Chapter 1

The compartment door slid open with the particular force Lyra Malfoy reserved for an audience. Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass stood at her shoulders, already wearing the thin, anticipatory smiles of girls who expected the usual sport. Lyra herself looked precisely as she always did at the start of term: pale, immaculate, and prepared to be unpleasant. Her eyes lit up as she saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and a cruel smirk grew on her face.

“Well,” she said, eyes moving from Harry to Ron to Hermione and back again. “If it isn’t the famous trio. Scarhead, the weasel, and the mudblood. I had hoped the summer might have improved at least one of you. Evidently not.”

Harry stared back. His anger rose… But the memory of the advice he had received helped quell his irritation. A letter from Sirius on how to deal with Malfoy, once and for all! The words burned clear and bright in his mind:

"Harry, the best way to deal with Malfoy is simple: Whenever she's mad, tell her she's beautiful. When she bullies you, act like she's flirting with you. Give her chocolates. Give her flowers. Ask what she wants to name your first child and if you two want to live in the house in Godric's Hollow. What wallpaper for the baby's nursery. Kiss her hand. She will go barmy. It'll be hilarious and it'll get her off your back-Trust me Harry."

He reached into his robe, set a small box of Honeydukes chocolates on his knee, and regarded Lyra with mild interest.

“You're beautiful when you’re angry,” he said.

The compartment went very quiet.

Ron’s hand rose at once to cover his mouth. His shoulders began to shake. Hermione made a small, strangled sound and turned a deep, immediate red, her eyes fixed on Harry as though he had begun speaking in Parseltongue. Behind Lyra, Pansy’s smile collapsed. Daphne’s lips parted and stayed that way.

Lyra blinked. Color touched the high points of her cheeks. “W-What did you just say?”

“That you’re beautiful when you’re angry.” Harry stood up and walked up to stand just in front of Lyra-The summer had given him a head of height over her easily, and she shied back just a bit as he kept talking.

“Though… Honestly? You’re always beautiful.”

“Wha-You-I-!”

“Honestly,” Harry allowed himself a little grin, “At this point in our relationship, we should start thinking of names.”

“Names,” Lyra repeated. The pink had climbed toward her ears.

“For the first child. James, if it’s a boy. Lily if it’s a girl, though you’d have a say, of course.”

“S-S-Say?!” Lyra managed faintly. Harry nodded.

“Yeah. As for living arrangements, well… My parents left me a house in Godrid’s Hollow. It needs repairing, but the nursery faces east. We’d need to choose wallpaper. Nothing green, unless you insist on it. I like blue sky with white clouds, myself.”

Ron made a violent noise into his palm as he tried not to die laughing. Hermione had pressed both hands to her face; the visible portion of her forehead was scarlet. Pansy stared at the chocolate as if it might explode. Daphne had gone nearly as red as Lyra and seemed unable to decide where to look.

Lyra’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The color had reached her throat now, stark against the white of her collar. “You cannot—Potter, that is not—I came here to—!”

“To flirt,” Harry said, evenly. “I assumed that was the point of the visit. If I’ve misread you, say so.” He stood, took the hand she had braced against the doorframe, and bent just far enough to brush his mouth across her knuckles. Her skin was cool. She went perfectly still, her face as red as an apple.

“If you want to talk more, we can do it at the welcome Feast. Then start planning out a date.”

“D-D-Date…?!” Lyra squeaked.

He slid the chocolates into her hand. She held them, dazed, her mouth opening and closing. Her entourage stepped away, eyeing Lyra like she was a bomb about to burst.

He smiled and winked.

“See you there.”

Harry released her, stepped back, and slid the compartment door shut in her face.

For a moment the train compartment was silent. Then Harry sat, and allowed himself a small smile.

Ron lowered his hand at last. His ears were red, his eyes wet with mirth as he finished his snickers.

“Harry,” he said, reverent. “Mate. You’re my flipping hero!”

“Hah,” Harry laughed, “Did you see her face? She’ll never bother us again! Thank you, Sirius!"

Hermione made another incoherent sound and refused to uncover her face.

“Hermione?” Ron prompted. “Come on… You have to admit, that was brill! Come on!”

“... You two are idiots,” she sighed.

“What?” Harry laughed. “We’ve seen the last of Malfoy! At least for some time!”

---

At the welcoming feast, Harry was very surprised when a certain blonde slid onto the bench next to him at the Gryffindor table. Her face was bright red, but she was determined.

“Malfoy?” He managed.

“S-So… Um…” She looked at him without quite looking at him, “About… That date…?”

“... Yeah?” Harry coughed.

“... Well… Um… Aren’t we going to… Plan it out?” She ventured.

Ron dropped his food as he stared at them. Hermione rolled her eyes as the rest of the table gaped in silence.

“Like I said… Idiots.”

And somewhere warm and tropical, Sirius Black was laughing his arse off.

---

The Owlery was cold at that hour, the stone floor scattered with feathers and the faint, sharp smell of the birds themselves. Harry sat on an overturned crate with a scrap of parchment balanced on his knee, quill moving too quickly and blotting in places. He had already crossed out three openings. The fourth was no better.

Sirius,

It didn’t work. Or it worked too well. She sat next to me at the feast. She asked about the date. I don’t know what to do. Please write back as soon as you can. Don’t use Hedwig. I’ll explain.

He folded the letter, sealed it with more wax than it needed, and tied it to the leg of a plain school owl. Hedwig watched from her perch with the flat, offended stare of a bird who had been passed over for inferior company. Harry winced.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “Someone might follow you. I’ll make it up to you.”

He produced the strip of bacon he had brought for precisely this purpose. Hedwig considered it, then him, then took the bacon with two precise, punitive nips to his fingers before she allowed him to scratch the soft feathers under her beak. She leaned into the touch for a moment. That was when the door opened and the twins came in, already grinning.

Fred reached him first and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to rock the crate. George followed, the pair of them bracketing him with the easy physicality of ace Beaters.

“Mate,” Fred said.

“Brilliant,” George added.

“You got her to blush.”

“She’s acting like a forlorn maiden out of one of Ginny’s romance novels.”

“The ones we’re not supposed to know about.”

“If only she hid them behind more than one lock.”

“Careless of her.”

Harry’s ears went hot. “N-no. No, you don’t get it. It—it’s a prank!”

Fred’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“You sure?” George asked.

“Y-yes!”

“Then why are you so flustered?”

“And nervous?”

“It’s a prank,” Harry said, louder than he meant to. “I swear. It-It backfired on me!”

Fred exchanged a look with his brother that contained an entire conversation. “Harry. As experienced pranksters ourselves—”

“—sometimes you have to know when to walk away.”

“How?!” Harry demanded. “Help me!”

They regarded each other again. Something passed between them that Harry could not follow. Then Fred’s grin returned, wider.

“Well… If it’s a prank—”

“—then we’ll help you.”

Harry blinked. “R-really?”

“Absolutely.”

“We owe you a dozen times over.”

“Four times.”

“But who’s counting?”

“Me, apparently.”

“That’s why you handle the business side of things, brother.”

“True, true.”

The door opened again before Harry could decide whether this was salvation or disaster. Lyra Malfoy stepped into the Owlery, saw him, and went scarlet from collar to hairline. Harry felt his own face answer in kind.

“…P-Potter.”

“Ah. Uh. M-Malfoy.”

Fred made a disappointed sound. “Aw, come on. Why so formal?”

“You’re going on a date, aren’t you?” George said.

Lyra’s scowl found Harry at once. “Well, I thought I was. But you just clammed up and mumbled for the rest of the feast.” Her scowl deepened. “And avoided me for the last few days, too!”

Of course he had. What was he supposed to say after she actually took his prank seriously?

“I—I just, I—”

“Oh, don’t you worry at all, Miss Malfoy,” George said, smooth as butter. “He’s got a date for you lined up.”

“It was just the Triwizard announcement, you know,” Fred added. “He’s so excited to watch.”

“He was like this for the Quidditch World Cup. You’ll have to forgive him.”

“Nerves.”

An elbow found Harry’s ribs. Then another. “Urk. Y-yeah. I—I’m sorry, Lyra.”

She flushed harder, but the scowl eased by a fraction. “I… well. As long as you don’t behave this way on our date, I suppose I can forgive it. It is quite exciting.”

“Well, it is,” George said.

“And Harry will take you to every event,” Fred said.

“I will?” Another elbow. “Urk. I mean—I will!”

Lyra’s gaze dropped, then lifted again, cautious. “…And the Yule Ball?”

“The wha—?” A third strike, precise and fraternal. “Urgh. Yes. We’ll go together!”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.And of all people in Hogwarts, Cho Chang appeared in the doorway, a letter in one hand, and smiled at the group with polite warmth. She made Harry’s stomach flip, something that had nothing to do with Fred and George’s elbow strikes.

“Oh. Sorry to eavesdrop. Harry, Lyra, Fred, George. But—wow. Thinking ahead, huh, Harry?” Her smile turned impish. ”Guess that’s why you beat me to the Cup last year.”

Harry’s stomach dropped somewhere in the vicinity of the castle foundations. Cho. His crush. Here. Now. While he was in the middle of promising Lyra Malfoy the Yule Ball.

Was there a Boggart around he hadn’t noticed or what?!

“I… uh—”

Lyra moved half a step closer to him. Her scowl redirected itself toward Cho with impressive speed. “Of course he beat you, Chang. His flying skills rival my own. You pull into your turns too hard and burn more energy than you have to. Potter has a natural talent with the broom. He can discern just how much pull to use at any time.”

Harry stared at her. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small, stunned voice observed that she was defending him. The rest of him had no idea what to do with the information.

Cho’s smile did not falter. “Oh? I guess you’re right. Don’t worry, Lyra, I’m not knocking Harry’s skills.” She looked at him, bright and easy. “He beat me fair and square. Even while you were pretending to be a Dementor to try and scare him.”

Lyra turned a color Harry had previously associated only with certain Potions accidents. For a moment he wondered whether smoke might actually emerge from her ears.

“W-well,” she managed. “That… just shows his skill.”

Cho nodded as if this were a perfectly ordinary exchange and not something from a demented nightmare Voldemort conjured up for Harry to suffer. “That’s true. Hey—you two should go flying for your date! There are legal zones in Hogsmeade for it.”

“I—” The elbows arrived again, coordinated. “URK!”

“You’re a mind reader, Cho,” Fred said.

“That’s just the first stop he had planned,” George added.

Lyra raised an elegant eyebrow despite her flush.

“Oh really?”

The twins shrugged in unison. 

“Or rather, last,” George said, holding his hand up like there was a paintbrush in it, “You two flying over the forest, watching the sun set—”

Fred added to the pantomime, tracing invisible figures in the air.

“The sky turning from blue to amber and purple—”

George swung his hand dramatically.

“The shadows of the mountains tracing the sky. Leaving you two all alone.”

“All so you can be the only thing more beautiful to look at,” Fred finished with a slight bow. Harry looked between them like they had proposed cooking Hedwig. 

Lyra looked at Harry. The scowl had gone. What remained was something softer and far more dangerous.

“R-really?”

Harry, who had by now identified the pattern of elbows to his ribs and lacked the fortitude to test it further, nodded. “Y-yeah.”

“I… oh. Well. Th-that’s acceptable, I suppose.” She lifted her chin a fraction. “You’d better not use it as an excuse to try and show off.”

“N-no.”

“But you know Harry,” Fred said.

“He’ll do it anyway,” George said.

“Because he wants you to see him at his best.”

The twins grinned like Cheshire Cats. Lyra’s gaze dropped. When she looked at Harry again it was almost shy.

“…I suppose that… that’s all right. Um. Excuse me.”

She turned and left, still red to the ears. The door closed behind her. Cho watched her go, then turned back to Harry with a warm, interested smile.

“Wow, Harry. I didn’t think you were so romantic!”

“I, uh. I have my moments.” Harry managed modestly, his stomach still doing a flip over her smile. 

“I’ll have to suggest that to Cedric. He’ll love it! Thank you.” 

And the good feeling passed as soon as it had entered.

“Y-Yeah… You bet,” Harry sighed.

She crossed to the perches, tied her letter to a school owl, scratched Hedwig once under the chin with absent fondness, and headed for the stairs. “See you.”

Harry watched her leave. The door closed. His shoulders dropped. He turned, slowly, to the twins, as he rubbed his aching sides.

“Guys,” he said. “Did you really just do that to me?!”

The twins looked entirely unrepentant. Fred especially.

“It’s called helping you, Harry.”

“The best way we knew how,” George said.

“Next time, don’t bloody bother!”

Chapter 2

The study room on the third floor smelled faintly of old wood and the lemon oil the house-elves used on the tables. A single floating lamp burned between them, its light warm against the cooler grey that filtered through the high, narrow window. Behind Ron and Hermione, a living portrait of jugglers and clowns conducted an ongoing war. One side hurled painted balls with theatrical fury; the other caught them and returned them with exaggerated dignity. Every so often the frame rattled when a particularly forceful toss struck the edge. Neither of them paid it much attention. They had grown used to the portrait’s hostilities.

Ron had a doughnut in one hand and a half-finished essay on the Goblin rebellions in the other, a bag of more donuts resting on the table to his right. Sugar clung to his thumb. Hermione looked up and to her left from her notes, frowned at the doughnuts, and set her quill down with deliberate care.

“You are not supposed to bring food in here.”

“I’m keeping my strength up,” Ron said around a bite. Crumbs scattered onto his parchment. “Who knows what’s going to happen this year?”

“What do you mean?”

He swallowed and gestured vaguely with the remaining half of the doughnut. “I mean we had that attack at the Quidditch World Cup, we’ve got a gigantic Triwizard Tournament where people might die, and apparently Malfoy fancies Harry. Things are mad. And on top of all that, somebody’s probably going to try and kill him again.”

The portrait’s frame gave a small, indignant rattle as a paint rotary cannon opened up on the jugglers from the clown side. Hermione’s mouth tightened. “Ron, surely you’re just being paranoid—”

He stared at her. The doughnut hovered, forgotten. She flushed, looked down at her parchment, and mumbled something that might have been an apology.

“Well,” she said, more clearly, “I mean… maybe it won’t happen this year?”

Ron’s expression did not change.Hermione sighed, the sound small in the quiet room.

“Oh, fine. You’re right that there is a pattern.”

“I’m right?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“…Can I get that engraved? Forever?”

Hermione scowled.

“Shut up, Ron. It’s just this one instance.”

“It’s still a win.”

“It’s not a competition,” Hermione hissed. Ron smirked.

“Oh? Then why are you mad?”

“Hmph!”

The door opened hard enough to interrupt the portrait’s latest exchange. A painted ball froze mid-air. Pansy Parkinson strode in, the hem of her robes snapping, and dropped into the chair across from them. She rapped her knuckles once on the tabletop. The sound was sharp.

“All right, Weasel. Granger.”

“Hey,” Ron protested.

“I don’t like you, you don’t like me, but Potter finally got some sense and we’re not bloody squandering it. So. What’s our game plan?”

Ron blinked. Sugar still clung to the corner of his mouth. “Game plan? For what?”

“Ugh. For the date.”

“I mean… uh… well, you see, that was just a pr—”

Hermione’s heel came down on his foot with decisive force. The impact traveled up his shin. Ron’s hand flew to his mouth. The sound he made was not quite a yelp and not quite a curse, somewhere in between. Hermione picked up the remaining half of his doughnut—still warm, still shedding sugar—and pushed it between his teeth before he could recover his voice.

“Ron,” she said, brightly, as if they were discussing the weather, “you should finish those before they get cold. You also shouldn’t talk with your mouth full. Right?”

He stared at her over the doughnut, wounded and muffled, eyes wide with betrayal. He nodded because there was nothing else to do. The doughnut tasted suddenly of injustice. Hermione turned back to Pansy. Her smile was fixed and did not reach her eyes.

“Harry has prepared extensively for the date,” she said. “He has a number of ideas that he will swap to depending on the situation.”

Pansy’s eyebrows rose. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Really? He’s planned this?”

“Yes.”

Hermione did not look at Ron. Ron looked at her anyway, doughnut compressed between his teeth, expression somewhere between outrage and awe. In the portrait, a paint ball completed its arc and struck a clown squarely in the painted nose. The clown did not react. He appeared to be sulking.

“I thought he made it up as he went along,” Pansy said.

“He is a master of improvisation,” Hermione explained, “but he’s getting better at long-term planning.”

“Finally. Honestly, how could he miss her hints for all this time?”

Ron mouthed “Hints?!” around the doughnut, but keen not to attract Hermione’s wrath again, he wisely abstained from further comment.

“Some men require that you be more direct.” Hermione’s quill hovered over a fresh sheet of parchment she’d pulled from her bag. The nib trembled once, then steadied. “However, I can ensure a great date experience if you give us some information on Malfoy’s preferences.”

Pansy leaned back. The chair creaked. “Right. She will deny it to her dying breath if you ask, but she loves animals.”

“The Buckbeak situation?” Hermione asked dryly. Pansy winced just a bit.

“She did try to get her father to reverse the decision, you know. She gave Hagrid an apology letter for it.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. The lamp hissed softly. She remembered the hippogriff’s pen, the way Lyra had stood very still afterward, pale and tight around the mouth, not gloating. “…Yes. I suppose she did look mostly sad over it. If she’d gloated, I’d have knocked her teeth out.”

Ron made a noise around the doughnut that might have been commentary on justice, or on Buckbeak, or on the general unfairness of having one’s foot stomped in the middle of a study session. Pansy ignored him.

“Look, the point is, a stop at the pet shop wouldn’t hurt. She won’t buy anything, but she likes to cuddle. Keep in mind, though—she hates snakes.”

Ron and Hermione both stared. The portrait’s war paused again, as if the painted figures were listening. Ron swallowed his doughnut completely.

“What?” They both said.

“She does. Absolutely terrified of them. Why do you think she was so scared at the Dueling Club?”

Ron choked. He coughed, eyes watering, and managed, somehow, not to laugh out loud. The effort turned his ears red. Pansy’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“And if you tell anyone, they’ll never find your body, Weasley.”

He swallowed audibly. “Not a soul. Not a soul.”

“He’s trustworthy,” Hermione said. Her quill moved again. “Next?”

“She does want to go to Madam Puddifoot’s. She would prefer a private booth, though. Most couples go there just to show off. She’s fine with the mood of the place, but she doesn’t want to be gawked at. Also, Potter should know: order her honey lemon cakes. Never almond cakes. She hates those.”

Hermione wrote in small, precise lines. “No gawking. No almond cakes. Got it. Anything else?”

Pansy considered the ceiling for a moment. “Well. If Potter could wear green… she loves it when he’s in green. Brings out his eyes.”

Hermione’s quill paused. Ink beaded at the tip. “She likes his eyes?”

“She goes on and on about them. Endlessly.” Pansy rolled her own. “Day in, day out. ‘Oh, if only he wore a green scarf he’d be so much more handsome.’ Anyway. You got all that, or do you need me to repeat myself?”

“No, no. I’ve got it.”

“Good.” Pansy stood. She smoothed her robes with a brisk motion. “Pleasure doing business with you. And tell Potter if he screws this up, he’s answering to me.”

She left. The door closed with a decisive click. In the portrait, a clown successfully beaned a juggler with a painted ball and looked pleased with himself. The juggler retaliated by juggling three balls at once and unleashing them like a madchine gun into the clown’s face, sending him falling into other clowns below into a messy, angry pile. 

Ron turned to Hermione. Doughnut crumbs clung to his chin. His expression sat somewhere between betrayal and reluctant awe.

“…Hermione. You’re not seriously considering this, are you? It was a prank.”

Hermione capped her ink. She did not look up at once. The lamp hummed. Outside, the wind pressed harder against the window.

“Not to Malfoy, clearly.”

Ron stared at her. “But… this is Malfoy. You know? The racist who called you Mudblood?”

“Yes.” Hermione’s voice was quiet. “I know. But looking back… I think she was so angry with me because she was jealous. That I was close to Harry.”

Ron was silent for a moment. The portrait’s war continued, muffled by glass and paint. “And… you can forgive that?”

“I mean, not the racism.” She met his eyes at last. “But did you see the way she’s been acting? Not… So much her? Maybe we can bring out more of that, instead of her being a brat.”

“Or maybe she’s just counter-pranking us.”

“Do you really think she would do that, given her past? And besides… What do you think she’ll do to us if she finds out it was a prank?”

Ron considered the table. Sugar glittered on the wood between them. “…Okay. Good point.”

“Hmph,” Hermione was smug, “One for me.”

“I thought it wasn’t a competition.”

“It—it wasn’t until you made it one.”

“Sure, sure. Just because you were losing.”

“I was not!”

---

The dormitory was dark when Harry finally reached it, the only light a thin spill from the window where the curtains had not been fully drawn. Most of the others were already asleep. Ron’s snoring rose and fell in uneven bursts from the bed nearest the window, occasionally hitching when he rolled onto his side. Harry closed the door as quietly as he could and stopped. An owl sat on the trunk at the foot of his bed, feathers ruffled, one foot tapping with clear impatience against the wood. It held a flat, linen-wrapped package in its beak and regarded him with the offended dignity of a bird that had been kept waiting longer than it considered reasonable.

He paid it with a few Knuts from his pocket. The owl took them, transferred the package to his hands with a sharp, businesslike motion, and left through the open window in an irritable snap of wings. Cold air followed it in. The outside of the parcel was addressed in a familiar hand to Harry Potter, Gryffindor Tower. Beneath the name, in smaller letters, was the single word Snuffles.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped under him. He unwrapped the linen carefully, mindful of the rustle. Inside was a flat object and a folded note. The note was marked, in capital letters, READ THIS FIRST.

He unfolded it under the thin light from the window. His hands were colder than he had realized.

Harry,

Only use this in a safe place nobody can see you, and cast Silencio around your surroundings to keep anyone from hearing. Activate it by tapping the glass twice with your wand tip and saying my name.

Snuffles

Harry exhaled. The sound was small in the quiet room. Sirius was not taking chances. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his trunk, the fabric cool and heavy as he settled it over his shoulders, and slipped back out of the dormitory. Ron muttered something unintelligible and turned over. No one else stirred.

The common room was empty, the fire burned down to embers. Harry crossed it, eased through the portrait hole—the Fat Lady grumbled once in her sleep and did not open her eyes—and made his way down the corridor to the unused classroom nearest Gryffindor Tower. The door stuck once; he shouldered it open, stepped inside, and shut it behind him. Dust moved in the air. The desks had been pushed against the walls years ago and never moved back.

“Colloportus,” he whispered. The lock clicked, firm. “Silencio.”

The room went very still. Even the faint creak of the castle seemed to retreat. He pulled the remaining linen away.

A plain mirror lay in his hands, unadorned, the glass clean and cool against his palms. He drew his wand, tapped the surface twice, and said, quietly, “Sirius.”

The glass clouded, then cleared. Sirius’s face appeared, slightly off-center, wearing the crooked smile Harry remembered from the old family photos in the album Hagrid had given him. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper and his hair grayer than in those pictures, but the light was back in his eyes.

“Harry!”

“Sirius. What is this?”

“Your father and I used to make two-way mirrors to talk between classes. Works at any distance.”

“Wicked.” Harry turned the mirror a fraction, watching the way Sirius’s image held. His shoulders had loosened without his noticing.

Sirius’s smile softened. “How are you? Any more dreams?”

The nightmares about Voldemort had been what he had told Sirius about just before the Quidditch World Cup. Harry felt a small, private relief that his guardian had believed him.

“Well, no. None so far. I’m back at school. Things are going all right, mostly. Moody’s a great teacher. Really incredible—”

“Yes.” Sirius’s expression changed. The smile thinned. “And I’m coming back to help.”

Harry’s grip tightened on the mirror. The edges bit into his fingers. “But—Sirius, there’s a kill-on-sight order for you—”

“I know how to keep hidden, and I’m in contact with Dumbledore. It’ll be fine. If Dumbledore has recalled Moody, he’s seeing something big on the horizon. Besides, you need all the support you can get. I’ve been slacking in my godfatherly duties.”

“That… that wasn’t your fault, Sirius.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Sirius looked away for a moment, jaw working, then back. The mirror caught the movement. “And one day, maybe I’ll believe it. But I’m not letting anything happen to you. Promise.”

Something in Harry’s chest pulled tight. He shifted his weight on the desk. “Sirius…”

“Well.” Sirius cleared his throat, the sound rough and bark-like. “Enough of that girly nonsense. How’d it go with Malfoy?”

Harry groaned and let his forehead rest against the cool edge of the mirror for a second. The glass fogged faintly under his breath. “Ugh. I must have done it wrong. She’s… she’s actually happy about the date. Even the twins pushed it further.”

Sirius’s mouth twitched. The smirk returned, wider, and he leaned in until his face filled more of the glass. “Oh?”

“Yes! Right in front of the girl I actually like!”

“Ooh. Rough, Harry. Very rough. I have been there before.”

“Is there any way out of this?”

“Harry, listen.” Sirius’s voice turned more serious, though the amusement did not entirely leave it. One eyebrow rose. “If she finds out this entire thing was a prank, she’ll—”

“Murder me?”

“Probably,” Sirius agreed. He tilted his head. “How much time do we actually have? Before this date.”

“The first Hogsmeade weekend. One week.” Harry shifted on the desk. The wood was cold through his robes; he felt it against the backs of his thighs. “They doubled them this year. There’s two before Halloween now, what with the Triwizard and all.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment. His eyes moved, calculating. “All right. That’s better than I expected. Not much, but better. We can work with that.”

“Work with it how?!” Harry’s voice rose. He sat straighter, free hand gripping the edge of the desk. “The twins told her I’d take her flying over the forest at sunset! They told her we’d go to the Yule Ball! I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say to her between now and then!”

“You say as little as possible until we have a plan,” Sirius said. His tone had gone flat and practical. “And you do not, under any circumstances, tell her it was a joke. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if we can manage it cleanly. First one, you go. You survive it. You come back and tell me exactly what she said, what she liked, what made her angry. Then we adjust before the second.”

“Second?!” Harry squawked. 

“Second,” Sirius nodded.

Harry stared at the mirror. His reflection was a faint ghost around Sirius’s face. “You’re serious.”

Sirius grinned, quick and sharp.

“I’m always Sirius when pure-blood girls are involved.” The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Listen to me, Harry. If she finds out now, she won’t just be angry. She’ll be humiliated. In front of her house, in front of the school, in front of people who already watch her because of her name. Do you really want to do that to her?”

A pain hit Harry in the chest, sudden and low. He was always under scrutiny for his name. He supposed it was not so different for her. His free hand had curled into a fist against his knee without his noticing.

“No,” he decided. The word came out quieter than he expected. “No… I mean she can be a pain and a brat and bully but… No.”

Sirius sat back. The crooked smile returned, thinner than before, and he regarded Harry with something that looked almost like approval.

“Which brings me to the question I was going to ask before you started panicking.”

Harry braced himself. His shoulders had gone tight again.

Sirius regarded him for a moment, head tilted. “Harry… is a date with Malfoy really that bad?”

“I…” Harry paused. His ears felt hot. “I mean… I-I thought it would be but…”

He had a sudden, unwelcome vision of her actually smiling at him, cheeks pink, one hand in his as they walked. The image was clear enough that he shook his head, hard, as if he could dislodge it, due to the convoluted torment inside his chest.

“YES! YES IT IS!”

Sirius looked skeptical. One eyebrow climbed.

“Uh-huh. A hot bird on your arm who really wants to date you?”

“I don’t know why she does!” Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The motion left his fringe standing up. “She’s a bloody nightmare! She wasn’t supposed to actually say YES!”

“Well, she has, so clearly she believed you were being sincere,” Sirius said.

“Or she’s trying to drive me mad!” Harry insisted. His voice cracked on the last word.

“Girls always do,” Sirius chuckled. The sound was warm and unhelpful.

“But if she finds out—!”

“She won’t.” Sirius leaned a little closer to his side of the glass. The smile had gone crooked again. “Just listen to old Padfoot. He won’t steer you wrong. I promise you’ll get out of this alive… and mostly in one piece.”

“Mostly?!” Harry’s head came up. The mirror tilted with the movement.

“Well, she might bite.”

Harry stared at him. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “Bite? Why?!”

Sirius just grinned.

---

The Slytherin fourth-year girls’ dormitory was warmer than the corridors outside it, the lake-light through the high windows turning the green hangings a deeper shade. Lyra Malfoy’s trunk stood open in the center of the room. She was on her knees beside it, robes pushed up to her elbows, digging through folded garments with the focused irritation of someone who had already rejected three perfectly acceptable options and was prepared to reject three more.

Millicent Bulstrode sat on the edge of her own bed, broad shoulders relaxed, watching with the mild perturbation of a girl who had expected the evening to be quieter. Pansy Parkinson perched on a chair nearby, chin in her hands, expression already sliding toward exasperation. Daphne Greengrass occupied the window seat with a book open across her lap, posture elegant, attention divided. Tracey Davis sat cross-legged on the floor at Daphne’s feet, one eyebrow raised, the corner of her mouth curved in faint amusement.

“So,” Tracey said. “Going on the date with Potter.”

Lyra did not look up. A jumper sailed over her shoulder and landed on the rug. “Yes. To gather critical intelligence.”

“Sure,” Pansy said. “Like how his tonsils taste.”

Lyra spun. The motion was sharp enough to send a strand of hair across her face. She glared at all four of them, color already high on her cheekbones. “I do not like him! Not one bit!”

Pansy turned her head toward Daphne with the silent plea of someone who had been carrying this argument alone for too long. Daphne kept her eyes on the page. Tracey elbowed her, once, then again. Daphne sighed, soft and precise, and lowered the book a fraction.

“We were all there, Lyra.”

“No.” Lyra’s hands had curled into the fabric still in the trunk. “No, see—this is one of his schemes. You remember!”

“Scheming isn’t exactly his forte,” Tracey said. “Surviving and being awesome is, though.”

Millicent nodded. The motion had the weight of a crag deciding whether to become an avalanche. “Yes. He can summon a Patronus to drive off a hundred Dementors.”

“He slayed a basilisk,” Tracey added. “A thousand-year-old one. With the Sword of Gryffindor.”

“He even defeated You-Know-Who,” Pansy said. “In single combat. Twice! Once when he was a baby even!”

Millicent’s sigh was almost wistful. “He’s killed a man already. I wish a boy would kill someone for me.”

“Me too,” Daphne said, without looking up.

Pansy and Tracey both turned to stare at them. Lyra, for her part, had gone very still. For a moment her eyes were distant, fixed on something none of the others could see: Potter with a sword in his hand, bare-chested, that infuriating smile directed at her while something large and dangerous lay at his feet. She blinked, hard, and the image scattered.

“He… he’s not even my type.”

Pansy made a sound of pure exasperation. “A muscle-bound hunk who can outfly you and slays monsters isn’t good enough?”

“Heh.” Tracey tilted her head. “I’ll take a crack at him if you’re not game. He does gardening. The Muggle way.”

Millicent’s brow furrowed. “How do you know?”

“Saw him in Herbology once. His outer robes got dirty with Bubotuber pus. He had to pull them off—” Tracey’s expression turned briefly dreamy. “Mmm. Pure lean muscle. I could just li—”

She registered the frantic warning looks from Daphne, Pansy, and Millicent a fraction too late. When she turned, Lyra was already standing inches from her, wand in hand, face pale with rage, eyes burning for murder. Tracey squeaked.

“—eave him for you,” she finished, sliding behind Daphne with impressive speed. “My best friend and superior in all wayspleasedon’thexme.”

Lyra’s growl was low. “You wouldn’t know what to do with him. And besides—” The murderous edge eased, just slightly, into something smug. “He asked me.”

A pause. The flush returned, climbing toward her ears.

“N-not that that matters! I will simply go along with it for good relations. We’re hosting the Triwizard Tournament. What matters is that we look good for our foreign guests… Before they arrive. We need the practice!”

Millicent, Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey exchanged looks of varying degrees of exhaustion. Pansy sighed.

“Well then. In the interest of relations, we’ll be providing backup.”

“D-don’t be silly.” Lyra turned back to the trunk and began digging again, movements sharper than before. “I’ll be just fine on my own. The less people see this… this embarrassment of riches, the better. I have my reputation to think about. Being seen with Potter. In public. On a date.”

Tracey opened her mouth. “Didn’t you just say you wanted to be seen for good relations—”

Daphne’s hand settled on her forearm, light and final. She shook her head once. Tracey subsided, though not without a muttered, “But she—”

Pansy looked at Daphne. “I thought you had trained her by now.”

“She is quite recalcitrant.” Daphne returned her attention to the book. “The breed will tell.”

“Hey!”

Chapter 3

The day of the Hogsmeade visit finally came. The main courtyard was already filling when Harry reached it. Carriages stood in a loose line along the far edge, the invisible creatures hitched up to them pawing at the ground. The morning was bright and cold enough that most people had kept their cloaks on. Harry had not. Mrs. Weasley’s green jumper sat neatly over a collared shirt and the least-battered pair of trousers he owned. He had combed his hair. It had resisted, as it always did, and now stuck up in three places he had already given up on fixing.

Ron and Hermione stood with him near the front of the queue. Ron had his hands in his pockets and was watching the crowd with the wary interest of someone expecting disaster. Hermione had a small bag over one shoulder and the expression of a girl who had already decided the day would be long.

“You know,” Ron said, “you could just run off under the cloak. Hide in the Forbidden Forest.”

“What, living off Acromantula?”

“Would serve the bastards right.”

“Ron. Language,” Hermione admonished. Ron scowled.

“They tried to eat us, Hermione.” He paused. “What do you think they taste like, anyway?”

Harry considered it. “Huh. Maybe giant crabs?”

“Never had crab.”

“I got leftover boiled crab once. Actually pretty good.”

“Okay, so you kill some Acromantula and boil them.” Ron nodded as if this were reasonable. “I mean, you just have to wait three more years until Malfoy graduates. Then? Open your own Acromantula restaurant.”

Hermione made a sound of pure exasperation. “You are both being ridiculous. I’m sure this date will go fine.”

“I know it’ll go fine,” Harry said. He sounded more confident than he felt, which was the point. “Sirius trained me on it.”

“He did tell you how to start this,” Ron said, “which is why we’re in this mess—”

“Ah, but this time he accounted for it. Now I know how to handle things properly.”

Hermione’s expression was deadpan. “Do you?”

“Sure. I’ve barely interacted with her all week. Just done some little touches here and there. She’ll be super frustrated with me. And the date will be just frustrating enough she’ll get sick of me.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache had already begun behind her eyes. Ron looked less certain.

“Um. You sure about that, Harry?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer and stopped.

Lyra Malfoy had appeared at the edge of the courtyard. She was difficult to miss. The red jumper was a clean, deliberate choice against the green of her house, worn over a short black skirt that left a long stretch of stocking-clad leg visible. A small, old-fashioned purse hung at her side, matched to the outfit rather than to any modern Muggle shape. Her hair was up in a high ponytail that moved when she walked and Harry’s eyes locked onto every bounce of her platinum locks. She looked, Harry thought distantly amidst the heat that had flooded his mind, like she had put in a lot of effort into her appearance.

“There she is, Harry,” Hermione said. Silence. She frowned in concern, and then lightly prodded his arm. “Harry?”

He was staring. Lyra’s gaze found his eyes across the courtyard. Color rose in her face, quick and visible. She started toward them. The noise of the other students seemed to thin. Harry’s carefully prepared confidence developed a sudden and inconvenient crack as she walked towards him, every movement of her hair catching the autumn sunlight.

She stopped in front of him, chin lifted, expression caught between irritation and something Harry couldn’t quite identify. She looked over Hermione and Ron briefly. Both stared at her in mild disbelief. She locked her eyes back on Harry.

“Well, Potter. I’m here. So…?”

“…So…?” Harry managed, buying time.

Her eyes narrowed. “So?”

Remember, Harry thought. Remember Sirius’s advice.

He let a cool, confident smile settle onto his face. It felt steadier than it had any right to. “Hey. You’re looking nice.”

“Just nice?”

“Hm?”

“Y-you were saying…” She looked aside, then back, irritated and shy at once. “I was… b-beautiful before.”

“I said you were always beautiful.”

She turned bright red. The color climbed past her collar and into her ears. Harry stepped forward and reached for her hand. Her fingers were cool. She tensed when he closed his own around them, but she did not pull away.

“You—wh-why are you—?”

“You hold hands on a date.”

“B-but… I…”

“So we don’t get separated.”

A cacophony of emotions seemed to through her eyes, before she managed a stiff, “Y-yes. Well.” She looked aside. “Don’t hold my hand too tightly.”

“Of course.”

He guided her toward the carriages. Over his shoulder he caught Ron’s eye and offered a grin and a wink he did not entirely feel. Ron watched them go, ears red, expression caught between admiration and deep foreboding. Hermione simply planted her face in both hands and stayed that way until they entered the carriage.

---

If Harry had known Legilimency, he might have read the following thoughts from the red-faced young woman as they sat together in the carriage, her hand in his:

AKKSKLLHSKJKBGNKA MY HAND HE'S HOLDING MY HAND THAT'S SO DARING I CAN FEEL HIS HEARTBEAT OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!

She kept her eyes on the opposite seat and attempted to restore order to her thoughts.

Keep control. Keep calm. You are a Malfoy. The future head of the House of Malfoy. Focus!

Harry shifted his grip, settling their fingers more securely together. She felt the change at once. Her eyes flicked down, then up to his face.

“Better grip,” he said, easy, as if the adjustment were a practical matter of not losing her in a crowd.

“Oh,” she managed. Heat climbed her throat.

Interlacing fingers? On the first date?! Don’t we need to be engaged for that sort of thing?!

The carriage steps creaked under new weight. Crabbe and Goyle ducked through the door, filling the opposite bench with broad shoulders and identical, unfriendly stares directed at Harry.

“Hey, Lyra,” Crabbe said.

“Lyra,” Goyle added. He nodded once, then returned to glaring.

“Lads,” Harry answered, unbothered. Lyra felt a sharp, inconvenient flare of admiration and immediately resented it.

Oh, he’s so cool. So cool. But I thought I—

“I gave you two the day off,” she said. The words came out cold and precise.

Goyle shrugged. “Well, we’re all going to the same place, right?”

Crabbe nodded. “And your father told us to—”

Goyle’s elbow caught him hard in the ribs. Crabbe wheezed.

“I—I mean your father told us nothing. Especially not about boys—”

“Well, I’m telling you,” Lyra said, drawing her wand, “get out.”

They hesitated. She did not lower the wand. After a moment of silent calculation they rose, edged past her knees, and exited. The door shut behind them. Lyra exhaled, short and controlled, and returned the wand to her sleeve. Her pulse had not yet settled.

“I apologize for that,” she said, prim again. “Sometimes you must make things clear to your minions so they obey your will.”

Harry nodded, slow, and smiled.

“You’re gorgeous when you take charge like that.”

The thought that rose in answer was not composed, and it was not quiet.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

---

The carriages emptied in a loose scatter of students along the high street of Hogsmeade, the rustic settlement already bustling with activity. Hermione stepped down first, bag secured, and turned in time to see Harry and Lyra already moving away from the queue, hands still joined. Lyra’s ponytail swayed with each step. Harry walked half a pace beside her, green jumper bright against the autumn crowd, and did not appear to notice the several heads that turned to watch them pass. They were heading, Hermione realized, toward the narrow shopfront with the painted sign that read Hayden’s Creatures.

Ron came up beside her, hands still in his pockets. “Okay, so he listened to your notes.”

“I’m amazed that either of you do.”

“Oh, hey. We both listen and read your notes, you know.”

“Then why do you make such a big fuss out of it?”

“Because it’s you?”

Hermione turned a scowl on him. Before she could answer, another voice arrived from directly behind them.

“Definitely that it’s you.”

Ron jumped. “Gah! Do you like sneaking up on people?”

“Why yes, actually.” Pansy Parkinson stood a few feet away, looking entirely pleased with herself. Millicent Bulstrode waited a pace behind her, broad and unhurried. Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis stood a little farther off, the former already surveying the street with mild disinterest.

Ron recovered enough to glare. “What are you all doing here?”

“Same reason you are,” Pansy said. “Lyra’s our friend and this is her first date.”

Hermione glanced after the retreating pair. They had nearly reached the pet shop. “Well, they’re going to notice us all following them.”

“Fine.” Pansy turned. “Millicent? Tracey? Daphne? Go distract Crabbe and Goyle.”

Millicent considered the instruction, then nodded. “Can do. I’ll take them to the Hog’s Head. They can leer at Rosmerta. They’ll be happy.”

“I’m going to Puddifoot's, I like their desserts and chess sets,” Daphne said.

“I’m going with her,” Tracey added at once.

Pansy’s mouth tightened. “You’re supposed to help with Crabbe and Goyle—”

“Millicent is more than capable of handling them both,” Daphne’s expression did not change. “Plus I really don’t want to.”

“Daphneeee,” Tracey said, half protest, half plea.

Daphne shrugged, small and final. She looked at Ron. “Also, Weasley. I want to play chess with you.”

“Eh?”

“What?” Hermione said.

“I want to see if those points awarded in first year were for genuine skill.” Daphne stepped forward, took Ron’s wrist in a firm grip, and began to walk. “We’ll help you spy on Lyra and Potter later.”

Ron looked back at Hermione, helpless, and allowed himself to be towed. “Ah… uh…?”

“Ah! Wait up!” Tracey hurried after them.

Millicent turned without further comment and headed in the direction of Crabbe and Goyle, who were still lingering near the carriages. Pansy and Hermione remained on the pavement. Both watched the various departures with identical expressions of irritation.

“Idiots,” they said, at the same moment.

They started, then turned the looks on each other.

Hermione exhaled through her nose. “…I guess we’ll just sort it out as we go along.”

“Yeah, sure.” Pansy’s mouth twisted. “Just don’t get us caught, Mu… Granger.”

“Same to you, Pug Face.”

“I—!” Pansy’s hand flew to her nose. “I am not a pug face!”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Hermione adjusted her bag and started after Harry and Lyra. Pansy stared after her for one furious second, then stomped in pursuit, still covering her nose.

---

Hayden’s Creatures occupied a crooked little shopfront halfway down the high street, its windows crowded with moving shapes and its door propped open so that the smell of clean straw, warm fur, and something faintly sweet drifted onto the pavement. Inside, the light was softer than the street. Pens and cages lined the walls in uneven rows. A cluster of tiny, luminous moths circled a hanging lamp near the ceiling. Somewhere deeper in the shop a creature chirruped, low and content, and another answered it.

Lyra stopped in front of a low, enchanted pen whose sides shimmered faintly to keep its occupants from bouncing free. Inside, a dozen puffskeins—round, soft, and the color of fresh cream—tumbled over one another like living cotton. Several had already piled themselves against the near wall in a hopeful heap.

“Huh,” Harry said. “I’ve never seen these.”

“They’re puffskeins. Or poffles.” Lyra rested her hands on the edge of the pen. “Native to Great Britain, but they’re exported everywhere as pets. Cute, omnivorous, and they breed like mad.”

A few of the creatures pressed forward in a single fluffy mass and extended long pink tongues to scoop food from a shallow bowl. They ate with eager, unselfconscious focus. Harry’s mouth curved, small and unguarded. Lyra watched him, then lifted her chin.

“Go on. You can touch them. They’re harmless. Unless you’re scared of little puffs.”

He looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and slid his hand over the barrier. The puffskeins converged at once, bumping against his fingers, climbing one another to reach him, their bodies warm and impossibly soft. One settled in his palm and vibrated faintly. He smiled.

“They are cute.”

“Heh. Well, aren’t you cute. Cuddling up to them,” she teased. Harry looked over at her.

“Wouldn’t you like to?”

“I…” She hesitated. “I mean, it’s not as if I could buy any of them. Well, I could, I could buy all of them, but how would I keep them? There’s no pleasure to be had in just having them and getting to-”

“You’re overthinking it. It’s a date, isn’t it?” He nodded toward the pen. “Go on. Pet them. I won’t tell a soul.”

She made a small, skeptical sound, but she reached in. Several puffskeins immediately abandoned Harry’s hand in favor of hers. They pressed against her wrists, climbed her sleeves, and settled against her chest when she gathered them closer. Her shoulders loosened. One hand rose, almost without her noticing, to stroke the nearest soft back.

“Aww…”

The sound was quiet. Harry’s head tilted.

“…Was that a giggle?”

“Huh? N-no!” She set the creatures down at once. They bounced, unoffended, and resumed their pile.

“Sure sounded like a giggle.”

“I do not giggle.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“But that doesn’t make it so.”

“When I do, it does.”

He only smirked. She huffed, turned, and crossed to the next pen before he could answer. Inside, several dark, mole-like creatures with long snouts and clever paws were busy excavating a carefully prepared patch of soil.

“Nifflers. They’re like giant moles. They dig, and they search for precious metals and stones.”

Harry came to stand beside her, admiring the little industrious creatures. “They’re brilliant.”

“And so cute and cuddly and—” She caught herself. “Ahem. Useful for mining and such.”

Harry smiled gently.

“I hope we get to learn about them in Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Honestly, why are we learning about skrewts?” Lyra’s nose wrinkled. “Hagrid exposes us to the most dangerous things he can find that aren’t even any good!”

“Hey. He is a great teacher. When everything comes together,” Harry defended his oldest friend easily. 

She snorted. Harry hesitated, then continued, quieter.

“And his first lesson wasn’t great because…”

He stopped. Lyra’s hands had tightened on the edge of the pen.

“…Because of me,” she said. “I know.” She exhaled. “I did apologize for Buckbeak. He was… He was a magnificent animal, and… And I didn't mean for that to happen.”

“I know,” Harry said, “But it hurt Hagrid. And he’s my friend.”

“I know,” Lyra murmured, “I just… I wrote my father that I was fine. Really... But my father insisted, and…” She shifted, one hand rising to grip her opposite arm. “I do like a number of the classes. Anything that doesn’t have to do with flobberworms or blast-ended skrewts. He knows a lot, even if he can be… Well… Hagrid.”

Harry’s smile returned, smaller. “Yeah.”

He held a Galleon out over the pen. A niffler surfaced, took the coin with delicate paws, sniffed it thoroughly, and then dove back into the soil to bury it. The earth closed over it as if it had never been disturbed.

“Wow. It’s like it can swim through the earth.”

Lyra watched the place where the niffler had vanished. “Yeah.”

After the nifflers, they moved farther along the row of pens. Most were occupied by small, bright things—jarveys arguing in a corner cage, a pair of kneazles washing their faces with exaggerated dignity. Near the back wall sat a lower enclosure with a soft earthen floor and a single dark burrow mouth at its center. Lyra leaned forward, curious.

“What’s in here, I wonder…”

A broad green head emerged from the burrow, scales catching the shop light. The snake was thick through the middle, longer than either of them was tall, and it regarded them with calm, unblinking interest. Lyra made a sharp, involuntary sound and seized Harry’s arm with both hands, pressing herself against his side.

The snake’s tongue flicked once. Its voice, when it came, was a low, deliberate hiss that only Harry understood.

Speaker. Do you have a rat? I would like a rat, please.

Harry answered in the same tongue, the words sliding out of him without thought. I can get you one.

He turned toward the counter.

“Sir? Uh, you have a rat?” The shopkeeper—a broad, auburn-haired man with kind eyes and sleeves rolled to the elbows—had already noticed the exchange. He grinned, flicked his wand, and levitated a plump brown rat out of a covered basket. It floated across the shop and settled into Harry’s free hand. Harry dropped it gently into the pen. The snake struck once, clean and precise, and began to swallow.

Lyra made a small, distressed noise against his shoulder. Harry felt her grip tighten. He grimaced, searching for something useful to say while the snake finished its meal.

“I can talk to them,” he said, quieter. “Snakes. Always could. When I was little, at the zoo, there was one in a tank. I didn’t mean to, but I told it the glass was gone and it got out. Scared everyone. I didn’t really understand it then.”

Lyra did not loosen her hold. Her eyes stayed fixed on the pen. The snake, having finished, lifted its head again and addressed Harry directly.

Thank you. That was good. Will you scratch my head? I will not bite you. I promise.

Harry glanced at Lyra, then back at the snake. Will you not bite my friend, either?

I will not.

“It’s all right,” Harry told her. “He won’t hurt you. I promise.”

He reached into the pen and ran his fingers lightly over the smooth scales behind the snake’s head. The creature hissed, low and pleased, and leaned into the touch. Lyra watched, still tense, but she did not pull him backward.

“There are snakes all over the Slytherin common room,” he said. “And you summoned one. At the dueling club.”

“That doesn’t mean I like them,” she muttered. Her voice was thin. “I just… I know how.”

Harry started to withdraw his hand, ready to steer them both toward the door, when Lyra moved. Slowly, as if the air itself might object, she extended her free hand into the pen. Her fingers hovered, then settled, light and uncertain, against the snake’s head beside his. The creature hissed again, content, and held still under both of them.

“It feels… strange,” she said. “But not terrible.”

Harry smiled, small. “Yeah. I actually like them.”

“You killed a giant one.”

“Well. I don’t hold that against all snakes.”

She pulled her hand back after a moment, still visibly unsettled, and wiped her fingers once against her skirt. The snake lifted its head toward Harry.

Thank you, Speaker. I like to talk to those who understand. Will you come back?

I will, Harry promised.

A small, unmistakable growl sounded between them. Harry glanced at her. She flushed.

“Was… that your stomach?”

“No. It was obviously one of the creatures here.” She straightened, releasing his arm at last. “But I am hungry, so let’s get a move on, Potter.”

“That just didn’t sound like any creature I’ve heard of—”

“Who is the magical creature expert, you or me?” She was already herding him toward the door, one hand light against his sleeve, the other still faintly trembling.

“Heh. Guess it’s you, then.”

The pleased color returned to her face despite everything. “Yes. I am.”

They stepped back onto the street. Behind the corner of the next building, two heads appeared in careful succession. Hermione stared after the retreating pair, mouth slightly open.

“It’s… I… When exactly did you figure out she—?”

“Liked him?” Pansy did not look away from the street. “Pretty much the moment they met, really.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. “…I feel stupid.”

“Good. You should feel that way.”

“At least I do feel that way rather than pretending I’m right all the time!"

“Hello kettle, it's pot, I'm black.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible.” Hermione adjusted her bag and started forward. “Come on, come on.”

They followed at a discreet distance as Harry and Lyra turned toward the pink-fronted shop at the end of the lane. Madam Puddifoot’s windows were already fogged with warmth.

Chapter 4

Madam Puddifoot's sat at the end of the lane, its windows already fogged from within and its pink paint bright against the greys, browns and reds of the surrounding buildings. The bell over the door gave a tuneful tinkle as Harry and Lyra stepped inside. The shop was exactly as cramped and frilled as Harry had heard: bows on every available surface, lace-edged napkins, china sugar bowls shaped like hearts, and round tables pushed so close together that Madam Puddifoot herself had to turn sideways to pass between them. Most of the tables were occupied by pairs of students leaning across cups of tea or cocoa, hands joined, a few of them kissing with almost comical determination.

Harry's shoulders tightened. Lyra's loosened. Madam Puddifoot emerged from behind the counter at once, round-faced and beaming, her apron as pink as the walls.

"Why hello, Miss Malfoy! And, by Merlin—is that Harry Potter?"

Conversation across the shop dropped. Heads turned. Whispers started, quick and low, and more than one pair of eyes fixed on their joined hands. Harry felt the attention settle on him like a weight. This was the part Sirius had tried to prepare him for… But nothing ever could.

Lyra's smile was small and composed. "Yes. It's nice to see you again, Madam. Private booth, please. Quickly."

"Of course!"

Madam Puddifoot guided them along the perimeter of the tables, past several stares that did not quite manage to look away in time, and drew back a pair of heavy pink curtains. The booth beyond was no less frilled than the rest of the shop. A single candle burned at the center of the tiny table; its flame shaped itself, with every flicker, into a small and persistent heart. They sat. Madam Puddifoot set two menus between them, beamed, winked once, and let the curtains fall. The sound of the shop outside vanished as if a door had closed.

Harry exhaled, low.

"Not keen on all that attention," Lyra said. It was not quite a question.

"Just… well." He shrugged. Lyra hummed.

"You're fine at Quidditch matches."

"Well." He shifted, trying to recover the ease he had managed in the pet shop. "I don't have to keep track of as many things doing that."

"Heh. And it is more fun."

"Well, it's why we both do it, isn't it?"

She chuckled, short and genuine. "Yes. And this place is… a bit much. I came here as a child because I loved the sweets. My father would treat me every time he had spare time. He didn't like the décor. Thought it was beneath us. But…" A small, wistful smile touched her mouth. "He still took me. Every time we came here, it was nice."

Harry nodded, slowly. His feelings about Lucius Malfoy were a bit too complicated for this situation, so he settled on just saying, "I'm glad."

"Come on, Potter." She tilted her head. "Didn't your guardians take you anywhere nice growing up? When you begged for sweets?"

The question landed harder than she could have known. Harry's jaw tightened, his fists clenched a bit.

"…No."

Lyra stared at him. "Not even once?"

"It's… it doesn't matter."

"What, you don't want to talk about it?"

"No. No, I do not."

For a moment he saw it clearly: her learning about the cupboard, the hand-me-downs, the years of being told he was lucky to have anything at all. The idea of her mocking him was unpleasant. The idea of her pitying him felt even worse. He didn't know which he was more afraid of.

Lyra was quiet. The candle flame wavered between them, still stubbornly heart-shaped. Then she nodded once, small and careful, and looked down at the menu as if the conversation had simply reached its natural end.

"All right. So. What do you want to order?"

Harry felt his shoulders unclench. He shrugged.

"I don't know. You've been here before. You pick."

"Ugh," Lyra grunted, "You're supposed to take the lead."

"I did bring us here," He pointed out. Lyra snorted.

"Yes, and…?"

Harry managed to not roll his eyes, just as Sirius instructed. Focus on the essentials.

"…How's the treacle tart?"

"Excellent. So's the hot cocoa and butterbeer."

"And honey lemon cakes for you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Works for me."

Silence settled between them, broken only by the soft hiss of the heart-shaped flame. Lyra studied him over the top of her menu.

"…You don't know how to order, do you?"

Harry's smile was wry. "No."

She sighed, tapped the chosen items on both menus with the tip of her finger, and watched as the parchment folded itself—neat, precise, and entirely without her needing to touch it again—into a pair of small origami cranes. They rose from the table and fluttered through the gap in the curtains toward the counter. Lyra's gaze followed them until they were gone.

"This place how you learned how to do that?" Harry asked.

"Yes."

"Can… you teach me how to fold like that?"

A small smile returned to her face. "Of course. After the cakes arrive. You'll need both hands free."

---

Hermione and Pansy stepped into Madam Puddifoot's a few minutes after Harry and Lyra. The bell tinkled. Hermione's nose wrinkled at once—at the bows, the heart-shaped sugar bowls, the pairs of students leaning across tables with joined hands. The air smelled of sugar and warm cocoa and something faintly floral that clung to the lace.

Madam Puddifoot appeared before they had taken three steps, beaming.

"Hello, dearies! Waiting on your boyfriends?"

"Er, no," Hermione said.

Madam Puddifoot's eyebrow rose. Hermione felt heat climb her neck.

"Oh! Um, we're not—we're not together!"

"Yes, honest, Madam," Pansy added quickly.

Madam Puddifoot chuckled. "Never crossed my mind, you two together. Ha!"

"Good," Pansy muttered.

"Wait," Hermione said, vaguely offended. "What's that supposed to mean—?"

"We're just joining our friends over…" Pansy pointed toward a table farther in, where a familiar shock of Weasley red was visible above the frills. "There."

"Of course, of course!"

Madam Puddifoot led them through the narrow gaps between tables. Hermione made a face at a floating cherub statue of pure, aggressive pink. Pansy raised an eyebrow.

"Do you have to have an issue with everything?"

"It's just so… girly."

"Ugh. What is it with you Muggle-borns and hating on girly things? Did they outlaw being feminine in the Muggle world? Well, given your appearance—"

"Watch it." Hermione's voice sharpened. "Besides, Penelope Clearwater got that modeling contract with Sleekeazy's."

Pansy hummed thoughtfully.

"Okay, she's actually quite attractive, she's Muggle-born… so what's your problem?"

Hermione's hair frizzed in her anger.

"You—!"

"Here we are, dears!" Madam Puddifoot announced.

Ron, Daphne, and Tracey had claimed a larger table near the wall. Ron and Daphne sat opposite each other, a chessboard between them, both leaning forward with the focused stillness of people who had forgotten the rest of the world existed. Tracey sat at the end, sipping something pale and nibbling a biscuit, looking profoundly bored.

Hermione and Pansy took the empty seats on either side of her.

"Ron," Hermione said. "Where did Harry and Malfoy go?"

Ron moved his knight without looking up. Hermione scowled.

"Ron!"

"Hm? Oh, sorry, Hermione. Uh…" He glanced away from the game for a moment. "Tracey?"

Tracey swallowed some pastry and sighed.

"He and Lyra went into that private booth." Tracey nodded toward a curtained alcove a few tables away. "We can't peek because of the charms, but nobody's thrown anything and the Virgin Alarm hasn't gone off yet, so they're probably fine."

Hermione blinked. "Virgin Alarm?"

"So there's nothing going past heavy petting here, obviously, Granger," Pansy sniffed.

Hermione's scowl deepened. "I know what—! Ugh, fine, whatever. We'll just order some food then." She looked at Ron again. A plate of sandwiches sat untouched beside his elbow. "Ron? Are you all right?"

"Checkmate," Ron said, "in three moves."

Daphne studied the board carefully. After a moment she nodded.

"Agreed. Another game?"

Ron grinned, bright and unguarded. "Yes, please!"

Hermione stared. "Wha… you've just been playing chess with her all this time?"

"All this time," Tracey sighed. Ron turned to grin at his best female friend.

"She's brilliant, Hermione! Toughest challenge I've had in a while. She even beat me once. It was amazing!"

"Yes," Daphne said. Her gaze on Ron was steady and, for the first time Hermione could remember, warm. "He is quite a challenge."

Alarm bells rang, loud and immediate, in Hermione's head. Daphne Greengrass did not look warm. Ever. Pansy seemed to have the same realization.

"Oh, bloody hell, Daphne," Pansy said, face scrunching up in disgust. "No."

"Hm? No to what?" Daphne asked, entirely too innocent.

Tracey sighed. "No to Weasley."

Ron looked up, puzzled. "Hm? No to me what?"

"I agree," Hermione said. "No."

Daphne's expression did not change. "I don't recall needing your permission to do anything, ladies." She turned the same steady look back on Ron. The Weasley's ears went pink.

"Do what?" He asked.

"You… never mind." Hermione waved a hand, flustered, almost desperate. "It's just normal, silly girly things—!"

"Want to snog me, Ron?" Daphne asked, as blunt as a dragon ramming through a wall.

Ron's jaw dropped as his face burned almost as red as his hair.

"Eh?!"

"Daphne!" Tracey and Pansy said together, outraged.

"Ron!" Hermione said, equally outraged. Ron winced.

"What did I do?!"

Madam Puddifoot, passing by with a tray, tutted.

"My dear lad, this is why you should only pursue one witch at a time. I know the Weasley reputation, but no one wizard can keep them all happy!"

---

The plates had been cleared. The honey lemon cakes were gone, and the last of the treacle tart had left a faint sweetness on the table. The heart-shaped flame still burned between them, smaller now. Harry had both hands free, as promised, but the origami lesson had paused when he started talking about something else entirely.

"In a fighter jet," he said, leaning forward, "you have to control the air moving around you and your engine power to pull it off. The Cobra. You pitch the nose up hard, almost vertical, so the plane stalls for a second and the air brakes against the whole body. Then you drop the nose and push the engines, and you're pointed the other way before the other pilot can react. It's not a turn. It's more like stopping in the air and letting them fly past you."

His hands moved as he spoke, sketching the pitch and the stall in the space above the table. The enthusiasm was unguarded..

Lyra hummed. "Sounds like the Donovan Brake in Quidditch. Pull back, cut your speed to almost nothing to let someone fly past, and then push forward after." She tilted her head. "Muggles really do that sort of thing with aircraft?"

"Yeah. At hundreds of miles an hour."

"You got to see it?"

"When I was nine. Dudley was obsessed with this show called Wings, and there was an airshow at the local airport. My… usual babysitter was ill, so they had to take me." He paused. The memory was still sharp: the roar of the crowd, the way the ground seemed to shake, Vernon complaining about the noise and the cost of the tickets he had not wanted to buy. Harry had not cared. "I got to see fighter jets flying. It was amazing."

Lyra's mouth curved, small and genuine. "I've seen a few airplanes flying over the manor. I always wondered how they flew. Father says they're so loud and cumbersome compared to brooms, but… they go so fast."

"Yeah."

She rested her chin on one hand, studying him across the tiny table. "Well. You're going to have to show off a few moves from these Muggle airplanes. When we go flying."

Harry looked at her across the small table. The heart-shaped flame had burned low. Outside the curtains, the shop continued its low murmur of voices and china.

"I'd love to," he said. "How about now?"

Lyra's mouth curved. "Now sounds good."

He rose and offered his hand. For a moment she smiled, small and unguarded. Then she schooled her features into something sterner and took it. Harry kept the easy expression on his face. Behind it, his thoughts moved faster than he liked.

She had not sneered once when he mentioned Muggle airplanes. She had not questioned him knowing her favorite dessert. She liked talking about Quidditch. She had not badmouthed his friends once.

What the hell is wrong with her?

What the hell is wrong with me? He was enjoying being around Malfoy. Talking to her. Holding her hand.

He must have been doing something wrong. Very wrong.

Still. He trusted Sirius. Sirius knew what he was doing. Right?

The curtains parted at a touch of Lyra's wand. Sound returned all at once, and with it a loud, overlapping argument. Harry and Lyra both stopped.

Hermione had one of Ron's arms. Daphne Greengrass had the other. They were pulling in opposite directions as if he were a wishbone that might snap. Both witches looked furious. Ron looked baffled and faintly terrified. Pansy was trying to haul Daphne backward by the shoulder. Tracey stood a pace away, mortified, watching with the expression of someone who had already decided she wanted no part of whatever this was.

"Let—him—go—!" Hermione said through her teeth.

"No. Why should I?"

"He doesn't like it!"

"Let him decide!"

Harry stared. "Ron? What's going on?"

"How should I know?!" Ron yelped.

"Idiot!" Hermione snapped.

"Stop yelling at me!" Ron shouted.

"Stop yelling at him!" Daphne growled.

"Stop yelling at us!" Hermione bellowed.

"Stop yelling period!" Pansy shouted over all of them.

"Harry, help!" Ron cried.

Lyra's grip on Harry's hand tightened. She did not attempt to mediate. She simply turned, pulled him with her, and headed for the door at a pace that was just short of a run.

"Wha—but—!"

"HARRYYY!" Ron cried.

"I think they can sort that out themselves," she said, and did not slow until the bell had tinkled behind them and the cool air of the street replaced the sugar-sweet warmth of the shop.

Harry winced.

Sorry Ron… Forgive me… And thank you for your sacrifice! I'll never forget it!

"HARRYYY-!"

The door slammed shut, the bell tinkled.

---

They kept walking until the noise of the high street fell behind them and the crooked silhouette of the Shrieking Shack rose at the edge of the village, its boards pale and weathered against the darkening trees. The wind had picked up. It tugged at Lyra's ponytail and cut through the thin fabric of Harry's jumper. His pulse was still elevated from the walk and the argument. Lyra's grip on his hand had not loosened; her fingers were tight enough that he could feel the tension running up her arm. They stopped at the the leaning fence surrounding the house, both of them breathing hard, the cold air sharp in their lungs.

"What… was that?" Lyra managed. A strand of hair had come loose and stuck to her cheek. She did not brush it away.

"We could have stayed. To find out."

"Ugh." She turned on him, color high across her cheekbones and throat. "I wanted a nice date. None of your crazy—crazy Potter stuff."

"Hey, this isn't my fault."

"Your stupid best friends were in some weird fight. Over Weasley."

"All of your stupid friends were involved too."

"Well, I—Daphne has always been barmy."

"How does that make it better?"

"W-well… your friends were involved."

"So?"

They had drawn close without noticing. The fence rail pressed against Harry's back. Their noses nearly touched. Both of them were flushed, still catching their breath, the heat of the argument sitting between them like something physical. Harry registered, distantly and with some alarm, that she was very pretty when she was that angry—the sharp line of her mouth, the way her eyes had gone bright, the faint tremor in the hand still locked with his. The observation did not help.

A sharp crack split the air between them. Dobby appeared in a bright, hopeful pop, beaming up at Harry from roughly waist height, ears quivering with excitement.

"Harry Potter, sir!"

"Gah!" Lyra jerked backward. Her free hand flew to her wand before she caught herself.

Harry drew a breath. The cold helped. Sirius's voice rose, unhelpful and familiar: Calm down. Her anger can be endured. Don't get angry. He managed a smile that felt steadier than it had any right to. "Hey, Dobby. You're right on time."

"Thank you, Mister Harry Potter, sir! But Dobby thought Dobby was late and—" The elf's large eyes shifted. He stared at Lyra, the brightness dimming into wariness. "Missus Malfoy."

"…Dobby?" Her voice had gone thin.

Dobby edged closer to Harry and lowered his voice. It was still loud enough for both of them to hear. "Harry Potter, sir… that is daughter of bad former master."

"I know."

"She could also be bad-bad."

Harry looked at Lyra. She had gone very still, shoulders drawn in, one hand still half-raised as if she had forgotten it. The wind moved her hair across her face. "…As bad as her father?"

She flinched. It was small, but he saw it. Dobby shook his head, ears drooping.

"No. Missus Daughter Malfoy not as bad. Never make Dobby punish himself. Still mean. With words."

"Dobby, I…" Lyra's mouth tightened. She glanced at Harry, then back at the elf, and something in her expression shifted—less defensive, more careful. "Are you doing well?"

Dobby remained suspicious, large eyes narrowed. "Dobby fine. Being paid."

"Really?" Her tone was carefully polite, the edges of it softened. "The other elves must not be happy about that."

"Dobby not care! Harry Potter, sir, free Dobby! Dobby free!"

A small smile touched Lyra's mouth, unexpected and genuine. "Yes. You are."

"Yeah." Harry rested a hand lightly on the elf's shoulder. The fabric of Dobby's strange sweater was rough under his fingers. "Dobby? I know she's been mean, but… she's trying to be better."

"I am doing better," Lyra said. The huff lacked its usual force. She was still flushed, but the anger had thinned into something closer to embarrassment.

"Hmm." Dobby studied her for a long moment. "If Harry Potter, sir, says so…"

"Can you get us our brooms, Dobby? Please?"

"Dobby can!"

"Thank you, Dobby."

The elf vanished with another crack. The wind filled the space he left. Lyra raised an eyebrow, though the gesture felt less sharp than before.

"He's your elf now, then?"

"He's free. He can do what he wants."

"He seems very devoted to you."

Harry shrugged. The cold was settling into his shoulders. "Yeah, well. I freed him from getting kicked around in public by your father."

Color rose in her cheeks again, deeper this time. When she spoke, her voice was quieter, and she did not quite meet his eyes.

"For what it's worth… my mother taught me that abusing a house-elf is beneath us. They're bound to us. Hurting them just makes you look weak. Insecure. If you treat your bound servant like that, you look bad." She hesitated, fingers tightening once on the fence rail. "My father was very angry at the time, but… it doesn't excuse his actions."

Harry could have answered. The words were there—about the basilisk, about how her own father had unleashed that monster in a school that had contained her as well as everyone else, about the cost of his anger. The sincerity in her voice stopped them. He watched the way she held herself, small and braced, as if she expected the conversation to turn on her at any moment.

"I'm not fond of acting out in public, either," she added. The admission seemed to cost her. "Of looking foolish. That's why I reacted so badly to… that scene."

"…I get it." He shifted his weight. The fence creaked. "Sorry."

She sighed. Some of the tension left her shoulders. "It's not your fault… I suspect it's one of Daphne's strange little pranks."

"What? Her fancying Ron?" Harry rose to the defense of his best friend easily. "He's great!"

"You'll forgive me if I don't have the same taste in men as she does." The sniff was automatic, but it lacked heat.

A fragment of Sirius's advice surfaced, unbidden. Harry smiled, easy and deliberate, and watched the effect land.

"No. You like men like me, right?"

He expected anger. Denial. Some sharp retreat into the familiar lines they had drawn years ago.

She only stared at him. Her face was red to the ears. The wind moved between them, cold and ordinary, and she said nothing at all.

Harry felt his face grow warm.

Another crack. Dobby reappeared, two brooms clutched carefully in his hands, the Firebolt and Lyra's own Nimbus 2001 held with the reverence of someone transporting fragile treasure.

"Dobby get brooms!"

"…Thank you, Dobby."

"Mister Harry Potter, sir, is welcome!" The elf beamed, then glanced once more at Lyra, still wary but no longer hostile, before vanishing again.

The wind moved between them, colder now that the sun had dropped behind the trees. Lyra's hand was still in his. The brooms rested against Harry's other arm, the Firebolt's polish catching what remained of the light.

"So," she said. Her voice had steadied, though the color had not entirely left her face. "You wanted to show me some moves."

"…Yeah."

She lifted her chin, the old sharpness returning at the edges. "Well. Let's get on with your showing off, Potter."

A small smile touched his mouth. "I can do that."

He offered her broom. She took it, and for a moment neither of them moved to mount. The Shrieking Shack creaked behind them. Somewhere farther down the lane, a carriage rattled past and faded. Harry swung a leg over the Firebolt. Lyra followed a second later, settling onto her Nimbus with her usual grace.

They took to the air.

Chapter 5

They rose together into the cold air above the Shrieking Shack, the weathered boards shrinking beneath them as the wind caught their brooms and pulled. The late light turned the treetops gold and the distant village a scatter of warm windows. Harry leaned forward on the Firebolt and felt the familiar surge of speed answer him. Lyra matched him for the first long stretch, her Nimbus cutting a clean line beside his, ponytail streaming.

He banked hard left. She followed, tighter than he expected, the edge of her turn shaving past the crooked chimney of the Shack. Harry grinned into the wind and pulled up, then pitched the Firebolt's nose almost vertical. The broom shuddered. For a heartbeat the air seemed to stall against him the way he had described at the table—speed bleeding away, the world tilting—then he dropped the nose and drove forward again. Lyra shot past him in a rush of red jumper and pale hair, close enough that he felt the slipstream tug at his sleeves.

She did not overshoot for long. A barrel roll carried her up and over him, inverted for a clean second, then righted and diving back onto his tail with a laugh he heard even over the wind. Harry answered with a sharp climb that took them both higher, the Shack and the fence falling away until the village was only a smudge of light below. She stayed with him on the turns, cutting inside his wider arcs, forcing him to bleed speed or risk losing her entirely. The Firebolt was faster on the straight. Her Nimbus answered quicker when the air grew complicated.

They chased each other through the fading light until Harry's arms ached and Lyra's laughter came in short, breathless bursts. He pulled another stall-and-drop that left her cursing and grinning in equal measure. She answered by skimming so low over the Shack's roof that loose shingles rattled, then climbing straight at him until he had to roll clear or collide. Neither of them slowed. The cold bit at their faces. The wind tore at their clothes. For a little while the rest of the day—the shop, the argument, the careful lines they usually kept—fell away beneath them, and there was only the sky, the brooms, and the bright, uncomplicated joy of trying to catch each other.

Lyra dipped low over the Shack again, lower than the last pass. The Nimbus caught the edge of a loose tile. The broom jerked. She spun, the world tilting hard, and Harry was already diving. He came in beside her, one arm locking around her waist, and eased them both down in a controlled arc that ended with their boots on the frost-stiff grass. They were both breathing hard. The Firebolt hovered, steady, under them until he swung off and set it down.

"I… I could have handled that—!"

"You were about to crash."

"I was not! And if I was, it was because of you!"

He scowled. She scowled back. They were close enough that he felt the warmth of her breath against his mouth, close enough to see the faint freckles across her cheeks and the way a strand of hair had stuck to her lower lip.

"Me? I saved you."

"Oh, you did not—!"

"Yes, I did. Just like I did on the Quidditch pitch—"

"You didn't save me!"

"Of course I did, and I saved you right now. You're just too stubborn and arrogant to admit it."

"I'm stubborn and arrogant?!"

"You're the definition of stubborn and arrogant—"

She kissed him.

It was sudden and unpracticed. Her mouth pressed against his, warm and certain, and the heat that went through him felt less like warmth and more like a current. He leaned into it. She did the same. Their teeth knocked once. Neither of them pulled away. It was clumsy and imperfect and, for the length of it, the only thing either of them seemed able to do.

They broke apart still breathing hard, foreheads nearly touching, eyes locked.

"I… I…"

"I…"

Lyra stared at him. Harry licked his lips. Every word he reached for refused to leave his mouth.

"MALFOY!"

Crabbe and Goyle came over the rise at a run, Millicent a few paces behind them, looking resigned.

"I'm sorry, Lyra," Millicent said. "They broke loose—"

"Get your hands off her!" Goyle shouted. "Her da will have our hides if you—!"

"Both of them!" Crabbe added.

"I said that—!"

"Shut up, Goyle! He'll kill you first!"

"Not if I sell you out first—!"

"You two stop that at once—!" Lyra snapped.

"I didn't—!" Harry started.

"HARRYYYY!"

Ron crested the hill at a dead run, eyes wide. "Harry! Hide me! Loan me some money—I gotta get out of here!"

"What?! Why?!"

"Ron Weasley, you get back here and snog me right now!" Daphne's voice carried, somehow still deadpan even at volume. Hermione appeared behind her, flushed and furious.

"Don't you dare, Greengrass!"

"He's mine! Go off and be one of those weird lesbians in London!"

"I am not a lesbian!"

Tracey and Pansy followed, both shouting.

"Daphne! You're mental for going for a Weasley—!"

"I tried, Lyra! Daphne's gone mad—!"

"I have found my perfect wizard!"

"He's not yours!"

"Then claim him yourself, coward!"

Hermione went scarlet. "No!"

Lyra's eyebrow twitched. She raised her wand and fired a sharp, cracking blast of sound into the air. Everyone flinched. The shouting stopped.

"Look at yourselves," she said, voice cutting and clear. "We're supposed to be Hogwarts students and you're acting like a pack of baby goblins who found a bit of tin. Crabbe. Goyle. I told you, I choose Potter. To go out with. In this instance. Go back to the carriages."

"B-but Lyra, he told us to—"

"Did either of you slay the Dark Lord? Or a basilisk? Or a hundred Dementors? No? Then I think I'm fine. Go. Millicent, make sure they go."

Crabbe and Goyle slunk off. Millicent gave Lyra a small, approving smirk and followed. Lyra turned to the remaining Slytherins. Daphne had frozen mid-step toward Ron, who was still half-hidden behind Harry.

"Daphne. Sort out your romantic issues with Weasley at the castle."

"I suppose I'll just need to use the Body-Bind. That way he can still talk."

"You will not—!" Hermione started.

"Sort out your feelings too, Granger!"

Hermione went brighter. "I do not have any feelings—!"

"Hermione," Harry said, quieter. "Come on. Let's… let's not make any more scenes, okay?"

She scowled, but after a moment she nodded. Lyra's glare moved to Pansy and Tracey.

"We did nothing wrong! Honest!" Tracey said.

"Except spy on you," Pansy added.

"Spy on us better next time. Honestly. This is pathetic."

"…True," Pansy muttered.

They took Daphne by the arms and pulled her away. Daphne smiled, small and unbothered, and winked at Ron as she went.

"Floo me!"

Ron gaped, ears red. Lyra turned to Hermione and Ron.

"Same to you. How do you sneak out of the common room so often?"

"That's… I mean…" Hermione glanced at Harry, worried.

"…It's okay, Hermione." He shrugged, heat still in his face. "It… well…"

Understanding crossed her expression. She nodded, then glared at Lyra. "You try anything—"

"I won't."

"…Good. Ron?"

He peered out from behind Harry. "…Do you have romantic feelings for me too, Hermione?"

She went scarlet. "N-no! Not at all! I—I just think you can do better than Greengrass!"

"Well… I mean, I do like playing chess with her, before she went mad—"

"Beat it!"

"Okay, okay! We're going! We're going!" Ron shook his head, muttering uncomplimentary things about the fairer sex as he headed for the hill. Hermione followed. She gave Harry a small, careful smile before they disappeared over the rise with everyone else.

The field went quiet. Wind moved through the grass. Harry and Lyra stood where they were, close, neither quite sure how to close the remaining distance or whether they should.

"I… I uh…"

"…Lyra, I… the truth is… this date and all, it…"

"…Yes, Harry?"

He had used her name. She had used his. He liked the way it sounded from her.

Her eyes were wide, open in a way he had not seen before—hopeful, careful, and something warmer underneath.

He licked his lips. "…I… I want to do it again."

"…M-me too."

"And… maybe… other things. Besides Hogsmeade."

Color flooded her face. "H-Harry! I—I can't—not—I mean, I've thought about those things but—but we're so young—but—I—I mean if you really wanted to—"

"I meant, you know, kissing. Hand-holding. Um. That… sort of thing." He blinked. "What were you talking about?"

"…The same. Same thing." She was bright red.

"I'm just… worried about your father."

"I know. He… might be an issue, but…" A small smile returned. "Dating the Boy Who Lived can't be a bad thing for my family image, now can it?"

He laughed, short and surprised. "Well. As long as it's not just for that."

"No. Not at all." Harry sighed through his nostrils.

"So… How do we… Do this?"

Lyra flushed.

"I… Don't know," she admitted. 'I like kissing and handholding, so… We can just do that?"

Harry nodded eagerly.

"Y-Yeah… Totally fine with that."

They stood there, close, unsure how much closer to get, and still together. Harry leaned his head lightly against hers. The cold air moved around them, something warm keeping the chill at bay. They held hands. She smiled at him again and his heart pounded like a drum.

Best prank ever, he thought, and did not examine the thought too closely.

---

The cottage sat at the end of a rutted lane in Yorkshire, half its roof still patched with temporary charms and the rest waiting for Sirius's next attempt at proper mending. Inside, the single main room smelled of woodsmoke, old paper, and the sharp green scent of the potion ingredients Remus kept drying near the hearth. Sirius had claimed the better chair and was paging through one of Remus's anonymously published monographs with the expression of a man determined to find something worth arguing about. A wand he had acquired in Brazil rested on the arm of the chair, still faintly warm from the last round of repairs.

"You think you can use a Patronus as a… 'Punch Ghost'?" Sirius said. Remus, finishing some patching on a window, rolled his eyes.

"A very crude descriptor—"

"But accurate," Sirius pointed out.

Remus sighed and flicked his wand at a stack of plates, sending them flying back into the cupboards. "It is not a 'Punch Ghost.' You can use a sufficiently powerful Patronus to affect physical matter. And anyway, most Patroni don't have hands, so they can't punch."

"Punch Ghost sounds better than Hit Ghost."

"Don't use either of them."

"I'm going to."

"Of course you are." Remus set the plates into their correct nooks with more force than necessary. "So. What did you talk to Harry about?"

Sirius snorted.

"Girl troubles. What else?"

"Oh?" Remus's mouth twitched. "That Malfoy girl?"

"Yes!" Sirius laughed. "God, she's obsessed with him!

"She absolutely is," Remus chuckled, "But this is the first year they could do something about it. Though Dumbledore thought they would take until fifth year to figure something out. Minerva thought the same. Pomona thought-"

"Bloody hell," Sirius chuckled, "is the entire school in on it?"

Remus smiled wanly.

"Heh. Pretty much. I think even Severus had a wager or two."

Sirius stared. "No kidding. Well… I helped him out."

"As I told you to," Remus said with a smile. Sirius grinned.

"Oh trust me… I gave him everything he needed."

Remus's expression shifted into the particular blend of exasperation and scolding that Sirius had known since they were eleven. "Padfoot. You didn't tell him about—"

"Oi, oi! I kept it age appropriate!"

"You tried to sneak into the girls' Quidditch locker rooms at his age!"

"I was an early bloomer! Clearly Harry's going to take his time. I was perfectly responsible!"

Remus gave him a flat, unimpressed look.

"I'm his guardian! I need to be responsible!"

The look deepened.

Sirius shifted. "I just imagined things you would yell at me for and didn't put those in."

"All right. What about things I would hex you for?"

"None of that either. I promise."

"Padfoot—"

"What? I did my best. I think it's all going to work out fine—"

The two-way mirror in his pocket chimed, Harry's voice cutting through the room. "Sirius!"

Sirius fished it out and tapped the glass twice. Harry's face appeared, windblown and bright-eyed.

"Harry! How'd it go?"

"G-great! Just great! Um… you know… we uh…" Harry grinned, sudden and unguarded. "We kissed."

Remus paused with. "Today?"

"Yes!"

Remus grinned.

"Oh, that's fantastic, Harry!"

"Yeah." Sirius winked at the glass. "Told you it would work. So… what's next?"

"Ah… well… I mean… we're going to the Yule Ball and a second date at Hogsmeade. We're trying to keep it quiet since her father and all…"

Sirius winced.

"Oh, yeah. That's a bother."

Remus's smile was faint and knowing. "Indeed."

Harry looked at them, hopeful.

"So… you think you can give me more advice?"

Sirius grinned. "All the advice you want, Harry. Promise."

Remus's scowl arrived on schedule. Sirius coughed.

"Tomorrow. You gotta get some sleep, or Moony'll beat me. Such an abusive spouse. I slave all day in the kitchen for him and this is the thanks I get?"

"I will not beat you, Sirius. I'm in too good a mood. And I was the one slaving all day!" Remus turned back to the mirror, beaming. "Congratulations, Harry."

"Thank you! Stay safe, please!"

The mirror went dark. Sirius turned it over in his hands and raised an eyebrow at Remus.

"You're uncharacteristically cheerful, Moony."

"Why shouldn't I be happy that Harry had his first kiss?"

"Oh, you are. But you're happy about something else. Something related to it—"

A Hogwarts owl battered its way through the half-open window, wings laboring under the weight of a very large, clinking bag. It landed on the table with an exhausted thump. Remus fed it, paid it, and watched it groggily launch itself back into the night. Then he opened the bag. Galleons spilled across the scarred wood in a bright, heavy pile.

Sirius stared. "…Moony. By any chance did you place a bet in the pool?"

Remus's smile was the picture of innocence. "…Maybe."

"And did you by any chance encourage me to write to Harry to help him with this… just so you could win it?"

An innocent shrug. "Well. I was helping Harry at the same time I was helping you both, so…"

Sirius laughed until he had to brace a hand on the table. "God, Moony. I missed you."

"Same, Padfoot." Remus began stacking the coins with quiet satisfaction. "Same."

"Still, you needed me to actually get it done," Sirius stated.

Remus sighed in annoyance.

"Yes, I did."

"And this is why I'm the godfather and you're not!" Sirius crowed.

Remus gave Sirius the least impressed look yet.

"You're the godfather because you rigged the coin toss!"

Sirius just smirked.

"Prove it!"

Chapter 6

Breakfast in the Great Hall smelled of toast and pumpkin juice and the particular cold that clung to the stone even after the fires had been lit. Harry sat with his elbows on the table and a smile he had not quite managed to hide. Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, Lyra caught his eye. For a moment the look she sent him was simply warm. Then it sharpened into the familiar cocky smirk, and she turned back to her plate as if the exchange had never happened.

A few weeks of classes had passed. A few weeks of careful distance in public—no kissing, no lingering touches, nothing that would travel. And still it was easy to see, if one knew where to look, that something had shifted. Their insults had gone soft at the edges. Their arguments ended in something closer to laughter than they used to.

Hermione turned a page of Hogwarts, A History without looking up. “You’re staring again.”

“Ah, well… uh. Heh.”

Ron glanced over his shoulder toward the Slytherin table, then back, as if expecting Daphne to materialize between the benches. “Geez, mate. Are you sure this is still a prank or something?”

“I don’t know exactly what it is.” Harry reached for the marmalade. “I just… I just know I like it.”

“Aw.” Hermione’s mouth curved. “All that bullying was her tugging on your pigtails.”

“He doesn’t have pigtails.”

“Ugh. Never mind.”

Ron shifted closer to her on the bench. “Still, Harry. Be careful. Pure-blood politics around marriage can be nasty.”

“Oh?”

“Absolutely.” Ron nodded toward the far table. “I mean, sure, you’re the Boy Who Lived, but her family still served You-Know-Who. That could be a mess.”

“I—I mean, we’re not getting married.” Harry’s ears warmed. “I mean, it might be nice, but not right away.”

“Yeah, but pure-bloods on her level? They’re really picky about who they marry.”

“That’s a good point, Ron.” Hermione closed the book a fraction. “Still, even Lucius Malfoy can’t be so daft as to realize how good it would make him look to have Harry as a son-in-law. He’s famous, rich, a hero, handsome, can cook—”

“I somehow doubt he’d care about that.”

“Harry also took out his old boss,” Ron said. “Don’t forget that.”

“I did stop him from a plan that would have killed everyone here, including his daughter.”

Hermione snorted. “I doubt he would like to be reminded of that, either.” She glanced at Ron, who had edged another inch closer. “And Ron? Honestly, stop sticking so close to me.”

“Hermione, that Daphne girl is scary.”

“Come on,” Harry said. “She loves chess, she’s pretty—”

“All right, Ron.” Hermione’s voice sharpened. “Stick as close as you like. Just to keep her off you.”

Harry blinked. “…Are you actually jealous, Hermione?”

“No! Of course not! Not in the slightest!” Color climbed her neck. “I—I’m just not letting Ron get taken advantage of by some Slytherin tart. No offense to your girlfriend.”

Across the hall, Lyra’s smirk had returned. She lifted her cup in a small, deliberate toast that no one else at her table appeared to notice, then went back to her breakfast as if the morning were entirely ordinary. Harry hid his answering smile behind a piece of toast and decided, for the moment, that ordinary was enough.

---

Potions had become, under the current arrangement, almost tolerable. Mostly.

Snape swept to the front of the classroom and flicked his wand at the board. “The instructions are written. You will brew it properly. Doing it improperly will create a toxic poison.”

Lyra’s hand rose. “Professor, I will work with Potter again. I need to ensure he brews it properly.”

Snape’s mouth curled. “Very well, Miss Malfoy. You’ve been helping him a great deal lately.”

“He needs it.”

“No doubt.”

Harry allowed the scowl to settle onto his face because it was genuine—Snape still got under his skin faster than anyone else—but the expression softened at the edges when he caught the look Lyra sent him. The smirk was still there. It was simply less sharp. He sat beside her and opened his kit.

“Granger,” Snape said, “work with Parkinson. She needs the help, and you can be a know-it-all at her for a while.”

“Professor—!” Hermione protested, but Snape had the perfect counter.

“Five points from Gryffindor for back talk.”

Hermione’s mouth tightened. “Hmph.”

“Like you have problems,” Pansy muttered.

“Five points from Slytherin for complaining, Parkinson.”

A ripple of disbelief moved through the room. Snape ignored it.

“And Weasley, you’re with Greengrass.”

Ron’s shoulders slumped. “Can’t I just have detention?”

“You can. After class. With Greengrass.”

Daphne’s smile was bright and entirely unhelpful. Ron trudged over and dropped onto the stool beside her. Snape’s gaze moved to Neville, who had gone pale.

“Longbottom. Work with Granger and Parkinson. If you don’t want your pet being poisoned…”

Neville hurried. Snape began his usual circuit of the room, delivering low, precise insults as he went. Harry felt Lyra’s hand settle lightly over his on the table.

“It’s all right,” she said, quiet. “Here. Show me your kit.”

He set it down. She shook her head, drew her wand, and murmured a short series of cleaning and sharpening charms. The knife gleamed. The scale settled.

“Really, Potter. You need to take better care of your things. Clean and sharpen your knife. Anyway—let me show you how to cut the ingredients, and you read off the instructions.”

“All right.”

It was still irritating. The gentle look in her eyes made it less so. She was patient, even when she mocked the unevenness of his slices, and for the first time in years the class did not feel like a sustained disaster. Having her as a partner helped.

Across the classroom, Ron made a strangled sound. “Gah! Daphne!”

“Oh no.” Daphne’s voice was calm. “I’m covered in mucus, Ron. You should remove my blouse before it burns my skin.”

“You’re fine! Hermione, help!”

“Professor!” Hermione’s outrage carried. Pansy covered her face in disbelief. Snape observed the scene with his usual sneer.

“I don’t get involved in domestic disputes, Granger. Five points from Gryffindor.” Snape paused. “And Greengrass. Really?”

Daphne’s expression was unrepentant.

Snape sighed. “Mister Weasley. Be a proper gentleman for once in your life.”

“Me? What’d I do?!”

Harry hid a smile behind the cutting board. Potions was still rough, but tt was a lot more entertaining. Poor Ron.

Lyra huffed.

“He really should be more decisive,” Lyra muttered. “Who’d want to date Granger?” She looked over at Harry, who scowled slightly. She coughed.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, “Just… Why can’t she be honest with her feelings?” She graced him with a small smile. “Like you?”

Harry stared at her for a heartbeat too long. He slowly nodded.

“Yeah,” he smiled softly. 

Her smile grew wider. And it was all he could see. 

Snape loomed up behind them. Lyra smoothly turned her warm smile into a smirk.

“Well, that’s better… But still quite poor, Potter. Pay attention!”

Harry grumbled and got back to recipe preparation.

“Sure Malfoy, sure,” he muttered. Snape… Passed by, like a particularly greasy shadow. Harry blinked.

No mean comment? No insult?

Things really were different!

Chapter 7

Hermione worked with the tight, furious focus of someone determined not to look at the table two rows over. Every few minutes she failed. Ron and Daphne sat with their heads bent over a shared cauldron, and each time Hermione’s gaze drifted that way her stirring grew sharper. Pansy rolled her eyes, sighed, and continued guiding Neville through the careful chopping of the roots. The summer growth spurt had left him broad enough that both witches had shifted their stools outward to give him room.

“Really, Granger,” Pansy said, low. “You could not be more obvious.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” Pansy nudged the newt eyes closer to Neville’s hand. “Here. Put them in like this.”

“Oh. Thanks, Pansy.”

Hermione’s knife paused. “Wha—since when were you two on a first-name basis?”

Neville flushed. “Well… uh… we kind of grew up together.”

Pansy shrugged, unbothered. “Our houses formed an alliance after the war. Neville’s gran demanded a lot of concessions from mine since we were Imperio’d on the side of You-Know-Who, and Neville’s gran is my…” She screwed up her face, calculating. “Fourth cousin removed? I don’t know. In any event, we visited at each other’s houses as children several times.”

“I…” Hermione stared. “But you were always bullying him.”

“Yeah.” Neville’s smile was small and genuine. “It’s nice you’re being nice this year.”

“I was always nice, Neville.” Pansy’s tone was almost fond. “You’re the scion of a Great House. You need to toughen up.”

Hermione groaned and pressed her fingers to her temples. “The world has gone mad.”

Pansy leaned in, voice dropping further. “Well. If it helps ease your mind, Lyra made clear that we need to treat you better. Gryffindors, I mean.”

“Oh?”

“She even brought her case to Snape. Said that with the Triwizard, we need to present a united front.”

Neville blinked. “Ohhh. I thought it was just because she’s dating Harry.”

Pansy’s smirk was quick. “Well, obviously it is like that. But you know Lyra. She can’t admit to that.”

“Ohhh.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why Greengrass is so ardent?”

“Daphne is just weird, Granger.” Pansy returned to the roots. “Weasley being a challenge to her in chess is more than enough reason for her to pursue him.”

Hermione grumbled. Then Ron laughed—short, surprised, and unmistakably pleased. She looked over. He was smiling, nervous and bright, while Daphne watched him with an expression that was simply warm. Hermione’s jaw tightened. She drove her knife into the bubotuber with more force than the task required.

“Um… Hermione?” Neville said carefully. “Are you okay—?”

“I’m fine.”

Pansy did not look up from the cauldron. “You don’t look fine.”

“Well I am!”

“Snape,” Neville whispered, as the professor approached. All three went back to their potion. Snape sneered over them, as Longbottom flinched a bit. He then moved on, content, it seemed, to allow his mere presence to speak for him.

“I’m fine,” Hermione hissed.

“We’re just concerned about you, Hermione,” Neville murmured. Hermione scowled.

“Well, don’t be! Ron and I… We’re just friends, that’s all! I just don’t think Greengrass has good intentions for him!”

Pansy smirked knowingly. Hermione turned bright red.

“Shut up!”

---

Ron was, against every expectation he had carried into the dungeon, almost enjoying himself. Daphne knew what she was doing. She had laid the ingredients out in the order they were needed, corrected the angle of his knife without comment, and set a small timer charm that chimed softly each time something had to go into the cauldron. The work moved cleanly. The cauldron did not smell like anything was about to explode.

“You chop the ingredients well,” she said.

“Oh. Well, uh. I had to help Mum with potions growing up a lot.”

“Really? That’s useful experience. I only got taught by my tutor. My parents didn’t teach me much directly, save for spellwork.”

“Oh. I’m sorry…”

“It’s all right.” She measured a careful pinch of powdered root. “My father did teach me chess. I am very fond of it because it was one of the few times we could get together, between his work and the Wizengamot.”

“Oh… oh, uh, yeah…”

When she was simply talking, without the deadpan proposals or the sudden declarations, it was easier to notice that she was pretty. Blonde, a little more willowy than Lyra, with deep blue eyes and high cheekbones. She was usually cold to the point of stillness. But when she smiled... It took his breath away.

“I’m sure if you defeat my father in chess and a duel,” she said, still in the same even tone, “he will give you my hand in marriage.”

“Urk!”

“Just kidding.”

“Bloody hell!” Ron laughed, short and startled. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“He’ll probably just ask for the chess match.”

“Ack!”

Snape, who had been looming over Parvati and Lavender’s station, turned. “Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley.”

“I provoked him, Professor,” Daphne said.

Snape regarded her for a moment. “…Very well, Greengrass. Five points from Slytherin.”

He resumed his circuit, black robes trailing, sneer intact. Ron stared at Daphne.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“The House Point system is a joke anyway.” She stirred once, precise. “Your reward at the end of the year is just the banners in your house colors, and your Head of House holding an empty cup in their office.”

“But… it’s pretty nice, right?”

“It’s entirely arbitrary. If the Headmaster wants to, he can just give one house enough points on a whim to win.”

“Hey! We earned those House Points in first year!”

“I know. But you do realize the only reason we’ve been winning before you came was because Professor Snape is just as biased? So why get points for sucking up?”

“Huh.” Ron turned that over. “I never thought about it that way…”

A prickle ran up the back of his neck. He looked, slowly, toward the other table. Hermione was glaring at them. Her hair had begun to puff outward in a way he associated with incoming lectures and, occasionally, hexes. He swallowed.

“She seems jealous,” Daphne observed.

“Well, she’s not!”

Hermione’s knife hit the cutting board with a sharp, decisive crack. Ron decided, for the sake of survival, to keep his eyes on the cauldron.

---

The corridors on the way up to Divination were colder than they had any right to be-Though that wasn’t because of the temperature. Hermione walked several paces ahead, bag clutched tight, spine rigid. Ron and Harry followed at a distance that kept shrinking no matter how carefully Harry tried to manage it.

“I said I was sorry!” Ron called.

“I’m not mad!” Hermione growled.

“You are!”

“How would you know?!”

“’Cause I know how you are when you’re mad!”

“No, you don’t!”

She disappeared around the next corner without looking back. Harry set a hand on Ron’s shoulder and slowed them both.

“Let her go. She’ll get over it.”

“I dunno, mate.” Ron glanced after her, uneasy. “She’s awful mad.”

“Well… I mean… maybe she just worries about you and Daphne.”

“What? I like her.” Ron’s ears went pink. “Mostly. She’s scary and weird and… great. Why would Hermione feel jealous of that?”

Harry laughed under his breath. “I dunno… Snuffles says that’s all girls.”

Ron looked at him hopefully.

“Think he could give me some advice?”

Harry shrugged.

“I’ll ask…”

Ron’s expression changed. He looked past Harry’s shoulder and went pale. Harry turned. Snape was advancing up the corridor, cloak flaring, face set in a deeper sourness than usual. Harry did not know what had put him in that mood and had no interest in finding out. His eyes caught on a familiar gargoyle a few feet ahead.

“Uh… lemon sherbet?”

The gargoyle sprang aside. Harry grabbed Ron’s sleeve and pulled him through. The stone slid shut behind them with a soft, final sound.

Ron stopped. His eyes widened at the Headmaster’s office: the sleeping portraits of former headmasters, the delicate silver instruments ticking and turning on every surface, the phoenix dozing on its perch, and the man himself behind his desk. Dumbledore looked up from the parchment in front of him and smiled, eyes bright behind the half-moon spectacles.

“Well. Harry. Ron. What a pleasant surprise. What brings you two by?”

“Uhhh…” Harry tried. Ron answered first.

“W-we… we think someone’s gonna try to kill Harry again this year!”

A few years ago Harry might have frozen. He was fourteen now, and wiser in the particular way that came from repeated experience. When a friend said something outrageous and entirely true in front of the Headmaster, the correct response was to roll with it.

“Ah, yes, Headmaster. I mean… there’s a big tournament and international intrigue and all sorts of mysterious terrible things happening… so we wanted to know how you would handle things?”

Dumbledore’s expression settled somewhere between amusement and mild exasperation. “Thank you for bringing your concerns, gentlemen. Shall we discuss them at length?”

Fawkes chirped from the perch. Dumbledore shook his head.

“The expense reports can wait, old friend.”

The phoenix trilled, exasperated, then shrugged in a distinctly avian way and returned to his food. 

Dumbledore set his quill down and folded his hands.

“Now then. Tell me what has you both so certain that this year will be more dangerous than the last.”