The summer heat weighs on Malfoy Manor, oppressive and relentless. It isn't the weather—Mother's enchantments ensure the rooms remain perfectly cool—but the atmosphere, thick and suffocating, like a storm waiting to break. Everything feels heightened, sharper, as though the house itself is on edge. The shadows that gather in the corners of the drawing room are darker, more menacing, and the steady ticking of the ornate grandfather clock seems louder, each second stretching into an eternity.
My father, uncharacteristically kind, is perhaps the most unsettling part of it all. Over breakfast, he is composed, his sharp features softened by a faint smile that feels as out of place as a snowstorm in July. He inquires about my grades, my professors, my year at Hogwarts, each question laden with an undercurrent of expectation. His gaze, piercing and unreadable, lingers too long, as if dissecting every word I say.
"Celeste," he says one morning, his voice clipped yet smooth, a polished veneer over something hard and immovable. "I trust that Hogwarts continues to shape you into the kind of witch this family can take pride in."
The statement is simple, but the weight of it lands heavily in the stillness of the dining room. Across the table, Draco smirks, his expression smug and self-assured. My heart clenches, but I keep my face composed, forcing myself to meet Father's gaze without faltering. To look away would be to fail whatever test this is.
"Of course, Father," I reply, my voice steady, though my fingers curl tightly around the edge of my teacup beneath the table. "I'm doing my best to represent the Malfoy name."
"Good girl," he says with an approving nod, dabbing his mouth with a crisp linen napkin. "Draco has told me about your behavior this year. It seems you've finally learned where your loyalties lie."
Draco turns his smirk on me, the meaning behind Father's words clear. He's referring to my distance from Harry, Hermione, and Ron—something Draco has undoubtedly spun as proof that I'm aligning myself with the family's values. He doesn't know how much it still hurts, how I miss the laughter, the quiet camaraderie, and the sense of belonging that came from sitting with them in the Gryffindor common room. He doesn't understand that my silence isn't loyalty—it's survival.
I nod, my throat tight, and say nothing.
Later that afternoon, I retreat to my room, a sanctuary that feels both comforting and stifling. The desk by the window is cluttered with parchment and books, a reflection of my restless mind. I sink into the chair, gazing out at the gardens beyond. The manicured hedges and neatly arranged flowerbeds stretch out like a tapestry, beautiful and coldly perfect, much like the house itself.
Daphne has written me twice this week, her letters bright spots in an otherwise dreary summer. Her descriptions of Italy are vivid and cheerful—sunlit piazzas, charming markets, and an endless array of gelato flavors. I trace the elegant curves of her handwriting, smiling faintly at her tales of boys fumbling over bad Italian pick-up lines.
But when I try to write back, my hand hovers over the parchment, the words refusing to come. What can I tell her? That the walls of Malfoy Manor feel like they're closing in on me? That Father's kind smiles are more unnerving than his coldest stares? That I can't stop thinking about Harry Potter, no matter how much I've tried to push him from my mind?
Instead, I write something simple. I tell her I've been spending my days in the garden and practicing spells in the drawing room. I don't mention the nights I've spent rereading Hogwarts: A History just to feel connected to a world that feels impossibly far away.
A week later, Mother announces a trip to Diagon Alley. It's not a casual shopping trip—it never is with her. This is a performance, an opportunity for the Malfoys to remind the wizarding world of our prominence. She insists that I wear my finest robes, and I don't argue, knowing better than to question her plans.
The cobbled streets are bustling with witches and wizards, their chatter filling the air. Draco walks ahead, preening under the admiring glances of passersby. He basks in the attention, his chest puffed out with pride. I trail behind, my gaze wandering as we move through the crowd.
Near Flourish and Blotts, I catch a glimpse of bushy brown hair. My heart skips a beat. Hermione. She's walking with her parents, a towering stack of books balanced precariously in her arms. My feet falter as I watch her, a wave of longing crashing over me. For a moment, I consider calling out to her, the ache of missing her sharp wit and kind heart almost too much to bear.
"Celeste, keep up," Father's voice snaps, sharp and commanding.
I glance at him, his expression as stern and immovable as ever, and then back at Hermione. She doesn't see me, her focus on the books in her arms. The moment passes, and I force myself to turn away, the weight of my father's presence like a chain around my neck.
That night, I sit by the window in my room, staring up at the stars. The sky is a deep, velvety black, the constellations glittering like diamonds against the darkness. It's a rare clear night, and the beauty of it takes my breath away.
My thoughts drift to Sirius Black. I can still see the intensity in his eyes from that night, the quiet understanding that seemed to cut through all the noise. I wonder where he is now, if he's truly free despite the danger that surrounds him. Is he looking up at these same stars, finding solace in their light?
A shooting star streaks across the sky, a brief flash of brilliance in the vast expanse. I close my eyes and make a silent wish, the words forming in my mind as clear as the night above.
YOU ARE READING
human again / hp.
Fanfiction"I already forgave you, so why can't you forgive yourself?" She's a Malfoy. He's a Potter. Celeste Malfoy has always walked a fine line between the world she was born into and the one she chose for herself. At Hogwarts, nothing is simple. Not friend...
