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Mornings at Malfoy Manor arrived not with urgency, but with ceremony.

Light did not rush in through the curtains, nor did sound pierce the walls. Instead, dawn unfurled slowly over Wiltshire, like a silk ribbon pulled from a carefully tied box. Pale gold seeped through the tall windows, settling across the marble floors and damask upholstery like something sacred. It was a house that demanded reverence, even from the sun.

Elestara Lyra Black was already awake, already dressed. She had been for hours.

She sat at her writing desk in a robe of powder blue, embroidered in silver thread. Her hair was pinned back in a half-knot, secured by a charmed comb once worn by her mother. She wore it often when home—not for sentiment, but for symmetry. Everything about Lyra was precise, composed. Especially here.

A sheet of parchment lay untouched before her. The quill beside it sat clean, the ink pot full. She had meant to write to her uncle the night before. She had sat at this very desk, dressed just as she was now, and imagined the first line.

But the words had refused to come.

Regulus Black—her uncle, her godfather, her idol—had been different this summer.

Not in any clumsy, obvious way. He still looked the same. Still moved through rooms with that particular, elegant stillness. Still asked after her wandwork and delivered first editions to her room as if by thought. He still praised her posture and gently mocked Draco's.

But his letters had grown shorter.

His visits were brief.

And when he looked at her, it was not always as her uncle, but as a man burdened by something unsaid.

She hadn't questioned it—yet. Regulus Black did not forget things. If he was withholding, it was intentional. If it was intentional, then so would be her silence.

Let him come to her. Let him explain, in his time.

But that didn't mean she hadn't noticed.

"Up early, as always," came a familiar drawl from the doorway.

Lyra didn't turn. In the mirror above her desk, she saw Draco leaning against the frame, hair still rumpled from sleep, his sleeves creased, expression halfway between amusement and complaint.

"You're up late," she said coolly, capping the untouched inkwell.

He entered without invitation—he rarely needed one—and flopped onto her bed with all the elegance of a niffler in velvet.

"Father says we're expected at luncheon in two days. Something about the Notts. I stopped listening after he mentioned the guest list."

Lyra arched a brow. "Impressive restraint."

Draco stretched out with a yawn. "He also said Uncle is coming."

That stilled her hand for a moment. She resumed organizing the parchment.

"He visits often," she said evenly.

"Not like this."

She turned to look at him now. Draco was staring up at the ceiling, frowning slightly.

"He's been meeting with Father. At night. Twice this week. Mother's said nothing. That's the part that worries me."

Lyra crossed to the window and gazed out over the fog-laced grounds. The sky was a soft, colorless grey—Wiltshire in summer. Bleak and refined.

"Do you think something's wrong?" Draco asked behind her.

"No," she said quickly. Too quickly. Then, quieter: "If there is, he'll tell me."

Draco didn't argue. He simply nodded, solemn for once. He might bicker and boast and perform outrage like it was theatre, but when it mattered, he understood her. Understood what Regulus meant to her. Knew when not to prod.

Uncle Regulus was hers in a way he wasn't Draco's. And they both knew it.

Three days later, the letter arrived.

It came not by owl, nor delivered with ceremony. No Malfoy seal, no Black crest. Just a plain envelope placed gently on her nightstand by an elf, sometime between moonset and morning.

She knew the handwriting instantly.

Regulus's script was always lean, elegant, spare. It did not curl or embellish. It did not beg attention. It simply... existed.

She unfolded it in silence.

Star,
If I seem distracted this summer, forgive me. It's not distance—it's protection. I am always watching. Always thinking. Not everything that matters can be said aloud.
There are things I hope you never understand. But if you must, know that silence is not betrayal.
Yours always,
R.

Four lines.

No updates. No requests. No reminders about the book she was meant to finish or the lecture he had once promised to give her on early pureblood magical ethics.

Just quiet, cryptic affection.

Lyra read it three times.

Then, carefully, she folded it into thirds and locked it in the second drawer of her writing desk—beside every other letter he'd ever written her.

She did not mention it to Draco.

She did not speak of it to anyone.

-

The Notts' estate was, predictably, performing.

Floating silk parasols drifted between white tables. Harpsichords played themselves from beneath charmed ivy. The grass shimmered too green. The lemonade poured itself. The air was all prestige and carefully polished reputation.

Lyra knew how to walk through it.

Draco drifted to Blaise and Theo like a moth to mischief, leaving her to navigate the adult conversation circles. She moved from cluster to cluster like a queen not yet crowned—speaking little, listening always, rarely needing to smile.

She saw him the moment he arrived.

Uncle Regulus stood near the trellised archway, deep in conversation with Lucius. They stood close—closer than Lucius ever stood with anyone. Their voices were low, their expressions unreadable. Occasionally, Lucius would glance toward the guests as if cataloguing them. Regulus never looked away from him.

Until he did.

Until his eyes met hers.

For one half-breath, something passed over his face.

Not fear. Not shame.

Something quieter. Something that looked too much like regret.

And then it was gone.

Lyra turned away before he could see the frown threatening her composure.

She lifted a glass of lemonade and sipped.

Something was coming. She could feel it in her bones—in the way Lucius watched the shadows, in the way her mother had begun humming again, in the way Uncle Regulus had stopped including anything of substance in his letters.

She didn't know what it was.

But this time, she wouldn't wait to be told.