20

Horror, Heartbreak, Sincerely

In Malfoy Manor all was quiet and the mood was grim. From afar thunder rolled and here already the clouds had darkened, their spread unpierced by the light of the setting sun. Lyra savored the feeling, the odd tranquility storms brought. Sometimes she'd go out and play with the lightning.

But right now she had texts to pore over, old tomes to dust off, riddles to decypher. The wind blowing outside against the tower and trees calmed her, sharpened her focus. A dozen books lay at the corner of the table, already checked. She had only ever tapped into a few of them before, skimming over some of the most advanced theories of mind magic until her brain hurt.

From bottom to top were the books:

Things That Go Bump in the Night: An Anthropological Chronicle of Night Terrors by H. Heidelberg

Compendium of Curses, 6th Edition, by Robert Faraday, Riccardo Fabiani, and Rebecca Franklin

The History of Azkaban, by assorted authors

Raising a Seer: Ten Steps to Reduce Accidental Childhood Insanity, by Michel Trelawney

The Arithmancers' Almanac, 1991 Edition by Septima Vector

A History of Sentient Objects, by Christine McQueen

A History of Sentient Buildings, by Horace Nebbercracker

Truths Most Bitter, by Andos Peverell

The Lurking Fear, by unknown writer

Crooked Hells and the Drums of Doom, by Bahlen Morth

Crooked Hells and the Stench of Rot, by Bahlen Morth

The Magic of Time, by Saul Croaker

Exploring the Limits of the Human Senses, by Augustus Rookwood

Maledictions, by Baba Yaga, 1927 translation

It Which Swirls and Churns Ending, by unknown writer

Born of the Cosmos, Undone by the Cosmos, by Illem Yrgenwer

Then Lyra tossed the last book upon the pile, Myths of the Dreamlands, and sighed. She could not find anything about what was happening to her — even with all of Lucius' collection of texts, some so illegal she was paranoid even touching them. Yet none held any true hints of her condition.

She put her head down on the table, on top of her folded hands. Maledictions caught her eye. Translated most recently by Gellert Grindelwald of all people, though who knew if the original author was the Baba Yaga. Grindelwald seemed to think so; he had put a nice little foreword praising Ms. Yaga's disturbingly complete knowledge of malicious curses.

A chapter introduction resurfaced in her mind: Beware: the theories of the magic herein should not be further explored or used for any crafts beyond the strict parameters set within the relevant contexts. I believe I have revealed truths and advanced theories hitherto unknown or only guessed at, previously unseen through the fog of subjectivity and emotion. But again I say beware! Premature insight into the transcendent truth may unravel the mind to the point of abandonment.

Thereafter was what was translated by Grindelwald as the blackest of the mind arts. From the cruelest curses to manipulate providence to theory on the nature of madness and how exposure to endless experiences magical and mundane may be the catalysts to the descent; Baba Yaga also argued that the inherent suffering of life and the weight of impossible choices meant all people became susceptible, and rather quickly.

Lyra snorted. Of course this woman had lived alone and away from society. She wouldn't have been surprised if the old crone was the first recorded believer of cosmicism; there was even a short chapter on why the insignificance of life in this universe excused her wicked past.

Yet for all the information about mind curses and the unearthly, none particularly helped her case. Either she had been cursed by Azkaban, with specific intention and deliberate malice, or her use of the Time-Turner within the already extreme magical environment of the prison had exposed her to something beyond good or evil.

She didn't understand. And maybe she would never; she had made her peace with the ever-expanding unknown back in her past life, mostly, but never had the unknown been so personal yet so far from discovery. If it was a curse laid upon her by a sentient structure, maybe she'd eventually figure it out — but if this was the result of a quick glimpse of some eldritch realm, then…

But even then, describing Azkaban as a sentient structure did that pit of hell injustice. She suspected she'd only been in there for half an hour at most, but it had felt like halfa day inside. Like hours of navigating the rearranging corridors and hellish rooms they led to, the dementors trailing after her to feed off her increasing despair.

Maybe there was no curse or otherworldly reason. Maybe she had just been traumatized to the point of a mental disorder. Azkaban brought her to the height of terror. At one point she had leapt out a window, only to fall right into an inescapable room, simply a hollow sphere, with no opening from which she could've entered or exited. Her emergency Portkey did not work, and she didn't dare Apparate.

Even the memory of it threatened to open a pit of despair and horror inside her. It had been complete silence but for her breath and heartbeat, and in time her screams. In the end she had resorted to the Time-Turner, and then when she came to she had been spit out to the sea, washing ashore a little down the coast where James had found her hours later with the beginnings of frostbite despite her enchanted clothing.

At least now she had caught up to James in the emotional trauma department. It sucked.

And after all that, to add an extra layer of bullshit, Voldemort had managed a similar feat but apparently without such repercussions, without Animagus forms, and likely without a Time-Turner either. Despite her easily being in the top one-percent, magically, the likes of Dumbledore and Voldemort were still unimaginably more skilled.

Suddenly a sound of something heavy falling below snapped her out of her thoughts. She tilted her head in the direction it had come from, expecting her mother or even Pokey to come around the wall of the staircase. But she heard no footsteps, and her call of "Mother?" went unanswered. Then she tried "Pokey!" and still nothing, which was even more alarming, until she remembered today was Pokey's day off. And Lucius and Draco were both off on a mini vacation.

Laughing a little at herself, she stood, and a wave of her wand sent the books away to their original locations. Stretching her arms above her head to relieve the taut muscles in her neck, she stepped towards the only window in the library to try and catch a glimpse of lightning as the comfort of rolling thunder washed over.

Then another thud, this time behind her. In a flash she was stepping to the side, invisible and soundless as her illusory copy spun herself around in fright. But there was again nothing there, but a fallen book. Sighing, she dispelled her charms and walked over to it and bent over to pick it up — then stopped herself and used her wand instead, just in case.

The book floated into the air, and before it swung back into its spot she glimpsed a Deathly Hallows sign on the cover. Probably another of Grindelwald's. Out of curiosity, she reached for it — but again stopped herself and cast a detection spell on it; she had more or less read every book in this house, but she had recently, and personally, moved the entire library into one of the west towers, and maybe hadn't organized everything the way it had been.

Grabbing it after there appeared to be no curse on it, she opened it past the black cover with only the Hallows on them to a random page.

...despite his brilliance and talent, at this point Grindelwald was only a pampered student activist from one of the premier wizarding institutions in Europe. To his credit he recognized his own failings, and so would often seek the aid of his elders, specifically…

Grindelwald's biography, then — as much as it could be called one, given how unreliable the accounts often were. Grindelwald himself was notoriously close-lipped about his past, perhaps because of his history with Dumbledore and a desire to keep his old friend out of the spotlight. She skipped a few pages, already beginning to lose interest.

…and this entrenched his belief that only he was capable of leading such an effort. To prove this, and cement himself as unconquerable, over the course of seventeen years he would lure out particularly powerful witches and wizards and kill them publicly. Some began to believe him inhuman, for over time the magic he displayed in public became stranger and, as witnesses describe, hideous. Most would not speak further of it.

Lyra shut the book and gave the Hallows one last look before sliding it back into its slot and making her way down the stairs. She had read too many books about Grindelwald to remember if she had looked through this one. Passing down by the second floor, she stopped. Another book lay on the ground here too, this one thicker. Lyra spelled that one back to its spot, but this time without checking what it is. Strange, but she had lived in this house for seventeen years; she probably just hadn't put it back properly earlier today. This must have been whatever had fallen and given her a fright in the first place.

Jumping at shadows and tumbling books now, really — how far she'd fallen. Though, she supposed, Azkaban would do that to anyone… Mr. Weasley had mentioned that he had developed a subtle fear of the dark ever since his own trip there. Lyra suspected James no longer shared her appreciation of stormy weather, not after he had been tossed around in a tempest fueled by Azkaban's wrath for several hours searching for her.

She turned her attention from the library and made her way downstairs. Her footsteps seemed to reach her ears slightly late, just a moment too late to go unnoticed, like the delay of thunder after lightning. Lyra briefly stopped at a window, admiring the sudden, harsh glow of the clouds before it returned to steel-grey, then continued to her room.

Placing a hand on the door handle she stopped right before applying pressure to it. A series of muffled movements came from within.

Pokey did sometimes visit her room. After all, she was easily the nicest towards elves in her entire family, despite her efforts to transform their attitudes towards non-human sapients. But what Lyra heard was most definitely not the elf's barefoot shuffling. Her free hand reached behind her and her fingers slowly curled around her wand.

She threw the door open. And immediately felt a little foolish, as Narcissa Malfoy whirled around.

"Oh. Mum. What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, I just…" Narcissa trailed off, and turned away, as if Lyra's bookshelf were the most interesting thing in the world. Many of Lyra's most treasured items had disappeared from their shelves, having been packed in her trunk as she prepared for her new home for the next year. "I just wished to speak to you."

Lyra sat down on the edge of her bed, the mattress older than even Phineas Nigellus yet just as simultaneously soft and springy as it had been when it had been made at the hands of a master craftsman. After a moment of hesitation, Narcissa too sat down beside her, twirling a letter in her hands. It bore a seal of the Ministry on it.

"Taxes?" said Lyra.

"Not quite," said Narcissa. "It's a summons. For you."

She frowned and wondered what it might be. Surely not…

Narcissa answered the unspoken question: "It's for the investigation into Azkaban."

A chill ran through Lyra's body, and she threw away all other thoughts to appear as cool and collected as she could. But she could only say, "Oh."

Her mother's eyes flicked to her own, but they couldn't maintain contact. Before they flitted away, Lyra thought she saw a spark of fear in her eyes, though of what she could only guess — Azkaban, or Lyra.

"My daughter…" Narcissa seemed to gather up the courage to get right into what they both knew she didn't want to know. "It says you were the last formal visitor to Azkaban before the massacre."

Lyra gave the silence a moment, just to think.

Then she said, "Yeah…"

Terrible.

She tried again, "I — uh — I visited, yeah. End of winter. With Dora. I — uh — I spoke to some Unspeakables about it already… not sure why they're summoning me again — well, probably it's the D.M.L.E. —"

"Lyra…"

"Bet the Unspeakables stopped cooperating, again — you know, I respect that they just do their own thing sometimes, but —"

"Why?" said Narcissa, her whisper still enough to cut across all of Lyra's chattering. "Lyra, why would you ever go to Azkaban?"

Lyra saw the answer already in Narcissa's eyes, that glint of raw trepidation, the fear of a terrifying truth. And Lyra tried to speak, she really did, but all she could think about was how Dora still wasn't responding to her letters, and how Hermione too had refused to speak to her in the last week of school, probably having learned Dumbledore hadn't really given permission for Lyra to use the Time-Turner, if McGonagall's furious Howler was anything to go by.

And she knew every lie she uttered would each put her one step closer to butchering her most valued relationship. But it could only ever come to this in the end.

So she said, "I visited Bellatrix. And to test its security."

With the way Narcissa paled it was as if a dementor were drifting near. She gave a low moan and covered her face in her hands, like a mourner at a funeral. "Why, why, why? Why. No, Lyra… please, please, please don't tell me you did this…"

"I did," said Lyra, all her breath leaving with the two words. Her mother knew.

It seemed as though Narcissa hadn't even registered what she had said, her eyes just staring wide and blank. Then she whispered, "No…" And she let out a strangled sob of sorts, then began to shake her head endlessly, until Lyra swept down and wrapped her arms around her mother, her sweet mother, so beautiful despite such a horrid past.

Lyra rubbed circles into her back as Narcissa continued weeping. It was though each gasp carved open a hole in Lyra, leaving her a mess of open wounds that would never heal.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured again and again, into her mother's hair, the scent the comfort she needed in this moment but surely didn't deserve. "I am so, so sorry, Mum…"

The cries slowed, though, eventually.

And when Narcissa's breathing became a little lighter, Lyra repeated herself again.

I'm so, so sorry.

"You… you killed her," said Narcissa, as though the simple statement was as much a blow to her heart as this whole situation was to Lyra's. "Oh no, Lyra… What did you do? Why? Why would you do this? Oh God…"

"Because she was a threat to all of us," murmured Lyra, quiet but firm. "And this was inevitable."

Slowly, Narcissa began to shake her head. "I knew she'd never die peacefully. And I'd rather her be at rest than tortured in Azkaban, but why, oh why, did it have to be you?"

"It would have all led to something like this anyway," said Lyra, pulling away from her a little. "There are two Dark Lords out there. And if either manages a breakout, what then? I'd be in hiding, dead, or a killer anyway. Draco would be forced to take the Dark Mark." She shifted closer again. "And you would have to pretend everything is fine."

Narcissa glanced at her, and there was a glint of something Lyra couldn't place in her eyes — a spark of fear, or fury, or as though there was something more to the meaning of her words that Lyra had not meant to betray.

"What?" she said.

"Andromeda," said her mother, hoarse and without much emotion. "She hadn't wanted to betray your trust, but… everybody could see you weren't well… and she said — she said you could See."

Lyra closed her eyes, her mind spinning, and rested her forehead against the side of Narcissa's head.

"Or that you had Seen," said Narcissa. "I don't know. I had guessed already, but I had always thought you would come to me if I was right, confide in me."

Shaking her head against hers, Lyra whispered, "Until this year, I had never told anyone."

"Not even Stark?" murmured her mother, a touch of something bitter on her tongue.

"I didn't speak to James about any visions until recently," said Lyra, phrasing it just right — she and James never discussed any vision-excuses until recently — but Mother didn't seem to care about the answer.

Then Narcissa said quietly, as though afraid of the answer, "What did you See?"

Lyra hesitated, but she said, "Death and regret, a lot of it, and much more than I could say in the time I have right now, but I promise I'll answer as many of your questions as I can tomorrow. And that I haven't done for anyone. I love you to death, Mum, I really hope you know that."

"Oh, daughter, I love you, truly, but this…" Narcissa sighed and stared into nothing for a moment. "This is just… horrific." She gave the tiniest shake of her head, then said, "I love you, Lyra, and I do not doubt your love, but of all the fears I've had about you, never this. Never anything this terrible. You killed my sister. I don't know." She looked almost like she might be sick, and she repeated softly, "I don't know."

Lyra didn't either. She didn't regret it. She had always known her actions would inevitably lead to the collapse of many of her relationships. The end would always be self destruction.

"Lucius would have told me," said Narcissa absently. "If the Dark Lord returned… Lucius would know. But the Mark has faded more than ever. I was glad before, but after that — that massacre," she choked, "I wondered if perhaps he had returned, and had found himself dissatisfied with his agents enough to kill them. But no… it makes sense now… your sudden illness after the charity gala… that Patronus Pendant you were so proud to show me." She frowned, the skin around her eyes just tightening enough to notice. "You were the reason Nymphadora was in Azkaban, weren't you? Andromeda never told me why, never told me you were with her, but it was this, wasn't it?" Gesturing to the summons in her hand, she finished, "It was all you."

And her eyes became frighteningly blank, as though some sort of shock was settling in and the light was fading out.

Lyra opened her mouth but choked on her tongue. What could she ever say?

Then, again, a question came into her eyes just slightly, and Narcissa asked, "How did — the break-in happened at the same time as the gala — how did you do it?"

"A Time-Turner," said Lyra faintly.

"A Time-Turner," echoed Narcissa. "Of course."

"Yeah…" And that reminded her of the time. "Listen, I have to go, but I promise I'll come back tomorrow or even later tonight, and we can talk more." Lyra put a hand above one of Narcissa's. "If there's anyone I'd trust to know everything — it's you." Then she got up, kissed the top of her mother's head, and murmured a last love you.

She didn't get anything back, and though Narcissa had assured her twice of her love, it still hurt a little. They traded those words several times a day and with ease, but now it felt heavy, like something to be dredged up from the bottom of her heart.

And that had always ultimately been the cost of hiding so much information from loved ones. Lyra knew that. She always had. But she couldn't even imagine what she'd feel like if her own future daughter killed her father or something.

The whole way to the fireplace she thought about it, never able to really wrap her mind around the full mess of emotions the idea invoked.

Whipping out her wand and a spell into the fireplace, she stepped inside, closed her eyes, and said, "Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office." And behind her eyelids green flashed.

Then she was stepping out into Dumbledore's office, where it was silent save the trinkets humming and the wind blowing. A wave of strange warmth washed over her, and she glanced at Fawkes, whose head was buried inside his feathers. If only she had a phoenix.

At his desk sat Dumbledore, leaning back in his chair with his head down. He too might've been asleep, but he raised his head at her approach, and gave her a small smile from beneath his beard.

"Good evening," he said mildly, as though she was just passing through.

"Professor," she said with a nod. She raised her eyebrows in expectation, and he gestured to the empty chair in front of him.

"Please, sit. We will likely be having a lengthy conversation."

He said it perfectly kindly, but coming from Dumbledore it still felt intimidating. Maybe she could try to Apparate through the Hogwarts enchantments if this went bad. She'd probably have a better chance of getting through those than through Dumbledore, and another lengthy conversation sounded exhausting. But, since he was being obnoxious, she ignored his request and turned away from him and his keen gaze, rifling absentmindedly through the papers on one of his desks. All the crosswords and sudokus seemed to have been filled without a single mistake.

A headline in a paper read: WAR IN YUGOSLAVIA COMES TO SUDDEN HALT

"Keeping up with muggle news, are we?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "Their world is just as important as ours."

"Yeah." She stared at the headline, the fearful faces of numerous military leaders flashing through her mind; the Imperius was a hell of a spell. Skirmishes and hatred still remained, but it had been frightfully easy to cut the heads off the snakes and more or less grind the war to a stop. "So, uhhh, why am I here?"

"I invited you here tonight to offer you a position in our school."

This was enough to get Lyra to look at him, eyebrows raised and mind blank. "Oh?"

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, a small smile gracing what she figured was some sort of pity or sadness in his eyes. "As you are aware, we have had some trouble keeping the Defense Against the Dark Arts position occupied. I'm sure you remember our conversation about the reason why."

Lyra was fairly certain they had no such conversation; every conversation she had ever had with the man was carefully imprinted into her memory. And he had been more inquisitive than usual in the last few months. She was sure he knew she was behind Azkaban, and was subtly trying to get her to inadvertently admit she had knowledge she shouldn't, this time about who was behind the Curse.

Or maybe she was being paranoid.

"Did we?"

"Perhaps I am misremembering," said Dumbledore. "But the teaching position: Defense Against the Dark Arts. For a year only — this is, unfortunately, not negotiable."

Lyra frowned. "Is this your way of killing me off?"

A little amusement came over his face, and he said, "Whyever would that be your first assumption?"

"Uh, why would you want some seventeen-year-old to teach Defense?"

Dumbledore bowed his head slightly and looked at her over his half-moon spectacles. "Describing yourself as such is an insult to your mind, and we both know it."

Again, Lyra seriously wondered how much he really knew. But she walked over to the back of the chair in front of his desk and put her head on her arms atop the backrest, looking at him.

"And if the Curse does kill me?"

"I do not believe that would happen," said Dumbledore.

Lyra frowned. "Why?"

"Because it rarely does, and only to certain individuals. Teach well, be good, and Hogwarts will do its utmost to mitigate the effects of the curse. Your friendship with the elves would most certainly have put you in Hogwarts' favor."

She gave him a bit of a dark look, but moved on, and asked (for she had to), "Do you think I'd be a good teacher?"

"I think so," he said. "You may be lacking in experience, but you are knowledgeable, eloquent when you wish to be, and passionate. And I believe you would rise up to the challenge, if only given the chance."

Lyra gave a noncommittal jerk of her head and said, "I've always said I'm only irresponsible because no one ever trusted me with anything."

A smile twitched in the beard around the corners of his lips, mostly humorless but not unkind, and Dumbledore said, "A strange way to phrase the logic, but I do agree: you have never truly been given serious responsibilities, and while it is largely due to the general air of irresponsibility you willfully cloak yourself in, I would like to show the world that not only can Lyra Malfoy do such a job well, but she can do it with a grace and touch that banishes any doubt to your character."

A little of something warm bloomed in her chest, uncoiling the evertight chains of anxiety that had been wrapped around her since Azkaban. The wily bastard, the words actually filled her with gratitude and made her want to tell him everything.

"So, to be a good teacher, give myself some proper credibility," she said with a little tired smile, holding up two fingers. "Anything else? Geniuses always make their plans serve three purposes, you know."

She had hoped she'd get another twitch of his beard out of him, but his face lost its lightness and turned a little somber, maybe with a hint of some worry.

"Yes, I would also prefer you nearer," he said.

She too lost her lightness and said, "Ah." She pursed her lips. "To keep an eye on me?"

"If you wish to put it that way. I am concerned for you." His gaze shifted just a little, taking in the bags under her eyes. "You do not look well."

It was bizarre how sometimes the simplest words could unravel the grip she held on her mind, make it so she felt as though she were six inches tall, when that writhing deep dread born of Azkaban threatened to burst her heart and consume her from within. And now Dumbledore's desk seemed like a great plateau, and he some towering thing, waiting to swallow her for all she knows, all her secrets and deceptions, as he did all other lying little things.

"Lyra?" he said gently, grounding her just enough for her to do the rest of the work in stowing away that dread-chaos that made everything feel so terrible, so senselessly.

"Yeah…" she said, unable to sound collected, the word too breathy and strained. "Maybe teaching would be good for me." She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. "Yeah... I don't think I want to leave Hogwarts yet…" Hogwarts felt good, safe, like a home. Then words just began tumbling out her mouth: "Honestly, Professor, I think I… I think I bit off more than I can chew."

Dumbledore didn't react for a moment. Then he twitched, just a little, and a tall glass of water was conjured on the table, dew forming on the surface and rolling down. Lyra only briefly hesitated before taking it with murmured thanks. The water was just the right amount of cold.

"How so?" Dumbledore said softly.

She gave him a tiny wry look and said, "I'm sure you suspect." Then she drank down the water, each gulp a flash of pleasant coolness through her.

"Oh, I suspect some few things in regards to you," said Dumbledore, "but even if all my suspicions are true, I would still trust you to do right by the students here. Teaching will be good for you. And here you will be safest and close to help always. And help, Lyra, will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

Slowly, Lyra met his gaze, swallowing the water and the emotion. And she said, "Thank you, Professor. Maybe I do need help." Then she asked, because she couldn't help herself, "You happen to know any therapists I can tell my deepest darkest secrets to?"

"I have studied psychology extensively —"

He trailed himself off when she shot a flat look at him, and Lyra said, "I'm serious."

"So am I," said Dumbledore quietly. "Lyra, I know you do not wholly trust me, but please know my door will always be open to you. I do believe you have, as you said, bit off more than you can chew. I suspected you would one day, long ago when we discussed the workings of the world and how we as the mighty may improve them."

She slowly nodded with pursed lips. She wanted to tell him, she truly did, but it was just so difficult to get it out there, to brace for the disbelief or disappointment, the inevitable criticism.

Dumbledore then took off his glasses, sighing, and rubbed his eyes. And he said, "I have to admit, you have over the years thoroughly confused me. I confess I have a bit of a complex, you could say, with knowing things. And when knowledge is beyond my reach, I can behave rather unlike how I usually present myself."

"I'm a dilemma to you," she said without looking him in the eyes.

"Quite. I have guesses, and my guesses are usually good," said Dumbledore, putting his glasses back on. "But having guesses is not quite as satisfying as being proven right."

Lyra nodded again, then came around the chair and slowly sat in it.

"I'll take the position," she said, "and I'll tell you some of what you want to know — only if you first tell me what you think you know." She shrugged. "I'm curious how much wool I've put over your eyes."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "I had thought," he said, "that you were simply a precocious child. Intelligent, magically gifted, but still with many moments of childish fantasy — forgive me. I only began to suspect something more when I realized you were deliberately seeking out the Mirror of Erised. Neither you nor James should have known the Mirror was here, yet you sought it out, searching the entire castle for it."

"The portraits really do report to you, don't they?" said Lyra, and thought, I fucking knew it.

"Only when I ask them to," said Dumbledore calmly. "They do not always keep an ear out for me, of course."

Lyra almost called him a liar right there to his face, but she had no evidence.

"Then James told me it was you who overheard Professor Quirrell plotting," he continued, and something almost like sheepishness passed his features. "In hindsight, it is obvious that was a lie." Lyra prepared to signal Dobby to get her the hell out of here. But then Dumbledore continued, not mentioning the Stone, "Then you found the Diary. Your father had it originally, but… something began to shift in the back of my mind, unknowingly to myself, when James told me he wrote within the Diary knowing the risks and just who he was conversing with. At the time he told me he pursued knowledge of the afterlife, and I believed him. I believe, now, that he hadn't been entirely straightforward with me." And he bowed his head a little to look at her over his half-moon glasses.

Biting her lip by now from all the nervous energy building up inside her, Lyra just gave a noncommittal shrug.

"It was after Nymphadora spoke to me about your familial visit to Azkaban that the pieces began to come together." There might've been a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "You had been the one to turn your family from their old allegiances, to capture Peter Pettigrew and free Sirius Black, to overhear Quirinus Quirrell, to take hold of the Diary, most recently to find Bartemius Crouch Jr. — you had by seventeen done more to hinder Lord Voldemort than almost any other individual, and after my revelation this seemed much truer than I had even realized."

"Revelation?" said Lyra, a spark of actual excitement rising through her. "Which is?"

And Dumbledore said simply, "You knew the future."

Lyra couldn't stop the laugh from spilling out, as she didn't expect it herself.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Am I wrong?"

Rubbing her face with her hands and shaking her head, she said, "No, you were so spot-on I can't believe it." She looked at him, catching what she was sure was a little half-smirk under his beard, though his eyes remained serious. "What… What do you think I saw?"

"I suspected it was related to Voldemort, terrible enough to frighten you from your family's ways," said Dumbledore. "Were I to make an educated guess, in the future you witnessed, Voldemort used one of these servants to return, or perhaps stage a breakout. Sirius had told me of his experience among dementors as an Animagus, and if Pettigrew had known of this, then it might have been possible to sneak in a few wands for the imprisoned Death Eaters."

Staring at him in wonder, and feeling no small amount of respect, Lyra huffed out a breath of disbelief and said, "That is more or less what would've happened, yeah… I don't know how it would've happened, but yeah, early 1996. Voldemort had the dementors on his side later, so maybe he just asked them to open their cells; a couple lost souls for the promise of millions later."

Dumbledore actually frowned at this. "I had also suspected Voldemort would have swayed the dementors eventually." Then in a darker tone he said, "It's unfortunate it turned out to be true." A disquiet came over him and he hesitated, but then asked, "Lyra, if I may ask, does any of this have relevance to the recent deaths in Azkaban?"

And there it was. The question immediately brought a grimace to her face. What to say… Even by asking the question she'd look bad either way, because it was so obvious it did have relevance that any lie would just be plainly disrespectful, especially considering how well Dumbledore was treating her right now, like an adult with her own initiative.

"I…" she began, slowly and hesitantly, but then she figured she might as well just get it over with so she looked him in the eyes and said, "I'm not looking for an argument. I don't regret it. So please, let's just not go there. I'll never miss a wink of sleep over them." She felt an old fire flare up again inside her. "I fucking take comfort in knowing we're no longer just a breakout away from war and genocide."

Dumbledore was silent for a while, simply observing her over his half-moon spectacles, his fingers laced underneath his chin, long enough that Lyra fought not to fidget under his gaze.

"As do I," he said finally, quiet enough that she almost missed it. "I have witnessed firsthand the fruits of their labor. I cannot say they will be mourned. I can only regret that it had to be you, who should only be enjoying your childhood, who had to resolve horrors from before your time."

Lyra gave a bitter laugh and said, "A normal childhood was always out of the question. I still remember Bellatrix, before she was imprisoned. I was young then, but some of those memories were anchored down by the visions. Do you have any idea what it's like walking around as a kid with a memory of Bellatrix Lestrange holding you with an imprint seared into my very mind of the horrible things she's done and would do in the future?"

She didn't much like the pity in his eyes, but getting this all out in the open was like a massive weight off her shoulders. In any case, she'd much rather take Dumbledore's pity than his suspicion and mistrust.

"A cruel fate was given to you, Lyra," he said at length. "And I am so very sorry."

Lyra shook her head, though she couldn't look him in the eyes. "Someone has to step up. Get their hands dirty. And I had a hell of an advantage."

"And you did not trust anyone else to do it properly," said Dumbledore, a mixture of heartbreak, understanding, and pride. Or maybe she was only seeing what she wanted to see.

"No," she said, meeting his gaze. "I've seen and Seen what war does to a man, even good men, even you."

For a moment they said nothing, then Dumbledore sighed and nodded, almost to himself. "I had wondered what it might've been that sowed your distrust."

"Probably not your darkest moments," said Lyra, "but enough."

Dumbledore was silent again. Lyra found the far-off look in his eyes almost familiar, and wondered if she should change the topic before he got lost in his thoughts. The subtle frown, the slightest widening of the eyes — it was the same look she had seen on Dora, on Andromeda, and just half an hour ago on Mother. It was the final weight of the confession settling in, like a heavy stone slowly sinking into the soft soil at the bottom of a lake. But Dumbledore shook himself out of his reverie and focused on Lyra again, recovering much quicker than the others, though there were clearly still a number of things on his mind.

"Might I also ask," he said quietly, almost absently, "could you describe the visions?"

"Interspersed throughout my first few years," said Lyra. "I don't really want to go over the mental hell of then again."

Dumbledore murmured, "Of course."

Silence descended again, and she wondered if this conversation had given him more to think about than it had her. Probably. He seemed to need to think, and all she wanted to do was go to sleep, maybe in her mother's arms; and the thought of rejection there took away the last of her strength for tonight. And now all she was left was her guilt. She was sickened with herself. What was her mother doing right now, all alone with nothing but the desolation of Lyra's confessions? Lyra honestly would prefer to be met with a fire of fury than the chill of depression.

"We can talk more," she said, "later, when I'm back at Hogwarts. I think it's time I go."

Dumbledore came out of his musing, and hummed. "Yes, it is late. And I would appreciate that. Thank you for being honest with me tonight, Lyra."

Lyra gave a thin smile that somehow tasted bitter on her tongue, and said, "We both know I haven't been entirely honest with you tonight, Albus."

Dumbledore merely inclined his head, and returned a gentler smile and said, "I don't mind being kept on my toes."