Work Text:
“If nothing saves us from death, may love at least save us from life.”
-Javier Valeza
It had all started when Professor McGonagall, in that very final sort of way, had told Harry that he needed a partner for the Yule Ball. Since then, he spent his mornings staring at the dress shoes in his trunk before shutting them up next to the invisibility cloak and wishing he could climb in there with the pair of them.
Breakfast was awful. Every girl in the school had decided it was the best time to gape and giggle at him. Harry blushed as scarlet as his house tie when he felt all those eyes on him. Unfortunately, the attention was certainly only due to his fame. His hair was particularly unruly that week, and the eggs he’d eaten gave him rather bad breath. Even worse, he could feel Malfoy’s sneer and hear his cold laughter from across the room.
“Forget dementors; this is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever been through.”
Hermione stabbed her breakfast with a fork and brandished it at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“No. Well. Er.” Harry peered anxiously around the Great Hall. “A bit.”
“Dragons and dementors, and Harry Potter is scared of a few girls!” Seamus said from Harry’s left. On his other side, Ron chortled around a large sausage.
“Funny,” Harry retorted, “but I don’t see you making any dates.”
“I’ve already got one,” Seamus replied matter-of-factly. He and Dean exchanged identically wide grins.
Harry was a little annoyed Seamus wouldn’t tell him who. How would Harry know not to ask her out? The idea of rejection made him sweat. Suddenly the rest of his breakfast looked untouchable. His stomach rolled unhappily, and he excused himself not long after.
During his escape, he had neglected to strap his bag properly. Neville bumped into it just outside the doors, and Harry’s parchment flew every which way. For all of his usual bumbling, Neville actually managed to clean the mess with a simple charm, his whole self glowing with something suspiciously close to confidence.
“Feeling good, Neville?” Harry asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Neville answered, straightening up and handing Harry his quill. “I’ve just asked Ginny Weasley to the ball.”
“And?”
“She said yes!” Neville, eyes wide and shining, floated past Harry into the Great Hall.
Fuming, Harry stared after him for a much longer time than acceptable before he stomped to his first class of the day. He spent the entire lesson distracted. While he had been so proud only days before to have accomplished the Summoning Spell, Harry could barely perform accio in front of Flitwick without pulling a dustbin or other large object alongside the actual thing he was meant to summon. After he’d clocked Hermione with a cauldron out of the hallway, Harry gave up.
Hermione took pity on him and gestured him close after the bell rang. “What’s going on, Harry? I didn’t realize you were this stressed about finding a date. Any of the fourth years would be lucky to go with you, I promise…”
“They’ll be queuing up, famous as you are,” Ron added encouragingly.
“Thanks.”
They walked together, Harry and Ron and Hermione, to the Common Room during their free time. Ron and Hermione bickered about each other finding a partner the whole time. Harry felt like banging their heads together and deciding for them that they’d go together. But interfere he did not; instead, he observed until he could settle into his favorite chair in front of the fire and contemplate the list of eligible dates.
Cho Chang was probably taken, he reasoned, and by a bloke far better-looking and better at dancing than he was. Besides, he was also much too scared to ask her. Lavender, Padma, and Parvati were out of the question. Ginny was going with Neville, Angelina and Katie with Fred and George. So his list wasn’t very ‘eligible’ at all.
Heaving a sigh, Harry sank further into the cushions. Hermione and Ron stopped squabbling long enough to give him a comforting pat on the knee, then resumed. Their words buzzed in his ears like they were all underwater. He let his attention drift to a terrible vision of himself standing with the other champions, the only solo act. During this vision, his heart did a funny thing and the picture of one champion in particular gained outstanding clarity.
“Cedric!” he exclaimed. The outburst had been so unexpected, even to him, that he clapped his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes, embarrassed.
The Gryffindors in the Common Room muttered a while, only returning to their early conversations when they realized there would be no more surprise announcements from their champion. Hermione was a bright shade of pink in the firelight.
Ron asked, “What about him, Harry?”
“Er… who’s he going with?” Harry had come up with that as fast as he could. While his friends guessed who Fleur, Krum, and Cedric would bring, Harry’s mind raced. How could he explain to them that some small, secret part of him had suggested Cedric as his date? No, better to cover it up. Better to ignore the fluttering in his belly when he pictured Cedric’s smile or his annoyingly soft-looking hair.
Harry coughed and then repeated his question with a guess at the end of it. They made it a sort of game, throwing the most outlandish names into the mix until they dissolved into fits of laughter. Then it was off more classes, and Harry banished thoughts of the Yule Ball as well as handsome Hufflepuffs from his mind with the trip to Potions.
But he was sorely mistaken to believe even Snape’s glare could change his overactive imagination, because while Snape droned on about the benefits of bezoars, Harry’s brain had ample time to work out exactly what shade of blue Cedric’s eyes might be…
“Harry!”
“Mm!” Harry brandished his arm so wildly that all of his newt eyes rolled off the table corner and onto the cold stone floor.
Nose upturned, Snape vanished them with a flick of his wand, then promptly took ten points from Gryffindor. Harry didn’t even argue like he normally would have. Instead, he pressed his lips together, packed his bag, and hurried into the corridor with the rest of his classmates.
Hermione had her mouth open instantly, either about to tell Harry off or fuss over him again, neither of which he wanted at the moment. Ron, catching onto Harry’s mood, marched the three of them forward and started talking before Hermione could.
“Wonder who Seamus is going with,” Ron said. “Do you reckon he was lying? Wasn’t too forward with a name, was he?”
“Honestly, Ron!” squeaked Hermione. “How thick are you?” When the boys looked at her, heads cocked to the side, she sighed exasperatedly. “Wasn’t it obvious?”
“All he did was look at Dean! They’re best friends! Dean’s likely in on it. They’ll say Seamus has got a girl from Beauxbatons. Don’t know how he expects to keep it up once the ball comes ‘round, mind you.”
Hermione made a very frustrated noise without offering to elucidate the situation beyond pulling faces that meant she thought the pair of them were being deliberately obtuse. Harry was still too anxious about the whole opening the dance bit (maybe he could make history by going stag, imagine the Rita Skeeter article!) to be offended.
On their way to the courtyard, they dodged a lovesong-singing Peeves, a request for a photo from Colin Creevey, a group of Slytherins wearing about a hundred POTTER STINKS buttons, and a myriad of tittering girls from Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Hogwarts who blinked at Harry through long lashes. Harry’s gut somersaulted whenever he caught yellow and black stripes in his periphery.
Moments later the unspeakable occurred: Cedric Diggory appeared out of nowhere, for once not surrounded by his large friend group. And wasn’t that the chance Ron and Harry had been hoping for? Less audience members meant less humiliation upon rejection. If only Harry’s mouth wasn’t hanging open like he’d just swallowed a ton-tongue toffee.
Cedric was walking closer. Harry could have fainted. He was positive he would be rejected. The slimy, cold lump of fear stuck in his throat assured him of that. Coughing and blinking rapidly, he stopped right in his tracks. It took Ron and Hermione a second to notice. When they did, they each took one arm and dragged him into the shade cast by a tall tree.
“Are you alright, Harry?” a smooth, concerned voice asked.
His vision was tunneled, blurry. He was answering in a voice that was just as deep under the lake. Perhaps this was what the bloody golden egg was warning him about.
“Blimey, he’s sweating,” Ron hissed at Hermione. She shook her head at him.
Cedric touched Harry's shoulder. Everything came back into focus, including, well, Cedric’s hand on his shoulder. Warm, that. Warm and solid and reassuring and attached to a very real seventeen year old who, albeit raising his eyebrows in confusion, was also grinning broadly.
“Yeah, alright. Absolutely. I’d love to.” Cedric hugged Harry tightly.
For all of his fuzziness, Harry’s body at least responded to that; he inhaled the scent of pine needles, lemons, and chocolate. His head fit quite nicely on Cedric’s chest. He gave a funny little chuckle, thinking about dancing together, how Cedric would tower over him. Then he found he wouldn’t mind at all.
Reality ambled back in splinters after Cedric said goodbye, and maybe excused himself to class with promises to chat later. Harry still couldn’t grasp the finer details.
Ron placed his hands on either side of Harry’s neck, peering, astonished, into his eyes. “Bloody hell,” he murmured, “you could have told your best friend before doing that.”
“Ron!”
“I only mean… We could have planned. Not that you failed, Harry,” he amended hurriedly. “Just could have used a bit more, uh, finesse.”
“Like you have any finesse,” Hermione admonished. She linked her hand in Harry’s. “I’m proud of Harry.”
“So am I!” His voice rose about an octave with indignation.
Harry stared at the two, aghast. Slowly, he asked, “What is it, exactly, that I just did, that made you proud?” He tweaked his neck by switching his attention to Ron so fast. “Or lacked planning?”
Hermione made a shocked sound that would have been amusing in any other circumstances. But in this one, it made Harry’s heart flutter faster than a snitch. It was as though a great chill had seized his bones simultaneously as he was plunged into a bonfire. He repeated his question much more forcefully.
“You asked Cedric Diggory to the ball,” Hermione replied tentatively.
Still dazed, Harry said, “Brilliant.” He pulled at a peeling piece of bark on the tree trunk that thankfully hid the trio from prying peers. “Um.” Scratching his head and looking down, he shuddered before finding the courage to speak to them again. “Did he say yes?”
“Yes!” Hermione yelled happily. Ron and Harry shushed her. “Sorry,” she added, softer. “Oh, it’s so sad you don’t remember it, Harry. I think he would have kissed you if Ron and I hadn’t been right here.”
The idea of kissing Cedric Diggory was enough to send Harry back into his earlier shock, yet he shoved the haze away in order to focus on his friends. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” he apologized. “I, I saw him, and…”
“Good for you,” Ron interrupted. And Harry could have imagined it, but he kept glancing over to Hermione as he spoke. “Wish I could pluck up the courage, or I’ll be dancing with myself the way Neville does in the dormitory.”
“The dance!” Harry interjected, nervous once again. “Merlin, he’s probably a much better dancer than I am.” If Harry Potter messed up perfect Cedric Diggory’s first Triwizard Tournament dance, all three schools would never forgive him. There would be riots, surely.
“D’you know the girl’s part?” Ron, ears pink, caught Hermione’s glare. “Harry’s, uh, shorter!”
“There’s no girl or boy part,” Hermione corrected him sternly. Her lips were pursed. “Someone leads and someone follows. I expect Harry should learn different steps than what he’s been taught, which is not bad.”
Harry laughed. He expected Ron would never be out of the dog house with Hermione as long as they both lived. The thought cheered him up a bit, and he extracted himself from their arms so he could stand properly on his own. Glancing about the courtyard, he noticed it was sunnier than it had been when they’d arrived and the grass was far greener. The packs of girls no longer looked threatening, but quite charming with their smiles and shining uniforms. He felt lighter, too, and if a dementor had even seen him at that moment, it would run screaming in the opposite direction.
That night, wrapped in his comforter, Harry could barely sleep, excited as he was. He kept schooling his face back into a more neutral expression only to be overcome by a smile right away. He didn’t realize a person could contain that much joy without combusting. Although, if the whirling in his stomach was any indication, combustion could have been in his future. Professor Trelawney would be thrilled, he thought as he finally closed his eyes. At least Mercury or whatever hadn’t screwed up his proposal.
He dreamed about Quidditch. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were playing, and the weather conditions were perfect. Hundreds upon hundreds of smiling faces in gold and scarlet, yellow and black, cheered both teams on, and no one booed.
Then Harry caught sight of the snitch. He dove. His broom accelerated as he pushed it toward the ground, hand outstretched, fingers reaching and straining for the little winged ball--
Until the other Seeker laced his fingers through Harry’s instead and they caught the snitch together. Slowing their brooms, they hit the ground softly and unmounted. Cedric’s grin was infectious. He pulled their arms up so they could raise the winning object together, fingers still interlocked like they’d been jinxed. Harry wouldn’t have wanted to lift that spell for all the galleons in Gringotts.
As the spectators whooped, the stadium almost in its own state of motion with so many people dancing atop its seats, Cedric turned to Harry. In slow motion he tugged Harry toward him and wrapped his free arm around Harry’s waist. He said something, but Harry couldn’t hear over the cheering. And then he kissed him. Harry had never been kissed, so he wasn’t sure what he was meant to feel, but whatever Cedric was doing, he never wanted it to end.
From the stands, Harry vaguely heard Ron yelling at him. It sounded like, “Get up!” which was silly, really, since Harry was wide awake, and besides, Ron should know not to interrupt his best friend’s first kiss…
A pillow hit Harry square in the face. He jumped up in bed, reaching for his glasses and his wand. Around him, Seamus, Dean, Neville, and Ron were sharing a good laugh at his expense. Mood decidedly worsened, Harry threw the pillow back and stood. While he attempted to beat down his hair, Ron leaned close with a conspiratory air.
“I am sorry about the ‘girl’s bit’ comment,” he told him seriously, “and if you want to talk about it…” He shifted from foot to foot. “I’m here.”
“Thank you Ron, really.”
“Yeah. Anytime.”
The Gryffindor boys finished dressing and made their way to the Common Room. It was warm and cozy, owing to the glowing fire and a variety of knitted socks and hats that Hermione had scattered around her. Knowing it was best not to ask, Ron and Harry sat near her, bid her a good morning, and waited for her to start the rest of the conversation.
When she didn’t, Harry decided it was the best time to voice a fear that had been nagging at him since the previous afternoon. “Reckon I’m the only guy going with another guy?”
“No,” Hermione answered, overlapping Ron’s, “Yeah.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “What are you not telling us?” He directed this at Hermione, who was even more immersed in her knitting than she had when the boys arrived.
“Okay, fine!” Ron exclaimed, exasperated. “We’ll see you in lessons. Come on, Harry.”
They left via the portrait hole and went to breakfast. Harry kept encouraging Ron to ask one of the many girls they passed to the ball, but he just got paler (or in some cases, greener) with each one. Only once he’d filled up on a large breakfast did he regain his normal color.
Harry was pretty disappointed not to see Cedric in the Great Hall that morning. Not that he was seeking him out, of course. That would be silly. No, he just managed to stare at the Hufflepuff table so long that the prefects started to hide the first years protectively behind their robe sleeves. Nothing remotely abnormal about that.
By the time House dance lessons rolled around, Harry’s insides were all wiggly again. Professor McGonagall was going to each student and pairing them with a random partner--unless their partner was in the room, in which case they got extra time together only if they behaved.
McGonagall arrived at Ron and Harry. “Mr. Weasley, would you object to dancing with Ms. Granger?”
Ron gulped, looked at Hermione’s crossed arms, and gulped again. “That’s fine,” he managed after considerable effort. Beaming, Harry watched them approach one another, their movements stiff and awkward. Fred and George were having a blast.
“Potter,” McGonagall began, “and, let’s see.” She searched the eager heads of the Gryffindor girls on the other side of the room.
Harry cleared his throat. She narrowed her eyes at him. Despite her icy disapproval, he said, “Professor, I was wondering if I could learn. Well, the other steps. Not the lead’s.” However much he wanted to cringe, he didn’t.
“Why would you want that?”
Emboldened, maybe by the glimpse he got of Dean and Seamus goofing off and dancing together in the corner, he answered, “The person I’m going with, I think he’ll want to lead.”
“I see.” Her piercing eyes held only approval and admiration. “Stick with me, then, Potter, and we’ll sort this out.”
“Yes ma’am.” He waited for her as she sorted the rest of the class. Then, taking his hands, she showed him where to place them and how to reverse and twirl and all the things that, in his opinion, were a lot more fun to do than the lead bit.
Later at supper he saw Cedric and didn’t even hesitate. He simply walked up to him, smiled, and met his eyes. “Hey, Cedric.”
“Hey, Harry.”
They stared and stared until one of Cedric’s buddies coughed pointedly. Cedric excused himself from the table and threw his arm over Harry’s shoulders, leading them both from the hall. As they exited, Dumbledore raised his glass at them, a sentimental twinkle in his eye. They walked until they were outside, then walked a little more until they found a spot where the stars shone particularly bright. They sat on a stone bench, not touching. Harry was overly conscious of the way the moonlight looked on Cedric’s skin.
Harry’s final, lingering terror bubbled up and burst forth before he could swallow it down. “You didn’t have to say yes if you didn’t want to.” He wasn’t looking at Cedric, but he heard Cedric inhale and shift a little.
Cedric reached over and grabbed Harry’s chin ever-so-gently between his thumb and forefinger. He turned Harry’s face toward his. “I wanted to ask you, too, you know,” Cedric whispered. His mouth was very close to Harry’s. Harry found himself suddenly forgetting how to breathe.
“D-did you?”
Cedric closed his eyes briefly, a small smile etching its way onto his handsome face. Instead of answering Harry’s retrospectively stupid question, he asked, “Harry, can I kiss you?”
Harry moved his head a little before Cedric had even finished speaking. He was a Gryffindor, after all, and bravery and recklessness were some of his strongest traits. Cedric’s lips were spectacularly warm and tasted like butterbeer when he kissed Harry delicately and fearlessly, and it all felt as right and natural and giddying as flying. And both were things, Harry thought as Cedric laughed, dipped Harry, and deepened their kiss, he could stand to do forever.