firecracker ???

1-8

Ron immediately stepped forward. "I'm his second."

Draco raised a brow. "Blaise is mine."

Elestara, standing nearby with Daphne, shot him a sharp look. "You picked Blaise instead of me?"

Draco straightened. "You're not getting involved in this."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Blaise is going. That's final."

She stared at him for a beat longer, visibly annoyed. "You're unbearable when you're serious."

For once, he didn't grin. Didn't tease her back. "I'm not letting you get caught."

That silenced her.

She folded her arms and looked away.

Harry, meanwhile, glanced between them, curious. He turned back to Draco. "Fine. Midnight. Trophy room."

Draco smirked.

Elestara didn't look at either of them as she turned and walked off with Daphne, her jaw tight.

Draco watched her go, then stalked in the opposite direction without another word.

That night, she didn't say a word about it. Not to Draco. Not to Theo. Not even in her journal.

But she didn't sleep either.

She watched the clock tick past midnight and wondered what legacy required restraint, and what part of her liked it when people didn't follow that rule.

That night, after the so-called duel failed to happen, Elestara retreated early to the girls' dormitory, not bothering to wait for Draco. She knew exactly where he was: sulking somewhere between self-justification and the warm glow of thinking he'd saved her from potential catastrophe.

She didn't want to see him. Not right now.

The girls' room was dim, firelight flickering low in the grate. Pansy was brushing her hair in front of the mirror, Daphne already curled up on her bed with a copy of Hogwarts: A History propped against her knees.

Elestara threw herself dramatically onto her own bed.

"He's insufferable," she declared to no one in particular.

Pansy didn't even look up. "Draco again?"

"He treats me like some delicate family heirloom he's sworn to protect from cracking."

"Well," Daphne said, without glancing up, "you are a Black heirloom."

Elestara rolled onto her side, groaning. "I'm a person. Not a porcelain sculpture."

Pansy smirked. "You are a bit porcelain."

"I could have been his second. I should have been. But no—'Blaise is going,' he says. As if Blaise gives a damn about dueling etiquette."

Daphne shut her book. "You know he was trying to protect you."

"He didn't even joke about it. Not once. Not even a snide remark."

That, more than anything, was what unsettled her.

Draco never withheld banter. It was how they communicated. For him to go quiet—to be serious—meant he meant it. Entirely.

"It's not that I'm ungrateful," Elestara murmured. "I just hate being benched."

Pansy flopped onto Elestara's bed beside her. "Then hex him tomorrow. That usually cheers you up."

"Tempting."

Daphne joined them, pulling the quilt up around her legs. "You could just talk to him, you know."