firecracker ???

The air inside the drawing room had the weight of a grave.

Draco sat with his back straight, palms pressed to his knees, eyes fixed on the far wall. Beside him, Lyra mirrored the same posture — though she was better at it. More still. More composed. Her expression betrayed nothing.

The Malfoy twins had been trained for moments like this since childhood. This was no dinner at the Ministry. No theatre box or family gala. This was war. And tonight, they were being presented.

At the hearth, their father stood like a statue carved in marble, arms loose at his sides, wand untouched. Lucius Malfoy was dressed in deepest black, without a single flourish. No serpent pin. No house crest. Just clean lines and empty hands.

Narcissa stood behind the twins, silent and poised. Her hands were hidden in her sleeves. Her face held nothing but bone-deep calm.

And then the air shifted.

Magic crackled low, like the first strike of a match.

The drawing room filled with the chill of something ancient, wrong, crawling.

A figure stepped from the shadows — long robes, unnaturally pale skin, red eyes glinting in the dark. He didn't speak at first. He only looked.

First at Lucius.

Then Narcissa.

Then — at them.

Draco felt the moment the Dark Lord's eyes fell on him. A freezing scrape down the inside of his skull. He did not flinch. He couldn't.

He counted his heartbeats. One. Two. Three.

Then Voldemort smiled. It was not kind.

"So," he said softly, voice like parchment being torn. "The children."

Lyra inclined her head. "My Lord."

Her voice was calm, perfectly measured. Draco followed suit.

"My Lord."

Voldemort moved closer. His gaze drifted from their faces to their posture to the mark that was not on their arms. He said nothing of it.

"You have your mother's composure," he told Lyra. "And your father's elegance."

He turned to Draco.

"You look like you have your father's spine. Let us see if it is hollow."

Draco said nothing. He did not move.

The Dark Lord studied him for a long, cold moment. Then — turned back to Lyra.

"There is something... unusual about you."

She held his gaze. "Is there?"

His eyes narrowed.

"You have been... seen," Voldemort said. "Watched. Touched. In the graveyard. In the tower. You lingered on his mind, long after he should have let go."

Silence. Draco's stomach clenched.

Voldemort's voice dipped, almost curious. "What is Harry Potter to you?"

Draco held his breath.

Lyra's voice was smooth as silk. "He is my partner."

A sharper silence fell.

Voldemort tilted his head. "Your partner."

"Yes," she said clearly.

"You are together."

"We are."

Voldemort stared at her for a long, thin moment. Then — he smiled.

"Useful," he said softly. "Very clever."