firecracker ???

There were worse things than Privet Drive.

Harry had lived in a cupboard. Slept through Dudley's tantrums. Endured years of cold toast and colder shoulders. But this summer was different. Not worse, exactly. Just... strange.

The Dursleys weren't shouting. That was the first sign something was off. Uncle Vernon hadn't barked a single insult in weeks. Aunt Petunia spoke to him like he was a letter that had arrived for someone else—politely misplaced. Dudley was still Dudley, but even he kept his distance, sneaking wary glances like Harry might explode if disturbed.

And maybe they weren't entirely wrong.

Because something was simmering beneath his skin.

It wasn't anger. Not really.

It was awareness.

Ever since the Chamber of Secrets. Ever since Lyra Black had looked at him — not just seen him, but looked at him, fully and directly — things had tilted.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

He had faced down a basilisk and lived andlistened to Dumbledore tell him he'd proven himself again. But what haunted him most was not the serpent. It was Lyra, later that night in the Hospital Wing — not speaking, just watching him as if seeing something she didn't know how to name.

He hadn't spoken to her since.

But she had seen him and he'd felt it.

At night, it was worse. The dreams came in pieces.

Sometimes she stood in a dark corridor, cloak sweeping the floor like spilled ink. Sometimes her eyes caught the light like glass — unreadable, sharp. And sometimes she laughed.

Not at him. Just... in the background, surrounded by others. Always surrounded. Always untouchable.

And always just out of reach.

He'd wake up with the image clinging to his chest like fog, wondering why he cared so much. She wasn't kind. She wasn't friendly. She wasn't anything he thought he should want.

But she was there, etched into his memory like a scar that hadn't healed properly.

-

Then came Aunt Marge.

She stormed in like an oversized curse — all barking dogs and brandy-soaked rants. Harry lasted five days. Five days of biting his tongue while she dragged his parents' names through the filth and called him "one of them."

On the sixth day, she went too far.

"...and that mother of yours—what did she do again? Died young, didn't she? Drunk? Or was it the asylum?"

Something snapped.

Harry didn't remember the exact moment he raised his wand. Only that one second she was glaring at him, and the next she was floating, inflated, and rapidly ascending toward the ceiling with a pop.

He ran. 

The night air felt thick, almost alive. He had no plan, no bag, just his wand and a mind full of static. Harry stumbled through the street, past rows of sleepy houses and the blurred panic of what he'd done. He didn't care where he ended up. Anywhere was better than here.

And then — crash.

He tripped over the pavement. Landed flat. His wand skittered across the road. Something moved in the shadows. A black shape. Massive. A dog—no, not a dog. Bigger. Leaner. Watching.

Harry froze.

And then—BANG.

The Knight Bus exploded into view, purple and monstrous and deeply, absurdly welcome. The inside smelled like mildew and burnt toast. The chandelier above his head swung wildly as the bus hurtled through London. Stan Shunpike babbled at full speed about routes and beds and breakfast tea.

Harry barely heard him.

He gave a fake name—Neville Longbottom—and collapsed onto a lumpy mattress, the windows smearing past him in dizzying streaks of yellow and gray.

"You seen the paper, Ern?" Stan was saying. "Sirius Black, escaped. First time anyone's ever broken out of Azkaban, that's what Fudge said. Mad, he is."

Harry's ears perked.

"Black?" he repeated.

Stan nodded, grinning. "Yeah, big news. Killed a bunch of Muggles back in the day. One curse. Blew 'em up. They say he's after someone."

Harry frowned. "Who?"

"Dunno. Fudge says he's mad. Probably wants to finish what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named started."

The words sat strangely in Harry's chest.

Something twisted in his gut. Not fear. Something else.

He stared out the window as the bus jolted again. A thought struck him—sharper than expected.

If Lyra Black heard about this, what would she think?

The Leaky Cauldron welcomed him like a warm blanket. Tom, the innkeeper, handed him a key and a smile. Minister Fudge showed up with cheerful nonchalance, waving away the whole "Aunt Marge incident" like it was a charming accident. No punishments. No questions.

It didn't feel like mercy. It felt like misdirection.

Harry didn't trust it.

That night, in the small upstairs room, he lay on the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling. The hum of the city was quieter here. Magic soaked the wood and stone like warmth from a hearth.

And still, his thoughts wandered.

To her.

He didn't even know what room she was in. Or if she was in Diagon Alley yet. Maybe she was still back in Wiltshire, sipping spiced tea in her family's manor, curled in some velvet chair while her godfather whispered secrets no one else was allowed to hear.

Maybe she'd forgotten him entirely.

But he doubted it.

Because when she'd looked at him in the Hospital Wing, she hadn't looked confused. Or curious. She'd looked like she was trying to decide something.

And he wanted to know what that something was.

He slept badly that night.

Dreams flickered behind his eyes — sharp edges, silver laughter, the faint scent of something like starflowers and frost. She stood in a hallway again. But this time, she turned.

Almost.

Then she vanished.

When he woke up, heart pounding, he whispered the only thing he remembered from the dream.

"Black."

Not a threat.

Not a curse.

Just a name.

And it had never felt so heavy.