The Portkey landing hits like a sucker punch to my balance, leaving me wobbling unsteadily. My knees threaten to give out, but I manage to stay upright, the world tilting for a moment before settling. Draco, as always, lands with infuriating grace, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his robes. Father straightens his impeccable attire, his movements fluid, betraying not even a hint of the abrupt arrival. Mother, ever poised, adjusts her elegant traveling cloak, her fingers smoothing the rich fabric with practiced ease. She turns to me, offering a small smile, but her expression lacks warmth, her eyes distant and unreadable.
"This way," Father announces briskly, his tone cutting through the bustling chaos of the campsite. His cane taps sharply against the uneven ground as he strides forward, a silent demand for us to follow.
I fall into step behind him, the cacophony of voices and laughter around us a stark contrast to the cool, controlled atmosphere of Malfoy Manor. Wizards and witches of all kinds mill about, their excitement palpable. Some wear traditional robes, shimmering in bright team colors, while others attempt Muggle clothing with hilariously mismatched results. The air hums with anticipation, the kind of energy that could ignite at any moment.
"Celeste, keep close," Mother murmurs, her hand brushing lightly against my shoulder as she walks beside me. Her touch is fleeting, but it steadies me nonetheless. I nod and quicken my pace, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.
As we navigate through the sea of tents, my eyes catch flashes of vibrant green and red. Families cluster around makeshift fire pits, some chanting team slogans, others waving enchanted banners that light up the dusk. I spot a gaggle of children darting past, their faces painted with shamrocks and broomsticks, their laughter infectious.
And then, through the swirling crowd, I see them.
A flash of fiery red hair first—the unmistakable beacon of the Weasleys. They stand out like a burst of color on a grayscale canvas, their exuberance impossible to ignore. My stomach twists as my gaze falls on him.
Harry.
He's grown taller since I last saw him, his posture straighter, his shoulders broader. His unruly black hair still defies taming, and there's something about the way he moves, a quiet confidence that wasn't there before. He's laughing, his green eyes bright as he listens to something Ron is saying. The sound of his laughter is swallowed by the noise around me, but I can almost hear it, familiar and achingly distant.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Seeing him again is like being hit with a Stunning Spell—unexpected and disorienting. A tidal wave of emotions crashes over me, and for a moment, all I can do is stand there, rooted to the spot.
"Keep moving, Celeste," Father snaps, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Yes, Father," I reply instinctively, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. Forcing myself to look away, I quicken my pace, my heart pounding as I fall back in line.
The stadium is a towering marvel of wizarding architecture, its golden stands gleaming in the dying light of the evening. Flags of green and red flutter high above, the colors of Ireland and Bulgaria casting brilliant streaks across the crowd. The air is thick with the scent of roasted peanuts and the faint tang of fireworks waiting to explode. My family ascends a private staircase leading to the Minister's Box, the height giving us a sweeping view of the throng below.
Draco walks ahead, his chest puffed with pride, while Father moves with his usual air of superiority. I trail behind them, my fingers brushing the smooth wooden banister, my eyes drawn to the masses below. A sea of faces stretches out in every direction, each one alive with excitement and anticipation.
As we reach the top, my attention is pulled downward. There, passing beneath us, are the Weasleys again. My heart lurches as I spot Harry among them, his head tilted back to take in the sheer grandeur of the stadium. The way he moves, the subtle awe in his expression, tugs at something deep inside me.
Father leans over the railing, his voice dripping with disdain. "Well, put it this way, if it rains... you'll be the first to know."
His words cut through the din below, drawing a few glances from passersby. I cringe inwardly at the sharpness of his tone, but I keep my face carefully neutral, not daring to react.
Draco, never one to let an opportunity slip by, adds smugly, "Father, Celeste and I are in the Minister's Box, by personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge himself."
Father's smirk deepens, though he admonishes lightly, "Don't boast, Draco. There's no need with these people." His gaze lingers on Harry for a moment, calculating and cold. "Do enjoy yourselves, won't you," he adds, his voice like a blade. "While you can."
Draco chuckles at the comment, and I force my expression to remain blank, my nails digging into my palm as the Weasleys move out of sight. The ache in my chest doesn't ease until they're gone.
The match begins in a dazzling display of color and sound. The Irish Chasers dominate early, their teamwork flawless as they dart through the air, scoring goal after goal. Green and gold sparks explode above the stadium with each point, the crowd roaring its approval. A massive leprechaun appears, tossing glittering gold coins that vanish just before they hit the ground. For a moment, the energy is so infectious that I can't help but cheer along, my grin genuine and unguarded.
And then, the Bulgarians take to the field.
They're a blur of red, their movements sharp and calculated. Viktor Krum, the youngest Seeker to ever play in a World Cup final, leads the charge, his presence commanding. His face appears on the massive screens, his dark eyes focused, his jaw set with determination. The crowd erupts into chants of "Krum, Krum, Krum!" the sound reverberating through the stadium like a heartbeat.
Draco leans forward, his expression uncharacteristically animated. "There's Krum," he says, his tone filled with rare admiration. "The best Seeker in the world."
I glance at him, surprised by his sincerity, before my attention returns to the game.
The announcer's voice booms, signaling the start of the match, and chaos erupts. The players become streaks of green and red as they weave through the air, the Quaffle changing hands so quickly it's impossible to follow. The Irish pull ahead early, their Chasers executing dazzling maneuvers that leave the crowd breathless. But it's Krum who steals the show. His every move is precise, his dives breathtakingly daring.
Draco nudges me as Krum executes a flawless Wronski Feint, sending the Irish Seeker spiraling out of control. "Did you see that?" he asks, his excitement unrestrained.
"Yeah," I reply, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
As the game continues, my gaze drifts across the stadium, searching almost instinctively. I know Harry is out there somewhere, lost in the same thrill of the match. A part of me aches to be beside him, to share in the excitement and forget, even for a moment, the walls that divide us.
But the other part of me, the one that lives under Father's watchful gaze and Mother's quiet expectations, reminds me of the reality I can't escape.
For now, I lose myself in the roar of the crowd, the gleam of broomsticks, and the fleeting sense of freedom in the air.
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...
