The days after Lyra's abrupt departure from the Marauders were unsettling, to say the least. Sirius couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, and every glance at James, Remus, or Peter revealed the same confusion and concern. They could feel her absence like a cold wind sweeping through the common room—subtle, yet unmistakable.

James, usually the life of the party, had grown quiet, his usual banter with Sirius and Peter replaced with tense silences. Remus had become withdrawn, his usual thoughtful demeanor giving way to an undercurrent of worry, while Peter simply seemed lost, like a shadow of his former self. It was as though the Marauders' bond had been fractured, the center of their tight-knit group suddenly yanked away.

It was Sirius who noticed it first, though. He was no stranger to being alone, but the absence of Lyra's presence hit him harder than he cared to admit. He missed the way she challenged him with her sharp wit, the way her eyes sparkled when she wasn't hiding behind a mask. The silence between them wasn't just uncomfortable—it was suffocating.

Sirius found himself wandering the halls late at night, unable to sleep, unable to focus. He wasn't sure what he was hoping for—maybe an answer. Maybe the courage to ask her why she was avoiding them. But every time he thought of her, he saw the same look on her face: that same sorrowful resignation, as though she had already made up her mind to leave.

One evening, he cornered Remus in the hallway after dinner. The pale light of the evening sun barely touched the stone walls as Sirius caught up with his friend, his voice quiet but urgent.

"Remus," Sirius said, a tinge of frustration creeping into his voice. "Do you know what's going on with Lyra?"

Remus hesitated for a moment before sighing, looking over his shoulder to ensure no one was listening. "I don't know. I tried talking to her, but she's... distant. Almost like she's trying to push us away."

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. "That's not like her. She's been avoiding us for weeks. It's as if—" He paused, looking for the right words. "As if she's hiding something from us."

"I've noticed it too," Remus said quietly. "She's always in the library, always with her books. When we do see her, it's like she's there, but she's not really there, you know? And every time I try to ask her what's going on, she just... shuts me down."

"Maybe we should confront her," Sirius suggested, though his voice lacked the usual conviction. "Tell her we're worried. She's our friend."

"I'm not sure that's the right approach," Remus replied, his brow furrowed in concern. "It's like she's running from something. If we push too hard, she might just pull away even more."

Sirius wasn't satisfied, but he knew Remus had a point. He watched his friend disappear into the shadows of the hallway before making his way back to the Gryffindor common room. He knew what he had to do. He had to speak to her—confront her, if necessary.

✵

Lyra spent the following days in a haze of guilt and confusion. Her decision to distance herself from the Marauders had been harder than she anticipated. Every time she saw one of them, she felt like she was betraying them, but the alternative—dragging them into the danger that lurked at the edges of her investigation—was worse.

She couldn't escape the feeling that the closer they got to the truth about the star chart, the closer they were to an unimaginable danger. She had seen too much of the darkness in the magical world—too many lives destroyed by the pursuit of power. And though the Marauders were capable, brave, and full of heart, they were still just teenagers, caught in the crossfire of a war they barely understood.

Lyra's nights had become sleepless, filled with anxious thoughts and visions of the chart falling into the wrong hands. She had tried to tell herself that she was doing the right thing, that she was protecting them, but deep down, she knew she was just running away from the one thing she feared most: the consequences of caring.

One evening, as she sat by the window in the Astronomy Tower, her mind drifting between her father's disappearance and the new reality she was facing, she heard footsteps behind her. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Sirius.

"Lyra," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words. "You've been avoiding us."

Her heart thudded in her chest. She had hoped that maybe, just maybe, they would leave her alone, give her the space she needed. But Sirius wasn't like that. He never was.

"Leave me alone, Sirius," she whispered, her voice breaking despite her best efforts to stay calm.

"I can't do that," he replied, stepping closer, his gaze firm but full of concern. "You can't just shut us out. We're your friends. You don't have to do this alone."

Lyra's throat tightened, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. She knew he was right. She didn't have to do it alone. But that was exactly the problem. If she didn't do it alone, they would suffer. She could feel it in her bones.

"I'm doing this for you, Sirius," she said, her voice strained. "For all of you. You don't understand. I'm bringing danger to your doorstep. I've already dragged you into this mess. If you stay near me, you'll be in danger."

Sirius was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost pleading. "Don't push us away. We can help you. You don't have to carry this burden by yourself."

She shook her head, taking a step back. "I don't want to see anyone get hurt. Not because of me. Not again."

Sirius's eyes softened, but his frustration was palpable. "Then let us help. Let us make sure nothing happens to you. Don't shut us out."

But Lyra knew she couldn't stay. She couldn't keep them around, knowing what was at stake. With one final glance at Sirius, she turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the tower once more