Lyra tried to will her toes to move—just her toes. Something simple. Automatic. But even that was impossible.
Her entire body buzzed with numbness, heavy and tingling like it belonged to someone else. If anyone looked at her now in the moonlit room, they might think she was sleeping peacefully. But a closer look at her wide, panicked eyes would betray the truth—she was trapped.
She had woken suddenly, heart hammering against her ribs like a desperate fist on a locked door. But she wasn't gasping or thrashing—she couldn't even alter her own breathing. Her body was frozen, unresponsive.
She could almost feel her jaw trying to open, trying to scream. She could feel the muscles tense and the sound rise in her throat—but it never came. Just a breathless almost.
Fear bloomed, vast and sickening. She could only move her eyes, darting back and forth in the darkness, pleading silently for help.
Her hearing still worked. Too well. She heard the floorboards creak beside her bed—the subtle groan of wood bending beneath a weight. Something stood just out of sight, just beyond the edge of her vision. If she could only turn her head…
A choked, muffled sound escaped her throat—barely louder than the wind outside. Like the sound of something dying inside her.
Desperate, Lyra scanned her narrow field of vision for anything—anything at all. The ceiling above her came into focus, bathed in silver moonlight. And in it, shadows danced.
Grotesque and writhing, they shifted like breath, moving in time with her forced, steady inhalations. They loomed, dark and unnatural, yet quiet. Watching.
She had been caught in this helpless state before, where awareness returned but movement did not. Usually, it passed in seconds. She would jolt herself free, stumble into the kitchen, and drink cold water until her pulse slowed.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, the paralysis clung like a wet cloth, and the shadows above seemed to be waiting. Breathing.
The covers tightened around her chest, no longer comforting but suffocating. She felt the weight of it now—her breath growing shallow, vision blurring. Floating spots danced with the shadows above, flickering in and out of shape.
Her mind screamed for movement. Even a twitch, a blink, anything. She had the surreal thought that if she didn't break free, she would never move again. That whatever watched her from the ceiling would take root and stay. That the stillness would become her.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Or maybe it was just her skin that turned cold, sweat drying too fast on her limbs. She could hear her own pulse now, deafening in the silence.
Move. Please, just move.
With tremendous effort, her fingers twitched. Then her wrist. The sensation returned in bursts—needles of awareness stabbing through the fog. Her lungs unlocked, and she gasped, blinking away the images above her.
She slid off the bed, limbs trembling as if carrying thrice their weight. The air felt too thin. She stumbled out of the room.
The hallway was dim. She barely registered the bathroom light flickering on or the sound of the tap rushing in the sink. Cold water splashed against her face like a slap—sharp and saving.
She lifted her head.
The mirror showed her own reflection.
But the face staring back was not hers.
Its skin was carved with bloody scratches, eyes black and bottomless, a scream silently stretching its deformed mouth as bile oozed out like ink.
A sharp gasp.
And Lyra jolted upright in bed.
Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains. Birds chirped. From the kitchen, the faint sounds of a kettle boiling and a spoon clinking against a cup of tea drifted down the hallway.
Her mum was awake, having breakfast.
Everything was normal.
Lyra sat in the quiet, staring at the ceiling, breath shallow and heart aching. She blinked, once. Then again.
She was safe.
But the feeling lingered.
That weight. That shadow. That thing that had hovered above her like a breath she couldn't take.
And she felt, somehow, that it had not been just a dream.
Lyra tried to blink away the heaviness in her chest, but the feeling clung stubbornly to her skin like damp clothes after rain. No matter how many times she told herself it was over, she couldn't shake what the Dementor had left behind. That moment—those eyes—or the lack of them, had branded her. Even now, weeks later, a shiver would crawl up her spine at the memory.
She told herself that the screams she heard, the cries for help, the visions of endless torment were just her imagination running wild. But it was a losing battle—trying to argue with her subconscious. And whatever that was... it had felt far too real.
With a quiet grunt and joints creaking from another sleepless night, she pushed herself up. The smell of flowers—both magical and mundane—and something rich and savory greeted her from the kitchen. It was the scent of home. Warm. Familiar. And yet… somehow distant.
As always, her mum had been up since before dawn, tending to the greenhouses. She was always up before the sun—whether it was spring, summer, or the middle of a snowstorm. There was always something to plant, to trim, to whisper ancient words to. Magic had its own seasons, and her mum followed them religiously.
Lyra sometimes wondered if it wasn't just about the plants.
She had seen the photos—the old ones buried in a drawer that was meant to look forgotten. Her mum hadn't always been like this. The woman in those pictures had been radiant, smiling in every frame, always surrounded by friends. The house had once been full of life. Of people. Of adventure.
There were no pictures of Sirius Black.
Lyra sat down at the table. Her mum was already there, halfway through her breakfast, two empty cups of tea beside her, and a tall glass of something purple and steaming that gurgled softly every few seconds. Lyra didn't ask. Last time she had, she'd been made to try some. Never again.
"There's toast. And eggs," her mum said without looking up, scribbling in a notebook beside a stack of lunar charts and plant logs.
This was their usual morning rhythm: early breakfast, half-eaten food, distracted work. Her mum always cooked enough for three, then picked at her plate while immersing herself in the rituals of the day.
Lyra nibbled on a piece of toast, the warmth of the food chasing away the last traces of numbness in her limbs.
"...later today?" her mum's voice cut through her fog.
"Huh?" Lyra looked up.
"I said," her mum repeated, now smiling, "would you like to help me apply salamander balm to the gums of the Fanged Geraniums? They'll sprout their first teeth at midnight, and we'll need to put tiny sweaters on each pot so they don't get chilly."
Her eyes sparkled with excitement. Apparently, this was a rare occasion.
"Uh—yeah. Sure," Lyra said. "That sounds… fun."
Her mum beamed, then returned to her charts.
Lyra didn't resent her mum's work. She had once. But after going to Hogwarts, after hearing the whispers and feeling the stares that followed her everywhere as Sirius Black's daughter, she'd started to understand. Keeping her hands busy meant keeping her mind quiet. Her mum didn't want to feel. Didn't want to remember.
She remembered how five years ago, on a rare day off from the greenhouses, her mum had taken her on a picnic and tried—awkwardly but sincerely—to prepare her. About Hogwarts. About how people might react. About the name.
Nothing could've prepared her for the stares. Or the morbid curiosity. The questions that always came too soon. Do you think he was really guilty? Do you know why he did it? Or worse, people who idolized him. Who whispered about his escape with something close to admiration and looked at her like a puzzle piece that might fit their twisted fantasies, as if she were to reveal her own killing tendencies if they made her feel at ease.
They'd never married, Sirius and Marlene. Free spirits, both of them. No rings. No last names.
And Lyra envied her mum for the fact that she didn't have the Black last name attached to her.
The truth she'd learned just weeks ago had softened that resentment. But not erased it.
Eventually, she stopped trying. Friendships became cordial nods in hallways. Conversations stayed on safe topics. Acquaintances were enough.
It was easier that way.
The balm was warm, and even through the gloves, Lyra could feel it tingling—like it was breathing, pulsing with subtle life. It would heat up gently, then settle, only to warm again. A living rhythm.
It was delicate work. They couldn't use thicker gloves for fear of damaging the fragile gums of the Fanged Geraniums. Luckily, they hadn't sprouted teeth yet. For now, the little plants only yawned and trembled gently. Her mum had explained that they were cold—despite the summer warmth—and that each would be getting a tiny knitted sweater later that evening in preparation for the first sprouting of teeth.
Despite herself, Lyra couldn't deny they were... cute. She didn't share her mother's passion for plants, but she could appreciate their strange, twitching charm.
"And once we get to the new moon," her mum continued, voice bright with enthusiasm, "the fangs will sharpen on their own, and we'll need to switch to dragonhide gloves."
Her monologue flowed freely despite Lyra's lack of input—an occasional mm-hmm, a nod, a muttered wow here and there were all it took to keep the rhythm going. Her mum didn't seem to mind.
And the truth was, some of it stuck. Lyra was one of the top three students in Herbology in her year—only Neville Longbottom and a Slytherin whose name she never bothered to remember outperformed her.
Herbology, like most things, was about knowing when to be gentle and when to be firm. Some plants needed tenderness. Others would bite off your fingers if you hesitated. Some did both. And apparently, even the nastiest of them appreciated a hand-knit sweater when the temperature dropped.
They worked like that until early afternoon, when they went back inside for a late lunch, and Lyra couldn't deny it—she felt lighter. The weight from the night before hadn't disappeared, but it had dulled. Her mum's method of coping—burying herself in work—wasn't foolproof, but it worked. At least for a little while.
With a casual flick of her wand, Marlene set lunch to prepare itself. She wasn't much of a hands-on cook, but her food was always warm, hearty, and just good enough. It wasn't Hogwarts fare, but Lyra never complained.
They ate mostly in silence. There were a hundred things Lyra wished she could say to her mum, but they all stayed tucked behind her teeth. She never talked about Hogwarts—at least not in the way she wanted. Her letters home were filled with grades, subjects, and praise from professors, never the other stuff. Never the loneliness. Never the stares.
And certainly not the events of last term.
Sirius Black was a forbidden subject—not out of anger, but something worse. Sadness. Lyra had learned early that mentioning his name dimmed something in her mother's eyes, as if a light had gone out and wouldn't return for days. She'd grow quiet. Withdrawn. Fragile.
Lyra suspected her mum thought she hid it well. She didn't.
So eventually, she stopped asking. If she wanted to know more about her father, she had libraries and old newspapers.
But how could she bring up the truth now—that Sirius Black wasn't guilty, that the past fourteen years of silence and grief had been built on a lie? How could she tell her mum that she'd drowned herself in work to escape a ghost who wasn't even dead?
She remembered the way Sirius had looked in the Shrieking Shack. Broken. Gaunt. A man on the edge of sanity who had just learned that someone he loved might still be alive. That they both might be.
Lyra feared what the truth might do to her mum. What if she didn't believe her? Peter Pettigrew had escaped—along with all the proof of Sirius's innocence. Her mother might think she'd been confounded. That Sirius had manipulated her somehow. That he was still the man the Prophet had painted him to be.
She'd hate him even more than she already did.
Lyra had considered writing to Remus Lupin, but didn't know how to start. She wasn't used to sending letters, not beyond her mum or the occasional supply order.
Sirius had written her twice. She hadn't replied. Not because she didn't want to, but because she didn't know how.
She'd started and torn up a dozen letters. What could she even say?
"Hey Sirius, sorry about the hippogriff dung comment. Also, sorry you spent thirteen years being tortured for a crime you didn't commit, and sorry about the whole almost-getting-your-soul-sucked-out bit. That was awkward."
Every time she tried, the memory of the Dementor came rushing back—the infinite eyes, the endless scream of trapped souls. Her quill would stall, and she'd accidentally set the parchment on fire.
And what would she call him anyway? Sirius? Did he expect her to call him Dad? Father? Ugh. That sounded like something out of a Malfoy family reunion. Honestly, if she ever saw him again, she'd probably just say, "Hey you." And hope it was enough.
After lunch, Lyra excused herself from the table, saying she needed to prepare for the school year—and maybe she'd give that reply to Sirius another try.
She was just about to leave the kitchen when her mum called after her.
"Do you want me to wake you up tonight for the teeth sprouting?" Marlene asked, practically glowing with excitement.
Lyra hesitated. She didn't share her mum's enthusiasm, but maybe something light and magical like that was exactly what she needed. Still, the thought of her mum finding her in the same state as the previous night made her stomach twist. That was a conversation she wasn't ready to have.
"No need, Mum," she said. "I'll wait up and meet you in the greenhouse. I wouldn't miss it."
Her mum beamed.
"I'll have tea ready, then. You should at least nap beforehand—don't make me levitate you back to bed when we're done," she teased with a smirk.
"Sure," Lyra agreed, though she had no intention of doing so. "See you then."
Upstairs, she closed her bedroom door behind her. Her school preparations were already done, of course—books read, materials organized, everything in its place. She didn't cram like Hermione Granger, memorizing textbooks cover to cover. That was just bonkers. But a light skim always helped—she could at least remember where to find things when they came up later in class.
She sat at the desk by her window. From there, she had a clear view of the greenhouses. Her mum was still moving between them, levitating crates and clipping plants. Always in motion.
With a sigh, Lyra pulled out parchment, ink, and a quill. She dipped the quill and let it hang for a moment, suspended over the inkwell, dripping slowly.
How to begin?
Dear Sirius? Was he even dear to her?
No. No address. Given his situation as a fugitive, that seemed safer.
She stared for a moment longer, then, smirking at her own indecision, decided to open with a joke. Once she did, the words came easily.
Hey you, sorry about the hippogriff dung comment. I hope next time we meet, you'll leave that tunnel vision behind and start taking better care of yourself.
Speaking of which—how are you? Harry Potter and Hermione Granger told me about your miraculous escape. How's the Hippogriff? (Sorry, I forgot his name.)
I'm safe at home. I haven't told Mum anything about what happened. I don't even know how. And even if I did... I'm scared she wouldn't believe me. I guess you know that feeling. I mean, if I hadn't seen you and the rat by myself, I don't think I'd have believed it either.
I'm excited to go back to Hogwarts. I miss doing magic. I already peeked at our curriculum, and I'm looking forward to getting started.
Stay safe.
—Lyra
She sat back and stared at the letter. After weeks of dread, she'd finally managed four paragraphs. It felt too easy now. It was done.
Her mind wandered—back to last year, back to the Patronus.
She still couldn't believe it had been Potter's stag that saved her. At the time, she thought it was a unicorn, a trick of the light in the chaos. Only later, when she overheard the professors talking, did she learn the truth.
Lyra didn't want to call it a life debt—but she couldn't deny she owed him one.
How had a thirteen-year-old produced a fully corporeal Patronus strong enough to repel not one, but hundreds of Dementors?
It shouldn't have been possible.
But that night had shattered her sense of some things magic could and couldn't do. It had bent the rules. Maybe even broken them.
And Lyra had made a promise to herself: she would learn how to do the same.
Later that night, Lyra stifled a yawn as she trudged downstairs toward the greenhouses. Her limbs were heavy, and she regretted not napping like she'd said. Still, a promise was a promise.
Her mum was already waiting inside, scribbling notes while sipping from a steaming cup of tea. She waved Lyra over and handed her a cup.
Lyra welcomed the warmth between her hands, inhaling the herbal steam as it cleared the fog from her brain.
"It's about to start," Marlene whispered, eyes trained on the rows of plants. "See how their yawns are widening? They're soaking up the moonlight."
Lyra watched in fascination as the plants opened their mouths—wide, absurdly wide—and let out soundless yawns. They didn't have vocal cords, but somehow each yawn emitted a soft, musical note.
And with dozens of plants yawning in discordant harmony, it became something close to a lullaby. The plants swayed gently, dancing under the moonlight. The whole scene shimmered with strange, soft magic.
Despite herself, Lyra felt a sense of wonder. She was glad she hadn't missed it.
With a soft pop, the first tooth emerged.
She and her mum leaned forward in unison.
"First sprout, 1:18 a.m.," Marlene whispered to her floating notebook, which scribbled the time dutifully.
Another pop. Then another. Soon, the greenhouse echoed with a sound not unlike popcorn popping. Lyra smiled—it was all she could think of to compare it to.
The sound reached a crescendo and slowly quieted, until all the Fanged Geraniums had two rows of soft, round teeth. One last collective yawn, and the plants gently drooped their leaves.
Lyra could almost imagine them closing their eyes.
Her mum raised a finger to her lips and silently motioned for her to follow.
"That was beautiful. Thanks, Mum," Lyra said with a sleepy smile as they stepped into the night air.
"And I didn't have to levitate you back to bed. That's progress," Marlene said, returning the smile.
"Now off with you. You look ready to drop."
Lyra nodded and dragged her feet back toward the house. The two empty teacups floated alongside her and washed themselves in the kitchen sink as she passed.
She reached her room, shut the door, and fell onto her bed without even changing clothes.
She slept deeply, dreamlessly, and didn't wake until morning.