firecracker ???

The hospital wing smelled faintly of spell-polished marble and clean linens. Elestara sat in one of the wooden chairs at Harry's bedside, her arms folded loosely, wand tucked into her sleeve. Her robes were immaculate, her posture composed—but her eyes remained fixed on the boy in the bed as if studying a problem she hadn't yet decided to solve.

Fudge's voice carried down the corridor before he appeared. Loud. Pompous. Practised.

"Ah, yes—this must be the place! Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, here to offer personal commendations, naturally."

Madam Pomfrey barely hid her grimace. "Do keep it brief, Minister."

Fudge swept into the room like he expected applause. He clapped his hands together.

"Harry! My dear boy! What an astounding feat. Basilisks! Parseltongue! Saving young Miss Weasley—it's the stuff of legend, truly."

Harry, propped up on a stack of pillows, gave a weary smile. "I wasn't alone."

Fudge paused, eyes narrowing curiously. "Oh?"

Harry nodded, tilting his head toward Elestara. "She went in with me. Elestara Black."

Fudge turned, as if noticing her for the first time. "A Malfoy?"

"Black," she added after a nod. "My mother's choice."

Fudge adjusted his bowler hat, momentarily flustered. "Ah, yes, yes, of course. I suppose—well, yes. That does change the optics rather neatly, doesn't it?"

Elestara lifted an eyebrow. "Does it?"

"Only that it's a rather... unifying picture, you see. House unity. Slytherin and Gryffindor, cooperating. Very heartening. Especially with the Board watching."

"Especially," she echoed flatly.

Fudge laughed, mistaking her tone. "Yes, well, brave of you, my dear. Very brave indeed."

He turned back to Harry. "The Prophet will be all over this by morning. We'll make sure they get your names spelled right."

Harry gave another thin smile.

By the time Fudge finally left, still muttering praise, Elestara stood. "You didn't have to do that."

Harry shrugged. "They wouldn't have known. But you were there."

She hesitated. "Not to help."

"You helped anyway."

Her lips pressed together. "Now they'll talk."

"They already were."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I saw the Prophet article," Harry said. "'Malfoy Heiress Aids Boy Who Lived.' They couldn't decide if it was scandal or prophecy."

Elestara sighed. "Brilliant. Just what I needed."

"You could deny it."

"I don't deny things. I let people believe what they want."

He smiled. "You let them think you're untouchable."

"I am."

"Except when you're not."

She met his eyes then. He didn't look away.

Rumors swirled through the school by dinner. That Elestara had led the charge. That she'd used a spell no one else knew. That she'd shielded Potter from the killing curse. That they'd touched hands.

None of it was true.

Except, perhaps, the last.

And that was the one she couldn't quite forget.

Harry lay in bed long after Fudge had left, the press of the pillows suddenly too soft, the blankets too warm. The room smelled like antiseptic and lavender and something else—Elestara's perfume, still clinging faintly to the air. Sharp, clean. Unbending.

She had stood beside him. That mattered more than he wanted it to.

He should have said more. Thanked her properly. But what could he say that wouldn't sound foolish?

He thought of the way she had looked at him in the Chamber—like she hadn't expected him to live. Like she hadn't decided yet whether that was good or bad. But she'd held him. Carried him. Her arms had been strong. Steady.

And she hadn't walked away.

She didn't owe him anything, and still she stayed. That was what kept circling in his mind. Not the sword. Not the snake. Not the cheers or the Prophet headlines or even Fudge's praise. Just that one look, in a room carved from bone and magic, when she saw him and didn't leave.

He turned toward the window, watching the moon hang still above the towers.

She hadn't smiled when she sat beside him.

But she hadn't looked away, either.

And he found himself hoping that tomorrow, when the whispers grew louder and the stares sharper—she might still look back.