FLUORESCENT ADOLESCENT ► harry potter ¹

012. Danger Lurks

CHAPTER TWELVE

    SIRIUS BLACK HAD MANAGED to get inside of Hogwarts again. The news spread like wildfire through the stone corridors, whispered in urgent tones between students huddled together. Some were frightened, some skeptical, but most were just caught up in the thrill of gossip. For Lyra Black, though, it was no surprise. She knew her father would find a way in sooner or later; it was just a matter of time.

Lyra noticed the changes immediately. She could sense the air around her becoming heavier, laden with fear and uncertainty. She had seen Professor Flitwick earlier that day, his small form floating by the front doors, instructing them to recognize a large, moving picture of Sirius Black that now hung on the wall. The charmed image seemed to snarl and grimace, a stark warning to anyone who might encounter him.

Filch, the cantankerous caretaker, was suddenly more animated than usual, bustling up and down the corridors, boarding up everything from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes. His face was twisted in a mix of worry and determination, his hands trembling slightly as he hammered nails into the wood. It made Lyra feel suffocated, like the walls of the castle were closing in on her. She saw more teachers patrolling than usual, eyes sharp and alert, their wands at the ready.

And then, she saw him—Ron Weasley—walking fast, his heavy steps echoing throughout the stone hallways. His face was as red as his hair, his eyes narrowed into furious slits. When he caught sight of her, he stopped abruptly, his whole body tensing up like a coil about to spring.

"Your dad tried to kill me," he said, his voice low but fierce, barely containing the anger simmering beneath the surface.

Lyra's heart skipped a beat. She'd heard variations of this sentiment countless times, but it always hit differently when spoken by someone who had actually been face-to-face with Sirius Black. Her mouth went dry, but she forced herself to swallow her instinctive retort.

"Okay, he obviously didn't succeed since you're standing right here," she replied bluntly, her voice edged with defensiveness. The words trundled through her brain like a freight train, unstoppable, crashing out before she could think better of it. She winced inwardly. That wasn't what she meant to say—not at all.

Ron's eyes blazed with fury. "You think this is funny? Do you even care?"

The weight of his words settled over her like a cold, heavy fog. She reached into her pocket, her fingers brushing against the rough edges of a few galleons she'd stuffed there earlier. "Here," she said, her voice quieter, more measured now. "I hope this makes you feel better." She thrust the coins out toward him, feeling a strange sense of obligation. She wasn't sure why she felt like she owed him—maybe because of her father, maybe because of all the unspoken apologies that seemed lodged in her throat.

Ron recoiled as if she'd tried to hand him something filthy. "I don't want your money, Black," he spat, his lip curling in disdain. The Weasleys disliked the Blacks, and she couldn't blame them. Her family and other purebloods had spoken ill of the Weasleys for years, mocking their lack of wealth, their openness to Muggle-borns, their kindness that many mistook for weakness. "Keep your blood money. I don't need it."

Lyra's hand fell to her side, the galleons slipping back into her pocket. She felt a pang of frustration, followed by a wave of sadness. "Then what do you want, then?" she snapped, her voice breaking slightly. She was tired of everything—of people coming up to her (mostly teachers, because some of the students were scared of her) and asking how she was doing, like she needed a goddamn counselor or something. She was tired of being treated like a walking time bomb. "Look, Ron, I'm sorry, okay?"