firecracker ???

3-9

Lyra glanced at him. "You could always try it."

He blinked. "What?"

"You're so unimpressed. Surely you could do better."

His mouth tightened. "Fine."

She said nothing more. Simply stepped back to give him space.

He marched forward toward Buckbeak with the dramatic precision of a performer walking into a spotlight. He bowed deeply, elegantly—at least by his standards—and waited. Buckbeak did not respond.

Draco hesitated.

And then, as if he couldn't help himself, he muttered something under his breath.

It was quiet, but Lyra knew his tone. That clipped, derisive edge he wore like armor when his pride was starting to bruise.

The Hippogriff lunged.

There was a shout, a screech of wings, and then Draco was flat on the ground, clutching his arm and howling as blood seeped through the torn fabric of his robe. Chaos erupted instantly—Pansy screamed, Crabbe stumbled backward, Goyle fumbled for his wand, and Hagrid rushed forward in a panic.

Lyra moved first.

She was at Draco's side in a heartbeat, kneeling gracefully as she pulled a folded cloth from her pocket and pressed it against the wound. Her movements were smooth, practiced. Her face unreadable.

"Let me see."

"It—it clawed me—"

"I can tell."

He hissed as she tightened the cloth. "It could've taken my whole arm—"

"No, it couldn't have. You'll be fine."

"It hurts."

"You're dramatic."

"Father's going to sue."

"You say that about everything."

"This time he actually will."

Still, her fingers softened slightly as she adjusted the pressure. She glanced up just as Hagrid arrived, wide-eyed and flustered.

"Oh no—blimey—I didn't think—poor lad—Buckbeak's got a temper—"

"He needs the hospital wing," Lyra said firmly, standing. "Now."

Hagrid nodded, already hoisting Draco to his feet with surprising gentleness. "I'll take him meself—terribly sorry—never meant—"

Draco groaned, leaning heavily against him. "My father will hear about this."

Lyra smoothed her sleeves and stepped back without comment.

As they disappeared up the hill, the class slowly began to reorient. Conversation resumed in whispers. Blaise remained expressionless. Theo was watching her with a faint frown.

Pansy came up beside her, fluttering nervously. "Do you think he'll be all right?"

"He's not dying."

"I mean—will it scar?"

"It was a scratch."

"Well, it looked horrible."

"He made it look horrible. That's not the same thing."

Pansy leaned in closer. "What if the Hippogriff gets put down over it?"

"That's what Draco wants."

"And you?"

Lyra's gaze returned to the paddock. "I think if he'd bowed properly and kept his mouth shut, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Pansy fell silent.

That was when Potter appeared again.

She didn't turn, but she felt his presence all the same—still breathing slightly heavier than usual, eyes sharper than they should have been.

"You're really going to let him get away with this?"

She arched a brow. "You're very fond of approaching me after things go wrong."

"I'm fond of accuracy."

"So you believe yourself accurate?"

"I believe he insulted a creature and blamed someone else when it retaliated."

"And you'd prefer I what? Drag him back and have him apologize?"

"I'd prefer you stopped pretending you didn't see it."

Lyra turned, slowly. Her voice was calm, cold. "I saw it. I'm just not making a scene about it."

"He is."

"I'm not him."

Harry stared at her, frustrated. "You didn't flinch when it happened."

"Because flinching changes nothing."

"You didn't flinch when I rode it, either."

"Because you looked like you'd enjoy it too much if I did."

He smiled faintly. "So you were watching."

"I watch everything."

"Then tell me—how'd I look?"

She gave him a long, measured look.

"Predictably pleased with yourself."

Then, after a beat—just long enough to sting—she added, "If this is your idea of impressing me, you'll have to try harder."

And with that, she turned and walked away, her cloak brushing behind her like a final word he couldn't follow.