"

"When we are given the new spell, let's cast at the same time," she rushes through, positively quivering in excitement. "To see who can cast it better."

"On the first try?" Lyra frowns cutely at her.

"Of course. It is the best way to test our skills."

Her smile is annoyingly lovely. "That sounds fun. Alright," a sly look descends over her eyes and she can suddenly see why Lyra Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin house. "Don't be sad if I beat you though."

"I won't be sad because I'm going to win," she bares her teeth recklessly back.


Now Draco understands why his sweet sister wanted to allow Granger to sit beside her.

Listening to the mud – the muggleborn girl audibly grinding her teeth when they both manage to cast the new wand-lighting spell perfectly on the first try is music to his ears.

Granger is, he'll grudgingly admit, a clever little witch and she might match Lyra at simple charms like this and collect good grades for her exhaustive essays but she will never be on par with his sister.

Lyra stands leagues above them all. A benevolent queen deigning to mingle with the peasants.

But, judging by the tiny, amused grin on her face, Lyra is finding Granger to be a hilarious diversion.

And anything that stops his sister being hideously bored with their classes is something he will accept, even if it does involve consorting with a muggleborn no name witch.

A bored Lyra, historically, is a detriment to one's sanity and general health. Their previous tutors can well attest to that.


The other Slytherin's however? Aren't nearly so satisfied.

Their ire grows daily as Lyra continues to indulge the muggleborn girl, allowing the friendly competition, allowing the muggleborn girl into her space and sphere where no Slytherin barring himself or her little childhood tea group is permitted (Daphne, Pansy and Millicent appear as confused by his sister's actions as the rest of Slytherin) and it finally reaches the point where he cannot leave it alone any longer.

Even he is confused as to why this farce has gone on so long. Originally, he'd assumed it all a passing diversion. Some sort of game Lyra allowed to amuse herself but weeks have passed and she still allows Granger's presence. From almost every angle one looks at it, it would appear that the two girls are becoming friends.

The notion is laughable. A Malfoy befriending a mudblood?

Outrageous.

He must find a way to soothe the ire of his fellow Slytherin's before the older students become involved.

Answers must be given.


"What game are you playing with Granger, dear sister?" Draco finally asks her on the eve of their fourth week of first term, draping himself over her back like a warm blanket while she predictably has her nose buried in a book on...alchemy, apparently. Sometimes he doesn't think he'll ever understand his twin. Or figure out how she can maintain perfect grades when she doesn't even look at their assigned schoolbooks.

His sister is a hopeless nerd. There is truly no saving her.

"I'm testing a hypothesis, brother dearest," she smiles and tilts her head so that their cheeks are pressed together. "In another few weeks, I believe I will have enough conclusive evidence to proceed to the next stage of the experiment."

He sighs and leans more heavily on her, idly noting that her hair is starting to smell like mama's. When did they start using the same shampoo? "Papa won't be pleased to hear you're consorting with a mudblood, Ra-ra."

"I don't like that word, Co-co. It is uncouth and petty and we are above that sort of low class rot," she turns a page and he eyes the incomprehensible alchemic equations long enough to get a headache from just trying to understand a fraction of it. "And papa will just have to suck it up. You both know how I feel about proper scientific process."

"All data points, yes, yes, I know, Ra-ra," he groans, wanting to head off that particular lecture as soon as possible or else he'll never get any of his homework done. "But...I am worried, Ra-ra. I don't want you to get in trouble."

"I know, Co-co," she turns her head and places a kiss on his cheek before he can escape it. Urgh. Why is she always so gross? "Thank you for trying to look out for me. I appreciate it," an impish light fills her grey eyes. "But as the eldest, it's my job to look out for you. Don't think I haven't noticed your little feud with the weasel boy. Did you learn nothing from mama's lessons? Subtlety, Co-co. It's a thing you should try."

"You are older by two bloody minutes, Ra-ra!" he growls and drags his sister into an impromptu wrestling match to defend his honour, promptly derailing any further interrogation.


Severus peers over the rim of his teacup, watching his goddaughter kneeling on the thick rug before the fireplace, speaking quietly with her mother in the flames.

He politely cast a privacy charm for them so he can't hear what they're saying, nor read Cissy's lips since he can't see Lyra's but judging by the way his dearest friend's face falls into tight, stern lines, there's a rather serious conversation happening between the two Malfoy ladies.

Lyra's posture grows progressively more formal. Back straight, shoulders back and head held at a perfect angle to be deferential to her mother. It is indication enough that his goddaughter is upset. His little star always falls back upon the masks of etiquette when emotions become too much for her.

As they continue to talk and he pretends to not watch, Narcissa's expression flickers through a myriad of emotions before settling into the more common one of aching pride and love. Lyra's posture follows those expressions until all the tense rigidity of her shoulders and spine have melted away, braid swinging forward so she can idly toy with the green ribbon woven into it.

By the end of the conversation, the Malfoy ladies are laughing and happy. He's glad. Not a day goes by that he isn't proud of his friends for being the kind of family he's only read about in storybooks. For casting aside the worst of their noble pride when behind doors to shower their children with the love they deserve.

No matter what issues arise in that family, Lyra and Draco will never doubt their parents love for them.

Narcissa blows her daughter a farewell kiss and closes the floo connection, leaving him alone in his living room with his goddaughter.

"All is well, I hope?" he inquires, arcing a brow at her with the silent offer for tea that she gladly accepts, perching on one of the high stools at the kitchen island when she follows after him.

"Mama sends her love," Lyra's eyes are thoughtful as they stare up at him.

"How are you finding Slytherin?" he asks after a moment of silence, here in the privacy of his personal accommodations, he's able to be Uncle Severus rather than Professor Snape as he hasn't really been able to since the start of term.

Whatever has her so thoughtful, Lyra will talk to him about it when she's ready and not a moment before.

It's been two months now and the twins seem to be doing well.

Draco, of course, has already effortlessly charmed his way to the top of the food chain, not much else can be expected given his pedigree. But while he is impossibly proud and haughty, he's also friendly and displays rare flashes of kindness he didn't think he'd ever show anyone not his sister. His godson is doing much better than he thought he would and is enormously proud of him.

A true little Lord of Slytherin.

Quite loudly drawing attention away from his quieter sister with mixed results now that things are settling into the usual school routine and the children are starting to finally notice the heiress of House Malfoy. Notice her poise, her regal bearing and impeccable manners. They are also beginning to notice her dominating all her classes.

He'd understood, perhaps more abstractly than he'd realised, that Lyra was a very different little girl. Too mature, too clever, too knowing for an eleven year old.

Her quiet aloofness has effectively built a wall between her and the other Slytherin children. Her brother the only bridge between them and he worries after his darling goddaughter.

The beautiful little star with the dimpled smile.

She has her small circle. Her little tea group with Greengrass, Parkinson and Bulstrode but they've all been companions long before Hogwarts. It doesn't seem like any other Slytherin has found a way to penetrate Lyra's indifference. Not from lack of trying, from what he's seen. Although she doesn't seem to notice it (or pretends it doesn't exist) she's got quite the little cult following her every move.

It is a recent development, likely the other children finally catching a clue and seeing the benefits to be gained from her regard. But more and more girls in Slytherin, Ravenclaw and even Hufflepuff have taken to mimicking the braids and ribbon ensemble Lyra is so fond of. Any fashion statement Lyra makes is soon deemed the height of sophistication. It's amusing enough to watch her growing troupe of adoring little fans trail in her wake.

Not that he wouldn't go on the kind of murderous rampage that would shock even Voldemort if she even shows a hint of discomfort at their attention, he's not overly concerned about her male admirers.

Draco has put his imperious little foot down and shown a hint of the great man he will one day be when he cowed the male population of Slytherin to be nothing but respectful towards his sister. It's a sweet gesture and he's made his own warnings to the older boys who should know better. But he knows his goddaughter.

Knows the girls she's brought into the fold are better protectors than he or Draco could ever be without being permanently glued to her side.

Draco has Crabbe and Goyle. Thoughtless, witless brutes to frighten off anyone stupid enough to challenge him.

And Lyra has Parkinson and Greengrass. Perhaps the most terrifying children he's ever come across in all his years of teaching. Parkinson puts Bellatrix Lestrange to shame for the sheer chaos factor she represents and Greengrass is shaping up to become the next Narcissa, if Cissy decided to become a poisons mistress and not afraid to exact revenge on anyone who annoyed her. Nightmare children, the both of them.

Lyra has chosen very well those to keep close.

"I like the common room," she grins up at him, little legs swinging cheerfully on her chair, sipping the tea he hands her with the kind of grace that would make her mother disgustingly proud. "Daphne and I have been improving her contact poisons," sweet Merlin, what in the ninth circle? Her grin gains a terrifying amount of teeth. "I've been having ever so much fun."

"And your classes?" he rubs his brow in consternation. Why, in Merlin's name, did little girls have to be so bloody terrifying? Monsters, the lot of them.

"I like your class very much, uncle," she beams at him. "The potions are rather simple but I understand that the other children haven't had as much practice as Co-co and myself."

"I know you are bored in them," he allows because he has seen it in the twins and Draco has come whining to him already but is grateful they are behaving like model students in his class, an example set for the rest of the Slytherin children. Because how the twins behave seems to directly influence the rest. He's never had a more respectful group of Slytherin first years. "Perhaps we could see about moving you up a class?"

He's already opened his door to them on the weekends to supervise more advanced potion making. Most of his Sunday afternoons are spent marking homework and guiding the twins through whatever potion has caught their interest. Lyra has developed a very intent focus on healing potions and comes to pester him about her notes on the subject after their Friday class.

Suffice to say, the twins are well above the first year potions standard.

"It's good practice, uncle," she waves off his offer with an affable smile. "Rather than practice until I get it right, I would prefer to practice until I cannot get it wrong. Repetition will cement the basics for the future."

He forgets just how alarmingly mature his tiny goddaughter truly is. "Wise words, little star," he raises an eyebrow at her, impressed despite himself.

"Perhaps I can assist my classmates during class," she muses thoughtfully. "Heir Longbottom seems to have considerable struggles."

Urgh. Longbottom is a hazard to himself and a true menace to others. Incompetent little dunderhead. "Absolutely not. I will not be held responsible for my actions should you be injured due to his incompetence, much less what your brother might do."

She grins, as if amused by the notion of the hellfire he would rain down on the world should anything harm a single blonde hair on her pretty head. "You are an exemplary godfather, uncle, and I love you dearly. But you cannot protect me from the other children's stupidity. You are, after all, not a god."

He snorts inelegantly. "Truer words have never been spoken," he eyes her and still thoughtful cast on her features. "But you are enjoying your time here, yes?"

Her smile burns him for how warm it is, love plain on her face as she meets his gaze with none of her usual masks in place. It takes his breath away. "Yes, uncle. I'd always missed having you around during the terms. Getting to see you all the time now is wonderful. And I do enjoy Hogwarts. It's a true marvel," she smile dims just slightly, eyes going distant again. "Like a dream."

"Lyra?" this is more than a little concerning.

"Hmm?" she focuses back on him, head tilted quizzically.

"Is everything alright?"

"Why didn't you take up the mantle of Lord Prince, uncle?" she asks abruptly, such a drastic left turn it leaves him blinking for a moment before catching up.

"What is this about, little star?" he counters, frowning. Trying to figure out where such a question could come from.

"Did you not know you were of the Prince line as a boy?"

Why is she pushing this? "I knew," he says slowly. "My mother didn't like speaking of it but she ensured that I was aware."

"Yet you denied it," she tilts her head thoughtfully at him.

"They cast my mother aside when she married a muggle," he answers, words still slow, attempting to track the origin of this conversation but not finding any links whatsoever. What on earth had Cissy and Lyra been talking about? "And only sought me out when it served them. When they desperately need an heir," he can't help but smirk a little meanly at the memory. "I had them grovel and beg. The noble Prince line, my grandfather on his knees before a halfblood he had scorned. I didn't need them. And I never will."

Her eyes stare at him with wide eyed wonder and delight. A smile of vicious satisfaction tugging at her lips. "Good," she nods to herself. "I'm glad you got to decide that for your self," a cheeky smile. "You'll always be a prince to me, uncle. Even without the noble title."

"Thanks," he drawls, dry as dust. "Will you tell me what this is about, Lyra?" he asks one final time. If she won't tell him, he won't ask again. All he can do is hope that she will come to him when she's ready.

She studies him a little more, seemingly weighing something up. Deciding. "Not yet, uncle."

"You know my door is always open to you, little star," he tells her firmly.

He can be patient.


"I'm thinking of inviting Hermione to our next tea party," Lyra casually drops that exploding cauldron on them and they all stare at her.

"What exactly are you planning, Lyra Malfoy?" Daphne squints suspiciously across their tea table, frankly impressed with her own composure that she isn't shrieking like a banshee at the Malfoy heiress who has the audacity to look amused.

"What makes you think I'm planning anything, darling?" the irritatingly lovely girl flutters her cute lace fan up to cover that awful crocodile smile she gets sometimes, eyes coy.

"When aren't you planning something?" Pansy scoffs and daintily sips on her tea, spiked with a hint of arsenic because they're both competing to see who can build the highest immunity to their respective favourite poisons.

"Potter I can understand, even approve of, but Granger? Are you mad? Your lord father will go ballistic." she sneers and sips her own tea in challenge. The belladonna makes the flavour appealingly tangy. Maybe she can make a lipstick out of it.

Blaise Zabini's mother might have some suggestions.

At Lyra's warmly amused look and continued silence, testing her resolve to continue this line of questioning, she decides to elaborate, if only to stop Millicent looking so confused and doe eyed. "I've got something of an understanding of you now, Lyra. And you wouldn't gather us like little chess pieces like this if you didn't have a purpose for it. You aren't that interested in friendship."

Only Millicent looks horrified at the implication. Pansy just looks as gleefully mental as always.

Lyra's eyes darken as they meet her gaze across the table.

Their weekly tea party is slowly becoming the envy of all the other girls in Slytherin all the way up to sixth year. Now that they're cottoning on to the wide ranging benefits of being in Lyra Malfoy's favour, after nearly two months of standing back and observing there's a very quiet clamour in Slytherin to win her interest. But their simpering nonsense and sly attempts to undermine the three of them out of their highly sought positions has utterly failed to win them any of her regard. Only a handful of clever ones have retreated to observe again. To figure out the correct angle of approach.

Lyra simply does not see them. They might as well be furniture.

That the girl has taken such a keen interest in both Potter and Granger sets off far too many alarm wards to go ignored. Those that know the Malfoy heiress – really know her and not the perfect pureblood princess image she displays to the gullible masses – are decidedly nervous.

Today's tea party has convened in one of the courtyards that holds some truly lovely out of season flowers. Nothing short of the headmaster could eavesdrop past the ward runes of Lyra's curious little device that ensures them complete privacy. It has the Black family crest upon it and she wonders just how Lyra got her hands on the thing.

The tea parties themselves aren't exactly nefarious (the only nefarious part is when they jokingly try to poison each other, except Millie of course, they've unanimously agreed that the kind girl is off limits). It's more of a simple gathering of allies because even though they're in the same house, sleep in the same dormitory, they don't really see much of each other outside of classes.

Lyra is notoriously absent at the best of times, disappearing to god knows where when she isn't tucked away in the library, going through the stacks at a frankly terrifying rate.

Merlin only knows what Pansy gets up to in her spare time – she always imagines her lurking in an unused classroom with the curtains drawn and practising her ominous cackle over a softly glowing cauldron. The other girl's idea of aesthetic is horrifically plebeian.

Millie is perhaps the only normal one amongst them and has developed a little friendship group with Tracey Davis and some no name Ravenclaw where they run off and go do whatever normal, boring kids do for fun.

And her? Well. She's busy making inroads with all the heirs and spares in the school. Socialising and schmoozing because that's all she knows. Building alliances and ensuring she's in an unshakeable position for the future. A place as high as she can manage without making her foundations weak.

And Lyra Malfoy is making that damn hard with the way she just casually sows chaos wherever she walks. It's infuriating.

"Harry is something of a personal project," she admits, finally lowering her fan and gracing them with the full force of her dimpled smile. "I've grown very fond of him as has Draco. As for Hermione...well," she shoots them all a sharply assessing look.

They all straighten in their seats. Whatever game she's playing, she's quite serious about it.

"It strikes me awfully curious as to how a muggleborn witch is keeping up with me," those eyes are as grey and honed as a Goblin forged blade. "Raises certain questions."

She stares at the girl before her, utterly gobsmacked. Too shocked to speak.

Shy, chubby Millicent clues on rather swiftly. "You, think Granger is a foundling?"

"Granger? What possible family could she have come from?" Pansy scoffs, frowning severely.

"Well, she certainly isn't a lost Malfoy," Lyra slants them all a look. "I would recognise her if she were," more of the unholy fusion of Black madness and Malfoy family fervour. "And are you honestly suggesting that Hermione Granger comes from Black stock?"

The entire concept hurts her head. For Granger to keep up with Lyra, one of the most gifted witches seen in a century, second only to house Black even though she is half Black. What other family could have sired a magical prodigy like Granger?

"You see why I'm so curious?" Lyra sips at her tea, watching them all but those grey eyes are fixed on her. Waiting. "The only other explanation is quite, impolitic."

Oh. Oh Merlin.

"Impolitic is putting it lightly," Millicent snorts inelegantly, startling them all. It's easy to forget that Millie isn't here amongst them just because they're all quite fond of her. Millie is whip smart. People just don't see that past the chubby frame and plainness of her face. "You realise, of course, Lyra, of what you're suggesting?"

"It might not be a popular idea," Lyra shrugs delicately, looking pleased. "But I won't cast the possibility aside just because it doesn't fit with my family's rhetoric. Facts are facts after all and the truth doesn't care a wit of how we may feel about it. Assuming it is the case then I will simply have to accept it and adjust my world view."

That Lyra would, that a Malfoy would even think to question.

"You cannot even hint this to your father," she snaps forward to grip the girl's dainty hand, knocking over her spiked tea, terror filling her every pore, just imagining what would happen to the girl if she was foolish enough to say this anywhere near any of their parents. "You cannot dare speak this to anyone, Lyra. They'll kill you."

Merlin, isn't this a turnaround? She remembers wishing Lyra Malfoy struck down by Black madness when she'd first appeared, ruining her debut into the noble social circles. And here she is, with Lyra Malfoy's downfall served up on a silver platter and she feels like she'd sooner burn the tongues out of anyone that would dare utter a word against her than see her fall from grace.

It's simply a matter of survival, she consoles herself. She is in a far better position of power with Lyra there at the top to topple all those that would attempt to claw over her. Daphne is a Greengrass and the Greengrass are patient. She can wait.

"Hence my little experiment, darling," an unusual warmth fills Lyra's eyes as she comfortingly pats her hand. "If Hermione Granger can continue keeping up with me, can use magic just as aptly as I, well," that crocodile smile returns, full of teeth and dark promises. "How could papa possibly argue it without disproving his own outdated rhetoric?"

"That is a very dangerous gamble to take, Lyra," Pansy stares, pale, into the depths of her teacup.

"Either our family's rhetoric is wrong or Hermione Granger isn't simply a muggleborn witch and thus must be amongst her own kind," those grey eyes sweep over the three of them. "And we, as ladies of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, are honour bound to bring her into the fold."

"Win-win either way," Millicent laughs, clapping in delight. "Oh, how clever, Lyra!"


"Did you know, uncle?" Draco slams into his office like a tiny king that hastily backtracks at the dark glare he shoots the impetuous boy. "Sorry, sir, but did you know? About Potter?"

Scowling at the mere mention of the boy that continues to vex him in how much he looks like his bastard of a father and yet fails to display the same terrible personality. The fact that Lyra seems quite friendly with the boy sets his teeth on edge whenever he sees them together. Almost certain she'll suffer the typical Gryffindor cruelty when he finally shows his true colours and hands itching to physically snatch his beloved goddaughter away before she can be hurt by bloody Potter.

"What about Potter, Draco?" he sets his quill down and pins the boy with an unimpressed stare.

"He didn't know he was a Lord, uncle," Draco looks genuinely distressed by this, tugging on his robes in agitation as he stalks towards his desk, grey eyes bright with fury. "He's one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the last of his line and I've spent the last month educating him about his own ancestors that he knew nothing about! That is unacceptable!"

Frowning heavily, he rises from his chair and moves around to put a grounding hand on the boy's shoulder who looks close to tears. What on earth is going on?

"He's a lord and he only just got his heir ring, uncle," Draco hiccoughs and then has to visibly battle to get his emotions under control. Always such a crybaby, their little dragon, he can't help but think fondly as he steers the boy into a chair. "He thanked me for it."

"Explain from the beginning, Draco," he eyes the boy for a moment and then crouches before him, taking those soft tiny hands in his. Making sure the boy knows he's got his full attention.

Haltingly, because he's still upset and still close to outraged tears, Draco does.

And Severus can only fall deeper into confusion.

Was this why Lyra was asking him those strange questions?


"Hi, Lyra," he grins when the girl in question skips down over the rise to where he's decided to set up their latest study session.

The afternoon is gloriously sunny and warm. If they have to spend time studying, he wants to do it outside and enjoying the weather before it turns cold and miserable.

"Afternoon, Harry," she folds herself neatly down on the rug he brought and cancels the shrinking

charm on half a dozen pillows, arranging them to their liking before sending him a sly grin. "Or should I say Heir Potter?"

"Nah, that sounds so weird," he laughs and scruffs a hand through his disaster hair, shyly shows off the Heir Ring the goblins finally relinquished to him. It's a lot smaller than he imagined, a deep blue with a golden 'P' stamped on the face and while not as pretty as Draco and Lyra's matching rings it's still precious because its a link. A link to a family and ancestral history he would have known nothing about without the Malfoy twins' help.

The lord ring will be some time coming. Apparently there's a lot of paperwork that goes towards getting him properly instated as Lord of House Potter but Draco and Lyra have been great help.

They even put him in touch with a magical lawyer who, after they'd settled on a contract, has apparently been gleefully tearing apart departments in the ministry and leaving a trail of destruction in her cackling wake on his behalf for this gross negligence and dereliction of their sworn duty.

Madam Holly is a terrifying woman and he's so glad she's on his side, cheerfully sowing chaos wherever she directs her attention.

He might be a lord by the time they're let out of Hogwarts for the summer.

Apparently there's even a Potter castle.

He's dead keen to explore it. Maybe Lyra and Draco will join him if he asks.

"Thanks for all your help," he offers a little warily. Draco had looked like he was going to cry when he'd thanked the boy last night when the Gringrotts eagle had finally dropped off his heir ring while they were studying and had stormed off not long after. "I think I upset Draco last night somehow. If you see him before me, would you tell him I'm sorry? I don't know what I did but I didn't mean to upset him."

"This isn't something you should be thanking us for, Harry," Lyra tells him, eyes solemn as she meets his eyes. "In the absence of House Black, us Malfoy's are the next highest noble line. It's our duty to oversee the wellbeing of the Houses of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Your situation should never have happened and it's our shame to bear that it occurred in the first place."

"It's not your fault," he stares at her in horror. "Not yours or Draco's. You can't think that, you weren't to know."

"Doesn't matter, Harry," she gives him a sad look. "We're at the top of nobility. It's only right and honourable for us to do everything in our power to correct this grievous miscarriage of justice on your behalf. Certainly not something you should have to thank us for."

"It can't be that serious, surely," it seems ludicrous that anyone would be so upset about him missing out on this. Yes, he's angry he's been left so ignorant but he's angry about a lot of the ways he's been treated and no one's cared before.

Not until Lyra at least, and by extension, Draco, he supposes. Huh.

She passes him a cup of tea and sips thoughtfully on her own for a moment before answering. "Remind me to lend you a book on the origins of the magical Nobility and their duties to maintaining the stability of the magical world. I think it will explain a lot better than I can."

They sip their tea in quiet contemplation for a moment, just basking in the warm light of the day.

"At the very least, you should know that you have the Malfoy's in your corner, Harry. Papa is justifiably furious. If it could happen to you, one of the most famous people in modern history, it could happen to any other noble house and that is unacceptable. We lost enough from the war. So. I guess, just be prepared to see a lot of correspondence from very angry noble houses pledging their support to you."

"Okay," he frowns down at his tea and then heaves a sigh. No use lingering on it all. The wheels are in motion and he's confident that Madam Holly will see his legal battles through to the bitter end, whatever they may be.

It is comforting to know he's got Lyra and her family's support.

"Do you think I'll have to go back to the Dursleys?" that's the real crux of it for him, really. The whole reason he got this ball rolling was because he didn't want to go back to that horrible house if he has other options.

"Only if you want to, I imagine," Lyra muses, eyes idly watching a butterfly drift along in the light breeze. "That they've knowingly kept your magical heritage from you is certainly grounds to deem them unfit guardians. But that's entirely up to you if you wish to push to be removed from their care. The feeling I get when you speak of them implies you don't wish to return to them. Is that correct?"

He glares out across the black lake, fighting down the rising hope. He won't believe it until he's got it in damn writing promising he will never have to see the Dursleys ever again. But he nods, jaw tight.

"Then we'll see it done," her words sound so final. Like it's as easy as that. And maybe, maybe because it's Lyra Malfoy, a princess if Hermione is to be believed, it is.

Personally, he thinks she sounds more like a queen than an eleven year old princess in this moment.

Her eyes leave the butterfly to pin him in place, something fierce lighting behind them. "Make no mistake. You are important, Heir Potter. Not just because you're the Boy-Who-Lived. You are a pillar that represents the stability in this country. You are important and worth being protected for that alone," the unfamiliar stern line of her mouth twists back into a familiar smile, dimples flashing. "But you're also my friend, Harry. And it's important to me that you're happy too."

He won't cry. He won't.

"I knew it!"

Gods above, he's never been more thankful than this moment for Ronald Weasley being a weird, clingy little stalker. It's just the kind of distraction he needs to keep from balling his fucking eyes out. Anger seems like a much better outlet than getting all weepy over someone saying something nice to him.

"Get away from him, Malfoy."

The Malfoy heiress merely casts the boy standing on top of the little rise an unimpressed raised eyebrow and takes a deliberate sip of her tea, not moving an inch.

"Can we help you, Ron?" he growls up at the rude boy, annoyance rapidly overtaking any warm feelings.

"You can't trust her, Harry," Ron declares, stomping down the slope towards them, red hair bright

in the sunlight and he spies Dean Thomas and Sean Finnigan lurking behind him, hesitantly trailing in his wake. "She's a snake after all."

"Oh," she sighs pityingly, a tiny, irritated furrow forming between her brows. "The stupid house prejudices. I'd forgotten about this."

The house rivalries seem impossibly trivial in comparison to everything else that's been going on in his life.

Tiny worries for tiny minds.

Setting his teacup down gently, he stands up and glares at the boys. Dean and Seamus at least have the decency to look a little abashed under his scowl.

"What do you want?" he demands hotly, turning back to the instigator of this bloody circus.

"We're here to rescue you, Harry!" Ron puffs his little chest out like a self-important pigeon. "The Boy-Who-Lived can't hang around a Malfoy. It isn't right!"

"Ooh," Lyra murmurs, eyes flashing with honest amusement and he wouldn't put it past her to suddenly conjure a bowl of popcorn to watch this. Her amusement makes this whole thing seem more ridiculous than rage inspiring. "Bringing the title into it already. Terrible opening."

"The Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived can do whatever he bloody well wants, Ron," he snaps back. "Who are you to tell me who I can spend my time with?"

"Harry chooses the 'I'm an independent saviour of the wizarding world and I don't need no Weasley' tactic," Lyra's eyes are dancing with mirth. "Let's see what the red head has for a rejoinder."

Is she going to commentate this entire argument? Bloody hell, he's not going to be able to keep a straight face. Ron seems equally as distracted, shooting the grinning girl a furious glare.

"Harry, she's a Malfoy," Ron stresses like that makes any more sense then the last half dozen times. "I told you. They're the darkest of dark families after the Blacks. Her entire family are Death Eaters. They're bad news," his eyes widen in sudden horror as he catches sight of the teacups. "Oh, bullocks, she's probably already dosed you with something. You bloody snake, what did you give him?"

"I believe if you deigned to ever open a book you'll find that papa was acquitted, since, you know, he's not in Azkaban. Also, you're thinking of Daphne or Pansy. I'm not a poison mistress," they both stare at her in confusion because what? Since when were Greengrass and Parkinson poisoners? "Not important," she dismisses their quizzical looks with a wave of her hand before fixing him with a bright, interested look. "How will the Boy-Who-Looks-Increasing-Irritated reply?"

"Shove off, Ron," he rolls his eyes, abruptly losing any kind of desire to deal with this. He just wants to sit and drink tea in the sun and do his reading for Transfiguration with his friend.

"That nasty girl has obviously done something to you!" Ron screeches and he glares back, about two seconds away from socking the boy straight in the nose if he keeps dribbling this kind of shit. "They're muggle hating assholes, the lot of them! Just look at that bastard ferret face she calls a brother, he's nothing but bad news and -"

"Tread light, Weasley," Lyra is no longer amused, eyes going glacially cold.

"Oh, piss off, you ugly slag," Ron sneers. "You and your brother are nothing but Dementor fodder and I hope they toss your whole family into Azkaban and throw away the key!"

She rises like a leviathan from the deep, slow and elegant and lethal.

Harry carefully steps aside as she all but glides up to them and even Dean and Seamus step well clear, decidedly disengaging from the altercation. Seamus' eyes had gone impossibly wide after Ron's latest outburst. Evidence enough that the boy has very clearly stepped out of line.

Even Ron seems to have realised this if his pale face are anything to go by.

"I'm not sure what I've done to earn your enmity, Ronald Weasley," she is shorter than the boy but somehow seems to loom over them all like some kind of terrible monolith. "And you may hate me all you like but you will never threaten or demean my family again. Am I perfectly understood?"

Squaring his shoulders in a show of reckless Gryffindor bravery, definitely to his own detriment, Ron sneers in her face. "I've got a problem with all Malfoy's," he hisses, trying to loom over her but they can all see him lifting his heels off the ground to do it. "You're all dark and all evil and I'm going to make sure everyone knows you and your brother are worthless gits."

Then she does what Harry has been itching to do since he opened his big dumb mouth.

She punches him right in the nose.


After the Gryffindor boys have scuttled off back up the rise, he turns to look at the girl beside him.

"Remind me not to piss you off," he grins at the girl and finds himself wondering if she might be the sort to punch people if they insult her friends too.

She fixes him with a bright smile. "I doubt you ever will, Harry," she pats his shoulder. "You're much too nice a boy for that."

Maybe she'd punch someone for him one day.


Gliding amongst the chairs of the Slytherin common room, a hush falls in his wake as he approaches where Lyra is curled up on the end of the sofa facing the rippling green on the black lake, reading a book on advanced ward structures. Its a bloody seventh year book.

He really shouldn't be surprise, he thinks tiredly as he comes to a stop before her.

As usual, he doesn't have to speak to draw her attention, her situational awareness has always been exemplary, grey eyes flicking up to blink owlishly at him before breaking out in a delighted smile as if she hadn't seen him just this morning at breakfast.

"Good evening, Professor," she chirps brightly, closing her book and settling it in her lap. "Was there something I can help you with?"

"I'd like a word in my office, Miss Malfoy."

A faint frown touches her brow, eyes darting across his impassive expression before smoothing out. Knowing her, she already understands what this is about. Always too clever, too perceptive.

That she's taken up with the Potter boy is like a thorn in his paw he can't help constantly picking at.

He refuses to look closer at his own feelings about the boy. It is not a path he dare tread down. Made more difficult because the boy seems so eager to please in class. Has gone to great lengths to ensure he is at least passingly competent in potions class and genuinely seems to enjoy the subject (just like his mother – no, stop).

But his attention is continuing to be forced towards the boy because that is also where Lyra's attention is focused.

Why did his darling goddaughter decide that Potter of all people was worthy of her friendship?

Draco's tearful, wrathful confession last night has entirely unbalanced what he had thought to be a firm foundation of fact. And before he takes this information to confront Dumbledore with he wants it confirmed by the only other person in this school he knows won't lie to him. Draco wouldn't dare and Lyra wouldn't see the point.

"Of course, sir," she hands her book over to Greengrass with a murmur and trails behind him out of the eerily quiet common room like a little duckling.

Once they're settled in his office, he leans his elbows on his desk and stares silently at the girl sitting primly before him.

"Potter," he begins and promptly stops. Unable to get any further words out. It's like his bloody jaw has locked up and tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He feels ill.

Because his goddaughter whom he loves like he never thought he would love anything in this world again is looking at him with the kind of gentle disappointment that cuts deeper than any sneering derision could. It's the cruellest expression he's ever seen from her.

"Heir Potter has suffered a gross injustice, sir," she informs him quietly, coldly. Far from the happy little girl he knows.

This is the queen Narcissa has been carefully shaping. The girl who will topple empires one day.

"Draco tells me you weren't aware," those grey eyes, Black eyes, are terrifyingly piercing, like they're dissecting him all the way down to his withered, tired soul. "But I wonder if that ignorance wasn't wilful."

He doesn't flinch at the quiet accusation in her tone. Too well trained for that but it doesn't mean the recrimination doesn't sting. It's not as if he doesn't deserve it and more.

The wizarding world has failed Harry Potter and he is one of the first in line to deserve punishment for it. He hasn't exactly been subtle in his dislike of the boy. Of all the ways he's pettily tried to bully the child in his class. Of course Lyra would be disappointed in his behaviour.

"Do you know the family he's been staying with?"

He silently shakes his head. He assumes Dumbledore placed the boy with some light family to keep him pampered far from the wizarding world. A family that he'd stupidly assumed made the boy's head fat with his own self importance. Had assumed they wanted to churn out a carbon copy of James Potter. A rich, entitled little brat comfortable in his own power.

Had only seen what he'd wanted to see. A shade of his father. The bully who had tormented him for seven long torturous years. Had somehow felt vindicated in blaming a child for his father's actions. For being the cause of Lily's death when it had been entirely his fault.

He has no excuse to lay before his goddaughter's gently accusing eyes.

He is a hypocrite of the highest order but he's always known this. This is just the first time he's felt ashamed for it.

"His only blood relatives. A maternal aunt and her family."

His head snaps up at that. No.

Surely not. How could Dumbledore even think it acceptable?

Those Black eyes miss nothing, sharpening. "So you didn't know."

The weight of disappointment fades from her eyes, something triumphant replacing it and he doesn't understand. What is she talking about? He didn't know Potter had been denied his lordship, yes, but he hadn't tried to find out either. His disregard and unfounded dislike for the boy denied him his heritage. A terrible insult to the memory of his ancestors. A blight on the honour of his godchildren. On the beautiful little girl sitting before him. So what else didn't he know?

"You didn't know Harry was being abused by his muggle family," her eyes are calculating. "But someone did. There's no way they would have gotten away with it otherwise."

Cold murder fills his chest. Lyra holds his furious gaze, no lie in her eyes but Lyra isn't the type to lie. Why lie when you can cut even deeper with the truth?

"He dodges fairly well for such an honest boy," Lyra continues mercilessly sawing into his heart with the cruelty of truth. It's no less than he deserves. "But the passing comments are enough to build a picture. Tell me, uncle," she tilts her head mockingly, eyes wide with faux, childish curiosity. "Is it a common custom for muggles to keep their nephews locked away in a cupboard?"

Every vial on the shelves behind him shatter.


Dumbledore looks at him with deeply sad eyes, not a twinkle in sight.

But not regretful. Not penitent.

"I'm afraid, dear boy, that regardless of the conditions, I cannot allow Harry to be removed from his current guardians. The blood wards are the only thing keeping him safe from Voldemort and his followers."

Lyra had been right. Someone had known. Not only had Harry Potter, the saviour of the bloody wizarding world, been denied his rightful place in the Sacred Twenty-Eight but abused in his own bloody household. Someone had known and done absolutely nothing.

Not fucking good enough.


"Lyra's already brought it to my attention," Narcissa tells the pillar of furious potions professor flatly, disgust clear in her eyes but not directed at her dear friend who is close to shaking out of his very skin with wrath in the middle of her living room. "It is inexcusable."

"He knew," Severus spits, his magic a roiling, screaming thing just beneath his skin and it is wildly inappropriate for the situation but she can't help think he's never looked more beautiful than in this moment. A storm in human form. Lily Evans had no idea what she cast aside, what she could have had. Well, her gain. "That bastard knew and let Lily's child suffer."

"Come here, darling," she holds her arms open for him and for a moment, she thinks the lovely pinnacle of fury given human form before her will turn away from the offer. Will try to leave and go burn the world down for the sake of a defenceless child. That it is Potter rather than Lyra or Draco is perhaps the only reason he is here instead of already visiting his wrath upon the unworthy souls that wrought it. Because if it had been Lyra or Draco, she and Lucius would be right at his side for that, burning the world alongside him.

He relents after a long moment of indecision and stiffly steps into the circle of her arms. Allows her to draw him close for all that he does not reciprocate. She doesn't mind. Just gently tucks his face into the warm, soft space of her shoulder. Let's him shake in her arms.

Yes. She's chosen a fine protector of her children.

A flick of her fingers sending a quick note to Lucius to get his ass down from the study right this second.

Their Severus needs them.

"There will be blood for this," she whispers into his hair, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. The promise heavy on her tongue. "This insult will not be borne."


Professor Snape is leaving him alone in potions class now. Those curling sneers reserved for poor Neville and Ron instead of him. It might be mean of him, might be cowardly for a Gryffindor but he can't help but be achingly grateful for it.

The man is not kind to him these days, he's not kind to anyone, but he isn't nasty either and the distinction is a lot greater than he could ever have realised.

His cure for boils potion comes out perfectly and Snape even gives him an approving nod before sweeping off to harangue someone else.

Lyra sends him a wink and his delighted grin widens still further.

Today has been a great day.


She has something of a timeline figured out for this year. Points of importance plotted out where she will either take action or remain in the shadows. At some point, after Christmas, she thinks because that's when Harry should receive his invisibility cloak, he will find that stupid desire mirror.

It is after he finds the mirror that the headmaster will place it in that incredibly dumb gauntlet to house the Philosopher's Stone. It is within that nebulous period of time that she will have the opportunity to steal it out from under everyone's nose.

This evening, there is Halloween and she knows that something is going to happen but cannot for the life of her remember what the fuck it is.

Which is why she is currently leaning against the locked toilet stall door where Hermione is busy crying her eyes out because Ronald Weasley is a little asshole and was unspeakably cruel to her.

The fragility of tiny, baby human feelings is a vague concept to her.

Certainly, her adolescent hormones are affecting the chemical balance in her brain, making emotions louder and more violent than she's accustomed too but she has the benefit of an adult mind to understand them and a budding framework of Occlumency to manage them. Actual children lack that perspective and skill and thus, become easily overwhelmed.

Draco is a prime example, sensitive little thing that he is will cry at the drop of a hat.

But he at least, knows to listen to her when she takes time out of her day to explain that emotions are ephemeral things and approaching them logically is the only way to go forward. It's how she gets through the day without being entirely crippled by her unholy rage at the stupidity of the wizarding world and Dumbledore's machinations.

Uncle is so sad these days and she cannot forgive a thing that makes her beloved godfather this miserable. Tearing up all of Dumbledore's plans by the roots will have to suffice for now but that doesn't mean she doesn't exist in a permanent state of vengeful wrath she has to carefully manage.

She'd thought Hermione was a creature of logic like her – tiny genius girls unite and all that. But it seems the poor girl is less open to her thoughts on the matter of emotion.

"He said I didn't have any friends," Hermione finally wails through the stall door, falling into yet another fit of tears.

Urgh. How dull.

"I would like to point out that Ronald Weasley is an ignorant little twat with the empathetic capacity of a toadstool," she reminds the girl because she and Hermione are hardly the only targets for that boy's ridiculous inability to censure his every insipid, pointless thoughts. "And while I understand you aren't particularly fond of me, Hermione, I would very much like to be your friend."

She peers up at the ceiling tiles and ponders on what delicious delicacy she can win out of the kitchen elves. They are delightfully eager to please and she has quite the hankering for salmon on rice.

Hermione has apparently decided to give up on her latest crying jag and the stall door unlocks. A lone red rimmed, puffy eye peeks out at her from amidst the fuzzy puff of her hair in the gap as the door opens slightly.

"Really?" the poor girl stares at her like she's a bloody alien. Which. Rude. "You want to be friends with me?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" she shrugs, a little bewildered at how difficult its proving to convince the girl. "I don't know about you, Hermione, but first year classes are dreadfully dull and the only fun I get out of it is our friendly little competition. I've never found any other person my age who can keep up with me before. I mean, I understand if you don't want to be friends, I'm certainly not going to force you..."

"No!" the girl yanks open the door fully at stand before her in all her dishevelled glory. "No, I do want to be your friend," said just as earnestly as Harry had. Gryffindors. Honestly. "I just didn't think...well, you're a Slytherin and I'm a Gryffindor so..."

"Please don't tell me you buy into all that house prejudice nonsense too," she huffs out. "It's the height of stupidity and herd mentality to follow such unimaginative tripe. You are brave, I am cunning and I don't see any reason why we cannot coincide in harmony with each other."

Hermione stares at her with wide, dark eyes.

"Besides, I'm already friends with Harry who, as you know, is also a Gryffindor. If you want a character reference, you can ask him."

The girl finally quirks a trembling smile. "No reference necessary, Lyra. You certainly don't behave like any pureblood nobility I know."

"I am without peer," she sniffs haughtily and then breaks character to wink at the girl, winning a giggle from her. "And you haven't actually met much in the way of pureblood nobility. Myself and Draco are a rare exception."

"And the fact that I'm a muggleborn doesn't bother you?" the girl asks shrewdly and she applauds Hermione's healthy scepticism. They'll make a politician of her yet. An excellent plan since she has zero intention of stepping into any political arena without murdering the bloody lot of them with fire and a great deal of mad cackling.

"I don't plan to perpetuate the ill thought out concept of blood purity. It is shamefully stupid. And when I am Lady Malfoy, I plan to abolish the idea entirely. Magically, you are just as strong as I am. And if a muggleborn is capable of wielding the same level of magic as a pureblood, well, that just entirely disproves that silly notion, doesn't it," she smirks, pleased to be speaking the concept freely for once rather than just skirting the issue. Most in her social circles get so damn prickly when she tries the more direct route. Just remembering Daphne and Pansy's expressions is priceless. "And, frankly, the pureblood gene pool is a little too small for my liking. New blood is needed to keep the idiots from inbreeding."

Hermione's laugh is a little bewildered. "You are the strangest girl I've ever met, Lyra Malfoy."

"As I said, I am without peer," she grins and holds a hand out to the girl. "So, Hermione Granger, will you join me in fixing the appalling state of stupidity that has befallen the wizarding world?"

The girl grins right back and takes her hand. "I bet your plan is needlessly complicated."

"Well, this issue requires a Slytherin touch I think. And subtlety, I'm afraid, is far beyond you Gryffindor types."

The girl laughs, bright and loud and that's when a bloody troll smashes through the door.

Right. Fuck. That's what she'd forgotten about tonight.

The fucking troll.


The troll – a mountain troll, characteristics: foul smell, small head, large body, perhaps three quarters the size of a giant, almost impervious to magical attack, notoriously difficult to kill, turns to stone from sunlight – sunlight. What's a spell that produces sunlight? Oh dear.

They haven't covered anything like that in charms or defence against the dark arts. She doesn't know.

She doesn't know and now they're going to die because she doesn't know.

Its heavy club smashes through the stalls and if not for Lyra quickly grabbing the front of her robes and dragging her to the ground, she would have had her head knocked clean off.

They're both screaming, she realises, high and frightened and it seems to be making the troll angrier so she forces her jaw shut so hard she nearly bites her tongue off.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Lyra snarls, eyes wide and terrified as they scramble across the floor, dodging the troll's club again and water begins pouring across the floor. "Okay. Nope. We're not dying here. I have plans and they don't involve being reduced to a jelly smear on the fucking floor of the girl's loo."

Hermione tries to drag the other girl into a corner, tries to find cover between and under the sinks but Lyra stands instead, wand whipped out and standing before the troll like a conquering Valkyrie for all that she barely comes up to the troll's waist. Like Godric Gryffindor – how was this girl not sorted into Gryffindor?

She fumbles for her own wand but Lyra is already casting, pale face twisted into a terrified snarl.

The troll goes up in flames and screams.


He is absolutely beside himself with terror at news of the troll. Almost inconsolable because there is a bloody troll loose in the castle he doesn't know where Lyra is.

"Draco!" Harry Potter of all people steps close enough to snag his sleeve and yank him away from the other children. "Draco, Lyra is with Hermione in the girl's loo. We've got to warn them."

"Lead the way," he orders, desperately grateful to finally have some direction and sprints after the Gryffindor. Entirely ignoring the screeching children they leave behind.

He smells the creature before he sees it. Worst of all, he can hear the most horrible scream he's ever heard in his life. It sounds inhuman.

Lyra.

"Lyra! Hermione!" Harry Potter roars like a storybook hero but doesn't get through the door before him because that's his sister in there and he doesn't care if there's a fucking dragon between them, he will get to his sister and he will get there now!

Or he would if his horrifically competent sister doesn't nearly bowl him over as she and Hermione come charging out from the destroyed doorway.

It hardly seems to halt her and he catches a glimpse of an immense, vaguely humanoid figure entirely covered in flames and screaming before Lyra's hand clamps around his wrist and jerks him around.

"Go, go, go, go," his twin hisses, eyes wide and wild and hauling him after her.

He doesn't argue, just snatches Potter's sleeve where the boy is standing and gaping at the burning effigy to his twin's hideously terrifying competence and yanks him along.

Something slams into the wall behind them and he is too scared to so much as scream at seeing what must be a burning club partially buried in the stone of the corridor where they'd just been standing. A burning monstrous hand curling around the edge of the doorway.

"Runrunrunrun!" Lyra doesn't even look back, can probably feel the heat of the flames enough to know what's happening behind her.

They skid around a corner and bolt.


"Where are we going?" Harry demands breathlessly as they tumble down yet another hallway and she has to force the panic back enough just to think.

They can still hear the agonised, furious screaming of the troll so it must still be at least a little on fire – Ten points to Slytherin – but distant enough that they can probably slow down enough to figure out what to do rather than run around like headless chooks.

"Oh," Hermione moans, looking pale faced and sweaty either from an impending panic attack or the amount of running they've just done. She doesn't seem the type to do much cardio. To be fair, she hadn't either before the room of requirement. "Oh, we're going to get in so much trouble."

And, yeah, she's not exactly wrong on that front.

She doesn't even want to think about the hellfire mama and papa are going to rain down on Hogwarts if they hear their precious children got attacked by a fucking troll of all things. Shit. They're already furious about Harry's situation, this will probably send papa into cardiac arrest.

And uncle. Uncle can never find out about this.

After that evening in his office when he'd nearly destroyed the whole room in a truly impressive showcase of accidental magic and then fled from her, mama told her that Severus is in a fragile state right now. He's vulnerable for all you wouldn't pick it looking at him but she can sense it sometimes in his magic. The hurt and wrath curling in it. Like he's on the knife's edge of murdering everyone around him. That she and Draco had to do their best to take care of him as much as uncle will allow them to. Finding out Harry was abused by his muggle family seems to have shaken something loose inside him. She's not sorry she opened that can of worms but she probably could have been a bit gentler about it.

How could she have forgotten about the troll? It had been the defining moment that cemented the friendship of the golden trio. And troll boogies. Dammit. Figures even her exceptional brain isn't capable of perfect recall on a book series she read nearly three decades ago. Fuck. What else has she forgotten?

Maybe she should get a remembrall, imprecise as they are.

"Not if they don't find out," she flickers her eyes over the three other children.

Mouths 'uncle' at Draco who immediately pales.

Draco will keep mum because he's awesome like that (and he loves uncle just as much as she does. If nothing else, they'll do whatever they can to keep him and papa from having fucking strokes from high blood pressure) and Harry seems to have cottoned on that she generally knows what she's on about. The weak link is Granger. The only one that still holds onto the childish idea that the adults are all knowing and their authority ought to be blindly trusted. The darling, naïve little girl.

"If this gets out, the school might get shut down," kick the kid right where it hurts and she can almost see Hermione's giant brain connecting all the dots, horror growing on her face to match Harry's.

"Father is on the Hogwarts board of governors," Draco breathes, understanding lighting his eyes as he stares back at her. "If he ever finds out that you were in hitting distance of a troll. I don't know what he'd do but it wouldn't be good. Not for the school at least," he abruptly scowls mightily. "Not that it isn't necessarily a bad thing. You were, after all, forced to defend yourself against a bloody troll, Ra-ra."

"Pish posh, Co-co," she flaps a dismissive hand at him. "The day a troll of all things poses an honest threat to me is the day I hand my wand back."

"You set it on fire," Harry grins a slightly deranged grin and she wonders if he's got a touch of the Black madness in him after all, he isn't actually that far removed from the bloodline. "I only caught a glimpse but it was brilliant."

Another enraged scream interrupts whatever else the children might say.

"So are we in agreement?" she demands as they hustle down another corridor. "We never saw the troll, much less set it on fire. Nothing happened and we know nothing. Hermione was having her crying jag, can't really change that story since everyone already knows," she casts the girl an apologetic look and receives an exhausted shrug in return. That sort of shit is apparently peanuts in comparison to the truly shitful evening they've just endured. "I was escorting her back to Gryffindor tower when you boys found us to warn us of the troll."

"How would we have possibly found you if you weren't in the bathroom?" Harry frowns thoughtfully.

Draco matches her smirk when she glances over at him. "Draco found me by our mystical powers of being magical twins. Trust me," she laughs at Harry and Hermione's matching incredulous expressions. "There's so much lore about magical twins, it isn't even funny. They'll buy it."

"Do you think we'll still get in trouble?" Hermione ventures, the poor little bunny.

"Doubtful," Draco drawls. "If we head directly for Gryffindor tower and collect a prefect, I doubt we can be condemned for having good sense."

"Its so disgustingly heroic they might even award us points for it," she laughs at the reflexive scowls that fall across the two resident Gryffindors. "If we swing it right, we might even get the weasel in trouble for being a berk to you, Hermione."

"That's not very nice," she retorts but lacks any kind of heat behind it.

"He's not very nice," she sniffs. "So. Are we in agreement?"

She gets a round of nods, even from Hermione.

Good. She'll make a delinquent from the girl yet.


It all works out just as Lyra and Draco predicted.

She is in reluctant awe of the two Slytherin's. How they make their tale just believable enough to win over prefect Percy when they all catch up to the main horde of Gryffindors heading for the tower. It's dishonesty without really lying and she's fascinated despite herself.

She always thought of herself as a good girl. One that followed the rule and respected authority and did everything right. Except doing everything right just seems to earn her the scorn and derision of her house mates. No one has been kind to her or gone out of their way to speak to her except for Lyra Malfoy who, as a Slytherin and as close to being a pureblood princess as they come, should want absolutely nothing to do with her.

That fact alone makes it easier to cement the lie. To quietly explain to prefect Percy why she was crying in the bathroom in the first place. Lies without really lying because everything she says is true. Ron has been an enormous jerk to her, has been picking on her since she arrived, along with her dorm mates and his comment today about her being friendless just broke the camel's back as it were.

Lyra reaches over and holds her hand when she starts sniffling again, upset all over again to have to speak of it and it is unbearably comforting to have the other girl here to hold her up. To remind her that she is good enough to keep up with even a pureblood princess and that Ronald Weasley, who can't even properly cast the levitating charm even now, is a terrible excuse of a wizard.

Prefect Percy looks increasingly angry as she explains and casts withering glares over at Ron who only starts looking the least bit repentant when the other Gryffindors start glaring at him too.

"How courageous," Draco sneers once she dissolves into watery, sniffling silence.

"What a big man you are," Lyra matches his sneer, both looking haughty and regal as the near royalty they are. They're only eleven. How are they doing that? "Bullying a housemate just because she's better than you. Tell me, Weasley," she pins the boy sitting suddenly very alone in his corner. "Is it because she's a muggleborn beating you in all ways that matter or is it because she's a girl that you dislike her so much? I'm ever so curious."

And the irony of that question stings just about every person still in the common room. For a Malfoy, the epitome of pureblood nobility, to publicly defend a muggleborn from the bigotry of a known 'muggle loving' family...it is incomprehensible. Inconceivable.

"You probably would have liked it if the troll had of gotten her, wouldn't you," Draco gives the boy a disgusted look before pointedly turning his back. "The standards for Gryffindor must be slipping indeed."

"You cannot tar the whole house with the same brush, brother," Lyra pats his hand chidingly, likely pretending to be unaware of the furious nods of the people around them. It is honestly amazing to watch the twins word their magic. Are Gryffindors really so gullible? She exchanges a glance with Harry who looks just as confused and fascinated as her. "One bad egg doesn't ruin the whole basket. We have similar in Slytherin, after all."

"Urgh, don't make me think of Bletchley," Draco almost spits the name with true malice. "Why that scum dared show his face in this school is beyond me."

Lyra giggles cutely and pats his hand again. "There, there, darling."

All around her, she can see the Gryffindors beginning to soften towards the Slytherin intruders and

their clever manipulations. How effortlessly they've managed to turn the atmosphere to their favour. Their performance has been flawless.

She has so much to learn.


No one thinks to ask them if they'd set the troll on fire. And Ronald Weasley receives a howler from his mother in the middle of breakfast that is the talk of the castle for weeks afterwards. He's become the pariah of Gryffindor. Even the Hufflepuff students shun him.

Mission successful.


An enchanted origami dragon pokes her awake and she spends a few moments blinking fuzzily at the thing before rolling out of bed, throwing her doona around her shoulders like a cape and padding down to the common room with the paper dragon cradled in her arms.

The big windows showing the depths of the black lake is the faintest green from the moonlight and the rest of the common room is dimly lit by the fireplace and candles floating in the corners. The low light reflecting off the green and silver furniture and shining off Draco's hair.

She yawns and wanders over to the couch he's sitting on and looking deeply miserable.

"Bad dreams?" she asks as she crawls up and leans heavily against his side, lifting the edge of her doona cape to encourage him under it with her.

"Mm," he snuggles close and they sit for a long moment in silence, him staring at the fire and her absently watching the faint ripples dragging across the windows.

"Wanna talk about 'em?"

His breathing has slowed down, almost asleep again. "No."

"Okay. Love you, Co-co," she rests her cheek against the crown of his head.

"Love you too, Ra-ra," he mumbles back, more asleep than awake now.

She doesn't know how long she sits there, Draco breathing softly in her ear and watching the still water behind the window before she follows her twin into sleep.


They look like puppies curled around each other, he can't help but think with aching fondness, staring down at the sickeningly adorable sight before him.

It was a fairly common sight at the manor to find the twins sleeping on each other. Draco was an awfully clingy child and Lyra never shied away from hugs and affection. Never even hesitated to give her grumpy old uncle Severus a hug, never missed an opportunity to hold his hand.

It seems they haven't quite grown out of that closeness yet.

Seeing them like this gentles the clawing, hissing beast that's taken up residence in his chest.

He's not been doing well this past week.

Learning about Potter's horrifying childhood shattered his Occlumency barriers more effectively than any skilled legilimens. As such, the rage and bone deep sadness is clinging tighter than he can excavate efficiently. Rebuilding them is so hard when he's plagued with endless guilt and recriminations.

His mind keeps regurgitating Lyra's disappointed face. Every reiteration worse than the last.

Every time he starts trying to build them back up, he gets stalled by it, by the first time he'd seen Lily's child. Dressed in rags beneath his new robes, wrists stick thin as he stirred his potions during class. The arrogance he'd imagined in the little boy's face when he'd met his gaze like a challenge nothing but cultural ignorance because no one had thought to teach him.

No one except Lyra and Draco. His beautiful godchildren. Too young to be picking up the slack where all the adults around them had failed.

He knows Cissy told them something. Their attempts to take care of him have been hopelessly transparent for all that Draco attempted to be sneaky about it. Lyra is better at subtlety but she hadn't even bothered trying. Just knocked on his office door every night he didn't appear at the great hall for dinner and had the elves bring him his favourite dishes. Refusing to leave until he'd eat it.

Refusing to allow him to fade away in grief and guilt.

Reaching out, he gently runs a hand over Lyra's unbound hair and watches as pale eyelids flutter awake.

"Wake up, little star," he murmurs softly to her as he has done a thousand times before. "You can't sleep here."

No matter how cosy the two of them look tucked under Lyra's blanket.

"Uncle?" she yawns with an adorable little squeak and squints blearily at him, nothing like the comported little lady she presents to the world. Guard lowered and still half asleep. So trusting it breaks his cold, shrivelled heart. "What time 's it?"

"Time for little stars to go to bed," he carefully extracts Draco from her, sleep-limp and warm, nothing short of the apocalypse will wake him, or the promise of treacle tart, the little glutton. "Off you go."

"Kay," she yawns again and sleepily hugs him around the waist, her blanket wrapped around her like a cape. "Night, uncle Severus, love you," she mumbles into his robes before blearily wandering back up the stairs to her dorm.

Entirely unaware of how winded she's just left her poor godfather, standing there like a stupid lump with a pile of sleepy boy in his arms waiting to be put back to bed.

He shatters all over again. But this time, yes, this time its like re-breaking a bone to set it properly.

If Lyra can forgive him for failing so badly, maybe he can forgive himself.

Just a little.


Professor Snape steps up to his potion, a terrifying pillar of doom and he immediately feels his

hands start sweating at the way a dark eyebrow raises.

Oh god. Oh god.

He's gonna get screamed at, the man shouldn't be able to tell he'd adjusted the recipe.

How does he know? Is the potions professor actually a vampire like Fred and George said? Can he read minds?

Oh crap. Pink elephants. Only think of pink elephants.

He's so busy panicking he almost misses the amused huff from the man, too quiet for anyone but him to hear.

"Acorns," Professor Snape hums, dark eyes lifting form the potion to meet his gaze. "Mashed or ground?"

"Er," he forces himself to take a deep breath. Steady, Harry. He's not screaming yet. Maybe you'll get the chance to explain. "Sliced, actually, sir," he minces out but girds his Gryffindor bravery and makes himself keep meeting that penetrating gaze. "The same effect can be gained from the beetle wings and newt eyes but sliced acorns reduces the brew time. Um. Sir."

"Quite the intuitive leap. Well done, Mr Potter," Professor Snape nods at him. Actually gives him a compliment!

Is the world ending? Has he died?

"Th-thank you, sir," he stammers, immediately dropping his gaze to duck his head, trying to hide the ridiculous blush crawling up his face.

"Two points to Gryffindor."

When he snaps his head up to stare, Professor Snape has the tiniest of crinkles in the corner of his eyes. Like he's secretly laughing at him.

He can't do anything but blink when the man leans a little closer and drops his voice to the barest of whispers. "The best thing about this is that no one will believe you," the man looks genuinely pleased with himself before sweeping off to harass another one of the Gryffindors as if that exchange had never happened.

Holy hell.

Wait.

He shoots the man's back an appalled look. Because he's right.

No one will believe that Professor Snape actually gave Gryffindor points. What an evil git!


"Mudblood," someone hisses at her as she walks down the halls towards her next class.

It's more the venom in the tone rather than the word itself that has her shoulders bunch up around her ears. Memories of primary and the cruel things the other children would sneer and snap at her ringing in her ears.

Someone purposely smacks their shoulder into her and she barely manages to keep her feet. Head ducking lower so she doesn't have to see the scorn in the eyes of those around her.

She just wants to get to class.

"Presumptuous little bitch," a girl, a sixth year maybe, Ravenclaw tie, barks at her. "You dare sully Heiress Malfoy with your filth. You aren't worthy to so much as look at her."

She breaks into a run, trying to drown out the awful jeers following her.

Lyra is her friend. The Malfoy said so herself, even stood up for her, set a troll on fire for her. Got Ron to actually apologise to her. Treats her like an equal.

There's no reason to be upset because other people are bigoted jerks.

Lyra says they're friends and Hermione is far too stubborn to give up her only friend just because other people have their knickers in a knot about it.

Despite telling herself all these things, it doesn't stop the words from hurting.

Doesn't stop her tears.


"Ra-ra, Ra-ra, do you think father got me a Nimbus 2000 for yule?" Draco bounces in poorly contained excitement beside her while they wait to board the train back to London.

"Well, you've been pestering him for one since summer," she drawls, mind barely on the conversation. Busy thinking about her plans to track down that bloody diary. "He probably did just to spare his ears."

She's almost certain she's got the scrying figured out. Practised endlessly in the room of requirement with the horcrux she already has and while it might not be precise to the centimetre, she's confident that she can get a ballpark area.

Still no closer to figuring out how to destroy the bloody things but she'll worry about that when she's got her paws on the lot of them.

If all else fails, she knows where she can find a basilisk.

Maybe she should orchestrate a meeting between Harry and a snake so they can start talking about Parseltongue. Maybe she can get him to teach it to her. At the very least get a lexicon of basic phrases down.

After yule then.

Maybe she'll smuggle a snake back to Hogwarts. The girls would love a new poison source if she brings back something venomous.

Food for thought anyway.

"Ra-ra," Draco whines, tugging childishly on her sleeve. Whoops. Must have zoned out there for a moment.

"Yes, ducky?" she purrs just to watch his face scrunch up in offence at the pet name.

"Call me that again," he tries to threaten seriously and it takes all her self-discipline to keep from laughing in his outraged little face. He looks like a kitten baring its teeny tiny fangs. "See what happens."

"Terribly sorry, brother mine," she says with mocking contrition. "Do forgive me."

"As I was saying," he huffs, trying to fall back to his attempts at regal bearing. Gosh he's so cute. "What are we getting uncle for yule?"

"Oh?" she raises her eyebrows as high as they will go at him. "What's this we business?"

A flash of delightful panic crosses his face before eyes narrow at her. Entirely unamused. "Ra-ra."

"Urgh. Fine. You're no fun," she rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest. "I've found a book he'll like."

It's his turn to roll his eyes. "Why is it always books with you?" complains the most spoiled, materialistic child the world has ever seen.

"Dunno. Why is it always brooms with you?" she drawls right back, dropping her posh elocution to bicker with him just for the aghast look he always casts her when she does.

"There is nothing wrong with brooms!" he predictably defends.

"And there's nothing wrong with books."

"Why are you so boring?"

"Says you."

They cheerfully bicker the entire train ride home.


Lucius frowns minutely at the way Severus freezes in place, hands frozen in the act of removing the last of the wrapping paper on his yule gift from the twins.

Casts a sharp look over his children to figure out just what they've done to their poor godfather.

Draco is watching Severus with curious eyes, flicking between the man and the book in his hands with growing confusion. So his son is not the culprit.

The sheer level of smug radiating off his daughter ought to have clued him in from the moment the twins handed the gift to Severus. What in Merlin's beard has she given her godfather?

"Where did you find this?" Severus whispers, eyes wide and hand reverent as it smooths over the old leather cover.

His darling wife peers over her friend's shoulder to spy the cover, frowning faintly. Seemingly has no better idea than he.

"Do you like it, uncle?" Lyra grins facetiously, clearly quite pleased with herself.

"What is it, Severus?" he finally caves, leaning over to peer at the title stamped in ancient leather.

An old potions book, yes, they all know Severus' passion for potions, he is the youngest potionaster in centuries but does it really deserve such dramatics? "I didn't think there were any copies left," Severus breathes, still staring down at the book as he delicately opens it. "I've spent decades looking for it."

It looks handwritten. How old is this tome?

"Look at the last page," Lyra bounces in her seat, positively gleeful.

They all sit and silently watch Severus do as told so none of them miss his sudden, shocked inhale or the way dark eyes snap up to Lyra.

"And before you ask, no, I'm not telling you how I got my hands on it," his darling daughter smiles angelically, dimples proudly on display. "Happy yule, uncle."

"Thank you, Lyra, Draco. It's a brilliant gift," the man's smile is small but no less warm and the sight of it eases a little of the worry that's been sitting in his chest since October, when Narcissa called him down from his study to find her trying to keep their dearest friend from shaking to pieces.

It's the first real smile he's seen on the man since.

The greatest gift his children could have given him and Narcissa.

(Although, the rune embroidered scarves are lovely.)


Hot damn. She's found it.

She's found it.

And she's not surprised she hadn't before because the level of warding hiding the diary away is boss as fuck. She is so stealing this matrix for her own.

There's no way she has the time to crack it now. She's got barely an hour before mama is going to track her down and drag her reluctant ass off to go get ready for the bloody annual yule ball.

Finding the diary's location is enough for now. It's safe where it is so long as papa doesn't get it in his head to secretly gift it to innocent little girls who are definitely not involved in their father's schemes and grudges. God, papa can be such a petty bastard sometimes. He's lucky she loves him.

The ring will be tomorrow's work.

While the adults are all busy sleeping off their hangovers which means she'll have to be up early.

Urgh.

No rest for the wicked.


It's a true delight having her children back. To be able to reach out and touch them and hold them close after months of only letters and brief fire calls. She cannot think of a thing sweeter than holding them tight to her chest as she had when they were babes.

Her precious little stars.

"Mm," Lyra hums in answer to her last question, clearly not having listened to a word she's said for the past ten minutes.

Her very distracted precious little stars.

At the pause of the brush in her hair, her daughter blinks and returns her focus on her poor, ignored mother. In fact, Lyra seems to have been distracted most of the day, wandering off after breakfast and only reappearing when she'd had the house elf track her down to get ready for the ball.

"What has you so thoughtful, bright-star?" she coos and resumes the meditative brushing.

It has always been a calming pastime for both of them. A chance to connect and talk of women things.

"Sorry, mama," her daughter turns to give her an apologetic smile. "Just thinking about school."

Hmm. It wouldn't be about the school work.

Her daughter is well ahead of her peers, if they thought she would accept leaving her brother behind, they would have put her in with the fourth and fifth year classes. But Lyra is as loyal as she is clever and would never stray far from her twin. They know better than to push. Instead, they can just preen and boast about their prodigy daughter dominating everyone in academics.

Certainly nothing academic would be concerning her. So it must be social.

And her darling child has definitely been making waves on that front. First with her friendship and subsequent discovery of the appalling treatment of Harry Potter.

It breaks her heart to think of the orphan child.

Yes, he is responsible for the destruction of the dark lord and put her house in a perilous position (though she cannot find it in herself to be too distraught at that man's death. There had been a frightening level of cruel madness in his eyes in those last months of his life and she will never forgive Lord Voldemort for casting crucio on her husband in a fit of petty pique) but he is the last of the Potter line and a child.

No child ought to suffer what he has. The very thought of her babies suffering the same stirs the Black madness she holds tightly in her heart. She would tear apart anyone who would dare touch her stars.

No. Lyra and Draco made an excellent showing of themselves in aiding the Potter boy. The honour of House Malfoy is intact and their prestige even greater than before thanks to their actions.

The mudblood her daughter seems to have taken up with is the chief concern she and Lucius hold.

One Hermione Granger whom Draco has informed them has Lyra fascinated.

Her daughter has always been quite soft towards the mudbloods. So curious about their culture and ways of life without magic (as if that's any sort of life at all). The tutor that first introduced their daughter to the topic will never utter another word again but the damage had already been done.

Lyra is insatiably curious and they'd worried – with good reason, it seems – that being at Hogwarts with mudblood children would entice her beyond her teachings.

Letters and reports from other families paint a very alarming picture of her daughter's social circle.

And they'd so hoped that Pansy, Daphne and Millicent would be good influences on her. Well, probably not Pansy, but she expected far better from the young Greengrass heiress.

Neutral family they may be but even they understand the importance of blood purity.

Perhaps they've given Lyra a bit too much free reign. Though she is loath to try and enforce restrictions now. It will only drive their daughter further from them and she does not think she would survive it if Lyra were to turn her back on them.

The mudblood will show her true colours soon enough. The best they can do is be there for their daughter when it happens.

Some lessons must be learned the hard way.


Ah. The annual yule ball.

Fuck. She hasn't really spared much thought to it. A little distracted by other, far more important things like protecting the magical world from a soul shredded lunatic with delusions of grandeur. She thinks she can be forgiven for her lack of attention.

It's the biggest dog and pony show for the Ancient and Noble houses. All Lords, Ladies, Heirs and spares rubbing shoulders and stabbing each other in the back to clamour for greater standing. To claw their way to more prestige and power. Houses rise to glory and fall to ruin in the same breath at the annual yule ball.

She and Draco have been attending these bloody things since they were toddlers. Usually hide away from the worst of it with the other children while the adults smile at each other and try to tear each other's throats out in every way but physical.

It's a bloody nightmare and she usually hides away with Millie and watch Pansy and Daphne compete to see who can poison the most of the dishes.

Draco is always far more involved in the yule balls. As the male heir, it's expected of him even though she's the oldest. Has to trail along in mama and papa's wake as they circle the ball like sharks gliding amongst the glittering shoals of fish. She can get away with the necessary greetings and then fleeing the entire ordeal.

Being female has its pros and cons in this ridiculous society.

This time, though, it doesn't seem she'll be able to escape the worst of it.

She can't even get a single second to sneak away and poison the punch, not with this many eyes on her. Pansy's parents have her on a short leash tonight after last year's ball saw nearly a dozen uppity fucks trapped on their toilets for four days after and Daphne likely got a pat down before her parents let her even step foot out of their manor.

Daphne's got Astoria to look after too. Can't expect any help from that front.

Maybe she should just poison herself.

As luck would have it, she manages to get into an in depth conversation with lovely old Lord

Scamander on raising abraxan which swiftly devolves into a discussion on the ethics of domesticating magical creatures that deters even the worst of the simpering eligible sons and grandsons trying to win her non-existent affections.

"Ah, but I've kept you from your friends, young lady," Lord Scamander is a darling and she wants to sit with him over tea and pick his beautiful brain of every bit of magical creature lore he knows.

"Nonsense, Lord Scamander," she hurries to reassure him because she genuinely loves chatting with him and he'd been standing all alone before she'd come to ask him about Virgil's latest moult. "To be perfectly honest, I'd rather be at home with a book and a nice cup of tea. I'm not much for parties, you see."

His silver whiskers shine in the light as he smiles down at her. "It's kind of you to keep an old man company. I must confess I have little love for these things myself but my son insisted. It's traditional after all."

"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind continuing to keep me company?" she gives him a hopeful look, praying he acquiesces. She really will have to resort to poisoning herself if he doesn't and she doesn't want to be off her game for tomorrow's horcrux hunt. "I'd love to talk more about all the creatures you've met and cared for."

"Hmm," his blue eyes flicker over her face for a moment, never quite looking her in the eye and finally inclines his head. "I suppose I don't mind the attention of a quick young mind. I'd always hoped to have a granddaughter to pass my stories onto," he sighs a little wistfully before waving an admonishing finger at her. "But don't you feel as though you must linger with me, young lady. You're a good, filial child but you are not obliged at all to tend to this old man, understand?"

"Of course, sir," she beams up at him, pleased as fucking punch for the reprieve, at least for now. Might as well gain some new intel from a reputable source. "I've been doing some reading and came across mention of a basilisk. It sounds like an incredibly interesting creature. Have you ever come across one in your travels?"

"I have, actually," Lord Scamander looks immensely pleased as well, his whole body alight with energy. "It was back in '62, I believe, on the outskirts of Moscow..."

She's never had a more pleasant yule ball without a single poisoning before.

And Lord Scamander agreed to let her write to him.

Score.


"Alright, Kreacher," she tightens the wraps around her dragon hide gloves and breathes out carefully. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, little mistress," the house elf nods solemnly and with a snap of his fingers they pop out of her bedroom.

They both stare at the pathetic little shack. At the snake skeletons and skulls nailed to the outer walls. It looks like a stiff breeze would knock it down. Likely the only thing actually holding the structure together is the heavy magic still clinging to it. Protective wards still humming with strength.

She tastes the magic on her tongue and shudders at the slick, oily malignancy of it. Hard to tell if it

belongs to the forgotten Gaunt family or Voldemort. Either way, its disgusting. She can't wait to tear the wards apart and see this last reminder scoured from the world.

Her scrying holds true and points her into the shack. So the ring is where she thought it would be.

Within the last remnant of what was once the Most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin. The Gaunt family have really done the cruellest disservice to their lineage.

"Into the breach, then," she steps forward, one of the many illegal wands she'd pilfered from the Black home vault in hand and the Black family house elf half a step behind her.


"Fuck," she hisses, staring at her shaking, bloodied hands as she kneels on her bedroom floor, not caring a wit about the steady drips making a mess of the rug. "Fuck. Fuck."

That could have definitely gone better, she thinks a little hysterically, staring down at the jewellery box that now houses three horcrux. There's blood smeared all over it slowly being absorbed into the rune matrix. On the plus side, that should strengthen the wards against those monstrous things.

Nobody died, she manages to console herself. Nobody is dead because she's an arrogant little idiot. And Tom Riddle is a violent psycho.

Kreacher lost an arm for her folly but at least he's alive.

"I can't wait to murder every single fucking piece of you," she hisses viciously at the jewellery box, hoping her intent seeps through. Hopes those fucking soul shards enjoy even a fraction of the terror she just endured. "I hope you burn in hell, Tom. You fuck."

Fiendfyre. She's going to send that fucker into the seven circles of hell already burning.


The curse-scars are impossible to heal – the very nature of them being curse related injuries kind of makes the whole healing thing moot – and difficult to hide. Silvery lines snaking over her hands and up her arms that take poorly to the glamour she tries to conceal them with. Papa will go ballistic if he sees them and mama will sink into that quiet murderous calm that is infinitely more terrifying.

She doesn't even want to know what Uncle would do. Or Draco.

Looks like she's starting a new fashion trend.

And it's winter anyway. No one will raise an eyebrow at her deciding to wear gloves.

Summer will make it hard to hide but she reckons she can fake an accident by then to hide their true origin.

And as much as they'd hurt, as much as they're a testament to her being a fucking moron, they're also a reminder that she saved a life. That Kreacher will live on, sans an arm maybe, but still alive to complain about it. She'll never regret the actions that lead to these scars because if she didn't have them then she'd never see the most staunchly loyal house elf's ugly ass face again.

A small price to pay.

And maybe she can try sewing some runes into the gloves. Go full flame alchemist or something.

Always potential for further badassery.

There's gotta be some kind of silver lining for the future nightmares she's going to have to suffer through.


"You know, next ball you won't be allowed to run off like you usually do," Draco informs her, even looks faintly worried.

Oh dear.

"How will it be any different to normal?" she steps forward with him when they're finally permitted to step off the train back at Hogwarts. "We'll trawl around, say the usual banal pleasantries and pretend we care about all the pointless gossip. You might have more do discuss, seeing as papa wants you to take his Wizengamot seat one day but I'm not needed for that."

"Lyra, you're Heiress Malfoy," Draco frowns at her. "You've got duties to see to as well."

"Organising tea parties and discussing the latest fashion hardly counts as a duty, Co-co," she rolls her eyes as they wander after the herd of students heading for the carriages that will take them back up to the castle.

Draco's little posse will find them soon and then she should be able to slip away to track down Hermione to start informing her just how wrong her latest Arithmancy theories are from her latest letter. It isn't calculus and she's embarrassed for the girl for even considering something so three dimensional.

"Things are going to change once everyone finds out about Potter," Draco grimaces down at his own hands once they find an empty carriage, fidgeting like they've been thoroughly taught not to. "Since you were the one that first discovered the discrepancy, people will want to talk to you."

"I might have found the issue but you were the one to do the work correcting it, Co-co," she reaches over and gently takes one of his fidgeting hand in hers. "It was your work that ensured Harry has the means to get his justice."

"They'll also..." he glances away from her eyes, looking faintly guilty. "...Want to talk about Granger."

"What's Hermione got to do with anything?" she asks, feeling a dangerous little curl of protective rage spark to life in her chest. Hermione is hers.

"You're Heiress Malfoy," Draco stresses like that means a goddamn thing in the real world. She's an eleven year old girl before she's anyting else, for fucks sake, highly capable, yes, but no one else knows to what extent. "And you've taken up with a muggleborn witch. You might not care about the gossip but everyone else does! It didn't come up at the yule ball but if you insist on keeping on with her, they will."

"Papa's going to chew my ear off," she groans and slumps back, far from lady like but fuck it all.

She'd kind of forgotten about the political implications of her actions.

Had been too busy enjoying having someone around that could keep up with her intellectually. Their discussions on magical theory have been fascinating.

She hasn't even been spending that much time with Hermione! Hasn't even gotten around to inviting her to a tea party yet despite what she'd told the girls.

Mostly, they've just been having their fun little competition in class. She's also pretty sure there's a betting ring going on about it on who will manage to manage the spells first.

Why does bullshit pureblood prejudices have to go and ruin all her fun?

"Do you know what you'll say to him?" Draco looks honestly worried about this and she can't help but fondly pat his hand. Her little brother is just so adorable.

"Yes. Sorry for worrying you, Co-co. I didn't mean to cause trouble."

A damn lie but whatever.

"At least you're not half as bad as Pansy," Draco grins comfortingly at her, the darling. "I'm pretty sure her father is more scared of her than the dark lord."

"I can't exactly fault his good sense."

They both dissolve into giggles.


Naturally, once the kids notice her pretty silk and lace gloves, just about every girl in the castle starts wearing them. It's kind of fucking ridiculous and hilarious at the same time.

She's still working on making flame alchemist gloves but she's confident she'll have them down by Easter. For now, she settles on gloves with runes that gather static enough to arc ominously around her fingers when the charge builds up enough.

She feels like a fucking Pikachu with them.

Fashion has never been this fun before.


Granger is awkward at first. Fumbles her teacup and doesn't hold it with any kind of poise. Compared to the rest of them, she's like a peasant that's found herself at the table of a queen.

She watches Lyra watching them interact with her new muggleborn friend with a small, secretive smile hidden behind her teacup and effectively stands back to see if Granger will sink or swim.

It's strange having a fifth person at their weekly tea party but Granger is clever and interesting and she understands what it is about the girl that caught Lyra's attention.

Granger might be in Gryffindor with all that reckless bravery but there's a ruthlessness to her too. The kind of vicious efficiency that would have her right at home amongst Slytherin if she wasn't a muggleborn. It's kind of a shame really, she thinks, watching Pansy and Daphne start arguing with her about potions and poisons. The earlier awkwardness forgotten in their passion. Granger would have done well in Slytherin.

Millicent knows what people think of her.

Knows what they see when they look at her but her appearance is the tip of the iceberg, as Lyra likes to say, of who Millicent Bulstrode is.

Granger has already dismissed her. Not in an intentionally nasty way, of course. Granger fights very hard to appear a nice girl even though her personality is far too sharp for that. But that ruthless efficiency in her has noted Millie and then promptly discarded her as uninteresting. Assumed she's not smart enough to follow the rapid fire conversation. Just the fat little hanger on to Lyra's posse.

People seem to forget that she's grown up alongside Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson, two of the most terrifying budding poison mistresses in Hogwarts. She knows all about poisons and potions even if she didn't want to.

Even worse, they forget that she grew up with Lyra Malfoy.

Watched and learned how Lyra controls a room, controls people and built up the masks she wears.

Lyra wears masks all the time and she doesn't think even Draco has seen behind them all. There's no reason to be sad about that. Lyra only does what she wants and if she wants to tuck away the softer parts of herself where no one can touch them then that's her right.

It's gratifying enough that Lyra has taught her the same masks. That the girl gave her the tools to identify them. She might not know what lies beneath them but she can recognise each one that Heiress Malfoy chooses to don on any given day. And has the knowledge to build her own.

When Draco discovered that she's a third cousin to them, she spent quite a lot of time running around Malfoy manor with Lyra, learning from both the twins but from Lyra the most.

They've all been childhood friends but Lyra was her first real friend.

The first girl that told her she wasn't fat, told her she was strong.

Lyra Malfoy, princess of wizarding nobility, had told her that first day of their acquaintance in the Malfoy garden she was jealous of chubby, plain little Millie.

It had been eye opening for her. Made her rethink all the things she'd envied about all the other girls she knew. About the women in mother's social circle. Made her wonder if the things they valued might not be as valuable as all that. And wondered why she ought to be forced to value the same things.

Because if Lyra Malfoy could see value in Millie when no one else did, not even Millie, then something had to be wrong. And she didn't think it was Lyra that was wrong. Lyra is rarely ever wrong after all.

So when Lyra, who is kind and clever and more gifted than any child she's ever met, had told her she could be strong, little Millicent Bulstrode had believed her.

Still believes her.

The other thing that people often forget about Millie is that she was sorted into Slytherin.

And there's a damn good reason for this.

Pansy and Daphne think they can battle Lyra for the title of empress. That they have a chance of beating the most dangerous witch of this century.

Absolute hubris.

No. Millie has no intention of challenging Lyra Malfoy. Wouldn't dream of it. Not now, not ever.

She'd rather be the shield that protects Lyra while she ascends to her rightful place above them all. She wants to be strong enough to carry the other girl's burdens, strong enough stand at her side and help bear her hurts and triumphs and joys. Wants to be strong enough to be there and witness the day that Lyra finally wins.

Her ambition is as powerful as her loyalty. Though the hat hadn't even tried to offer her Hufflepuff for it. She would have pulled it apart thread by thread if it had and smiled as it screamed.

To achieve her ambition, she has to first be strong enough to withstand the dismissal of those around her, the snide comments about her weight, about her plain, boring features. Strong enough to stand tall before the cruelty of the people she has to interact with, from strangers to her parents. Because strength isn't just a physical thing.

And she can. Nice, plain little Millie is just as much a mask as Lyra's perfect princess poise.

They have no idea what Millicent Bulstrode is really capable of. What she is prepared to do.

Because Lyra once told her that she was strong and she would never have known it without her.

So she intends to be the strongest not for her own sake, but for the pale little girl sitting beside her.

The one that had looked at her, at chubby, plain little Millie and seen her.

Because the strongest people are the ones with something to protect.


Lyra links arms with Millie as they walk the grounds, warming charms keeping them from shivering from the cold winter wind. Not that Millie really needs them. The taller girl always runs warm.

"Granger is a good choice."

She gives her friend a sideways glance. "I'm glad you think so."

"She's about a subtle as a brick in the face though," oh, she likes this side of Millicent. Always so much fun. Its a real pity Daphne and Pansy haven't clued on to the mask of meek little Millie.

But she likes being the only one to see this side of her third cousin. Will horde her jealously from everyone.

She's getting possessive in her old age it seems.

"Sometimes subtlety isn't what a situation needs," she advises, grinning up at the other girl. "Not everyone is built to be sneaky."

"She'll learn soon enough," Millie shrugs but looks pleased from the compliment. "If nothing else, she's a quick study. Might end up giving Pansy and Daphne a run for their money."

"Oh," she laughs happily and pats the girl's thick bicep. "Darling, they're going to be magnificent."


"Harry?"

He glances up from his history essay (delighted by any reprieve he can get) to find Lyra leaning back in her chair with her quill casually floating around her twirling finger, staring up at the ceiling of the library.

"What are your plans for Ostara?"

"Ostara?" he cocks his head to the side and casts Hermione a quizzical look. Hoping she can fill him in.

"Easter," Hermione supplies without looking up from her fourth year Arithmancy book. The damned overachiever.

"Oh," he shrugs. "I was planning on staying at Hogwarts. What about you?"

Staying here, even if he'll be alone, is miles better than going back to the rotten Dursleys. Literally going and living in the forbidden forest for the entire Easter break would be better than the damn Dursleys.

"Would you like to come to Malfoy Manor?" Lyra offers, flicking a glance at the quietly studious girl beside them. "You too, Hermione. You'd both be very welcome to spend some time at the manor."

"Stop trying to use me to terrorise your brother," Hermione accuses flatly, still not looking up from her book but that doesn't stop him seeing her pleased little grin.

"I would never," Lyra lies straight through her teeth with a faux hurt expression.

"Would you ever."

He laughs at the two of them.

It's a weird friendship they've built. One based of mutual antagonism and friendly bickering. The competitive edge in class hasn't diminished at all but it isn't quite so angry these days when they sit together and see who can cast the spells correctly first. It's become the new game between the two houses in first year and he's pretty sure there's a small betting ring going on for it.

The friendship between Hermione and Pansy and Daphne is even stranger. At the very least, Hermione seems to be having fun so he doesn't put much thought towards trying to figure out that little friendship group. He just hopes he doesn't end up poisoned like the rumours are saying other people have been.

"I don't want to interrupt your time with your family," he manages a smile for his friend, willing himself not to be jealous of her and her brother for having parents while he doesn't. It's not her fault.

"Don't do that," she drops her fancy princess manners and sends him a flat look. "You're my friend. Therefore you will never be an imposition to me, Harry."

How can she say stuff like that without a hint of embarrassment?

"Still," he ducks his head to try and hide the furious blush rising up his neck.

"Just think about it," she offers a little gentler, giving him a soft, fond smile. "I'd love to have you and Hermione over but only if you want to."

"I think your father will drop dead of mortification if I came to your house, Lyra," Hermione shoots the blonde a challenging smirk. "You might not cater to pureblood bigotry but I have it on good authority that he does. He'd simply love to know you've befriended a lowly little mudblood."

"Oh?" A dangerous glint crosses Lyra's pretty face, the quill dropping from the air to clatter to the table. "Have you been speaking to the older Slytherin's?"

"More they've been speaking to me."

"Names, if you please."

Uh oh. That's a very dangerous tone. He carefully edges away from the blonde girl. Best not get caught in the crossfire of that.

"Oh?" Hermione is utterly fearless as she parrots back that lazy drawl. "Going to do some in house cleaning, then?"

"Yes, I suppose there's a bit of trash I have to clear out," Lyra responds with an eerie smile.


"Pansy, Daphne, my darling friends."

She rolls over on her bed to find prim and proper Lyra Malfoy standing in the middle of their dorm room, smiling like a crocodile.

"Ooh, I like that smile," she grins right back, cackling like a hyena as she sits up to exchange intrigued looks with Daphne, her friend and rival in being the world's most feared poison mistress. Fun things always happen when Lyra smiles like that.

"I propose a game," there's so many perfectly white teeth on display in Lyra's smile. "Let's see who the better poison mistress is between us all."

"The most poisoned wins?" she bounces excitedly in place, already mentally running through all her best concoctions. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Daphne doing the same.

"And the most discreet. You lose if you're caught," Daphne adds because getting caught is tacky.

"Oh, what fun! I assume you have a list of targets?"

The parchment flutters down between them, Lyra's perfect curling script listing thirteen names.

"I'm going to win, you know," she declares happily as she devours the names on the parchment, committing them to memory.

"No you won't," Daphne argues primly, flicking her hair. "You'll get caught. You always hang around the scene for too long."

"You don't want to know why those particular names?" Lyra arcs an eyebrow at them, amused.

"Well, clearly they've pissed you off so their first and last crime is stupidity."

"You know me so well, darling."

"Know thy enemy, right?"

"Indeed," her smile is a soft, cruel thing and she likes that she gets to see Lyra's real face.

She can't wait until they all get to duke it out for the title of queen of everything.

It's going to be so much fun.


Blaise Zabini looks up from his chess match with Theodore Nott to watch Lyra Malfoy glide out from the girl's dormitory, step daintily across the common room and out the entrance as regal as a queen and thoughtfully turns back to his chess match.

"Huh."

Theodore glances up at him with a frown. "What?"

"Lyra's changed her hairstyle," he comments mildly and suppresses his smirk when Theodore immediately blanches at his words.

The last time Lyra Malfoy wore her hair up like that a minor noble house was systematically dismantled. Lost their entire fortune and any respectability they could claim after one of them insulted her brother. Despite her delicate features and impeccable manners, the Malfoy heiress is not someone to fuck with.

It took up until the Bletchley fiasco to realise just how bloody dangerous the girl is. How foolish he'd been to think Draco the Malfoy to watch out for. Too taken in by her gentle charm to realise the Black madness lurking behind that dimpled smile.

Pansy comes tumbling down the stairs not long after, an utterly unholy light brightening her entire face with Daphne following after her at a more graceful pace, her most colourful scarf whipping out behind her like a war banner.

Both he and Theodore flinch hard at the sight of it.

Oh no.

"Oh Merlin," Theodore looks so pale he might pass out as they exchange horrified looks.

Looks like they're going to have to start carrying a bezoar with them again.


"What's a mudblood doing hanging around Lyra Malfoy?" a voice sneers nearby and out of the corner of her eye, she spies Harry's head rise like a blood hound, scenting his next fight.

It's sweet that he's prepared to defend her but she doesn't need it. She can damn well defend herself from these stupid bigots. And the tea group have proven to be merciless in punishing the idiots. Clearly these morons have not yet been subjected to the wrath of Lyra Malfoy.

"Getting a little too big for your stockings, mudblood."

She finally deigns to lift her head from the fifth year transfiguration text book she's taken an interest in. Lyra beat her today again at turning a teacup into a pigeon and delving a little deeper into the theory of inanimate to animate might help her gain the upper hand for the next class.

Looming over her, Neville and Harry's study table are three large boys. One Slytherin tie and two

Ravenclaw. Fourth year, she thinks, maybe fifth. They're quite large boys. If it comes down to a fight, she'll cast a jelly leg jinx on them first. Get them on the ground and destroy their height advantage. Daphne has been teaching her about battle tactics and it has given her a whole new perspective on confrontations.

They're smirking nastily down at her as if they've already won.

Three big boys against one little girl. So cunning, so witty.

Urgh. She's already starting to sound like Lyra.

It doesn't pass her notice that they've waited to have this confrontation when Lyra is off on her Sunday potions session with Professor Snape. One day she's going to join her for those lessons but she's still not quite at her or Draco's level in potions. Doesn't have the intuitive grasp of the subject like Harry does who somehow comes at brewing sideways and upside down and still manages to produce really good potions more often than not. His leaps of logic even seem to impress Professor Snape, the man perpetually unimpressed with the children he teaches. But that's fine.

Just another hurdle she needs to climb over to be the best.

"Sod off," Harry snaps at the three boys, rising from his chair but not barely coming up to the boys' shoulders. A tiny ball of fury facing off against bigger and stronger. Neville, predictably, remains in his seat and cowers.

She just eyes the boys before her, thoughtfully rolling her wand between her fingers, hidden underneath her robes. Contemplates the spells she could fire off at them. Idly considers which wand movements will be the most efficient to seamlessly move from one spell to the next.

Chain casting is something she read about in one of the older duelling text books and it sounds fascinating.

"We'll get to you in a moment, Potter," the taller of the Ravenclaw boys sneers. "Wait your turn."

"We're trying to study," she informs them flatly. "Please leave."

"You aren't worthy to hold a wand, mudblood," the Slytherin boy snarls, apparently not liking her not being intimidated in the slightest.

It's hard to be frightened of these idiots when she knows that Daphne's lipstick has belladonna mixed into it. Enough to be just shy of fatal. Lipstick that she wears everyday.

Daphne coming in to kiss your cheek is an honest attempt at murder.

Don't even get her started on Pansy, the utter lunatic.

She kind of understands why Lyra keeps quiet little Millie around. That girl provides the healthy dose of normalcy the tea party group needs. How Lyra tolerates the lot of them is honestly baffling.

How the Malfoy Heiress keeps them leashed is beyond her comprehension.

"And you are a waste of oxygen," she snipes back, bored to tears already by all this. "We've all got problems. Kindly take yours somewhere else."

They bristle like angry little bears. "You arrogant little -," Ravenclaw starts but is hurriedly shushed by the Slytherin boy.

A moment later Lyra steps into view further down the stacks, eyes intent on finding whatever book she's looking for. It seems like nothing escapes that girl's attention and grey eyes land on their little aborted confrontation.

"Gentleman," she nods politely to the boys when she abandons her search to move over to them. "Hermione, Harry, Neville. Good afternoon."

"Hi, Lyra," Harry nods back, stiff with offence but too proud to speak up. Neville can barely squeak out a reply.

"Afternoon, Lyra," she chirps cheerfully, acting doesn't come easy to her but she's learning. "I thought you'd be with Professor Snape."

"Yes, I was but there was a potion I wanted to try and couldn't quite recall the steps," Lyra lies effortlessly, smiling that gentle, princess smile of hers for their audience. The day Lyra forgets anything, she'll eat her bloody hat. "Professor Snape sent me to find the book for it. Though I haven't the foggiest of where it might be."

"Perhaps we might be of assistance, Heiress Malfoy," the Slytherin boy offers, smile smarmy and as oily as his hair. "Julius here is quite good with potions."

The tall Ravenclaw preens proudly, shooting a very unsubtle smirk her way as if Lyra gives half a toss about him. "What was the potion, Heiress?"

When Lyra tells them, the boy, Julius apparently, darts off down the stacks to track down the book Lyra definitely doesn't need while the Slytherin and the other Ravenclaw attempt to drown her in sleaze and simper.

Urgh, the grovelling is utterly sickening.

She catches the amused glance Lyra shoots her and she does not envy the girl if this is the bullocks she has to put up with on a daily basis.

She'd set herself on fire before she took Lyra's place.

Once the book is retrieved, Lyra thanks the boys and when they awkwardly try and linger, she gives them a gently confused look that sends them scrambling with offers of an escort back to the dungeons.

"Oh, no thank you," how Lyra can smile so kindly up at them is beyond her. It's plain witchcraft and definitely a skill she has no interest in acquiring. "I'm going to stay a while to speak with Harry. A private matter, you understand."

The dismissal is quite obvious but the boys are reluctant to leave until Harry levels a glare at them.

"Sod. Off," the Boy-Who-Lived repeats once more, too blunt to bother with all this polite nonsense.

With glares of their own, they finally slink off, probably to lurk nearby and wait to either pounce on Lyra to further attempt ingratiating themselves or to come charging back to continue the confrontation. Hard to say whether gaining her favour is more important to them than scaring off the lowly muggleborn.

Lyra ignores it all of course, sliding into the chair beside her, a glance taking in the title of her transfiguration book has her grinning that awful smug little grin of hers.

This girl is the worst.


"Lyra?"

She hums and turns to Hermione as they sit alone in the library. Harry and Neville have long since departed, off to dinner while they'd lingered to argue about Transfiguration for the millionth time.

"Those boys from before..." the girl fixes her with a determined stare, far too knowing for only being so recently admitted into the tea group circle. "...Leave them to me, will you?"

She grins, wide and toothy. "As the injured party, of course you have first rights to them."

Huffing a loose curl out of her face, Hermione casts her a dry look. "And how long do I hold 'first rights'?"

Clever girl. "I'll allow you three days. After that, its open season."

Hermione's grin is just as mean as her own. "Three days shall suffice."


A large, long fingered hand plucks the vial out of Pansy's hand before she can spike the soup tureen.

"That's quite enough of that nonsense, Miss Parkinson," Professor Snape drawls, dark eyes pinning all four of them in place. "You will all cease terrorising your schoolmates."

"Yes, professor," they chorus while Pansy watches on with a sad look as Professor Snape pockets her latest concoction.

The fun had to stop at some point, she allows with grace, reluctantly unwinding her bright scarf from her neck to pocket (the most poisonous creatures are the most colourful).

"We had a good run," she offers the group once the Professor stalks away.

"He only let us have a week," Pansy moans desolately.

"A week longer than he really should have," Lyra laughs, watching the man stride back up to his seat at the staff table with a fond light in her eyes. "Quite generous of him, really. A toast, to our benevolent overlord."

Professor Snape's glare goes glacial as they collectively raise their goblets to him. Likely fighting down a smile at their antics. Daphne has known the man long enough to know at least that.

The man doesn't fool her for a second, he thinks they're adorable.