Stars to burn out ✶ Chapter six
Lyra Black always took pride in her ability to separate her heart and mind, to differentiate between thought and emotion.
Sane decisions should be made upon certain grounds: should stem from reason rather than impulse. She once thought herself better than her father who was as impulsive as they come, and it pained her not to admit it. He was erratic and inconsistent, making up his mind only to change it again and again and again.
Lyra aspired to be the opposite: calculating and stable to never find herself in the position of regret. After all, decisions one comes to regret are decisions that should never have taken place: ones that can be prevented if only conscious enough to pry fluctuant tendencies into disarray.
Rather ironic is the inevitability of unpredictability: after all, a child is merely a child, looking for acceptance although denying it, acting in defiance although portraying oneself as indifferent. Lyra Black may pretend to differ, but was just the same.
One word, as so she crumbled deeper into demise.
One false apology, and so she lost sight of trust.
One dismissal, and so she swayed into allegiance she swore to never take.
A daughter is to a father as undoing as death itself: Lyra was Sirius' ruin, for she had him showcase sides he never believed himself to possess. In turn, Sirius morphed into Lyra's downfall: his mistrust the catalyst for something lethal within, alike some poised toxin reigning control of her mind until it was already too late.
Until already irreversible.
One act of impulse, and she had gone and ruined herself. One moment of hopelessness, and she had signed away her freedom with a stab of excruciating pain, a look into dangerously inhuman red eyes.
A moment of genuine hate, and so her mind turned on itself: creating some paradox of revenge for a person she claimed not to care for. Her allegiance had been of great value, was what she was told. Sirius had driven the Noble house of Black into ruin, it's reputation gone from prestigious into notorious. If embroidered onto the family tapestry in Grimmauld place, you were fated for betrayal: whether it be toward blood or your own morals.
Lyra had claimed to stand for neutrality, picking no sides. Still she launched herself too quickly into freezing waters too extensive, her control coming undone into a tender mess of her own creation. Pride into obedience. Innocence into ragged guilt.
How could you? She heard not Sirius' voice in her mind, but her own. As she walked alongside Narcissa and Draco in direction of Platform 9 3/4 she felt as if the whole world was looking at her, shaming her. It was all in her head, of course it was.
No one knew. No one except Narcissa, and Lyra had already became fronted with the mother-figure's opinion a few days before. Tears had pricked Lyra's eyes as she refused to meet the woman's gaze. Through broken sobs had she explained her scarce reasonings, and Narcissa had looked at her with empathy. I'm so sorry, had Lyra whispered, her vocal cords failing to carry her through her own remorse. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Narcissa had been saddened by the young Black heir's fate, but knew it was inevitable. She was a constellation collapsing on itself: driven mad by her father's ignorance. A father is a daughter's greatest ruin if the relationship winds up fractured. Lyra was born of the stars, but like a supernova she crumbled. Narcissa's biggest regret was not sufficiently protecting the child before the forces of the universe pulled her right under. It's going to be okay, had the mother-figure whispered: pulling Lyra's trembling frame into an embrace. Everything is going to be okay.
If only a simple reassurance could protect from the aftermath of mistakes.
Since stepping outside Malfoy Manor that very same morning, Narcissa had kept a comforting hand on Lyra's shoulder. Lyra, distanced and silent, was guided by the woman through toward the Hogwarts Express; the thought of going back to school after what she had done to herself near nauseating. Draco had noticed his cousin's odd behavior, and made efforts to cheer her up. Her laughs were unenthusiastic and her smile never reached her eyes.
Something was wrong, Draco certain.
There were few things Lyra chose not to share with her cousin, the pulsating dark mark freshly carved into her arm one of them. Narcissa had urged her otherwise, seeing no good outcome from shutting him out, but Lyra stubbornly insisted it remained a secret. She was ashamed.
Ashamed of her own impulses. Ashamed that, no matter the burning pain constantly present, the thought of father being proven wrong was more of a satisfaction than it reasonably should.
She must be losing her mind, Lyra concluded. She was declared a great asset by Lord Voldemort himself, and the thought of being needed for a greater cause had been what finally pulled her under. She was the youngest of the Noble house of Black, one to have turned her back on her treacherous father. To the Dark Lord she was a symbol of triumph; born from a gone astray pure blood having joined his rank no matter her father's standpoint. It was Voldemort's own feat, one he embraced by luring the child in: offering her to take place within his ranks before given time to think the decision through.
Why, why, why did you say yes, Lyra? Having gotten over her momentary impulsivity, she fell back into calculating nature. The world would turn against her if her allegiance was ever revealed. She thought of her mother: killed in childbirth, Lyra never met her. But she would be displeased with her daughter's actions had she been alive, wouldn't she?
She was a death eater too.
She thought of the family tapestry back a Grimmauld place. She always took pride of her name still in flawless embroidery.
Your relatives would be proud of you, there's no chance of you getting blasted off.
She thought of Draco. He didn't know, and he was already infuriated she was keeping secrets from him.
You did this to protect him.
She thought of Sirius, and the fact that he was — no matter what — family. You are not meant to betray your own family, Lyra.
The tears, the pain, the hurtful words: Perhaps if you were not fated to walk right in your mother's footsteps, it would actually become of me to love you.
What was the point in being loyal to someone who would always mistrust you?
Into whatever circuits her mind spiraled, her thoughts were dissolved as the Hogwarts Express whistled: a final instruction for students to say they goodbyes unless wishing to be left behind. Lyra blinked out of her haze, taking a second to reinforce her composure. You have to act normal, Lyra. No one can find out.
Her change of demeanor was almost frightening. When she peeled her eyes off the ground, Draco was already looking at her: a puzzled look upon his face. Silent inquiries of concern were exchanged between the duo, ones which Lyra dismissed with a shrug of her shoulders and forced reassurance.
Draco knew her well enough to know not to pressure her: she would come to him when she felt like it, and until then it was best if he remained patient. Still, it tugged at his conscience, and it took great efforts to push the issue aside until further notice.
Narcissa wasted little time to embrace them both: first Draco, then Lyra. "Promise to write," she exclaimed (as she did each year when it was time for departure) and the pair both nodded.
As the doors were about to close, Draco followed Lyra onto the train: lifting both his and her trunk up the steps as he had offered to take hers. Through an open window, Lyra waved goodbye to her mother-figure one last time, growing all the more aware of the loose sleeves of her shirt that could potentially risk exposure. She made a silent notion to keep her movements steady from now on: taking no risks.
It would only end badly if anything went wrong.
"You seem off," Draco dared ask only when the train had begun moving. He initiated eye contact, reading his cousin's every expression. "Is everything okay?"
Lyra smiled softly: nodding her head. "I'm fine, Draco." Wanting to dissolve his concern, she thought of an excuse as to her behavior. She realized it must have appeared suspicious to have been zoned for days: it was only natural of him to worry, as she would do the same if the roles had been reversed. "I haven't slept very well, that's all."
When showing no signs of dishonesty, Draco chose to believe her. It was after all, not a complete lie, as Lyra had indeed been plagued by nightmares ever since taking the mark, and the hours of sleep she had been provided with could be counted on one hand. "Is it nightmares again?" Her cousin asked. Lyra nodded, and he sighed. "Tell me if it gets worse, okay? I'll get you a sleeping potion from Madam Pomfrey."
"I promise I will, thank you," she replied with much appreciation toward his offer. "Shall we go find our friends?"
"I suppose we should." Draco led the way through the crowded corridors, only beginning to search the compartments when reaching the Slytherin section of the train. A few minutes thereafter his eyes fell upon a familiar group of people, and he wasted no time to
push the door open; stepping inside without so much as a greeting.
Striding with his usual nonchalance on display, Draco gestured for Theodore Nott to get out of his way: willing to resort to violence if needed, rather than giving up his usual window seat. Theodore, who had tried refusing two previous years and suffered the consequences, gruntled out obscenities before standing up and allowing the blonde to pass. "Hello to you too, Draco," muttered the brunette, to which the rest of their friends snickered.
Lyra found herself frozen on the doorstep, glancing back and forth between the people she felt most comfortable with in the world. For some odd reason, she grew even more aware of the stinging on her arm, succumbing to the depths of remorse once again. What would they think of her, if they ever found out?
They were all children on death eaters or Dark Lord sympathizers, however the conversation of carrying on their parents' legacies had never been brought up amongst the group. If they found out about her utterly reckless decision, would they despise her for it?
"What crawled up your arse and died?" Voiced Blaise Zabini a second thereafter, snapping Lyra out of her thoughts as the train whistle had done before him. Four pairs of eyes stared right back at her as she made her return to reality, and she realized she must look rather odd: still not having entered the compartment, a solemn look shadowing her features.
Act normal, Lyra. She masked her emotions and sent a glare at Blaise for his comment. "Sod off, Zabini." With little explanation as to why she was in such a mood she took the final step inside, pushing the door shut.
"She's been like this all week," revealed Draco: Lyra battling the urge to smack him across the head for it. "Won't tell me what's wrong."
"I'm tired," repeated Lyra. "Haven't slept well." She waved her hand and forced Draco to move in further toward the window. Theodore followed right after the blonde, granting her some room to squeeze down alongside the later mentioned brunette.
Sinking into her seat, she leaned her head back and forced herself to relax. They will not find out, she repeated quietly to herself. And if they do, they will not abandon you. Perhaps if she tried hard enough convince herself, she would eventually start believing it.
It took only a few seconds before Blaise dug a version of the Daily Prophet out of his bag and placed it not on the table before them. He met Lyra's gaze and raised an eyebrow: as if expecting her to know
something. When she only visualized confusion, her friend cleared his throat, "Sirius Black spotted in Diagon Alley," she rolled her eyes as he read the title to the front page. Her and Draco had been confronted by Narcissa as soon as it was released: stupid Rita Skeeter had somehow taken the story and twisted it into her own version; one much more dramatic than what had actually transpired. "Lyra Black, daughter to the mass murderer, witnesses to having been jumped by her father while shopping for the upcoming school year—"
"Okay, enough," Lyra interrupted.
Theodore looked at her with amusement twinkling in his eyes, "How did you go from living with him, to ratting him out to the Prophet?"
Lyra simply shrugged. "He's a slimy git."
"Tell us something we don't already know," Draco filled in, the memory of their encounter still fresh enough to inflict him annoyance.
Blaise appeared to be in the mood for teasing, as he moved in to nudging Pansy Parkinson who sat alongside him in the ribs. Pansy's eyes widened at the shit-eating grin widened across his lips. "Well did you hear about Pansy and Daphne Greengrass this summer—"
"Blaise, I swear to god—"
Lyra tuned the bickering out, however finally allowed herself to relax. As she closed her eyes, the reminisce of pain still pulsing through her arm, she focused on the positives. She was going back to Hogwarts. No more Sirius. No more death eaters. No more Voldemort. The only issue that remained was the secret hung like a weight upon her shoulders.
She knew she had to tell them the truth eventually, or she was certain it would completely pull her under.