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Stars to burn out ✶ Chapter seven
When it came to the sorting ceremony back in her first year, Lyra had been the sorting hat's second quickest decision.
The hat had been dropped atop her head, however after falling down past her eyes, it only remained in place for a total of three seconds. The Slytherin table had been the only ones partaking in applause, the others sitting silent. Her surname alone was sufficient to inflict terror, and her being announced a slytherin only reinforced their perception of her as a threat.
Lyra's eleven-year-old self had been blissfully unaware of the stares as she strutted toward her house table with poise: a smile across her lips, the stupid hat's lack of hesitation as to her sorting still to this day a great comfort. She was not a reflection of her father.
The day had been both a blessing and a ruin; Sirius later on cursing her association with the house of green and silver. Lyra prided herself for it. Family is of utter importance — the house of Black was one belonging in Slytherin, and no matter her father's aversion she had reinstated the legacy which he had broken.
Her standpoint had, however, always invited opposing opinions. Prejudice is foul, and stares always followed in her steps. Lyra was raised to defend her honor, posture polished to perfection, her composure as if morphed from stone. Scarce teenage gossip rarely worked to disarm her, yet this time it was different.
When stepping inside the Great Hall, all eyes turned to observe her. Conversations stilled, laughter suffocated, tension resting atop the student body unlike anything to have been seen before.
Lyra nearly cowered, for the hostility within the eyes she came front with was enough to install rare vulnerability. "Ignore them," muttered Draco and grabbed a hold of her sleeve, pulling her along to find a seat. His stoicism was see-through, and Lyra immediately frowned. He knew something she didn't, and it was most likely related to the hundreds of eyes pinned right at her.
The stares did not falter even after she had settled at the Slytherin table. She looked at Theodore, who was seated right opposite, for answers. He appeared just as confused.
"Draco," she eventually muttered: her cousin tensing up at being addressed. Lyra turned to meet his gaze. "Why are they staring at me?"
"It's nothing. They're being ridiculous."
She was allowed no further interrogation: Dumbledore took the podium and began his annual speech, voice echoing, composing sentences sufficient in declaring him a total bore. Always was it the same, the headmaster constant in his delivery of subtle warnings, encrypting deeper meaning into his words which few truly felt as if they understood. Then came the rules: do not enter the forbidden forest without supervision, lFilch says this, Filch says that. Blah, blah, blah. Lyra paid no mind to the man, but opted to pin her cousin with a glare.
