firecracker ???

Twelve Grimmauld Place, for the first time in a generation, was warm with being lived in on Christmas morning.

No war. No fear. No whispered plans behind closed doors. Just the hush of snow against the windows, the low creak of old wood adjusting to winter, and the flicker of enchanted candlelight moving down the halls like the house itself was holding its breath.

Harry was warm.

Not because of the fire that was still glowing faintly in the hearth across the room.

But because he was curled beneath the green velvet covers of Elestara Black's bed—one arm tucked under her pillow, the other slung loosely around her waist.

He was barely awake.

Not quite dreaming.

But aware enough to recognise the rhythm of her breathing, the faint scent of vanilla and peony— some expensive thing Narcissa had pressed into her hair, and the heat of her spine curled into his chest.

They hadn't planned this.

Not exactly.

But it had become habit.

It started the summer of sixth year, when Lyra moved into Grimmauld full time. He snuck into her room so much it became normal. Now they slept together, only acting like he sneaks in as a sort of customary greeting.

"Potter," she groaned, not opening her eyes.

Harry smiled into the back of her neck. "Morning, my love."

"It's four in the morning and you're in my bed again."

"Technically I'm also on your bed."

"Sixth time this week."

He nuzzled closer. "You're warm."

"You're annoying."

He kissed her shoulder. "You love me."

Lyra sighed tiredly. "Against my better judgement."

They drifted off again, only to be interrupted not too long after.

"Oi," came a voice near Harry's head. "I swear to Merlin, if you're still in here when the sun rises—"

Harry mumbled into the pillow, "I'm not awake."

Draco groaned. "It's six. We have plans. Get up, lover boy."

Lyra stirred with a groan. "What...?"

"Your boyfriend's a criminal," Draco announced, unimpressed. "And I'm enabling him. Merry Christmas."

She cracked one eye open, looked at Harry, then the clock. Then—with a very pointed sigh—shoved her foot into Harry's thigh and kicked him off the bed.

Harry landed on the floor with a thud. "In my defense, we're making it festive."

"I'd prefer my Christmas peaceful, thanks."

"I can't believe you kicked me off the bed," he muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Lyra rolled over with a groan and threw a pillow at him. "You're incorrigible."

"Come on," Draco said, passing him an armful of enchanted holly. "We've got work to do."

Harry, still shirtless and laughing, stumbled and followed him.

"Potter by name," Draco said, heading for the door. "Black by design."

Before they made their way out the door, Lyra lifted her head enough to say flatly, "If either of you touch my hair, I swear I'll turn you both into tinsel."