firecracker ???

1-16

Blaise grinned. "Oh? Still exchanging letters with Montague?"

Pansy wiggled her brows. "Does he draw little hearts?"

Lyra didn't rise to it.

"Montague is a half-decent conversationalist," she said, perfectly calm.

"A very generous interpretation," Draco muttered under his breath.

Theo smirked. "Your father seems thrilled."

That got a reaction. Draco turned away sharply to stare out the window.

Lyra, meanwhile, exhaled slowly. "He thinks he's hilarious."

"He gave a toast over our family dinner," Draco said, trying not to snigger at him and his father's mutual disdain towards Montague. "'To young love and even younger grammar.'"

"Mother was livid," Lyra added. "'Lucius, do you mind?'"

Blaise performed a spot-on imitation: "'Just saying, darling, if the boy can't spell quidditch, I'm not sure he can inherit anything worth insuring.'"

Everyone laughed at the very Lucius thing to say— except Draco.

He stood abruptly. "I'm going to walk."

"You always walk when we mention Montague," Theo called after him.

"I walk when you're all insufferable," Draco snapped, slamming the door behind him.

Pansy leaned toward Lyra. "So? Are you actually interested?"

"No," Lyra said simply.

They didn't ask again.

-

Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, the castle sat half-awake under snow.

The winter holidays had left it quieter than usual. Most students had gone home. But not all.

In the Gryffindor common room, the fire was low. Ron was dozing in the armchair. Harry was quiet. He'd spent most of the break searching for clues about the Philosopher's Stone with Ron and reporting back to Hermione. They'd scoured the library, argued about Nicolas Flamel, and dodged Filch twice while sneaking around after dark.

But at night—when the castle was silent, and his thoughts crept in—he'd gone to the Mirror.

The Mirror of Erised.

He hadn't meant to go back. Dumbledore had warned him. But curiosity pulled at him like a thread he couldn't untangle.

The first time, he'd seen what he wanted all his life: his parents, whole and beaming, standing behind him.

The second time—still them.

The third?

They were there.

But she was, too.

Just off to the side, not the focus. But unmistakable.

Lyra Black, in dress robes of pale silver, eyes bright, smiling not at him, but toward something he couldn't see. Standing with his parents like she belonged there. Like she had always belonged there.

He'd blinked, stepped closer.

But she stayed.

And ever since, he'd been... off.

Conflicted.

Because Lyra wasn't kind. She wasn't warm. She wasn't his friend.

And yet—

Something in the way she had looked in that reflection stayed with him. Not romantic. Not exactly.

Just there.

Like she was a part of something he didn't understand.

And now she was back.

-

As the doors opened and the cold spilled in, Lyra stepped back into the castle with the poise of someone who had never truly left.

She walked past him.

Didn't glance at him.

Didn't slow.

But as her group headed toward the dungeons, she hesitated for half a second.

She looked over her shoulder—not directly at him. Past him.

Then turned away.

Harry's chest felt tight, and he couldn't explain why.

The ball was over.

The holidays were done.

And yet somehow, something had changed.

Not in her.

In him.