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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄
ix. the yule break
✧ • ° . ⋆ ★ ˙ ° • ✧
A ray of wintery sunlight fell across the study, illuminating her Father's gray hairs and the lines on his young face. "Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Lyra?" There's a noticeable weight in the man's gaze as he stares at her from across the desk, almost as if he's tired after working for too long in the dim light.
"Nothing, Father," The words tasted like ash when she finally wrestled them free, her hands curled under the desk. She could have told him more - of the dreams that left her bleary and bloodshot, the almost screams that scraped her throat as she swallowed them down - the way the stars turned and turned through the night above her unsleeping eyes.
Yet, she didn't.
And he stares at her. Brilliant grey eyes regarding her intently from beneath lowered brows and the faint lines webbing the corners of his eyes stood out now more than ever. And she felt a small and inexplicable shiver of apprehension run up her spine, clogging her throat, making her wonder if something about her had given away her Time-Travelling secret.
Sometimes people may not admit just how much of a capable and cunning individual Lucius Malfoy had to be that he still got to sit in his Grand Manor with a wife and a kid and retain a seat at Wizengamot and firm hold over all his wealth even when half the Britain knew where his and his family's loyalty lied during the first war. And he did not even have to rat out his fellow death eaters like Karkaroff, nor did he sentence his freedom and life away to Dumbledore like Severus.
So, of course, Lyra was afraid. Afraid she'd have to bare him all her secrets and shame, all the lies and deceit, the betrayal and the heartaches. But most of all, she's afraid to disappoint him. Not after she dedicated every second of her life to earning his admiration. To be seen as a worthy heiress to the Malfoy family.
Because for as long as Lyra knows, in her eyes, Lucius Malfoy was not anything less than a perfect being she considered him to be. Much like any daughter would have, she idolized her Father from a young age. She hung on his every word, every rule, for she is who she is because of her parents. For she learned what she had by the teachings they taught her.
And even after nineteen years, knowing their faults and having been privy to their mistakes, she still couldn't kill the thing inside herself that still longed for their approval.
She is saved from too much introspection when he, instead, stands up to his feet and comes around from behind the mahogany desk with a silent command, "Come."
And Lyra breathes out in short-lived relief, though she keeps hold of her hope, her anxiety right under her skin with an obvious clue of a dangling curiosity. Slowly uncurling her fingers under the desk, she follows her Father toward many shelves lined up against the wall with books of different origins. "I have something for you," He says, striding towards a bookshelf, taking out a large book bound in brown leather to present her with.
