Style // Sirius Black

Chapter XVII

Power. Everyone wants it, few can acquire it. Reputations contribute to power, especially when they are positive towards the group you're aiming to please. If the population is looking for someone with raw power that is untamed and unfiltered, a harsh and volatile reputation is necessary for success. However, if the people are looking for someone to mediate situations and put an end to the violence that rages on, a pristine reputation may work in the person's favour.

But every so often, a strange case comes around where there's a blurred line between the good and the bad reputation. An untamed power source with the desire to put an end to the horrific killings and destruction of the world as they know it. Or, the person could have that unfiltered power buried within them, waiting for the coercion of someone who matches their abilities to lead them into the light.

Typically, that style of story follows the paths of light and dark. But that's not quite the case here. A dark shadow is still birthed from the light, though it's more ignored than acknowledged. Except for some people who take it along with them as a source of power to tap into.

Reputations precede people, and wariness is a common response. But what happens when the person people may be wary about, has unknown intentions, even to themselves?

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Lyra felt the colour drain from her face as he swept into the room. Scarlet eyes that appeared to be watching everyone yet not moving all at once. His waxy skin glistened under the candlelight of Grimmauld Place, the veins around his face prominently blue. Perhaps he was as handsome as some believed him to be, but now, he was merely a shell of a man turned inside out and bleached. There was nothing appealing about the snake slits of his nose and the way he waltzed into the room as though he were floating. The Dark Lord's gnarly fingers gripped the infamous wand and he brandished it around the room.

"Everything alright, my Lord?" Orion questioned, watching Voldemort with an intrigued eye as he surveyed the room.

Lyra had to grip onto the armchair to keep herself from darting from the dining room as his straight edged wand found its home pointing towards her. The room fell into an expecting silence and Lyra simply prayed her inside emotions weren't screaming onto her face. The terrifying smile that broke onto Voldemort's grotesque face curdled whatever food Euphemia had fed Lyra in her stomach and it took everything for it not to come roaring back up. Everyone's eyes were attached to Lyra's still frame, wondering, questioning, what it was the Dark Lord wanted from her, or with her.

"A Potter?" He hissed, not a venomous sound, but it seemed that was the only tone he was capable of, "The Potter at that."

"I'm sorry?" Lyra gawked; her voice surprisingly calm at the words he spoke.

"Of course, you are unaware," Voldemort continued, rounding the table at a snail's pace, his precious Nagini following behind, "Dumbledore has a habit of refuting information."

"My Lord," Bellatrix spoke up, only to be silenced by a pointed glare from the cloaked figure, "My apologies."

When the Dark Lord found his way behind Lyra, she refused to copy the others and watch him. Instead, she set her shoulders high and stared across the table at Walburga, a stone-cold look in her eyes. Even when those ghostly hands slowly ran through the underside of her hair, caressing the golden locks before leading them fall back onto her shoulders. Everything inside of Lyra wanted to run and get as far from this hellscape as she possibly could, but she knew that everything would implode if she did that.

"Such an oddity," Voldemort whispered, "A blonde in the Potters. Green eyes at that. Beautiful."

"Thank you," Lyra returned, her voice oddly steady that shocked her, "My Grandmother, I inherited her physical genetics."