Grandloves//Tomarry

35

Rain splatters across the windows, drenching the world outside in a shallow ocean of murky water. It'll be hell having to trudge through all that mud. She can't bring herself to do much else aside from lean against the glass, listless, an unfocused gaze fixated on the tenebrous sky above her.

Lyra cannot come to terms with anything right now, so she ignores the world in favor of a lifeless, unending silence. Maybe she's better off not living, anyway.

It's been days; the Order has been in a fervor the whole time, regrouping and making plans for the war that has begun in earnest; Lyra can't remember doing much else than sitting here on the sill of an unused room in Grimmauld Place, staring out into the murky world beyond.

Sirius came to see her. She expected something more dramatic. He—and all the other Order members—are convinced she'd just been under the imperius at the Ministry. They think her sorrow is from Dumbledore's death; that she's taking it the hardest because they had such a close relationship. He reassures her that everything's okay, that no one is upset and it's not her fault. He reminds her he's here for her if she wants to talk. She doesn't say a word throughout all of this, staring at him blankly, as if he is some kind of alien.

She curses herself. Aliens remind her of Han Solo, which reminds her of all the long hours curled up with Tom, stealing kisses while he's engrossed in some deep and droll book.

Lyra bites her lip, willing herself to stop doing this. Stop thinking about him. Stop thinking about anything that reminds you of him. He's a monster, she reminds herself. He was never anything else.

Except—that would be everything.

Which is why she's sitting here, thinking of absolutely nothing.

Someone would have to drag her out of here eventually.

There's a knock on the door. "Lyra?" A familiar, gentle voice calls from just outside. She feels herself stir out of her lifeless haze—this is actually a voice she wants to hear. "Can I come in?"

"Hermione," she croaks, voice hoarse from disuse, "door's open."

Hermione peeps her head in, a look of uncontained sorrow spilling off her expression. Lyra feels her heart crumple again at the sight—she wishes she could extract the stupid organ, rip it to pieces or maybe just donate it to science. As long as she doesn't have it any longer, she doesn't care. Feeling anything is such a terrible burden.

"Oh, Lyra," she whispers, tears welling in her eyes as she darts towards her, hugging her tightly.

"Lyra," she mumbles into her hair, rocking slightly. Harry brings her arms up to return the hug, numb. "Lyra—I'm so sorry... oh, Lyra... I'm so sorry ..."

"It's not your fault," she reminds her, quietly.

"I know," she sniffles, breaking apart. "But I wish this had never happened to you. It's not fair."

She shrugs. "It was bound to happen eventually." She points out, hollow and cold, knowing she's right.

What was she expecting, really? Having a relationship with the Dark Lord? How could she have ever foreseen an outcome that didn't end like this—with her heart broken, with her sorrow the only thing she can remember how to feel? She really meant that little to him, then. She supposes she shouldn't be so surprised. Tom Riddle was a consummate actor, more than capable of deceiving the most intelligent of people. Certainly it wasn't too hard to fool an adoring, lovesick little girl.

"That's not true," Hermione insists. "That's not true at all."

Lyra turns miserable eyes towards her best friend. "How can it not be? Hermione, he's a murderer. He killed my parents—he almost tried to kill me . I was stupid. I was so stupid. How could I have fallen for that? How could I have believed that he could be anything else than a monster?"

Hermione's gaze is both pleading and conflicted. "But he's saved you, too," she adds, quietly, "Lyra, come on, we both know you mean a great deal more to him than that."

She laughs, hollow. "Do I?" She counters. "I don't think there would be any way to know."

Hermione shakes her head. "There is," she disagrees. "I don't think these last three years have been meaningless. Three years, Lyra. You can't possibly believe that he's done with you. Lyra he—

She falters.

"Cares for you deeply." She finishes, and Lyra knows what word she so tactfully avoided, and feels a small smidge of gratitude at that.

"He threw an unforgivable at me," she feels the need to remind her.

"Yes, he does that to a lot of people," Hermione huffs. "He was angry, Lyra. You were defying him."

"Of course I was!" She protests, hotly. The most emotion she's felt in days. "He killed Dumbledore—he almost killed Malfoy; he almost killed me. Again ."

"Wrong, unforgivable," Hermione remarks.

"Because the Cruciatus is so much better."

"Well you're not dead, so I'd think so." And then, rolling her eyes, "Lyra, it was barely even half a second."

"That's not the point!" She scowls, incensed. Hermione is right though, really the curse was lifted before she could even get over the shock of it at all. "That he did it at all is the problem! He's dangerous, and I've always known it—I was being a gullible little fool, to think he could be any different with me. That he could change, or something equally as naïve."

Hermione's expression turns into a deep sorrow. Lyra doesn't like the look of it at all.

"I think you're wrong, Lyra." She disagrees, slow and hesitant. "I think—I think he might be in love with you." She says, shocking Lyra to the core.

She gapes at her, incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"You didn't see his face, Lyra," she shakes her head. "The way he looked, after he... Lyra, I felt bad, when I should have been feeling anger at him for even thinking of hurting you."

Lyra denies this. She refuses. Holding any hope sounds both tragic and completely ridiculous.

"And even now," she begins again, "there hasn't been any attacks at all, did you know? No activity at all. It's worrying the Order, actually. They thought that he'd have capitalized on everyone's fear now that Dumbledore is dead—but he isn't. No one knows what he's doing."

Her heart clenches, even as she wills it not to.

"That doesn't mean anything, Hermione." She returns, staunch in her disapproval.

Hermione raises a brow. "You know him better than me," she advises, "only you can say whether these last three years have been a lie."

She shrugs, noncommittal. She doesn't want to think about this. She feels sick, and dizzy, even though she's not eaten anything today. But then, she's felt like this ever since he effectively broke her heart and proved these last three years were nothing but another one of his manipulations.

She sways a bit, and Hermione frowns.

"Lyra, are you alright?" She gives her a once over. "You look dreadful."

" Thanks ," is her acerbic response.

Hermione ignores her. "Seriously Lyra, when was the last time you ate, or slept, even?"

It hits her again. "I don't know."

This alarms her best friend. "What do you mean, you don't know ?" She repeats, incredulous.

Lyra grits her teeth, resting her head against the wall. "It means I don't—

But then Hermione is shrieking and she can't feel anything but a white haze in her head, and then she is getting sick all over the carpet, and promptly thereafter passes out.