firecracker ???

The first few days back at Hogwarts moved with the weight of something unspoken, something heavy and invisible that clung to the stone walls and settled into the halls like fog. There were no Dementors patrolling yet—not openly—but their memory lingered in the air like frost that refused to melt. The castle felt colder. The wind sharper. Even laughter in the Great Hall came in lower tones, as though everyone knew not to draw attention.

Harry couldn't stop thinking about the train. He could still feel the cold pressing down on his chest, still hear the silence ringing in his ears right before everything went black. He had collapsed, fully and publicly, and while no one mocked him to his face, the humiliation gnawed at him from within. Lupin had tried to reassure him after the feast, saying it was normal, that some people were more affected by those creatures. He had said it gently, with no trace of judgment. But it hadn't helped.

Because Harry had seen who hadn't collapsed.

Lyra Black.

She hadn't trembled. She hadn't blinked. She had simply stood, wand in hand, expression unchanged, as though the cold that brought everyone else to their knees didn't touch her. It hadn't been arrogance. It had been something else—something far more unsettling. She hadn't resisted the cold. She had let it pass through her, and remained perfectly still.

Now, her name passed from whisper to whisper throughout the school. Students speculated in hushed tones and sideways glances. Some said she hexed a boy in Ravenclaw for bringing up her uncle. Others swore she didn't speak a word—just looked at him, and he stopped talking. A few insisted she had connections to Sirius Black, that she knew where he was, or worse, why he'd escaped.

None of the rumors ever included a denial. Because Lyra never offered one.

She was everywhere and nowhere in equal measure. Harry saw her often—slipping past him in the corridors, hair pinned and perfect, always flanked by the same quiet symmetry. Daphne Greengrass walking close enough to whisper without effort, Theodore Nott trailing with his usual careless poise, Blaise Zabini lingering with detached amusement, Pansy Parkinson always nearby with her sharp voice and quicker loyalty. And Draco Malfoy, of course, louder than ever, tossing around complaints and predictions with theatrical flair, like he could distract from the fact that he too had faltered on the train.

But not Lyra.

She never spoke in Harry's direction. Never acknowledged the glances. She didn't need to.

He noticed her more than he wanted to. The way she moved, fluid and controlled, like everything she did was deliberate. The way she always seemed to be listening, calculating, but rarely reacting. Once, he saw her standing alone near the library entrance, eyes closed for a second, lips parted as though reading a thought only she could hear. It wasn't something he should have remembered, but he did.

He tried to tell himself he was only watching her because she was dangerous. Because she was connected to Sirius. Because she might be important.

He wasn't entirely convinced.

Dinner was filled with that same low murmur. The sky above the enchanted ceiling boiled with dark clouds, the air pressed in like it wanted to rain indoors, and the candles flickered slightly in their floating rows. Harry stirred his food more than he ate it, eyes wandering again toward the staff table. He hadn't forgotten the announcement at the Welcoming Feast: that Regulus Black would be joining them as guest instructor in Magical Theory. The name had landed with the weight of a curse in his ears.

Regulus was seated near Professor McGonagall now, upright and quiet, his robes immaculate and his hands folded in front of him. He didn't eat. He barely spoke. Occasionally, he leaned toward Dumbledore to exchange a few words, but even that was silent from this distance. He was composed, polished, unmoving. 

Now that Harry knew who he was, he could see the resemblance. . In the tilt of his head. The way he blinked too slowly. The precision of his stillness. It wasn't just bloodline—it was training. Poise etched into bone.

Harry's gaze dropped to the Slytherin table, and as always, he found her.

Lyra Black sat in her usual place, surrounded by her people but apart from them all the same. Greengrass beside her, Zabini and Nott across the table, her brother leaning in to say something that only earned her silence. Her posture was impeccable, her expression unreadable. Her attention appeared to be on nothing in particular—until it wasn't.

He watched her glance upward, not sharply, but slowly. Like she already knew what she would see.

Her eyes found Regulus.

She didn't smile in the usual sense. Her lips moved only slightly, just enough to shift the line of her mouth. It was the kind of gesture that didn't invite anyone else to understand it. Private. Familiar.

Regulus turned, as if he had expected her look. He gave the smallest nod in return.

It was nothing, yet Harry felt it like a stone dropped into water. Not because of what was said—but because of how much wasn't. Their conversation had already happened, somewhere far from this hall, in words no one else had heard.

Harry looked back down at his plate, appetite gone.