firecracker ???

Harry Potter did not, for the first time in his life, start the school year dreading it.

There were no looming threats. No psychotic competitions. No cursed diaries, no basilisk fang-related trauma, and—blessedly—no Death Eaters riding clouds over the castle. It was quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

Which is why he kept waiting for something to explode.

Grimmauld Place was unreasonably peaceful. Since Voldemort had used Harry's blood during the resurrection ritual, the protective magic granted by the Dursleys had become obsolete. He hadn't stepped foot in Privet Drive since fifth year and he didn't miss it one bit. 

He now lived full-time at Grimmauld, which had undergone so many rounds of magical renovations that one of the drawing rooms was now converted into a dueling hall. Kreacher had adopted a tea schedule more rigid than anything at Hogwarts and Narcissa had personally overseen the remodelling.

it was weird.

The renovated room had become a proper dueling space. Regulus had insisted they practice and forced them out of bed much too early some days. The basement housed a rotating potion lab (Snape and Bellatrix argued over inventory every other week). The once-dusty sitting room now had enchanted chess tables, redesigned by Lucius to "build war strategy." Kreacher ran the house like a general.

There were breakfast schedules, ward updates.

Sirius had a corkboard labelled "POTTER CHAOS CONTROL".

He loved it.

He wished time would stop.

It was domestic. Unnerving. Most of all, lovely. 

A full family living under one roof.

Harry had spent most of the summer doing what any war hero would naturally do:

Harassing Draco.

Flirting with Lyra.

And getting hexed for doing both too loudly.

Which, unfortunately, was often.

-

Dumbledore had called them all into the drawing room in late July.

He stood in front of the fireplace, looking significantly less ghost-like than he had in previous years—robes deep navy, beard trimmed, the usual mischief in his eyes dulled but not dead.

"The war," he said, "is nearly over."

No one interrupted. Not even Sirius.

"Only two pieces remain. One—Nagini. The other..." He glanced at the adults and much to Lyra, Harry, and Draco's confusion. "You all know."

Harry didn't react.

He didn't know everything, of course. Not yet.

But enough.

He knew Voldemort's soul was splintered and nearly fully gone.

He knew they had destroyed the locket, the ring, the cup, the diary, the diadem.

He knew that Lucius, Regulus, and Bellatrix had risked everything to protect Draco and Lyra.

He knew that the timing of the end was no longer Voldemort's to decide.

It belonged to them.

"It means," Dumbledore continued, "we hold the rhythm now. He cannot win without coming to us. Which means we choose the tempo."