The Tales of Lyra Black

by lumosmancer

Long ago, a bard named Beedle made a remarkably grievous mistake. Centuries later, his mistake fell into the hands of 2 exceptionally bright wizards & history repeated itself. 5 decades later, a cunning young wizard discovered this mistake & gave his entire life for a single drop of this power. But Death wanted revenge. And so revenge was born on All Hallows Eve, 1979...

31. Halloween II

"Great work team, that was our best practice yet!" proclaimed Oliver Wood, grinning at his sodden teammates as they touched down on the muddy pitch.

Hogwarts had been plagued with heavy rain for almost a month now. The downpours quickly became a part of everyday life but the Gryffindor Quidditch team barely acknowledged the rain anymore considering most of them had covered themselves with the Impervius charm to protect themselves from catching a chill. They huddled together near the changing rooms to debrief after yet another successful practice, but due to their outstanding performance they didn't need to wait around for long.

"What are the chances that our Slytherin match is cancelled due to wet weather?" wondered George aloud to the group as they headed off to change. His muddy tracks were excessive and the rest of the team trod carefully, trying not to slip over.

"Practically zero, but I wouldn't put it past Flint to try and swap with Hufflepuff," guessed Angelina, using her initiative and cleaning the canvas floors with her wand before someone sprained an ankle.

"I doubt it, he's been eager to show off his new Seeker, he thinks he has a secret weapon that will knock us out of the Cup so don't hold your breath," countered Oliver, sneaking a glance towards the youngest players in his team who were too busy muttering amongst themselves to pay any attention.

"New Seeker? Since when?" scoffed Fred, scrambling to shove his head through the neck hole of his jumper so he didn't miss the suddenly interesting conversation change, "this is the first I've heard of Slytherin changing their team?"

"Ah, that's because Flint thinks he's being sneaky by not announcing their new addition in an attempt to surprise us," explained Oliver, rather proud that he had bested their main adversaries, "but little does he know that I accidentally overheard his chat with Snape the other day after Potions."

"Accident my arse," cackled Katie, not believing a word her captain said, "you love following Flint around during Quidditch season! You don't have to lie to us, Oliver, we know you've been stalking him again."

"Yeah, you're forgetting that it was our map that helped you out with your Flint investigation work last year," added George as a reminder, and as though the memory had sparked a bulb over his head he turned and snapped his fingers at his younger cousin, jolting the second years out of their hushed discussion in the corner, "speaking of — Black, it's been two weeks! Hand it over!"

Lyra and Harry, who were right in the middle of working out their excuse to get out of another meeting with Lockhart that night, withdrew from their cluster and Lyra dug the blank map out of her backpack, relinquishing it onto the twins. The mention of a new Slytherin Seeker was lost on them, their concentration on a vastly more important matter was unparalleled and they turned to continue their frantic brainstorm when Angelina piped up again.

"So who's the new Seeker then?"

But Harry didn't miss it that time. "Huh, what? New Seeker?" he asked in a panic, assuming that they were thinking about replacing him.

"Ah man, and your Quidditch pictures are our bestsellers," sighed Lyra, patting Harry's arm sympathetically, "this might be bad news for business, but I'm sure we can get through this—,"

"You're not being replaced, Harry, don't worry," interrupted Oliver, trying not to laugh at the alarm on his face, "but you're probably not going to like this… either of you."

"Why?" said Lyra slowly, narrowing her eyes to gauge his reaction. Their Lockhart situation could wait, her teammates looked far too happy. George was already wheezing, clearly the answer was apparent on Oliver's face, and his twin quickly caught on with his own barks of laughter.

"Ha! Brilliant! Our Slytherin matches have just gotten a lot more interesting," declared Fred.

The mere mention of the snake house gave Lyra enough information to work out who the mysterious new Seeker was, and the memory of her checking out her slimy second cousin's broom over the summer lit up the part of Lyra's brain that was reserved for her Draco-centric rage. Of bloody course it's him!

"Draco is their new Seeker? He's really the best they have?"

"I should have known," sighed Harry, scowling at the thought of facing off against his rival in the air again, "he's been acting way too pleased with himself recently, now it all makes sense."

"But he's got nothing on you so you don't need to worry," assured Oliver, more than confident in his own seeker's abilities, and he slapped Harry on the shoulder before he ventured out into the rain, "from what I heard it wasn't his talent that earned him a ticket onto the team, it was Daddy's purse, you're still top dog!"

"I'm not worried," said Harry earnestly, "I've already beaten him before, I can do it again."

"And I cannot wait to witness it up close this time," added Lyra, daydreaming at the thought of watching Draco be handed his own arse in front of the entire school, "I wonder if Colin will take pictures for me…?"

The rest of the Quidditch team bar Harry were long gone by the time Lyra finally changed into a fresh set of clothes for the evening. Her Weasley-made indigo jumper was perfect for snuggling into during this prolonged wet spell and she reapplied the waterproofing charms to protect her cloak, but she was grateful for the solitude as it meant that she could finally speak to Harry alone. She hadn't found the time to talk to him about her ghost encounter yet, the school term was picking up at rapid speed as her workload grew higher, and most of her evenings that weren't spent on the Quidditch pitch were wasted on helping Lockhart plan his stupid lessons or sneaking off to write to Tom.

Her desperation to divulge on her new secret ability wasn't at the forefront of her mind like it had been the day she met Myrtle, speaking to Tom about her strange interaction wasn't as reassuring as she hoped since he inferred that she may have unlocked an aspect of Necromancy that was beyond his comprehension — Tom was just as clueless as her and she feared that he didn't believe her.

She hadn't done anything to trigger this power, it didn't make sense. But by the particular way Tom phrased it she knew that her ability to touch a ghost was definitely linked to dark magic and she really, really didn't want to admit that to Harry… but then again, that was just her guess. It might not be dark magic, it could just be a fluke. No one knew.

"The others will still be at Hagrid's," reminded Harry, staring out at the sheet of rain consuming the exit with a scorned expression, "I knew I should have brought my cloak—,"

"Harry, wait a second," Lyra cut him off as she joined his side, fiddling with the cuff of her jumper to calm her nerves, "I need to talk to you about something."

"If this is about Lockhart again," he moaned, his frustration towards the author appearing instantly, but Lyra rushed to shut his rant down before he started again.

Harry's fuse with Lockhart was diminishing fast. Not only did he have to attend Lyra's lesson plan meetings to assure Lockhart that he was on his side, but the responsibility of overseeing the remainder of Harry's and Ron's greenhouse-related detentions was now in the hands of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Harry was sick to death of the man and it wasn't even November yet.

"Nope, forget Lockhart, this is something else," she explained, mentally coming up with the perfect phrasing in her head as his gaze switched to her, "something that I don't want anyone else to know about, this stays between us."

"How mysterious," mused Harry, intrigued by her secrecy, "what is it?"

"Have you ever heard of someone being able to touch a ghost before?" she wondered, dancing around the subject a little longer. Her heartbeat was present in her throat, the anxiety was rising within her but she played it cool, pretending that her question was commonplace.

"Er, I can't say I have," replied Harry slowly, slightly perplexed by the topic, "not that I've read many books on ghosts, I bet Hermione knows though?"

Lyra thought about asking Hermione for help but the dark connotations of the ability wasn't something she wanted to draw attention to, only Harry knew about Quirrell's accusations and she knew Hermione would jump to the worst conclusion and urge her to get their teachers involved.

"Uh, yeah she probably does but I want this to stay between us, telling both of them will be a slippery slope," she admitted, "can you see Hermione or Ron taking the news that I'm apparently using dark magic well? Be honest."

Harry opened his mouth to oppose her statement but his brows dipped as he mulled it over.

"Ok, yeah they might overreact, but if you want this to stay between us then you know I won't say anything," he reassured her, and Lyra thanked him for his loyalty with a bright smile. She knew she could trust him, they had each other's backs.

"Good, because something really weird happened and I'm freaking out a bit but I can't tell anyone about this because Lockhart might find out and who knows what he'll do with the information," she rambled, her nerves getting the better of her, but Harry waited patiently, "I met the ghost Myrtle in the girls bathroom that everyone avoids and she was horrible, she started insulting me out of nowhere, and when I tried to leave she pushed me over!"

Harry's eyes ballooned and he instinctively laughed at her story's absurdity. "She pushed you?"

"Yeah! I felt her hands on me, and I was able to touch her too," Lyra glanced down at her hand, remembering the icy texture of Myrtle's wrist, "I could feel her, it was like she had a corporeal form again."

"That's…" Harry trailed off with a strange smile on his face, "odd."

Lyra pouted, she knew his false tone all too well.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"I don't believe you," he laughed, shaking his head, "Lyra I'm sorry but there's just no way that's true. We've been at Hogwarts for over a year now and I've never seen you touch a ghost, and I distinctly remember Peeves flying through you multiple times last year so nice try."

That's fair, I wouldn't believe me either. Lyra could see why Harry thought she was kidding but his doubt made her feel considerably worse, this wasn't what she needed right now.

"I see your point, and it's a very good point, but you're wrong — I can touch ghosts, and Peeves isn't a ghost," she proclaimed, making him laugh again, "I'm not kidding!"

"Prove it," he said coolly, almost teasing her, "come on Black, prove to me that you can touch a ghost." Harry was terribly confident in his opinion, she could tell by his smug grin that he truly thought he had outsmarted her, and she scoffed when he offered her his hand, "five galleons says you can't touch a ghost."

"Oh you are so on!" purred Lyra, shaking his hand with so much conviction that she felt his wrist click, and she didn't let go of Harry when she stormed out into the rain in the complete opposite direction to where Ron and Hermione were waiting.

"Where are we going?" protested Harry, pointing at the path that would lead them to the groundskeeper's hut, but Lyra shot him a look that screamed 'are you serious?' and continued to march him up to the castle, stretching her waterproof cloak over their heads to protect them from the heavy rain. Their cups of tea at Hagrid's could wait, the bet was a more pressing matter.

Once they reached the castle and dried off in the Entrance Hall, they realised that tracking down a ghost was a lot harder than they anticipated since the spirits only seemed to show up when you least expected them. The only spot they knew that was guaranteed to be haunted by a ghost was Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, but Lyra vehemently refused to go back there. "No way, I don't want to be assaulted again!" she justified once Harry suggested they head to the second floor.

"What exactly did she say to you? Did she give any hints as to why she hates you?" he wondered, shaking as much water from his unruly hair as he could as they began their search, and Lyra tried to pinpoint specific details of her rant. Nothing really stuck out.

"She said my grandparents tormented her, I guess they might have bullied her since I heard she's a Muggle-born, and as we know my grandmother is a wonderful person," she drawled, grimacing as she thought of that life-draining portrait, "maybe Myrtle was exacting revenge? She did mention that she waited a very long time to insult me."

"She sounds like the type to hold a grudge," advised Harry, trying to be helpful, "I bet you regret not keeping your Muggle name now, Jane."

Lyra snorted in amusement, side-eyeing him. "Yes and no, there are a lot of pros and cons," she muttered, taking his suggestion seriously, "but I bet you'd think about it too. If you had the chance to come to Hogwarts anonymously, would you?"

Harry slowed his pace, dwelling on his own case for a moment as they entered the staircase hall, but he eventually shook his head and smoothed his wet curls back, revealing his scar.

"Nah, a name is easier to hide than a bloody scar so I'd have no chance," he came to his conclusion with a smirk, but Lyra thought differently.

"Hmm," she bit her lip in consideration, "I reckon there's some decent makeup out there that could cover it up, or even better — you say that you did it to yourself, you wanted to copy Potter's famous scar because you heard it was just the coolest thing ever?"

"Ah yeah of course, that would totally work," he muttered, keeping his laughter to himself, "and my name could've been, I don't know, Larry Trotter."

"Wow, so imaginative Larry!" giggled Lyra, really trying not to tease Harry since his cheeks were significantly more rosy, "no, really, it's perfect!"

Once they reached the first floor they finally caught sight of someone ghostly and they rushed off, eager to get the bet rolling. Thankfully they weren't disappointed when they came face to face with their friendly house ghost Nearly Headless Nick, and his warm smile that usually lit up his crooked face remained as he realised who had tracked him down. For a second Lyra expected to see the Gryffindor ghost physically recoil at her presence with a macabre grimace like Myrtle but he was cheery and welcoming, it was a good sign.

"Hello you two," he said with a slight nod towards them both, and his pointed moustache quivered as he caught Lyra's eye as though suppressing a broader smile, "I hope you're not heading up to the second floor to tamper with the suits of armour again."

"Ah c'mon Nick," groaned Lyra, the original point of their search vanishing from her mind for a second, "you know for a fact that wasn't me!"

"Yes, in fact I told Professor Snape that countless times that morning when I went to report my seeing a group of scallywag Slytherins sneaking around at dawn," he sighed, his ruffled collar wobbling from his heaving shoulders, "but alas, it appears my recount fell on deaf ears."

"How has he not been fired?" scoffed Harry, enjoying Lyra's exasperated moans as she came to terms with Snape's undying hatred.

"I bet it's because you're the Gryffindor ghost, he probably said I asked you to lie for me," she grumbled, "it looks like Myrtle's not the only one that can hold a grudge."

At the mention of Myrtle's name Nick straightened his spine. His eyes darted around the deserted hallway, looking anywhere but at the second years in front of him, but the curious pair were quick to spot his stiffer demeanour. Lyra ignored how quickly her palms started to sweat and she subtly wiped them on her jeans, debating whether to ask Nick whether he knew what Myrtle's problem was, but Harry beat her to it and asked his own question first.

"We were wondering whether you could help us settle a bet," he asked politely, nudging Lyra forwards with a grin that suggested he was looking forward to making a fool out of her, "would it be ok if Lyra tried to touch you?"

"—on the arm," Lyra added for clarification, not wanting to make Nick uncomfortable, but he seemed to be intrigued by their bet and chuckled at the impossible theory.

"Now that is a new one, I can't say I've heard that before," he admitted, taking a second to twizzle his goatee into a straighter point, "of course you may use me as part of your bet." The doubt in his voice only spurred Harry on further and he clapped his hands together, eager to start.

"Brilliant! Lyra," he gestured at her to grab the ghost's outstretched arm, "the floor is yours."

Lyra was beginning to familiarise herself with the expanding bubble in between her lungs, she allowed it to fill her up. She pulled her camera out of her backpack and threw it at Harry, fuelling her own confidence. As he caught it his smile gradually slipped from his face, the addition of the camera was a blatant clue that he was about to lose their bet.

"Be careful with me, Miss Black," chuckled Nick, shooting Harry a wink to show that he was clearly on his side, "I've been dead for almost five hundred years, I may be fragile."

"I'll be gentle," she said brightly, and with her heart practically thudding out of her chest from sheer anticipation, she grasped Nick's wrist. The material of his sleeve was much rougher than she imagined, the short furs of his cuff felt like aged canvas and she felt the chill of his dead skin even through the fabric.

CLICK!

"Surely your clothes aren't comfortable, is it itchy? I feel itchy just touching it," tutted Lyra as she brushed his sleeve, keeping her nerve as both Nick and Harry gawked at her, mouths open and words failing them both. The whirring of Lyra's camera as the Polaroid slid from its mouth shook Harry from his daze and he stuffed the picture in his pocket, too busy trying to process what he was looking at.

"See!" chirped Lyra, basking in her glory, "I told you! Honestly Potter, you should know never to doubt me."

"But… but how? How are you doing that?" he asked her, coming closer to study the physical contact between her and the shellshocked ghost, and she shrugged.

"This is my dilemma, I dunno what this is," she waved her free arm at their connection, "and I dunno if this is a 'I see Thestrals' type of rare or if this is a 'strictly dark wizards only no good guys should be able to do this' sorta thing."

Harry considered her comparison and lightened up, more confused than astonished. "I'm a terrible wizard, I have no idea either, this could be nothing," he looked up at Nick and gently nudged him, "er, Nick?"

At the sound of his name, Nearly Headless Nick jerked into focus, his glassy eyes sharpening and his suave face solemn, and he checked their surroundings before addressing the students again. Lyra wasn't sure if it was his aura she felt but she knew he was agitated, whatever magic was at work unnerved him.

"There is no other way to put this, and I apologise for my bluntness Miss Black," heaved Nick in a tone unlike his usual bright rhythm, his centuries seniority was at play, "but this has never happened before, and I'm afraid that I cannot tell you why, this is something beyond us. I'm sorry but this isn't normal, and I highly recommend that you do not tell a soul about this. In fact, because I am a nobleman but more importantly a gentleman, I will uphold your honour and I vow to keep this to myself. Your secret is safe with me, my lady."

Lyra blinked, undeniably hurt by his insinuations. This was bad, this was dark magic.

"Uh, wait, um—," she was panicking, "I didn't do anything evil to make this happen—,"

But Nick was quick to calm her frantic defensive squeaks.

"Which is why this will never be spoken of again, for your benefit, Miss Black. I can assure you that you will do well to keep your gift under wraps. Sometimes we as wizards and witches are cursed with magic that some deem to be dark or dangerous, like communicating with snakes for example. Parselmouths are famous for being labelled as dark wizards simply because they possess the extra ability, even if the individual who speaks Parseltongue means no harm." Lyra sensed Harry freeze beside her but she couldn't tear her eyes away from Nick. "If you wish to avoid confrontations with people who fear and repel what they do not understand, then you should listen to my advice. I've seen many people over the years fall prey to the follies of societal pressure."

"I see," she mumbled, absorbing the new wave of anti-fear mongering tactics out of nowhere, "well then I suppose we shall leave you to your evening and this never happened…?" She knew she could trust Nick, he was always nice to her even when she used him to antagonise Ron.

"I think that would be best, but before I go," said Nick, brightening up as he turned to a pale-looking Harry, "I was wondering whether you would do me the honour of coming to my Death Day celebration? It's quite the milestone, five hundred years you see, and having you there may help with a little situation of mine."

"Death Day party? That sounds awesome!" gasped Lyra, her eyes widening at all the possibilities of what a Death party would entail, "please can I come too?"

"Absolutely, the more the merrier," he agreed, delighted that they were showing interest, but as he glanced at Lyra again his entire face dropped as an idea popped into his head, "actually Miss Black, it's just occurred to me that your attendance may be more than helpful considering your—," he coughed, censoring himself in case of eavesdroppers, but Lyra was keen for more details.

"What do you need? What's your problem? How can I help?"

"The club I've been trying to join has been rejecting my application forever due to the fact that my head is still technically attached to my neck," he began to explain.

"And you want me to finish the job for you?" She finished for him, coming to her own conclusion as she mimed slashing her throat, but the awe on Nick's translucent face suggested her plan was more superior than his own.

"...Do you believe that would be possible?" he wondered, his voice barely above a whisper, and Lyra swore she saw tears well in his eyes.

"Sure! I can't see why not! If I can touch you then what's to say that I can give that, uh," Lyra didn't quite know how to describe the measly flap of hacked skin that connected his neck to his head, "that problem area a chop?"

"To be honest, a small snip might do the trick, it's barely hanging on," analysed Harry quietly, trying not to look too repulsed by the thought of Lyra cutting Nick's head off, but his abhorrence turned to disbelief as Lyra revealed her wand and steadied her aim at the flap that was Nick's neck. Considering they were alone in the halls, it would have been dumb for her not to take advantage of the moment.

"Diffindo!"

"Good heavens!" gasped Nick, jumping to catch his head that rolled from his shoulders. The cut was clean and precise, Lyra's spell did the trick and his severed appendage was finally at peace. She never knew a grown man could look so joyful and she rushed to compliment Nick when he burst into tears as he cradled his own head.

"Don't worry, you look great!" she comforted him, hoping he would stop wailing, "although you are a lot shorter now, I hope that doesn't bother you."

"Bother me? My dear, I have waited for this moment for centuries! My height is incomparable to the peace I am feeling right now!" exclaimed Nick, his gloved hands dabbing at his streaming eyes with a lot more ease, "I don't think I can ever repay you, Lyra, thank you."

"Psssh, it was nothing," said Lyra coyly, tucking her hair behind her ear, "it's the least I could do."

Considering Nick knew her latest secret, keeping on his good side was the smart thing to do, she'd do whatever it took to avoid unwanted attention. The idea of becoming the freak of Hogwarts was too much for her to consider, the cold chill that she felt whenever she was around the Muggles in Weymouth was threatening to return and she wasn't going to let that happen. Not here, not at Hogwarts.

"What are you going to say when people ask what happened? Because I don't know whether you've realised but someone might notice that Nearly Headless Nick is… well, you know," Harry piped up, trying to be the logical one, "Headless Nick."

"Ey, I like it! It has a nice ring to it," complimented Lyra, making Nick glow from happiness.

"Not to worry, Harry," assured Nick, squaring his shoulders and holding his head aloft so he could slide it back onto his ruffled collar to evade suspicion, "not many people know this about me but I used to perform theatrics as a child, it was one of the many reasons why I made it into King Henry's court, so keeping my head on my shoulders for a couple more days won't be a concern. I will debut my new look at my celebration but I will be vague in my explanations, no one will pry if I say it simply fell off on its own volition."

Intrigued by what kind of theatrics Nick was planning, Lyra supported his idea wholeheartedly. "Awesome! When is your party, by the way? I need time to plan my outfit," she asked, feeling a lot more content trusting Nick.

"In two days time," he said proudly, "Halloween has always been a remarkable holiday in my existence, and I believe it is a special day for you too?"

Great, yet another reason to hate my birthday. Lyra hadn't thought about her impending birthday yet, but as she felt Harry's gaze on the side of her face she kept her chin high and her smile quaint. She loathed that so much death occurred on what was supposed to be a happy day, she felt haunted by a past she didn't even know, and she smoothed the crease between her brows before Harry changed the subject. She could feel him twitching beside her.

"Yeah, I guess it is," she eventually replied.

"I understand if you already have plans on that day but you are more than welcome to come and celebrate with me, the celebration of Death is a strange concept for the living to understand but it truly is a beautiful time of the year," Nick continued, trying to show them his perspective on the holiday, "but I do recommend that you eat before you come, you won't find anything particularly appetising there."

The newly-decapitated ghost soon floated away with his head precariously perched on his ruffle and the biggest grin on his face, wishing them a glorious evening as he disappeared through a nearby wall. Lyra deflated the moment he vanished. She slumped forwards and hung her head, trying to process everything that happened while Harry continued to stare after Nick.

"So Larry," she puffed out, blinking away the dizzy stars from her vision, "about those five galleons—,"

"Lyra, I need to tell you something," Harry cut her off, apprehension creeping into his pale expression. The green in his eyes was brighter than usual, she wasn't sure whether it was from imminent tears or pure shock from what just happened, but she sobered up regardless of her urge to joke with him. Something spooked Harry and she was afraid he was planning on distancing himself from her.

"What's wrong?" she muttered, keeping her voice low, and she pulled him towards a nearby alcove in the wall as a pair of Hufflepuffs appeared up ahead, chattering amongst themselves. They hid in the shadows and waited until the Hufflepuffs wandered off to continue. Whatever Harry needed to say was extremely sensitive, he really didn't want anyone to hear them. Uh oh, don't hate me, please don't hate me!

"That thing Nick said about Parselmouths, about talking to snakes," his voice was shaky and thick, Harry cleared his throat and tried again, "Lyra, I think I can talk to snakes."

Lyra blinked, that wasn't what she expected him to say, but for some inexplicable reason it brought her an overwhelming feeling of relief.

"You think you can talk to snakes?" she repeated, making sure she heard him right.

"I know I can talk to snakes," Harry clarified as though he was confessing to a terrible offence, but his frown softened slightly when Lyra gasped, captivated by his own secret ability.

"Woah, cool!" she whispered, cautious of being too loud, "it kinda sucks that it's taken you this long to admit that you're a snake whisperer but still, that's so badass!" Lyra had read about Parselmouths in passing, she couldn't remember all the innate details but she did know that it was an incredibly rare gift. She made a mental note to ask Tom for more information, she had a feeling he'd know more about the controversial ability. "You're like Saint Patrick, or the Pied Piper."

"But Nick said it wasn't a good trait to have, he said that dark wizards speak Parseltongue," Harry tried to protest, working himself up into a small panic attack, but Lyra simply put her hands on his shoulders and forced him to look her in the eye.

"Are you a dark wizard?"

"No but—,"

"Are you intending on using your snake powers of persuasion for evil?" she asked, arching a brow to induce a laugh, but Harry smirked only slightly.

"No," he admitted with a reluctant hard gaze, "obviously not, but now I'm worried that everyone will find out about it and assume that I'm evil."

"Then that makes two of us. I can interact with ghosts and you can talk to snakes but clearly that doesn't magically turn us into dark wizards," said Lyra, giving his shoulder a squeeze, "it's ok, no one will find out about this. I promise this to you as both your manager and best friend so you know I'm serious. I won't even joke about it, I swear."

Knowing she wasn't the only one with freaky powers that were objectively questionable she felt more sure in herself. The scared part of her that feared rejection mellowed and she perked up, rather excited that Harry's power could be exploited for her own personal gain. She always wanted to speak to animals, Apollo knew roughly what she was talking about half the time but it was always a one-sided conversation, and the idea of a snake talking back to Harry? She couldn't deny that she was jealous.

"Ok," sighed Harry, putting all of his trust in her, "the only person who knows I'm a Parselmouth is you, and the only people who know you can touch ghosts is me and Nick, and by the sounds of it Nick won't tell anyone. We should be safe."

"See? It's fine! We're fine!" She agreed cheerfully, talking mostly to herself, but Harry relaxed a little, his clenched fists easing as he massaged the tense muscle in his neck.

Despite their secret agreement to never talk about it again, Lyra immediately erupted with a million questions about Harry's ability as they trekked down to Hagrid's, the pair of them squashed together under her charmed cloak since it was still pouring with rain across the grounds. Harry confessed that he knew nothing about his power, he didn't really know it was a thing until Nick brought it up, but that didn't stop him from having fun with his answers. By the time they reached the groundskeeper's hut at the edge of the forest their shoes were swamped with mud and the vicious wind rendered Lyra's cloak useless, they stumbled inside the cosy, warm hut dripping head to toe.

Straight away Lyra was hit with the overpowering yet mouthwatering aroma of roasted chicken, it almost took her breath away but she stuck her nose in the air and relished its deliciousness. She shed the bone-dry cloak from her sopping body and turned to greet their impatient friends when she realised that every surface in the hut was occupied by some variation of cooked bird. She was surrounded by steaming plates of meat and she exchanged confused glances with Harry who looked equally as perplexed.

"Don' suppose yer hungry, either of yer?" greeted Hagrid from his kitchen, poking his head out from a cabinet to smile at the new arrivals, and they slipped into the free seats beside a queasy-looking Ron and Hermione who were having trouble looking at their half-empty plates.

"Mhm, now you mention it I am a little peckish, shame there's no food about," replied Lyra, struggling to see Hermione over a huge hunk of meat in the centre of the busy table.

"I thought your practice finished a while ago?" questioned Ron, shuffling closer to drop his volume, "where have you been?"

"Oh, it ran over," dismissed Harry, fighting the urge to look at Lyra who was happily picking at Ron's leftovers, "what's going on? Is Hagrid cooking for the whole school now?"

"Something's killin' the livestock," explained Hagrid, dishing out fresh cups of tea as he joined them, beads of sweat rolling down his shiny pink face, "bin causing me all sorts o' grief, whatever it is has taken out most of the cockerels and even one o' the goats. I've bin cooking for weeks."

"We have goats?" wondered Hermione, fascinated by the groundskeeper's duties, "what other livestock do we have?"

Hagrid gestured to the piles of cooked birds around him with a defeated sigh, overwhelmed by the massacre that took place on his watch. "Yeh looking at it, there's not much left."

Lyra slowed her chews as she took in the sheer volume of dead animals surrounding her, her mind buzzing with a thousand and one different ideas as to what went down in the livestock pens, and she swallowed the slow-forming lump in her throat before starting her investigation. A new mystery was on the brink of discovery, she could feel it in her cold fingertips.

"Are there any beasts in the forest that like to cause mass bird genocide?" she asked innocently, helping herself to a plate of steaming chicken cutlets, "speaking of, how's Fluffy?"

"He's good," replied Hagrid, ignoring her first question, "he much prefers the forest and I want ter remind yer ter stay away from him, remember that you're not allowed in there—,"

"—without you or another professor present, I remember," finished Lyra dully, remembering the promise she made to him. After her trail of broken promises last year she knew she had to make a very conscious effort to behave, and the forest was somewhere she needed to avoid. With Lockhart after her blood she knew better than to hand him the ammunition he needed, she couldn't shoot herself in the foot.

"Do you think it could have been a wolf?" Hermione continued the conversation, helpfully leading it away from Lyra's previous misdemeanour. "I imagine there are many predators that share common prey, it must be difficult trying to track down which specific beast did this."

"There are certain methods you can use ter stop most predators from attacking 'em, but I'd need special permission from Dumbledore to perform those," said Hagrid, dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief but Lyra noticed his darting black eyes, "whatever it was drained the birds' blood, and they left their bodies behind which is a bit alarming."

"Vampire," Lyra called out, sold on her own answer, "case solved, it's a vampire."

"Not this again," muttered Ron, holding his head in his hands.

"Drained blood, Ron! That's one hundred percent a sign that you have a vampire problem! Hagrid, it's Snape, you don't need to investigate any further," she told him with certainty, "you're welcome."

"It's not Professor Snape," Hagrid struggled to answer her with authority, but he forced his smile away and steered her from starting another one of their Snape-focused bitching session, "and it ain't a vampire, they won't get much from sucking a bird's blood, too tedious."

"What about a werewolf?" asked Ron.

"We don't have any werewolves, despite the rumours," chuckled Hagrid.

"Thestrals?" wondered Lyra, thinking of her favourite beasts.

"Nah, they wouldn't leave the bodies. Whatever it was had hands," he unleashed the extra detail, but he caught the blunder and rapidly covered his mistake with a quick, "but yer don't know that, yer didn't hear that."

"That's ominous," shuddered Harry, "what creature other than a vampire," he added when Lyra went to answer him, "has hands and drinks blood?"

"A hag?" wondered Ron, mentally searching his brain for humanoid beasts, "or some sort of evil gnome?"

"Have you spoken to the centaurs? Maybe they know something about this, or could they have possibly drained the animal's blood for some sort of ritual?" voiced Hermione, and Hagrid paused to consider the likelihood of the centaurs causing havoc for the school.

"I don' think they use that much blood in their magic, but that's not a bad idea," he mused, "I dunno if that'll offend 'em."

"What other humanesque creatures are out there? Do you get Minotaurs in this part of the world? What about Gorgons? Are those real?" listed Lyra, going over the contents of Lockhart's books in her head.

"There aren't any labyrinths around here," said Ron confidently, but his freckled face paled when he spotted a flicker of doubt on Hagrid's face, "Wait, is there a labyrinth near here?"

"Don't be silly, 'course not," he waved away their fantastical talk and tried to dissuade them from getting involved, "don't worry about it, this isn't the worst that's happened at Hogwarts and you lot know better than ter start poking your noses into places they shouldn't be."

"We can't help it though, it smells so delicious," pouted Lyra, still nibbling on the succulent chicken with an innocent smile.

After stocking the group up on handmade rooster sandwiches, Hagrid sent them on their way with a wave and a reminder that they needed to stay quiet about the livestock massacre. Despite the relentless patter of rain, the four Gryffindors traipsed back up to the castle and continued to swap theories on which bloodthirsty beast was targeting the school's supply of chicken as they detoured through the pumpkin patch. Since Halloween was only days away, the magically-engorged pumpkins were in their prime and they couldn't miss out on admiring their record-breaking size.

"Oh by the way, we've been invited to a Death day party," Lyra informed the oblivious pair when they breached the castle walls, "it's on my birthday, so technically it's like a birthday party for me."

"Whose Death day are we celebrating?" asked Hermione, on board with accepting the unusual invitation, "I heard they're quite unique, it would be fascinating seeing one in person."

"Nearly Headless Nick," said Harry coolly, but Lyra had to turn away when he threatened to reveal their secret with a smile.

"Cool! Yeah why not, let's go," agreed Ron, "although I heard that we should bring our own food to those sorts of parties, ghosts don't exactly have a sense of taste."

"It's lucky we know a fabulous chicken caterer then, Hagrid wants to get rid of the birds so technically we'd be doing him a favour," reminded Lyra, patting the chicken sandwich in her pocket. The idea of attending a ghost party was almost too good to be true, she couldn't deny that she was finally feeling a little excited for her upcoming birthday. It was the perfect distraction from the dark, rasping voice at the back of her mind whispering about the past and the many deaths that shrouded her.

---

"Happy birthday my girl," were the first words Lyra saw when she opened her diary at the crack of dawn on the thirty-first of October. Her entire freckled face lit up when she noticed that Riddle added a couple of ink black hearts around his proclamation. So far this was the best birthday she had ever experienced and the sun was barely peeking through the hazy grey clouds. The neverending rain was light and drizzly today. Even better!

"Thank you Tom," Lyra's handwriting was improving, her y's were naturally cursive and her sentences were straighter, "it's not even seven o'clock yet and already you've made my day."

"You deserve more than a simple sentence from me, I should be here in person with you but it's my fault that I'm not," Tom told her, guilt creeping into each word he wrote, "I want to give you more, I should have at least tried to start our plan in time for this very special day."

Lyra wanted to write 'I told you so' but she couldn't bring herself to ruin the moment. His remarks meant more to her than he'd ever know, she wanted to hear more.

"Then we should take this as a sign to start your plans properly! Say the word and I'm ready to help," she wrote, her stomach wriggling around from the anticipation of seeing him.

"We shall start very soon, but not today," Tom decided, his words sharp with determination, "today isn't about me, it's about you. I want to make sure that you enjoy your day."

"And why's that?" she prompted, falling into his open trap without a care in the world. The fluttery feeling in her gut was back and she craved more, it needed to last longer than a few seconds.

"Because my soul was saved the day you were born," he confessed, drawing her in closer and closer, "and if you like, because you've been a good girl… I can let you in again."

The softness of her duvet around her helped Riddle strengthen his hold. Lyra was still lingering in the haze of her deep sleep and she welcomed his enigmatic touch with a yearning for something more. Her head dipped forwards, a force stronger than sleep grabbing ahold of her again as she bumped her face against her open diary—

But her curtains flew open and bright light streamed into Lyra's dishevelled bed like a spotlight.

"Happy birthday!" sang Hermione, supported by the gracious tones of Parvati, Lavender and Sally-Ann who were still in their beds, and Lyra jumped out of the hypnotic grasp of her diary. She was a mere second away from falling under his spell.

"Aw thank you guys!" Lyra forced out a smile as she climbed out of bed and hugged Hermione, rather impressed that she was already dressed for the school day. As she drew away she suddenly remembered that her diary was sitting on top of her duvet, on full display, and felt Hermione's eyes landing on her most prized possession over her shoulder.

"That looks old," she commented, nodding at the leatherbound book, and Lyra fought the urge to snitch it away from prying eyes, she couldn't act suspicious.

"Yeah, I found it in a charity shop," she lied, casually picking it up and shoving it under her pillow, "it's my secret diary full of incredibly personal information so no peeking!"

"I never took you as someone who keeps a diary, but it makes sense," mused Hermione, thinking nothing of Lyra's latest hobby, "I can see you writing a book one day."

"That is a brilliant idea, I'll even dedicate it to you too," said Lyra, genuinely moved by Hermione's comment.

Hermione gifted her with a hefty volume on House Elf Lore, a guide Lyra had been eager to purchase for herself, as well as a vintage wax sealing kit she had saved from her trip to France. Lyra fawned over the metal star stamps Hermione found for her and she'd a tear or two at its beauty. Once she stepped out of the bathroom, struggling to dry her long hair without getting tangled, she found Apollo on top of her bed with another crinkly paper package and a small dead mouse with a bow around its broken neck in his beak.

"It's the thought that counts," Lyra defended her owl fiercely when Hermione turned her nose up at the mangled corpse as it lay on Lyra's dresser.

"But how did he wrap the bow around it?" Hermione pointed out, but her reasonable questions were drowned out by Lyra's heartfelt squeals as she opened Danielle's tear-jerking letter that reminded her how much she loved her key worker.

She hadn't written as much as she would have liked due to her busy schedule but she made a note to write Danielle at least five pages in response. The package contained a couple bundles of beautiful fabric Danielle spotted at a local car boot sale, the velvety black fabric with a metallic sheen caught her eye the most, and a pair of shiny black leather shoes Danielle claimed she bought for herself but were too small. They were a mixture between the sleek leather loafers she had seen her carer wear a few times, and a chunky platform boot that reminded her of Tonks. The second she swapped her usual scuffed boots for them she fell in love — she was the same height as Hermione now, they were perfect!

As their dorm mates set off to start their day with a wave goodbye, two more owls appeared at the window with more presents, giving Lyra the shock of her life. She recognised Errol first, his dopey expression was hard to miss amongst his orange plumage. A dark chestnut tawny owl hopped in after him, its beady eyes fluttering around in wonder. They didn't stay long once Lyra untethered the boxes attached to their legs.

Lyra didn't expect to hear from Andromeda, Ted, or Tonks so soon but their extravagant birthday card and generous 'Muggle Emergency' supply basket full of Muggle sweet treats and the latest copies of teen magazines was so incredibly thoughtful that she made sure to send Apollo immediately to thank them. Molly knitted her an array of different fuzzy socks since the days were starting to get colder, as well as a box full of homemade chocolate muffins and enough ingredients to top up her zesty perfume, and Arthur made sure to add his latest favourite book on Muggle technology that had a few notes of his own in the margins.

Feeling incredibly loved, Lyra finished getting ready for the day, making sure Hermione was turned away when she sneakily swiped her diary from under her pillow, and the girls went to leave when someone knocked on their dorm door.

"Is it safe for us to come in?" shouted Ron, muffled by the wood, "is it just you two?"

"What's the password?" joked Lyra, grabbing Hermione's arm to stop her from opening the door, and she laughed when she heard his distinct panicked stammers.

"Er, you have a password?"

"What about 'do you want your birthday present or not?'" came Harry's voice, and Lyra happily accepted his password. She threw the door open and beamed at her friends, but her gaze dropped to the uniquely-shaped present in Harry's hands and her stomach hurtled towards her toes. Her speechlessness and bulging eyes was exactly the reaction Harry was looking for and he grinned, coming into the girls dormitory properly to give Lyra her present.

"I wonder what it could be?" mused Hermione, amused by Lyra's dramatic reaction.

"Definitely a puppy," Ron played along.

"Are you freaking kidding me?!" Lyra finally caught her breath. She tore the paper off with extreme care and precision, and she quickly blinked away her tears when she spotted the golden scrawls on its handle. She held her own Nimbus 2000 broom out to relish its beauty and she pouted at him, feeling terribly spoiled.

"Harry, I can't accept this—,"

"No," he interrupted her, "you have to. You don't have a say, it's a gift. Besides, you were the one who suggested having matching brooms so I know you had your eye on this model for a while."

It was true, Lyra had been perusing the broom catalogue for far too long now and her first game was approaching fast.

"It was the least I could do considering all the help you've given me," he added.

Harry's generosity punched Lyra in the gut, she couldn't quite place the pulsing inside of her but she furiously pulled herself together before she burst into tears. She truly didn't expect to receive so many wonderful presents, not only was she slightly taller but now she had her own broom!

"Aw Larry, you're gonna make me cry," she sniffed, cradling her broom like a newborn before crushing the air out of Harry with a tight hug.

"I've got to take care of my manager, since you decide my fate and all," he wheezed, recovering from his red face with a grin.

"I should have given you my present first, it's rubbish compared to one of the top racing brooms in the world," sighed Ron, admiring Lyra's new broom before handing her his own brightly-coloured wrapped gift, but he was pleasantly surprised by Lyra's enamoured reaction to the entire vinyl collection of some of the Wizarding world's top rock bands. Although she needed to figure out a way to transfer them into CD format, she thanked him profusely and began to pester him with his own favourite tracks from the mysterious bands albums. Lyra hadn't dived into the world of wizard music yet, how could she when the Muggles were slaying the competition?

"You guys have been very kind to me this year," Lyra addressed her friends once she sobered up, "thank you for making today a little less crappy."

"Technically it's our friendship anniversary too so if you have any presents for me I will accept them at this time," announced Ron, looking at them expectantly, and Lyra gave him a pat on the back.

"Happy anniversary, mate," wished Lyra, giving him the best gift of all, a smile.

"Cheers," he grumbled.

The focus of the day swiftly switched to the upcoming Death day party and the four Gryffindors spent most of their school day discussing ideas on what they were expecting to happen. Some of their classmates turned their heads during Transfiguration when Hermione started listing gruesome theories on the activities that ghosts were feasibly able to partake in, some involving re-enactments of their own deaths, and they exchanged curious glances when they heard the Gryffindor ghost was planning on performing at his party. Lyra nearly strained an eyelid keeping her gaze to herself when Nick's redundant nickname was mentioned but she heard Harry's stifled coughs and stared straight down at her desk instead.

Due to her classmates' interest, however, Lyra took the opportunity to invite them to the party as well, but only Neville took her proposal seriously. The five agreed to meet outside the Fat Lady's portrait before dinner and gladly listened to the rest of the Gryffindors share their own excitement for the Halloween Feast, anticipating what they hoped would be a good night…

But the tightness in Lyra's chest was still there, somehow throughout the day she realised that from the moment she touched Myrtle it never went away. Now it felt natural, like when she touched Nick, she knew it meant no harm and she adjusted to the peculiar feelings that settled in her chest like a duckling taking to water. Tom called her special, he saw something in her, and she was starting to truly believe him.

"Oi, Black," a voice pulled her out of her daydream and she realised someone was blocking the doorway into her final lesson of the day, Potions, "aww why the long face? Is today a hard day for you?"

Fucking Draco!

Lyra snapped into the meanest lour she could muster and she looked down at her cousin, despite the added couple of inches her new shoes gave her she still wasn't taller than him but that didn't matter. The fierce handprint blister on his face was finally beginning to fade and he had attempted to moisturise the area as much as possible to speed up the healing process but she could still see red flakes of skin.

"If I were you I wouldn't utter another word to me," she threatened him, purposely drawing attention to his cheek, "why the blistered face?"

"It seems like someone's a little touchy," he snickered, reflecting her insult and doubling down, "I suppose I should be nice to you today. I mean, I would feel terrible too if my father murdered my mother on my birthday." Draco made sure he raised his voice as he trailed off, repeating Lyra's trauma out for the rest of the class to hear.

The tightness in Lyra's chest didn't like that, and it hardened its walls as it expanded into her lungs. She struggled to catch her breath for a moment, the fury she reserved specifically for Draco threatened to scorch her cheeks but she didn't get the chance to release some of her anger out on her cousin.

A hand grasped the back of Draco's robes and yanked him into the darkness of their classroom, cutting off the impending argument that was about to commence. Lyra wandered in without another word as she watched Professor Snape shove Draco into his chair and shoot him a glare that suggested he needed to hold his tongue before he lost it.

Is Snape actually defending me right now? Lyra couldn't believe her eyes, Snape never took her side before.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for dawdling in the doorway, stop blocking your classmates," barked Snape in her direction, his onyx narrowed eyes barely staying on her face as he pointed at her seat, "Black, move, now."

Ahh, so close!

"Whatever," she mumbled to herself, slumping into her chair as she started to daydream about the Death day party to pass the time, refusing to glance in Draco's direction.

Before she knew it, evening arrived and Lyra was standing outside the Fat Lady's portrait with Hermione, waiting for the boys as she bounced on the heels of her new shoes. Although she decided to swap her uniform for a grey chequered skirt and whatever band t-shirt was cleanest, she couldn't resist strutting around in her sleek chunky shoes, feeling very much like a proper teenager.

"You're going to wear out the soles on those if you don't stop pacing," commented Hermione, absently smoothing down her own skirt as she watched her impatient friend, "they look vintage, you should protect them before you damage them."

"I'm sure I'll find a spell somewhere someday," she dismissed her worries, "magic will revive them if I accidentally ruin them with mud."

"All of your shoes are accidentally covered in mud," tutted Hermione, afraid of her friend's carelessness, "but you're lucky that I already know a spell that will work." She revealed her wand and crouched down by Lyra's feet, tapping periodically on the leather as she muttered under her breath.

"There! Now all types of liquids, even blood, will be repelled from them so you don't need to worry about destroying them," she informed her, satisfied with her work.

"Remember to show me whatever book you got that from because Danielle would kill for that spell," Lyra made sure to say aloud in case she forgot.

"There are tons of enchantments specifically for clothes, you should really look them up. It'll make your hand-sewing so much faster," she advised, and the girls began to plan another trip to the library when the boys exited the tower, only a few minutes late.

When they took off towards the ground floor where the Death day party awaited, Harry beckoned Lyra to fall behind and she stuck to his side, keeping her chatting friends in sight.

"I dunno whether you've thought about this or not, but you do realise that we're going to be in a room full of ghosts? Ghosts you most likely can touch?" he clarified, glancing at her nervously as he pretended to admire the passing tapestries on the walls. Lyra bit her lip and nodded, rushing to come up with a resolution to the newly emerging problem. She couldn't bump into them, everyone would freak out.

Crap, crap, crap, crap!

"It'll be fiiine!" she squeaked, her voice unintentionally a pitch higher, "I'll keep my arms by my sides the whole time, I'll be on my best behaviour."

"Lyra," Harry sounded more worried than she expected.

"Trust me, it'll be ok," she reassured him, grabbing his arm so he would look at her, "please. I really want to say that I went to a ghost's death party in my lifetime so please let me be risky this one time."

"Pffft, this one time?" he guffawed, giving in to her persuasive pout, "this is just one of countless times, but fine. You're lucky I trust you."

"Gee thanks," she scoffed, spurring him to hurry as they rushed to catch up with their friends.

Imagining what a Death day party would look like was difficult to say the least, but Lyra gave it her best shot. After her Beetlejuice marathon over the summer she pictured the chamber Nick had reserved to be draped in black silks with dusty yet dazzlingly bright chandeliers, exuberant tombstones surrounded by thick rolling fog declaring Nick a happy Death day, and maybe a skeleton playing a grand piano serenading the room with some soft jazz… or something to that extent. What Lyra was met with was something entirely different and somehow even better than her imagination.

"Huzzah! Welcome brave Gryffindors!" greeted a jovial 'Nearly' Headless Nick at the entrance, escorting them into the transformed chamber, "thank you for coming to celebrate this most sacred day!"

"Wow! Nick! You really went all out, didn't you?" praised Lyra, skipping into what felt like another century. Having the mediaeval castle aesthetic helped greatly, it felt as though she were in the fifteenth century where bards and monks were common folk and she embraced the times with great conviction. The room was decorated aptly to the time of Nick's death, renaissance melodies coming from the sombre male ghost holding a lute in the corner mixed beautifully with the enchanted harp on display near a dimly lit stage, celebratory candles were spread amongst the surfaces and banners wishing Nick a Happy Death day hung around the tapestries. Every ghost Lyra had seen at Hogwarts seemed to be in attendance this year after hearing a rumour that Sir Nicholas was formulating a surprise like no other, and on the far right side of the room, by the pungent, rotten albeit extravagant spread of food, was another living person.

By Lyra's estimate they were a first year, it was a small blonde girl who was amidst a thrilling conversation between the Ravenclaw ghost and a fragile grey monk, but before she could plan a way through the crowds of ghosts to greet her, Ron yanked her back by her shoulder.

"I wouldn't if I were you, I know that girl," he warned her, craning his neck to get a better look at her, "she's in the Chess club, she's a bit of a loony."

"And what exactly does that mean?" inquired Lyra, wary of his use of the word. As much as she loved her cousin, he tended to be a little narrow-minded and rarely put himself in someone else's shoes.

"She's just a bit weird, that's all, but knowing you I'm sure you two will get along great," he recovered, trying to phrase it better than what was in his head, but Lyra simply rolled her eyes and diverted her attention from the blonde girl for the moment. She noticed on the left side of the room was a table full of fresh, delicious rooster drumsticks that Hagrid prepared, keeping to the theme of the party, and she suggested to her group that they start the party by fuelling up.

"Shame there's nothing to drink," complained Ron, eyeing up the rotten food table with a hopeful eye, but after a quick visit from Kreacher, they continued to experience the strange party with goblets full of juice in their hands.

"You're Harry Potter," a tinkling girl's voice interrupted their feast and they turned to see the blonde first year staring up at Harry in wonder. Now she could get a proper look at her, Lyra thought she looked a bit like an elf. Her pale eyebrows were practically non-existent and her straggly long blonde hair was clipped out of her silvery blue eyes using what looked like a tiny, glittery beetle with gold wings.

"I am," said Harry smoothly, rushing to wipe his greasy fingers on his jeans before offering her his hand, "nice to meet you."

"Everyone talks about you a lot," the girl added as she accepted Harry's handshake. "You have very soft hands."

"Oh, um, thanks?" He tried not to sound too baffled by the girl's odd comments, but she didn't seem at all fazed when Ron started to suggest they move on.

"I'm Lyra," counteracted Lyra, wanting to stay and learn more about the Ravenclaw, she noticed the eagle crest on her chest and the navy lining of her sleeves. So far she didn't see what about her rubbed Ron the wrong way, "what's your name?"

"Luna Lovegood," she said courteously, entranced by her polite greeting, "you're very nice, not many people ask me what my name is. I heard you fought a troll last Halloween, is that true?"

"Yup, that's us!" answered Lyra proudly, thinking about showing off the photo album in the bag in her back, "hopefully this Halloween is less terrifying."

"I'm sure it will be, but I do hope Nearly Headless Nick's re-enactment has lots of blood. He went to all this wonderful effort to be accurate to his time, it would be a shame if he didn't spurt some plasma onto the crowds," she admitted nonchalantly, as though she wasn't talking about beheadings, and Lyra appreciated her attitude. Judging by the sparse collection of bottle caps around her neck and ring pulls decorating her fingers, Lyra now had an inkling as to why people didn't approach Luna but she didn't care one bit. Luna's creativity was mind-opening and Lyra fawned over her eclectic jewellery, inspired to try and make her own.

"Likewise! Let's make sure we're in the splash zone together, I want to take some pictures of the show," suggested Lyra, offering her a friendly smile, and Luna copied, ecstatic that she was allowed to stick with them. Harry stared incredulously from in between the two girls, unsure how the topic turned so morbid so quickly.

"If you're a first year then you must know Ginny, Ron's sister," Hermione pointed out after they finished introductions, and Luna nodded, her eyes glued to Ron as though she found him fascinating.

"Yes, Ginny is one of the friendlier people in my class, and I know Ron from Chess club, although I didn't see you in our last meeting," she noted, her doting eyes wandering as though she lost her train of thought. "You're a very talented chess player. Many people struggle to concentrate on chess when there's a Wrackspurt infestation in the study room we use for club meetings, but you never seem to have a problem."

"Wrackspurts?" asked Neville before Lyra could interject.

"They buzz around your ears and fill your brain with cotton, they're everywhere," sighed Luna sadly, "it's a pandemic, really."

"Do they tend to hang out in the greenhouses?" wondered Lyra.

"They love the greenhouses," Luna explained, "they mate in warm spaces, I've seen them."

Lyra scoffed, believing wholeheartedly in the conspiracy theory. Luna was becoming more and more intriguing by the second, Lyra couldn't get enough of her.

"That explains my Herbology grade!"

"I've never heard of a Wrackspurt before, are you sure they're real?" doubted Hermione, side-eyeing Luna.

"Wrackspurts don't exist—,"

Ron went to ruin their fun with a bitter scowl in the Ravenclaw's direction, but a nudge from Neville brought their attention towards the stage where Nearly Headless Nick was getting ready to start his big performance. A busy group of new arrivals had just acquainted themselves with the chattering party-goers and Lyra spotted the lack of heads on the new ghosts' shoulders — they must be the infamous Headless Hunt Nick wanted to impress. The decapitated knights prowled around the chamber as though they were the best Death day party critics in all the land, looking for any excuse to mock Nick like usual, and Lyra's heart raced for Nick who looked a tad nervous on the bard's stage.

"If I could have everyone's attention, please," he addressed the room, and heads turned to focus on him, "it is time for the main event of this evening's celebration — the Death of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, performed by yours truly, and guest."

All of the candles bar the few lining the stage snuffed out, causing a dramatic blackout and those with working lungs held their breaths as the hush of chatter died. Nick captivated the room's attention perfectly, he tried not to smile as the Headless Hunt found their audience spots near the front, their heads back on their shoulders, and Lyra whispered to Harry to clear a path through the ghosts so they could get a front row view.

The performance turned out to be a one-man play about Nick's life, a scorned tale of how he tried to heal the ailments of a gracious lady's crooked teeth (Lyra made sure to take pictures of Nick's many characters throughout the play and clapped loudly during the transitions) which ended with the unlucky woman growing a tusk and poor Nick being thrown in a dungeon without his wand. The climax of the show, however, saw a special guest appearance in the story as they flew on stage as Nick called for the bumbling executioner who was about to make a mockery of the art of beheading. The casting was controversial as most of the room burst into an onslaught of whispers, but Lyra adored the choice of having Peeves play the executioner. It was pure genius, she couldn't wait to see his acting choices.

"This isn't going to end well," whispered Neville, adjusting the collar of his knitted jumper so he could hide away from the impending gore.

"Ohohoh!" cackled Peeves, zooming onto the stage dressed in what Lyra assumed was his interpretation of an appropriate uniform for such a gruesome job — the scariest black sheet mask she had ever seen and a comically large axe with a very blunt edge, "you've been a very naughty boy, Sir Almost-No-Headsalot!" His grin was menacing and Lyra creeped a little closer, fascinated by the play.

"Without my wand I had no choice but to concede," Nick monologued to the room, his voice raspy as he relived his worst moment with as much conviction as he could with Peeves dancing around him, pretending to swing for his head before flying away at the last moment.

"He's a very good actor," breathed Hermione, impressed by the ghost's acting professionalism, but she automatically latched onto Ron's arm when Peeves began to hack at his neck.

"Choppy chop chop! Hahahah!" Peeves was clearly having the time of his life, each pound of the axe sending spurts of ghostly ectoplasm into the faces of the front row. "It's not woooorking! More choppy chop chop!"

Trying their best not to complain too loudly about the ethereal slime, the students gawked along with the audience as Peeves continued to bash at Nick's neck forty-five times, but on the last hack — pop!

The room gasped as Nick's head shot off and rolled to the very front of the stage, missing the intended basket by a metre. The air was so still that the six pounding hearts of the students could be heard across the chamber, but Nick broke the silence with one final, heartfelt monologue about achieving his dreams and finally finding peace with himself, blaming the miraculous stunt on the power of determination.

As the stage candles blew out, ending the performance in silence despite Peeve's constant giggles, the crowd exploded into a raucous round of applause and the Headless Hunt rushed to congratulate Nick on achieving the impossible. Lyra caught Harry's eye and they laughed, relieved that they no longer had to keep their 'Headless Nick' jokes to themselves anymore, and they continued to clap as they watched Nick's induction into the prestigious club.

LYRA…

She wasn't sure if it was the chill or the whisper that accompanied it, but whatever it was snatched the air from her chest, extracting her from reality. Someone was staring at her. She felt their stubborn gaze on the back of her neck and she stole a casual glance over her shoulder, attempting to pinpoint the source through the cheering, oblivious crowd without drawing attention.

Her spine turned to steel when she locked eyes with Myrtle who was lingering in the chamber's entrance like an unwanted guest, but she was too transfixed by Lyra's presence to care what was going on around her. She looked a mess, her face much more gaunt than the last time she saw her, and the dark bruises behind her round glasses were tender-looking. The pressure in Lyra's chest grew heavier as Myrtle's eyes got wetter, and she muttered an incoherent excuse to her friends and skirted around the translucent audience.

But it was too late. Myrtle fled the party, too spooked to stick around. Determined to find out what exactly her problem was, and to ensure that she wasn't going to snitch on her, Lyra started to chase after the sobbing ghost

The chase was futile, Myrtle's ability to flee through solid objects was too overpowering and Lyra watched her vanish through the ceiling, feeling completely helpless.

"Damn it," she puffed, scowling up at the arched stone ceiling of the ground floor corridor as though it was personally responsible for her missteps. She wanted to track her down but her absence would be noticed, and she couldn't pursue her during the day, not with Lockhart on the lookout for signs of dark magic. Cursing the ghost one more time and brushing the phantom blood from her t-shirt, Lyra returned to the party and tried to forget all about Moaning Myrtle.

But she couldn't.

The clock bell rang out twelve times, signalling the late hour as she wrote to Tom while in her bed that night. She tried to forget all about Myrtle while she enjoyed the rest of the party and got to know Luna.

The Ravenclaw revealed that her dad was an editor of a magazine and Lyra happily gave her copies of her pictures for an article detailing the resurgence of ghost-only casted plays in the Wizarding world, but even Luna's wacky descriptions of the types of articles her dad wrote weren't enough to deter thoughts of Myrtle.

Her birthday passed without any major incidents and she didn't feel particularly sad. All in all the day had been a success, but still while she wrote to Tom she felt something heavier than usual settle in her chest as she pictured Myrtle's repugnant expression for the hundredth time.

"I don't know what to do," she told Riddle, nibbling her sore bottom lip as her anxiety festered. She lit her wand in order to read his soothing words of reassurance, her roommates had not long gone to bed after their exhausting, exciting evenings but the girls' soft snores told her she was safe to cast the charm. "Myrtle will always have the advantage of flying through walls, I'm never going to be able to catch her and ask her for specifics."

Headless Nick refused to talk about her ability with her, whether he was physically able to or not he didn't give anything away. Yet before Myrtle's anger got the better of her, she was willing to spill the beans on Lyra's ghostly power. She was pretty much Lyra's only hope.

"Capturing Myrtle wouldn't be a problem if I were there to help you," said Tom, coming up with his own plans for the evening, "your strange interaction with Myrtle and Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington may be the key to speed up my plans, but I would need to see with my own eyes to determine whether my hunch is right."

The full name of the Gryffindor ghost sparked a connection in Lyra's brain and she readied her gel pen, snuggling deeper into her feathered duvet to add another layer of protection.

"You know Myrtle, don't you?" she asked, "she mentioned that my grandmother used to bully her, meaning she was here at Hogwarts at the same time as you."

"You haven't told her about me, Black."

It wasn't a question but she knew she needed to answer Tom, her fingertips were slippery with sudden beads of sweat when she scrawled.

"Of course not."

"Good girl, she would be eager to tip off the man that wants me dead, she doesn't like Slytherins or Purebloods," he revealed, and Lyra's head spun, giddy from the new information. The person who wanted him dead was a guy, and an old one at that, judging by the diary's creation date. She immediately began to list all of the old men she knew, and the Hogwarts teaching staff came to mind first.

"Tell me more about your day, I want to hear all about it considering I couldn't be there with you," prompted Tom before Lyra started to list names, and she allowed the distraction this time, feeling undeniably loved that he cared about her. Stifling a yawn, Lyra began to recount the details of her day she left out from the Death day party explanation, but Tom asked her to stop when she elaborated on her gifts.

"Potter bought you a broom…?" he questioned, flourishing his sentence with an ellipsis, and Lyra arched a brow, confused by his meaning.

"He did," she admitted, "I know its a pretty pricey present but I think he thinks he's paying me back for being nice over the summer—,"

But one of Lyra's copious mental notes flitted to the forefront of her mind and she brightened up, "oh yeah! I need to pick your brain, Riddle, you're gonna love this."

"Please share, Miss Black."

"Do you know much about Parselmouths? Turns out Harry speaks Parseltongue and we haven't a clue why, how, or what exactly that is," she confessed, letting Riddle in on her newest secrets, "I knew you were the guy to go to considering you love Slytherin so much."

Lyra waited patiently for his answer and her anticipation grew the longer he kept her waiting. She assumed he must have been writing her an in-depth essay on the subject, but a cold, numb shiver slowly encapsulated her body as the air around her got lighter and thinner. A force oozed over her body and her grip on her diary weakened until it slid from her crumbling arched leg. The dark magic wrapped around her neck and kept the slack head of the fainting girl straight before it lost its grip on her entirely.

The addition of yet another secret was enough to draw Riddle from the diary and he rooted into Black's soul and latched on with all of his might. The connection was getting stronger, she was more accepting of letting him in and he knew why she was falling so deeply. It was almost too easy, but Black's lack of resistance was half the battle. He was extraordinarily lucky that she had developed a crush on him and he couldn't deny that he basked in her many acts of affection, every little helps… that's what Riddle told himself.

The moment he felt Lyra's will break, he consumed the girl and focused on the hot blood coursing through her veins, her shallow, calm breath, the softness of her silk duvet on her skin. She opened her eyes and climbed out of bed, unfazed by the wrinkles in her pyjamas or her sleeping roommates around her, and with her wand in her tight fist she left the girls tower without making a sound. Riddle knew how to move undetected around the castle.

The door leading towards the boys tower piqued Riddle's interest first and he thought of his main target, the reason he was here, but he didn't acknowledge the fleeting spasm of terror that ignited his urgency to put his scheming into practice, he simply pretended it did not exist.

The fact Potter possessed the same ability as him terrified him but he would never admit that. He needed to dispose of the boy as soon as possible, and what better time than on the anniversary of his parent's deaths? Black was very close to Potter, he would follow her anywhere if she simply asked…

The path to the second floor bathroom was hard to forget, Riddle could trace the stone steps with his eyes closed if necessary, and he couldn't help but smile when he entered the dank, decrepit bathroom that held so many memories. The door locked with the same click after all these years, and he walked with harder footsteps in the hopes of drawing out the ghost he yearned to speak to.

"Myrtle," he called out, and he shivered at the sound of Black's dark, thick voice, "come out, come out… I just want to talk."

"N-No you don't," the high-pitched whimper came from the very end cubicle. She had been waiting for her to come. "Please leave me alone, I won't t-tell anyone about me touching you."

An unfamiliar tightness in Lyra's chest unnerved Tom, it grew harsher the closer he came to Myrtle's hiding spot but he knew it was something not of this plane. He wasn't sure whether it was even magic.

"You know what I am," he called out, enjoying how Black sounded when she threatened her, "tell me."

"I can't, you know I can't," she cried, heaving after every other word so she could clear the tears from her nose, "you shouldn't be here, I don't understand!"

"Why?" hissed Riddle, softening his footsteps as he pushed the cubicle door open. Myrtle was crouched on the floor, pressing against the wall as she cowered away from him, sobbing uncontrollably. He had forgotten how annoying Warren could be.

"Leave me alone!" screamed Myrtle, burying her head in her hands.

Riddle couldn't stand her cries any longer, he loathed tears. Possessing Black had many advantages and he revealed her wand with a fearsome smile on her freckled face.

"Levicorpus," he commanded, but the second Myrtle was dragged up into the air by her neck he added, "Silencio," to get rid of her imminent screams.

Even though she was transparent Riddle could tell her face was turning a different colour, the suffocation was working.

Unimaginable feats of magic were being performed, he never felt this powerful before and he caught a glimpse of Black in a nearby cracked mirror while Myrtle continued to choke and splutter a few feet in the air above the cubicle, clawing at her own neck like a desperate puppy caught in a trap. Black looked radiant in the darkness, it was hard to tear his eyes away from the glowing silver irises staring back but his original plan was too pressing to allow himself to get distracted by the girl he had control over. He had plenty of time, he had Black wrapped around his little finger so his opportunity to acquaint himself with her in the flesh would come in due course. He had plenty of time to… indulge.

"I never thought I would have the honour of killing you twice," drawled Riddle, teeth gritted and wand arm raised as he turned back to the suffocating ghost above him, "this will be so much easier without you in the way…"

The crimson red flash was violent and Myrtle convulsed as the spell slashed her throat open vertically. Her neck burst, spurting thick liquid the colour of moonbeam into the air, and the stringy viscera of her vocal cords dribbled down her chest. Riddle basked in the heat of the blood spray, hungrily watching the ghost of Myrtle drown in her own blood and die for the second time. The dripping of the ghostly plasma slowed as Myrtle's movements weakened and her non-corporeal form faded away, releasing her from the mortal plane, and Riddle finally tore his eyes from the crime scene after breathing in the smell of death in the air. It was bitter, he could actually smell it.

He approached the sink he knew like the back of his hand and closed his eyes, picturing the chamber that was once his sanctuary from the prying eyes of the school. The hiss of his ancestor came naturally but it sounded almost alluring coming from Black's tongue and he urged her to speak again when he came face to face with the enormous vault door guarding the main chamber he seeked. Parseltongue wasn't a language you could learn, but he dared to consider Black's chances of picking up a few phrases… She took to it so easily…

"I've returned to release you, my love," hissed Riddle, awakening the ancient basilisk he had missed, "help me avenge my death, follow me and let us kill Potter together…"

The statue of the founder he saw in himself cracked open and the great basilisk slithered out from between Slytherin's grand stone legs, two pillars that trapped the magnificent creature for too long. Her scintillating seaweed scales glistened as she moved through the couple feet of murky water surrounding the main feature of the room, but he kept Black's head down when the snake opened her glowing orange eyes, blinking hard as she got used to freedom once more.

Tom felt oddly protective of Black, he truly did not want to harm her, and the thought of her dying at the hands of the basilisk induced a dull, drumming sensation that made him awfully nauseous. It had been decades since he experienced human feelings, and as he festered inside of Black he knew he was putting himself in danger.

"Come my pretty," instructed Riddle, enjoying the juxtaposition of Black's tiny stature compared to the vast, intimidating size of the basilisk following her blind steps. He led the ancient snake through the labyrinthine Chamber of Secrets and up into the previously haunted bathroom, bringing floods of drain water with them to support the basilisk's needs. His mind set on Potter, Riddle opened the door and commanded the snake to check the coast—,

"Oooh!"

SMACK!

Fretful that all of his hard work had been ruined, Riddle rushed out into the corridor to check the extent of the damage but he caught his nerve when he realised the small blonde Ravenclaw lying face down on the floor had merely been petrified. The reflective glass windows opposite the bathroom's entrance must've saved her.

He rolled the girl onto her back and inspected the nasty-looking bruise as it bloomed on her forehead before his eyes, but he left her there without a second thought for her condition. He needed to protect Black just as much as he needed Potter dead, and this peculiar power over the spirits of Hogwarts was too valuable not to incorporate into his own resurgence plans. Losing Black was not an option now, he needed her more than she needed him.

Frustrated that he didn't get far with his complex murder scheme, Riddle ordered the basilisk to return to her home with a soft caress, praising her for her obedience. He left the second floor without a speck of evidence of Black's involvement or a calling card to inflict fear amongst the student body and faculty. His girl did beautifully, and he knew he needed to reward her accordingly.

Maybe Potter's death could be the catalyst for Black to create her own diary… Maybe I can convince her to stay with me in the end.