firecracker ???

The Great Hall had been heavy with smoke and unease when Dolores Jane Umbridge took her place at the staff table—plastered in pink, with a bow that looked like it was stitched by the gods of irritation themselves. She'd clapped her stubby hands and giggled through a speech no one asked for, her voice like a teaspoon scraping the inside of a teacup.

Elestara had watched in silence, posture elegant as ever, but her jaw clenched just once—so tightly only Draco noticed. He nudged her knee beneath the table and whispered, "She's a nightmare."

She whispered back, "She's power."

That was enough to end the conversation.

By the next day, Lucius's instructions echoed like scripture: Butter her up. Play along. Let her think you're useful. Charm her stupid.

Elestara did exactly that.

She smiled when Umbridge passed in the corridor. She nodded politely during Umbridge's classes. She asked thoughtful questions with a tilt of her head and the perfect amount of sweetness in her voice.

She hated every second of it.

"You're too good at this," Draco muttered one afternoon as they stood beside Umbridge in the Entrance Hall, helping her pin up a new announcement about corridor patrols.

"I have excellent control over my gag reflex," Elestara replied through her teeth.

Meanwhile, Umbridge adored them both—called them her "model students," smiled wide whenever she saw their names in prefect reports.

Harry, however, was marked from the start.

Umbridge didn't like his confidence. Or his defiance. Or the way he met her eyes without fear.

She made an example of him.

In Defence Against the Dark Arts, she dismissed his questions with a smile too wide for her face. She docked points from Gryffindor for things like tone and posture. She called on him only to corner him.

Lyra said nothing.

Not even once.

Harry couldn't understand it.

She sat in the same classroom, close enough that he could hear her quill when she took notes. She stared ahead as if the barbed exchanges weren't happening right beside her. Even when Umbridge claimed Voldemort's return was a lie—even when Harry's hands curled into fists—Lyra didn't so much as blink.

He waited until they passed each other in the corridor between classes.

"Can I ask you something?" he said flatly.

Lyra looked up, calm as ever. "You just did."

He didn't smile. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

She blinked once, the question apparently not catching her off guard.

"Elaborate."

"In class," he said. "You hear what she says. You know she's lying. You know what's happening, and you're just—what? Playing along?"

"I'm surviving," she said, voice low.

"So I'm just meant to let it happen? Let her smear me? Let her smear Cedric?"

"You're meant to use your brain," she replied coldly. "You can't fight every war openly. That's how people get killed."

The words were sharp. Efficient. Cold.

Harry stepped back like she'd struck him.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Of course. Thanks for the wisdom."