firecracker ???

6-4

Sirius pointed a finger at Harry. "You're dead to me."

Then he turned to Lyra, composed himself, and with a deep, mock-formal bow, said, "My most chaotic and disappointing niece. Welcome home."

She smirked. "You're the one who named me after a star."

"Which now belongs to Potter."

Harry preened. "Only star I care about."

Sirius gagged.

Lyra rolled her eyes but didn't push Harry away when he leaned in and murmured, "Missed you."

She didn't say it back. But she didn't pull away, either.

-

Her room was beautiful.

Sirius had insisted she take the second-largest in the house, complete with green silk curtains, high arched windows, and a new feather quilt. "No spiders. No curses. No portraits. All yours," he'd said. "Even cleaned it myself."

That last part she didn't believe.

Her trunk had already been unpacked by Kreacher. Her books were neatly arranged on the shelves. A single vase of lilies sat by the window, enchanted to never wilt.

She didn't ask who had placed them there.

She knew.

Then, she heard a knock.

Not really a knock — more like a hesitant tap pretending to be one.

She didn't bother answering.

The door creaked open anyway.

He was barefoot, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of Sirius's too-big shirts with "Chudley Cannons" faded across the chest.

"Need anything?" her boyfriend asked.

"No."

He lingered.

"I could get you tea."

"I'm fine."

"A backrub?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Kidding. Mostly."

Lyra sighed. "Harry."

"Yes?"

"You're sleeping in your room."

He held up both hands. "Of course."

He spoke with exaggerated obedience.

"But if I have a nightmare, I'm allowed to sleep here, right?"

She was too tired with him to even speak.

Harry pointed at himself. "Terrible sleepwalker."

"Mm-hm."

"I trip down the hall. I'm fragile."

"Try the floor."

"I bruise easily."

"I'll send Kreacher with a pillow."

He stepped inside fully, now grinning.

"Come on, Lyra. One time."

"No."

"Two times."

"No."

He shrugged innocently. "Well, can't help it then. It's not like I plan to sneak in."

-

He snuck in.

Every night.

Every night, without fail, Harry James Potter appeared in her bed.

By the time Lyra fell asleep, he was curled against her back, arms thrown around her waist like he'd always been there. One night, he whispered, "You're warm," in his half-sleep voice. Another, he said, "It's better when you're here."

The first time, she woke up to find him curled at the edge of her mattress, clutching one of her pillows like it was a Quidditch Quaffle. He blinked at her when she turned, already pretending confusion.

He always claimed he didn't remember.

She never kicked him out.

"I must've sleepwalked," he mumbled when she called him out once.

"You're not that subtle."

"I'm very subtle," he argued.

"You used my perfume as an excuse last time."

"I said it calmed me."

"You said 'it smells like you and now I can breathe.'"

"Aren't I romantic?"

She rolled her eyes. "Unbelievable."

The next night, he mumbled something about Kreacher spooking him.

The third, "I thought I heard you crying."

"I wasn't."

"Figured. Worth a shot."

By the fourth night, she gave up.

"You're not subtle," she told him once.

"I'm deeply cunning," he replied.

"You elbow."

"You snore."

"You talk in your sleep."

He paused. "What do I say?"

"'She smells like peony and I'm going to die.'"

A beat of silence.

"...Romantic, though?"

She rolled her eyes but made no effort to kick him out.

By the seventh night, she didn't even flinch when his arm snaked around her waist.

By the tenth, she fell asleep waiting for it.

And yet — every morning, when she woke up with his cheek pressed to her shoulder and his fingers tucked between hers — she let it slide.

Not because she couldn't stop him.

But because she didn't want to.

Not yet.

Not when summer had finally started to feel warm again.

-

They didn't talk about Draco.

She didn't mention his task. Didn't bring up the Vanishing Cabinet or the Death Eater meetings, or the way Lucius's hand had trembled before she left the Manor.

She told Harry what mattered.

That she was now a double agent.

That she was working with the Order.

That she was safest here.

He didn't press.

"Good," he said simply. "Then you're where you're safest."

He said it with a certainty that made her chest hurt.

The same certainty her father had used when telling Dumbledore she had to leave.

Two men, so different, saying the same thing.

Two different men, saying the same thing, both out of their shared love for her.

She let herself believe they were both right.