human again / hp.

Chapter 51

The icy rain lashed against my face, each drop like a shard of glass piercing through my meager defenses. My umbrella barely held its shape under the relentless wind, its ribs creaking ominously with every gust. Around me, the stands were a churning sea of students bundled in scarves and robes, their faces pinched against the storm's ferocity. The air was thick with the scent of wet wool and damp wood, the cold seeping into our bones despite our efforts to stave it off.

Neville stood to my right, his umbrella tilted precariously against the wind, his hands clutching its handle as though it were a lifeline. The fabric had already sprung a leak, and water dripped steadily onto his shoulder. He shivered, his teeth clattering as he gave me a look of pure misery.

"Remind me again," he said, his voice barely audible over the howling wind, "why we thought this was a good idea?"

I tightened my grip on my umbrella, trying to keep it from flipping inside out. "Because it's Harry's first match of the season," I replied, my voice raised to cut through the storm. "And Gryffindor's playing Hufflepuff. It'll be good."

Neville gave me a skeptical look, his expression almost comically woeful. "It's madness, is what it is. Look at this weather! They should've called it off."

He had a point. The storm was ferocious, the kind that turned the Quidditch pitch into a treacherous battlefield rather than a game field. The wind howled like a living thing, tearing at our cloaks and sending droplets of icy rain down our necks. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled, a low, ominous growl that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stands.

Despite the miserable conditions, the crowd roared as the players took to the pitch. Scarlet and canary-yellow blurs shot into the air, defying the storm with sheer determination. Harry, a dark figure on his Nimbus 2000, shot upwards like an arrow, disappearing into the swirling mist above. The storm swallowed him whole, leaving only the echo of cheers and the faint blur of movement to hint at his presence.

Neville squinted at the sky, his face pale as he tried to follow the action. "I can't see a thing," he muttered, his voice tinged with unease. "How are they even playing in this?"

"They're not just playing," I said, my gaze fixed on the pitch. "They're winning."

Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the chaos for a brief moment. The Hufflepuff Chasers streaked after the Quaffle, their yellow robes plastered to their bodies by the rain. Angelina Johnson zipped past them, her movements swift and precise as she darted toward the goalposts. The crowd roared as she made a daring pass to Alicia Spinnet, but the sound was swallowed by a deafening crack of thunder.

I winced as the storm seemed to redouble its efforts, the rain now a torrent that blurred the lines between sky and earth. My fingers tightened around the railing in front of me, the wood slick and unsteady beneath my grasp. The pitch below was a churning sea of mud and shadows, and the players above were little more than streaks of color against the storm.

Neville leaned closer, his umbrella trembling as he pointed upward. "Is that Angelina? She looks like—oh no, her broom's—"

I followed his gaze just in time to see Angelina's broom tail catch fire, the flames a brief, flickering glow against the gray backdrop. She spiraled downward, her arms flailing as she fought to regain control. My heart leapt into my throat, but before panic could take hold, Madam Hooch was there, diving in to intercept. The relief was palpable, though it did little to ease the growing tension in the air.

"This is insane," I muttered, shaking my head. "They shouldn't be playing in this."

The storm seemed to mock my words, the wind screaming louder as if in agreement. Harry was still high above, weaving through the clouds with a single-minded focus. His silhouette was barely visible, a dark blur against the swirling mist. I could see the determination in his movements, the way he scanned the sky for any sign of the Snitch.

"There!" I cried, my hand shooting out to point at a faint glimmer of gold darting through the storm.

Neville's head snapped up, his umbrella forgotten as he followed my gaze. "I see it! Harry's going for it!"

The stands erupted into cheers, the noise a brief reprieve from the relentless wind. Harry was a streak of black against the gray, his Nimbus slicing through the air with terrifying speed. He was closing the gap, his hand outstretched, when something caught my eye—a flicker of movement high above the pitch.

"What's that?" Neville asked, his voice low and hesitant.

I squinted, trying to make out the shape through the mist. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed by the storm. "I don't know," I murmured, a strange unease settling in my chest. "Probably just... nothing."

Harry had no time to notice the strange shadow. His focus was entirely on the Snitch, his broom cutting through the storm like a blade. The crowd roared louder, and I felt myself leaning forward instinctively, my breath caught in my throat.

But the storm had other plans. The wind howled with renewed ferocity, and the rain turned to icy shards that lashed at Harry's face. I could see him wiping at his glasses, his movements frantic as frost began to form on the handle of his broom. My heart pounded as I gripped the railing tighter, the unease from earlier growing into full-blown dread.

"Celeste," Neville whispered, his voice trembling. "Look down."

I tore my gaze from Harry and glanced toward the pitch below. My breath caught as the mist began to part, revealing dark, gliding shapes emerging from the shadows. My stomach turned to ice as I realized what they were.

Dementors.

They drifted across the pitch like wraiths, their skeletal hands reaching upward, their presence sucking the warmth from the air. The temperature plummeted further, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dread settle over me, heavy and suffocating.

"Harry..." I whispered, my voice barely audible. Above us, Harry's movements faltered. His broom wavered, and I saw his body sag as though an invisible weight had pressed down on him.

"Harry!" I screamed, my voice lost in the chaos.

The Nimbus 2000 spun out of control, the wood gleaming faintly as it plummeted toward the Whomping Willow. But worse still was Harry himself—his body falling limp, tumbling through the storm toward the encroaching Dementors.

"Do something!" Neville cried, clutching my arm in desperation.

In the stands, a tall figure rose, his silhouette calm amidst the chaos. It was Dumbledore. He raised his hand, his wand a bright, steady beacon against the storm. A deafening explosion shattered the air, more powerful than the thunder. A brilliant flash of light burst forth, and the Dementors scattered like leaves in a gale.

Harry continued to fall, his limp form disappearing into the mist below. The stands erupted into chaos, students screaming and scrambling as panic set in. My hands were frozen on the railing, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Is he—?" Neville couldn't finish the question, his voice cracking with fear.

"He'll be fine," I said, though my voice lacked conviction. "Dumbledore won't let anything happen to him."

Even as I said it, the unease lingered, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. The storm had lessened slightly, but its shadow remained, dark and foreboding. As the crowd surged around us, I stood frozen, my eyes fixed on the pitch below, waiting for any sign of movement.