The destruction of Greenhouse Three, as malevolent and unexpected as it was, didn't come as that big of a surprise to most at Hogwarts. It was high time the anonymous attacker struck again, and of course targeting the one plant that could revive those who had been petrified was logically their best move to date. Someone didn't want to get caught, and they were now feeling brave enough to sabotage their efforts to restore the victims.
Some of the more hopeful souls among the student body chose to believe that it might have been the work of some prankster who went a step too far, not someone who wanted to cause them harm. Simply knowing that the family of blossoming Mandrakes were on campus was a safety net to those afraid of being the next victim of the faceless commander of the snake, but now that safety net had been slashed to shreds. When dawn broke on that frosty February morning the glass home full of Mandrakes on the precipice of maturity had been found — for the second time that year— in total ruins.
Not one glass pane remained intact, wooden benches and gardening tools lay splintered on the floor as though some had taken a hammer and swung it around as hard as they could. It looked like whoever broke in had combed the room with a magnifying glass, there wasn't a planter or bag of soil that hadn't been ransacked. Crisp floral buds sizzled like dying bonfire embers as was what was left of the vines wrapped around the broken rafters, shards of terracotta pots and clay barrels were found in all corners of the area and the Mandrakes that lived inside of them — gone. Vanished. It was like they never existed.
Professor Sprout was in utter despair when she scavenged through the remains of the greenhouse plants that fateful morning, grieving the loss of the roots she had been nursing for months, and after an hour of searching she deemed the task of recovering the Mandrakes impossible. Only a smushed sliver of a single root was recovered as evidence that they once possessed a whole collective, and if anything it was a sore reminder of what they had lost. A spit in the face to those trying to save the school.
The perplexed headmaster knew he needed to resort to a different, more desperate tactic to solve their problems but the governors' eyebrows would cock in suspicion if an extortionate order of adult Mandrakes was placed at Hogwarts without their consent. They were in the dark during this ordeal, or so he assumed as he had not had any letters from the board requesting a visit, and he needed to keep it that way as his job and the safety of countless others — or worse, the whole Wizarding world — were on the line.
The hourglass counting down his time left as headmaster had flipped, he could hear the pitter patter of falling sand whenever he was in the company of silence, jeering him to solve the puzzle faster. Time was against Albus now and he didn't know why, he could just sense it in the back of his mind whenever he was trying to come up with a plan. He had his hunches of course, but he dismissed them on the grounds of anxiety.
But as though Lady Luck was eavesdropping on his thoughts that were growing more convoluted with conspiracy theories, she froze the sand of the hourglass and gave him a hint as to how this all started in the form of a first year Ravenclaw exactly a month later.
"I don't remember a lot about that night, but I do recall hearing the hiss of something reptilian and the reflection of their eyes in the window. They were very shiny, like amber crystals, and almost as large as a troll… and someone with a deep voice was there too, but it didn't sound like Myrtle. They sounded far too happy to be her."
Luna Lovegood answered all questions with pleasure when she awoke from her petrified state and was greeted by a circle of anxious-looking professors crowded around her bed.
She was in the private ward at the rear of the infirmary where the victims had been stored like a back room of a garden nursery. Each of them were frozen in their own bed like packaged garden statues while the ghosts hung in the corner of the room as though the wizards didn't know what to do with them, their wispy forms half hidden by a curtain. Since the room only housed five extra large beds for long-term patients it felt like a tight squeeze with all of them packed in together.
The professors of Herbology and Potions had been working around the clock to utilise as much of the thin sliver of Mandrake as they could, and a draught potent enough for one student was syphoned from the sludge they managed to produce. They voted as a group that the timid first year was the lucky individual who would be revived first, and the headmaster was most anxious to question Luna as soon as possible since she was found outside the bathroom that had given him trouble previously in his teaching career. The connection linking the two events was real, but invisible to him. Could it be him…? It had to be, he always succeeded at working in plain sight.
"You heard a gentleman's voice in the bathroom?" Albus highlighted, interpreting Luna's statement in such a way that it would fit the narrative he was investigating, and Luna sat up straight and furrowed her brows, straining hard so she could relive that moment. The professors around her exchanged a concerned frown, the girl was dreadfully pale and displayed signs of developing a nervous tick so they didn't want to push her beyond her capabilities.
"I… I don't think so sir," Luna eventually answered, cradling her head as she blinked up innocently at Albus, "not a man's voice, more like someone was forcing their voice to go deeper than what was natural for them. I thought it may have been Peeves, he likes to tease Myrtle a lot. That's why I was visiting that bathroom, I wanted to check on her. She seemed so sad when she arrived at the party and she never stayed."
"Party? Which party was this?" McGonagall chipped in, unable to hold herself back.
It was evident from her brooding, pursed expression that she was far less patient than her colleagues. She was stubbornness personified in aubergine velvet today, and she straightened her square spectacles as the headmaster side-eyed her, tickled by her demeanour.
"Sir Nicholas' Death Day party! I had a lot of fun and I think I made some friends there," Luna smiled, fond of her memories of the hallowed gathering. She struggled not to gasp when Professor Snape snooped through her pile of 'get well soon' gifts to reveal an abundance of cards, and his lip curled when he recognised a certain loopy signature he came to despise, "I have cards? How wonderful! No one really spoke to me before, I didn't realise people cared about me. I quite like being petrified!"
"But you're safe now, Miss Lovegood, we have the best of the best working on restoring you back to full health so you'll be in tip top condition once again," assured Professor Flitwick, shuffling forwards so he could pat her on the arm, "don't worry about catching up on your school work either, I'll be here to help you."
"I'm not worried, thank you Professor," replied Luna, thrilled by the whole situation as though she was the lucky ticket holder at a circus show, "I don't feel unwell or scared, this experience has been quite insightful really, I cannot wait to tell Daddy all about it!"
"Hmm, indeed, I'm pleased to see you haven't lost your optimism. Your father has been informed and will be arriving shortly for a visit," Albus explained in a soft tone, glad with her overly positive reaction with all things considered. A major factor that may or may not have swayed the professors into voting for Luna's revival first was her eccentric father. If anyone could accept the fact that their child was attacked by a basilisk on school grounds and not press charges against Hogwarts, it would be Xenophilius Lovegood.
With Luna seemingly content and on the mend, it only took half a day for the rest of the school to hear about her revival and suddenly she was the most talked about name on everyone's lips. As soon as she was spotted leaving the hospital wing four days after her initial recovery, she was flocked by students from all years shooting her questions about what she saw, while others commended her with handshakes and back slaps for surviving the mysterious Heir of Slytherin.
Since she was overwhelmed by her sudden popularity Luna blissfully went along with the crowds who now liked her and added fuel to the rumours surrounding the alleged Heir. She agreed and nodded along with those who spoke about whether the attacker was a true Slytherin or not, and having encountered the mythical monster herself she couldn't resist falling for the conspiracies too. She had been attacked by the Heir and their monster, this was the story she was sticking to.
But then the headmaster's luck swiftly ran out and the sand began to fall once more.
Three days after Luna's return to school life, six more petrified students joined those cordoned off in the infirmary's private ward, each of them stuck in place with the same expression of horror on their frozen faces. Six more children had been found, their bodies laid in the corridors adjoining the library for an entire day before they were discovered by a traumatised Madam Pince whose wretched wails were described as hard to forget.
Colin Creevey was the first to be discovered. He was hunched up against a wall with his camera glued to his face. A few feet from him lay Ginny Weasley, a scattering of metal armour surrounding her and a light bruise forming on her temple. Their timid friend Alice was found minutes later once Madam Pince pulled herself together and tiptoed around the corner to see the young girl sprawled on the floor, her broken glasses scrunched up in her rigid hand. The rest of the unofficial Harry Potter Fan Club shortly followed at the end of the corridor, crumpled in a pile beneath the row of arched windows looking out across the foggy mountains, a grey, gloomy reflection of the mood inside the castle. Spring was supposed to have begun its yearly journey across the Scottish highlands by now but it was late to arrive, the chill of winter was refusing to leave the premises.
"I d-didn't hear anything!" whimpered Madam Pince into her handkerchief as she sat before the headmaster and his deputy, "no screams, no sounds of the attack — nothing! I'd been in the library alone for three hours at that point, since the whole s-school was at the Quidditch match I assumed no one would be visiting the l-library. I thought I wouldn't be disturbed so I wasn't present, I must have been wrapped up in a d-day dream when it occurred."
"Do not blame yourself, Irma," comforted McGonagall, reaching over to pour her more hot lemon tea, "you could've been attacked as well, and you've done all you can which has been a great help. Thank you for taking the students straight to the hospital wing."
The melancholy on her face was hard to mask today, three out of the six students had been her own and the surviving feeling of shame for not protecting them continued to fester. Minerva wanted to write to their parents and assure them their sweet children were in capable hands but the man seated beside her forbade her intervention out of caution… Although she was beginning to suspect it was out of pride.
"Incidences such as these sometimes cannot be helped," Albus told her gently, maintaining the mellow conversational tone, "even on match days we cannot expect every single student to participate in school activities such as Quidditch. There was bound to be a student or two who would rather be cosied up in the castle than down at our sports grounds."
"But we could've acquired extra assistance to support our security measures and protect everyone equally," McGonagall muttered under her breath but within perfect earshot of her friend. Whether Albus heard her or not, he didn't show it on his wizened face.
"Irma, my dear, may I suggest you visit Poppy for a spot of soothing draught to calm your nerves, and then maybe an early night? I will pass by the library tonight during my own patrol to ensure everything is in order," The headmaster suggested, his draping sleeves spread on the desk as he leant forwards and grasped her shaky, parchment-weathered hands, "please accept my deepest apologies for today, I promise you that you are safe here, the well-being of my staff is one of my most top priorities."
Looking much lighter, Madam Pince clasped his hands back in appreciation and climbed to her feet, her watering eyes significantly more present than before.
"Thank you Albus, I know you mean it, and I can only imagine how stressed you must be with all of this unfolding," she told him, her thick brows revealing how close she was to tearing up again.
"Yes, I do feel as though it has aged me considerably, but do not worry about me, look after yourself first," he chuckled, glazing over the matter at hand, and he escorted the librarian out of his office, wishing her well as she left.
His deputy, however, remained unmoved in her armchair behind the headmaster's desk. The topic discussed came to an insufficient end, she needed to know more about what they were facing here and with her students' lives on the line she knew she wasn't asking for the world with this request. She was certainly being more reasonable than he was.
"This is very unlike you, Albus," McGonagall commented, taking to her own feet when he returned, "incidents like these do not go on long enough to inflict real damage on the school, especially since you've taken on the job of headmaster… But this basilisk business has gone on far too long, surely you must agree? Is it truly a beast from Slytherin's mythical chamber or something else entirely?"
"Incidents like these happen for a reason, and we have yet to uncover any cause of reason so I do not see the need to interfere. We cannot tell, for now, who is behind this," Albus relayed, intertwining his fingers behind his back as he gradually moved towards her, but he couldn't suppress his smile when Minerva scowled. The volume of the usually chatty portraits lining the walls up above their heads softened, trying not to make their curiosity known to the pair.
"You believe I am not trying," he stated rather than asked.
"I believe you're not telling me something," she sighed, shaking her head as though scolding herself for not realising sooner, "no, I know you're keeping vital information to yourself and I don't know why I'm shocked. I've been a part of your teaching staff for decades now, I've fought alongside you in undoubtedly darker times than these and if I do say so myself I am also one of your closest friends. But of course it's clear that means nothing going by your rules of confidentiality?"
"This goes far beyond our friendship, Minerva," Albus promised her as he retook his seat behind his stretching desk, and he knitted his brows together almost in a plea as he turned to his deputy, silently asking her to listen. "In the past I've asked too much from you and I am not allowing my past regrets to put you or anyone else I care very deeply about at risk anymore. I value your intelligence and I understand that you may be able to help me unravel this particular riddle—," his throat was suddenly constricted, but he swallowed the dry lump and pushed on, "but if my hunch is correct then the best course of action right now is to simply observe."
As McGonagall's face contorted with deceit at the sound of his pathetic excuse of a plan, Albus interjected, trying to reword his intentions without revealing its entirety.
"I am protecting our students to the best of my abilities, they are ultimately my highest priority and I would never let anything harm them — you know this, Minnie, they always have been— but you also must know that the attacks taking place here at Hogwarts are a part of a larger picture. Although it is a scale which I have yet to configure, the fate of what may be currently underway depends solely on who knows about what happened last time. It's imperative that history doesn't repeat itself."
His key phrase presented McGonagall with the confirmation she needed to know that she was on the right track with her own suspicions. She clicked her tongue as she helped herself to her own cup of lemon tea before topping up his, adding a splash of honey to his taste. It was obvious she was growing anxious by the removal of her pointed hat to put herself at ease, but she resumed with her questioning once she dabbed the citrus off her lips.
"I've attempted to speak to Rubeus about this very matter many times, and every time I've failed miserably," said McGonagall, uncomfortable with the rumours she had heard circulating amongst her colleagues. It wasn't exactly a secret that Hagrid's education was tragically cut short, but the exact reasoning had always been a mystery due to how sensitive the case was. There was a fatal accident involving a magical beast and Miss Warren has haunted the bathroom ever since, that was all anyone knew. And now Myrtle has disappeared, and the creature might have returned. "I'll admit at first I was unbothered by Rubeus' behaviour, possibly I felt somewhat sympathetic as he can be dumbfounded around wand-wielding magic at the best of times. Naturally he would be worried with a petrifying beast on the loose, but am I interpreting this all wrong? Is he—?"
"Rubeus isn't a threat, he plays no part in any of this," Albus reminded her, peering over his spectacles as he sipped his tea, but he pressed his lips together when Minerva exploded.
"I never said he was! I am not a part of the majority that whispers about him behind his back like he is a pariah, and you are very well aware that people are pointing fingers in his direction because of the circumstances of his expulsion," McGonagall exclaimed her concerns, "I can only think of one professor besides yourself who taught Rubeus and we all know Professor Binns is not the most proficient at recounting coherent tales of his tenure at times, his insistence that Rubeus used his pet to attack his classmates during his third year isn't going down well with the staff. Please, Albus, tell me what's really going on here?"
The headmaster couldn't stand to see the disappointment in her eyes, the resentment she was starting to harbour towards him and his silent treatment were welling up like tears and he didn't want to see them spill down her puckered cheeks. His deputy was one of his most trusted confidants, his favourite partner-in-gossip, and one of the most intelligent witches he knew. If something were to go awry and he would no longer be able to protect the castle then she would be the one who had to step up to the challenge — so why couldn't she finally know the truth behind Rubeus' expulsion? He was beginning to run out of valid reasons as to why he needed to work alone. Maybe she could help slow the sands of time…
"You deserve to be told," Albus murmured, bracing his chin against his clasped hands as though in prayer, his azure eyes locked onto hers, "if even the smallest of my hunches prevails then I believe that we need to prepare for the worst case scenario, and I know that, in the end, Rubeus will be extraordinarily grateful for your support but be aware that he still holds a substantial amount of shame in his heart with regards to his expulsion, so I would like you not to inform him of your knowing. I think I have been a bit too arrogant as of late, thinking you wouldn't be able to handle it when you have been such a loyal and wise commander in the past. Forgive me, Minerva, for I am becoming an old man at last."
Minerva sat up straight in her armchair, elated that she had finally broken through her friend's tough shell. She agreed that he has been rather dismissive and arrogant recently, and she was glad he was acknowledging her as a legitimate confidante like he used to.
"You know you can rely on me, Headmaster," she promised softly, "Rubeus' wild pet didn't attack Miss Warren, did it?"
Silence stung the air between them, bluntly punctuating her sentence, but then—
"It did not," Albus confessed in a deep breath, "I believe he was framed, but of course I'm getting ahead of myself. Before we discuss my latest theory on what is truly unravelling here at Hogwarts, however, I need to tell you two things that I believe will exemplify what dangers may come from this."
McGonagall readjusted her seating position and welcomed Dumbledore's honesty with a ready expression and attentive ears. The headmaster rarely dove into the stories of his past, and due to his extensive teaching career she knew he had many fascinating and harrowing tales to tell. She knew she had to soak up every little detail he spilled.
Albus licked his lips and settled back in his decorative armchair and traced the carvings of spirals on the sides to calm his twitches of doubt.
"The first thing you must know is that the legend of the Chamber of Secrets is based on truth, not lies. Somewhere in this castle there is a secret tunnel built by Slytherin itself, and it has been the home of a basilisk for hundreds of years," he said calmly, forcing a light tone despite the subject. Reminiscing about possibly the worst decade of his life was difficult but he had to see it through.
Minerva didn't respond, she could only gawk.
"It exists?!" She spluttered once she found her words again, and Albus nodded.
"And I believe it may have been opened again."
"Which means it's been opened before? By Rubeus?" She asked, getting ahead of herself, but Albus shook his head and allowed her the chance to catch her breath.
"The Heir attended Hogwarts during Rubeus' time, but no, it is not him," he answered, and his gaze lost its usual gleam, "as you know I was working incessantly with the Ministry during that point in my career. I was merely the Transfiguration professor with an explosive reputation that precedes me even today, I was needed elsewhere in the world, and with my departures from the school increasing I couldn't watch over the students like I had hoped. There was one particular student who knew how to take advantage of my absences and it allowed him the space to progress down a dark path inside Hogwarts' walls."
"Who was this student?" McGonagall was barely able to whisper, anticipation gripped her throat.
"The second thing I must tell you is the tale of that student. It is not a pleasant tale, nor one with much backstory as of yet, but it is a tale I have been keeping from everyone and it's high time I confess to you the intricacies of our relationship," he said gravely.
"Your… relationship? With who?" McGonagall murmured, hooked on every word. Her own hunch was forming fast like an icicle, and the coldness dripped down her back, keeping her alert. She always wondered where it all began, and the truth would weigh heavy on her heart.
"He was an orphan, two years Rubeus' senior, and he was categorically the most excellent student to ever grace Hogwarts," continued Dumbledore, his gaze dropping off in a daydream as he thought back to the day he met the poor child desperate for something magical beyond his wildest dreams, "a lonely, angry, love-starved boy called Tom Riddle…"
It was like emerging from tar made from ice, the thickest snow sludge known to man. Lyra couldn't believe she finally managed to break through its congealed surface. She had been under for days, possibly even weeks — surely not months? How would she know? Time passed differently here… wherever here was.
Here seemed to be nothing but blackness. All around her and possibly inside her too, but it wasn't like a vacuum where she could feel nothing.
She felt everything.
It was like the worst form of drowning, she was encased in a substance that wouldn't budge unless she pushed herself to the brink of overexertion. Every muscle cramp felt like sharp sword stabs and she couldn't catch her breath no matter how hard she panted. It swallowed her organs, crushing them against her skin like she was about to burst. At least in water Lyra was free to thrash her body around freely — she couldn't move in this matter whatsoever.
But once she broke through the surface of the frozen tar she gasped for air like a rasping zombie and clawed herself out of the hellish substance. She was still alive. Just.
Through the blackness she saw dim orange light on the horizon, a fiery glow somewhere what felt like miles away dancing along the black line. For a moment she swore she was back in the ocean at the break of dawn, watching the sun rise over the waters that surrounded the Jurassic coast. She was waiting for light to illuminate this dreadful nightmare and reveal she had been dumped in the middle of nowhere, there was no sign of land in sight.
But it wasn't an ocean Lyra knew, the substance was firmer than liquid but malleable like gas despite its mirrored obsidian surface. She could easily rake her fingers through the surface of the matter, just by touch alone she knew it would carry her weight if she emerged, so she propelled her body upwards like a dancing fish fleeing from the jaws of a sharp-toothed predator. She may not have been in the sea, but the terror pulsing through her body couldn't differentiate this feeling from her haunting memories of her past partial drownings.
Her arms and legs were numb, she couldn't feel her chapped lips or her tongue—
No, she couldn't feel anything at all. All sensation left her limbs once she finally yanked her foot from the hole trying to suck her back in. A shooting paralysing spasm shot through both legs when she tried to stand and she collapsed onto the sludge like a severed puppet.
"HELP!" Lyra screeched hysterically, giving into her fear. She couldn't touch anymore, she couldn't hear anything but deafening silence, but she knew she could still scream when her vocal cords vibrated. She didn't want to die here, in this unfamiliar dark realm that was determined to see her drowned. "HELP ME!"
A hand made from black ice oozed up from the tar and grasped the side of her face that was smashed into the sludge. The substance was alive, and it wanted to reclaim her. She attempted to fight against the force dragging her downwards, but it was too strong.
"No no no!" Lyra protested, trying to keep herself afloat in the odd gelatinous matter as she urged feeling back into her body, but the ice fingers dug deeper into her flesh. Come on! GET UP!
Her body remained unresponsive, like it had already decided to give up, and her mind was delirious from betrayal. This wasn't her, she wasn't prepared to surrender without trying.
That's it, Black! Keep fighting!
Don't give in to him, whatever you do Lyra, don't give up.
"I'M GOING TO WIN!" Lyra howled aloud, letting the blackness know that it should be scared of her. The faint rasps in the back of her mind helped tremendously and she could feel her determination return to her body like pinpricks. It had been so long since her conscience was vocal, "YOU HAVEN'T KILLED ME YET!"
More hands latched onto her ankles and her biceps, hungrily scratching at her as though they were going to feast on her flesh, but she continued to scream. Her voice was her only weapon.
"GET OFF ME! PLEASE! HELP! HEEELP!"
They came from the horizon, a fuzzy black spot like a smudge on the lens of a telescope. They were so small that Lyra never noticed their arrival against the orange glow, her wild black hair concealed most of her peripheral so it would've taken a miracle for their presence to tear her from the sludge trying to eat her. Her shrieks were heard by ears lightyears away, and they couldn't say no since she was calling for them personally. She was in control, after all.
YES!
She doesn't know how to communicate with them, this is futile.
No — but we do. They can hear us too, remember?
Oh! Well then I suppose… HELP! HELP HER!
WHY AREN'T YOU STOPPING THIS?! YOU KNOW WHO HE IS! YOU KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF HE GETS IT!
Lyra wasn't the only one trapped by the blackness, and her rescuer could hear every one of their cries.
They arrived with no answers, only a shrouded hood and a flash of ancient silver. The ravenous black tar that was devouring Lyra like quicksand spat her out at the feet of the visitor like a misbehaving puppy desperately trying to cover up its tracks and she flopped back to the surface, unscathed but incredibly weak.
Thank you…
If Lyra was aware of her cursed life she would have been able to look up into the hood of her saviour and greet them properly like an old friend. If she knew what she was capable of then she would've been able to comprehend the sunset realm and become accustomed to the darkness flooding her veins. She could've done so much…
But she couldn't, not yet. Lyra could barely keep her aching eyes open. She had to go back. She had to uncover her fate first.
"YOU CAN WITHSTAND ME… YOU CAN WITHSTAND HIM… DARKNESS IS YOUR FRIEND, MY LOVE… USE IT."
BANG!
A white flash blinded her, and suddenly someone's hands were around her neck. The dark realm was replaced with a familiar castle corridor and the hands belonged to—
"T-Tom?!"
Lyra's eyes widened as her windpipe shrunk under his stern grip. Panic collided with joy in her stomach, and the blood drained from her face when he realised she was awake. Whenever she saw the boy of her dreams she felt nothing but euphoria, yet this was the first time his beautiful features sparked resistance within her. Something was off about his face, his smile was off-centred, or his eyes were unnaturally wide, whatever it was she couldn't tell.
The echoes of a hissing beast reverberated against the domed stone ceilings, reminding the pair of their presence, but the pressure around Lyra's neck doubled, preventing her from being able to inspect her surroundings. Her brain couldn't quite piece together that it was his hands that were cutting off her air supply when he promised to protect her… She never thought he'd hurt her but she was losing consciousness and he wasn't even batting an eyelid—
BANG!
The corridor was gone, the tension around her neck loosened, but the boy remained.
Lyra felt leaves and broken branches beneath her boots, the breath of the wind tickled her cheeks and she shivered when she noticed she was soaked head to toe. She had no time to process the asphyxiation, it left as suddenly as it came. Did she imagine him squeezing the life out of her?
The Forbidden Forest at night was never silent so the absence of noise was deafening. As she spun around to catch her bearings she caught sight of the dark crimson liquid staining her skin and her stomach dissolved out of fear.
She was drenched in blood. Her once white shirt was the biggest giveaway to the extent of the massacre, not a stitch of white was visible in the dullness of the night, and she mentally began to search her body for wounds when she spotted him again.
"You'll do anything I say, won't you Black?" Tom asked her as though proving a point. His unnatural smile was back, she didn't like it.
Lyra's tremors grew worse but the wind disappeared, the cold had been replaced by the chill costing his words. He was unrecognisable in the shadows of the trees, prowling around her like she was a cornered deer and he was a sly mountain lion, waiting for the right time to pounce after months suffering from starvation.
This was the first time she was perturbed by Tom's presence. It no longer felt like the perfect fantasy she built up in her head, that she had read about countless times in Danielle's romance novels and intended to experience for herself. He wasn't supposed to look at her like this… like she had hurt him? It didn't make sense.
"You're my good little girl, aren't you?" He hissed, the words that once made her blush now forcing her to cower away in apprehension. Lyra chewed on her lip to avoid answering, ignoring the coppery sting on her tongue. She didn't like the way he said that… like there was some hidden meaning to the phrase that she was unaware of, like he had been teasing her this entire time. Like she was tainted.
"Stop it," she whispered, "I don't like that anymore—,"
BANG!
The forest vanished, and a graveyard materialised around her. The tombs and the looming manor in the distance looked vaguely familiar but the panic truly started to rise within her when she noticed Kreacher a few feet away, crouched over an excavated grave. She snuck out of school, she couldn't believe she had forgotten about this—?!
BANG!
The bright light refused to fade this time. The gurgling of a brewing cauldron filled her eardrums and the smell of burning metal made her nose wrinkle. Her tongue dribbled with saliva in her mouth, an unquenchable thirst took hold of her body when she detected the addictive buttery potion she had been gulping down all year—
BANG!
The visions cycled through faster and faster and each flash of white light sullied her sight and damaged her psyche. She felt as though she was trapped inside an oscillating camera shutter, damned to be blinded for eternity. It was too much for her brain to process. She prayed for the end of the torture, but as soon as the thought left her mind she broke free of the masterful dark curse imprisoning her.
CRASH!
Lyra couldn't have chosen a worse time to fight back.
"Owww! That was a nasty one!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed over the stands' speakers, "it looks like Black lost control of her broom and gave herself quite the concussion. Gryffindor might be in trouble here, their Chaser could be out for good."
Unbeknownst to the unconscious girl sprawled on the sandbank lining the pitch, bleeding from a deep cut freshly sliced across the top of her skull, she had just come to during the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff Quidditch game and managed to crash spectacularly into the foundations of the Ravenclaw stands face first.
The sheer force of her head cracking against solid wood knocked Lyra out immediately and the game continued for ten full seconds before the crowd caught up with the bizarre accident, oohing and ahhing from the stands. It happened so fast only a handful were unlucky enough to witness her ugly crash.
It took two days for Lyra to recover enough strength to wake up due to the complications of her state of mind, but during her sleeping state her poor brain suffered terribly.
The matron was deeply concerned when twenty-four hours passed and the girl was still locked in a deep sleep. It was commonly a sign that something serious and unseen was ailing her patient, so she acted as she saw fit. If she discovered an injury that was beyond her capabilities as school matron then she would need to send her patient to St Mungos, this was the standard procedure. It was extraordinarily rare that she came across a wound or a mysterious illness she couldn't resolve with her wares here at Hogwarts.
But when Madam Pomfrey closed the ward off from visitors on the second night and returned to Lyra's bedside to attempt an internal examination of her mind, she came across something she had never seen at Hogwarts before. Something even St Mungos couldn't be prepared for.
Darkness. It encapsulated every fibre of Lyra's being, Poppy had never encountered anything like this before. No light, no happiness - nothing.
The spell penetrated Lyra's temple in a neon green spiral, twisting its way through her thick defences like a corkscrew, and a smoky white projection of what was occurring inside of Lyra was supposed to hover above her affected body part so the matron knew where she should focus on first. Instead, a cloud as dense and as black as that of the aftermath of a bomb explosion engulfed her entirely, and she had to ignite her wand to clear the smoke away.
Madam Pomfrey was stupefied, for the first time in her life she had no words to say. No immediate remedy to her patient's problems. Was the girl brain dead? This had never happened before, only a corpse would reveal results such as these, and she could feel the girl's heartbeat beneath her fingertips.
As Poppy retested the pulsing of her heart with a delicate compress against a pressure point, Lyra revered her warm touch and stirred in her bed. The matron couldn't have been more exhausted as she yelped and clutched at her heart, momentarily shocked by her sudden groans of agony that got her own heart racing, but she assumed a more professional demeanour and got to work.
"Miss Black? Can you hear me?"
Lyra blinked a couple of times and then immediately regretted every flutter. Ouuuuch!
It was like someone had taken an axe to the very top of her skull and attempted to hack her down the middle as though she was a stubborn tree trunk refusing to split. Every muscle that could theoretically be strained was throbbing, pumping blood around her body and exacerbating the agony that wouldn't leave. She had never been poisoned before but she figured this was what it felt like. Ugh, have I been poisoned?!
"A little too clearly, I would say," rasped Lyra, sounding as though she had torn her throat from screaming. She flinched at the matron's murmurs as though she was shouting into her eardrums. Although it was the middle of the night and the candles were at their lowest, Lyra still cowered from the harsh light when she eventually opened her eyes.
"Can you turn the lights off please? I can't… it's too…"
It didn't take long for Pomfrey to resume her role as caretaker and she got to work diagnosing her patient in partial darkness. The girl's severe reaction was a clear indication that there was much to do.
Rattling trays stuffed with potions of all calibres were summoned, healing incantations were uttered over and over again, and various kinds of herbs were stuffed in her mouth in the process. Despite the efforts working miracles on her external head trauma and quivers of developing shock, nothing seemed to make a permanent mark on her mental state. Dealing with physical injuries was Poppy's forte, but mental ones? She could neither confirm nor deny whether that was her area of expertise.
"Miss Black," the matron began as she took her seat beside Lyra's bed, a quill and clipboard in her lap, "I want to ask you a few questions before I leave you to rest for the evening, I hope that will be ok."
"Sure," Lyra agreed, focusing more on the correct method of laying down without disturbing the bandages secured around her head, "but just so you know, I also have questions so I'm open to asking them intermittently if you are?"
Pomfrey's brow furrowed, confused. "You have questions? Like what?"
Lyra brightened up a little, and scrambled to sit up again, "Oh, we've already started? Questions like what did I do that landed me here? How did I injure myself? And what day is it?"
"You don't know…" Pomfrey cleared both her throat and the perplexity from her face, and sat up straighter so she could scribble without bending awkwardly, "Lyra, what is the last thing you remember?"
Fighting the urge to answer with another question, Lyra paused for a moment to humour her and found herself drawing a total blank. The pounding in her head increased tenfold as she tried to strain her memory, and she recoiled from its sharpness as she held her poor head. Come on… think, Lyra…
"Miss Black?"
"I–I'm trying," she stammered, shying away from Madam Pomfrey as her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, "I think… there was something about a… wait, no I–," a choked sob got caught in her chest and she heaved, "I don't know."
"You can't recall any memories from recent times? A lesson perhaps? A conversation with a friend? A dream?" Pomfrey tried to encourage her, but Lyra only shook her head, too stunned to speak. She couldn't remember anything solid, only wisps of gas that were evaporating from her mind like steam as they floated away forever. But why? Had she really hit her head that hard?
The diagnosis of mild amnesia was officially given to her before the clock struck midnight, and Lyra lay in the hospital cot for hours tossing and turning, begging her mind to release the memories she had lost.
It wasn't that she had lost days entirely, she could still recall thoughts and feelings concerning particular moments over the past year, but that only made her more frustrated. They were just out of reach, but they were there. Like the butterflies in her stomach when she kissed Tom… for the first time? These butterflies felt different, there were more than she remembered. Had he visited her more than once?
She remembered feelings of adrenaline too, they were quick to return as she surveyed her brain for clues. Pomfrey informed her that she landed in hospital due to an accident on the Quidditch pitch. Of course that all made sense, she must have been training for weeks leading up to the event… but anxiety intertwined with the adrenaline? Was it fear? Her heart pounds were jagged and offbeat, and her palms began to sweat profusely when she tried to clear that particular mental block. What had she been doing? It must've been thrill-seeking if she was reacting like this.
It wasn't until the next morning that she finally cracked through the feeling that returned the most throughout the night.
Every time she was close to drifting off she was gripped by an instantaneous panic attack rocketing through her and forcing her to hyperventilate until she was on the brink of passing out. Only then would she collapse back and finally suck in enough oxygen to feed her brain, and she was wide awake for another hour or so until it happened again. It was like her body knew a nocturnal beast was stalking her and waiting until she fell asleep to devour her, and it was driving her insane. The cycle was endless.
"Mistress!"
Until Kreacher dropped by, a bunch of freshly-picked peach and lilac delphiniums in one hand and a steaming cup of Earl Grey in the other.
"Aw, buddy! That's so sweet," Lyra cooed, rolling her dense head to the side so she could see her sorrowful, pouting house elf in all his black velvet glory, "wow, did I make you that? Looking sharp, my guy. I've got impeccable taste, unless you stole that, in which case you've got impeccable taste." She couldn't have been happier to see him, her grin was effervescent, "I've missed you! Hi!"
After her sleepless night she was in quite a delirious state, but Kreacher didn't seem to mind. He was more than relieved to find her like this, it bode well for his own ulterior motives.
"Kreacher knows he shouldn't visit Mistress while she is out in the open, but he couldn't resist. Kreacher was sure that no professors saw him," the elf croaked, his batty ears flapping as he examined the empty hospital wing for eavesdroppers. The ward was bathed in dusty pink sunbeams from the encroaching dawn beyond the windows. Lyra smiled dreamily at the pretty colours dripping down the walls with a subtle shrug, attempting to sip her tea without causing more damage to herself.
"That's very kind of you, usually you'd never miss a chance to get me into some sort of trouble," she commented, "I would've enjoyed the excitement of people finding out of course, you know me, but I'll admit that I would probably have a mental breakdown if you were taken away from me so if you could kindly not do that, that'll be great."
Usually Lyra hid her true thoughts from her elf, as though keeping them as her greatest weapon so she could use them against him, but since she had no filter this morning she let it spew.
Kreacher cocked his head, still not fully acquainted with the fact that his new mistress was more emotional than her predecessors, but he returned with a crueller smile than she expected.
"Kreacher would rather see his own head chopped than be stripped from you, Mistress, Kreacher will never allow himself to be caught," he vowed.
"That's my boy!" Lyra giggled, missing his intense bow as she admired her new flowers, but it was then that she noticed another pile of cards circled on her bedside table as though protecting her wand and her attention span vanished in another painful blink, "ooooh! For me? Well I never!"
"Mistress, Kreacher is here for a reason other than to wish her well," Kreacher called out, hobbling closer with his squinted eyes wide, "he comes with a warning."
"A warning?" Lyra repeated, only half-listening as she read one of her get well soon cards, "that's cool— oh wow, look! This is from Luna! She's awake?! Maybe I should go and find—,"
"Mistress, please," the house elf begged, growing restless with her erratic puppy dog behaviour, and he knocked the card from her hands and clasped her hands in his, tugging her so she would look at him instead of the private ward doors, "listen to me! You are wasting valuable time, you must do it tonight!"
"Eh? What are you—?"
But Lyra fell slack when she looked deeply into her elf's bloodshot, discomposed gaze and saw it. Pieces of her jumbled jigsaw brain clicked together and she saw a vivid snippet of her journey back to Gryffindor Tower on Valentine's Day, only a few seconds of clarity that reminded her that she was with him when she fell.
"Kreacher is only doing what's best for Mistress, for the Black family, for your love."
Tom.
The Forest.
Tom…
The sour taste of something unnatural.
The blood.
And his hands… she could feel his hands on her, touching her, squeezing her all over—
"Oh my god!"
Lyra ripped Kreacher's hands away and scuffled away from him like a spooked animal, deeply disturbed by what she saw.
Kreacher tried not to recoil from her repulsed reaction but his ears dipped in shame and he staggered back when she finally looked down at him, her face transformed by mistrust. She had never looked more unlike herself. Her humour vanished and Kreacher instantly knew that he fucked up.
"Kreacher…" Lyra said shakily, watching him as though she had never seen an elf before, "what did you mean when you said you preferred me when I'm with him?"
The tea sitting in her empty stomach threatened to come up again but she tensed her body in time to trap it behind her clavicle. Please, be wrong. That was fake, that wasn't real?!
The guilt Kreacher exuded didn't help with her nausea whatsoever and Lyra clawed at her face, dumbfounded.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!
"Kreacher?! Answer me!"
"Mistress—,"
The sounds of footsteps clacking against the floor beyond the ward doors tore the pair from their spat and Kreacher clamped his mouth shut. It wasn't safe anymore, they weren't alone anymore.
"You must take it," the house elf bargained in desperation, his last chance to fulfil her rigid commands before the doors swung open. He revealed the leather book from his inside pocket and threw it at her.
But Lyra was faster, even while in pain
"No!" She exclaimed, and with an agonising grunt she kicked the book back at him, frazzled by its appearance, "take it! I don't want it right now!"
The diary flew through the air but Kreacher caught it with both hands, clutching it to his chest as though he was afraid it would shatter if it fell.
"Go! Now! Put it back in my bed!" Lyra demanded, her silver eyes ignited in fury, and Kreacher's ears twitched as he adhered to her master commands.
Unable to utter even a word in self-defence, Kreacher twisted on his heel and vanished with a fainter pop! than Lyra was used to. She couldn't tear her gaze from the spot he was standing on, where he was standing holding Tom's diary — he knew Tom! When did he speak to him? Has he met him? Who has he told?
Her heart fell out of sync as ice shot through her veins, paralysing her.
He forced me to touch the book… and then I woke up here…
Suddenly Tom's phantom hands were around her again, clamping down on her oesophagus like she was a chicken who's neck he intended to snap. They closed in on her, fitting into the moulds in her skin like muscle memory, like they knew every contour of her collarbones and throat. Lyra tried to rip them away, she frantically clawed at her neck and thrashed about, doing everything in her power to free herself, but the vicious movements only brought more pain.
"Stop! Please! GET OFF! I DON'T LIKE IT ANYMORE!"
The hospital wing doors flew open, and the hands released Lyra from their torturous grip as the matron came storming over, her cotton robes flowing behind her making her look very much like a dove mid-flight. Sweat soaked Lyra's brow and she rushed to wipe it, before wincing again at her tender head and collapsing back onto her pillow to cringe at herself. She totally heard that.
"Morning," Lyra mumbled, cradling her head in such a way that shield most of her dewy face.
"Did I just hear you screaming, Miss Black? Are you ok?" The matron questioned, peering over her thin spectacles with knitted brows, and Lyra summoned up the courage to shove her frantic thoughts aside and plaster a false smile on her face.
There was no way in hell she was telling her truth, especially as she was still coming to grips with reality herself. The flashes, her deviant memories that made her feel as though she was observing someone else's past, it would be impossible to explain in isolation. Tom would find out, the hands would return–
"Miss Black?" Madam Pomfrey repeated, seriously doubting her patient's cognitive abilities as she continued to stare glassy-eyed back at her, but Lyra jolted and widened her fake smile until her cheeks ached.
"I'm fine! There was, uh, an elf in here and he scared me," she blurted out, hoping she would sound somewhat believable. Did Hogwarts have house elves? She hadn't seen one in the castle before. Crap!
"Oh," Pomfrey's scowl softened and she pursed her lips as she eyed the speckless floors, "they're usually so quiet when they clean, I apologise if they woke you up."
"Like I said, it's fine, I'm fine," Lyra sighed, hiding her staggered, anxious breaths with a nervous laugh, and her fixed bubbliness returned as though she was genuinely amused by it all, "just a bit of a shock, that's all. Don't suppose I could get some more of that painkiller potion, can I? My head is killing!"
Lyra hated how easy it was for her to fake her positive attitude. To pretend that the only thing ailing her was a bump on the head and a few achy muscles while she was mentally trapped in a downward spiral of fear and mismatched memories.
Every now and then another flash from her murky past knocked her out of her jolly stride and stole her oxygen, and she would lose focus on what she was saying or doing as she concentrated on sharpening the new image in her head. But then the matron would catch her eye and her fake smile was back, wider than before. She didn't want to admit it but her injury was hindering her ability to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds, let alone a string of memories that only came to her in brief flashes, but that didn't mean she was going to give up.
Yet, no matter how much time she spent concentrating, there was still something that didn't make any sense to her.
Tom… he couldn't – he wouldn't – hurt me…? He loves me…