firecracker ???

7-22

He darted around the pitch in wide, arrogant loops. Performed spirals for no reason. Blew kisses at the crowd, mostly at Lyra. Then pretended to fall just to hear the students scream.

Krum, to his credit, played along.

He chased. Dodged. Even mimicked one of Harry's ridiculous dives. But he didn't go for the Snitch.

Not once.

Harry did.

He caught it thirty minutes in, with an audacious upside-down grab and a wink so theatrical even McGonagall applauded.

The pitch erupted.

Sirius yelled into the megaphone, "THE DARK LORD'S DEAD AND SO IS YOUR REPUTATION, KRUM!"

Theo groaned. "I'm begging someone to hex Potter. Just once."

Draco was too busy sulking beside Lyra.

"Your boyfriend just fake-fainted into his own victory celebration," he said bitterly.

"I know," Lyra said.

"He's going to be ten times worse now."

"I know."

"You're going to reward him, aren't you?"

"I really, really am."

After the match, Harry strolled off the pitch like it was a red carpet.

Krum clapped him on the back, laughing. "Well done, Potter."

"I defeated you."

"You needed that."

"I did," Harry agreed brightly.

Lyra was waiting just past the benches. He went to her immediately.

"Did you see me?" he said, breathless.

"I'm blind now," she replied dryly.

"I caught the Snitch upside-down."

"You caught it like a show pony."

He leaned in. "You still cried for me though."

She shoved him.

He caught her hands.

Their eyes locked.

"I'd take this version of you- any version of you over the one I thought I lost," she said quietly.

Harry's smile faltered. Just a little.

"Really?"

"I can survive your ego," she said. "I couldn't survive your silence."

He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to hers.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You better not," she murmured.

Then kissed him again.

And this time, no one clapped.

No one hooted.

No one screamed.

Because this wasn't a celebration.

This was peace.

And Harry Potter—arrogant, ridiculous, impossibly lucky Harry Potter—was home.

-

If the match had been the high note, then everything after was the encore.

Hogwarts, in the last stretch of spring, transformed.

Not magically—at least, not in the traditional sense. The magic was in the laughter, the way the castle echoed with unburdened footsteps again, and in the way people lived like the world wasn't about to end. Because it hadn't.

Harry Potter had made sure of that.

So of course he acted like it.

"You switched my shampoo again," Draco said flatly, emerging into breakfast with silver glitter in his hair.

Harry didn't even blink. "Prove it."

"He's sparkling like a vampire," Theo muttered.

"Like a Malfoy," Harry corrected.

Lyra hid her laugh behind her cup.

"Why are you encouraging him?" Draco hissed at her.

"Because he's happy," she said simply, eyes soft.

"And because it's hysterical," added Blaise.

Sirius and Bellatrix were the worst of them all.

"That's my boy," Sirius grinned, clapping Harry on the back as they watched Snape try to un-transfigure a soap bubble from his robes.

Bellatrix sipped her tea like she hadn't just taught her third-years how to turn cauldrons into sentient, mildly flirtatious frogs. "Let them enjoy it. What's the point of peace if they can't raise hell?"

"See?" Harry said, pulling Lyra onto his lap at the table, despite several first-years gawking. "This is cultural heritage."

Draco scoffed. "You're not even a Black."

"He's worse," Lyra murmured fondly. "He's a Potter."