firecracker ???

The courtyard was silent.

Stone cold and empty, save for the bodies of a fallen boy and the rising shadow that had cast him down.

Voldemort stood still as frost, wand lowered but eyes burning with anticipation. His smile was slight, controlled—but his triumph bled from every breath.

"It is done," he said quietly.

No one moved.

The castle above them, full of eyes, did not breathe.

Behind him, Death Eaters that joined him waited.

But it was Lyra he turned to.

"You," Voldemort said, his voice like smoke. "Check."

Lyra froze where she stood.

She had not spoken since Harry walked out to meet him. Since the curse hit Harry. Since Harry had crumpled to the ground. Since everything had gone so terribly, horribly still.

Voldemort studied her. "You loved him, didn't you?"

She didn't speak.

He seemed amused. "He told me so. Claimed you were his reason. His anchor. The girl who tore through my Horcruxes with a pretty mouth and a prettier wand."

His voice turned soft, almost delighted. "Let's see, then. Let's see what that kind of love looks like when it breaks."

Lyra didn't hesitate.

She stepped forward.

Her feet echoed against the stone, sharp in the hush.

Harry lay where he had fallen, chest still, hand curled like he'd been reaching for something or someone before he went.

Lyra knelt.

She didn't touch him.

Not at first.

She just looked at him.

Took in the curve of his cheekbone. The stubborn line of his jaw. The scar that had always set him apart.

And the way none of it moved.

The way it was all still. 

The way his body was silent.

A sound escaped her throat.

Then another.

Then it broke into something raw.

Her hands hovered over him—then fell to his chest, shaking.

"Harry," she whispered.

No answer.

"Harry—" Her voice cracked. "You said—"

She collapsed over him, her body folding with a sob. Her fingers tangled in his robes. She pressed her forehead to his chest and began to cry in earnest, soundless at first, then shaking, then shattered.

"You said you'd come back," she choked.

"You promised."

Behind her, the courtyard blurred.

Time unraveled.

The world shrunk to two hearts—one broken, one still.

"Please," she whispered. "Please."

And then—

A breath.

Shallow.

Barely there.

But there.

Lyra froze.

She lifted her head, hair falling around her face.

She stared down at him.

His chest rose then fell. Barely. But it did.

Her hands flew to his cheek.

"Harry?"

His eyelids twitched.

"Harry—"

He exhaled again.

Her eyes flooded with fresh tears, and a broken, laughing sob fell from her mouth.

"You absolute idiot," she whispered, pressing a hand to his heart.

"You promised," she said. "And for once—you kept it."

Voldemort watched her carefully.

Every line of her was taut, but unbroken.

And he thought—finally, he would see it.

The thing Harry Potter had claimed. Had spoken of with unbearable certainty.

Love.

Voldemort tilted his head, curious. Cold.

He could've sent a Death Eater. Could've used magic. But this—this was what he wanted. Not for strategy.

For proof.

Proof of what the boy had said.

That she loved him.

That it mattered.

He wanted to see it. The love that was supposed to make him weak.

He had not expected this.

Not Lucius's daughter trembling over the boy's chest.

Not the sobs that ripped through silence like blade through silk.

Not the rawness.

Not the realness.

Not the fact that it worked.

But Voldemort knew.

He had lost the moment.

Not the war—no, he would burn that love to ash if he had to.

But the moment?

He had handed it to her.

He had handed it to him.

And he hated them for it.

Not because of the magic.

But because he had watched something that did not belong to him.

Something raw. Whole. Eternal.

And the boy—this broken, cursed, pathetic boy—had been loved.

Had been chosen.

Had been mourned as something worth dying for.

And he had survived it.

Not because of spells.

Not because of strategy.

But because of her.

Voldemort lowered his wand.

Silent.

Watching the girl cry.

Watching the boy breathe.

And for the first time in two decades...

...he felt fear.

Because he had no time.

The courtyard was no longer silent.

From the shadows of the castle, they stepped forward.

Sirius.

Draco.

Regulus.

Bellatrix.

Lucius.

Narcissa.

Snape.

And behind them—the students. The professors. The ones who had always loved Potter. The ones who had never stopped believing.

Harry Potter was alive.

And the war was not over.