You Gotta Love Her (Harry Potter Love Story)

The Firebolt

☆⋆⋆⋆☆   song: yellow by coldplay   ☆⋆⋆⋆☆

Harry didn't have a very clear idea of how he had managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar, through the tunnel and into the castle once more. All he knew was that the return trip seemed to take no time at all, and that he hardly noticed what he was doing, because his head was still pounding with the conversation he had just heard.

Why had nobody ever told him? Dumbledore, Hagrid, Mr Weasley, Cornelius Fudge....Lyra....why hadn't anyone ever mentioned the fact that Harry's parents had died because their best friend....Lyra's father....had betrayed them?

Ron and Hermione watched Harry nervously all through dinner, not daring to talk about what they'd overheard, because Percy was sitting close by them. Lyra hadn't returned, and Harry didn't care if he never saw her again. She had betrayed him, kept a secret for so long without even hinting that she knew anything. Harry didn't want to talk to her, see her, or have anything to do with her, and he told Ron and Hermione as much, in a fit of anger. They had remained silent.

When they went upstairs to the crowded common room, it was to find Fred and George had set off half-a-dozen Dungbombs in a fit of end-of-term high spirits. Harry, who didn't want Fred and George asking him whether he'd reached Hogsmeade or not, sneaked quietly up to the empty dormitory, and headed straight for his bedside cabinet. He pushed his books aside and quickly found what he was looking for – the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of his mother and father. He sat down on his bed, drew the hangings around him, and started turning the pages, searching, until....

He stopped on a picture of his parents' wedding day. There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in all directions. There was his mother, alight with happiness, arm in arm with his Dad. And there....that must be him. Their best man....Harry had never given him a thought before.

If he hadn't known it was the same person, he would never have guessed it was Black in this old photograph. His face wasn't sunken and waxy, but handsome, full of laughter. Had he already been working for Voldemort when this picture had been taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the two people next to him? Did he realise he was facing twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years which would make him unrecognisable?

But the Dementors don't affect him, Harry thought, staring into the handsome, laughing face. He doesn't have to hear my Mum screaming if they get too close –

His heart stopped cold. There was a woman a few feet from from Black, who looked so similar to Lyra, it was unnerving. Her dark hair had been pulled into a twist, pinned to the back of her head, and her face wore a brilliant smile and shining chocolate colored eyes. She wore a blue dress and was holding a bouquet of flowers. She must've been a bridesmaid.

It took Harry a moment to understand that this must've been Lyra's mother. Lyra never talked about her, and since Harry had never bothered to ask, he knew nothing about her. But he could see it now: Lyra had her father's eyes and her mother's straight nose, and a cross between her father's mischievous smile and her mother's loving smile. Both people in the picture were very good-looking, so it was no wonder why Lyra had turned out so....

Traitorous.

Harry slammed the album shut, reached over and stuffed it back into his cabinet, took off his robes and glasses and got into bed, making sure the hangings were hiding him from view.

The dormitory door opened.

"Harry?" came Lyra's voice. "I just came up to say goodnight, I didn't get to see you all day."