firecracker ???

4-5

"You barely win arguments."

Before Draco could retaliate, the Great Hall doors burst open with a crack like thunder.

Every head turned.

A figure limped in — ragged cloak, one boot thudding against stone, hair wild, face lined and scarred. But what caught the eye most violently was the swirling electric blue of his left eye, rotating in every direction.

Lyra froze.

It was not the man's face, or his gait, or his reputation.

It was the way he entered a room like he expected someone to pull a wand.

Like he wanted them to.

Dumbledore smiled calmly. "May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor—Professor Moody."

The man gave a curt nod and sat, eye still spinning, scanning the tables without pause.

Her stomach tightened.

Something about him reminded her of the stories Lucius told in colder rooms.

"Is that him?" Pansy murmured, following her gaze. "The famous psycho?"

"Retired Auror. Paranoid. Drinks from a flask because he thinks everyone poisons him." Theo confirmed with grim delight. 

"That's comforting," Blaise said.

"He can see through invisibility cloaks," Daphne added. "His left eye's magical."

Lyra sipped her tea and said nothing.

She didn't care about the eye. She was watching the twitch of his fingers, the subtle movement of his wand hand beneath the table, the way he scanned every face — hers included — as if memorising where he'd strike first.

She didn't like that he looked and acted like someone who saw the world in pieces.

Because she understood that kind of man.

She lived in a house full of them.

-

Classes resumed with mechanical efficiency. Charms. Arithmancy. Defence. The usual. The familiar. Except... not quite.

Harry was sitting closer in class.

Not beside her — never beside her. But nearer. Like he was choosing seats not just for strategy, but for angles. For visibility.

And she noticed.

It wasn't new. He had been staring since their first year. But the difference now was in how he held it — not as if he were gawking, but as if he were waiting for her to notice he knew she'd already seen him.

She did.

Once, in Potions, he caught her eye during a lull in Snape's lecture. She arched a brow. He smiled.

It wasn't smug. It wasn't loud.

It was the kind of smile that said, "Yes. I'm still here."

She looked away.

But she didn't roll her eyes.

Later that week, a tawny owl delivered a thick green envelope to her breakfast plate.

Montague's handwriting.

Daphne snatched it before she could reach it.

"Oh my Godric," she said. "He writes like an heir."

Pansy leaned over. "Does it smell like him? Merlin help us if it does."

Lyra snatched it back. "He was being polite."