firecracker ???

4-2

He didn't turn. "No."

"Why not?"

"Obligations. Sirius will be though."

She waited for more. When none came, she crossed her arms. "That's not an answer."

Regulus looked over his shoulder. There were shadows under his eyes again. "Dumbledore expects my presence in London."

"And Voldemort expects you elsewhere?"

"He expects nothing," he said. "And that's how we keep surviving."

Lyra didn't argue. She understood too much now to pretend.

Still, she hated that she wouldn't have her uncle during the blasted Quidditch match.

"抖阴社区 to me," she said.

"I always do."

-

They gathered at the edge of a flat stretch of countryside — just before sunrise, mist curling low around their boots.

The Portkey was a battered leather boot, spinning gently on the grass. Lucius checked his pocket watch. Narcissa adjusted Lyra's cloak collar with gentle precision. Sirius stood beside Harry, stretching like a cat and offering Quidditch commentary no one asked for.

Lyra stared at the boot as if it had personally offended her.

"Do I have to touch it?"

"It won't bite," Lucius said dryly.

"That's not a no."

"You'll survive," Narcissa murmured.

"I'll vomit."

"You'll do it beautifully," she said, brushing invisible lint from Lyra's sleeve.

"It smells," she muttered.

"It's not meant to be pleasant," Lucius said, consulting his pocket watch.

"It's meant to be efficient," Narcissa added.

"I'd rather walk," Lyra said.

"I'd rather you stop whining," Draco replied.

She elbowed him in the ribs. "Die."

"I will," he said, "but not today."

Sirius stretched and grinned. "You two remind me of me and Regulus, back when we hated each other."

"You still do," Lyra said.

He winked. "True."

Draco was already gripping the Portkey, practically vibrating. "Just wait until we get there. Front row. Fireworks. Irish mascots. Bulgaria's bringing Veela."

"Oh, good," Lyra muttered. "More sweaty men screaming."

"You know," Sirius said, "most people would kill for these seats."

"I'd kill to be left home."

"Pity," he said cheerfully. "No refunds."

Harry, to his credit, didn't speak. He looked equal parts dazed and curious, his eyes flicking from Narcissa's quiet grace to Lucius's composed arrogance, as if trying to make sense of the strange puzzle he'd been dropped into.

He caught Lyra's eye for the briefest moment.

She said nothing.

Then the Portkey activated, and the world disappeared in a whirl of wind and color.

They landed on packed earth beneath a vast, enchanted sky. Tents stretched in every direction — impossibly large, bursting with flags and spelled embellishments. The air shimmered with ambient charmwork. Somewhere, someone had turned a Quidditch chant into a full marching song.

Lyra released the Portkey and staggered once, barely catching herself. Narcissa was already steadying her. "You're fine."

The Quidditch World Cup was less a sporting event and more a magical siege, Lyra decided. Tents stretched into the mist like an invasion force. Flags shimmered and billowed overhead. Spells danced on every canvas surface — shifting mascots, scrolling firework animations, flashing icons of broomsticks and mascots and scores.

Lyra stepped onto the packed earth and immediately flinched back.

"It smells like—"

"Victory?" Draco offered.

"Regret," she said. "And cabbage."

"It's atmospheric," Harry said. "Character-building."

"Disease-building."

"You'll live."

"I'll try not to."

Their campsite was at the highest crest of the field, charmed to be invisible from the common walkways and guarded by three layers of enchantments Lucius personally verified.

Harry still gawked.

"Merlin," he murmured. "This is..."

"Overcompensation," Lyra said and he laughed.

Inside the tent, the space expanded dramatically — polished wood floors, velvet drapes, and enough seating for a diplomatic summit. Lucius disappeared into the back chambers, muttering about the Minister's arrival time.

Draco flung himself onto the nearest couch and launched into team commentary with a fervor that bordered on religious.

Lyra sat beside Narcissa and adjusted her gloves.

"I still hate this," she said quietly.

Narcissa didn't answer. She only reached out and smoothed a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear.

Their seats were as expected — high, central, charmed with cooling spells and reinforced with subtle privacy wards.

The Irish team mascots danced first — glittering leprechauns launching fireworks into the sky. The Bulgarians followed, glowing Veela that danced sharp and furious. The air thrummed with magic and noise.

Lyra watched none of it, Harry noticed. But neither was he, to be honest. He didn't find interest in the Veela as Sirius did. Instead he found herself admiring her, he had decided she looked no less than a Veela herself, with her white gold hair, pale skin, and light eyes. 

At the moment, she sat straight-backed, eyes heavy-lidded, sipping cold mint tea with a level of detached elegance that made even the crowd around them feel less real. He resented their lack of conversation, the time hadn't been right.

He kept glancing her way, and Draco noticed.

Draco leaned in. "He's staring again."

"He has a condition."

"Called taste?"

"Called poor judgement."

"I'll bet he has a little crush."

"Of course you do. You're pathetically dim-witted."

He ignored the last part. "And you don't care?"

"I didn't say that."

Draco paused, then smirked. "Interesting."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"Not when you speak."

"I'll write your vows."

"I'll write your will."

"Children," Narcissa said without looking up.

Lyra raised her glass and sipped again.

Far above the stadium, the first goal was scored.

The crowd roared.

And somewhere beneath it, Harry Potter watched her — quietly, stupidly, relentlessly.

And to his surprise, Elestara was already looking.