Chapter the First: The Dark Secret

                                    

                                          
chapter the first: rewritten, unedited
Lyra stared into the fireplace in front of her, watching the flames of different colors dance across the wooden logs, turning their paths to ash. She stared numbly ahead, eyes catching on the painting above the mantle as she shifted backwards. Fleamont Potter, the painting said. The only nonmagical one, as shown by the signature in the corner. Jasmine felt something splash onto her shirt, something warm. For a minute, she thought it was blood. After the day she had, she was starting to wish it was. But, then, she remembered. She was holding onto something tightly. A mug.. a mug with tea, that one of the elves made for her. Right. 
Her eyes roamed over the portrait, trying to find any similarities to herself- the glint in his eyes, the shape of his nose.. but there was nothing. Of course there isn't, Jasmine. the voice in her head told her, tone biting and sarcastic as it uttered her name... well, what she thought was her name. 
Jasmine-- no, Lyra, looked away from the larger than life portrait, eyes downcast onto the mahogany table, littered with parchments. She looked away from that too, eyes focused on the landscape of the front yard - forest- of the Potter manor. She stood up, clenching the cup of tea so tightly she felt like she would shatter the mug, and stared out the window. 
Imposter, the circling voice in her head said. You don't belong here, you're not even part of the family. 
But they loved me... Jas- Lyra tried to refute. But did they? the snake responded. And she could create a mental image in her mind.. the voice would be a cottonmouth, dark and slick and speckled. They had just lost their child... and you were right there. Nobody would be the wiser. 
Shut up! she told the voice, turning away from the beautiful, albeit creepy, over-grown landscaping of the manor. You know I'm right, child... you were a replacement. They didn't know they were going to die that night, right? They thought they would be saved- they were just selling the act. Just selling the act... you were nothing, you were a prop. 
Lyra holds the mug tighter, screaming at the voice to shut up, shut up, shut up- 
You were nothing to them- you're still worth nothing. You're still the little girl in the cupboard under the stairs-
A shattering noise. She drops to the floor, covering her face. Her nails dig into the exposed skin of her arms, the goosebumps harsh against her fingerprints. what-what had-
the mug, her brain supplied. she looked up to find a stain of tea on the wall, shattered pieces below the mark. I threw the cup of tea at the wall... her mind fills in the blanks. Lyra looks around the library; floor to ceiling bookshelves, a ladder to get up there, but no broom and dustpan? 
Lyra tries to avoid looking at the large painting of the man over the mantle; the hazel eyes filled with passion earlier would no doubt feel like they were filled with disappointment. A failure, a failure so bad that the Dark Lord didn't even want you...  the snake goads. She curls her fingers into her hands, little white half-crescents appearing on her skin. 
She looks closer, staring at the indentations on her skin, them calming the girl in some demented way. After everything, at least you still hurt the same, her mental version whispers to her as the blood started to well up.  
The couch, a dark red and draped in golden blankets, looks comfortable again. So Lyra walks over, flopping onto the couch, aware of the stains on her shirt that might seep into the couch. Who cares? The Potter line is dead, anyways. 
The idea of sleep is so foreboding that she nearly recoils at the thought, but the snake in her mind hisses violently, threatens her with her worst fears. And so the teen's eyes close, mind on the foreboding eyes of Fleamont Potter above her.