firecracker ???

4-8

Lyra's breath caught. She wouldn't admit it, even to herself, but her fingers curled tight around the edge of the barrier.

The Hungarian Horntail stood in the centre of the pitch, tail swinging like a whip, eyes like fire opals.

Harry stepped into view.

No grand entrance. No smile.

Just him.

He muttered something and summoned his broom—Accio Firebolt!—and it shot toward him from the tent like a lightning bolt.

Lyra flinched.

Then he was in the air.

The Horntail roared. The crowd gasped. Harry soared above it, tight arcs and sharp turns, dodging blasts of flame with reckless grace. At one point he disappeared into the rock formations and the entire stadium stood as if pulled by a single thread.

And then he reappeared—diving.

Lyra's hand clenched the railing so hard her knuckles turned white.

Harry dipped low, skimmed the dragon's blind spot, and snatched the golden egg with a triumphant yank before veering hard left as the tail smashed the boulder where he'd been a second before.

Cheers exploded. The crowd surged.

She didn't move.

But she didn't look away. 

He was okay.

Lyra let go of the rail and realised her hands ached from the strain of tightening them so hard.

—

The Great Hall became chaos.

Harry had barely entered before he was swallowed by cheering. Ron and Hermione dragged him to the Gryffindor table, and soon Fred and George had hoisted him up onto the bench, gold egg in hand like a trophy. Everyone wanted to sit near Harry, even upper years hovered nearby, offering congratulations like blessings. Girls leaned in when they laughed. Boys clapped him on the back. He was glowing, flushed with victory and attention, the golden egg tucked under his arm like a crown.

Lyra watched it all from the Slytherin table, expression unreadable.

"He looks pleased with himself," Theo murmured.

"He's allowed," Daphne said. "He didn't die."

"Shame," Draco muttered. "Would've saved us the theatrics."

But the theatrics were far from over.

And then—of course—he came to her.

Harry rose, egg in hand, and—flanked by Ron and the twins—strode across the hall like he owned the floor, laughter following him like a shadow.

He stopped directly in front of the Slytherin table, where Lyra sat, looking at him with a quizzical look.

"For you," he said, offering the golden egg with a half-bow that was more princely than polite.

Gasps and whispers rippled outward instantly. 

Pansy choked on her drink. Even Daphne tilted her head.

Ron stifled a laugh behind him. "You're mad."

Fred clapped Harry's shoulder. "This is absolutely brilliant."

George leaned in. "Tell her she inspired you. Girls like that sort of thing."

Harry didn't break eye contact with Lyra. "She doesn't like anything."

Lyra looked up slowly. "Is this meant to impress me?"

Harry tilted his head. "It worked on a Horntail. Thought I'd try my luck twice."

Draco straightened in his seat. "Handing out trophies like party favours, Potter? How desperate are you for attention?"

Harry didn't look at him. "Well, considering I just dodged a dragon, I thought I'd drop in on the second-most dangerous creature in the castle."

There were snickers. Blaise nearly spat out his pumpkin juice.

"Insufferable," Lyra muttered, though she didn't look away.

"You're blushing again," Harry said, voice maddeningly soft.

Draco stood up. "Oh, for Salazar's sake—are you performing now? Is this a one-man show or did you leave your broomstick backstage?"

Fred smirked. "Technically he flew the broomstick into the stage."

George added, "With style, we might add."

Harry turned to him slowly. "Funny, I don't remember you flying today. Were you the one screaming when the Hungarian Horntail snapped its chains?"

Draco flushed. "You think surviving a stunt makes you clever?"

Harry grinned. "No. But apparently it makes me popular."

Lyra sighed. "You're both exhausting."

Harry dropped his voice. "You looked scared for me."

"No" she said coolly.

"You looked scared," he repeated, grinning wider. "It was endearing."

"I was hoping for your dramatic end."

"Sure you were."

Draco's face darkened further, as if that was even possible.

Harry ignored Draco completely. "You didn't blink during my dive. Your knuckles were white."

"I was bored," Lyra replied. "Waiting for the explosion. My hands were cold."

Harry tilted his head, that maddening smirk still playing at his lips. "You're a terrible liar."

"I don't care about you, Potter."

Draco, triumphant, added, "Exactly."

But Harry's voice was smooth, low, confident. "Pity. Because you looked scared. Which means you were cared."

Lyra's gaze sharpened. Her posture straightened. She didn't rise. She didn't flee.

She looked him dead in the eye and said, "I watched because I was waiting for you to fail."

Harry's grin widened. "I still think you looked scared for me."

She shot him a glare.

Fred muttered, "Brilliant," while George whispered, "I can't decide if they're going to hex each other or start snogging."

Ron groaned. "Don't give him ideas."

Lyra rolled her eyes, turned back to her plate, and picked up her fork with infuriating grace.

Draco, still standing, looked like he wanted to fling something.

And Harry? Harry returned to his table like he'd won another egg.