firecracker ???

Being Head Boy should have made Harry more responsible.

It didn't.

What it made him was punctual to chaos.

He and Lyra approached their shared duties with the kind of synchronized dysfunction that made Severus Snape twitch. They coordinated patrols, oversaw House schedules, broke up minor scuffles, and left sarcastic comments on every prefect meeting minute they reviewed.

Lyra did the paperwork. Harry did the talking.

Together, it somehow worked.

Mostly because no one wanted to cross the two of them at once.

-

The Monday night Quidditch strategy meeting in the Slytherin common room was, in Draco's words, "a sacred tactical forum."

Which meant it was, in reality, thirty minutes of Blaise stealing everyone's snacks, Lyra reorganizing the team schedule with military precision, Theo half-napping with a textbook on his face, and Draco yelling about broom angles like he was addressing the Wizengamot. The rest of the team looked oddly amused.

Harry, who had promised to "stay out of Slytherin business for at least one week," lasted twelve minutes.

He entered with flair—disguised by a Chameleon Charm, floating silently overhead with a levitated bottle of ink.

It dumped directly on Draco's head.

"POTTER!"

Lyra didn't even look up from the schedules. "You're going to die."

Draco shrieked something unintelligible and launched three cushions and a practice Quaffle at Harry, who fled laughing.

Retaliation came two days later.

During Charms, as Flitwick lectured on advanced shield enchantments, Harry's glasses shimmered faintly with a soft golden glow.

And then a voice echoed—clear, amused, and entirely from Harry's enchanted lenses:

"Lyra's hair smells like heaven. She's so pretty. I'm going to marry her. I wonder if she'd hex me if I kissed her neck right now—"

The entire classroom froze.

Theo choked. Pansy dropped her quill. Lyra blinked.

Harry stared in horror at his glasses.

Across the room, Draco leaned back smugly in his chair, arms crossed like a satisfied cat.

"I enchanted the lenses," he said. "Your inner thoughts. Now public radio."

"Draco."

"Yes?"

"I'm going to murder you."

Draco beamed. "Not before everyone hears what you think about Uncle Sev's voice."

"It's like a dying foghorn. Why does it make me feel sleepy and slightly depressed—"

Harry ripped off the glasses and hurled them across the room. 

He dragged Sirius with him to Saint Mungo's to get his vision magically corrected the very same afternoon. But not before Sirius laughed at him for a full ten minutes, of course.

-

It was moments like those that reminded everyone: this was what Hogwarts was meant to be.

A school.

A ridiculous, magical, exhausting school.

There were detentions for hallway hexing. Study sessions that turned into debates. Quidditch practices that ended in bludger skirmishes. The House points board reset weekly because Sirius had an unhinged obsession with awarding "dramatic flair."