human again / hp.

Chapter 108

The headline stared up at me like a brand seared into parchment.

HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS

The words twisted in my stomach, sharp and cold as ice. I sat under the old beech tree by the Black Lake, legs curled beneath me, my fingers tight around the edges of the Sunday Prophet as the breeze tugged at the paper like it, too, wanted to take a look.

It was all there, in black and white. The confirmation. The denial finally crumbled under the weight of reality.

"It is with great regret that I must confirm..."

I stared at Fudge's printed face. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—his usual polished politician's mask cracked down the middle, exposing the panic underneath. I let the article blur as my eyes moved past the familiar rhetoric.

Azkaban. Dementors gone rogue. Voldemort commanding them now.

I knew what that meant. My father wouldn't be there long. Not with the guards abandoning their posts to serve the Dark Lord. He'd be free soon. That wasn't what made my hands tremble.

What made my stomach coil was what came after.

I folded the Prophet slowly, placing it beside me on the grass. The lake rippled gently in the sunlight. Birds chirped like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

"Enjoying the morning, are we?"

I didn't even have to look up. I knew that voice—tight, bitter, and barely restrained.

Draco.

He stalked toward me like a thundercloud in Slytherin robes, his face pale and drawn, a dark scowl twisting his features.

I didn't answer right away. I knew better. Let him get it out.

"Potter tried to hex me," he snapped, pacing in front of me like an angry peacock. "Right in the Great Hall. In front of everyone."

I blinked, finally glancing up. "Did it work?"

"Of course it didn't," he snapped. "Snape showed up. Just in time."

His mouth curled in something that was supposed to be smug, but the usual triumph wasn't there. Not today.

"And then—guess who comes waltzing in? McGonagall." He spat her name like poison. "Back from St. Mungo's, robes flapping like she owns the place."

I raised an eyebrow. "She does, technically."

"Not helping, Celeste."

I gave a small shrug, folding my arms over my knees as he continued his tantrum.

"She gave them fifty points. Fifty points. Each. For every single one of them. Potter, Granger, Weasley — even Longbottom."

I didn't say anything.

"Everyone's talking about it," he muttered, kicking a pebble into the lake. "Like they're heroes. Like Potter's some bloody saviour."

I looked down at the Prophet again, now resting in the grass beside me. The Boy Who Lived — his name was about to be everywhere again. Not for lies, but for the truth this time.

Draco sat down heavily beside me, tugging at the sleeves of his robes. For a moment, we were just quiet, the sound of water lapping at the shore the only thing between us.

"They arrested Father."

His voice was low now. Strained. Brittle.

I didn't answer. I didn't have to.