The Monster Book of Monsters growled low from the confines of her satchel, its laced belts groaning slightly with each sway of her stride. It had taken three straps and a tight wrap of silk cord to stop it from thrashing about during breakfast, and she'd had to cast a mild freezing charm on the buckles just to make it shut up for the walk down. The thing had barked itself hoarse on the first night. Lyra, unamused, had left it wedged under her trunk until it quieted.
Now, as the class descended the sloping lawn for their very first Care of Magical Creatures lesson, the morning mist still clinging to the grass and the lake stretching pale and cold beside them, the tension among the students was palpable.
"I'm telling you," Draco said from just ahead, shifting his book bundle under one arm, "it nearly bit my hand off. If I hadn't used my Charms textbook to smash it closed, I'd be short two fingers and any future in Quidditch."
Lyra didn't bother looking at him. Her tone was dry. "It wiggled."
Draco turned, affronted. "It lunged."
"You screamed."
"I startled."
"You shrieked like the Bloody Baron."
He gave her a withering look, but she merely lifted her brow in response, composed and unrepentant. "Honestly, it was louder than the book itself."
The corner of Theo's mouth twitched, though he said nothing. Behind them, Pansy and Daphne walked together, huddled close in conversation. Blaise trailed further back, unimpressed as always. Crabbe and Goyle were stomping along behind Draco, each gripping their snarling books like they were carrying dragons on a leash.
Ahead, the paddock came into view—bordered by rough fencing and already bustling with quiet murmurs. Their classmates were gathered in a loose ring, eyeing the space beyond the gate with guarded curiosity. At the center stood Hagrid, larger than life and beaming as if the sun itself rose just to witness his lesson.
"Right then!" he called, waving a hand over his shoulder. "Got a real treat for yeh today—first lesson and all!"
The enthusiasm in his voice made Lyra suppress a sigh. There was no telling what Hagrid considered a "treat."
That question was quickly answered.
Hippogriffs.
Half a dozen of them, at least, prowled through the grass behind the paddock, feathers gleaming in the morning light, talons carving small furrows into the ground. They were magnificent, she had to admit—sleek and powerful, with proud, raptor-sharp eyes and wings like unfurled banners.
Hagrid launched into his speech, arms flailing as he demonstrated the etiquette of bowing and waiting, stressing the importance of respect and tone. His instructions weren't wrong, per se—they were simply chaotic. She already knew the proper behavior. Narcissa had made certain both Malfoy children understood the nuances of magical creature diplomacy before they were even allowed near the family owlery, let alone dangerous beasts.
No one volunteered.
Then, predictably, Harry Potter stepped forward.
He bowed without hesitation. The Hippogriff—Buckbeak—considered him with a steady, amber gaze, and after a tense moment, returned the gesture with a shallow bow of its own.
There were hushed cheers behind her. Hagrid clapped enthusiastically. Potter climbed onto the creature's back and took to the sky, circling the paddock in a slow, wide arc. The wind tangled through his hair. He looked confident. Impossibly pleased with himself.
Lyra did not clap. She watched with cool detachment.
When he landed, Draco made a soft, scoffing noise. "Of course."
Lyra glanced at him. "You could always try it."
He blinked. "What?"
"You're so unimpressed. Surely you could do better."
His mouth tightened. "Fine."
She said nothing more. Simply stepped back to give him space.
He marched forward toward Buckbeak with the dramatic precision of a performer walking into a spotlight. He bowed deeply, elegantly—at least by his standards—and waited. Buckbeak did not respond.
Draco hesitated.
And then, as if he couldn't help himself, he muttered something under his breath.
It was quiet, but Lyra knew his tone. That clipped, derisive edge he wore like armor when his pride was starting to bruise.
The Hippogriff lunged.
There was a shout, a screech of wings, and then Draco was flat on the ground, clutching his arm and howling as blood seeped through the torn fabric of his robe. Chaos erupted instantly—Pansy screamed, Crabbe stumbled backward, Goyle fumbled for his wand, and Hagrid rushed forward in a panic.
Lyra moved first.
She was at Draco's side in a heartbeat, kneeling gracefully as she pulled a folded cloth from her pocket and pressed it against the wound. Her movements were smooth, practiced. Her face unreadable.
"Let me see."
"It—it clawed me—"
"I can tell."
He hissed as she tightened the cloth. "It could've taken my whole arm—"
"No, it couldn't have. You'll be fine."
"It hurts."
"You're dramatic."
"Father's going to sue."
"You say that about everything."
"This time he actually will."
Still, her fingers softened slightly as she adjusted the pressure. She glanced up just as Hagrid arrived, wide-eyed and flustered.
"Oh no—blimey—I didn't think—poor lad—Buckbeak's got a temper—"
"He needs the hospital wing," Lyra said firmly, standing. "Now."
Hagrid nodded, already hoisting Draco to his feet with surprising gentleness. "I'll take him meself—terribly sorry—never meant—"
Draco groaned, leaning heavily against him. "My father will hear about this."
Lyra smoothed her sleeves and stepped back without comment.
As they disappeared up the hill, the class slowly began to reorient. Conversation resumed in whispers. Blaise remained expressionless. Theo was watching her with a faint frown.
Pansy came up beside her, fluttering nervously. "Do you think he'll be all right?"
"He's not dying."
"I mean—will it scar?"
"It was a scratch."
"Well, it looked horrible."
"He made it look horrible. That's not the same thing."
Pansy leaned in closer. "What if the Hippogriff gets put down over it?"
"That's what Draco wants."
"And you?"
Lyra's gaze returned to the paddock. "I think if he'd bowed properly and kept his mouth shut, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Pansy fell silent.
That was when Potter appeared again.
She didn't turn, but she felt his presence all the same—still breathing slightly heavier than usual, eyes sharper than they should have been.
"You're really going to let him get away with this?"
She arched a brow. "You're very fond of approaching me after things go wrong."
"I'm fond of accuracy."
"So you believe yourself accurate?"
"I believe he insulted a creature and blamed someone else when it retaliated."
"And you'd prefer I what? Drag him back and have him apologize?"
"I'd prefer you stopped pretending you didn't see it."
Lyra turned, slowly. Her voice was calm, cold. "I saw it. I'm just not making a scene about it."
"He is."
"I'm not him."
Harry stared at her, frustrated. "You didn't flinch when it happened."
"Because flinching changes nothing."
"You didn't flinch when I rode it, either."
"Because you looked like you'd enjoy it too much if I did."
He smiled faintly. "So you were watching."
"I watch everything."
"Then tell me—how'd I look?"
She gave him a long, measured look.
"Predictably pleased with yourself."
Then, after a beat—just long enough to sting—she added, "If this is your idea of impressing me, you'll have to try harder."
And with that, she turned and walked away, her cloak brushing behind her like a final word he couldn't follow.