The chill of January had settled firmly over Hogwarts, the castle wrapped in a blanket of snow. The train ride back had been lively, with the Marauders occupying their usual compartment alongside Lyra, Lily, and Marlene. James and Sirius had spent most of the journey recounting the chaos of their Christmas at the Potters' home, while Lyra listened with a fond smile.

By the time they stepped into the Great Hall for dinner, the festive decorations had been replaced with frost-covered garlands and icy blue banners shimmering above the long tables. Students chattered about their holidays, their voices mingling with the clinking of silverware.

Lyra slid into her usual spot beside Sirius, brushing a stray curl from her face. "I think I'm still full from Christmas," she said, eyeing the spread of roasted meats and warm bread.

"You've got to pace yourself," Sirius said, piling his plate high. "This is the only way to recover from Potter's constant pranks. Food therapy."

James grinned from across the table, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You can't blame me for making the holidays interesting."

"I can and I will," Sirius retorted. "That snowball charm was excessive."

"Excessive?" James gasped in mock offense. "You were the one who retaliated with exploding mince pies."

Lyra snorted into her goblet of pumpkin juice, while Lily rolled her eyes. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I almost missed the two of you bickering over the break."

"Almost?" James asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't push your luck, Potter," Lily said, though the corners of her lips twitched upward.

As the evening wore on, the group fell into an easy rhythm, laughter echoing around them. Marlene was recounting a story about her run-in with a cursed quill over the break when Lyra leaned closer to Sirius.

"Did you ever figure out what that gift from your parents meant?" she asked quietly.

Sirius's expression darkened briefly before he forced a smirk. "Doesn't matter. It's just more of the same—expectations I'll never meet."

Sirius's parents, in keeping with their usual veiled contempt and manipulative gestures, sent him a gift meant to remind him of his heritage and their disapproval of his choices.

They gave him an ornate silver pocket watch engraved with the Black family crest. At first glance, it appeared to be an exquisite piece of craftsmanship—elegant, expensive, and undeniably Black. But when Sirius opened the watch, he found an inscription on the inside of the lid that read:

"To our wayward son—may time bring you back to where you belong."

The message was both a taunt and a warning, a typical Black family tactic to instill guilt and pressure. It was clear they hoped Sirius would eventually come to regret his rebellion and return to the family fold.

Rather than dwelling on the implications, Sirius tossed the watch into the bottom of his trunk, dismissing it as just another example of his parents' manipulative games

Lyra frowned, but before she could respond, Peter nudged Sirius with his elbow. "Come on, let's head up. I heard Filch's been distracted by Peeves in the East Wing. Perfect time to sneak into the kitchens."

Sirius stood, flashing Lyra a more genuine smile. "Coming?"

Lyra hesitated, then shook her head. "Not this time. I think I'll enjoy a quiet night for once."

Sirius looked as though he might argue, but instead, he nodded. "Suit yourself. Don't get too bored without me."

As the Marauders departed, Lyra lingered in the Great Hall, her thoughts turning to the weeks ahead. There was something both comforting and daunting about returning to Hogwarts—home to secrets, mysteries, and friendships that had changed her life. Whatever lay ahead, she felt ready to face it.

For now, though, she simply let herself enjoy the moment, surrounded by the warmth of flickering candles and the laughter of her classmates.

✵.

The Great Hall was quieter now, with most students having returned to their common rooms. Lyra lingered at the table, pushing the last remnants of her dessert around her plate. The soft murmur of conversations had dwindled, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Peter and Sirius had wandered off to the kitchens earlier, chasing promises of leftover treacle tarts. Lyra hadn't felt like joining them, the weight of the letter and her unsettled emotions pressing heavily on her.

She rose, tucking her chair back, and headed toward the corridor. But as she walked, the air shifted, and that strange, pulsing sensation she'd felt before washed over her again.

Pausing, Lyra glanced around. The corridor was dimly lit, torches flickering along the walls. She hesitated, then followed the sensation, her steps tentative. It led her to a small, unused classroom tucked away near the end of the hall.

Pushing the door open, Lyra stepped inside. The room was dusty, the desks and chairs stacked haphazardly. But at its center, a faint glow shimmered—a thin strand of light that seemed to stretch from the floor toward the ceiling, pulsating faintly.

Curious, Lyra reached out. The moment her hand touched the light, a rush of energy surged through her, warm and electric. It wasn't like casting a spell or holding her wand—it felt ancient, raw, like something deeply ingrained in her very being.

She pulled back, her breath catching.

"What was that?" she murmured to herself.

Her hand tingled where it had touched the light, the sensation lingering. Lyra's mind raced. She'd felt this before, in fleeting moments—when she touched enchanted objects, when she stepped into certain rooms filled with old magic. But it had never been this strong, this undeniable.

The faint scrape of a chair startled her, and she turned to see Professor Flitwick entering the room. His small frame carried an air of authority as he stepped toward her, his expression curious.

"Miss Hawthorne," he said, his voice kind but firm. "What are you doing in here?"

"I—I'm not sure," Lyra admitted, gesturing toward the light. "I felt... something. And then I found this."

Flitwick's gaze followed hers, his eyes narrowing as he observed the glowing strand. He approached cautiously, his wand drawn, and murmured a soft incantation. The glow dimmed slightly but didn't vanish.

"Fascinating," he said softly. "That's an ancient magical current—remnants of spells cast centuries ago. Not many witches or wizards can sense such things."

Lyra hesitated. "Why can I feel it?"

Flitwick studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "It's rare, but some individuals are attuned to magic in unique ways. It's possible you have a gift—something beyond ordinary magical talent."

"A gift," Lyra repeated, her voice hollow.

"Indeed," Flitwick said, smiling faintly. "But gifts can be burdens, too. If you ever wish to understand it better, my office is always open."

Lyra nodded, though her thoughts remained tangled. As Flitwick turned and left the room, she stayed behind, her fingers brushing the light one last time.

Whatever this ability was, it felt as though it held answers she hadn't even begun to ask