After extending her welcome, Lyra was able to get to London three whole days later. They dropped her off at the station with a small lump of money and a sandwich, wrapped in some sticky plastic. They'd been nothing like the Muggles her Uncle droned on about. In fact, those three days felt like a holiday to Lyra. For the first time, her shoulders eased and her stomach let go of that nasty knot.
At the station, she had no idea of where to go or what to do. The noise was unbearable; honking, sirens, and loud talkers. People pushed by her, grumbling, clutching their bags and briefcases. It was a far away land. Lyra, so used to being a majority, was now a lost girl in a sea of unfamiliarity.
After causing the hundredth person to lose their direction in the walking lane, Lyra skipped to a wooden bench, scribbled with fading paint and highly inaccurate drawings of genitalia. As any lady would, she brushed off the seat before sitting.
A girl with no direction, no plan. Freedom felt oddly suffocating. She did the only thing she could…nibble on the sandwich, not really fond of corned beef. But it was food and Lyra had learned the necessity of it soon enough.
When watching the trains arrive and depart got old and Lyra became thirsty, she set out for a trolley or shop.
The young man at the counter looked up from picking at the dry skin around his nail beds, and raised a brow. "Mm?" Lyra scanned around before setting her eyes on him. He nodded to her, "ya' been standing there for a minute, yeah? Whatcha want?" His accent and complexion were not familiar to a typical Brit of her community.
Lyra sighed, "a tea."
His brows raised, "and?"
"Just tea-"
"No," he said, and pointed to the overly complicated menu with fancy names. "Chai, black, green-"
"Water then," she settled, overwhelmed by options. "Just water." The man lazily pointed to this oddly shaped cupboard with a glass door that was filled with bottles that read Coke, Sprite, Nesse, Seltzer. Lyra shook her head, "no, just a glass of water!" He was getting just as frustrated with the communication, looking at his knock off brand watch.
"Listen, girl-"
"What is so hard about water!? There is a cup there," she pointed, "fill it!" Her family's tone leaked from her throat and her mother's naturally snobbish glare made the man pause. "Go on then. Cup, water." He grabbed the plastic cup off the top of the cup tower and made his way to the sink. "Am I a dog? The faucet! I don't drink from a faucet-"
"You do now," he said, with a grin, slamming it on the counter before disappearing through a set of double doors.
Lyra did about a dozen laps around the neighborhood, not taking a sip of that dusty water. It was only when she was as desperate as a stray cat, throat dry and tongue like sandpaper.
It got to her, inch by inch. It was not easy at first, but it got to her. The homeless life, the poor life, the Muggle life. Her first night she fell asleep on a park bench attached to a primary school. Her second night she moved to the bus station where it was warm and by her third, she found home in the underground. Water often came from fountains and nice cafe staff, but food was hard. When her money ran out, she resorted to pocketing stuff at farmer's markets and small stores.
Days escaped her and the only way she could tell time was how she smelled and how matted her hair was. Even that by the second week was useless. Her nose adapted and her fingers could no longer reach her scalp.
The streets were lonely and scary. People fought over pence or small pieces of bread. Lyra saw one man take a knife to the thigh over a dirty mattress. These people were no longer humans, but empty shells. Animals, Lyra thought. They were barbaric and Lyra's fear was not death, but becoming something she'd no longer recognize.
Sometime within the 3rd week, a group of people were handing out bags and pamphlets. They'd show up once or twice a week. Lyra had made it the first two weeks, looking normal and put together. But by the 3rd, there was no hiding. A young girl spotted her and made her way over, and smiled. Her dress was conservative and a cross rested on her chest. Lyra greedily grabbed the bag, her stomach growling. "God bless," the girl said, placing a brochure next to Lyra. She went to move on to an old man, but paused, "how old are you?"
"Hm?" Lyra hadn't spoken in forever. She was sure her throat could no longer make words.
The girl didn't lose her patience, but spoke more softly, "you don't look much older than me."
"17," Lyra said, "or 18…." She winced at the hoarseness in her voice.
The girl frowned lightly, motioning around them, "why are you out here? Oh dear…look!" She grabbed a pen and scribbled some numbers and words on the back of the pamphlet that read "He Will Rise Again". "There is a shelter not too far from the main train hub in central London…it's for girls. You should go there." The girl handed Lyra the pamphlet and an extra paper bag with a water bottle. "Girls don't last very long out here, you know? You look innocent, not like one of them."
"One of who?" Lyra asked, her eyes slanting to a group of men sitting in a circle, trading the contents in the brown bags for fags. "Well, they're hardly girls, but men. Obviously-"
"No," the girl cut Lyra off, "you know the type. They take girls like you!" She fixed the bag on her shoulder and started to back off, "please go to that address. Say Theresa sent you." Before Lyra could ask anything else, Theresa disappeared between the masses of people.
It was a women's shelter, makeshift and put together by an older woman. Lyra found this all out after one desperate and cold night. It was nearing Autumn and the weather was becoming more and more unforgivable. Sleeping on benches with little to no covers was not cutting it. When Lyra had found her way there, the only spot left for her was an air mattress on its last use placed in the corner of a two bunk bed room. Her roommates were 5 girls her age and all runaways of sorts. Some from family and some from abusive partners.
One particular girl got on with Lyra; Cilli. Cilli helped Lyra pick apart her matted hair and get her a razor for her bush legs. Cilli also helped Lyra get work. The blonde headed, scrawny and twitchy girl sat cross legged on her bunk. Every so often she'd pry Lyra to talk about home, but there was not a thing that'd make sense to Cilli. Each time, Lyra would say some lie about her parents dying and her adoptive parents being abusive. "You got a boy somewhere?" Cilli asked.
Lyra pursed her lips together, Marcus popping up in her memories. It all felt so distinct now. Lyra glanced over, "never found time for them. You?"
Cilli grinned, "I got a man. He lives on the south side. Tall, tan, and has this smile, you know?"
Lyra shrugged, "we all got a smile, of sorts."
Cilli slid to Lyra's mattress and grabbed her hands, "no, no. It's a type of smile. One that shakes the bones. It's perfect…he's helping me get a job so I can move from this shit hole."
"Oh?" Lyra half listened, picking at her nail beds.
"Mmhm," she hummed, "he knows a fella that works at a club. A really popular one. Maybe I can dance. You know those girls sometimes go home with 500 quid? You know what I could do with that type of money?! I could travel the world, Lyra. I could own a fancy car. Once with A/C and self heating seats. Maybe even get myself some red bottoms, Gucci, Dolce, Prada, and all those fancy things." Lyra hadn't a clue what a Gucci was or who Prada was. Perhaps it meant something in Muggle language.
"Dragon diamonds are the rarest," Lyra said, in a daze. Her mother's wedding ring was a dragon diamond worth more than most mansions. When she was arrested, the ministry locked it in a vault.
Cilli laughed, "you really need to get outta here. You're talking nonsense!"
Maybe, Lyra thought, maybe I do. She grinned, "do you have the man's information?" Cilli nodded and got a pen, writing a number on the back of a receipt before handing it to Lyra.
~L.L~
News of Lyra's disappearance spread quickly and everywhere rang with the Daily Prophet's ramblings. Was it conspiracy? Was it betrayal? Or did Lyra get kidnapped?! Perhaps a Muggle lover! The writers' surely had their fun for weeks, but for the Malfoy family and old man Lestrange, it was a tragedy. Lucius, for Narcissa, bribed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to do everything in their power, but Lyra was far too disconnected. Especially since her wand was not by her side. Perhaps in the darkest realms of magic, they could find her, but no one was willing to risk a citation for a girl who, according to the Ministry, ran off with a boy and would be back soon enough.
Old man Lestrange, Lyra's paternal grandfather, was frail and sickly with illness. He spent most days in his study with a single house elf. Lucius paced before him, unsure of how to break the news to the man. His single family member was gone. "They've called off the search for her-"
"They've hardly tried," he interrupted, mumbling about incompetence.
"They believe," Lucius grinned to himself, taking a seat, "she's run off with a boy. A muggle boy." The senior couldn't believe it, he was far too fragile for any news of the sort. He shook off Lucius as he poured himself a drink.
"And how is it possible? With your watchful eye!" he hummed.
Lucius dismissed the accusation and poured himself a drink. "She is 17, hardly in need of a nanny. I took my mark at that age! Nearly an adult. Was I to hold her on a leash? Perhaps you would have done better yourself."
The older man sunk in his chair, mumbling about his perfect granddaughter. She was beautiful, smart, elegant, and pureblooded. Such a good girl!
"You don't know her-"
"Watch the slander on my name, Malfoy," he warned.
Lucius snorted, "your perfect granddaughter would have been wedded by next May if it was true! I couldn't find a single match for her. She was too busy fornicating with a Gryffindor boy-"
"She was dating the Flint boy!"
"And another boy," he noted, "and another-she was hardly an innocent doe-"
"Enough! I have a weak heart," Lestrange brushed him off. "She will be back. When he rises again, he will help me…his old friend. He will help me. My old friend. My old, old friend." Lestrange was mumbling on his words, losing sight of where he was and what he was talking about. He shot back his firewhisky and Lucius showed himself out.