firecracker ???

3-15

He looked... annoyed. His eyes had cut toward Ron once or twice, mouth twitching in barely restrained irritation. She couldn't hear what he said to him, but Weasley's animated gestures didn't cease. Harry was looking at her now.

Why did he keep looking at her?

It wasn't the first time that night. Since they were gathered in the hall, she had caught him glancing over at least three times—four, now. His expression always shifted just before she could pin it down. Surprise. Then something else.

She frowned. It wasn't disdain. It wasn't suspicion. It was—confusing.

Harry Potter confused her.

Not because of what he was—The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen Something—or whatever else the students whispered. But because he didn't look at her like any of the others did. He didn't look afraid. Or awed. Or disgusted.

He just looked.

And it was beginning to get under her skin.

"Stop glaring," Draco said beside her, low and amused. "He'll think you fancy him."

Lyra scoffed. "He'd be wrong."

"Of course he would," he drawled, leaning back onto his elbows. "Saint Potter, golden boy of Gryffindor, braver than he is bright."

"You're jealous."

"I'm annoyed," Draco said, not bothering to whisper. "The castle is locked down because your mad godfather couldn't keep to himself."

"He's not my godfather," Lyra said coolly.

"Half the school thinks he is."

"Half the school is stupid."

"Then they'll feel right at home."

She smirked faintly, but the tightness didn't leave her shoulders.

She hadn't said it aloud, not to anyone—not to Theo, not even to Regulus—but the thought had sat with her all evening, buzzing just beneath her skin.

Sirius Black had come into the castle.

And she couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't come for Potter.

He'd come for her or worse—Regulus.

She glanced toward the staff table. Her uncle wasn't seated among them. Dumbledore was present, deep in quiet discussion with McGonagall and Flitwick, but Regulus was absent. It tightened something in her chest.

"Where's Regulus?" she murmured.

Draco followed her gaze. "Patrolling, probably. Or with Dumbledore."

"He's not."

Draco gave her a look. "He's not dead either."

"I didn't say he was."

"You're thinking like he is."

She exhaled and sat back.

Around them, the candles continued to flicker. The Headmaster rose eventually, addressing the room with calm reassurances and tight orders—students were to stay in the hall until further notice. Teachers would patrol. No one was to wander. Breakfast would be brought in at dawn.

And then, like clockwork, they dimmed the lights.

Sleeping bags rustled.

Students whispered. Dumbledore and the staff moved into the shadows, their footsteps retreating up the aisles.

Lyra didn't lie down.

She sat upright, knees to her chest, watching the flickering reflections of firelight against the enchanted ceiling.

She thought of Sirius. Of his smile, in old photos. Of the line of Regulus's mouth when someone said his name. Of her mother's silence.

She thought of legacy. Of loyalty. Of knives held behind backs.

And then she heard it—voices.

The whisper of robes in the dark.

She pressed her hand flat to the stone floor, then slowly rolled to her side, pretending to be asleep. Through the slit of her lashes, she saw them—figures moving in the dark, wands lit, slipping behind tapestries and through corridors.

The professors.

Dumbledore among them. Snape. McGonagall. Even Regulus now, shadowing behind with a wand drawn.

She swallowed.

They were searching.

She lay very still.

Around her, her friends were already drifting to sleep—Theo's head tilted slightly on his rolled-up cloak, Pansy breathing softly, Daphne curled neatly beneath her blanket. Even Draco, vigilant as he was, had settled next to her with one eye half-open.

"Don't," he muttered.

She didn't move. "Don't what?"

"Go after him."

"I'm not."

"You're thinking about it."

She didn't answer.

He sighed, low. "Just sleep. He'll be gone by morning."

"You don't know that."

"I know you. And I know if you go after him, I'll have to follow. So please, just—stay here."

There was something raw in his tone, quiet and sincere.

She didn't promise.

But she didn't get up either.

Above them, the sky shifted. A faint ripple of lightning flashed across the high arc of the bewitched ceiling.

And somewhere, beyond the walls of Hogwarts, Sirius Black kept moving.

Lyra Black did not sleep.