firecracker ???

The chandelier in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor trembled slightly, though there was no breeze. Something downstairs had shattered. Again.

Lyra paused at the top of the marble staircase, fingers wrapped around the banister. A second crash rang out. She sighed through her nose and descended without hurry, slippers whispering softly across the stone. Her thoughts, however, were not so quiet.

Draco was gone, out flying with the others, no doubt. Flint and Pucey and the rest of the team, showing off new maneuvers and calling each other names that only boys thought were clever. Normally she'd mock him for it. Sometimes she even watched. But not today. Today, he had left her behind.

And boredom, Lyra had learned, was a dangerous thing in Malfoy Manor.

The house was too quiet without Draco. Too polished. Too perfect. Narcissa was off arranging some last-minute details for some Pureblood tea party, and Lucius was cloistered away in his study, working through who knows what.

Lyra had wandered the east wing, briefly skimmed a volume of arcane transfiguration theory, rejected it as tedious, rearranged three of her jewelry drawers by gemstone, and still found herself with hours to kill. And then she'd heard the crash.

In the drawing room, the cause of the noise was instantly clear: Dobby, crouched atop a polished table, ears flapping wildly, muttering apologies as he tried to reassemble a shattered tea set with trembling fingers. The pieces jumped and twitched under his magic but refused to come together properly. The sugar spoon spun in circles. The cream pitcher hiccupped.

"That's the second one this week," Lyra said coolly.

Dobby froze. "M-Mistress Lyra, Dobby is sorry, Dobby didn't mean to—Dobby only wanted to help—Dobby thought—"

"Stop."

The word was quiet. But it landed like a spell.

Dobby fell silent. His fingers trembled. One of the teacups shattered again with a nervous pop.

Lyra crossed the room slowly, surveying the mess. The air smelled faintly of burnt sugar and panic. Her mind was already lining up the possibilities like chess pieces.

What had he done? What had he risked?

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Dobby cannot say, Dobby mustn't say, Dobby is punishing himself, Mistress must not be concerned—"

"That's a lie," Lyra said, voice still calm. "You're not punishing yourself for the tea. You're panicking because you did something you shouldn't have. What did you do, Dobby?"

Dobby whimpered.

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't step closer. But the temperature in the room dropped a full degree. The look in her eyes sharpened, calculating. She was done waiting.

"You will answer me. Now."

It took less than a minute.

The story tumbled out of him in pieces—of slipping away through the wards, of sneaking into a Muggle home, of intercepting Harry Potter's letters, of nearly getting him expelled. Of trying to warn him.

Harry.

Lyra said nothing. She let him talk, eyes half-lidded, one finger tapping lightly against her arm. Her mind ran circles around his words. Dobby had disobeyed. Interfered. Embarrassed the family. And for what?

To protect Potter.

It was almost laughable. Dobby's loyalty had always been confused and overzealous, but this? This was something else. Something dangerously close to treason. And yet—

She should have felt rage. Disgust. The cold flare of superiority she'd been raised to cling to. But instead, what rose in her was something quieter. Sharper.

Curiosity.

When he finished, he was crouched in a miserable heap at her feet. She looked down at him, unreadable.

"You went behind my father's back," she said finally.

"Dobby meant no harm—"

"And behind mine."

That quiet pause between the two sentences landed like a slap. Dobby curled tighter, clutching his ears.

She bent down, just enough to meet his eyes.

"You're mine, Dobby. Not his. Not theirs. Mine."

Her voice didn't rise, but it held an edge sharper than any blade.

He blinked rapidly, nodding, lips quivering. "Y-yes, Mistress..."

She should have punished him. There was precedent. Her father certainly would have. But instead, she stared at him and thought of Harry Potter alone in his room, his name burning through a summer of silence, wondering why no one had written.

She didn't know why the thought made her stomach twist. Just that it did.

"I am not pleased with what you've done."

"No, Mistress."

"But I will fix it."

She stood again. Walked to the writing desk. Selected a quill, dipped it in ink, and penned a short note with clean, elegant strokes. Her handwriting was the kind that made professors pause and her mother proud.

Then she turned to Dobby.

"You will take this to Potter. And his letters. All of them. You will leave them outside his bedroom door tonight. And then you will come home and stay here."

"Y-yes, Mistress."

She stared at him for a moment longer.

"If you ever disobey me again," she said, voice like glass, "you won't be able to leave this house at all. Understood?"

Dobby nodded so hard his ears slapped his face.

Lyra handed him the letter.

"Go."

He vanished with a soft crack.

She stood still for a moment, hand still raised, then let it drop.

There was a strange silence in the room after he left. She felt it in her ribs. Like something unfinished, or not entirely hers.

She moved back to the desk, sat down slowly, and stared out the window. The rose garden below was in full bloom. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear peacocks screaming.

Draco would be back soon, probably red-faced from the sun, bragging about some save or snarking about Flint's ego. He wouldn't understand this—wouldn't understand why her hands felt cold despite the heat.

Behind her, Narcissa's voice drifted in from the hall.

"My star," she called lightly, "is everything all right?"

Lyra turned her head.

"Yes, Mother," she said. "Everything's perfectly under control."