firecracker ???

The end of the year came quietly.

No duels in the corridors. No mass detentions. No midnight rescues from dark spells. Just the hush that followed after something massive had been averted—and the world hadn't yet noticed.

At least, not fully.

The Daily Prophet ran a short column: Rumours Confirmed: He Who Must Not Be Named Sighted Again?

But the headlines were buried beneath stories of Ministry restructuring, known Death Eaters that celebrated a bit too suspiciously, new appointments, and one particularly vague article about Dolores Umbridge's "sudden leave of absence." No one mentioned the Dementors. No one acknowledged her trial. Only that she had been reassigned and was "no longer permitted contact with children."

Lucius Malfoy's hand had been behind it, of course. Quiet, clinical, effective. One owl, one photograph of Harry's scarred hand, a transcript of Umbridge's signature on the Dementor order sent for Little Whinging, and a single meeting with the Minister. She was gone within the week.

Harry didn't ask questions. He knew better than to probe too deeply when Lucius handled things and perhaps, for once, he didn't want to know. He was happy with everything as is.

Voldemort had received his prophecy. He had not questioned the circumstances. Not yet.

He believed Lucius and Regulus had successfully lured Harry to the Department of Mysteries—had claimed the orb through cleverness, fear, and the boy's emotional weakness - Lyra. He believed Bellatrix, what he considered his lapdog, he believed she turned her loyalty to the mission without question. He believed that Potter was merely a confused little boy in love, and above all, most importantly— he believed his three most loyal had succeeded because of their unwavering faith in him .

And so he rewarded them.

The inner circle was gathered once again, deep in the shadows of Riddle House. Voldemort stood before them, whole and gloating. His voice dripped with delight. "Our enemies stumble. Potter is fractured. The prophecy is ours. The Ministry stammers at the truth, and we—" his red eyes swept the circle, "—are reborn."

He called Lucius forward. "My strategist."

Then Regulus. "My faithful."

And finally, Bellatrix. "My favourite."

They bowed. They smiled.

None of them believed a word he said.

But Voldemort did.

And that was enough.

Back at Hogwarts, the year wound down like a clock's final ticks.

No grand ceremony marked Umbridge's departure. No speech. Just her absence. Her office was cleared. Her lace doilies gone. The corridors didn't echo with her sugar-sick voice anymore.

The castle breathed again.

The sky over the Forbidden Forest turned lavender as the sun began to sink behind the hills. Students moved toward the carriages, laughter returning slowly to their voices. There were trunks creaking, owls hooting overhead, last-minute notes passed between friends.

And then there was them.

Harry and Lyra walked side by side down the path to the carriages, hand in hand, their fingers loosely tangled as if it had always been that way. 

Her uniform was immaculate, as always, but her posture was more relaxed now. Her shoulder brushed his every few steps, and she didn't pull away.

He grinned at her. "Still pretending you're not secretly obsessed with me?"