firecracker ???

Hogwarts in early spring smelled like thawing stone and daffodils, a scent that drifted through the open corridors like a memory trying to settle. The chill of February melted into a tentative softness, and with it came a strange quiet—not silence, exactly, but a hush, the kind that followed storms or the pause before another.

Elestara felt it most in the mornings. The halls were less frantic, students more subdued, and even the professors, usually sharp and weary by midterm, had begun showing signs of restraint. Snape, in particular, had stopped snapping at first-years with quite the same venom, though his sarcasm remained impressively intact.

She didn't trust it.

Still, she moved through the term with her usual precision, each step and sentence placed carefully, deliberately. Her essays were handed in early, as always. Her uniform was immaculate down to the last cuff. Her quill strokes were perfectly measured, and her notes were annotated with the kind of clarity that made other students squint in envy or intimidation.

But something had shifted.

Maybe it was the way people looked at her now—not just students, but staff, who watched her with a wariness veiled behind politeness, as though she had returned from the break bearing not just a sharper presence, but a different weight entirely. She was still elegant, still controlled, but now she walked with a subtle edge, like a drawn blade hidden beneath velvet.

Or maybe it was Potter.

He had been quieter since Christmas. Not less bold—he still answered questions in class and threw himself into Gryffindor mischief with the same reckless energy—but there was a change in the way he carried himself. He glanced over his shoulder more often. He lingered longer in conversation, and sometimes, in silence. Most noticeably, he looked at her differently—less like a rival, more like an equation he was still trying to balance.

It was irritating. And distracting. And entirely too frequent.

Which made it all the worse when she caught herself watching him, too.

Once, during Charms, he had tried a charm three times before it worked, and when it finally did, the feather he had been levitating shot upward and slapped Ron cleanly in the face. She had laughed—softly, briefly, almost imperceptibly—but it had been enough for Theo, lounging beside her, to raise an eyebrow and glance her way.

"Are we finding Potter amusing now?" he had murmured, far too smug.

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied coolly.

But she hadn't looked away.

Harry couldn't explain what had changed. Only that it had.

Something about Elestara Black unsettled him—not in the way Malfoy did, not with loud declarations and posturing—but quietly, like a storm cloud gathering just out of sight. She wasn't warm, or even kind, but she had an undeniable presence, a gravity that he was beginning to notice more and more. It wasn't that he thought about her constantly, but rather that she kept turning up in his thoughts uninvited, lingering longer than expected.

He still didn't speak to her. There was no reason to. They lived in different spheres—her world was clean lines, cold smiles, carefully measured silences. His was loud, messy, full of secrets he barely understood. But whenever they passed in corridors or crossed paths at breakfast, there was a flicker—something like acknowledgment, or curiosity, or challenge—and it left him wondering who was actually keeping score.

By the time March arrived, the castle had settled into a steady rhythm. There were no new rumors of curses, no enchanted artifacts gone wrong. No one tried to duel in the hallways. Even Peeves had gone quiet for a week.

It should have felt like peace.

Elestara thrived in it.

She spent her afternoons in the library again, surrounded by scrolls and books that smelled of dust and ink. She spent hours with Daphne and Theo, debating the finer points of magical theory or mocking Blaise's increasingly outlandish poetry. Her arguments with Draco were regular and reassuring—whether over the correct cut of a robe or the merits of wand holsters versus sleeves.

It was all wonderfully, perfectly normal.

But it didn't feel restful.

Because now, when she entered the Great Hall, she could sense Harry's eyes on her—just for a moment, just enough to notice. And once or twice, when she glanced back, he didn't look away.

It wasn't a game. It wasn't a threat. It wasn't anything she could name.

And that, perhaps, was the most unsettling part.