firecracker ???

The Quidditch pitch looked like a battlefield.

Gryffindor's side of the stands pulsed with red and gold, their cheers bordering on hysterical. Enchanted banners roared, scarves were waved like war flags, and Lee Jordan's voice boomed overhead even before the game began.

Lyra adjusted the collar of her fur-lined cloak, entirely unimpressed.

"Do they ever calm down?" she asked dryly, as Gryffindor let out another wave of noise.

"No," Daphne said, combing her fingers through her hair. "And they never will."

"They do realize it's just a game, right?" Pansy muttered, tightening her gloves. "Not the World Cup."

"Don't tell them that," Theo said. "They'll start sobbing in the stands."

Across the pitch, the Gryffindor team filed out of the changing rooms to wild applause. At their center was the tiny form of Harry Potter, looking thoroughly swallowed by his uniform.

"Potter looks like he was mugged by a clothes rack," Pansy observed.

"They probably had to roll him into those robes," Lyra added. "The sleeves are trying to eat him."

Draco, beside her, said nothing. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched as he watched Harry rise into the air with the rest of the team.

Lee Jordan's voice erupted over the stadium:

"Welcome to today's match—Gryffindor versus Slytherin! And it's Oliver Wood for Gryffindor shaking hands with Marcus Flint for Slytherin—Flint's trying to crush his fingers, very sportsmanlike—JORDAN!"

"Ah," Lyra said. "Professor McGonagall's morning growl."

The whistle blew, and the balls were released. The players shot upward.

"And they're off!" Lee shouted. "Bell takes the Quaffle—passes to Spinnet—back to Johnson—Flint barges in and takes it, beautiful move, if you like fouls—"

"Two minutes in," Theo murmured. "New record."

Lyra's eyes tracked Harry as he looped high above the game, keeping his distance from the Quaffle action, eyes constantly scanning the air for the Snitch.

"He's not bad," Theo admitted.

"For someone with no shoulders," Lyra replied. "He rides like he knows what he's doing."

"Potter's watching the wrong players," Draco muttered. "Wood's wide open."

"He's the Seeker," Lyra said with a shrug. "He's meant to ignore everyone."

Draco huffed. "Typical Gryffindor. Reckless and flashy."

"Oh?" She tilted her head, smirking. "You sound worried. Bit infatuated, are we?"

Draco turned. "What?"

She took a slow sip of cider. "He survived the Dark Lord. I'm sure he can survive a broomstick."

"I'm not worried—"

"You're worried about your idol," Blaise cut in with a grin. "It's sweet."

"If Potter crashes," he added, "I call his shoes."

"Why do you even want his shoes?" Pansy asked.

"They're famous now."

The match surged forward—Gryffindor dominating the Quaffle while Slytherin fought back with aggressive blocks. The commentary echoed endlessly:

"—Johnson to Spinnet—Spinnet to Bell—Bludger narrowly misses—excellent dodge—Potter's circling high—wait—"