firecracker ???

7-4

Laughter echoed through the corridors.

The castle, for the first time in years, felt whole again.

But not everything was still.

Not entirely.

It started with the scar.

Harry hadn't felt it in months—not since summer. But one evening, as he leaned against Lyra's shoulder in the library, his head tilted toward the window, he flinched.

Just slightly. Barely enough to notice.

But Lyra noticed.

She always did.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Potter."

He winced. "Probably just tension. Or a sinus charm backfiring. Or—"

"Your scar."

He exhaled. "It doesn't hurt. Not really. Just... pulled."

She said nothing for a moment.

Then quietly closed her book.

He changed the subject. She let him—for now.

But her brows stayed furrowed the rest of the night.

-

Far from Hogwarts, deep in the ash-dusted forest where the trees hung like corpses, Voldemort stood alone.

He wasn't hunting a Horcrux.

He was hunting a wand.

The Elder Wand. The Deathstick. The final key.

He'd heard the tale.

He'd seen Dumbledore fall.

He'd heard the whispers that it was Draco Malfoy who cast the Killing Curse.

And he believed it.

The boy. The heir.

The master.

He smiled thinly.

And began the search.

In a sealed chamber layered in privacy wards, Dumbledore sat with Snape, Regulus, Lucius, and Bellatrix.

They didn't speak at first.

The room was quiet. Tense.

"He's searching," Dumbledore said at last. "He believes the wand is Draco's."

Snape's jaw clenched. "Then he'll come for him."

Lucius folded his hands. "He'll want the moment. The dramatics. He always does."

"He won't test it yet," Regulus added. "He needs the narrative. A duel. A defeat. Anything less would insult his ego."

Bellatrix, lounging against the far wall, finally spoke. "So we do nothing?"

"We let him believe it," Dumbledore said softly. "That the boy is the master. That he must take the wand by force."

"And in doing so," Snape muttered, "he looks at the wrong person."

Dumbledore nodded once. "Let him chase a shadow."

-

Back at Hogwarts, Lyra was still watching Harry.

She didn't mention the scar again.

Not directly.

But she started walking a little closer in the halls.

Started glancing toward the horizon when the wind shifted.

Started writing in a journal again—small entries, quiet ink, unreadable to anyone but her.

Harry noticed.

But he didn't ask.

Because Hogwarts still sang. Still laughed.

The castle felt like a living thing again.

And even with that faint echo of pain behind his eyes, Harry chose—for now—not to think too far ahead.

Not when Lyra kissed him goodnight when he snuck into her dorm.

Not when Sirius fell asleep snoring on the stables' hay bales after a Magical Creatures lesson.

Not when Regulus assigned them a twelve inch essay on wandless magic and muttered under his breath that Harry's was "decent and not entirely idiotic."

Not when the sky above the Astronomy Tower was clear and full of stars.

The castle still stood.

And so did they.