The end.
What does it mean for a story to come to an end? For the period to finally find its home at the end of a sentence and the writing to finally cease? Is it the tying of every loose end or the endpoint of each tale? Not necessarily—because that's not how life works. Not everything is resolved at the end of a story, and not everything has a final answer.
Not every story has a happy ending; sometimes, things don't end how you want them to. Death is a given in life, and sometimes, that's how the story ends. When the breathing stops, so does the story. Or, if the story has just reached its peak and there's nowhere else to go with it, it ends. You don't always need to have everything wrapped in a pretty bow for the story to find its completion. It's okay to let go. It's okay to stop telling a story when you don't want to anymore or when you feel like your story has ended.
Every story ends; it just matters at which chapter.
—
Lyra let out a low grunt in the back of her throat as she carried out the giant scarecrow, her breathing laboured with exhaustion. She'd been decorating for Halloween in a few days, deciding that her and Sirius's first Barnton Halloween, and according to the locals surrounding the area, it was a big deal. It was a lower cottage town, but the children that occupied the streets still enjoyed the spooky spirit. Despite the fact that a war raged on outside their doorstep, and people were dying while laying their lives on the line—children sang.
It was beautifully contradicting, the sounds of their charming towns skipping past the Potter-Black household and the grave reality of their world. Lyra tried to stay somewhat optimistic, seeing as she was about to marry the love of her life in four days and her nephew was the sweetest thing to grace the Wizarding World. But still, it was difficult not to dwell on the darkness and shadows that crept around her every corner. The silence from the blood-named blonde that lurked in the back of Lyra's mind was even more discomforting than the sickly stature of Peter.
Lyra focused most of her energy on the wedding, despite all of the planning being done and the big day creeping closer. November 1st was the day that she and Sirius had decided on, seeing as he refused to do it on his birthday. Her mind still raced with the fact that she was about to become Lyra Black, no longer carrying the name of her parents. Sirius had insisted she didn't change or hyphenate it, but Lyra wasn't one to half-ass anything. She wanted to devote her heart and being to Sirius—so she planned on taking his last name.
"One of the great perks of being a wizard," James's voice called from a few feet away as he and Lily wandered up the dirt driveway of Sirius and Lyra's humble home, "Is that you don't have to carry eighty-pound scarecrows."
"Sometimes, James," Lyra shot back, dropping the hay-filled statue at the foot of the porch, "The muggle way of doing things is even more rewarding."
"You bet Sirius to a non-magic weekend, didn't you?"
"Shut up."
It was October 29th, 1981.
Lyra dusted her jumper free of hay before wandering over to where her nephew sat in his father's arms. Lyra scooped the child into her embrace, curling him close to her chest and letting out a coo. She couldn't help but coddle the boy—he was everything perfect in Lyra's eyes. The dimples on his cheeks, the emeralds of his eyes, the dark tufts of hair that sprouted from his head, and the rosy red of his cheeks. It had been a few weeks since Lyra saw Harry, and every time he slipped from her grip, she felt a part of herself scream out for him—keep him close, it always said, don't let him get away.
"Sirius home?" Lily asked as she nodded towards the cottage.
"Yeah, he's inside; what's up?"
"Just wanted to talk with him," Lily shrugged, sending a quick glance to James, "Mind watching Harry for us, Ly?"
"Well, seeing as you're twisting my arm," she taunted, bouncing her nephew a few times and sloping her head towards the house, "Last I saw him, he was in the nursery—ask him about names he wants to use. As if we're anywhere near having a child."
"Life comes at unexpected times, Ly," James teased, flicking Harry's nose, "Trust us."
Lyra chuckled and twisted away from the two, wandering back towards the shed where the rest of the decorations were for Halloween. She whispered sweet nothings to Harry while lifting the odd sign and string of garland, hauling it out towards the front yard as Lily and James disappeared into the house. A nagging feeling scratched at the back of Lyra's mind as she stared at the door, the whispers she heard from Snape and Trelawny still radiating through her head. Should she have told someone about what she heard? What was there to say? It wasn't as if there was any real information in it, and it would just put people back on edge with Lyra.
She'd been feeling it recently, the way everyone stared at her. They regarded her as if she was the one to watch out for—like her legilimency made her a threat of some kind. She'd told them all she wouldn't peek into their minds, wouldn't dare to even take a dip into their emotions without their permission. It was an invasion of privacy, and everyone was already so wary of one another that she didn't want to risk it. Lyra couldn't let people lose their faith in her—not after everything she'd done to push the resistance against Voldemort.
Honestly, she already hated herself for keeping the prophecy about her and James so secret, only ever alluding to it to Sirius. Regulus was the one person in the world who may have fully known about it—even so, she didn't go into details. People would be looking for her, and she didn't want to put the rest of her friends in danger. Not after Marlene—not when she had died so valiantly against the unknown Death Eater who had slaughtered her entire family. Dorcas was still distraught—Lyra couldn't blame her. Even the idea of losing Sirius was a thought that made Lyra's stomach churn, sending her into a frenzy of worry and trepidation.
She couldn't lose him; she'd lose a part of herself.
"Bloody Pettigrew!" Sirius's voice was frenzied as it rang from inside the quaint cottage.
Lyra perked her head up, dropped the plastic pumpkin she held and raced towards the front door. Pushing open the rickety white wood, the familiar sound of Sirius yelling put Lyra's nerves on end. It felt like she was running towards the end, a dark pool waiting and pushing her deep into a cave of no return. Whatever Lily and James had said had sent Sirius into an unconsolable hysteria—Lyra was the only one who could ever tug him back from them.
He had a red hot fury that seemed to blind him with white rage, leaving him to his own impulses and devices until someone pulled him back to the reality they were in. It was something that only Lyra and Remus knew how to do—how to bring Sirius back from that teetering edge that could end up destroying everything if not mended. Sirius was a boulder at the edge of a mountain, waiting for that fatal gust of wind to knock him over.
"Sirius, you have to understand that Dumbledore recommended this!" Lily reasoned as Lyra rounded the banister of the stairs. She waited outside of the room—gauging when it was best for her to intervene.
"And when has trusting that knob done us any good, hm?" Sirius seethed, "Last time we followed what he said, Lyra almost died. Unless you two have forgotten about that."
"Of course, we haven't forgotten that," James shot back, his voice guarded, "Do you think I would have done most of the things I have if it weren't for the betterment of her?"
"Lyra doesn't need you doing something for her betterment, James," Sirius's voice was filled with venom. The hairs on the back of Lyra's neck stood up as he continued, "She has been wary of Pettigrew for years now—Don't you get it? Your sister, who can read people's bloody minds, doesn't trust him. And now you're replacing me as secret keeper for him?"
"Lyra's powers aren't always reliable, Sirius," Lily reasoned. The heart in Lyra's chest sunk at the words. They didn't trust her...Lily and James didn't trust her. She pursed her lips and moved closer to the doorway as Lily resumed her thought, "It has been nearly three years, and she still can't tell us what she saw in Peter's head."
"Because Dumbledore took them from her, Evans," her fiancee's tone was accusatory. It was surreal, listening to everything Lyra thought about herself come to the surface from the two people in the world who Lyra thought trusted her completely. James and Lily didn't trust her anymore—she didn't know why. But she had Sirius....Sirius trusted her, "Why do you two trust him so wholeheartedly?"
"It's for the best, Sirius," James interjected, his voice softer than Lily's, "It's for hers and your protection too. Dumbledore says that there's a reason Voldemort's after Lyra—she has something to do with the prophecy Trelawny saw."
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?" Lyra snapped as she pushed through the painted green door of the nursery; Harry curled into her side.
"Lyra..." James's voice was feeble and sensitive as his twin emerged into the room, his son twisting the blonde curls that cascaded over her shoulders in his hands, "Dumbledore didn't want to tell you—"
"So he tells you?"
It felt like the end had come. As though the final chapter of the story was being written in front of Lyra without her even knowing. She was oblivious to everything that went on behind the scenes—everything that people didn't tell her. All that she thought she knew, everything that they kept secret from her. Honestly, the younger Potter twin thought she was the one with the knowledge, the one who knew the secrets before everyone else. In reality, it was Lyra who played the pawn in a sick game of chess. Dumbledore was the player—not her.
The bullet slotted itself into her barrel, and Lyra watched as everyone pointed them towards her. Three guns sat pointed at her heart, one of them holding the bullet that sent her overboard. The three that stood in front of her...they were going to be the end of Lyra's story. Through whatever means, either James, Lily, or Sirius would be the one that shot the fatal blow, knocking her backwards with blood gushing from her heart.
"Peter's our secret keeper..." James whispered, "There's a lot we can't tell you two. I ask, one final time, just trust me."
Lyra lifted her gaze to Sirius, who had fury raging in his eyes. He didn't like it; there was something amiss in this final plea from James. Lyra wanted to reach her mind forward and break through the wooden panels blocking her. It had to do with Scarlett, that prophecy, Harry—she wasn't sure if it was all of them or just one. But still, Lyra knew something was being left out of the story. Lyra was in the dark now—and she didn't have the stars to guide her.
"Fine," Lyra whispered, pregnant tears pricking her eyes, "One last time."
"One last time."
—
Lyra stared at the lace decals that decorated the cream-coloured wedding gown. Harry sat in her lap as Lily and James sat awkwardly at the dinner table with Sirius the level below her. She had asked for a few minutes—it had been a day.
It was October 30th, 1981.
She fiddled with the gossamer fabric, rubbing it between her fingers. It was a beautiful piece—long sleeves ran to her middle fingers. It was something out of her wildest dreams—it was so close too. She could taste the festivities, the bright twinkling lights and the celebration in the dark. She wanted it so bad, so desperately. Something so mundane and nostalgic that Lyra thought she'd be bored by it. Not with Sirius—she couldn't be bored with anything that had to do with him.
Snuffles whined at her side, and Lyra ran a hand through his fur while admiring the gown. It was surreal, the mundane life she now lived. It felt like a dark talon creeping up her neck, tickling at the skin and illuminating a halo of sweat around her brow. Something was uneasy in the air—someone was lurking where they shouldn't be. The twitch in Lyra's neck was aching and painful, but no scratching nor wrenching of the column alleviated the irritation. A claw scraped at her mind and dug through the mess—someone wanted her too.
Harry whined in her arms, and she couldn't help the trepidation in her stomach from gurgling. If something happened to the little boy in her arms, Lyra would bring the world to its knees in front of her. This baby...this child of a mere age of 1, was everything to the blonde, and she wouldn't hesitate to burn the world down around her to keep him safe. She'd light it all up but wouldn't let a single flame touch him.
"The world is yours to take, Harry," Lyra whispered, her voice nazly and snake-like as she ran a knuckle across his plump cheek, "Don't let anyone steal it from you."
A knock at the closet door pulled Lyra from the shadows that slipped around her. She jumped slightly at the noise but glanced over her shoulder to see James leaning against the door. His brilliant blue eyes stared down at her with a doll-like innocence, and her heart ached. He didn't trust her, yet he stood in front of her, vulnerable and waiting. She was powerful, he knew that, and he feared it now. Lyra felt the radiation of the volatile emotion seep into her skin as he took a few steps forward, hands pushed into his pockets.
Taking a seat next to her, James ran a thumb along the laced fabric of the wedding gown. It brought such sorrow to Lyra's heart, that sinking feeling in her stomach, knowing that she might never get to wear it. An upcoming pain lurked in the air, a beast around the corner with a heart of stone and eyes of venom. She had been so comfortable, so willing to let the world roll over her and deal with the wounds it left afterwards. Lyra Potter had become compliant with the death that raged around her.
"You already know about the prophecy, don't you?" James whispered, his tone weary as both twins stared at the gown.
"I do."
"You know why we don't trust him—don't you?"
"I do—But I will never understand it."
"There's a lot you don't know, Lyra."
"Story of my life, James."
"This is."
Lyra let out a low chuckle at the words her brother spoke, twisting her finger with his sons. A passing of the torch danced around the room, Harry taking the spot where James once sat in Lyra's life. The one person in the world she would go to the furthest corners of it for was now whispering a possible goodbye in the closet where Lyra's future had sat. The lace mocked her, a poster of what could have been if the world was different—if she was different.
"They're putting an invisibility charm over the house right now."
"Why?"
"Scarlett knows about the prophecy—Don't look at me like that; I've known for a bit now. Dumbledore sort of...let a few things slip," James explained, "Plus, it's out of protection for Harry. We don't know what'll happen, but...Fingers crossed it's all speculation."
"It will be," Lyra whispered, her voice betraying her, "Scarlett's had years to do something; she wouldn't be doing it now."
"With this prophecy—"
"Which one?" Lyra sneered, looking over at her brother, "Seeing as you know more than I do now, I'm assuming you're aware of what that one says?"
"Lyra—"
"It's fine," she grumbled, staring back at the off-white garment, "Can we just enjoy the night?"
"I love you, Lyra."
"I love you too."
—
The morning wind was aggressive after James, Lily, and Harry returned to Godric's Hollow. The sky overhead was enraged and waiting for the moment to assail—a lightning bolt waiting to plow a stake through the heart of the pregnant clouds. No children sang along the streets of Barnton just yet, but Sirius assured Lyra they would show up eventually, and they'd be able to spend their final day as promised in joy and excitement. She wasn't sure that was the case, a heavy pressure crushing Lyra's heart in its hand.
Snuffles followed Sirius at his heels the entire day, wet nose nudging at his black jeans as the couple tried to go about their average days. Lyra wanted to garden and keep her hands busy, but she couldn't step outside without a queasy feeling settling into her stomach. Something kicked at her, shoved at her to keep fighting and to secure a future. But Lyra couldn't—she couldn't even look at herself in the mirror. A pale shimmer danced behind her like a ghost, warning her of the upcoming years that would haunt her until her final days.
Something was taut—close to snapping. A line was being drawn in Lyra's life, and she teetered on the edge of it. One final gust of wind would send her into a pit of no return, one she couldn't crawl out of this time. She may have fixed her mistakes in the past, but the ones in the future were worse, more volatile, and more deadly. Something she couldn't come back from waited, calling for her in the voice of death.
"Mon étoile?" Sirius's voice called from the hall as Lyra leaned over the bassinet in the vacant nursery, "Whatcha doin' in here?"
Lyra fiddled with the aged parchment of the letter in her hands. The tears had stopped a few moments ago, running dry in her wake. Her name laid dormant on its body, and her hands roamed each curve. Inside it sat the final words of Regulus Black he wished to say to her—the ones he wanted Sirius to hear still hiding under the mattress he shared with her. She didn't know when Sirius would be ready to hear that his brother wasn't the villain, that he died a hero's death that he and Lyra could not complete.
She needed to hear them, though—she needed to listen to what he had to say.
"Is that Regulus's letter?" Sirius whispered as he took up a spot behind her, warm arms wrapping around her waist and resting on her stomach.
"Yeah," she nodded, voice scratchy and volatile in her throat, "Felt like now was the time to read it, I guess."
"Want me to stay?"
"I always want you to stay."
She peeled back the envelope, and a letter slid into her grasp, its prime edges sliding nimbly between her fingers. It was a contrast: the paper felt so innocent in her fingers compared to what was written onto them. Regulus had a tendency to contradict her—just as she did him. It was a perfect combination, their oil and water ways never finding a proper equilibrium. Perhaps that's why they never worked. She and Remus never felt like oil and water—Sirius and her either. But something always slipped from her grasp with him.
She slid her arms over the ink.
Lyra,
You're not the one who did this. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise—you're not the one who killed me nor them. It's not you, and I pray to the stars that named you that you never believe that either. It feels weird, speaking of things I'm not even sure will happen, but I know if I didn't, you would destroy yourself with the whispers in your mind.
Please let yourself find peace; find a moon to the stars of your life. It's okay to not always have an answer, not let the world run around you. A story isn't always yours to tell, and it's okay not to. You don't have to give them anything—don't let them take that.
When I look at the moon tonight, I know it will watch over me like a fierce beast. It'll ensure I'm safe when nothing around me is stable and the cracks start forming in my life. They can't always be stopped, those breaks, but the moon will always bring you solace in the darkness those cuts bring.
Find your moon, Lyra, and let it protect you.
All my love,
Regulus
—
Lyra watched as people gathered around just outside of her house, glimpsing over at the cottage. She furrowed her eyebrows together and watched from inside the kitchen, gripping her wand as they stared. It seemed like everyone in town was watching her home, debating over something. She tugged her robe tighter around her body and shooed Snuffles as she wandered towards the front door, switching on the porch light.
"Is everything okay?" Lyra called as she wandered through the dirt path, emerging outside the trees that lined the perimeter of her and Sirius's home.
He wasn't here—he had gone to meet with Remus. Lyra was home alone.
"There was an attacked," Karyna, the closest neighbour Lyra had, called, gnawing at her knuckles, "In Godric's Hollow."
—
She was a tempest rolling through the baron streets of Godric's Hollow. Her winds broke through the wood that littered its cobbled streets, lightning striking out the flickering flames of the street lights. No rain fell from her clouds, the forests in her eyes untouched by wet as she soared through the Hollow. She was fast with the storm, barreling through the town like she was searching for chaos.
She wasn't looking for chaos—she was looking for the evidence.
It came into her view before her mind registered it. The broken front door, the impending nightmare that waited when she came to reality. It was terrifying, the monster that hid behind the door she approached. Everything that lurked in her mind from the past few days seemed to manifest, coming together into one. She felt it impending; the darkness that had plagued her mind like sickness was finally taking root.
Lyra's hand rested on the splintered wood of the door and felt her stomach knot. It twisted into tangles, and the dinner she and Sirius had slid back up. She knew what lay behind that door, what was waiting for her on the other side. She just wasn't ready—wasn't prepared for her entire world to fall in front of her and crumble at her feet.
Her knees gave out when she stepped into the house, his body laying dormant and unmoving. His eyes were open, fear swimming through those bright blue seas. His glasses were skewed to the side, like earth thrown from its axis. Her hands gripped his shirt, and Lyra felt the entire world break. It was like glass shattering around her, the breaking of a porcelain vase around her. The shards slid along her skin and lacerated the pure layers.
"Please, James...Please let me in."