firecracker ???

The return to Hogwarts was not a victory.

There was no triumphant blaze of light, no roar of cheers from a crowd waiting to welcome their champions. The Triwizard Cup clattered uselessly to the ground like a broken promise, its once-glorious shine dulled by the blood that smeared Harry's hands. He reappeared crumpled on the stone, knees slamming into the marble with bone-rattling force, his arms around Cedric's lifeless body, and his eyes wide and far too empty for someone who had just survived.

Everything was too quiet.

And then it wasn't.

A scream ripped through the air. Someone shrieked. A professor's voice cracked under the weight of panic. Footsteps thundered across stone.

But Harry didn't move.

He held Cedric like he was trying to keep him tethered to the earth, arms wrapped around dead weight that shouldn't be dead. He didn't speak. He didn't cry. Not at first.

But Elestara saw it happen from across the stands—the exact moment his shoulders collapsed in on themselves, the way his head fell forward, and the way his breath caught, ragged and wrecked.

She had frozen the moment she saw him—draped over Cedric's body, face bruised, hands bloodied, green eyes wide and raw with disbelief. The chill in her chest didn't thaw. It cracked. Because there he was, the boy who had laughed and taunted and teased her all year, now crumpled into grief so deep it hollowed him out before her eyes.

She moved before she knew she had. Her steps were soundless. The world narrowed around her.

Dumbledore was there first. His presence, quiet and solemn, broke the wall that Harry had built between himself and the world. He knelt beside him, placed a steady hand on his shoulder, and only then—only then—did Harry release Cedric's body.

The headmaster's robes swallowed the boy as he drew back. McGonagall ushered the students away, her face pale, her hands trembling in a way few had ever seen. Fudge babbled something incoherent—about security, about verification, about containment—but no one listened.

And Elestara? She couldn't breathe.

Draco stood behind her, his expression unreadable, but it was the stillness that spoke volumes. Not a single snide remark. Not a single muttered insult. Just... silence. Grim. Unmoving.

Theo's hand rested lightly on her shoulder, but she barely noticed it. Blaise looked between them all with the same eerie blankness he wore during chess matches, and for once, she didn't resent him for it.

Because her gaze remained on Harry.

He didn't look at her.

He looked at nothing.

And that—more than the blood, more than the body—was what undid her.

—

The chaos didn't stop with Cedric's return.

It bloomed. Spread. Unfolded in whispers and trembling hands. The story came in pieces. A portkey. A graveyard. A ritual.

Voldemort.

Alive.

Whole.

Reborn.

The Ministry responded with the speed of panic: deny, deny, deny. Cornelius Fudge shouted from the towers of Hogwarts that Harry was confused. Traumatised. Unreliable.

"The boy is clearly disturbed," he barked from the infirmary doorway, voice sharp with fear rather than outrage. "He saw a body. He invented the rest."

But Dumbledore's voice was quieter. Firmer. "The Dark Lord has returned. And you would be wise to prepare."

They didn't.

Not really.

Because when the Dementors came for Barty Crouch Jr., and Harry—shaking, pale, wounded—screamed that they couldn't, no one listened. The kiss was administered in silence. No trial. No truth.

Just fear.

And in the quiet afterward, Fudge fled the castle.

—

Elsewhere, behind warded doors and silenced spells, the Blacks shouted.

"You should have told him everything!" Sirius thundered, pacing the headmaster's study like a caged storm.

"I told him what he needed to know," Regulus replied, seated, composed, every inch the controlled chess player he'd always been.

"You knew what was in the graveyard. You knew he'd face him."

"I also knew he would come back. Because I made sure of it."

"You used him."

"I protected him."

"You risked his life!"

"I saved it."

The fire crackled behind them. Dumbledore said nothing.

Because he understood: this wasn't a matter of trust. It was a matter of survival.

And in this, Regulus Black had never once failed.

But even so, Sirius's hands shook long after he stopped shouting.

—

It was nearly morning by the time Elestara stepped into the hospital wing.

Her shoes made no sound on the stone. The light from the lanterns burned low, flickering golden across the rows of occupied beds. Madam Pomfrey stood at the far end, scribbling something furiously. She didn't stop her.

Harry lay alone.

The sheets had been changed. His wounds bandaged. But nothing could cover the devastation in his expression, nor the way his hand clenched uselessly against the bed linens, as if still searching for something to anchor him.

Elestara moved forward. Slowly.

She didn't expect him to acknowledge her. And at first, he didn't.

Then—

"Stay."

The word barely broke the silence.

But it was enough.

She didn't sit right away. Instead, she stood by his bedside, watching the shadows stretch across his face, her hand tight against the brocade of her robe. Then, quietly, almost carefully, she pulled the chair forward and lowered herself into it.

She didn't speak.

Didn't ask questions.

Didn't offer platitudes.

She simply sat.

And after a long moment, Harry reached out.

She didn't hesitate.

Their fingers met.

She held on.

He didn't let go.

And though no words passed between them, the silence spoke loud enough—for the grief, for the anger, for the questions still left unasked. For Cedric. For the cup. For everything that had been stolen in one shattering moment.

It was not peace.

But it was the beginning of something that might hold.

And for tonight, that was enough.