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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 viii. gryffindor versus slytherin
✧ • °. ⋆ ★˙ ° • ✧
Lyra Persephone Malfoy was an opportunist, first and foremost. She's born a Black and a Malfoy, so it was really no wonder it's cemented into her mind to seize every advantage in her way to gain a standing in the society, moral or not. It was one of the main reasons she was so fascinated by the Dark Lord in the first place, not for what he taught, no, but for the power he wielded, the many numbers he commanded, for the many opportunities she could gain in time by raising in his ranks.
Well, that was what she believed in... that is until her father's thrown into Azkaban and Lyra's been assigned to assassinate Albus bloody Dumbledore in his school grounds just in hopes to ridicule her family further, ultimately making her feel like she was nothing but a ghost in her own life.
As it turned out, given a choice, Lyra would choose self-preservation over everything else, even power and purpose.
But today, however, there was nothing Lyra had to save her neck from — There was nothing that stopped her from taking immediate advantage of the future knowledge, the blasted weather, and Potter's horrible eyesight and aversion to dementor's to seize the snitch and win the game. Because at the end of the day, Lyra was a Slytherin; and what would be more pathetic than to lose her chance at winning something when she has every means necessary at her disposal.
And, there was also no denying that she felt a certain clinical satisfaction in watching Potter's faithful broomstick getting blown away into a dozen bits of splintered wood by Whomping Willow. All in the act of a petty revenge she had desired to take on the boy for leaving her behind in the Malfoy Mansion a lifetime ago. It's too bad the chosen one did not break a few bones by falling fifty feet down into the icy mist.
✧ • °. ⋆ ★˙ ° • ✧
She was trying to run, but she was too weak and in too much pain. Her lungs are burning. She was stumbling, trying to stay upright. Her throat was burning so harshly, and her eyes were watering. The dark mark on her inner arm was throbbing in pain. And then she feels it, something... someone was catching up to her, and a scream tears through her throat when she suddenly feels a hand on her shoulders—
Her head shoots up from the desk she had been resting, her eyes searching wildly at her surroundings in a panic-fuelled frenzy as her breath comes out in searing gasps.
"Lyra?" A hesitant voice snaps her eyes to the person before her, the alarmed expression still on her features, resembling her state to a little girl lost in the wood. "You okay?"
