firecracker ???

Hogwarts emerged through the mist like it always did—looming and ancient, its towers and turrets casting long shadows across the lake as the rain finally let up. The air was damp and metallic with fog, but Lyra didn't seem to notice. Her robes stayed dry beneath a charm, and her boots made no sound on the wet stone as she stepped off the train ahead of the others. Behind her, Astoria clutched the strap of her trunk like a lifeline, eyes darting everywhere, trying to look confident but clinging to Lyra's side with the subtlety of a shadow.

Draco muttered about the cold, about how the first-years were always underfoot, about the fake sister Lyra had clinging to her arm. Lyra ignored him, the rest of the group giggled. He still followed a half-step behind her anyway.

The castle was the same, and yet it never was. The sorting felt like theatre she'd already seen. The ceiling sparkled, candles drifted, the little ones trembled beneath the hat. Astoria sat stone-still and didn't flinch when she was called. Slytherin. Of course. Lyra shifted just enough to make room at her side. Astoria beamed.

Dinner arrived. Platters appeared. Laughter rose and clattered around the Hall. Lyra picked at her meal, uninterested, but not inattentive. Across the Great Hall, Potter sat with the Gryffindors, half-listening to the Weasley twins while trying and failing to be subtle about where his eyes kept drifting. Every so often he glanced over—quickly, then longer. Lingering.

She didn't look back.

But she was aware of him. Of course she was. She was always aware of people who watched her. That was how she stayed one step ahead. His eyes kept landing on her and Theo. Theo leaned in to say something. She tilted her head toward him, the curve of her hair falling against his shoulder. She didn't move away.

Harry didn't know why it bothered him.

It wasn't that they looked romantic. They didn't. But it was the comfort of it. The ease. Like they understood each other without needing to try. Like she let him in.

She hadn't even looked at Harry once.

The buzz in the hall began to shift midway through dessert. A rustle of whispers. Lockhart had been spotted in the staff line-up, talking Snape's ear off with gleaming teeth and that ridiculous peacock-blue robe. Harry groaned. Ron looked like he might be sick. Hermione was starry-eyed. Lyra, from her seat, looked like she'd just smelled something sour.

The moment they were dismissed and returned to their common room, Lockhart became the conversation of the hour. Half the younger girls swooned. Pansy rolled her eyes so hard Lyra was convinced she saw stars. Someone dared Lyra to say what she'd been muttering at dinner out loud again.

"He looks like a tooth with hair," Lyra said calmly. "And a wardrobe made of cursed curtains."

The room dissolved into laughter.

She added, with perfect innocence, "Though it is nice he finally found a use for that many shades of blue."

Later, when the noise had died down, Lyra excused herself and went to the owlery. She didn't say where she was going. She didn't have to. She carried a letter in her pocket, addressed to Montague.

It wasn't sentimental. It was brief. Intelligent. Flirtation hidden beneath pointed phrasing. She tied it to the owl's leg and released it into the sky like nothing had happened.

But of course, someone saw.

Draco cornered her the next morning by the fire.

"You wrote to Montague?"

Lyra didn't even blink. "Yes."

"Seriously?"

"Would you like to read it?"

Draco looked appalled. "You like him?"

"I like watching you react."

He huffed. "It's disloyal."

She tilted her head. "To whom? You?"

"To sense."

She smiled. "How lucky I have none."

He stormed off. Theo, from the armchair, didn't look up from his book. He only said, "You could've written to someone worse."

"Exactly," Lyra replied.