FIRECRACKER - hjp

The Wiltshire sun filtered through sheer enchanted glass, tinting the drawing room in gold and white. Somewhere beyond the hedgerows, the peacocks were screaming again — sharp, grating, and persistent. It sounded like protest. Or prophecy.

Elestara Lyra Black didn't look up from the letter she was writing.

"It's getting louder," Draco muttered from his armchair. He was sprawled like a bored prince, legs thrown over one side, a Quidditch magazine in his lap and a scowl on his face.

"That's because your presence is upsetting the natural balance of the estate," Lyra said without looking at him.

Draco kicked the table leg. "You're hilarious."

She signed her name with a final flourish, folded the parchment, and held it out. A regal barn owl swept in from the open window to take it.

"To Montague again?" Draco asked flatly.

"None of your business."

"He's a sixth year."

"Mm. And a better conversationalist than you, which says something tragic about our bloodline."

Draco opened his mouth, closed it, then sulked deeper into the chair.

A knock sounded, and a house-elf scurried in with a note. Lyra opened it. Her face brightened slightly.

"Pansy says her mother's letting her host a welcome tea the day before term. Daphne will be there."

"Joy," Draco said flatly.

"She says we're all going to judge who came back from summer looking more 'tragically inbred.' You'll win."

He threw a cushion at her. She ducked it easily, laughing.

Before Draco could retaliate, a voice cut through the corridor with cool authority.

"Children. Drawing room. Now."

Lucius's voice had the smooth finality of a slammed book.

They arrived promptly. Draco fixed his collar. Lyra didn't bother.

Lucius was standing near the fireplace, flicking through correspondence with one hand and holding a brandy glass in the other. Narcissa was seated like a portrait — serene, still, luminous — her pale hand resting on the arm of her chair.

Regulus Black stood near the window. Draped in black and silver, he looked like he'd stepped out of a secret. His hair was loose. His eyes sharp.

"You're both expected to conduct yourselves with elegance and restraint this year," Lucius said without preamble. "Especially given what's to come."

"What is coming?" Lyra asked.

Lucius turned to her fully. "Opportunity."

He motioned to a velvet-bound box resting on the table. With a wave of his hand, it opened. Inside lay a thin, battered diary.

"The diary of Tom Riddle," Lucius said, almost reverently. "A... special object."

Regulus stiffened.

Draco leaned forward, frowning. "Is that the one—?"

Lucius cut him off. "You needn't know the details. Only this: it will find its way into the hands of a certain blood traitor's daughter."

"Ginny Weasley," Lyra said at once.

Lucius looked pleased. "Sharp as ever."

Narcissa said nothing. Her eyes were trained on the flames.

"And what do you expect from us?" Lyra asked, voice smooth as silk.

Lucius smiled faintly. "You will do nothing. Unless Potter interferes. Which he will."

Draco scowled. "Of course he will."

"If he gets involved," Lucius continued, "you are to remain uninvolved publicly. But, Lyra—" he paused, gaze steady, "should things escalate... follow him."

Draco blinked. "What? Follow Potter?"

"Only into the Chamber. If it opens. If he enters. Be seen. Be present. Let the world believe you tried to help. If he dies, you mourn him. If he survives, you stood beside him."

"And what if the Dark Lord returns?" Lyra asked, eyes bright.

"Then you tell him you tried to stop the boy."

There was silence.

Then Lyra smiled, cold and brilliant. "How thoughtful of you, Father. Preparing all possible outcomes."

"I expect nothing less of you."

Draco made a noise of protest, but Narcissa held up a hand. "Draco. Your sister plays a different game."

"She's playing with fire."

"She is fire," Regulus said quietly, and Lyra beamed at him.

-

That evening, Lyra sat in her room writing to Theo. Her quill danced across the parchment:

Pansy's planning bloodline evaluations over tea. Daphne's making a list of targets. And I'm stuck entertaining Draco until term. If I hex him, you're my alibi.

Oh—and Father's given me an assignment. Not the fun kind. The Potter kind.

She paused, smirking faintly to herself before signing it off:

Yours in suffering,
Lyra

A knock came at her door.

"Go away," she called.

"Letter from Astoria Greengrass, miss," came the elf's voice. "By owl."

Lyra opened it, her expression softening slightly. It was a neat little note wishing her luck this term, filled with excited scribbles about finally joining Hogwarts.

"She'll be in Slytherin," Lyra murmured to herself. "She'd better be."

She tucked the note into her drawer carefully.

Then turned back to her other letters — the ones that mattered more.