Chapter II . . . gone with the wind

The next time he sees her, she is in the spotlight.

It's fitting, all of it; how every eye in the Hufflepuff common room is drawn to her, the glinting gold accents of her jewelry reflecting little beams of light as she spins around on the spot, the glow of her smile burning brighter than Regulus imagines the sun can. He never makes a point to look right at it, and he thinks, as he watches Lyra, that this is something of the same.

The only difference is that the sun burns you when you're too close. Lyra only showers you with warmth, and there's no such thing as getting too close to her, apparently. Nobody has gotten more than an arm's length all night.

But not just in the physical way. Since their shared detention, since she read him to filth without missing a beat, since she dug into his deepest soul and unearthed things he hadn't even told his closest friends—since all of that, Regulus has had Lyra on the mind. He couldn't help it. She was a parasite in his head, something he couldn't get rid of no matter how hard he tried. She had snaked her way into his thoughts and poisoned him with her glowing eyes and quick tongue.

He'd tried tracking her down. Well, not her, literally, but the idea of Lyra North. Who she is within Hogwarts walls and out of them. Why he hasn't known her all these years.

But what he gathered, from all his sleuthing: Lyra is a ghost. She's something of an anomaly. Nobody—not even those she shares a dorm with, her roommates of six and a half years now—know her past her exterior. She's the same way she had been with Regulus; a whisper in the wind lost over the rush of a stream, or the shred of dandelion that is carried away and forgotten.

Lyra is forgotten once you've done with her, people say. You walk away from the conversation and think how kind she is, how easy to talk to; and then you find yourself wondering what you learned from that conversation. What the point of it was.

You find yourself giving up your secrets to her, and you walk away empty-handed. She walks away with her pockets full.

This intrigued Regulus, admittedly. He'd tried letting it go originally, doing his best to forget about her like apparently everyone else is able to do so easily once they leave her, but she was there every time he closed his eyes. Burned into his eyes like fire. He couldn't lose her no matter how hard he tried—and that was swift to replace his intrigue as unabashed frustration.

"So nobody... knows her?" he'd asked Pandora just this morning, two days after his original detention. Two days of Lyra on his mind, nonstop and torturous. "How does that work?"

Pandora hummed her assent to his first question, sitting cross-legged in the courtyard, back against the corridor wall Regulus was sitting on. The cold never bothers Pandora, and it always bothers Reg, so ages ago they reached an easy conclusion for him to be able to stay in the warmth of the charmed hallways and for her to be able to enjoy the winter's snow.

"I don't know, Regulus," Pandora replied, swirling her finger through the snow beneath her, powdering it down to fine. "I asked around for you, like you asked—"

"I did not ask."

"You begged, even."

He rolled his eyes and nudged her with his foot. "Go on."

"But it's not that nobody knows her." Pandora lifts her shoulders in a feathery shrug, keeping her head down and focused on the snow. "And all I could gather was that she's like a memory. Everybody knows her, but nobody knows anything about her. Does that make any sense?"

"No," Regulus had replied. "None at all."

But he wasn't going to give up on this witch so easily. Not when she had cursed him, infected his mind and made an indelible mark on him.

So he tracked her down. It wasn't difficult at all; Hufflepuff was said to be hosting this coming weekend to honour the end of the Quidditch season, and observe their shocking win. (Somehow, Gryffindor had just fallen short of their winning streak while up in their final match against Hufflepuff, putting them in second and the badgers in first. At least Slytherin didn't get last place; there's a bright side to everything, Regulus expects.) Celebratory events must be observed in an orderly fashion, on Hogwarts grounds, so it was a given that when Hufflepuff won the Quidditch Cup, they would be the ones hosting.

Other houses were invited—as always—but no Slytherins ever dared show their faces at a Hufflepuff event—as always. So perhaps it was a bit of a surprise when Regulus Black led a caravan of the most covert Slytherins of them all into the midst of a celebration like this one.

"Still don't understand why we're here," Evan muttered to Barty, as they entered through the portrait door. "Couldn't we go?"

"Reggie wants to find his dung-slinging princess," Barty replied, a pleased expression dancing across his face. He took a serving of firewhiskey from the nearest table graciously. "I, for one, am not going to deny a free chance to get pissed. Are you, Rosier?"

"I don't drink," Pandora told him over the music.

Barty grinned at her. "I was asking your brother."

"Come on, Lovegood," Dorcas said, watching Evan and Barty gather up another round of drinks through a cautionary gaze. She took Pandora's hand and they headed off to a calmer section of the celebration.

"See her anywhere?" Evan asked, his voice heavy in Regulus's ear.

And it was only then that he saw her.

As if the party revolved around her, as if everything stood awaiting her return, as if she was the guiding light and nobody knew what to do without her. She spilled out of the corridor leading to the girls' dormitories, grinning, throwing her hands up when everyone cheered her welcome.

"Don't tell me you missed me," she says, feigning modesty, and somehow Regulus can hear it over the music.

Barty's hand is on his arm. "You're not really going over there, are you, Reg?"

Regulus glances down, wondering how his legs had just moved of their own accord. He shakes his head, lost in thought, eyes unwittingly bringing him back to Lyra—back to the North Star. He isn't drunk, but looking at her makes him feel like he could tip over on the spot. Dangerous.

Something collides with his shoulder, hard, and he stumbles forward a step. He turns back to Evan and Barty, a sharp accusation readying itself to spit out and get them under control, but it dies on his tongue when he sees that they've melted into the crowd and disappeared.

Dorcas, Pandora, Barty, Evan; each of them lost to the tumultuous mass surrounding Regulus, and Lyra herself at the center of it, still goddamn beaming.

Then it falters.

The light emanating from her, brightening with her laughter and illuminating those she surrounds herself with—it's a constant, thus far, something you can't see but you know is there anyway. A feeling. It's been there ever since Regulus has been watching her.

And then she meets his eyes from across the room, and the feeling hesitates. As if the party is holding its breath.

"If you'll excuse me," she tells the boy next to her, but he doesn't really seem to hear her anyway. Nobody seems to notice she's gone until they lose the warmth.

She's coming toward him now, but the things Regulus wants to say to her can't be said in a setting like this. He didn't think this through, coming to a damn Hufflepuff party, expecting Lyra to not come over to him. Of course she would track him down; of course she would find him. Had he been expecting her not to jump at the chance of inciting a sense of dismay within Regulus?

He makes it out of the party safely, and that's all he needs. All it takes. He just needed to get through the mass of bodies, the thick knit of celebration that seems to be trying to keep him in, like Lyra is commanding them to block his exit. But he makes it out of the common room and into the corridor, and then he is off; now he knows he is being chased and it isn't a good feeling—isn't a good feeling at all, the thought of someone behind him, falling in step with him and able to keep up as he's trying to make his escape.

"Regulus Black!" she calls, and for a moment, he'd forgotten who was chasing him. Maybe he should allow himself to be caught.

He catches his hand on the corner of a corridor, right where it turns into a dead end, and slows himself, senses heightened and chest rising and falling too quickly. He isn't breathless, but his adrenaline is up, and he feels like a caged animal, so he can't help drawing his wand when she rounds the corner.

She puts her hands up at once. "Christ," she laughs, "what's this about?"

He shakes his head shortly, clearing his senses. "Why did you chase me?"

"Why did you run in the first place?" she retorts, and she slowly lets her hands fall back to her sides, the familiar simper making its way back onto her face. "In my experience, only people who have something to hide will run. People with secrets."

Regulus regards her, still not putting his wand away, still hopped on adrenaline. Still feeling like a piece of prey that has just been hunted to a dead end. "Are you saying you don't have secrets?"

She doesn't answer. Her eyes are on his wand, her head tilting to the side curiously, lips parting in intrigued thought.

"What?" he snaps. He is sick of her games.

"What kind of wand is it?"

Regulus scoffs, and he is quick to put it back in his pocket, shaking his head. Wand types are the best way to get to know someone; to know their secrets, even. He'll be damned if he wittingly lets her in after she's already thrown the door open herself.

She raises an eyebrow, challenging. For a fraction of a second, he could swear her eyes flicker down to his side, to his left forearm. Her lips split in a smile. "Show me yours and I'll show you mine."

Regulus narrows his eyes slightly, lips parting, glancing her up and down. Confusion—that's what he's feeling. Not a common one, if he's being honest; not something he's used to. But Lyra North is the most puzzling thing he has ever faced. How could one person be so many different things?

And why does it always feel like she knows more than she should?

Subconsciously, he tightens his arm into himself, taking a step back. "You mean my wand?"

And then her expression leaks into something Regulus is yet to have seen from her; and for a shining moment, he revels in the fact, superior for seeing a side of Lyra North that nobody else has.

But his pride soon shrinks to wrath.

She is smug.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he demands, and he whirls on her, his wand back in his hand and now tilted up beneath her chin. If she knows something she shouldn't—if she knows what she is implying she does, then Regulus is in trouble.

He's glowing with rage now. How could she know?

"What is it with you?" His voice is rising now; he can't help it. She's still smiling, even with his wand beneath her chin, even with the possibility of something worse than a childish jinx hiding on the tip of his tongue. For he is not below Unforgivables, and if Lyra knows what is scheduled to be branded on his forearm, then she knows he is not worried about going to Azkaban. Not one bit.

"What is it with me?" she repeats, raising her eyebrows. Still smiling. "What is it with you, Regulus Black? You come to my party, loom around with that dark storm cloud over your head, then you chase me out of it? Well, we missed the presentation of the Quidditch Cup, so I hope you're happy."

Regulus's brow knits together. Him, chase her out of the common room? "What are you on about?"

She rolls her eyes now, but it's playful, like they're in the midst of a game only she knows the rules of. "Is it just questions with you? Why do you need so many answers?"

"Because," he huffs, "you seem to have a tendency to cause chaos about me, know things you shouldn't. You won't answer any of my questions straight on. Why should I trust you enough to show you my wand, North? I think you're hiding more than anyone else is, and I want to know what. I want to know why you're so—damn—confusing."

The smile—to Regulus's appreciation—is gone, replaced by a slight curl of her lip that exudes contempt. "You don't know me."

"Clearly not," he replies, glaring into her eyes. If only he were a Legilimens, like Snape always said he was. "If I did, we wouldn't be having this problem, would we?"

He jabs his wand into her chin again, cocking his head. "Tell me what you know, or I'll curse you. It's a simple matter."

She only glares him for a moment, and Regulus is honestly taken aback at first—at the boldfaced hatred in her eyes, at the iron vendetta she has out for him that he can practically smell. She is furious, and he likes it.

She should be as upset as him, shouldn't she? It's only fair.

"I don't know anything," Lyra says slowly, her voice dark.

"Lyra," he says lowly, "don't lie to me. If you know something, say it."

Her eyes twinkle with something Regulus hates, because he doesn't know what it is. She is biting back a smile. "My name, Regulus. What does it mean again?"

His eyelids lower into a seething glare, every muscle within his body tensing. Hatred seeps into everything he sees. "You're mad."

"As mas as you, darling," she promises, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Curse me all you want, Regulus. I'm not going anywhere."

Something deep within him curls at her tone, at the words she is swearing to him—her eyes are half-lidded, starry in darkness of the corridor, glistening with the secrets she keeps locked up. Her lips, their perpetual almost-smile, an oath of their own. They're stained red. Regulus can't tell if it's from lipstick or something else. Perhaps it's blood; he wouldn't be surprised. Maybe they taste like blood, too—metallic and cold.

Then he furrows his brow slightly, his head stuttering back. He's close to her. Too close. Maybe the closest anyone has been to Lyra North. That gives him a sense of superiority, too, like when he saw the smug side nobody else can claim they've witnessed—he has known a Lyra that hasn't yet revealed herself to anyone else. She has secrets, and he has seen so few of them.

She is captivating.

He is leaning in.

"Ah, come on, Regulus Black," she murmurs, a smile dancing across her lips as she pulls her head back. Her eyes search his face. "Already?"

He rolls his jaw, his insides turning to lead. It's shame that lowers his head, but he wouldn't say that out loud. He takes a step back.

She puts a hand on his jaw. Soft, gentle. Smiles at him. "Ten minutes alone with me and you're already tripping over yourself. Sad, really."

He jerks his chin out of her grasp, scowling, taking a few steps back to separate them. "It is sad," he says, "isn't it? Really, trying to kiss a Mudblood. How disgusting of me."

Regulus watches her eyes, waits for it—and there it is, when he uses the word. When he voices his suspicion. The reason she doesn't talk about her home life. The reason she won't let anyone know who she is. Because they're in the midst of a war, and she's trying to protect herself by withholding the truth of who she is from everyone around her.

A flash of discomposure crossing her face, the smallest lick of fear. But she's as quick to wipe her face as she was to lose control of it, and the expression is gone in a second.

"You know?"

He's the one smiling now. "Wasn't that difficult to ascertain, darling, I do hate to break it to you."

Regulus straightens himself out, flattening his uniform back down. He brushes ahead, clearly done with the interaction at hand. As he passes her, he stops for a moment; just long enough to tell her, "You always did reek of filth," before he is gone.

For the first time, he feels pride. He has beat Lyra North at her own game. He deserves a crown, compensation, something—he has won.

But then he thinks that Lyra North isn't the kind of person to let things die, and he wonders what he has signed himself up for.

Author's Note

so if you guys are confused yeah i'd actually love to clear some stuff up for you!
so lyra is batshit insane and reg is attracted to her but he Doesn't know why and he has absolutely no idea what's going on at all. 🌟
hope u enjoyed the chap :3