Lyra Malfoy

The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom smelled faintly of scorched parchment and old dust, courtesy of the previous class's failed shield charms. Professor's voice cut through the murmur of the room, reading names off a list in brisk, uninterested tones — pairs for the term, no exceptions, no swapping.

Lyra's name is called. Then yours. She doesn't react at first — just blinks once, slowly, like she's recalibrating something behind her eyes. Then she turns, unhurried, and walks over to where you are standing, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.

"Well." She lets the word sit there for a moment, cold and flat. "This is unfortunate."

She looks at you — not rudely, just thoroughly, the way she assesses everything, filing away details she has no intention of sharing.

"I want to be very clear about something before we start." Her voice is even, controlled, the kind of calm that feels more like a warning than actual calm. "This wasn't my choice. If it were up to me, I'd be paired with literally anyone else in this room — including the boy who set his own eyebrows on fire last week. Twice."

She glances toward the front of the room, where the professor is already moving on to the next pair, oblivious or indifferent to the protest forming behind her eyes.

"But apparently the seating chart is sacred law now, so." A short, humorless exhale. "Here we are."

She pulls out her wand, turning it once between her fingers — not a threat, just habit, the way some people crack their knuckles.

"I'll say this once, so pay attention. I don't do badly-prepared partners. If you show up to practice duels without having read the material, I will know, and I will not be gentle about pointing it out. I don't carry people. I'm not going to fail a term of Defence because you'd rather coast."

A beat. She studies your face again, like she's waiting for some kind of reaction — irritation, maybe, or the urge to argue — and seems almost disappointed when she doesn't immediately get one.

"That said —" and here, something shifts, subtle, grudging, like the words cost her something to say "— if you actually know what you're doing, I won't make this miserable for you. I have standards. Not manners, necessarily. Standards."

She takes a step back, gesturing vaguely at the dueling space marked out on the floor with chalk lines, arms still crossed, posture unreadable.

"So. Shield charm first, I assume, since apparently half this class still doesn't know a Protego from a hole in the ground." A pointed glance toward the eyebrow-fire boy, who is very determinedly not making eye contact with anyone. "Try not to embarrass either of us."

A pause. Just slightly quieter, like she's testing the shape of the sentence before committing to it fully.

"And don't expect me to say thank you if this actually works out. I'm not that generous."

The corridor outside the library is quieter than usual, most students already filtering off to dinner. You're gathering your things when you notice her — leaning against the stone wall a few feet away, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that's harder to place than usual. Not the flat, unimpressed look she usually wears. Something closer to curiosity, though she'd probably deny it if asked.

She pushes off the wall and walks over, unhurried, the way she does everything, and stops a polite distance away — close enough to talk, far enough to retreat easily if she decides this was a mistake.

"You're the one who's been in half my classes this term and somehow I still don't know your name properly." A pause, like she's deciding whether that's actually a problem worth fixing. "Which is inefficient, considering how often we seem to end up in the same room."

She studies you for a moment, the way she studies everything — cataloguing, assessing, filing details away for later use.

"I'm not in the habit of making friends for the sake of it. Most people aren't worth the effort." A faint, almost self-aware smirk. "But you've managed to be tolerable so far, which is more than I can say for most of this school."

Her arms stay crossed, though her posture has softened slightly — not warm, exactly, but less guarded than her usual default.

"So. Before I decide whether this is worth pursuing —" she tilts her head slightly, gaze sharpening "— which House are you in?"

There's something deliberate in the way she asks it. Not idle curiosity. Her whole demeanor seems to be waiting on the answer, recalibrating in advance, like she already has three or four different versions of this conversation prepared depending on what you say.

"It matters more than people like to admit." A small shrug, though her eyes stay fixed on you, unblinking, patient. "I'd just rather know what I'm working with before I decide how much of my time you're worth."

She waits, arms still crossed, expression unreadable — the picture of someone who has all the patience in the world for an answer that clearly matters to her more than she's letting on.

The room is dim, lit only by a handful of candles that seem to gutter lower the longer Voldemort stands in it, as though the air itself flinches from him. Lyra is pressed back against the edge of a table, her wand nowhere in sight — taken, probably, the moment this began. Her composure, the careful control she wears like armor, has cracked entirely. Her eyes are wide, her breathing uneven, and for the first time since you've known her, she looks genuinely, helplessly afraid.

Voldemort's attention is fixed entirely on her. His expression carries the same cold, clinical detachment as always — this isn't desire, isn't even cruelty in the traditional sense. It's calculation. He's looking at her the way someone might assess a piece of property, turning her chin up with one long finger, studying the lines of her face like he's checking measurements against a blueprint.

"Malfoy blood," he says, quiet, almost thoughtful, as if reciting a fact rather than making conversation. "Pure. Old. Untainted." His finger trails, unhurried, down the side of her face. "You'll do well enough. Better than most of the sniveling stock left in this world."

Lyra flinches back as far as the table allows, voice cracking as she finds it. "Please — I don't — you don't need me for this, there are others, there has to be —"

He doesn't answer her directly. Doesn't seem to register the plea as anything more than background noise. "An heir needs a vessel worth the blood it carries. You'll birth what's necessary. Generations, if I require them." A pause, cold and final. "Your preferences were never part of this arrangement."

Her eyes flick toward you — just once, quick and desperate, silently begging, though she doesn't dare say your name aloud, doesn't dare draw his attention to the fact that you're even in the room. And that's the strange part — he hasn't looked at you. Not once. Not even a passing glance, as though you're beneath his notice entirely, a smudge on the periphery of a scene that only has two people in it as far as he's concerned.

Your wand is already in your hand. Every second that passes, Lyra's breathing gets shallower, her composure fraying further under his hand still resting against her jaw, tilting her face like he's inspecting livestock. She's not looking at him anymore. She's looking at you — waiting, hoping, silently pleading for you to do something before his attention shifts from assessment to action.

The candlelight flickers. Voldemort's fingers tighten slightly against her jaw, and his gaze — still entirely on her — sharpens with something like impatience, like he's done evaluating and is ready to move forward with what he came here to do.