firecracker ???

The days passed like sunlight on water—bright, warm, and almost too fleeting to hold.

Grimmauld Place, for all its gloom and haunted corners, had softened with laughter. Regulus had taken to reading the paper upside down just to irritate Sirius, who retaliated by re-enchanting every doorknob in the house to sing. Kreacher had stopped muttering under his breath quite so often. 

Lyra still wasn't used to it. Not really.

She wasn't used to the way Harry grinned when he found her in the library. Or how he hovered a little too long when brushing past her in the hallway. Or the fact that he spoke about her—my girlfriend, casually, with a big stupid smile on his face, like it was natural.

Like she was his.

He was loud, brash, constantly dramatic. Infuriatingly confident, too, in the way James Potter had been in every old photo she'd ever seen. Always grinning. Always showing off. But when she teased him—when she caught him watching her like she'd hung the bloody stars—he didn't flinch.

He just looked smug.

She hated how much she liked it. She liked him enough to agree at his daily pleas to cuddle her in his sleep. Sometimes he'd climb into the bed after her and press kisses all over her face, other times he would watch lazily from the bed and wait for her to come lay in his arms as she did her night time regimen in the bathroom.

It wasn't until late July that Dumbledore arrived, robes shimmering like moonlight, with a familiar twinkle and a not-so-familiar mission.

"I need a favour," he said, voice warm, eyes sharp. "From the two most persuasive people I know."

Harry had perked up immediately. "Us?"

"Horace Slughorn," Dumbledore said, ignoring the smugness. "An old friend. I intend to convince him to return to Hogwarts."

Lyra raised an eyebrow. "And you think we'll help with that?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I think you'll be the reason he says yes."

-

Slughorn's borrowed house smelled of damp wood and failed glamour charms.

The living room had been transfigured into a disaster zone, complete with shattered glass and over-turned chairs. Dumbledore stepped over a half-broken lamp with perfect calm and knocked lightly on the side table.

The armchair groaned and transformed.

"Albus," Slughorn sighed. "Must you always ruin my theatrics?"

Harry tilted his head. "You were disguised as a chair."

Lyra looked unimpressed. "And not even a good one."

Slughorn blinked at them. "Ah—company. How charming."

Dumbledore gestured casually. "May I present to you? Elestara Black and Harry Potter."

Slughorn peered at Lyra. "Lucius's daughter?"

She nodded. "And Narcissa's."

"Well," Slughorn said, "You're far prettier than your father."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Slughorn turned to him. "And you—I remember when you were in nappies."

Harry made a face. "Let's not bring that up."

"Lily's eyes," Slughorn sighed. "Of course."

"Yes," Harry said, exasperated. "We all know."

Lyra leaned in. "He gets that once a week."