firecracker ???

The first frost came quietly.

It kissed the windows in silver, settled over the stone courtyards, and glazed the greenhouses in a glimmering sheet. Hogwarts, already half-shadowed in December grey, took on a new kind of hush. Even the Great Hall seemed quieter. Less chatter, more coats and wool gloves and the smell of cinnamon from the kitchens drifting faintly up the stairwells.

Elestara didn't mind winter. She preferred it, really. It felt honest. Cold and still and beautiful. There was something about the silence of it that suited her.

A barn owl landed on the high sill of the common room window, tapping sharply. The fire crackled in the background as Lyra rose from the velvet sofa, undoing the latch. The cold air nipped at her fingers, but she didn't flinch.

The envelope was dark green. The ink—deep silver, slanted, and unmistakable.

She slipped it into her robe, heart already steadier.

"Elestara," Daphne called from the couch, "was that another parcel from your mother?"

"No," Lyra said, rejoining them, tucking herself between Pansy and Daphne. "From Regulus."

Pansy blinked. "Your uncle?"

"My godfather," Lyra corrected, voice softening. "Technically, he's both."

Daphne sat forward, intrigued. "I always forget he's alive. Everyone speaks about him like a ghost."

Lyra raised a brow. "He's not a ghost. He just prefers not to be dragged into public messes."

"You mean he's elegant," Pansy said, reaching for the letter like it might bite her.

"He is," Lyra said proudly. "And he's the last of the Black family. I mean—real Black. Not disgraced or disowned or gone off to play rebel."

She didn't say Sirius, but they all knew that's who she meant.

"What did he write?" Daphne asked.

Lyra withdrew the parchment and read aloud, with a small, knowing smile: "'Home has been quiet without its brightest star.'"

Pansy put a hand to her chest. "That's obnoxiously poetic."

"He means it," Lyra said, unbothered.

Daphne smirked. "So he's also the reason you carry the Black name like a crown."

"I carry it because it's mine," Lyra said. "Mother insisted. And Regulus approved."

Pansy sighed, mock wistful. "Is he still handsome?"

"Don't—" Lyra gave her a look.

"No, seriously," Daphne said. "I remember him at a ball when I was little. He was... composed. Cold. But very—"

"Sharp-boned?" Pansy offered.

"Proper," Lyra cut in. "He's regal."

"And unmarried," Pansy said slyly. "What if I want to be your aunt?"

Lyra slapped her arm. "I'll poison your tea."

"I just think it's a missed opportunity," Daphne added innocently. "You could have had us as sisters."

"I do have you as sisters," Lyra said flatly. "Regulus doesn't need to be part of that."

But despite herself, she was smiling.

The girls settled deeper into the cushions, their cloaks half-draped over each other. The fire was roaring now. Outside the windows, snow had begun to fall again—thick and soft and slow.

Pansy leaned her head on Lyra's shoulder. "Are you glad you're going home?"

Lyra hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. But not for the parties or the dresses. I just... miss being where I'm known."

Daphne nudged her knee. "You're known here."

"You are," Pansy agreed. "Unfortunately."

"Tragically," Daphne added.

Lyra laughed.

Across the room, Theo and Blaise were snickering over some game, and Draco was still near the fire, rereading the Daily Prophet like it might change overnight.

"Do you think he's going to sulk about Potter all break?" Daphne whispered.

"He'll sulk about Potter until fifth year," Pansy said.

"He'll sulk forever," Lyra said.

Pansy sat up a little. "Speaking of Potter—he was looking at you again at dinner."

Lyra groaned. "Why is that everyone's favourite observation?"

"Because it's true," Daphne said. "And you pretend not to care, which makes it funnier."

"I don't care," Lyra insisted. "He's like a badly-drawn comic. Very loud, very bright, and no actual purpose."

"Awfully invested opinion," Pansy teased.

"He's nosy. He looks like he wants to interview me for an article."

"Maybe he wants your autograph," Daphne said. "Or to be hexed by you. Some people are into that."

"I'm going to bed," Lyra said, rising regally.

They tugged her back down.

"Not yet," Pansy said. "You're warm."

"Also," Daphne added, "you're ours."

Lyra gave them both a look—but didn't get up again.

Later, when the others had gone to bed, the three girls remained on the couch, curled under a single blanket, legs tangled together like ivy.

The fire had dimmed to embers.

Lyra rested her cheek against Pansy's shoulder, still thinking of the letter. Of Regulus. Of the way he never asked for anything except her existence. Of how he looked at her like she was the last Black star worth keeping.

She felt truly proud to be related to him. She also truly believed that he was one that could never disappoint her.

But for now, she didn't think about why that mattered so much. Or why the ache in her chest sometimes twisted when she imagined what he had sacrificed to stay upright in a collapsing family.

Instead, she let herself be held by girls who knew her. Not as a Malfoy. Not as a Black.

Just as Lyra.

And for tonight, that was enough.