Perfidy | Tom Riddle |

8.

Sept 1, 1943

Today was the day. Encrypting the final touches of her identity, running through every story 5, 6, 7 times to make sure it was absolutely perfect. She had thought of every question that might be presented and had an answer to turn the topic quickly down.

The story she had perfected was that Lyra was an orphan, this was true, born in Russia and raised in a muggle orphanage until she was 7 years old. There are no records of her time there due to her having an outburst of magic causing a fire to begin out of her control burning everything and everyone down. The outburst was powerful enough for a nearby witch to notice and had found her sitting amongst the rubble all alone. From then on she took her in, essentially raising her, teaching complex magic through books and from fellow wizards. Scared of the consequences the little girl would face from harming muggles, the witch didn't alert the ministry and brought her back to London.

This explains a lot of the mystery all around her. Why there were no records of her both in the muggle and wizarding world. Why all these years she wasn't a student at Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, or Ilvermorny.

The tunnel in honeydukes, this was the path she was certain would be the easiest. Though she and Dumbledore weren't close, he always favored other houses in spite of Slytherin, there was a mutual respect between the two. She knew enough about him to present to Aberforth, to gain his trust and access.

Looking in the mirror one last time, making sure she had everything she needed. Deciding to circle the estate one last time admiring its beauty and the last time she would be safe in the comfort of her new temporary home, Lyra took a deep breath and apparated into Hogsmeade.

She hadn't visited honeydukes once since her arrival, for it held too many precious memories, in fact, she almost dreaded having to go in, but it was for a short while, for a few minutes she could hold herself together. Twisting and turning the silver band, something only done when she was quite nervous. Thinking this was it, the last time she would be "free" Lyra entered honeydukes to find it was filled with Hogwart students, all grabbing the sweets and lollies they were infamous for.

"May I help you miss?" a middle-aged man approached her with a warm smile and presented a bowl of raspberry jam-filled drops. Grabbing one and placing it into her coat,

"I need to speak with Aberforth, don't bother lying. I know he's in the back." she sounded quite rude, which she knew but there wasn't a moment to waste. The man looked around the shop and signaled her to follow him into the back of honeydukes. "Wait here a moment." and with that, he was gone.

Biting her lips and picking at her nails the reality of it all finally hit her, she was trapped in 1942 to kill a man whose name or face she does not know. What if she succeeded in finding and killing him, then what? The time turner disappeared into thin air with her arrival here. Would she go to Azkaban or would the ministry believe her story and assist her in getting back?

"Who are you?" breaking free from the panic she had induced on herself, her attention turned to Aberforth.

"I know we don't know each other, but you must allow me into Hogwarts through the tunnel, and don't lie I know there in fact is one." maybe she should've asked kindly instead of deeming it a command.

"I have no idea what tunnel you speak of, now leave before I curse you." he turned and continued to walk away.

She took a hold of his robes and pulled him to face her, "The tunnel behind your sister Ariana's portrait. I know she was attacked at 6 years old by 3 muggles, who saw her doing magic. Not understanding something they feared, they took it out on her." taking a deep breath she began to plead, " We don't know each other in this time, I understand I am a complete stranger and people are not to be trusted with this war going on but I need to be let into Hogwarts and fulfill what I was sent here to do so. Please, I'm begging you." it sounded as if she was on the verge of crying.