firecracker ???

It had been three days since they arrived home from Hogwarts, and already the manor felt like another world.

Gone were the drafty corridors and echoing halls of the castle, replaced by rich velvet drapes, the faint scent of pine and firewood, and the heavy comfort of old magic saturating the air. Malfoy Manor wasn't warm—not truly—but it was beautiful. Regal. Endless. And to Lyra, it was paradise.

The days had passed in a flurry of fittings, staff rushing up and down staircases with garment bags and charmed boxes. Invitations had long since gone out, but now came the avalanche of RSVPs, owl after owl swooping through the great hall. Narcissa reviewed guest lists with meticulous calm. Lucius reviewed them with cold scrutiny.

And Lyra?

She could barely sleep.

The Yule Ball wasn't just tradition—it was theatre. It was reputation and display. A night to be seen. And this time, it was their house, her house, that would be center stage. Inside, the grand ballroom of the manor had been transformed into a vision of wintry opulence. Icicles of fine crystal hung from floating chandeliers, each one softly glowing, illuminating the marble floor with an ethereal shimmer. Snowflakes—enchanted, delicate, and melting into nothing—drifted slowly from above without ever touching the ground. The music from a live orchestra flowed like liquid silver through the hall, equal parts regal and haunting. Magic stirred in the air like perfume.

This was no school dance. This was the Yule Ball, as held by pureblood royalty. And Elestara Lyra Black was at its center.

In the eastern wing of the manor, the once-formal blue parlor had been converted into a makeshift dressing salon. It was filled with soft candlelight, silk dresses strewn over sofas, jewelry boxes charmed open, and the low, happy hum of feminine voices. Pansy Parkinson lay on the chaise near the fire, dabbing glitter gloss on her lips. Daphne Greengrass stood beside Lyra, fastening the last clasp on her necklace.

"Stop moving," Daphne muttered, fixing the pendant so it rested just beneath Lyra's collarbone. "You're worse than Theo's owl."

"I'm being perfectly still," Lyra replied, amused, turning her head with a queen's practiced elegance. "It's not my fault you're slow."

"Turn your head just a little—there," Daphne said, adjusting the final pin in Lyra's hair with surgical precision. "Honestly, you could at least pretend to sit still. I didn't fly all the way here to fix your ridiculous baby hairs."

"They're not ridiculous," Lyra murmured, lips twitching. "They're charming. Softens the menace."

"You don't need to soften the menace," Pansy declared from the velvet chaise by the window, where she was painting her toenails with a glimmering silver charm polish. "You're the menace and the moment."

"She's right," Daphne muttered, finally stepping back. "You look like something out of a Botticelli painting. Cold, divine, completely unapproachable."

"Good," Lyra said simply, rising to her feet. Her gown shimmered with movement—silvery-white, structured yet ethereal, embroidered with constellations. Mother had designed it herself.

Pansy let out a sigh. "You know who will be hopelessly obsessed with you tonight?"

"Oh no," Lyra said flatly, already knowing.

"Graham Montague."

Daphne groaned. "Not again."

"He's very pretty," Pansy said, undeterred. "Very stupid, yes, but charming in a way that makes you want to put a leash on him."