The bartender was making a wet, gasping sound as she tried to drag air into lungs that were no longer whole. Each breath rattled painfully in her chest, shallow and desperate. Ahsoka watched as the woman tried to speak again and again, her lips moving soundlessly while panic filled her wide, unfocused eyes.
The Zeltron's gaze finally locked onto him.
Fear was written plainly across her face, but Harry's voice remained calm and gentle as he knelt beside her, placing both hands firmly over the scorched wound in her chest.
"Shh," he murmured soothingly. "Just take a minute. Slow down. Catch your breath. You're going to be fine."
Ahsoka narrowed her eyes at the lie but held her tongue. Starting an argument while a woman lay dying would help no one. Still, a part of her recoiled at the false hope he was giving her—kind words meant nothing when death was moments away.
Then she felt it again.
The Force stirred, far stronger than before.
Ahsoka stiffened as the sensation surged outward, no longer subtle or restrained. It washed over her in a powerful wave, making her lekku twitch reflexively. She turned sharply toward Harry, trying to see what he was doing, but he didn't spare her a glance.
His attention was fully focused on the Zeltron woman beneath his hands.
His eyes had taken on an intensity she'd rarely seen outside the presence of the Jedi Council Masters. The Force gathered around him, dense and brilliant, until for one brief, breathtaking moment Ahsoka felt as though she were standing in the heart of it—immersed in something vast, pure, and alive.
It flowed around her, through her, but converged unmistakably in the space just in front of her.
The sensation was overwhelming.
Ahsoka's breath caught as she struggled to process what she was feeling. Power, control, precision—woven together in a way she had never experienced before. It was awe-inspiring, terrifying, and beautiful all at once.
And then, just as suddenly as it had come, it faded.
The Force settled back into its quiet, ever-present hum, leaving Ahsoka breathing harder than she realized she had been. Her heart raced as she tried to name the sensations she'd just felt, grasping for understanding that slipped through her fingers.
Movement snapped her attention forward.
Harry pulled his hands away from the bartender's chest.
Ahsoka blinked.
Then she blinked again.
Where there should have been scorched flesh, torn tissue, and a fatal wound, there was nothing—only smooth, unblemished skin. No burn marks. No scar. No sign that a blaster bolt had ever passed through her.
For a moment, Ahsoka wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her.
She leaned forward slightly, eyes searching, and then did a full double take. The only evidence anything had happened at all was the neat, burned hole in the woman's top, the fabric ruined where her body was not.
The bartender suddenly drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
Her back arched slightly as her lungs filled with air, a sound of near-desperate relief tearing from her throat before she broke into weak, coughing breaths. Ahsoka instinctively reached forward, hands lifting as if to touch the place where the wound had been—just to confirm it was real.
Then she remembered exactly where the woman had been shot.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she pulled her hands back quickly, lekku flushing darker in embarrassment.
Harry leaned back on his heels, flexing his fingers once.
With the smallest, almost dismissive gesture, Ahsoka felt another ripple in the Force. She watched in stunned silence as the bartender's torn clothing began to mend itself, the fibers pulling together and stitching seamlessly back into place. Within seconds, the fabric looked nearly untouched, the burn mark fading until it blended with the surrounding material.
Harry looked at the woman again, and Ahsoka felt a faint nudge in the Force—subtle this time, almost imperceptible.
The bartender blinked slowly and shook her head as if clearing a fog.
"Looks like you were nearly hit by a stray bolt," Harry said calmly, his tone firm but kind. "You must've gotten the wind knocked out of you when you fell."
It was an utterly ridiculous explanation.
The woman frowned faintly, then ran her hands slowly over her chest, her movements cautious, almost fearful. Surprise crossed her face when she found herself whole and unharmed.
Harry didn't give her time to linger on it.
He rose smoothly to his feet and offered her a hand.
After a brief hesitation, she took it. He pulled her up effortlessly, and she grinned up at him, her fear melting into playful confidence.
"You know, Harry," she said flirtatiously, "if you really wanted to grope me, you didn't need to make up an excuse. No need to stage a whole dramatic fall."
Ahsoka barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping.
Mind tricks usually left people dazed, suggestible, uncertain. This woman, however, had accepted Harry's explanation completely—no confusion, no hesitation. She genuinely believed it.
Harry smirked. "C'mon," he said lightly. "The owner's kind of a bitch. She wouldn't want you lying down on the job, flirting with customers."
He paused, then added, "Or at least, not flirting with just one."
The bartender narrowed her eyes at him. "I'll remember that, Harry. See if I keep accepting packages on your behalf."
Harry snorted. "You're paid for that."
She huffed. "Fine. Then I'll stop slipping candid pictures in there to surprise you."
Ahsoka stared at them both, utterly dumbfounded.
Harry was relaxed, amused, acting as though nothing extraordinary had just occurred. The bartender was laughing, completely at ease. Meanwhile, Ahsoka stood frozen, her mind still reeling from everything she'd witnessed in the last few minutes.
Neither of them paid her any attention.
In a way, she was grateful for that.
She needed the space to think.
She had never encountered this Jedi Master before, but in quick succession she had seen him incapacitate six armed assailants without drawing a weapon. The Force had moved at his command with terrifying ease.
Then he had healed a woman Ahsoka would have sworn was beyond saving. Even with immediate access to a bacta tank, the time required would have been too long. Jedi healing was powerful, but slow and deliberate. That woman hadn't had minutes—she'd had seconds.
What Harry had done was different.
It was faster. Cleaner. Complete.
And then there was the matter manipulation.
Ahsoka had seen the Force push, pull, lift, crush, and twist. She'd done those things herself. But she had never seen someone use the Force to alter matter itself—to repair damaged fabric as if reality had simply… decided to fix itself.
Harry finally turned away from the bar, folding his arms as he surveyed the pile of unconscious bodies scattered across the floor.
He glanced at the bartender. "You want anything done about them?"
She rolled her eyes. "Want? Absolutely. But it'd be bad for business if word got out that I was turning patrons over to the authorities—or worse. Even if they didn't settle their tabs."
Harry's grin widened. He let out a theatrical, mocking laugh. "So that means they're mine to deal with, right?"
The Zeltron shrugged. "One patron cleaning up after others who fired blasters in a bar? That's not something anyone's going to complain about."
Ahsoka watched him closely.
Whatever Harry was, he wasn't just a Jedi.
And that realization unsettled her more than anything else she'd seen that night.