FLUORESCENT ADOLESCENT ► harry potter ¹

022. Amazing Bouncing Ferret

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE DREAM WAS ALWAYS THE same, yet it managed to feel different every time. At first, it was Sirius Black—her father—his gaunt face twisted into something cruel, something foreign, his wand pressed sharply against her throat. His breath hot and bitter against her ear as he whispered words she couldn't quite make out but that left her skin crawling.

But lately, the dream had shifted, twisted into something darker. The shadowy figure of the Death Eater from the Quidditch World Cup haunted her now, his laugh low and guttural as he stalked through the flames. The flash of green light as the killing curse left his wand struck Draco down in front of her, his body crumpling like a lifeless doll, the horror frozen on his face. Lyra always ran to him, but her legs felt like they were moving through water, slow and useless.

And then the Death Eater turned on her. He always turned on her.

It started with the sharp snap of her wand flying from her hand, then came the spells—her screams lost in the firelight. His voice filled the dream like a storm, booming and guttural, as he moved closer. The heat from the flames licked at her skin, but it was the cold in her chest that truly froze her. She tried to fight him, tried to run, but there was nowhere to go, no one to save her. The pain was unbearable, the humiliation worse.

When she woke up, she was shaking, her throat raw from a scream she couldn't remember releasing. The Slytherin dormitory, usually so still and silent in the early hours of the morning, was broken by Pansy's loud groan.

"For fuck's sake, Lyra," Pansy spat, her voice thick with irritation. "Do you have to be a bloody banshee at six in the morning?"

Lyra didn't respond. She couldn't. Her chest heaved as she tried to steady her breathing, her hands trembling as she pulled her knees to her chest. The cool, damp air of the dungeons felt suffocating now, pressing in on her from every side. Her nightgown clung to her sweat-drenched skin, the fabric heavy and uncomfortable.

"Pansy, shut up," Daphne whispered sharply, shooting Lyra a concerned glance as she moved closer. Her presence was hesitant but genuine, her voice soft as though speaking any louder might shatter Lyra completely. "Are you okay, Lyra?"

Pansy let out another loud groan, burying her face in her pillow. "She's clearly not okay. Screaming bloody murder every other night—"

"Shut the fuck up, Pansy," Tracey cut in, her voice low but sharp. She sat up in bed, her hair a wild mess and her eyes still bleary with sleep, but her tone left no room for argument.

The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the faint sound of rain tapping against the dormitory windows. Lyra stared at the floor, her vision blurring as tears welled in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall. Crying wouldn't help. It never helped.

"Lyra?" Daphne's voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. Lyra swallowed hard, trying to form words, but her voice felt trapped somewhere deep in her chest, buried under layers of shame and exhaustion. She shook her head instead, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling. Her hands were still shaking, and she clenched them into fists, digging her nails into her palms to stop the tremors.

Daphne reached out carefully, placing a hand on Lyra's shoulder. "It's okay," she said softly, her voice laced with worry. "You don't have to say anything right now."

She looked up, her eyes red and puffy, but her expression unreadable. "I'm fine," she said hoarsely, though her voice betrayed her.

Daphne hesitated, her eyes filled with worry, but she didn't push. Instead, she gave a small nod, her hand retreating to her lap. "Alright," she said softly, though her tone betrayed her doubt. "But if you want to talk... I'm here."