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Your first memory was of being alone in a room. You were sat on a rug, playing with a set of gobstones even though you were far too young to know the rules; instead, you organised them into random, swirling patterns that made them shimmer in the apricot evening light. The room was wide and high roofed, walls covered by shelves stacked with books and an array of trinkets. 

You'd learned not to try opening the far left cabinet. It was only ever used by Mr Greengrass, and the time one you'd put your toddler fingers into it a teacup had almost bitten them clean off. 

Learning quickly, it turned out, was one of your virtues. 

Those who didn't know Daphne might've described her as formal, even cold. However, on the first of September she only appeared even more stilted than usual to you, creating a polite shell she probably thought hid her anxiety. 

"It's time to leave," you reminded when passing by her chambers.

She was quiet for a moment, standing ramrod straight in the middle of her spacious room, surveying the shelves in case she would find something she'd forgotten. She hadn't. Daphne did not forget things, especially not when she had packed and re-packed three times before allowing a house elf to take her trunk downstairs. 

"Let's go," she decided in the end, nodding to herself like the movement held the same weight as Diana Greengrass' approving nods. 

She closed the door behind her, a quiet click in the hallway, before following you downstairs.

The Greengrass manor was an airy place with grand windows often left open during summer to make the sheer, ornamental curtains dance and twist in the breeze like fairy fog, situated in the middle of well-trimmed grounds that were, in turn, nestled in a softly rolling landscape. You didn't doubt there was some bad, forgotten pun about green grass to be found. 

Diana Greengrass, a tall golden woman with winking earrings, waited in the dining room with the two trunks. The only way to tell them apart was that a stubby grey cat balanced upon the left one and next to the right was a cage with a large striped owl; the former was yours, since Daphne had promised you could borrow her owl Rina whenever. 

"It's twenty to," Diana said with a critical look at the looming grandfather clock, "we best hurry." 

"Yes, mother." Daphne stepped to her mother's right, grabbing her arm. Without a word, you grabbed Diana's left arm, giving the room one last cursory glance. It would be the first time you'd spend so much time away from it, a prospect as exciting as it was daunting. 

It was Hogwarts, after all. 

On top of wondering if it was actually safe to be in the same castle as a three headed dog, and if you could gauge how much spending ten years in a conservative but Grey pureblood family had influenced you, there was also all the classes. There were exams. 

"Off we go," was Diana's only warning before Apparating. There was a horribly constricting, nauseating sensation that squeezed you before you appeared on Platform 9¾. You'd barely regained your breath when you were ushered along to clear the area and allow the next family to apparate into that place. 

It was packed, busier than the worst rushes at Diagon Alley. The bustle of people distracted you from the scarlet train at first, but once you laid eyes on it a smile spread across your face; it looked much greater than the fancy model you'd been gifted on your ninth birthday, this one brimmed with memories and hope. 

"Write once a week," Diana instructed the two of you, planting a kiss first on Daphne's forehead, then on yours. "Behave: no detentions, avoid losing House points, be polite." 

"Yes, mother," Daphne said again. 

"Yes," you nodded, eager to board the train. "We'll be good." 

There had been a more elaborate farewell earlier that morning, timed to coincide with Andreas Greengrass leaving for work - he was an importer of foreign rune-embedded textiles, and the reason you lived with them since he was your mother's cousin. He had given the two of you brief hugs, told you to behave, then frowned at Astoria who was starting to complain about wanting to go to Hogwarts as well. She quickly stopped. Just because he was a better father than many others in high society didn't mean he was Best Dad. 

Diana used a featherlight charm on the trunks, and then you set off down the train with Daphne. When you slowed outside a half-filled compartment of fellow first years, she looked almost visibly uncomfortable. Deciding to take it easy on her today, you sped up again and found a compartment with Draco (plus Vincent and Gregory) and Pansy. Daphne got along well enough with them, even if she was too polite to tell Draco to stop bragging or to tell Pansy to stop snooping. 

"Hi," you smiled, "may we sit here?" 

"Of course," Pansy beamed, clearly invested in the story she was telling, "I was just telling Draco about Bastet." 

The two of you sat down as well, filling the compartment. It turned out Bastet was her new cat, an elegant creature that gave your obviously superior, if rather square, Mya a haughty glare. 

"-and then the dog barked, just like this," she imitated, vaguely canine but not as pug-like as you'd imagined when meeting her many years ago. "But Bastet frightened him away, he whined the entire road down."

It turned out she had many more stories to tell. 

Eventually you grew as bored as Draco looked and, deciding you'd stayed there long enough to leave without being impolite since the train had already left London, got up. 

"I'm too excited for the sorting," you announced, "I'll look around the train for a bit." 

"Alright, see you," Pansy said, disappointed that you wouldn't hear the end of her tale about two gossipy neighbours.

As you left, four second year girls stopped by. From minor families or half-bloods, you registered when they wanted to feel important by telling first years all about Hogwarts. Draco, bodyguards in tow, exchanged their seats with the girls. Determining Daphne was comfortable with Pansy and the four second years, you set off in the opposite direction of Draco, who had found Theodore Nott. 

You scoured the train in search for a scrawny boy with broken glasses, green eyes, and messy black hair. On your way you bumped into a newly appointed Hufflepuff Prefect who, overly helpful, asked if you couldn't find your friends or the bathroom, as well as a duo searching for a toad. 

Neville Longbottom had chalky white skin, maybe because of the idea of what the legendarily strict Augusta might do when finding out he'd already lost his pet, and straw-blond hair he'd evidently dragged his hands through many times the past few minutes. 

Hermione Granger didn't look like Emma Watson; her eyes were the demanding amber of tigers, and her hair was much darker and wilder, but the bossy way she spoke was entirely unsurprising. 

"No, sorry," you said, pressing yourself past them, "I'll tell you if I see it." 

"Him," she corrected swiftly, "a big toad named Trevor." 

"Yes, so you said," you nodded and gave Longbottom a forced smile when he sniffled. 

(Ew, who would ever want a toad?) 

The compartments you passed were mostly full; one with a handful of a Gryffindors, the next filled to the brim with Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, then one with a few Slytherins...

Eventually, you found a compartment with two first years who had yet to change into their uniforms. 

One had to be Ron Weasley; the gangly frame, freckles, and red hair gave it away. His clothes were hand-me-downs but his size, their old-fashioned cut betraying they were still wizarding garb. 

Then there was Harry Potter. He was so small, you almost faltered. This tiny child, whose limbs were thin and whose skin was so pale it bordered somewhere between anaemia and reclusion, was him. Behind a pair of round glasses, too green eyes peered up at you. His clothes were much too big on him, swallowing his body up like it never existed in the first place. 

Then you remembered you were also a child and grinned at them. "Hello! Mind if I sit here? You're the only first years I've seen in this part of the train and I'm not sure where my friends are." 

"Sure," Weasley said after a beat. "Feel free to have some sweets, we've got loads."

Harry smiled shyly and nodded. 

"Thanks," you chimed and sat down, "I'm Lyra." 

The train ride was uneventful (aside from Draco flubbing his attempt at offering friendship), mostly spent explaining Quidditch to Harry and trying out as many sweets as you liked. None of you had ever been able or allowed to eat this much this freely, for differing reasons. You lost the two boys when stumbling after Hagrid in the dark, though. Despite your best efforts, you only ended up finding Daphne again and shared a boat with her and a pair of twins who introduced themselves as Parvati and Padma Patil. 

When Hogwarts appeared, your breath caught in your throat. It was a massive castle from the 1100s that looked like it had weathered eternities yet also looked brand new, windows glowing yellow in the starry night, its walls and turrets standing proud and unshakable. Students around you oohed and aahed, and somewhere behind you two boys were wondering how many windows the castle had. 

All the way up to the Great Hall, your eyes stood wide while you took everything in. It was much more real, more impressive, simply more than you'd ever imagined. Professor McGonagall, a tall, stern-faced witch with flashing glasses, led the entire group to a smaller side-room and told them to wait there after a short speech about the four Houses. You spotted Potter. He gave a nervous, embarrassed smile when you caught him trying to flatten his hair. (It was so easy to think of him as Harry, as though you knew him because you'd spent two lifetimes surrounded by famous books about him.) 

You smiled back and waved, mouthing don't worry in his general direction. 

"I wonder how we'll be sorted," somebody asked. 

"Maybe it's a test," Granger suggested. 

"Oh no," somebody groaned, "I hope not." 

"Nobody knows," a boy sighed loudly, "it's charmed so only those who have already been sorted can talk about it to others who have as well." 

"Cool," another breathed. 

"What if it's something terrible?" 

"It'll be fine," you spoke up, unworried, "we're first years, they can't expect much from us." 

A few students made disagreeing noises, but not much more could be uttered since McGonagall returned to order everyone to stand in line. Potter made haste to stand between you and Weasley, trying to stick close to those who'd been friendly to him. It struck you that the list of people who had shown him kindness was depressingly small. Daphne stood in front of you, more rigid than ever, and you reached out squeeze her hand. 

She threw a glance over her shoulder, jaw unclenching for a moment before squeezing your hand back with all her might. She looked ahead again and let go when you entered the Great Hall. The amount of eyes on you made your step waver for a second before you continued on, wondering for the first time why the sorting ceremony was held in front of the entire school. Logically, you knew there was nothing to worry about, it was just a festive formality, but still. Still. 

What if the stares got to you and you face-planted halfway? 

When the hat began to sing, you forgot about your worries for a second; it wasn't opera by any means, but for a thing that sang through a seam it didn't sound half bad. 

"That's all?" A Patil twin asked quietly. 

"Thank goodness," somebody breathed. 

"I thought we'd have to duel each other." 

You resisted the urge to say I told you so, barely swallowing down the words and a smirk. 

McGonagall procured a long list of names and started calling them up. After Hannah Abbott, who sat there for almost a whole minute, was sorted into Hufflepuff and the applause died down, she announced: "Black, Lyra!" 

A deep breath, the kind that fully expanded your lungs, and you made your way up to the worn old stool. Heartbeat echoing in your ears, you perched yourself upon it and wondered what the Hat was going to tell you.

In fanfictions it was always something epic.

You got nothing of the sort, because within two seconds of settling on your head it simply hummed and shouted: "SLYTHERIN!" 

The table in green and silver burst into applause. Most people clapped politely over at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables as well, although the majority of Gryffindors ignored you. 

It was spinal reflex that made you stand up and take it off, carefully putting it back on the stool. Slytherin? Not a conversation about the merits of being placed in Gryffindor, at the centre of the plot, or in a more neutral House, but right into Slytherin? 

Well, you supposed you were at the centre of the plot there as well, albeit in a different way. 

You sat down, managing to smile at the older students who welcomed you into their House. Some, you recognized from formal dinners and the likes. A quick survey of the teachers' table was enough for you to see Severus Snape's black eyes drilling into your skull. He looked away before anybody could notice his aversion. 

(Oh, the joys of being the daughter of one of his worst bullies and ending up in his House. At least your dad hadn't 'stolen' the love of his life. Instead Sirius had almost killed him.)

"Told you she was raised right, she's not a Lion," somebody whispered, clearly not meant for you to overhear. 

Susan Bones became a Hufflepuff after only a few seconds on the stool, and Terry Boot was sorted into Ravenclaw rather quickly as well. Mandy Brocklehurst took two minutes before joining him, after which Lavender Brown became the first Gryffindor. By the time Millicent Bulstrode, Michael Corner, Vincent Crabbe, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Hermione Granger had been sorted you noticed a pattern; the House somebody was sorted into always cheered the loudest, but if they were a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw the other Houses clapped politely as well, while that was not the case for Slytherin or Gryffindor, who refused to applaud the other; on top of this, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were generally cooler when somebody was declared a Slytherin, perhaps because fewer joined in, or perhaps because they did so with less energy, but in either case the applause certainly sounded less full. 

Lovely. 

No wonder even non-bigoted Slytherins were hostile towards the other Houses almost from the start. 

Soon Daphne was called up, and you watched with increasingly tense shoulders while she waited patiently for the Hat to give its verdict. After four minutes the Hat shouted, "SLYTHERIN!"

"I told you not to worry," you teased when she joined you at the table. 

She frowned. "I wasn't worried." 

"Sure you weren't."

(You'd hoped she would end up in Ravenclaw and be able to breathe. Not that you'd ever admit this.)

The sorting continued. Once Harry Potter was sorted into Gryffindor and the cheers died enough enough for McGonagall to be heard, the next student was called up, even though nobody paid attention. Things went quickly after that, and once everybody had been sorted - which meant you were seated between Daphne and a large girl called Millicent Bulstrode with Blaise Zabini and Theo (who was as prejudiced as Draco but less fun) in front of you - Dumbledore stood up. The Hall quieted down, faces turning to him. 

"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts," he spoke in a warm, fond voice. "Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!" 

People clapped, but before you could try to discern which Slytherins joined in and which looked decidedly unimpressed the food appeared and everybody's attention was diverted. On the section of the table where the first years sat there were already at least as many different dishes as a Greengrass Yule dinner, and while you'd never wanted for anything material in your new life, the sight of the colourful, beckoning platters made your mouth water and adoration rise. 

It was such a warm, animated place. 

Just as you immersed yourself in the flavour of pad thai, the Bloody Baron drifted over and drawled: 

"Welcome to Slytherin. We hope you all live up to the great history this House now offers you, and that your names shall be remembered and be associated to Slytherin with pride."

He floated off again before your knee, which had been stuck in his body, could go completely numb. 

"Yes, what the Baron said," a fifth year Prefect announced, "you're one of us now, ask away if you've got any question, don't tarnish our reputation, yada yada yada." 

His eyes, a steely silver, slid over each of your faces before he continued. 

"We're glad to have you all." 

You tried not to doubt him too much. The other fifth year prefect, an auburn-haired beauty, leaned across the table and scolded him angrily under her breath. Tracey Davis, a small girl with large glasses, tried to hide any discomfort. Draco simply laughed and assured they were all happy to be in Slytherin. 

Other Houses weren't worth it, after all. 

You wrote home almost immediately. The letter to Diana (and Andreas, by extension) featured your sorting, first impressions of your fellow first year Slytherins, and a brief name-drop of Harry Potter. 

The note you added to Astoria was shorter, but much sweeter and livelier; it described the floating candles, dishes in all colours and shapes, Hogwarts rising up tall over the little boats you'd traversed the lake in...

Letters were all you could give her now that she was alone with Proper Wife Diana and Proper Husband Andreas. It wasn't enough. They may already have gotten to Daphne, but you weren't going to give up on Astoria, not when you'd spent so long trying to keep them from snuffing out her fire. 

The note looked frail in your hands. 

It took you a while to get used to dorm life. You'd lived in the Greengrass manor for as long as you could remember (fun fact: being reincarnated did not mean your memories appeared in your baby brain all at once, that would've fried your mind), which meant having not only your own spacious room but also a bathroom and balcony to go with it. Now you shared a rectangular room with four other girls; everybody had their own four-poster bed with green curtains that could be drawn shut for the illusion of privacy, and their own wardrobe and bedside table, but the only window in the room filtered a muted teal light from underneath the lake, and they all shared a bathroom. You didn't adapt very smoothly (you uncompromisingly demanded the best shower times), but you weren't a lost cause either (you gave them to Daphne, who had yet to unwind enough to realize she'd have to forcefully establish her own routine). 

Millicent snored, which made you long for the day you learned silencing charms, and Pansy took ages in the bathroom. Tracey was unobtrusive, but while this was initially nice you soon realised it was because she knew that, as a half-blood with little to no Slytherins or people of note in her family, she was at the bottom of the pecking order. 

(And, even if you'd spent years by Daphne's side, it was kind of nice to spend this much time with people your age who weren't, well, her.) 

(By the time you'd realized how soft and mouldable her character was, she'd already been sculpted by Diana and a million expectations.)  

The common room was a wide, low-roofed area filled with ebony furniture and sofas in dark leather, with an old-fashioned rug spreading itself out over the floor. There were no windows, but one of the walls glowed softly in the daytime when it let in light from the lake. Despite the only other source of light being a green fire that always flickered merrily in the hearth, it was never cold, damp, or dark there. 

The two fifth year prefects had been in charge of showing the first years to their new common room and giving a more formal welcoming speech. 

"Welcome to Slytherin," the girl had started, "my name is Gemma Farley and this is Julian Yaxley. The girls will find their dormitories to my left, the boys to my right, there are signs on the doors that say what year each room belongs to. Breakfast is between six-thirty and eight-thirty, lunch between twelve and one-thirty and dinner between six and eight, make sure you’re on time because this House eats together. No matter our differences, out there we're one front and we stick together." 

"Yes," Julian Yaxley had said curtly. "Don't get caught breaking any rules, because if you do we won't win the House Cup- and we will win it." He levelled everybody with a dry stare. "If you have any questions or issues, come to Gemma or me, or if necessary, to our Head of House, Professor Snape. His office is all the way down the corridor to the left, then one flight up to the right. Curfew is at nine-thirty for first and second years and ten-thirty for the years above."

You weren't sure Snape would appreciate you bothering him.

The Slytherins' first lesson was Defence Against the Dark Arts, shared with the Hufflepuffs. It was very uneventful. Quirrell stuttered enough for some to giggle when he got particularly caught up on a word, but not so much it greatly hindered the lesson. Still, the most interesting part of class was when he mentioned the first dragon hunt, which he then refused to elaborate on when eager eleven year olds tried to learn more. Instead he told them to revise the different categories of wandwork: charms, spells, jinxes, hexes, and curses. 

This instantly made him less popular. 

There was no sign that Voldemort possessed the back of his head like a grotesque parasite. 

Then there was Herbology, which mostly consisted of going over safety equipment and measures, although you were all eventually allowed to sprinkle a relatively harmless section of plants with water in which elderflower, spider eyes, and fairy wings floated. 

"Nutrition," Sprout had explained when Granger asked, hastily making sure Longbottom didn't drop his bucket. "There you go." 

It was the first time you'd had a chance to talk to Potter since the train, deciding to not so accidentally work at the station next to his. 

"How are you," you asked, brushing a stray wing from a petal. "I heard you had History this morning, is it as bad as everybody says?" 

"Yeah," he said with a boyish smile, "it was dead boring, Ron fell asleep." 

Weasley gave you a distrustful look that differed greatly from the merry expressions he'd lit up with on the train, but didn't say anything other than, "it wasn't fun." 

Clearly he remembered you'd been a decent human being earlier, even if you now wore evil colours. 

Potter didn't notice. He'd been about to say something else, but was distracted when one of the blossoms opened up and bloomed in a purple light. You didn't tell him you had these flower in the Greengrass gardens; you didn't want to ruin the magic for him. 

On Tuesday after lunch you had double Charms with the Ravenclaws, which you enjoyed very much since it was the first time you'd been allowed to use your wand. Granted, it was only to learn the Lumos spell since it didn't require any special wand movements or needed to be aimed, but you still felt floaty with a rush of excitement and satisfaction when your wand lit up brightly toward the end of the lesson. The only other one to have managed the spell successfully before you was Terry Boot, and by the end of class Anthony Goldstein, too, although Theo and Daphne's wands glowed faintly as well. 

The week continued like that. Deciding that Binns was twice as boring as everybody had made him out to be, you opted to take notes from your book instead for the first half and chat during the second half. Granger gave you an annoyed, venomous look that you ignored in favour of accepting some sweets Narcissa had sent Draco that morning.

While you'd been unsure at first how Astronomy had anything to do with learning magic, you quickly realized that the basics of this subject were necessary to understand how they factored into potions recipes, plant nurturing, runes and rituals, and more. On top of that, Professor Sinistra was the only other Professor from Slytherin at school and treated everybody with a strict yet witty fairness. She was awesome, especially when she made Abbott's quill let out a sudden whistle when she giggled too much at Uranus. 

Thursday afternoon was the most challenging lesson yet. When McGonagall gave her no-nonsense speech about paying attention since transfiguration was both difficult and dangerous, she wasn't kidding. She was even more stern than Sinistra, and noticed instantly if somebody wasn't paying attention. She explained things well, managing to make complex things such as altering the nature of matter itself understandable to eleven year olds. However, by the end of class Granger was still the only who had managed to made her match look vaguely pointy and grey, resembling a needle from afar. 

It was frustrating. 

When you made your way back to the dungeon, talking eagerly with Pansy and Draco about spending Saturday finding that door to the Lake that allegedly existed a floor or two higher in the dungeons, you passed Snape's office. 

"-not even four days?" Snape was saying in an acerbic tone to a pair of frightened third year Ravenclaws. "Evidently you are only half as smart as you are under the impression to be. Perhaps you ought to try studying once in a while instead of freezing my cauldrons, you halfwits." 

The two Ravenclaws seemed to shrink the more their intelligence was insulted. His black eyes flashed to you, and he snapped at them: 

"Now clear out, don't hold up the corridor." 

They scrambled away, stricken and relieved it was over. Snape disappeared back into his office, shutting the door. 

"They must have really annoyed him," Draco said, sounding almost impressed. "He wanted them gone more than dress them down." 

"Uh-huh," you said, while Pansy started speculating about how they could've frozen the cauldrons. 

Snape's attitude towards you remained unclear even after your first lesson with him, which was shared with the Gryffindors. Between walls lined with jars of pickled animals, plants, and various other indiscernible things, were rows of tables sturdy enough to survive potion brewing. Paired with the dim lighting and black, looming figure of Snape, it was an intimidating place to be, especially for students from other Houses.

Most other Professors aren't going to believe us if it's word against word, second year Lucian Bole had explained, Professor Snape is the only one who will do the opposite for us.  

When he addressed the class, it was in a quiet, pointed way that you would rapidly come to associate with him only.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Draco hid another smile. He'd made it very clear he knew Snape and implied he called him Severus whenever said man visited his home. Next to you, Millicent looked very worried, clearly not feeling confident in her ability to handle delicate powers nor not be a dunderhead. 

"Potter!" Snape snapped. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Granger's hand shot up. After a moment of hesitation, Potter looked down. "I don't know, sir." 

It was the first time you saw Snape sneer, a vicious curl of the lips. 

"Tut, tut," he said, and the sneer worsened, "fame clearly isn't everything. Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

It continued like that, question after question shrinking Potter in his seat.

"I don't know," he said in the end. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

Faint laughter rippled across the Gryffindors, but it died out the moment Snape's dark, cold eyes swept across the lot of them. 

"Sit down," he snapped at Granger, who had stood up to make herself noticed. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

Your hands, which had clenched into fists deep in the pockets of your robe, unfurled. Everybody hurried to dip their quills into ink bottles and soon the room was filled with the scratch of quills against paper. Unsurprisingly, Gregory and Vincent had forgotten most of what they were supposed to write down. An annoyed Draco mumbled a few keys words to them before ignoring them again. You let Millicent peek at your last point, which she had forgotten. 

"And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."

The boy bowed his head, hiding his expression. 

You felt sorry for him, but quickly looked away before Snape could catch you looking at him sympathetically. He must have noticed something, however, because his voice cut through the air: 

"Black. Name a potion that cures non-magical boils." 

You swallowed, relieved that your brain didn't freeze. Thank goodness for Diana's insistence on looking like a pretty wife with clear skin at all times. 

"Er, Smootherdrop?" 

His lips thinned. "More common in the cosmetic business, but yes. Three points to Slytherin for a minimum level of competence." 

You didn't dare exhale until he went on to instruct the class about the simple, those who fail at this know they are sub-par, potion they were to brew this double lesson. 

Weasley, along with two other Gryffindors, gave you a furious glare. When you passed them on your way to the cabinet, you heard him mutter, "favouritism, that. Snakes." 

Well, if you'd ever doubted his feelings toward you, the evidence was right there. 

You spoke to Potter again two weeks later. 

"Congratulations," you said, falling into step with him. "First years never make the team, usually." 

He gave you a startled look, the tome in his arms betraying he'd spend his newly acquired free period doing homework. "How'd you know?" 

You rolled your eyes. "Everybody does. Secrets don't really exist, especially not ones like these." 

After a moment, he smiled. "Thanks. But don't congratulate me, I might still fall off my broom during the match." 

"If you do, that would still benefit me," you laughed. His eyes darted to your tie, smiling fading slightly. 

"Right..." 

Hastily, you added, "but obviously I'd rather you stayed on your broom." 

"Right," Harry said with more conviction this time, "I'd prefer that, too." 

The two of you split up and you continued outside to your flying lesson, happily breathing in the crisp air and giddy at the prospect of flying. The previous lesson had been interrupted by Longbottom's impromptu visit to Madam Pomfrey, and aside from Harry and the still rather sulky Draco nobody had gotten much flying done. Some, like Granger and Theo, found this preferable, while others like yourself found this agonizing. 

What was better than hurtling through the air? 

When you made it onto the Slytherin Quidditch team next year, the other Houses better watch out. That there were only boys on the team was just something you'd have to change. 

Quickly snagging a good broom before Ernie Macmillan could finish comparing it to a different broom, you kicked off the moment Hooch blew her whistle. Impatiently, you hovered a few meters above the ground like she'd instructed, watching as some others struggled to lift into the air. 

"I don't think I'm supposed to leave the ground," Granger was insisting when, after jumping up for the fourth time, she'd yet to stay airborne. She wasn't the only one with this problem: Millicent stayed firmly on the grass too, as did a handful of other students from different Houses. Draco, like yourself, was staring everybody else down from his position in the air, shaking his head when Theo muttered something about flying being useless when there was Floo instead. 

"Why freeze my fingers off in winter," he tried to justify. 

"Learn a heating charm if your parents won't apply it for you," you grinned down at him, drifting closer to him. "See? Flying is easy." 

He gave you a sharp glare, which admittedly looked quite scary considering the yellow specks in his eyes. With a scowl, he kicked off the ground and hovered in the air just long enough to prove her could do it before descending again.

Daphne flew without problems or enthusiasm to your left, quiet as always. 

Eventually even Longbottom and Granger remained in the air for the required five seconds and could do it three times in a row, which prompted Hooch to announce: "Now we will fly, slowly, in a straight line toward the chalk line over there." 

She pointed a gloved finger at a white line about ten feet away. The urge to speed away welled up in you, sudden and potent like a tsunami, but you swallowed it down with difficulty. You envied Harry for escaping this. 

"Get ready!"

The moment she blew her whistle, you set off and whooshed across the finish, pulling yourself to a halt and jumping off again behind the line. Draco and a Ravenclaw had done the same as you, and now others who already knew how to fly drifted down as well. Some muggleborns were learning quickly, like Dean Thomas and a Hufflepuff girl with large ears. Meanwhile, Macmillan, Granger, and Longbottom looked as though they'd rather not mount a broom again, though soon only the Gryffindor boy was left wobbling toward the finish line. 

Sitting sideways on your broom, you drifted up and down while waiting for him to arrive. This turned out to cause him further stress since he landed abruptly when catching sight of your movements and losing concentration. 

Somebody groaned. 

Longbottom looked ready to cry. 

You remained with your feet on the ground. 

"Merlin," Pansy sighed when he struggled to rise into the air again, nerves getting to him. Tracey observed the (lack of) progress with a frown. 

"How doesn't he know this already?" 

Draco snickered. "What sane caretaker would teach such a klutz how to fly? He's still an heir, you know, he needs to stay alive." 

You waited for one of the Gryffindors to go red with indignation and defend their Housemate. Nobody did. Finnigan was telling Weasley and Thomas about self-tying school ties.

For all that Slytherin was a vat of poison, at least they had a united front.

On Halloween, you considered taking a detour on your way to the Feast to convince Granger to leave the bathroom. 

Then you decided a little panic on her part was worth making sure she became friends with Harry and Weasley. You might not have clicked with her, but you couldn't deny the trio must have complemented each other's strengths enough to pull through and end a war. 

On top of Millicent's snores, an other nocturnal issue of the dorm was the fact that three out of five girls had brought cats with them. The cats did not always get along, especially not should all three have decided to sleep in their owner's bed that night. Among the boys, only Blaise had a cat, and sometimes your Mya wandered off with his. The only other times catfights were avoided was if Bastet lounged in front of the hearth to show off, or if Millicent's cat got locked out of the common room when staying out too long to catch mice. 

On the day of the first Quidditch match, all girls (except Millicent, who slept like a rock) were therefore very tired. 

"Hurry up," Pansy barked through the bathroom door, struggling to keep one eye open. Moments later, you shuffled out in casual clothes (for pureblood wizarding standards, at least) and ambled to your bed, where you found your Slytherin scarf. Millicent was already bringing a banner and Pansy was going to paint green and silver snakes on her face; they had the flashiness covered. 

Outside, it was cold and crisp, with clear skies and almost no wind. A perfect day for flying. Tracey yawned repeatedly on her way up the stands, not as fussed about Quidditch as most others and very annoyed that cats she didn't even want in the room kept waking her up. Pansy was trying not to be too unladylike, but still ended up gushing about the latest broom to Daphne.

When the teams walked onto the fields, one under considerably more cheers than the other, she clapped as well. Her blue eyes stood brighter than usual. 

You joined in, not catching what Madam Hooch was telling the players on the pitch but definitely hearing the piercing sound of her whistle. The match started in a furry or red and green fliers who instantly shot into different positions. When one of them brushed by, the wind whispered against your skin and ruffled the inky waves of your hair. 

The commentary echoed over the loud crowds. 

"-a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve, back to Johnson and- no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes. Flint flying like an eagle up there, he's going to sc- no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle. That's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and- OUCH, that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger."

It did indeed look painful. The Gryffindor stands seemed to boo and wince as one. Their discontent didn't last, however, because less than a minute later Angelina Johnson scored the first goal. 

You groaned, and were not to the only one, but it was drowned out by the cheers exploding over at the Gryffindors. The game continued, with Slytherin in possession and about to score when the Snitch sped by and distracted some players, including Adrian Pucey who held the Quaffle. Flint roared something at him before soaring away to block Harry; when Adrian's friend Graham Montague, one of the Beaters, motioned for him to get his head back in the game, Adrian had already refocused. 

"So, after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating-"

McGonagall did not appreciate this. "Jordan!" 

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul..."

"Jordan, I'm warning you-"

"All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession."

After that, Slytherin played an excellent game; even you, who had only ever been allowed to see the local team every now and then since it was obviously too rough a sport for dainty little girls like yourself, noticed this. For this being his first match, Keeper Miles Bletchley was doing his very best and it showed, and while the beaters were good, the Chaser trio of Pucey-Flint-Warrington really stole the show, scoring one goal after another, zipping around the Gryffindor formation with a mixture of fancy flying and some very rough collisions (mostly Warrington, since Flint's nose had been broken after a Bludger to the face and he seemed to realize a concussion mid-game would mean being sent off and a subsequent loss for Slytherin). 

The game was almost interrupted when Harry's broom started bucking and swishing like it was doing its very best to throw him off, but it stopped suddenly (or perhaps less suddenly, when you glimpsed Snape catching fire and knocking Quirrell over from the corner of your eye) and the game continued for a short while. The Snitch glittered in the air and, under a rush of commentary from Jordan, the two Seekers sped after it. 

Harry caught it by accidentally swallowing it; you had enough Slytherin pride to groan again and hang your head in disappointment. Flint had already started lecturing his players on their mistakes on his way down. How, exactly, he had kept his eye on all of them and still played a good game was beyond you, especially considering his grades weren't all that good. 

"We should have won," Draco was saying to those who'd listen, "nobody swallows a Snitch!"

"It was a good game, though," Blaise said, nonplussed. "We'll win next time." 

"We will," assured a third year with a smirk, "the next match is against Hufflepuff, and they're awful this year." 

"How do you know?" Millicent asked, confused. "They haven't played yet." 

You drifted away from the group, saying something vague about catching up to them soon. It took you a while to make your way around the tumult of students, telltale green scarf stuffed deep into the pockets of your black cloak, but eventually you spotted Harry, Granger, and Weasley breaking away from their euphoric Housemates, making their way to Hagrid's hut. The trio looked welded together, as though they'd never been apart and never would be, either. 

Honestly, it was kind of impressive that anybody could remain best friends with the same people from their eleventh until their seventeenth and more. You certainly hadn't, wispy memories of a past life told you that much. 

"Harry!" You shouted, giving him an energetic wave even if your smile was sheepish. Granger and Weasley gave you a polite and less polite smile respectively. "I wanted to tell you that you were brilliant! Plus, you didn't fall of your broom." 

"Almost did, though," he pointed out, "I think your captain and, er, my broom would've preferred that." 

"Speaking of which," you continued conversationally, "why did your broom do that?" 

He hesitated. The edge of your scarf peeked out of your pocket. 

"I don't know." 

Weasley shrugged and shuffled his feet. 

"Oh, honestly, you said you trusted her, didn't you?" Granger rolled her eyes, sighed and gave you a keen, unassuming look. "Professor Snape did it. He's your head of House, right? Do you know why he'd try to kill Harry?" 

You raised your eyebrows, head tilting. "What? I can't believe that. I mean, I've noticed he doesn't particularly like Harry-" 

Weasley snorted. "He hates him, you mean." 

"-but I can't see why he'd do something like that." 

Harry looked entirely unconvinced. As did Weasley and Granger, scepticism written all over their features. 

"But he was staring really intently at Harry, and muttering under his breath," Granger insisted, lifting her chin, "I've read about it in a book, to preform wandless magic requires immense concentration directed right at the target." 

You considered your next words carefully. "Well, wasn't everybody's attention on Harry then?" Before she could argue, you shrugged. "Though now that you mention it, I suppose he and Professor Quirrell were focusing a lot. I'm guessing the fire incident was you, then, if you're so convinced it was him? It knocked both of them over." 

"Er, wha- I... why'd you think that?" 

Weasley was quick to interrupt. "Does it matter if it means she saved his bloody life?" 

You laughed, a much shorter sound than when you'd cheered for your team. "Of course not." 

Granger, meanwhile, was furrowing her brow, bewildered. "Professor Quirrell?"

"What does he have to do with this? Snape's the one who'd been after me," Harry tried to steer the conversation back on topic. 

You shrugged and prepared to leave. "If you say so. Everybody would suspect Professor Snape, you know, him being a dark Slytherin and all that." 

Before the could answer you gave them a last, slightly less friendly smile and walked back toward the castle, leaving them to trudge to Hagrid's. When you returned to the common room, groups of friends and Slytherin-equivalents were scattered about. Rosier, a tall sixth year always surrounded by others, was joking about jinxing any Gryffindors who'd try to rub in their win. A third year, whose group had much kinder atmosphere even though they were angry, was ranting about replacing that wanker Higgs as Seeker. 

"Where'd you go?" Daphne asked. She was sitting in one of the couches with Pansy, Tracey, and Blaise, ankles crossed and back prim and straight, but genuine curiosity shone in her eyes. 

"Detour, I was going to ask Macmillan for that singing set of card he mentioned last week, but I must've missed him." 

You continued up, followed by Blaise who remembered he had a magical board game of Atlantis that could be fun. When you opened the door to the stairs up to the girls dormitories, he gave you an unreadable smile. 

"You know Macmillan wouldn't come to a Quidditch game unless Hufflepuff played," he said quietly and disappeared up the other staircase, closing the door without waiting for a reply. 

The next six weeks passed in a blur. While you continued to spend a lot of time with your fellow first years, especially the girls since you shared dorm and were still eleven year old children, but you didn't click with anybody in particular. Whenever it felt too normal and familiar to see Rosier and older boys like him sit in front of the hearth in the evenings with their gleaming rings, you spent a day in the library with other people. 

Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein were nice enough but mostly kept to themselves, you generally avoided Granger or Michael Corner whenever they were in the library since their studious moods were insufferable, Macmillan and Abbott were alright though they tended to stick with their Housemates, but you got along well with Padma Patil once she'd purposely ignored her friends Su Li and Susan Bones' wary looks. (Clearly, the infamous Amelia Bones had let it slip that Blacks in Slytherin didn't have a good track record - or Blacks in other Houses for that matter, your father was still stuck in Azkaban.) 

It was nice to be yourself; talking excitedly about Quidditch plans and a finger-tying jinx, you almost forgot that on top of trying to enjoy yourself and doing well in class, you still needed to save a whole shopping list of people and learn occlumency Fast to prevent Voldemort from digging up all the spoilers in your head. 

Then it was time to return home for Yule and return to reality. No mindless chats with Millicent on your way to the owlery, no guessing others' embarrassing secrets with Blaise, no giggling and hiding from Mrs Pince's evil eyes in the library with Padma, no Quidditch talk with Draco. 

Even your sudden, hopefully not forced, conversations with Harry were more relaxing than finding the appropriate reaction to Diana's latest gifts: upon your return, you and Daphne both received fancy gowns, the kind little kids didn't wear. Hers was a pale blue, shimmering teal whenever she moved to admire herself in the mirror. Yours was a deep purple with a skirt that whispered around your ankles with each step. 

You tried to laugh the way you usually did here - not the toothy, merry one for friends, or the mysterious one when you were planting seeds for future schemes, or even a scathing one - but a more melodic sound. Not fully cowed; then they'd start pushing you even more if they cleared the hurdle that was a free spirit. 

You didn't doubt Diana loved you in her own way. 

You doubted even less that Diana loved being in charge of the last remaining Black. All the joys of creating a beautiful, charming young woman to push into marrying some ponce whose children you'd bear and then do the same to them because Family and Honour and Happiness and all that. 

Until you cleared Sirius' name, of course. Then you'd live with him and decide what to do with your own future. 

Diana nodded at both of you when deciding the clothe sat well and were to her standards. 

"Thank you," you said and kissed her cheek. 

"Thank you, mother," Daphne intoned and kissed her other cheek. Diana patted her shoulder before waving the two of you away. When she opened the door to her room, you caught her turning left at first, to where her bed had been back in the dormitory.

"I'll see you at dinner," she told you, "I'm tired, I think I'm going to close my eyes for a minute." 

"Sure," you agreed easily, "I'll see you then." 

It wasn't until you were in the privacy of your own room that you threw yourself onto bed - once you'd removed the dress and hung it in your wardrobe, naturally, you still needed it to look good when you were shown off to other families.

(You wouldn't have minded the politicking, plotting, and pretences (PPP for short) nearly as much if it weren't for the disgusting blood status ideology weaved into it all.)

(Merlin, that was a scary thought: you'd have liked navigating this messed up world, taking advantage of name and money like you were going to do?)

(Maybe the Hat was onto something when it put you in Slytherin.)

Not letting yourself linger on these thoughts, you changed into more casual clothes (a long, indigo tunic with soft trousers underneath and a thick cloak: the usual) and entered the gardens to search for Astoria. A veil of frost webbed across the grounds like white lace, glimmering against the dark trunks, stiffening the short grass into needles. Much like how the Greengrasses wanted to present themselves, it looked like a neatly organized poster card. Beautiful and faultless and classic. 

You found her near the fountain, feeding birds by throwing tiny pieces of grain into the sky and watching them catch dinner mid-air. Perhaps a little tall for a nine year old, she looked fairy-like with her small hands, large eyes, and waterfall of golden hair spilling down her back. If fairy's weren't tiny winged creatures sometimes used as decoration, of course. 

She jumped when she noticed you watching, clearly believing it was somebody else. Then she relaxed and smiled widely. 

"Lyra!" 

"Hey there," you grinned back, closing the distance and pointing at the pouch of seeds in her hand. "Mind if I join you?" 

"No, no, not at all," she assured, handing you the feed.  

"How have you been?" You asked and threw a fistful of grain high into the air. Countless little birds swooped down and caught them, a flurry of movement. 

Astoria only answered once every bird was perched upon the bare branches again. 

"It's been good. Mother has started taking me with her on tea parties now that you and Daphne aren't here, and my friends are usually there now as well. Were there really that many candles in Hogwarts? Did you see any vampires in the Forbidden Forest?" 

"You bet there were that many candles," you ruffled her hair, eliciting a shriek while she tried to comb it with her fingers. "And luckily I didn't see any vampires, I probably wouldn't be here if I had! Besides, creatures that dangerous are much deeper into the Forest, I sure hope I'm not going to see them from the grounds." 

So, yes, you were aware that the prejudice against werewolves was awful and that its flawed nature might extend to vampires, but you didn't exactly have a Remus-equivalent to prove this: all you'd ever learned was through the Greengrasses and the tutor they'd hired, who'd been related to the Averys.

"How many dangerous creatures are there?" 

"Nobody knows," you told her conspiringly, "but I've heard that a chimaera used to live in some caves deep into the woods, a terrible beast, it'd eat you right up in a single bite." 

Her eyes widened with fear and excitement. "Really?"

"Really," you laughed, and spread your arms out. "Now, are you finally going to give me a hug or are we going to keep standing next to each other like strangers?" 

Astoria wrapped her arms around you, and when you swept her into a warm embrace you found yourself hoping she'd be sorted into a different House. She was the youngest; her parents wouldn't mind too much. 

Narcissa was of the opinion that, as a former daughter of the House Black, she should be more of a role model to you than Diana was. (Naturally, the idea that your actual mother Marlene McKinnon could inspire you in any way was preposterous.) In many ways, they were very similar; both beautiful and blonde with either only one child or no sons, invested in not only their own appearance but more so in the standing of their family. In a way, you could understand that. It was the only thing they had control over, the only thing they could do that would leave a lasting impact. 

Had it not been for the accusations against Lucius Malfoy for being a Death Eater at the time, you might very well have been raised by this side of the family instead. 

"Don't run down the stairs like that," she admonished when, on the morning after the New Year's Eve Gala held at Malfoy Manor (it definitely deserved capital letters: it was much grander and more elaborate than where you lived, its high roofs and windows highlighting its grandeur rather than make it airy) you hurried down the stairs to see the snow. She sounded both amused and disapproving at the same time. "Surely you have more grace than a troll?" 

You went back up the stairs and descended in a more appropriate manner. Narcissa smiled and gestured for you to help yourself to the tea she'd just levitated onto the mahogany dining table. It was a fancy set of porcelain, with three additional little pitchers; one with milk, one with sugar, one with a hangover cure undoubtedly meant for all the other adults still fast asleep upstairs. 

"Good morning, Lyra." 

"Good morning, Aunt Narcissa," you murmured and sat down in front of her. You were keen to go outside right away and spend the day on the private Quidditch pitch with Draco and a few others, but that would have to wait. "Last night was lovely, especially the fireworks. I've never seen something that great before." 

She looked pleased.

"From Malawi, if you want quality fireworks that is the only place to order from. Did you enjoy yourself?" 

"Very much, although I could have stayed up much longer," you promised and sipped your tea. "Please don't send me up that early next year." 

Of course, even after being sent up to bed you'd still spent two whole hours giggling with Pansy and two of her distant relatives in the year above. Daphne and Astoria had slept right through it all. 

"We'll see," she said. "I hear you've done well at school. Any favourite subjects? Draco has greatly enjoyed potion making, though you must know this already." 

You did. It was difficult not to, along with the fact that he hated how babying the flying lessons were. On this you agreed fully with him, and said as much. 

"Yes, he has frequently mentioned those," she laughed quietly, a tinkling sound. 

"I'm not sure what my favourite subject is," you settled for in the end. "Maybe charms or transfiguration? We don't do a lot for Defence, the only spells we learned besides the locking and unlocking spells has been a leg-locker curse." 

Of course, Housemates also taught each other. This was how you'd taught Blaise a lip-sealing jinx in exchange for his History notes, or Gemma Farley had slid you a book from a less frequently visited section of the library because you were a Black. 

"I'll teach you a nifty trick," Narcissa offered, "in the meantime, you can tell me about Isis Hosny's courtship. She is a fourth year, correct?" 

Racking your brain, you remembered the older girl having a somewhat unsteady relationship with a Gryffindor. You confirmed his name to be Yellowe and that his parents were not, in fact, part of a foreign delegation - you had no clue what he did, but it certainly wasn't that, you'd only heard Yellowe talk once and he was as Midlands as they came. 

"I see," Narcissa said serenely. You had a feeling you'd just ended Hosny's courtship. 

You were taught Conversus Articulis, a hex that ensured all joints of the target's limbs would be functioning the other way until reversed. All in all, it was worth it, even if it took you many hours since it was the most difficult thing you'd been faced with so far. By the time you made it outside, Draco and nine others were already organising their last game for the afternoon. Their footprints criss-crossed the snow, blemishing the white blanket you'd hoped to see earlier that morning. 

"May I join?" You asked, face set in a friendly smile while your eyes left no room for argument. 

After a bit of mental maths, he nodded, "sure, we're missing people, anyway." 

A few older boys looked ready to protest, but when Pansy joined as well the teams became even and it meant having one girl on each, which they could all live with. Pansy spent most of the game letting out surprised sounds whenever somebody whistled past, but towards the end she seemed decide she'd already been unladylike by playing Quidditch in the first place and started playing in earnest, even if that hardly made a big difference since she kept dropping the Quaffle. 

You, on the other hand, zigzagged through the air and although your aim still needed some improving, there was no freer rush of sensations that the adrenaline of flying around. You could fly around the Greengrass manor, of course, but there were hardly ever enough people around who were willing to practice with you: still, you'd have to find a way to better yourself (especially your aim) to become part of the Slytherin team. 

...maybe you'd hang hula-hoops in the branches and try to toss a ball through them while imitating the erratic twists and turns of a Chaser? 

Back at Hogwarts, your twelfth birthday passed and few things changed. You still did your homework with Padma whenever you saw her in the library, still spent most your days with the first year Slytherins, still talked to Harry (plus friends) whenever neither had a pack of Housemates digging their claws into the interactions, still yawned through flying lessons, and still wrote differing letters home. 

That, and Draco Malfoy lost Slytherin fifty points, claiming it was because Hagrid had tried to raise a dragon. There was no proof of this, but Harry, Granger, and Weasley had lost fifty points each as well and would be serving detention with him. The only reason Draco was forgiven was because he'd dragged three rivals down with him, even if nobody really believed his tale about the dragon. 

It seemed the consequences of his bragging were catching up to him. 

The only thing about the ordeal that actually worried you was that you'd forgotten all about this plot point: you knew there would be a detention involving Voldemort's shade drinking unicorn blood in the Forbidden Forest, but you'd entirely forgotten about the events leading up to it. 

"Look at it this way," you said reasonably. "If there was a dragon, where has it gone now?" 

Draco glared at you. "I saw it with my own eyes." 

Gregory and Vincent nodded by his sides like they'd been there too. 

Pansy was having none of your put-on doubt, leaning forward across the breakfast table, forgetting all about her scrambled eggs. 

"Was it already big? Did you have to run away from it?" 

"I didn't run away," he answered swiftly.

Incidentally, he had exactly the same answer when he, weeks later, accidentally mentioned seeing something horrifying in the Forest during detention. 

"I made a tactical retreat," was the phrase he finally settled for. 

Parallel to this, you were trying to figure out how far exactly Harry, Granger, and Weasley had come in regards to the Philosopher's Stone and what they were thinking. Initially, you'd planned to leave them to their devices this year (save the nudge about Quirrell) since it involved no deaths or severe injuries, but then you'd felt the need to figure out if they were suspecting Snape or Quirrell, which in turn had led to nice (if uninformative) conversations that made you realize that these were three children about to stand against a crazed mass murderer. 

In a domino effect that made your stomach lurch, you also realized you were but a twelve year old child. The fading memories swirling lazily in the back of your head were hardly enough to provide you with maturity, insight, and other adult skills. Hell, you'd forgotten your old parents' names, how could that count as a first life? 

It took hour of petting Mya and listening to Millicent mumbling about merpeople for you to realize that none of that really mattered. What mattered was the present, was you, was your future, was the future of those around you. 

Life goals. 

The next class you shared with Harry was herbology. You took the opportunity to accidentally end up working together with the trio. Theo shot you an amused, sympathetic glance but didn't offer you his place at the table he shared with Draco, Blaise, and a carefully mute Tracey. 

"Really, peacocks?" Blaise was saying, raising a single eyebrow. "Your family raises peacocks? I think I'm beginning to understand something." 

"Albino peacocks," Draco corrected huffily, prompting Blaise to snicker. "Sod off." 

Weasley was the first to speak after you'd greeted them, setting the tone before you'd even put your gloves on. 

"Tell your mates to lay off Neville, will you?"

Harry and Granger looked at you expectantly. 

"They're very mean to him," she elaborated, then hesitated before ploughing on, "and to us, too." 

"I don't control them," you said, "but if they use new jinxes, tell me and I should know the counter-jinx." 

"Helpful." Weasley scowled, forgetting that he was in the middle of trimming a bush, which sighed angrily when he accidentally cut off a bud. "You can at least make an effort." 

"I'll try to tell them," you amended. 

Everybody turned their attention back to the plants. Once you were halfway your bush, you spoke up again. 

"It's not all of them, you know." 

All three Gryffindors glanced over at Draco's table, where your Housemates were laughing at something he'd said. 

"Er, looks like it to me," Weasley huffed, eyeing you with distaste. Sensing he was about to point out that you'd never tried to hold them back before, you cleared your throat. 

"Anybody tried to kill you again, Harry?" 

"Thankfully, nobody," he said after a moment. 

"Good to hear. Maybe the broom thing was a bad prank by somebody else entirely? That would be a right awful piece of bullying." 

"I say," Weasley muttered. 

"I doubt it," Granger shook her head profusely, wild hair flying and hitting your face. Harry and Weasley tried to hide their grins at the sight. "You'd have to be a teacher to do something so advanced, there are lots of protective spells placed on brooms, you know-" 

"Now I know." 

"-and both Professor Quirrell and Professor Snape have been acting weird." 

After that, they told you nothing more about their little mystery and debated whether wizarding chess was barbaric or not. You were firmly on Weasley's side, which thawed him a smidge, although it made Granger give you a dark look. 

You knew you couldn't breach the subject again without becoming Suspicious. 

When you came back to the common room from the Astronomy Tower, eyelids heavy after an hour and a half of trying to discern Saturn's moons and your classmates yawning at regular intervals, older students still loitered in the common room. Fifth and seventh year had started drowning themselves in old books and notes, but the fourth and sixth years were enjoying their comparative freedom. 

"Remember when we were first years?" Gemma Farley sighed wistfully to a friend without looking up from her studies. 

"Yep. Such good times, feels like forever ago and yesterday at the same time." 

The Rosier-led group of sixth years were having an entire different conversation. They talked in much lower voices, but you definitely heard a whisper of "blood traitor parents" that you, with a steadying exhale, ignored. Tracey, who walked even closer to them, stiffened and clammed up when her parentage, too, was insulted. 

You said nothing. 

Still, you treated everyone to chocolates when you returned to your dorm. If Tracey got the first piece, it was a coincidence. 

"Let's fly," you told Astoria one day during the Easter holidays. You'd spent the past five hours cooped up in the parlour with Daphne, reading very different novels in silence, and weren't eager to do any more of that for ten years. 

"Fly," she echoed questioningly, "but I already know how to fly." 

"Not the cute gliding your father taught you, I meant something more exciting than a lap around the house," you grinned and pulled her to her feet. "Let's go, I'll show you something fun." 

Once two good, if old, brooms had been procured from the attic by a house elf, you ushered your little cousin (term applied vaguely) through the gardens until you reached a clearing. Hula-hoops hung from three different protruding branches; you'd been allowed to fly every afternoon by Diana and Andreas, but you weren't certain they'd be quite as supportive if they knew you were corrupting their youngest daughter and training to join the Quidditch team. 

"This is going to be our Quaffle," you explained and held out a ball that, while large and red, was definitely an old basketball and not part of a Quidditch set. "How about we pass it in the air? Nice and easy, no fancy tricks." 

"I'd still have to let go of my broom," she said hesitantly, giving the clear sky a distrustful look. "What if I fall?" 

"You won't fall," you said confidently. "And if you do, you just grab your broom and right yourself. You've got talent for flying, there's nothing to worry about." 

Astoria looked befuddled. "I do?" 

"Yes, you're a talented child," you laughed and ruffled her hair. 

Once she'd made sure the strands were all in place again, she considered it. "Well, mother said I'm not to bad at the piano..." 

"You can do more than play a piano," you promised, handing her one of the brooms before kicking off and, before you could fly too high into freedom, reined yourself in and hovered halfway up the trees, not even at the height of the hula hoops. You'd practiced with those all other afternoons. 

A few moments later, Astoria drifted up as well. First she let go of the handle with one hand, then, carefully, her other hand let go as well. You let her balance in the air until her concentrated, nervous expression morphed into one of elation and surprise. 

"I can do it!" Astoria yelled triumphantly. "Look!" 

(Daphne had never yelled like that. She'd never gotten the opportunity to.)

"Yes," you cheered, ball tucked under one arm as you clapped your hands. "Well done! I told you so, didn't I?" 

She nodded, stretching her arms out like a bird.

"I'm going to throw you the ball, okay?" 

You waited for her to nod again before aiming carefully and throwing the ball; it sailed through the air in a lazy arc. Astoria could've caught it easily without having to move, but she faltered and tried to catch it with one hand while once more gripping her broom with the other. It fell down to the ground with a thud. 

"I'm sorry, I-" 

"Don't worry, we'll try again," you assured and leaned forward slightly to fly down and pick it up. Whooshing up next to the blonde, you handed her the ball. "You can throw it to me this time, it might be easier. I'll catch it." 

"Okay." 

Once you got into position she cautiously let go of her broom again and raised the ball with both hands, throwing it in your direction. You had to dive forward a few feet to seize it, but did so with ease and gave her a wide smile. 

"Good job!" 

Astoria beamed back, part enthused and part sheepish. "I'll do better next time." 

You gave her a thumbs up, which confused her. Seeing the muggleborns do it at school brought the gesture back into your repertoire. "It means well done, or sure, or some similar affirmative. I'll toss the ball to you now."

This time, Astoria caught it, broom dipping dangerously for a second before she righted herself. A shaky exhale later she realized that yes, she could actually catch a ball while flying, and laughed happily. 

By the end of the holidays, she felt safe enough to play Keeper when you whirled around the hoops. 

You thought you'd go the entire year without a single detention. You did very well class, and you didn't participate in any bullying or, conversely, make yourself an easy target to other Houses by alienating yourself from Slytherin. Just like there was nobody you could point at and claim to be best friends with, there was nobody who held a grudge against you. 

Nobody except Snape, it turned out. 

Even so, you didn't think your first detention would be given by him. 

Most other Professors aren't going to believe us if it's word against word. Professor Snape is the only one who will do the opposite for us.  

Yeah, right. It had been word against word; you'd stumbled into the older Hufflepuffs, yes, but you'd definitely not done it to spill ink down their exam notes. 

"Perhaps," Snape had started in a dangerous voice, black eyes freezing the fifth years into place, "if you had taken the time to learn the Scourgify charm, such rudeness over the loss of a piece of parchment would not have cost Hufflepuff fifteen points." 

The three students nodded hastily and ground out apologies. You dared to relax, watching them be sent away, unsure whether to feel bad for them or just be glad it was over. 

It was not, in fact, over. 

"Detention, Black," Snape sneered at you once nobody would overhear him punishing a Slytherin. "Perhaps you find such petty pranks amusing, but it is most certainly not for those who have to sit their exams after somebody ruined their revision." 

"No, sir. I didn't mean to do that," you said in a stifled voice. 

Snape ignored you. "Eight o'clock, tonight. You'll be scrubbing cauldrons the muggle way." 

"But I-" 

You swallowed down a wave of indignation and anger, managing a, "yes, Professor," before storming back to the common room where you ranted and whined about unfair punishments. 

"Maybe he had to give a token Slytherin detention to show he's not biased," Tracey offered hesitantly, watching you pace around. 

"He must have been in a bad mood," Draco dismissed without looking up from his game of wizarding chess. Nott instructed a pawn to move. 

Refraining from pointing out that Snape was always in a bad mood, you huffed and sat down to watch the little chess pieces get beaten to a pulp. It offered some catharsis, but not so much that you weren't still frustrated when you went to serve detention after dinner. 

Snape gave you a cool stare from his desk, upon which rested stacks of homework he was grading. If you'd ever thought about becoming a teacher, the sight of the paper heaps discouraged you. 

"I have to use these?" You asked and lifted one of the large, lumpy sponges.

"That would explain why they're there, yes," he drawled. "You may leave when you're done." 

There was water and Soft Soap: for Sticky Surfaces to your disposal, as well as twenty-five very clean cauldrons. It was common knowledge that Snape vanished any remaining potions after class since he hated residues (they messed up the next thing one brewed), so it wasn't even like you were going to make a difference by scrubbing them. 

Not that you'd want to stick your bare hands into toxic liquids. 

You took care to scrub them properly, not into the idea of Snape making you clean them all again in case he wasn't satisfied. The first four cauldrons went fine; the soap smelled pleasantly of lemongrass, and the texture of the sponge was entertaining when it absorbed the foam. By the eleventh, you were bored and grew increasingly aware that you weren't used to such repetitive, manual work. By the twentieth, your arms were trembling and your hands were starting to feel raw. 

When you'd finished the twenty-fifth, your fingers had reddened and your skin had been rubbed away at places. The cuts, almost imperceptibly small, stung with soap. 

Snape inspected your work to make sure you'd dried them off well, too. "You may leave now." 

Grinding your jaw, you nodded jerkily and legged away from his office. The urge to jinx somebody (preferably him) was overwhelming, but you swallowed it down. The letters home would have to wait: you didn't want to write in this mood, if you would even be able to hold a quill steadily. 

Arriving at the smooth black bricks, you murmured, "Lizardscales," and were let into the common room. The other first years were already gone, though you were sure the girls would still be awake and chatting if you returned to the dorms. 

You didn't feel like listening to Pansy's gossip, though. Or watch Perfect Daphne come with Perfect Comments. Or Millicent try to follow social cues and hide that she found them difficult to understand. Or Tracey try to absorb all their movements to make them her own and fit in. 

Instead, you sat down at a desk near the lake-wall. Nobody paid you any attention, too engrossed in their own work. A seventh year looked ready to cry, but kept his eyes dry with singleminded determination while he poured over Arithmancy.

"You should accept," a fifth year was murmuring to Gemma Farley, "he said he'd wait until you graduate." 

Not for the first time, you wondered what your life would be like if you shared a dorm with Padma. Which other girls were in Ravenclaw? Su Li, Mandy Brocklehurst, and Lisa Turpin? There was one more, but you couldn't remember her name. 

Staring down at your irritated hands, you also found yourself wondering if you shouldn't have gone to Madam Pomfrey. Now it was past curfew and you'd missed your opportunity. As much as the cuts stung, you hoped all the soap at least meant they wouldn't get infected. Was that how it worked?

It was, right? 

A reparo wouldn't heal you; Theo had tried it on either Gregory or Vincent when one and stabbed the other with a quill in an attempt to kill an insect. It had repaired the quill, though. 

The last match the Slytherin Quidditch team played that season was against Hufflepuff. It was a complete curb stomp, Slytherin winning two hundred and ninety to sixty. Any teamwork issues had clearly been worked out since the first match, with Flint seemingly being everywhere at once, Adrian weaving nimbly around opponents and Warrington knocking not only the Quaffle from their hands but also the people off their brooms. (So, yeah, you paid more attention to the Chasers: you'd have to replace one of them, after all.) Anybody who could count knew that for Ravenclaw or Gryffindor to catch up, they'd have to win over the other with an almost three hundred point difference. That wouldn't happen: Ravenclaw was too good. 

The celebration was organised by the older students, who'd spiked the punch and half-heartedly tried to keep the youngest away from it. After a while, you snuck down to the kitchens with Millicent under the pretence of fetching a non-alcoholic refill for the younger years. 

"We're not getting more pumpkin juice?" Millicent asked, confused, when you instead sat down at once of the long tables. House elves instantly started bringing biscuits, pastries, and a crystal pitcher glittering with pomegranate juice. 

"No, not yet," you said vaguely, "I needed a moment." 

"Is our dorm locked?" 

"What? No," you shook your head, "no, I wasn't locked out." 

But Daphne had already gone to bed and you didn't want to disturb her. Besides, you were going to go back to dancing when you returned to the common room, you didn't want to sleep. 

She observed you before sitting down in front of you, round face set into some emphatic kind of curiosity. "Was it Pansy?" 

"What did Pansy do?" 

"Well, she trails after Draco a lot, right? Don't you like him?" 

The mere thought made you burst out laughing, although it died down when you realized she was serious. 

"No. Definitely not. We're cousins of sorts, so we've known each other for a while - I guess it's a closeness easy to misinterpret," you explained, then snorted again. "Ew, no." 

She nodded. "Okay." 

It wasn't like you trusted Millicent as a person; you were both too Slytherin for that, and while she wasn't the dumbest in your year (the bar was pretty low), she was far from bright and knew that herself. Still, she was nice and cared for those around her, so in a sense, you supposed you trusted her as a friend. 

"Do you have any summer plans?"

She blinked at the question. "I don't think so. We usually stay at home. Sometimes we rent a cottage in Cornwall, but that's it." 

"That sounds nice," you said. "How long do you usually stay?" 

"One week," she estimated, munching on a biscuit, "maybe two? I don't like the smell of seaweed." 

"Do you think I could visit? Or we could meet up in Diagon Alley at Fortescue's." 

Diana and Andreas would probably prefer if the first Hogwarts friend you chose to visit wasn't a slow halfblood. But sometimes they could just shove it. 

"That sounds nice," she lit up, "if you visit, you can bring Mya. My cat likes her." 

You doubted Mya liked Millicent's cat. 

"Maybe I will," you smiled back, "I'll send an owl when we've both gotten home. Your parents won't mind me inviting myself, will they?" 

She paused before answering. "They won't. Dad will be happy to host you, even if you popped up out of the blue. Mum tries to be strict about rules and etiquettes and things like that, but I think she's starting to realize it's a bit difficult for me. There are too many different dessert forks you rich families use, you know."  

"There are definitely too many dessert forks," you agreed with a crooked grin. "You should see the Greengrass collection of seafood knives, though. The ones used to gouge fish eyes out are downright weird." 

"Weird how?" 

"You kind of... scoop like this," you explained and motioned with your finger, "and then the eye pops out. I always felt like they stared at me the rest of the meal, to be honest." 

"Don't you just throw the whole head away?" 

"No, of course not! The cheeks are a delicacy," you exclaimed and poured two glasses of pomegranate juice. 

After downing her glass, she hummed. "Do you think Quirrell is afraid of dead fish eyes?" 

Your eyes snapped to hers. "Are you suggesting we prank him and put a bunch of them on his desk?" 

"Huh? No," she said. "I was just wondering." 

You glanced down at your hands; whole and unblemished once more. You'd never pranked anybody and still gotten into trouble for it. A smile curled your lips. 

"We should do it, though." 

"What?" 

"Pile dead fish eyes on his desk. He'd probably see it as a sign that vampires are trying to kill him again."

You'd be pranking Voldemort. You might not be the pranking type, but this was a golden opportunity. 

"How'd we even get all those fish eyes," Millicent tried to reason. Reason wasn't her strong suit, though, because you simply had to give the tunas the house elves were busy marinating a meaningful look. "How'd we get into his office?" 

"Alohomora," you answered. "Anyway, let's get back to the common room before somebody comes to get us." 

She nodded and carried two of the three pitchers down into the dungeons. Taking care not to spill the liquid in the one you carried, you had to admit that maybe pranking Voldemort wasn't worth getting into trouble with Snape again. The last thing you wanted was living up to the image he had of you. 

At least for such a bad reason. 

Summer weather rolled across the grounds like a heavy sheet. With it came exam stress. As much as you enjoyed class, revision bored you to tears; these were things you'd already learned! If it weren't for the lucrative exchange you set up with Blaise where you helped him with transfiguration and he you with history, you would be failing it for sure. Purely out of the goodness of your heart, you helped Millicent a little as well. You didn't want her to redo the year, even if she snored. 

Two days before the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Quidditch match, the Harry was hospitalised. By the time Slytherin had stopped celebrating winning the Quidditch Cup rumours about the Boy Who Lived trouncing Voldemort once more were running like wildfire. 

You could when Harry woke up by the way Granger and Weasley glowed with relief and happiness, and made your way to the Hospital Wing after dinner. Harry had indeed woken up and was trying to argue with Madam Pomfrey that he shouldn't have to stay the night. 

"Nonsense," she decided in a stern, but warm, voice that went perfectly with her face. "If you're well enough tomorrow I might allow you to attend the End of Term Feast, but tonight you're staying here." 

She bustled back into her office. When Harry noticed you walking towards him, he brightened again. 

"Lyra! Will you help me eat this? There's far too much." 

He gestured at the sweets supporting students had gifted him with. Some had been eaten already, an open package of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans beckoning you when you sunk down in the chair next to his bed. Despite being confined to the hospital, he looked much healthier than he had when you first met him on the train to Hogwarts last September. Colour suffused his cheeks, he was scrawny but not at all thin, and the shy, uncertain smile had been replaced by a cheerful one.

It disappeared when the bean turned out to taste violently of chili and he had to spit it out, reaching for a glass of water. Hastily, you handed it to him and he drank gratefully. 

"There's a million rumours going around school," you informed him once he felt better. "Do you mind me asking which one of them is true?" 

He hesitated. "Yeah, I kind of do mind." 

"Oh, okay," you nodded easily. "The only thing you've missed is half of the student population having post-exam panics about failing and the other half deciding they can't be arsed anymore and enjoying every minute they're awake and don't have to study." 

"I'm in the second half," Harry assured you. 

"So am I," you said. "I'm sure Weasley already told you that Gryffindor lost against Ravenclaw, but if you need another recap I'm happy to tell you all about how Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup." 

"No thanks, I can live without it. Ron's told me enough," he shook his head. "Hand me another bean, will you?" 

You obliged, giving him an off white one. "I doubt this one's chili." 

He tried it, and squinted. "Paper." 

"Nice and neutral, I suppose," you said and finally reached for a treat, nibbling on a blueberry tart. "I overheard Flitwick talking to McGonagall, apparently everybody in our year passed their exams." 

"Good to know. I was sure I'd failed History of Magic."

"Nope, not even Binns failed you." 

Suddenly, he seemed to remember something and looked uncomfortable. You waited in silence until he spoke up. 

"It was Quirrell, by the way, not Snape." 

"Oh, right." 

"That's all you have to say?" 

"I try not to be an I-told-you-so person, but sometimes it's very difficult," you smirked down at him, smug. "This is one of those moments."

He blinked, like he'd expected a different reaction - probably a renewed attempt at asking him what had happened. 

"Which is why I feel much better about not bringing you anything," you continued. "It counts as my I-told-you-so." 

"I don't think that's how it works, but sure. Pass me another?" 

Once he'd eaten enough to skip lunch altogether, he said: "I'm done." 

"I'll leave you, then," you chimed, standing up. "Not to rub it in, but Gryffindor is also pretty done." 

On that note, you sauntered to the Feast, ready to bask in the fact that Slytherin had won not only the Quidditch Cup but also the House Cup. 

That didn't happen. Gryffindor pulled ahead with a mix of bravery, favouritism by Dumbledore, and pure luck. 

There was always next year, you supposed.