firecracker ???

Knockturn Alley stank of old secrets and damp rot. Lyra barely spared it a glance.

She walked half a step behind her father, chin lifted, hands gloved in fine dragonhide, letting the shadows brush past her like cobwebs she couldn't be bothered to notice. The darkness here wasn't threatening. It was pitiful. All smoke and grime and failed ambition tucked into corners like dust. Draco, beside her, kept trying to look unimpressed. He failed.

They exited Borgin and Burkes without incident—Lucius had handled everything with smooth authority and a flick of his cane—and Draco launched into a complaint the moment they cleared the crooked doorway.

"You said I could stay longer—"

"I said nothing of the sort," Lucius replied without looking at him.

"You said I could look at the Hand of Glory—"

"I said we had business. It is done."

Draco fell into sulky silence. Lyra said nothing, because she didn't need to.

The moment they turned back onto the sunlit stretch of Diagon Alley, she felt the shift. A buzzing crowd spilled from the entrance of Flourish and Blotts, pressing forward with breathless energy. Gold banners fluttered overhead. Squealing girls shoved against glass windows. Something gleamed in the sunlight—flashbulbs.

Her lip curled before she could stop it.

"Lockhart," she muttered. "Disgusting."

"Oh, brilliant," Draco groaned. "What's Potter done now? Cured a plague?"

Lyra narrowed her eyes at the display. Her gaze settled not on the floating signage or the absurd pile of books—but on the boy standing awkwardly in the middle of it all, half-trapped in Gilderoy Lockhart's manic grip, blinking against the camera flashes.

Potter.

Of course.

Lucius gave no reaction to the crowd. "Come," he said, stepping inside. "And do try not to draw more attention than he already has."

Lyra followed, silent and watchful.

Harry felt like a trapped animal. The worst part was Lockhart's arm. It was still clamped tightly around his shoulders like Harry was some sort of pet, and his cheek hurt from being shoved into too many photographs.

He had just been trying to buy schoolbooks. That was all. He hadn't asked for an audience, or a front-page spread, or a stack of glossy autobiographies he didn't even want.

"Smile!" Lockhart trilled.

Harry bared his teeth. It was the closest he could get.

Now his vision was swimming from flashbulbs and his ears rang with Lockhart's voice—still bragging about something ridiculous—and then everything stopped.

He didn't see them enter. He felt it.

The kind of shift that makes the hair on your arms lift.

Lucius Malfoy stepped into the shop like he owned it, pale and sharp and terrifying in his own calm way. Draco was right behind him, already sneering like he couldn't wait to be noticed.

And then Elestara walked in, and the entire shop went quiet in his head.

She didn't look at him right away. She didn't have to. Just standing there—dark green robes brushing the floor, dark hair pinned like a crown, gaze heavy and bored—she pulled every ounce of attention from the room like a magnet made of ice.

When her eyes finally did find him, it felt like being sized up and written off in the same breath.

Harry's mouth went dry.