firecracker ???

The atmosphere after the attack shifted. The halls whispered louder, the shadows stretched longer. Professors patrolled more often, students clustered more tightly. Suspicion was a fog no one could shake, curling into every corner of the castle. Fear made even the paintings tense, their eyes following students with more urgency than ever before.

Lyra noticed how everyone began walking in pairs. How even Gryffindors—so proud of their recklessness—started glancing over their shoulders more often. The laughter at meals quieted faster. The gossip became quieter, sharper. But what she noticed most was how Astoria began to change.

At first, her little sister-like presence never strayed far from Lyra's elbow. She sat beside her in the common room, followed her to the library, even mimicked the tilt of her chin when speaking to upper-years. But slowly, subtly, that closeness softened. Not from affection—Lyra suspected Astoria still idolized her—but from confidence. The kind of confidence that grew in stolen minutes and whispered jokes. The kind born not of rebellion but of comfort.

Astoria began finding her own place. She joined a cluster of first-years outside the Great Hall, whispering about Transfiguration and trading sweets from home. Lyra sometimes passed by and caught her laughing at something a girl named Melina said, caught the ease in her posture. She still sought Lyra's gaze across the Great Hall. Still beamed at her praise. But she no longer needed permission to speak. Or to lead.

Pansy was the first to remark on it.

"Your little shadow's found a flock," she said over breakfast, watching Astoria twirl a quill and giggle three seats down.

Lyra sipped her tea, her mouth curling faintly at the corner.

"About time, thank goodness," Draco had sneered. Lyra had sent him an unimpressed look that he returned shortly after.

Pansy and Daphne had started walking with Lyra to more classes than usual. They weren't subtle about it, but they weren't cloying either. It was a display—of solidarity, of status, of style. Pansy looped her arm through Lyra's like they were heading to a ball, and Daphne offered biting commentary on anyone foolish enough to cross their path. They matched pace without needing to be asked, moved through hallways like they owned them.  Lyra didn't request the company. They were her best friends, they simply offered it. It was natural.

By the final Monday of October, Potions was thick with tension before it even began. The dungeons felt colder, the stone damp and slick with something like anticipation. Snape entered with a sweep of robes and the expression of a man who wanted someone nothing more to be somewhere else. 

"Pair up," he said, his voice like frost. He gave explained the potion they would be making and with a swish of his wand, potions ingredients appeared at each station. Chairs scraped. Quills shifted. But before anyone could move, Snape's gaze sliced through the room.

"Potter. Miss Black."

Harry froze mid-turn to Ron. Lyra didn't miss a beat. She rose, fluid and composed, and took the empty stool beside him without so much as a glance at the room. She didn't sigh. Didn't arch a brow. Just opened her textbook.

Harry blinked.

"Hey—"

She didn't turn. "Chop those," she said, nodding toward the valerian roots. Her voice wasn't sharp. Just businesslike.

He gave a crooked little smile. "Finer, right?"

She glanced over. "Obviously."

He worked in silence for a moment, brows furrowed. Then, as she reached for the powdered moonstone, he spoke again.

"I—listen, about last year. When the troll—"

She handed him a spoon. "You're late with your stir. Clockwise. Four turns."

Harry exhaled, but it wasn't a sigh of defeat. It was focus. He stirred. Leaned in slightly.

"You always talk like you're grading me."

Lyra arched a brow. "You're not making it hard."

"Yet you're giving me a response every time, aren't you? That's progress."

She didn't look at him, but the edge of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

Their cauldron simmered evenly, steam rising in soft spirals. By the end of class, their potion shimmered the exact shade of soft gold listed in the book.

Snape passed by. He didn't comment. But he also didn't correct them. That, from him, was praise.

Harry lingered. He packed up slower than necessary. Quieter than usual.

"Thanks," he said.

Lyra closed her ink bottle with a soft click. "For what?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Smiled instead. Like there was more he wanted to say and knew he shouldn't.

Draco appeared beside her a second later, his expression unreadable but his eyes narrowed. He hadn't missed a moment.

"Come on," he muttered. "Let's go."

She didn't argue as they walked. She never did when he used that tone. Behind them, Pansy and Daphne were heading out the room too, their voices rising into easy chatter.

Next to Draco, Blaise crossed his arms slowly, his grin lazy.

"So," he drawled. "Is Potter your new project or your new pet?"

Lyra looked back and glanced over her shoulder. Her chin lifted.

"Neither," she said. Calm. Measured.

Then she smiled. Slow. Sharp. The kind of smile that made people sit straighter.