firecracker ???

The heat at Malfoy Manor clung to the walls like memory.

It was the kind of quiet, stately summer that seemed designed for secrecy — doors that shut softly behind soundproofing spells, corridors filled with murmured footsteps, and drawing rooms too polished for comfort.

Lyra stood on the second-floor landing, half-shadowed beneath a sculpted archway, gazing down at the entrance hall where Regulus, Snape, and her father had just disappeared behind the doors of the study. No one had told her what the meeting was about. No one needed to. They didn't close the doors unless it was serious.

This was the third one in a week.

She had learned long ago not to ask. There was power in knowing, yes — but there was more power in being trusted to stay silent when you didn't.

That afternoon, Narcissa decided they would have tea in the west garden — her polite way of cornering her daughter under sunshine and roses.

"I've been thinking," she said delicately, "about Montague."

Lyra didn't look up from her lemon tart. "How unfortunate."

Narcissa didn't flinch. "He's grown quite presentable. His father's investments are recovering, and the family name is far more stable than it was three years ago."

"So was the Black Plague," Lyra replied. "Doesn't mean I want it in the parlour."

"Lyra."

"Mother."

Narcissa sighed — a long-suffering, carefully poised sound. "It wouldn't hurt to write to him."

"It wouldn't help either."

"He's coming into his inheritance this year, you know. His mother expressed she was quite taken with you at our luncheon last time."

Lyra didn't look up from buttering a scone. "That's unfortunate for her."

Narcissa raised a brow. "Don't be cruel."

"I'm not being cruel," Lyra replied. "I'm being honest."

"Which is often the same thing," her mother said crisply.

Lucius's voice drifted in from the hedge arch just behind them, all amusement and disdain. "Montague? Again?" He drawled, his tone a mix of amusement and horror. "Merlin, Cissy, surely we haven't fallen so far."

Lyra smiled faintly. She didn't look up.

Lucius pressed a kiss onto Narcissa's temple. "If you must throw her at someone, at least make it someone who doesn't bore half the Wizengamot to sleep."

"I'm not marrying her off," Narcissa said pointedly, "I'm merely encouraging options."

"Options are only valuable if they aren't cretins," Lucius said mildly, reaching to pluck a sugared biscuit from the tray. Draco followed after him, looking sunburned and smug. "I heard he fainted in dueling club," Draco said happily, plucking a pastry off the table. "At the sight of his own blood."

"He tripped over his own robes," Lyra added dryly. "It was very brave."

Lucius laughed, sharp and satisfied. "That's my girl."

Narcissa pressed her lips together as Lucius and Draco exchanged a triumphant look across the table. She closed her eyes and took a long sip of tea. "You are all insufferable."

"You married into it," Lucius reminded her.

She swatted his arm with her fan.

-

Dinner was held in the formal dining room that evening, a subtle but unmistakable statement. The table had been extended. New candles were lit. The best china — not the best best, but close — was laid out with military precision.

Lyra suspected who it was for long before the door opened.

She sat beside Draco, her posture perfect, hands folded just so. She didn't look up when she heard footsteps in the hall.

Regulus entered first.

Sirius followed — hair slightly windswept, his jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder.

And between them, in shoes that still creaked new — Harry Potter.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Sirius said with an exaggerated bow, dragging Harry forward like a misplaced cousin.

"Evening," Harry offered, attempting politeness.

Lucius rose just enough to nod. "Mr. Potter."

"Do sit," Narcissa said smoothly, gesturing to the places already set.

Regulus said nothing, only slid into the chair opposite Lyra with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand time before.

Harry took the seat beside him, opposite Draco. He hesitated when his eyes met Lyra's.

She didn't smile. But she did lift her glass and sip slowly.

Conversation meandered — a little about politics, less about school. Regulus made a passing joke about Ministry incompetence that made Lucius smirk. Narcissa complimented Sirius's restraint, to which Sirius raised his brows and grinned at Harry as though to say see, progress.

Draco nudged her under the table.

"Potter's looking at you again," he murmured behind his wine glass.

"Don't flatter him."

Draco's mouth twitched. "I think you're his favourite table setting."

"Then he has terrible taste," Lyra replied. "And no concept of cutlery etiquette."

Across the table, Harry glanced her way. Lyra turned deliberately to Draco.

"Tell me again about Montague fainting. I could use the laugh."

Draco brightened. "He made a noise like a wounded toad. You would've loved it."

Regulus choked into his wine. Even Sirius grinned.

Later, as dessert was cleared, the evening took on the slow, drifting rhythm of people waiting for something that hadn't quite arrived. Narcissa spoke with Sirius in hushed voices. Lucius and Regulus shared looks that said more than words would. While Harry, awkward and quiet, kept stealing glances across the table at Lyra.

She didn't return them.

Not directly.

But she did catch his reflection once in the polished silver of the teapot — watching her with that same quiet intensity he always had.

Like he was still trying to figure her out.

Lyra tilted her head slightly, met her own eyes in the silver curve, and said nothing.

The firelight flickered.

And the game, as always, continued.