What would happen if there was a slight change in the family tapestry of The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black?
Specifically, four years before the birth of a certain Sirius Orion Black III, a little baby girl was welcomed into the world.
She wa...
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-------------------> BACK IN BRITAIN, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had released its students from the burdens of school-work for the winter holidays. But Lyra had graduated and was now working in a distant foreign land. Here, in Peru, it was summer with a wet atmosphere, which didn't quite feel like Yule yet.
Lucius' expedition got extended due to the discovery of an ancient object whose name that Lyra had already forgotten but her father had squealed about in his letter— the first letter she had received from him which contained a semblance of emotions— and since she had promised to wait for him so they could travel together, Lyra could only go back to England on the 24th, leaving less time to spend with her siblings.
For all the wonderful opportunities and beautiful memories that she was blessed with, Lyra occasionally felt that the dire price out-weighed the pros; and her family's —bar Sirius and James— dry as chalkboard letters were not helping to brighten up the dampened mood she had been feeling lately.
Lyra had wished to be a healer for as long as she could remember. Not a politician or lawyer like her grandfathers, not a dueller or herbologist like her grandmothers, not a historian like her father, not an arithmetician like her mother, not a ward master, fashionista or potion mistress like her aunts, not a curse-breaker or ministry official like her uncles. Initially, she had wanted to be a healer for the sole reason that no-one else in her family was. She craved to be something that no-one could constantly compare her to. She yearned for an identity of her own, free from the legacies of her ancestors.
Gradually, Lyra had begun to see the loveliness of the art of healing— how useful it could be to bring back someone from the clutches of Death, to make wounds disappear into thin air, to protect those you love— and that was when her decision had been solidified.
However, despite all the research she had done and people she had consulted, there was nothing that could have prepared her for the mental toll the work took if one didn't completely detach themselves and portray indifference to the patients.
Each death, each fatality affected her— worse was when she had to deliver the tragic news to their loved ones. Sometimes, she would receive a patient who reminded her so much of her siblings, parents or friends that learning that they had a virulent strain of an illness seemed to chip away a layer of her because all she could imagine was what if it had been them. What if it had been one of her loved ones on that white hospital bed and she had to watch them wither away knowing she couldn't change their fate; Lyra loathed that feeling. She loathed that powerlessness.
When Lyra returned from work that day to the empty cottage, she felt relieved to get away from the atmosphere of potion scents and death which would occasionally overwhelm her.
Unfortunately, the peace of the cottage lasted for only a minute before the fire-place was engulfed with flames, alerting Lyra that someone was floo'ing in. She watched as the ash-coated form of a person became visible, recognising the familiar face of her cousin.
