CHAPTER FOUR

REVELATIONS

"I really don't know how I got this," Lyra says, lazily twirling the Elder Wand between her fingers before holding it up for the two Aurors to inspect. She's still more than a little irritated by how quickly they'd descended upon her in that alleyway. (You would think she'd murdered a dozen Muggles while cackling maniacally with the way they'd tackled her to the ground.) "It just...appeared in my hand."

The younger of the two Aurors scoffs. "You expect us to believe you didn't steal that from Albus Dumbledore?"

Lyra blinks. "When exactly would I have had time to do that?" she asks, genuinely curious. "I've spent nearly every waking moment with the Black family since I arrived."

"Ah." The older Auror leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "The Black family." The disdain dripping from those three words is unmistakable.

Lyra's expression cools. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing." His lips curl into a smile that never reaches his eyes. "Only that one never knows what someone might get up to in the company of the Blacks." Her magic stirs beneath her skin. It begins as a ripple before quickly becoming a violent current, instinctively reacting to the insult aimed at the family that had welcomed her without hesitation. The lights above flicker once. Then again.

"I don't like what you're implying."

The Auror meets her gaze without flinching. "Interesting, isn't it?" he muses. "You're awfully close to one of Britain's darkest houses. A family with the wealth, influence, and ability to steal one of the most valuable wands in existence."

Lyra slowly bares her teeth. Her canines are noticeably sharper than they should be. "I don't appreciate insults toward my family."

"Frankly," the Auror replies, pushing himself to his feet, "I couldn't care less what you appreciate." He begins circling the interrogation table at an infuriatingly slow pace before stopping directly beside her chair, standing over her, making her crane her neck to meet his eyes—a power and intimidating move. "You can tell us the truth voluntarily..." His voice lowers into something almost conversational. "...or we can have a Legilimens pull the memories straight from your mind. If necessary, we'll request authorization for Veritaserum."

Silence stretches between them. "I don't particularly appreciate being threatened," Lyra says at last.

The Auror simply shrugs. "I wasn't making a threat." He leans down slightly. "I was explaining your options." For one dangerous second, Lyra seriously considers hexing him. Instead—the door slams open with enough force to rattle the walls. Three figures clad in dark robes and featureless silver masks stride into the room.

Lyra resists the urge to groan. Unspeakables. It didn't matter which timeline, which dimension, or which century Fate threw her into. Unspeakables somehow always managed to be the most insufferable people she'd ever encountered.

One of the masked figures steps forward. "This matter is beyond your clearance, Auror Graves. You are to leave immediately."

Auror Graves turns sharply. "Absolutely not. This is a criminal investigation."

"It is no longer your investigation."

Graves lets out a humorless laugh. "Since when does the Department of Mysteries interfere with Auror arrests?"

"Since the Minister authorized us to." The room falls silent. The Unspeakable doesn't raise his voice. "This case concerns matters beyond your jurisdiction."

Auror Graves glances toward Lyra, toward the Elder Wand, and then back to the masked figures. "She's just a girl." He scoffs.

One of the Unspeakables tilts his head ever so slightly. "No. She is the reason we are here."

A flicker of uncertainty finally crosses the Auror's face. After several long moments, he exhales sharply. "Fine." He points a finger toward Lyra. "This isn't over."

"I certainly hope not," Lyra replies pleasantly. "This has been tremendously entertaining." Graves scowls before storming from the room, his partner following close behind. The heavy door clicks shut behind them and the silence that follows feels strangely oppressive. One of the Unspeakables idly flicks his wrist. Layer upon layer of enchantments settle into place—Silencing Charms, Privacy Wards, Anti-Apparition barriers, detection spells, containment magic. Lyra feels each one locking into position around them.

"Oh." She smiles brightly. "Hello to you too."

The Unspeakables don't react. Two remain stationed beside the door like statues while the third approaches the table with measured, deliberate steps. He studies her for several seconds. "Your magical signature indicates that you are not native to this temporal plane." Lyra sighs. Of course it does. "We have determined," he continues, "that you originate from neither this era nor this dimensional reality." Unspeakables always know far more than anyone reasonably should. "We are here," the Unspeakable says, "to determine whether you represent a threat to this timeline...or merely an anomaly passing through it."

Lyra rests her cheek against one hand. " I can assure you," she says, "I'm not a threat. But I'm also not merely passing through."

Three masked heads turn toward one another. When the lead Unspeakable speaks again, his tone has become even colder. "Remaining permanently within a foreign timeline constitutes a threat in itself. Corrective measures may become necessary."

Lyra lets out an amused snort before leaning comfortably into her chair. She reaches for someone far older than magic itself. Someone who would always answer her.

The Unspeakable continues speaking. "In order to determine the extent of the disruption, we will require the precise point of origin of your—" He stops as the temperature plummets, as his breath fogs in the air, as frost begins creeping across the stone floor in delicate white veins before climbing the legs of the table and tracing intricate patterns over the walls. Every candle dims, their flames turn a ghostly blue and the shadows in the room lengthen. Then they begin to move. Dark mist pours from every corner of the room, swallowing the edges until the Ministry itself seems to vanish into endless night.

One of the Unspeakables instinctively reaches for his wand. The other two step forward in perfect unison despite the dozens of wards surrounding the chamber.

A tall hooded figure emerges soundlessly from the darkness. One skeletal hand rests loosely upon an ancient black scythe. The room falls utterly still.

"You called for me..." Death's voice is impossibly soft. "Lady Peverell?"

A smile spreads across Lyra's face. "There you are." Death inclines his head in greeting, the motion slow and almost regal. Beneath the shadow of his hood, nothing can be seen except an endless darkness that somehow seemed to stare back.

"You requested my presence."

"I did." Lyra gestures toward the three frozen Unspeakables with a thumb. "They seem convinced I'm some dangerous criminal from the future." "And," she adds, lifting the Elder Wand with an innocent smile, "they also believe I stole this." She gives the wand a thoughtful once-over. "I'm actually rather surprised no one thought to confiscate it if they truly believed I'd stolen it." One of the Unspeakables swallows audibly.

"The Elder Wand belongs to the House of Peverell." His voice remains calm, carrying effortlessly through the frozen room. "It answers only to its rightful master. Lady Peverell has stolen nothing."

Lyra beams. "Exactly." She gives the Elder Wand a little twirl before it settles comfortably back into her hand. "It simply appears whenever I need it. So, unfortunately for your investigation, there isn't any wand theft." For a fleeting moment, she wonders if governmental incompetence is simply a universal constant across every dimension.

The lead Unspeakable finally finds his voice. "You command Death."

Lyra immediately frowns. "I ask my friend."

At precisely the same moment, Death says, "She does not command me."mThe Unspeakables stiffen noticeably.

"See? This is why assumptions are dangerous." Death gently rests both hands atop the handle of his scythe.

"Our relationship is one of mutual respect."

"I ask," Lyra says.

"I answer," Death finishes. "When I choose."

One of the Unspeakables slowly lowers his wand. "You...are from another timeline. You remain a temporal anomaly."

Death's hood turns toward him. "No. This world has already accepted her." A ripple passes through the room. The wards themselves seem to vibrate at Death's declaration. "The fabric of this reality has woven Lady Peverell into its design." His grip tightens slightly around the scythe. "She is no anomaly." A thick stack of parchment appears in the center of the table with a soft thump. None of the Unspeakables move immediately. Eventually, the lead one reaches for the documents. His gloved fingers hesitate before opening the top file. Inside are pages upon pages of magical records, bloodline registrations, inheritance documents, property records, school records, etc.

"...Impossible."

"It is simply reality," Death replies.

The second Unspeakable flips through another document. "This...this recognizes Lady Lyra Peverell as an existing member of this world's magical society. The records have rewritten themselves."

"The timeline rewrote itself," Death corrects.

Lyra swings one leg idly beneath her chair. "I tried explaining I wasn't here to destroy existence."

"You offered no proof."

"I thought my charming personality was proof enough." She grins cheekily.

The Unspeakables ignore that entirely. One slowly closes the file. "So you are not native to this reality."

"No."

"And yet reality itself accepts you."

"Yes." Another long silence follows. Finally, one asks carefully,

"Does the Black family know about...him?"

Lyra glances toward Death. Then back toward the Unspeakables. "They know I know Death." She scratches her cheek thoughtfully. "I'm not entirely convinced they understand what that actually means."

"They do not," Death confirms."They believe Lady Peverell's connection to me stems solely from her lineage." He pauses. "They remain unaware of her role as Mistress of Death."

Lyra pinches the bridge of her nose. "I was hoping we wouldn't bring that up."

The Unspeakables freeze. One very slowly lifts his head. "Mistress...of Death?"

Death remains utterly still. "The title is accurate."

Lyra groans. "Wonderful." She leans back dramatically. "Can we all collectively pretend you didn't hear that?" No one answers. "I'll take that as a no."

The lead Unspeakable clears his throat. "May we ask how you arrived in this reality?"

"No."

"You refuse to answer?"

"I do."

"This concerns dimensional stability."

"It concerns my private business."

The Unspeakable's shoulders stiffen. "You understand why we must investigate."

"I understand why you want to investigate." She smiles pleasantly. "I simply don't care. It's always been confirmed I am no threat so leave the matter alone." For the first time since entering the room, one of the Unspeakables appears genuinely frustrated.

Finally, the lead Unspeakable exhales. "If you intend to remain here, then you must at least familiarize yourself with this world's history." With a flick of his wand, several thick books appear upon the table. One is a history of magical Britain, another details modern Ministry law, a third discusses magical customs and traditions. Lyra examines the stack.

"I already have some of these." She taps the cover of Modern Wizarding Law. "Orion insisted." Then she picks up the history book. "This one, however...this will be useful." She turns the heavy volume over in her hands. She pauses, biting her lip. A single question has been clawing at the back of her mind since arriving in this world. One she suddenly realizes she desperately needs answered. Slowly, she looks back up. "I actually have a question."

The lead Unspeakable nods. "Proceed."

Lyra hesitates. For the first time since entering the Ministry, uncertainty flickers across her face. "How is Tom Marvolo Riddle doing these days?"

The three Unspeakables stare at her. None of them answer.

Instead...one simply blinks.

"...Who?"

Lyra laughs once. Surely she misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"Who is Tom Marvolo Riddle?" Her smile slowly disappears. She searches each masked face in turn.

Nothing. No recognition. No hesitation. No carefully hidden emotion. Just genuine confusion at her question.

Her heartbeat quickens. "Tom Marvolo Riddle," she repeats more slowly. "Perhaps he goes by Gaunt in this world."

Then the lead Unspeakable quietly replies, "The House of Gaunt has been extinct for over a century." The room suddenly feels impossibly small.

"...What?"

"The Gaunts died out generations ago."

He tilts his head. "There has never been a Tom Marvolo Riddle."

What?!

•••

Lyra doesn't remember leaving the Ministry. One moment she is sitting beneath the harsh lights of the interrogation room, history book tucked beneath one arm, the words There has never been a Tom Marvolo Riddle echoing through her mind. The next, she finds herself standing alone in a narrow alleyway behind the Ministry, cool stone pressing against her back. London hums beyond the brick walls as carriages rattle over cobblestones while witches and wizards chatter somewhere beyond the mouth of the alley—yet it all feels impossibly distant. As though she's listening from underwater. She slides slowly down the wall until she's crouched on the damp ground, one hand covering her mouth. A familiar chill settles over the alley. She doesn't need to look.

"...Is it true?" she whispers.

Death steps from the shadows without a sound, the darkness itself seeming to part around him. "It is."His voice gentle. "Tom Marvolo Riddle was never born into this world."

Lyra stares at the cracked cobblestones."The Gaunts?"

"They perished over a century before Merope Gaunt would have been born." Within seconds she's doubled over, laughter spilling uncontrollably into the empty alley until tears blur her vision. She can't stop. Merlin, she can't stop laughing. Anyone walking past would think she'd finally gone mad. Perhaps, she had. When the laughter finally begins to die away, tears stream freely down her cheeks. She wipes at them with the heel of her hand.

"...He's gone." She says in disbelief.

Death inclines his hood. "He never existed."

Tom Riddle never existed. Lord Voldemort would never rise. There would be no First Wizarding War. No reign of terror. No Mark burning across frightened forearms. No children growing up beneath photographs of murdered parents. Lily Evans would never die protecting her son. James Potter would never fall in the hallway of their home.

Harry—Harry Potter would grow up with loving parents. He would know love, birthdays, Christmas mornings, and family holidays. He would scrape his knees climbing trees instead of fleeing Dark Wizards. He would have childish arguments with his father. Learn Quidditch from James instead of Oliver Wood. Spend summers annoying Sirius and Remus instead of hiding from the Dursleys.He would simply...live.

A fresh wave of laughter escapes her before dissolving into quiet sobs. In every timeline she'd ever walked, Tom Riddle had always existed. Sometimes, he remained simply Tom Riddle, a brilliant and ambitious student turned professor. Sometimes, he'd become Minister for Magic. Other times, Headmaster of Hogwarts. Most of the time, he'd still become Voldemort. And every single time...Lyra had prepared herself to fight, to kill, to mourn, to die.

She'd already begun considering when she would hunt him down in this world. Perhaps after Orion returned to Hogwarts for his final year when she would have more private time to herself. Perhaps sooner because it's better to kill him before he gathered followers, before another war could begin. Now, there would be no hunt.

Death watches her quietly. "It would appear Fate has finally granted you a reprieve."

Lyra lets out one last watery laugh. "I don't think I've ever liked Fate more than I do right now." She wipes the remaining tears from her face before standing. "If Fate's being nice, that means she's planning something." Then another thought crashes into her. She straightens so abruptly she nearly slips on the damp stones. "Can she send Harry here?" The question bursts from her before she can stop it. "If anyone deserves a peaceful life, it's him! How many Dark Lords has he defeated now? How many wars? How many bloody times has he died before we dragged him back?"

Too many.

Death steps closer. "I know."

"No, you don't." Her hands clench into fists. "You weren't the one standing there every single time when he died!"

"I received him every single time." Lyra falls silent. Death's voice softens. "I remember each crossing."

"I wish..." she whispers.

"I know." Death gently places one skeletal hand against her shoulder. "But he is not my champion. This life belongs to you. Fate has deemed it so."

She leans her head back against the wall. "Even if Voldemort never existed..." she changes the subject as her eyes drift toward the pale afternoon sky above the rooftops. "...someone else will. People don't suddenly stop believing in blood purity because one man never existed."

"No."

"They don't stop feeling ignored."

"No."

"They don't stop fearing Muggle influence."

"They do not."

"They just..." She folds her arms. "...find someone else to follow." Her thoughts begin racing. She knows exactly what those frustrations look like. She'd studied them, lived among them, fought against them. Even in timelines where Voldemort never existed, the same grievances surfaced.

An utterly insane thought occurs to her. She slowly smiles. Death notices immediately.

"...That expression concerns me."

"It should."

"What are you thinking?"

She pushes herself away from the wall. "The Dark families don't need a Dark Lord."

"No?"

"They need someone willing to stand in the Wizengamot and argue for them before another fanatic decides violence is the answer."Death says nothing. Lyra begins pacing. "They need representation. They need reforms. They need someone everyone is too terrified to assassinate." She stops while a feral grin spreads across her face. "I could do that."

Death stares. "You intend to become their political voice."

"I think..." She rubs her chin thoughtfully. "yes." She nods once. "I think I do."

She remembers one timeline where she was taught numerous things that will certainly come in handy for this endeavor. One of Lyra's earliest timeline shifts had gone spectacularly wrong. Instead of following Fate's carefully crafted narrative (Fate acts like a bad fan fiction writer sometimes), she'd immediately started hunting Death Eaters. Bellatrix Lestrange had died first which had been immensely satisfying (she watched Bellatrix kill Sirius over a dozen times, she needed that vengeance). Lucius had been second (bastard forced Draco to become a Death Eater for night his wrongs). Then came half the Inner Circle. Fate had been...less than pleased. Apparently murdering the villains before chapter five wasn't part of the intended story. In retaliation, Fate had thrown her into another timeline entirely. One where she had spent years living as Narcissa Malfoy's daughter—years of learning about etiquette, politics, and exactly how ancient pure-blood society functioned.

"Who would've guessed becoming the perfect pure-blood lady would one day be practical?"

Death says nothing. "He is finished."

Lyra looks up in confusion. "Orion?"

Death nods. "He is currently speaking with the Black family's solicitor."

She smiles. "Oh." She'd almost forgotten she'd been arrested.

Death extends one skeletal hand. "Shall we save him the expense?"

Lyra laughs. "I'd love to." She slips her hand into his. The shadows rise around them and the alley disappears.

•••

The world folds around them. Darkness rushes past in complete silence, cool against Lyra's skin, before the shadows peel away just as suddenly as they had appeared. The imposing stone façade of Ashcombe Legal Association rises before her. Ancient ivy snakes its way around polished windows, while an elegant brass plaque gleams beside the entrance; the building possesses the quiet confidence only centuries of prestige could produce. It doesn't need to flaunt its wealth or influence. Every pure-blood family in Britain knew exactly who the Ashcombes were.

Neutral. Powerful. Untouchable. Or...they had been. A bittersweet smile tugs at Lyra's lips. The Ashcombes had all but vanished during the First Wizarding War in her world. Some had been murdered for refusing to side with Voldemort, while others disappeared after trying to broker peace between both factions. By the war's end, only a handful remained. Here, the family still flourished.

She glances around the bustling street. Every passerby is blissfully unaware of just how different this world truly is. A hundred thoughts hit her once again. The Potters still have a future. The Longbottoms will never be tortured into insanity. Fabian and Gideon Prewett will grow old enough to tease their nieces and nephews. Marlene McKinnon...Marlene might actually get the life she'd always dreamed about. This world feels almost too perfect—which, unfortunately, means Fate is probably winding up to ruin it somehow.

She looks beside her. Death is gone. The lingering chill in the air is the only indication he'd ever been there at all. "Rude." She dusts off her robes and turns toward the entrance just as the heavy oak doors swing open. Orion Black steps outside first with thick leather folder is tucked beneath one arm, his robes slightly disheveled from what appears to have been a very animated conversation. Behind him walks an elderly wizard with neatly combed silver hair and impeccably tailored robes trimmed in deep forest green. The moment Orion looks up, he stops walking.

"...You're free." Relief washes across his features so quickly it almost startles her. For a brief second, all of his carefully cultivated composure simply...vanishes. Lyra smiles brightly and gives him a little wave.

"I'm free."

"...How? You've only been gone..." He glances toward the large clock tower across the street. "Forty-seven minutes."

"I had a productive forty-seven minutes." She informs him.

His eyes narrow suspiciously. "I don't think those words sound remotely reassuring." She walks over until she's standing beside him before casually slipping her arm through his. He glances down at her linked arm but makes no move to pull away. Instead, he simply lets out a resigned sigh.

The elderly wizard behind Orion clears his throat politely. "My Lord Black..." His curious gaze shifts toward Lyra. "...is this the young lady in question?"

Orion nods without taking his eyes off her. "It is." The solicitor studies her for a long moment before inclining his head respectfully.

"Lady Peverell."

"That's me."

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you." His smile is warm, though his eyes remain sharp with practiced intelligence. "I was in the process of preparing several emergency motions concerning unlawful detention, abuse of investigative authority, magical coercion, and the attempted seizure of ancestral property." She understands the first few but she wonders if the ancestral property was an actual property or the Elder Wand.

Lyra brightens. "Oh!" She raises one finger. "You may also wish to add attempted illegal Legilimency and an illegal request for authorization to administer Veritaserum."

The solicitor blinks. Orion slowly turns his head toward her.

"...They what?"

"They threatened to use both." Her tone is entirely conversational. "They didn't actually get the chance." Neither wizard speaks. Finally, the solicitor quietly closes the leather folder.

"...So..." He clears his throat. "these motions are no longer necessary?"

"Nope." The elderly wizard looks genuinely disappointed.

"Well." He pats the folder affectionately. "I must admit, I rather enjoy filing complaints against the Ministry." He sighs.

"Don't worry." She laughs and flashes him an innocent smile. "I'm certain I'll provide you with another opportunity eventually."

A twinkle appears in the old wizard's eyes. "I look forward to it."

Orion pinches the bridge of his nose. "I, on the other hand, do not."

The solicitor chuckles. "I suspected as much." He extends one hand toward Lyra. "I should properly introduce myself. My name is Lord Darian Ashcombe. It was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Peverell," Lord Ashcombe says. "I only wish the circumstances had been less...governmental."

Lyra snorts. "I'll drink to that."

His smile widens. "I have little doubt we shall meet again." He inclines his head toward Orion. "My Lord Black." Then, with a crisp crack, he Disapparates.

Silence settles over the pavement. Orion waits several seconds before finally speaking. "Explain." They begin walking side by side down the quiet street. Lyra swings their linked arms cheerfully.

"They let me go."

"I noticed."

"They asked questions."

"I assumed."

"I summoned Death." Orion stops walking so abruptly that Lyra nearly keeps going without him.

"...You what?"

She turns back. "I summoned Death." She says as if it's a normal thing to do, which for her, is.

"You summoned Death into the Ministry." He repeats, hoping she was joking.

"Technically the Auror Department." She states.

"In front of Aurors."

"They'd already left." She corrects. He blinks. "There were Unspeakables instead."

"That is somehow worse."

"I thought so too." Several long seconds pass.

"So..." His voice becomes remarkably careful. "your solution was to summon Death?"

"I felt it established healthy boundaries." She giggles.

Orion closes his eyes. Merlin preserve him. His soulmate apparently viewed summoning the primordial being the same way most witches and wizards viewed sending a strongly worded owl. He wasn't entirely certain whether to be impressed or deeply concerned. Perhaps both. He opens one eye. "Did anyone die?"

"Sadly, no." The tension visibly leaves his shoulders. "They were much more polite afterward."

"I cannot imagine why." He comments with a shake of his head. A comfortable silence settles between them as they continue walking. Eventually Orion glances sideways. "There is something else." He's become rather good at reading her already despite only knowing each other for...what, two? Three days now? Lyra honestly has lost count. She is unsure if it's the soulmate bond that allows him to do that or if he's just that observant.

Her smile fades just a little. "There is." She looks ahead, watching witches and wizards bustle through Diagon Alley in the distance. "They confirmed something. Something only another Peverell could have told me." Orion nods his head, understanding family secrecy better than anyone else.  "It was the best news I've received in..." She trails off. "...a very, very long time." As the words leave her mouth, something invisible seems to lift from her shoulders. For the first time since Orion met her, she doesn't look like someone carrying centuries of grief behind bright green eyes. She simply looks like a seventeen girl smiling up at the summer sky.

Orion reaches over and gently nudges her shoulder. "Come."

She blinks. "Where?"

He looks at her as though the answer should be obvious. "Home."

The single word catches her completely off guard. She stops walking. Home. How long had it been since she'd truly had one? A slow smile spreads across her face.

"...Right." She slips her arm more securely through his. "Home." She breaths out happily.

•••

Black Manor is anything but quiet when they arrive. The moment Orion pushes open the grand front doors, chaos greets them. House-elves dart frantically through the entrance hall carrying trays of tea, stacks of parchment, and armfuls of books. Several members of the Black family stand clustered together in animated discussion. The instant the doors open, every conversation dies.

"MASTER ORION!" One particularly enthusiastic house-elf nearly launches itself across the marble floor before skidding to a halt. "The Noble House was preparing rescue!"

"I can see that," Orion says dryly.

Lyra looks around curiously. The entrance hall resembles a military command center more than a family home. Maps of the Ministry cover one table, legal documents another and someone has even apparently begun drafting letters. L

Walburga crosses the room in record time. She doesn't stop until she's directly in front of Lyra and both hands immediately grasp Lyra's shoulders. "Were you harmed?"

The question comes so quickly Lyra barely has time to process it. "No."

"Did they cast any spells on you?"

"No."

"Were you injured?"

"No."

Walburga studies her face carefully. lDid they threaten you?"

"...Yes." Lyra shrugs. The room falls silent. Walburga's hands slowly fall away. Her expression doesn't twist into rage, oh no, it becomes something infinitely worse: calm, cold, controlled.

"What." The single word is spoken so quietly that Lyra suddenly understands every terrifying story Sirius had ever told about his mother. Shouting would have been less frightening.

"They wanted authorization to use Legilimency. And possibly Veritaserum." Pollux blinks down at the broken glass in his hand.

"...Ah." Apparently he'd crushed it without noticing.

Across the room, Cygnus mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "...bury the bodies first..."

Even Arcturus' easy smile disappears. Walburga speaks again.

"They threatened..." Every word is painfully measured. "...to invade the mind of a guest under Black protection."

"They didn't get the chance." Lyra points out.

"No," Orion agrees. "They most certainly did not."

Every head turns toward him. Arcturus folds his arms. "What happened?" Orion exhales through his nose.

"She summoned Death." He replies.

Lyra raises one finger at the utter silence in the room now. "In my defense—"

"There is no defense," Orion interrupts.

"I was being threatened."

"So you summoned Death."

"Yes."

"You continue saying that as though it explains literally anything."

"I feel like it explains quite a lot."

Arcturus suddenly snorts. Then chuckles. Within seconds he has one hand braced against the wall, shoulders shaking with genuine amusement. "The Aurors..." He wheezes between laughs. "...actually received a visit from Death himself..." Another fit of laughter overtakes him. "...because they threatened my future daughter-in-law."

"Unspeakables," Lyra corrects automatically. "The Aurors had already left." No one acknowledges her correction—we'll all expect for Cassiopeia. Her face drains of color.

"Unspeakables?" she repeats quietly.

"They took over the interrogation." Lyra informs her.  Cassiopeia's expression somehow becomes even paler. She understands exactly what that means. Unspeakables did not involve themselves in ordinary criminal investigations. Not unless something far beyond normal Ministry jurisdiction was happening. She studies Lyra with newfound caution. No one else has observed this interaction.

Pollux carefully sets the remains of his shattered glass onto a nearby table. "I almost pity them."

Walburga arches one elegant eyebrow. "I don't." She crosses her arms. "They threatened a Black."

"I'm not technically—" Walburga fixes Lyra with a look. Lyra wisely changes course. "Point taken."

"No one," Walburga says with quiet finality, "mistreats someone under this family's protection." Something warm settles in Lyra's chest. Not because Walburga is frightening, although she absolutely is, but because she means it.

This family barely knows her yet they had mobilized the moment she'd been taken. Someone Fate had quite literally dropped onto their doorstep. Lyra slowly looks around the entrance hall. They had accepted a strange girl who appeared in the middle of a ritual with astonishing ease. Walburga is still discreetly checking that she isn't injured. Arcturus has finally stopped laughing, though a grin remains firmly fixed on his face. Pollux is already asking whether Ministry officials can legally be challenged to duels. Cygnus appears disappointingly enthusiastic about that suggestion. Dorea sighs like she's used to this sort of conversation. Lucretia quietly confiscates Pollux's wand before he can act on the idea. Cassiopeia watches Lyra thoughtfully. Alphard simply smiles. And Orion...Orion never once lets go of her hand.

For perhaps the first time in countless lifetime, Lyra allows herself to believe something she'd never dared entertain before. Maybe Death was right. Maybe Fate hadn't sent her here to become another weapon. Maybe she wasn't meant to fight. Maybe she wasn't meant to survive another war.

Maybe she was finally allowed to live. She glances toward the window, where the evening sun paints the gardens in warm gold. A genuine smile spreads across her face. Orion reaches over and smooths a stray lock of Lyra's hair behind one ear with surprising gentleness which snaps her out of her thoughts. She stares at him in slight surprise at the action, feeling her heart flutter.

Yeah, she could definitely get use to this place.

Somewhere beyond mortal sight, Fate smiles. Lyra really should have known better.

Fate has never been kind.

Fate has never been fair.

But most importantly, Fate has always been one vindictive bitch.