firecracker ???

Harry watched her go. He didn't move until she was out the door, her cloak trailing behind her like a question he hadn't yet learned how to ask.

Something tugged tighter in his chest.

And for the first time, he didn't try to name it. He just followed it.

They got into the Restricted Section easily—almost insultingly so. Hermione had forged a note from Lockhart and waved it under Madam Pince's nose with wide-eyed charm. The librarian barely blinked before handing over the key.

"Honestly," Ron whispered, "they'll let anyone in with that bloke's name on parchment."

But Harry wasn't listening. He was flipping through a thick, crumbling tome Hermione had snatched from the back shelf.

"Polyjuice Potion," she said, voice low with awe. "It'll take a month to brew. But if we pull it off..."

"We can get into the Slytherin common room," Ron said. "Figure out who's behind the attacks."

Hermione nodded. "If we get hair from the right Slytherins, we can go wherever they do."

Harry's heart thudded once—hard.

The Slytherin common room. Her common room.

He didn't say it out loud, but the idea of seeing Elestara in her own space, her own world, where she wasn't composed and cold but maybe laughing, stretched out with a book, teasing Pansy or rolling her eyes at Draco—

It made something twist inside him. Something hopeful. Curious.

He knew it was stupid. But he wanted to see it. Wanted to see her.

The Quidditch match against Gryffindor arrived with cold skies and biting wind. Lucius Malfoy sat in the staff stands as a governor of the school, robes immaculate, cane resting neatly beside him. His eyes missed nothing. Not the way the Gryffindors whispered, not the way the students watched him—and certainly not the way his son strutted onto the pitch for his first match.

Lyra sat beside him instead of in the usual Slytherin stands. Earlier, she had wrapped her arms around her father's midriff, pleading with puppy eyes. He couldn't resist. How could he? It was his darling daughter he hadn't seen in weeks, and so he gave in. She sat straight-backed and silent, wrapped in a dark green cloak lined with black fox fur, she wanted her father to be proud of her in public. She didn't cheer but watched every move, every pass, every formation as the match commenced.

She leaned in, eyes trained on her brother, barely audible. "He's too high in the left flank."

Lucius nodded once. "He's showboating."

Below them, Draco flew like he thought the world revolved around him.

"Training for the ballet, Potter?" Draco shouted, circling overhead as Harry narrowly dodged the same bludger that had been following him all game. 

"Didn't know your lot had that much grace—"

The crowd laughed. Slytherins roared. But Lucius didn't smile. He watched as Draco tilted into another unnecessary roll, flicked his broom with a flourish—and missed the most damning detail of the match.

The snitch.

It hovered inches from his right ear.

And he didn't see it.

Lyra inhaled sharply. "That idiot," she muttered under her breath, too late. Lucius made a disapproving sound.

Harry saw it and flew at Draco suddenly. Draco swerved with a look at Potter with a look as though he were mental. Before Harry could reach the snitch, the rogue bludger finally smashed accurately into his outstretched left arm. He rolled from the pain and recovered quickly, zooming after the golden ball with Draco hot on his tails. The pair of seekers flew over and under the stands - the only way to tell where they were was the bludger that relentlessly destroyed everything around them.