FIRECRACKER - hjp

Harry's arm had healed, technically. The bones were back. The pain was gone. But something still ached—something deeper. Something that hadn't quite mended. Madam Pomfrey sent him off with a warning not to fly too soon and a scolding about how boys with hero complexes made terrible patients.

He didn't care.

His first stop was Myrtle's bathroom, where Ron and Hermione were hunched over the cauldron like they were guarding treasure.

"You're early," Hermione muttered. "The lacewing flies still need two more days."

Harry glanced at the potion bubbling thickly in the cracked basin. It looked like tar and smelled like burnt licorice.

"I'm not here to stir," he said. "What are we missing?"

Hermione hesitated. "Bicorn horn. Boomslang skin. Locked in Snape's office."

"Of course," Harry muttered. "Let me guess. I cause a distraction?"

"Preferably a loud one," Ron added helpfully.

Two days later, during Potions, Harry did exactly that. A flask of armadillo bile met a timely and spectacular end on the floor. Snape exploded with fury. While Harry endured a tirade about incompetence, Hermione slipped away.

She was back before the bell, windblown and triumphant. "Got them."

And just like that, their plan was alive.

The Duelling Club was Lockhart's latest farce. The Great Hall had been cleared of tables, replaced with a raised platform and no safety measures whatsoever.

Harry stood near the back with Ron and Hermione. Everyone buzzed with anticipation.

Elestara Black was across the hall with the Slytherins. She looked bored. Elegant. Watchful. Always watchful.

Snape stood beside Lockhart, arms folded, jaw tight.

Lockhart beamed. "Today, we'll be learning the noble art of duelling!"

Snape didn't wait.

"Expelliarmus!"

Lockhart went flying.

A few students applauded. Elestara didn't blink.

Pairs were called. Wands flashed. One boy's ears doubled in size.

Then:

"Potter and Malfoy."

Harry stepped onto the stage. Draco was already there, wand twirling.

"Try not to whimper," Draco said, smirking.

"Try not to flail," Harry replied.

"Three, two, one—"

"Serpensortia!"

The snake burst from Draco's wand in a rush of black and green. It landed heavily, slithering across the platform.

It turned toward the crowd.

Toward Elestara.

She didn't back away. She stepped into its path.

Her movements were slow, measured. She knelt, extended a gloved hand, and let the serpent brush against her fingers.

The room was silent.

"Someone stop it!" a student shouted.

Draco went pale. "Elestara!"

Harry stepped forward.

"Leave her alone," he said.

The words left him before he could think them.

The snake froze.

Snape waved his wand. The snake vanished in smoke.

Then came the whispers.

"Parseltongue."

"He spoke to it."

"Just like Slytherin."

Harry felt the world tilt.

Everyone was looking at him.

Except her.

Elestara's gaze didn't waver.

"Useful skill," she said, turning. "Doesn't mean anything."

But when the crowd dispersed, she pulled Draco into a side corridor.

He didn't speak right away.

"I told you not to do anything flashy," she said.

"You told me to win."

"That wasn't winning. That was summoning a bloody snake in front of half the school!"

"It wasn't meant to go near you," Draco snapped. "It went rogue."

"Father said you were to protect me."

Draco glared. "And he told you to observe Potter. So why were you cuddling a viper in front of three Houses like it was your pet?"

"It listened," she replied. "I was fine."

"He freaked out," Draco muttered. "Did you see his face?"

"I saw more than that," Elestara said, voice soft. "He spoke to it. In Parseltongue."

Draco frowned.

"He's becoming dangerous," she added. "You should be worried."

He sighed. "You're sounding like Father."

"You're sounding like a boy who doesn't want to see what's in front of him."

They stood in silence for a beat.

Then Draco looked sideways. "You did look ridiculous."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Like some Parseltongue princess," he added.

"Say that again and I'll curse your eyebrows off."

He grinned. "You're back."

She rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.

"Still," he said, walking beside her, "Saint Potter's probably in his tower right now writing a diary entry about how misunderstood he is."

"I'm sure he used at least three adjectives to describe my 'mystery,'" she said dryly.

"Four," Draco said. "Bet on it."

Harry, meanwhile, was not in the tower. He was lying awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his dormitory.

The whispers from the Great Hall echoed in his mind.

Parseltongue.

Heir of Slytherin.

Dark.

The next day was worse. Justin Finch-Fletchley avoided him outright. Ernie Macmillan called him "disturbed" to his face.

Then it happened.

Harry rounded a corner in a quiet corridor and stopped cold.

Justin lay rigid on the floor, eyes wide in horror.

Next to him, Nearly-Headless Nick hovered, grey and still, frozen in a ghostly limbo.

Harry's heart sank.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

A gasp.

Then shouts.

And when they found him standing alone over two fallen figures, it didn't matter what he said.

They had already decided.

The serpent had spoken.

And they would never forget it.