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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 ii. plagued mind
✧ • °. ⋆ ★˙ ° • ✧
Lyra calmly walked past the Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws and sat down with the other Slytherins, trying her best not to flinch whenever she caught sight of a fellow student or professors' who were lost to the brutal war. She fought back the urge to jump when people talked to her. Half the time, she was expecting someone to jump in front of her and tell her that someone is playing a sick joke on her, and all of it was not real — she is not alive.
The incident with the dementors didn't help with the matters much as the recollections she did have were very painful. She relived the time she had to kill for the first time — the sorrow and the anguish she felt that moment. The guilt only intensified when she witnessed a Thestral on her way to the Castle, reminding her she was nothing but a cold-blooded killer. And it took the grey-eyed witch every ounce of her strength to look perfectly calm, all the while harrowing memories breathed down the back of her neck.
The Great Hall, which usually was loud and noisy with students start exchanging stories of their summer, shouting greetings at friends from other Houses, is a lot less noisy. The direful experience with the Dementors on the Hogwarts express left every student with feelings of depression and despair. Most of them were a couple of shades whiter than was healthy... particularly the first-years, who have little to no experience with the wizarding world. And all everyone could think and talk about is their experiences and how the delicate boy-who-lived fell unconscious on the train after encountering one of those foul creatures.
If it were the old Lyra Persephone Malfoy — she would've been goading the Potter boy at every chance, taunting him for being a wimp, in her usual drawling, delightful voice. However, in all honesty, Lyra was busy taking deeper breaths and silencing her thoughts to care about the happenings around her.
"Ra...Lyra...Ly—" A gentle tap on her shoulder and a small voice beside her snapped Lyra out of her reverie. She looked around to see the Sorting Ceremony for the first year's was concluded, and the dishes on the respective house tables were piled with food.
"Are you alright?" Pansy Parkinson asked her, concern evident in her eyes and tone. Blaise Zabini, who sat opposite the two girls, was looking at her the same. You gave yourself away, a small voice in the back of her mind goaded at her with a sneer. Again.
"I am fine," Lyra said; the lie slipped past her tongue smoothly — just the way she practiced in front of her mirror every morning. "Let's eat, shall we?" She said, picking up a few carrots and steak for herself, effectively ending any further questions from her friends. She knew they will bring it up again if they were to notice another one of her slipups. But until then, they would leave her be.
