Grandloves//Tomarry

3

Lyra does not open her eyes.

He has pulled the curtains wide open; morning diffuses the room in an effervescent light. Warmth patterns against her face and curls around her shoulders, speckles her hair. He thinks perhaps he should have transfigured her dress into a set of pajamas; unfortunately, he knows even less about girl's sleepwear than he does girl's clothing in general.

He should have returned her in the night. No, he should have killed her, but it appears he is wholly incapable of that. He should have deposited her back at Hogwarts, perhaps left her at the front gate like some kind of offering.

If he was not going to kill her, he should have let her go.

And yet, he could not.

So here she sleeps onwards, tilted into the sun, listless in her dreams. He cannot give her up, he realizes. She is his infinite weakness now; his very soul, embodied in such a fragile form. He could snap her with just the lightest touch of dark magic—almost did, with the stone scythe of his father's grave. There is a mottled purple bruise that crawls up the side of her arm. He turns it over gently; on the other, an enormous, stained gash from where Pettigrew butchered into her wrist.

He does not quite touch it when she jerks awake, leaping upright and looking as if she has swallowed a lemon. Or perhaps a scream. It's hard to tell. She stares at him with the wide eyes of prey; immobile. If possible, her hair has become even more of a mess. It lights like fire in the morning sun.

He feels as if he should say something—but he no longer remembers how to communicate with young girls, if he ever knew at all. It has been a long time since he even needed to hold polite conversation; his words have been law for some time now. At any rate, there is no need for him to explain himself to a foolish little girl. The sight of her still throws him off balance; the livid fear and anger in her burning gaze, the small trembling fingertips. Everything he lives to forget exists in her.

He reaches for her arm. She flinches violently, but does not move to take it back. With a wave of his hand the inflamed and mangled wound Wormtail left in her skin mends back together, leaving a creamy, smooth surface in its wake. He holds her hand for an unnervingly long time afterwards.

He wants to destroy her. He wants to tear her apart—to ruin her.

It wouldn't be too hard: she is so small and defenseless. She holds her wand tightly in her hand but in that tiny, little hand it's as meaningless as a piece of wood against him. But the visage of Tom Riddle drifts over her like a gossamer memory; his large, frightened eyes, all his ambition, all his determination and all his dreams swallowed in the thin line of her lips.

She snatches her hand back. "Are you going to tell me why I'm here?" She blurts, looking defiant and yet so very afraid.

"No," and then, to her look of protest, "for there is no reason."

She blinks, twice. "Huh?"

And then, when he does not deign this with a response; "But... if I'm not here for any particular reason—and you don't want anything from me..." And with this, a faltering look towards him, "And you haven't killed me..."

She trails off, eyes wide and beguiling. "I don't understand," She says at length.

That would make two of them, then.

"No harm will come to you here," He returns after some time has passed.

"And you expect me to believe this?" She retorts, incredulous and hysterical.

"Yes," his eyes narrow, patience thinning. But it would not do to lose his temper. "You are... of great importance to me, Lyra." He hedges, ambiguous.

There are a lot of things she could say to that. The majority of them involve a lot of yelling, hysteria, and maybe even some tears.