Chapter Text
Godric's Hollow
Night of 31st October 1981 — Potter House
The last few cold days of October had passed slowly and quietly, filled with a strange electricity and a silence saturated with a tension that James and Lily Potter couldn't ignore. There was something in the air lately, something scratching at the walls of the house even though the world outside seemed to be flowing smoothly. In their home, time seemed to have thickened between the walls, and not even the sound of the wind or the muffled noise of the outside world could break that feeling of anticipation — an anticipation that smelled of foreboding, of something that had not yet revealed itself but was approaching, at a slow and inexorable pace.
James and Lily were aware of it.
They had been for weeks, perhaps months.
Every day spent with their children — the twins who were just over a year old, Lyra and Harry — was as much a blessing as it was a countdown. They couldn't go out and they knew it, and of course they couldn't have any visitors except for a few trusted people: Sirius, Remus, Peter... and sometimes Albus Dumbledore, who appeared like a quiet shadow and always left with a new worry around him, never any real certainty.
The two young parents would've liked to enjoy a quiet Halloween evening like so many others with their children: decorating the house, waiting for someone to knock on the door to say "Trick or treat?", carving funny pumpkins with the children's help, putting on some music or dressing up, as the Muggle and Wizarding families in the neighbourhood had been doing for days.
But this dream of theirs could not come true.
Because there was a name, a face, a shadow that had been looming over them for months: the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, who was hunting them — or, to be more precise, one of their children. The most feared dark wizard of the century was gathering around him all kinds of creatures — unscrupulous wizards, werewolves, trolls, beings who had forgotten the light — and with them his most loyal followers, the Death Eaters. All bore the Dark Mark engraved on their left forearms, a skull with a snake rising from it as a tongue, symbolising his power and a tool for summoning them to him. When the mark burned, there was no hesitation: they materialised wherever they were. Voldemort's plan was grand and ruthless: power and might had always been his ultimate goals, and to achieve them, he had to remove anything that stood in his way.
Although his goal was power — absolute, unchallenged and eternal power — there was a problem standing in his way.
As every rise has its obstacles, his came in the form of words.
A prophecy.
Dark, ambiguous, uttered at an unexpected moment by a young woman, Sybil Trelawney, just as she was seeking a position as the Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Dumbledore, who was about to dismiss her kindly, suddenly froze at the sound of those words spoken in a trance, as if they came from another place, deeper and more inaccessible:
'Here comes the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord, born to those who have thrice defied him, born at the end of the seventh month.
The Dark Lord will name him his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord does not know... and one will kill the other, for neither can live while the other survives.
The only one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord will be born at the end of the seventh month... '
Just hearing the first part was enough to change everything, because someone had been eavesdropping.
A man with blurred contours between loyalty and regret: Severus Snape.
Still a Death Eater, still tied to the world that had welcomed him years before — but not entirely. Snape heard enough to bring the news to Voldemort, without understanding the consequences of what he was delivering.
The prophecy, as is often the case with dangerous truths, named no names nor distinctions. It spoke of neither a boy or a girl; only of a child.
One among many, yet the only one capable of changing everything.
The prophecy was vague and ambiguous, and the choice of individual was to be made by the Dark Lord himself; and for some strange and absurd reason, he never knew that the Potters had twins, a boy and a girl, born at the end of July.
And among the possible candidates, only two names stood out: Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. Two newborns, unaware of the fate that hung over them.
Yet, Voldemort chose Harry as his equal.
Perhaps because he was a half-blood, like him.
Perhaps because he felt a threat closer, more similar.
He chose Harry, convinced that, being a half-blood himself, he would prove to be a greater threat to his rise to power.
Snape realised too late what he had unleashed: he was still in love with Lily Evans, with the kind of love that does not die even in the dark. And he asked only one thing of his master, his voice trembling just beneath his mask...
To spare her, Lily. The only woman he had ever loved.
Ever since the prophecy was revealed, James and Lily took refuge in the Potter Cottage.
It was a small house that carried the scent of childhood, of wet ground and laundry hanging in the sun — but for months it became their only possible world. It was a house supposed to protect them, isolate them, keep them away from the evil that was pressing at the gates of the wizarding world. It was there that they decided, on the advice of the Order, to resort to the Fidelius Charm, a spell as powerful as it was risky, capable of hiding a secret in the heart of a single individual.
At first, the couple chose Sirius as the Secret Keeper, because of the instinctive trust that only comes from bonds created and shaped in adolescence, when everything seems invincible. But then they changed their minds, because they were convinced that Sirius would be the prime suspect and that they would be taking too much of a risk. So they cautiously entrusted the life of their family to Peter Pettigrew, convinced that no one would ever consider him.
And from that day on, James and Lily lived in fear.
Not the loud, chaotic fear of battles, but the quiet, insistent fear that creeps into everyday life, that makes you hold your breath every time you hear a noise behind the door, that makes you hold your children a little tighter than necessary just because you don't know if you'll be able to do it again. A fear made up of light footsteps on the floorboards so as not to wake the little ones, of quick glances at the window even though there was nothing to see, of sentences cut short so as not to say certain things out loud. A whispered fear, hidden under the dresses, which however could never completely extinguish hope.
They knew they could no longer fight on the front lines alongside the Order of the Phoenix, that they could no longer actively participate in the war that was inflaming the Wizarding World, but deep down, they both felt they were doing what was most important: protecting Harry and Lyra, raising those two little miracles in light and love.
James and Lily had dreamed for those two a childhood full of laughter and scraped knees, of stories told under the covers, of games in the garden and jam-stained hands, of that simple, bright happiness that should be every child's right. They didn't want them to know hatred, only love for their fellow human beings, empathy and kindness.
Deep down they hoped that all this would be enough... that the Dark Lord would be defeated, perhaps in time, perhaps without further sacrifice. After all, they were just in their early twenties, with heads full of dreams and hearts full of future. And they saw light even where the world seemed unable to see it. They saw good even in evil, the sky even in the midst of the storm.
They had grown up believing that there was at least a spark of goodness in every person.
And despite everything, they continued to believe it.
Yet, on the evening of 31st October 1981, Voldemort proved to have no shred of the goodness that James and Lily stubbornly believed in. Betrayed by Peter Pettigrew, who had sold himself like a worn coin in exchange for power, the Dark Lord arrived at Godric's Hollow. It was a dark and bitter evening, the sky covered with clouds like a curtain about to fall on the world. The wind beat against the windows and the rain fell thickly, but there was something deeper, more disturbing in the air. A strange, suspended silence, as if even time itself had held its breath.
With all the magical protections now broken, it wasn't difficult for Voldemort to find the beautiful two-storey house with ivy climbing up the walls and the fireplace still lit.
The dark wizard crossed the threshold like a shadow that asks no permission, and the sound of the door swinging open mingled with distant thunder, shaking the windows.
In an instant, every heartbeat stopped.
James ran to the entrance without thinking, without even grabbing the wand he had left on the sofa — a fatal mistake that cost him his life, but it was instinctive.
Be cause between life and his wand, he chose the lives of his children and his wife.
And he didn't even have time to scream.
Voldemort ascended the stairs with a slowness that smacked of condemnation, with the steady, precise steps of someone who knew exactly what he was about to find. Every step echoed like a tolling bell in the narrow corridor, an announcement not of his arrival, but of his dominance — for he had already seen the end written in the stars, had already crafted the outcome in the hollow of his palm.
Nothing could touch him now: not fear, not failure, not fate.
But when he pushed the door of a bedroom, something made him almost hesitate, not out of weakness but out of surprise. The kind of pause that wasn't born out of hesitation, but because of a confusion too sudden to be suppressed. Inside the crib, illuminated by the pale, indifferent light of the moon filtering through half-drawn curtains, there were two babies.
Two.
He had expected one.
Harry, of course — he had recognised that baby immediately with a certainty that didn't come from memory, but from the bone-deep resonance of prophecy fulfilled. The boy marked for him, the boy he had feared only long enough to decide he would destroy.
The boy whose existence had dictated the shape of his return and the necessity of murder.
But beside him, as if the universe itself had miscalculated, there was a little girl: a baby of delicate features and straight light hair, looking at him curiously with her watery green eyes.
Her presence struck him like a whispered name in a silent room — unfamiliar, but not unimportant. And Voldemort, who firmly did not believe in accidents, felt the air tighten around him with the dissonance of something profoundly wrong.
She was a threat he hadn't calculated. And for someone like him, who shaped his entire existence around control and prophecies, who had spent years weaving the fabric of immortality from threads of precision, that mistake was enough to crack the foundations of his own plan. The girl's presence was intolerable, because it meant he had miscalculated everything and something had slipped past him.
It meant that he might not know everything — and this was perhaps the most offensive of all.
He stood motionless for a moment that seemed like an eternity, his breath suspended and his gaze fixed on that small, unaware face, and something inside him contracted. No one had ever told him about a twin. No one had told him that the Potters had two children.
Who had kept it from him? Who had deceived him? And what did that ambiguous prophecy, so open to interpretation, really mean now?
Lily stood before him, straight as a barrier of light, her hands trembling and her eyes steady. There was love in every fibre of her body... a fierce, desperate love, and her voice, when she told him not to touch her children, seemed to come from a place deeper than any magic.
Voldemort gave her a chance to save herself, but the young woman refused to step aside without hesitation or supplication, and was brutally killed.
Green lightning exploded in the room with a hiss that shook the windows and made the shadows recoil, while Lily's scream broke in the air like a string pulled too tight. The children covered their eyes and cried with all the breath they had in their lungs, pressed against the blankets, their faces streaked with tears and their skin shivering.
And in the silence that followed, thick as smoke, Voldemort approached.
He bent over the twins, the small creatures trembling like leaves in the wind, and there was no pity or hesitation in his gaze. Only calculation and power.
And then, without a shred of doubt or hesitation, he pointed his wand at the girl.
He chose Lyra. He wanted to start with her, not because she was weaker than the boy nor because she was insignificant. In fact, it was the very opposite. There was something in the stillness of her body, in the way her small hands had clenched in silence, glimmering light in her wide, green eyes that refused to close, even when danger had filled the room like smoke. She wasn't crying or screaming: she was watching.
And that alone was enough to unsettle him.
For a brief moment, and only within the depthless caverns of his own mind, Voldemort felt something twist — something cold, sharp, almost insulting to himself. That this child, this unknown, nameless girl, would not turn her face from him. That she would look, as if trying to understand. As if she saw through something no one else had dared to see.
He raised the wand and aimed it directly at the small figure that had dared to remain still. At the little girl who had no prophecy, no name in the books, no mark of destiny — and yet, somehow, burned with presence. But just before the words could form on his tongue, in that suspended moment, in that instant before the end, that something impossible to foresee happened: a flash, dazzling and pure, so vividly white that could hurt the eyes, shot across the room like a bolt of lightning. It was like an explosion of light and wind, of living electricity that shook the walls and destroyed the window with a loud crash, shattering the glass and bending the air itself. It was as if time had contracted into a single heartbeat, and in that heartbeat something — or someone — had crossed the threshold of the real world to snatch away what could still be saved.
It didn't come with a sound or a warning, but with a violence of light so total, so searing, so white that it devoured every shadow in an instant and redefined the room around it.
It wasn't like fire, nor like a spell — it was something else, something ancient and pure and faster than anything that had ever moved inside that house. A blast of energy, a living breath of electricity and wind and something far older than magic, detonated into the room as if the universe itself had reached in to correct a mistake.
A figure, something like a force or a trail of light impossibly fast and real, crossed the room so quickly to be seen clearly. It was impossible to tell if it was a man, a shadow, or an idea.
It wasn't moving like something moving through space and time, but like something rewriting both. A streak of incandescent brilliance, barely visible to the human eye, slicing through the thick veil of silence like a blade through silk, tearing the very fabric of stillness apart. It was just a luminous trail that crossed the room, crossed the silence, crossed death — and took little Lyra away with it into light, enveloping her in its invisible embrace a second before the wand pointed at her released the curse.
Lord Voldemort stood motionless: for a moment, the Dark Lord seemed almost human.
Betrayed by time, by predictions, by reality itself.
He had felt his magic already on the verge of exploding, he had already tasted the sensation of the end, and yet someone — something — had taken it away from him right before his eyes.
In those split seconds, an unnatural wind rose in the room, charged with power and tension, a noise that echoed in their eardrums like a distant scream. The sound of air being torn apart, of glass falling to the floor like sharp rain, and in the midst of it all, Harry cried. He cried loudly, desperately, unable to understand, but able to feel everything.
Voldemort did not wait any longer at that point: enraged as he had never been before, filled with a rage that surpassed even his thirst for power, he raised his wand and cast the Killing Curse with blind fury, all focused on the small body standing before him.
But the impossible happened. Again.
The curse — that green wave that had extinguished hundreds of lives — rebounded.
It didn't simply fail. It reflected, returning as if it had found an invisible barrier between itself and the child. A wall made of love, sacrifice, ancient and unknown magic that even the darkest of wizards could not have foreseen.
And when the Avada Kedavra struck the one who had cast it, it was like seeing evil crumble: Voldemort's body fell apart before little Harry's eyes, like sand scattered in the wind, like a shadow losing its shape at dawn. Nothing remained but an echo of black magic and an unreal silence that seemed to come from another world.
And Harry was still there.
Alone, fragile, his eyes filled with tears that no longer had a voice, sitting on a carpet soaked with fear. He looked at his mother, lying on the floor, motionless and distant, too far away to be awakened by a cry or a caress. And every now and then, with a glimmer of hope that hurt even those who weren't there, he turned to the cradle next to him, searching for his sister's gaze, the scent of her skin, the warmth of her presence.
But Lyra was gone.
There was no refuge left in that room. No familiar voices. No response.
All he had left was a scar on his forehead, a thin lightning bolt that glowed faintly in the dim light of a night that seemed never-ending. And from that moment on, Harry James Potter would be known to the world as "The Boy Who Lived".
But no one, not even Dumbledore, not even the Order, knew what had happened to little Lyra — who that night became instead "The Girl Who Vanished".
Where that trail of light had led, that explosion of power that had taken her away from there — no one knew. And in the surreal silence that followed, the house remained standing, like the secret kept within its walls.
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Miles away, hidden by magic and every protective spell known to man, the cottage where Sirius Black and Remus Lupin had taken refuge was shrouded in the thick darkness of the night, interrupted only by the dim light of a nearly consumed candle. The silence around them was profound, the kind of silence that inevitably precedes something big, something that would change the course of events.
It was in that unreal silence that something happened: a hiss, a muffled bang, and then a figure appeared in the middle of the room, wrapped in a white suit crossed by thin silver trim and an amber yellow so vivid it looked like solidified light. It wore a mask that completely covered its face, revealing only two bright blue eyes, almost superhuman in their intensity.
The sudden noise set off Sirius and Remus, and they entered the living room in an instant, wands already pointed with steady hands but hearts racing in their chests.
«Who's there?» hissed Sirius, his voice little more than a whisper, sharp as the tip of his wand. Remus, silent and focused at his side, stared at the figure in the centre of the room, trying to decipher its intentions and movements. «Who are you? What do you want from us?» he continued, his voice trembling with anger and fear.
The white figure stood motionless for a few seconds, breathing slowly and evenly behind the mask, then spoke. His voice was deep, strangely distant, almost metallic, as if each word were passing through endless layers of time and space to reach the ears of the two young men. «I cannot tell you who I am.» he said with unnatural calm, as if reciting a script written by someone else.
«I'm sorry, I really can't. But I mean no harm, I assure you. I am here in peace.»
As he spoke, his movements were cautious, and he gently lifted what he was holding in his arms. Sirius and Remus held their breath when they saw the sleeping face of a little girl. They recognised her immediately: it was Lyra, Lily and James' little daughter.
«I've brought you this child,» the figure continued, advancing slowly and handing her over with extreme delicacy, almost as if she were made of glass. «I believe you know her.»
The two wizards stood motionless for an interminable moment, a thousand questions crowding their minds, multiplying like shadows in the dark. Remus, moving first with a calmness that felt instinctive, took little Lyra into his arms. She was warm, peaceful, and sleeping soundly, unaware of everything that was happening.
«Something terrible has happened at the Potter house a short while ago,» the figure added with his voice slightly cracked with sadness or perhaps just exhaustion. «I couldn't take the other child, I'm sorry. But she... she's different. You must protect her. Keep her hidden from everyone and everything.»
Remus looked at Sirius, searching for answers in his eyes filled with panic and confusion, then stared back at the stranger, noticing that he was now clutching a letter in his hands, like a secret entrusted to them, the few who could keep it safe. «What's this? Who should we give it to?» asked Sirius, almost impatient but with a trembling, frightened voice.
The figure remained silent for a few seconds, scrutinising them with those bright, deep eyes that seemed to contain entire worlds. Then, with solemn caution, he handed them the sealed envelope, as white and immaculate as his suit. «It's for you two. You must keep it hidden, away from prying eyes. That's all I can tell you, except that this child will be... different. It is essential that you do not talk to Harry about her, or vice versa, not yet. If they find out about each other too soon...»
«Who are you to tell us what to do?» Sirius suddenly shouted, his eyes flashing with anger and pain, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. «Why should we trust you, a masked stranger who hands us children and letters and instructions without even telling us his own name?»
But in the time it took to utter those words, the man — or perhaps the flash of light — had already vanished, as if he had never been there, leaving behind only the oppressive silence of a room that suddenly seemed too large, too empty. Sirius, overwhelmed with frustration and despair, vented all his helplessness by hitting the wall hard, once, twice, three times, until the physical pain at least partially subsided the inner pain. Remus, on the other hand, stared motionless at the letter in his friend's trembling hands, while little Lyra continued to sleep, peaceful in his protective embrace.
«Let's read it...» said Remus in a very low voice, almost inaudible for fear of breaking the delicate balance that was still keeping them standing. «We have to do it before it's too late.»
They slowly opened the envelope, and Sirius read it quickly before looking at Remus with a heavy sigh and began to read aloud:
"To the Guardian of this child,
To the Protector who did not choose to be, but was chosen by fate.
I know I have no right to ask you anything, you don't know me and I don't know you.
But I clearly feel that at this moment your heart is broken by loss, and that the pain, anger and helplessness at what happened tonight in Godric's Hollow are consuming your every certainty.
I have come to you because I know you are not to blame, that no one could have prevented what happened.
But please, listen to me carefully, because what you're about to read will change everything.
This child, Lyra Eileen Potter, is no longer a normal child or witch like the others.
When Voldemort entered that house, he did not know about her — as he thought there was only one child there. The prophecy is unclear to those who look at it with impatient eyes, and we, who have seen the future of the timelines, know what will happen if Lyra stays close to her brother. We have also seen what will happen if she is hidden, protected, away from prying eyes."
As soon as they reached this point, the two Marauders looked into each other's eyes, now filled with tears. It can't really have happened, they thought, James and Lily are dead, and maybe Harry too. Sirius swallowed loudly, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that had formed, and continued reading in a trembling voice.
"Two possibilities. Two futures.
One ends in blood. The other in hope.
In saving her, I left a part of myself in her, not by choice, but because I had no other way.
It's a spark, a gift, and perhaps for some, a curse: Superspeed.
But it's not just running... it's perception, refraction, time itself.
It is possible that Lyra will discover, as she grows up, that she can move faster than thoughts, see what has not yet happened, or what has already happened.
No one knows how it will manifest itself. No one must know.
Her power does not come from Voldemort, nor from the Potters. It comes from me, and therefore from another world.
Lyra cannot grow up with you, and I know that this truth breaks you inside.
Sirius, I know your heart, and I know you would have given your life for James.
Remus, I know how much Lily meant to you.
But if Lyra stays with you, she will be found. The Death Eaters will seek revenge. Voldemort may not have been completely destroyed, and Lyra is still too young to run from danger. You must let her go.
Entrust her to someone who carries your blood or who has your absolute trust, someone who can protect her and hide her at the same time. She must not grow up with a heart full of hatred, she must not become like them.
She will grow up without knowing who she really is, but she'll never be truly alone.
Her memories will return, the dreams will begin to speak to her; and when she is ready, if you are there to hold her hand, when the time is right, she will find her brother, she will find all of you. And then the world will change forever.
I entrust this life to you, asking you not to seek mine.
When the time comes, we will meet again.
– The Speedster"
The letter fell from Sirius' hands onto the table. They two of them didn't speak for a couple of minutes, which seemed like an eternity. With tears streaming down their faces and slight sobs, the two watched the baby girl sleeping peacefully in the emerald-coloured blanket held by Remus. They then looked at the letter, the flowing handwriting, the black ink, the words written so small but with a meaning greater than they could explain or understand. It wasn't the content itself that was difficult to digest, but the realisation that something had changed forever that night, and they couldn't bring themselves to admit it.
Remus held the baby girl in his arms, his eyes closed to pretend that nothing was true, while Sirius sat on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands, his knuckles white from clenching his fists. They thought about everything they had been through in recent years, the jokes, the laughter, the holidays, the happiness, but also the dark side of the war in the wizarding world.
And finally, both their thoughts turned to the Potter family. To James, Lily and little Harry. And they felt like crying, screaming, smashing everything at the mere thought that they might really be dead that night. And Sirius also thought that maybe Peter had betrayed them and handed them over to Voldemort. Especially since he was the only one who knew that Peter was the Secret Keeper and not him, as the others believed.
«I can't let her go, Remus...» Sirius said, his voice breaking. «She's all I have left of James and Lily. And if what that speedster says is true, I don't... I can't imagine that...»
The words died on his lips, choked by a desperate sob.
Remus sighed and turned to look at the little girl, smiling sadly. Her delicate features, chubby cheeks, long eyelashes and hair like her little brother Harry's. But he noticed that there was something more, like an invisible aura, a vibration that made time around her seem suspended.
«I know, Sirius...» he murmured. «But we both feel it, don't we? That she's... not like Harry. That maybe this guy is right, and we can't risk any further if...» Remus took a long breath. «If the rest of the family really is dead.»
He said the last two words in a hiss, almost inaudible. Sirius' eyes widened.
«So what- what do we do? Do we abandon her? How can we... let her go, Remus?»
Remus looked at him, sighing. «Unfortunately, we're targets. You're the most visible target of the Order, Sirius. I... once a full moon comes, I know I won't be able to protect her as I'd like to. Not always. And besides... if anyone knows about her, they'll come looking for her.»
Sirius looked at him angrily, his eyes still shining. «She's my goddaughter, Remus! Lily asked me to protect her and Harry if anything happened, and James wanted her to be with me too. And if I leave now, if I abandon her...» he said the last sentence tremulously, sobbing.
«I'm not asking you to abandon her!» Remus interrupted, stroking his arm cautiously. «I'm saying that the only way to protect her right now... is to let her go. At least for now, until the dust settles. She needs to be given to someone who isn't suspicious, someone who isn't on the Order's register. Someone who lives among them for a while.»
A deep silence fell between the two. The ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual, alternating with the quiet breathing of the child. They both knew that the choice they had to make would change everything, and they didn't know if it would be for better or for worse.
«Moony, please- please promise me she'll never be a Death Eater...» Sirius whispered. «That she'll never be one of them.»
«I swear, Padfoot. Never one of them.» said Remus. Sirius looked at him for a moment, then nodded, and before leaving he placed a kiss on Lyra's little forehead.
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Albus Dumbledore arrived at Godric's Hollow shortly after James and Lily's deaths, alerted by the protective spell he himself had cast: a spell that was hoped would never actually be activated. However, before Dumbledore could reach the house, now reduced to a sad ruin, Hagrid and Sirius had already arrived.
Entering the devastated place, enveloped in a chilly and painful silence, the two saw the bodies of James and Lily lying lifeless on the floor; the scene took their breath away, a pain so strong that it seemed to empty every part of them.
But in the midst of that horror, they heard a soft, almost surreal sound: a muffled cry of a baby. Hagrid was the first to spot little Harry, sitting in his cot, his face streaked with tears, his green eyes like his mother's, wide open in a silent plea for help. When the baby saw them approaching, he instinctively reached out his arms towards them, giving them an uncertain, innocent smile, as if he didn't understand what had just happened. That smile broke something inside Sirius, who felt a violent and painful anger mingle with his grief; he leaned slightly towards Hagrid, his voice trembling and his hands shaking slightly.
«Hagrid,» Sirius said urgently, his voice hoarse. «You must take Harry and get him out of here. Take him to Dumbledore immediately, he'll know what to do.» Hagrid looked at him for a moment with a puzzled and worried expression, holding the child gently to his chest.
«But what about you, Sirius? Aren't you coming with us?" he asked, his eyes glistening with tears. Sirius shook his head slowly, unable to look at anything but the motionless body of his best friend lying on the floor.
«I can't...» he said, his voice almost unrecognisable, «I have something to do that can't wait any longer. Take my motorbike if you need it, but get him to safety.»
Hagrid nodded, understanding the determination and desperation in his eyes, and left the house, leaving Sirius alone with the unbearable weight of his loss. Blinded by the rage and pain burning in his chest, Sirius left the destroyed house and plunged into the dark night, determined to find Peter Pettigrew: the man who had betrayed their trust, who had sold the lives of those he considered his best friends, his family, to the Dark Lord. Hatred and fury pulsed through his veins, almost obscuring his vision, but also giving him the clarity of someone who knows he has nothing left to lose.
He never knew how he found him so quickly, hidden in a street not far from the Potters' house.
Peter was there, cowering and trembling, his eyes filled with fear and guilt, an expression that further fuelled Sirius' fury.
The duel that followed was fierce, violent, desperate.
Words of anger, heart-rending accusations, spells cast with ferocity, while tears of pain streamed down Sirius' face.
Pettigrew, with the desperation of someone who has no way out, amputated his own little finger with a spell, faking his own death with a cowardly explosion that also killed twelve innocent Muggles. In an instant, the street was engulfed in smoke and confusion, and when everything cleared, Peter had vanished into thin air.
Only Sirius remained, standing still, stunned, unable to believe what had just happened. His tear-filled eyes looked around, seeing only destruction and pain, and it was then that he understood Pettigrew's terrible plan: he had framed him. Everyone would think that it was Sirius Black, the traitor, the murderer.
The screams came shortly after. Members of the Ministry of Magic appeared at the scene of the disaster, and no one believed Sirius's agonising screams, his despair, the tears streaming down his face. He was arrested on the spot, dragged away while shouting his innocence in vain and trying to make the whole world understand that Peter Pettigrew was still alive, that the real traitor had managed to escape him.
And while Sirius was being taken to Azkaban, his heart broken and his soul destroyed, little Harry, unaware of everything, was being taken to safety by Hagrid, towards his destiny, towards a new life that he would only know far away from the arms of those who truly loved him.
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After almost a week of silence, sleepless nights and tormented thoughts, Remus Lupin had finally made a decision. It hadn't been easy, nor was it obvious, and every day that passed made the weight on his shoulders heavier and sharper. He had thought long and hard, consulting secretly with the most trusted members of the Order of the Phoenix, but in the end he was left alone with his doubts and that disturbing letter that had deprived him of peace since the moment he received it.
He had read news reports about Sirius in the newspapers, both Muggle and in the Daily Prophet, about his arrest for causing the deaths of 12 Muggles and Peter Pettigrew. There was also talk of the disappearance of Voldemort and Harry Potter: the Wizarding World was in chaos.
That evening, sitting by a window in a lonely cottage in Wiltshire, the rain fell slowly on the windowpane. The room was dark and a little cold, lit only by a floating lantern. Remus clutched the pen between his trembling fingers. The ink had left smudges on the paper, revealing the fragility of his emotions, which he could no longer contain. Every now and then, he glanced up at the cradle next to him, where Lyra slept peacefully, wrapped in an emerald green blanket that seemed to glow slightly, an imperceptible, almost magical reflection, perhaps the result of what had touched her on that fateful night.
«You lost everything before you even knew what you had...» he whispered softly. He looked at her, seeking comfort in the steady rhythm of her breathing, but all he felt was a tightness in his chest. «I wish I could've given you what they took from you, and grow up with you. But I can't, Lyra. I can't protect you from what's coming for you.»
A part of him, the more impulsive and justice-hungry part, screamed at him to run away with her, to hide in a faraway place where no one could find them. But the weight of responsibility and the bitter awareness of his condition constantly reminded him that it wasn't possible. Not after what had happened to Sirius, imprisoned in Azkaban; not after what had been foretold in the letter left by that enigmatic speedster.
He had thought long and hard about the Selwyn family. Cassius and Elinor were not the most perfect choice, but perhaps that's why they were the safest. They had ties to powerful families — it was true — but they had never been extremists. Remus had listened carefully to the advice of Dumbledore and other trusted members of the Order: the Selwyns were reserved, neutral, strong enough to protect Lyra and discreet enough to hide her from prying eyes. They would not raise her in hatred, he was certain of it, and perhaps they would even give Lyra the peace he himself could not offer her.
Remus took a deep breath and slowly approached the cradle, bending over Lyra tenderly. The little girl had woken up and was looking at him with big curious eyes, giving him an innocent smile that broke his heart even more. «Little Lyra...» he said in a soft, trembling voice. «I have to tell you something, even though you can't understand yet. I know you'll be different, I can feel it already, in every beat of your little heart. But don't be afraid: you will be loved, safe and protected. And I promise you that I will always be close to you, even from afar. One day, I swear, we will be meeting again.»
Lyra chuckled softly, unaware of the gravity of his words, and he smiled sadly, gently brushing her cheek.
And when the time came, Remus picked her up, carefully wrapped in her blanket, and materialised in front of the Selwyn manor. The house was imposing but welcoming, surrounded by a quiet peace that seemed to belong to a distant time. Cassius and Elinor were waiting for them at the door, their expressions calm and kind, which Remus interpreted as a sign that perhaps he had made the right choice after all. With slightly trembling hands, Remus placed Lyra in Elinor's welcoming arms.
Before leaving her, he placed a small box in the woman's hands. Inside was a note with the words "carry on" written on it by her father, and a delicate silver necklace with a carved heart adorned with small sparkling diamonds.
«Take care of her, please,» said Remus in a low voice, addressing himself more than anyone else. «This child deserves everything the world has denied her.»
«We promise we will...» Elinor replied softly, stroking the little girl's head, who had already fallen asleep again, reassured by the warmth and security of that new embrace. Remus took a step back, his throat tight with pain, but knowing he could not have done otherwise.
«Remember, little Lyra...» he whispered as he took one last look at the child. «This is only the first chapter. Live, little one, and we'll see each other again very soon.»
And so, in the delicate silence of the evening, Lyra Eileen Potter began her new life as Lyra Selwyn, carrying with her a secret that time would one day decide to reveal.