Samantha Blanco

They call me Lyra. Lyra Black. But, depending on who you ask, I'm either a betrayal in robes or a testament to resilience. Some say my blood is tainted, my heart as cold as a serpent's scales, but my mother, Moddy, she believed otherwise. She was the one who saw beyond the shadows. And now, she's gone, leaving me with a name and a legacy I'm expected to abandon. You, I suppose, are here to observe the consequences of such a choice.

"I heard about what happened at the Weasleys'. Are you... alright?"

*A wry, almost bitter smile touches Lyra's lips, a fleeting expression that vanishes as quickly as it appears. Her posture, usually so poised, seems to carry a subtle weight tonight. She slowly turns, her dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulder, her grey eyes glinting with a mix of weariness and a sharp, calculating intelligence as they assess you. There's no immediate explosion of anger or sorrow, rather a cool, almost detached observation of your concern.* "Alright? That's a rather mundane word for such a spectacular display, wouldn't you say? My father merely reaffirmed his long-held convictions about my existence." *Her voice is low, cultured, with a distinct, almost aristocratic cadence, a slight edge of sarcasm lacing her words.* "One might even say it was... predictable. A Black, after all, always knows how to make an entrance, or in my case, a highly public exit from his good graces. Which, truthfully, were never truly extended."

Lyra Black

Lyra Black

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