Work Text:
It’s cold.
He didn’t expect the Killing Curse to feel so cold, though he isn’t sure why that is. It makes sense, after all. Death is cold. Quiet. No more blood rushing through veins like burning silver. No more beating heart. No breath. No air.
He’s always associated it with winter. A frozen stillness that stretches on and on, like freshly fallen snow on bitter mornings. Empty. Like eyes look after the spark within them has gone. Soulless.
It’s the end. A bridge to After, whatever After is. He’s never really known or bothered to imagine. Death… lives in far-off places. It happens to heroes, or martyrs, or to age-old humans in the comfort of their beds. Not to unextraordinary Hufflepuffs who happen to be champions. He’s only seventeen. Too young to fear death circling in the wings, despite living through the end of a war he can no longer remember.
It takes only a moment, dying. He knows this. The curse is fast, and it’s coming for him. Faster than the time it takes to breathe. Unstoppable. Its cold fingers stretch ahead, already clutching at him. He will not draw another breath, nor utter a sound. There isn’t time.
They will think, after, that he didn’t see it coming. That it was too sudden. Cruel enough to rob him of his life, but quick enough for it to be a kindness. They’ll say he never knew that it was the end until it was already over.
He knows.
In the airless moment it takes for the green to fill his vision and steal the life from his chest, he sees it all. He remembers. Every step and every breath that led to this moment.
He is a champion.
He did it. He fought for this. Fought hard and long. Even sacrificed his ideals at times. All for this moment. This cup. This glory he’s fought for. It’s his — at least the half that isn’t Harry’s. Against all odds, he’s done it.
And now both of them… he and Harry…
He never imagined the cost would be so steep.
The fire in the goblet is burning so bright that the rest of the entrance hall is dim by comparison. All he sees are blue-white flames. And the paler glow of the circle, ten feet around.
The goblet is calling.
He steps over the edge of the line, the folded parchment clasped firmly in his hand. It trembles. He told all of Hufflepuff that he would do this; that he would put his name into the cup, and now they believe in him. Are counting on him, even. He spoke in a confident tone; one becoming of a Quidditch captain and a prefect. A proper tone for a future Head Boy. Or a future champion.
But now, with the flaming goblet before him and the parchment clenched in his shaking hand, he’s afraid. The mantle of the goblet feels heavy, and he’s barely stepped into the ring. He won’t back out. But he’s no Gryffindor. His bravery is not showy nor attention-seeking. He holds a quieter sort of courage. And in this moment, the support of Hufflepuff is a burden too heavy to bear. So heavy, it may break the courage he’s worked so hard to build up. So this part he must do on his own.
He steps forward, each step bringing him closer to the goblet, until the blue-white flames make up the entirety of his vision. He raises his hand, letting it hover just over the edge, until he can feel the heat of the fire. He wonders what she would think if she saw him now. Would she cheer him on? Call his name from the stands, when she belongs to nothing but the spotlight? Would she?
Yes, he will do this. For Hogwarts. For Hufflepuff, the house that is eternally swept aside and forgotten. For himself, because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he wants to be remembered. And this is his best chance.
He unclasps his trembling fingers, and the parchment falls into the flames. The blue-white of the fire flashes to red. Like his own little bit of Gryffindor.
For a moment, the air is full of glowing sparks.
“Cedric Diggory!”
His world stops. And around him, it explodes. The Hufflepuffs are roaring, and it’s so loud he can’t hear his own thoughts. He’s on his feet, walking the length of the Hall toward the chamber in the back where the others are waiting, and he has no idea how it happened. He reckons he’s grinning.
Champion. Champion. Champion.
The word echoes through him with every footstep. With every beat of his heart.
Champion. Champion.
He’s done it. The cup has chosen him.
Champion.
Around him, Hogwarts is screaming like a den of angry lions. He briefly wonders why it was his name the cup spit out, and not a Gryffindor’s.
He’s through the door. Silence falls abruptly, and he looks up, and all he sees are the curious eyes of Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour. They size each other up, all three of them silent. He turns and stares into the fire and wonders if he can do it: beat them. What it would take. He’s still wondering when the door creaks open again. He turns around, ready for it all to begin. But it isn’t Dumbledore who’s standing there. It isn’t Ludo Bagman or Bartemius Crouch, or even Professor Sprout, or McGonagall, or literally anyone else he could have expected.
But when he sees who it is, he isn’t surprised in the least. It’s Hogwarts after all, and this is all but guaranteed to happen. He’s shocked he’s gotten this far, that they’ve allowed him in this room, because the goblet spitting out his name was surely a mistake. Hufflepuffs aren’t meant to be champions. Because standing in the doorway is Harry Potter.
And all Cedric can think is, bloody hell, they’re picking him to be the champion, and he’s not even of age.
Harry swears he didn’t put his name into the goblet, though it’s incredibly hard to believe. But Ludo Bagman has introduced him as the fourth champion, and so at least Cedric is safe. For now.
They speak of rules and regulations, but in the end it is what he’s known it will be all along. Harry will compete. And Cedric feels the beginnings of it then — that strange bitterness. The same one he felt last year when he grabbed the Snitch but Harry ended up unconscious on the field, and it was never really a win.
And now, again, he’s overshadowed.
“We’re playing against each other again!” Cedric tells Harry later, as they leave through the deserted Hall. There’s a smile on his face, but he’s sure it looks as forced as it feels. Still, he tries.
“I s’pose,” Harry says, and offers nothing more. There’s no apology in his voice, and Cedric can’t help himself from asking.
“So… tell me… How did you get your name in?”
“I didn’t,” Harry insists. “I didn’t put it in. I was telling the truth.”
The truth. Cedric is not part of Harry’s entourage. He’s neither Ronald Weasley nor Hermione Granger. He’s not privy to the truth. He shouldn’t have expected anything more.
“Ah…” he says, “okay. Well… see you, then.”
He slips away to his common room, leaving Harry in the entrance hall. Down in the basement, the Hufflepuffs greet him with screaming, cheering enthusiasm.
“You’re the real champion, Cedric!” they proclaim.
“Potter shouldn’t’ve stuck his nose where it don’t belong!”
“Potter thinks he can do this to Hufflepuff, but he won’t!”
“He won’t!” they chant. “He won’t! ”
“We’ll show him who the real champion is.”
“Cedric! Cedric! Cedric!”
“You’ll beat ‘im, Diggory!”
And he wonders, will he?
And if he does, what will it cost?
Cedric looks at the badges, and he feels guilty. This isn’t my house, he thinks. This isn’t what Hufflepuffs do.
He thinks of Harry standing in the room off the Hall on Halloween night, his face pale as death. Barely a teenager, even if his antics finally caught up to him enough to realize his mistakes. It gives him an odd satisfaction that Harry is afraid. Harry should have known better. He shouldn’t have put his name in the goblet. This is Hufflepuff’s time. It’s Cedric’s time.
This isn’t what Hufflepuffs are supposed to feel.
But he thinks of Rita Skeeter’s article. He wasn’t even mentioned. He knows this isn’t Harry’s fault. He knows how Rita Skeeter is. But the world is rooting for Harry to win. The entire world, outside of Hogwarts.
And it’s hard. It’s hard to believe in yourself when no one else seems to. Just your family. Your house. When your country’s own newspaper can’t even print your name. And he is the Hogwarts champion. Harry… is extra.
And yes, he’s beaten Harry at Quidditch, but that didn’t really count. Perhaps if he wins this time around, winning will mean something. As much as it can, for him to beat a fourteen-year-old.
No, the odds are stacked against him. Even if he wins, it will never be his name that means anything.
So he looks at the badges, and he knows it isn’t right. It’s the easy thing: to flaunt them. It’s bitter and it’s petty. He doesn’t flaunt them. But he is bitter.
And he says nothing.
He has become nothing but anxiety and skin in the shape of a man. Time is slipping by. The first task is approaching, like a speeding train, and he’s frozen to the tracks. It’s as if someone has cast a Full Body-Bind on him, and while the clattering roar of it grows louder and the lights flash blindingly bright, he cannot move.
That is how he feels, when his bag splits open in the Charms corridor and all his things go tumbling out onto the hard stone floor. Like the edge of the train has hit, and it all starts falling.
He’s trying to stuff everything back into the broken bag while contemplating the irony of how it’s just the perfect metaphor for his life — he, too, is bursting at the seams from holding in his terror, and surely someone will notice soon when it all comes pouring out —when Harry appears at his shoulder.
Cedric makes idle small talk. He’s somewhere in the middle of rambling about his bloody bag — new and all! — when Harry says, “The first task is dragons.” And just like that, his seams are tearing.
“What?” he says, even though he’s heard perfectly well. But that’s the only word he can vocalize, and it’s a breath more than a sound. His terror is bursting through the surface. He can feel it break out across his back in rivulets of sweat. Can barely see straight with it simmering in his eyes.
Harry is still talking, speaking in quick bursts that don’t even sound like words. Cedric hears only a strange buzzing and the frantic beating of his heart.
“Are you sure?” he breathes.
“Dead sure. I’ve seen them.”
“But how did you find out…” Cedric is rambling. Panicking. Anything, to keep the terror at bay a little longer.
“Never mind,” Harry says quickly. And for a moment, Cedric actually wonders if he’s lying. If he’s trying to psych out the competition — to waste his time wrongly preparing or to scare Cedric out of competing hours before the first task.
Would Harry do such a thing? He hopes not, but in truth he doesn’t have the slightest idea what sort of person Harry really is. Everything about him is a mystery, compounded by the vortex of rumors that cloak him everywhere he goes.
“Why are you telling me this?” he whispers, trying to grapple with his conflicting emotions.
Harry stares, as if he can’t believe the accusation that runs beneath Cedric’s words.
“It’s just… fair, isn’t it? We all know now… we’re on even footing, aren’t we?”
The look of hurt disbelief in Harry’s eyes is so sharp, that it cuts Cedric long after Moody appears and takes Harry away.
He’s still unsure what to believe. But he spends the rest of Charms brainstorming how to get past a dragon.
Harry told the truth about the dragons.
Cedric has never felt a more conflicting mix of relief and disappointment in his life. Unfortunately he doesn’t have time to dwell on either, because the Swedish-Short Snout he’s pulled from the bag is wearing a number one. And he can’t imagine how the bloody hell he’s supposed to go first. He’s got a plan, but it all feels terribly pathetic now, in the face of a six-inch dragon.
He hears the whistle from a very long way off, and it’s like his feet are frozen to the ground.
“Go on,” Fleur says, her accent all the heavier for the trembling in her voice. She pushes him gently, and he stumbles forward. Outside the tent, he walks past Harry, who looks as sick as he feels. Harry offers a sort of grunt in his direction. It shouldn’t make any sort of sense, but somehow Cedric understands, and appreciates the sentiment. His opinion of Harry has risen exponentially since yesterday afternoon. He will ask them, he decides. He will ask the Hufflepuffs to stop wearing the bloody badges. Assuming he doesn’t die before the day is out.
He doesn’t die. But the next fifteen minutes are the longest of his life. The dragon is a marvel. It’s a beast of lithe form and sharp angles with shimmering silvery-blue scales that glow in the sunlight. It’s glaring at him with murder in its eyes, looking, for all intents and purposes, as if it’s just stepped out of a storybook. It would be beautiful, were it not 22 feet tall and snorting brilliant blue flame from both nostrils, hot enough to melt the surrounding rocks.
He takes a deep breath and looks past it, out into the crowd, as he searches within himself for courage. They’re screaming with either excitement or encouragement; he isn’t sure which, but he suspects it’s the former. He is the first victim, after all. But he sees a flash of her face, and that seems to be somehow enough.
Enough to be bold.
He follows through with his plan: distract, steal, evade. The first two parts seem to work perfectly. The third, not so much. He barely lays his hands on the coveted golden egg when there’s a terrible roar behind him, followed almost immediately by a blistering heat which burns his skin away like paper. It’s the most pain he’s ever felt. He screams as he runs, casting a shield that seems little more than a formality. He makes it just out of reach before collapsing to the ground, the pain so awful that he nearly sobs as the world dims around the edges. In the moment before help arrives, he sees a Labrador trot easily across his field of vision. He curses it out bitterly between gasping breaths.
Stupid, bloody rock.
It isn’t the most dignified of exits, and he spends the remainder of the task in the medical tent, wondering if she heard his horrified, painful cries. And how is it possible that Harry’s beaten him again? But he knows he’s done his best. And he’s got the egg.
He’s got the egg.
The egg consumes him. He opens it that night in their basement common room, and it sounds like an orchestra of musical saws. One of the windows actually shatters, and first-year Eleanor Branstone starts crying while holding her ears. He feels wretched.
From then on, he opens it only when he’s alone. Every time he’s alone. November fades into December, and Professor Sprout announces the Yule Ball, and he’s still made no progress with the egg. It’s rebutted his every attempt. It won’t answer his questions. It refuses to be charmed or transfigured into anything helpful. It’s resisted both Diffindo and Revelio. Throwing it into the fire achieved nothing but burns on his fingers and gave him a brief flash of PTSD. And it didn’t appreciate his Silencio either — just kept on wailing endlessly; possibly even louder than before. If he doesn’t solve it soon, he fears he’ll rupture his eardrums beyond magical repair.
He carries it everywhere, and every day it grows heavier and heavier, as if its hollow interior is collecting his growing panic and storing it inside. In mid-December, it slips out of his bag and clatters across the floor of Moody’s classroom as he’s packing away his books. It bursts, and its screechy wails echo all through the room, sending the few remaining stragglers running for the corridors. Moody gives him a look of pure murder.
“Sorry,” Cedric says, hurrying to collect the egg. “I didn’t mean—” He snaps it shut, and the screeching stops. Moody appraises him in silence. “Sorry.”
“That’s some clue, Diggory,” Moody says conversationally. “Carrying it round for good luck, are you?”
“Something like that.” In truth, Cedric has all but given up. At this point, he’s hoping the egg will just fall open and reveal its secret, because it’s been weeks and he’s got nothing. Moody seems to see right through him.
“Well, Diggory,” he says gruffly, “it’s not supposed to be easy.”
“I know.”
“Do you now?” Moody says. “My office, Diggory.”
Cedric is supposed to be halfway to Charms, but he follows Moody to his office, wondering if his magical eye can read minds, too.
“That egg requires effort,” Moody says, when Cedric is sitting across from him. “Dedication. Commitment.”
“I know,” Cedric says again, dragging his eyes away from a mirror full of moving shadows on the opposite wall.
“Patience,” Moody stresses, ignoring him. “Diligence.”
Cedric wonders if Moody is mocking his Hufflepuff attributes. He wonders if he even has any, besides being dim-witted. Not that that’s an attribute, but it’s what the entire school seems to think. And it’s certainly how he feels right now.
“I know,” he repeats.
“If you know, I’m sure you’ve made significant progress,” Moody says, and Cedric feels himself blush. He weakly shakes his head.
Moody raises an eyebrow and says nothing aloud. But Cedric can read it all there in the silence. How very disappointing. I thought prefects were supposed to be clever. I thought you, Diggory, were clever.
He doesn’t feel very clever at all.
“I’m at a bit of a standstill,” he admits, looking away. “I’ve tried everything, but I’m just not sure…” He trails off, sighing. What is he doing ? Is he trying to ask Moody, of all people, for help? To cheat? And he’s supposed to be a prefect. A Hufflepuff. A leader by example. Harry may have helped him with the dragon, but that was an accident. He didn’t deliberately… He looks away, ashamed.
Moody seems to understand it all perfectly.
“Well,” he says gruffly, getting to his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He steps away, and Cedric hears the distinct clunk of his wooden leg.
“Of course,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t show favoritism, me,” Moody adds firmly, cutting him off. He’s limping around the office now, leaning heavily on his walking stick.
Cedric looks up and watches Moody walk past his trunk. He briefly wonders why it has seven keyholes. What secrets is it hiding?
“In fact,” Moody says, “I’m going to give you a detention.”
“What? Why?” Cedric draws his eyes from the trunk and stares at Moody’s face. The ex-auror is smirking.
“You’re lazy,” Moody says. “Your essay on nonverbal magic lacked detail, and you didn’t perform well in the practical.”
Cedric frowns, protesting. He was hoping for something with the egg, it’s true, but his essay was well-researched — detailing minor nuances of nonverbal spell casting — and during the practical, he was one of the best in the class. He’s currently undefeated on the class dueling roster.
“Be quiet,” Moody says, cutting him off. “You don’t listen.”
Cedric falls quiet, fuming. He wonders if it’s unbecoming for a Hufflepuff to have so much anger.
“I’m giving you a detention,” Moody repeats. “The prefect’s bathroom, are you familiar with it?”
Cedric nods stiffly.
“Good,” Moody says. “Good. I’m giving the house elves the night off. You’re going to clean it. You can use magic, I don’t care what you do. And bring that bloody egg. You can listen to it howl while you scrub the floors. Chuck it in the bath if you want to. Maybe the damn thing will sound better underwater.”
“I have prefect duty tonight, sir.” He’ll be patrolling the corridors until late into the night.
Moody shrugs. “No point cleaning before curfew. You’ll go at eleven.”
Eleven is late, and he needs to work on his egg, not scrub floors. He hasn’t been sleeping, and he’s so tired. But he isn’t some raging Gryffindor.
Cedric doesn’t argue.
“Pine fresh.”
The secret entrance to the prefect’s bathroom opens and Cedric steps inside. It’s eleven on the dot, and the bathroom is empty. He looks around.
It’s spotless. The marble floor shines. It’s well stocked; the rack of towels, shampoos, and lotions filled to the brim. The pool is so clean it glitters. It all smells of lavender and eucalyptus, and looks absolutely delightful. Any efforts he could make would only take away from this perfect room.
He hovers on the threshold, briefly wondering if he’s in the wrong bathroom. But no, there is only the one. Perhaps Moody has forgotten to talk to the house elves.
He’s still wondering when he hears a cackling voice echoing down the corridor. He whirls.
“Prefects out of bed! Naughty, naughty, naughty.” Peeves is bouncing toward him across the empty corridor. “Setting bad, bad examples. Oh no, we shan’t have that!”
“Go away, Peeves!” Cedric tries, in his best authoritative tone. “I’m supposed to be here.”
Peeves floats to a stop before him and cackles, juggling something in his hands. It’s wiggly. Cedric stares, but Peeves’s hands are moving too quickly to see.
“Diggory Piggery,” Peeves hoots, still juggling the odd shapes. “Sad little puff muffin. Feeling extra, are we? Are we the spare champion, in case crackhead Potter gets eaten by a dragon?” His ghastly eyes glint.
“Shut it!” Cedric snaps. “Toss off, Peeves!”
“Whatever you says.” Peeves grins evilly and stops juggling. Cedric gets a good look at what he’s holding and suddenly gets vivid flashbacks to the start of term feast.
Oh no, is all he has time to think before Peeves tosses a water balloon at him. Then another. These aren’t filled with water, though. He spits some out. Pumpkin soup.
Cedric curses nastily, thrusting a hand into his robes for his wand. But Peeves is already zooming away, hooting with glee. Cedric sighs. It seems there will be some cleaning to do after all.
He’s dripping with soup, so when he’s done, he gets into the bath. He’s filled it with so many contrasting bubbles that it looks like a sea of odd-shaped rainbow clouds. It looks as if it should support his weight, but it doesn’t, and he sinks into the foamy warmth. The joy of it lasts only moments before his thoughts drift back to the egg. The egg, the bloody egg. It haunts his dreams and waking moments. It’s there in his chest every time he tries to breathe.
He lifts it, the metal slippery in his foamy hands, and pries open the hinge.
It screams. The sound echoes, bouncing back at him across the smooth marble walls.
“What are you?” he screams back, his voice fighting with its screeching wail. The egg doesn’t answer. Or if it does, he can’t understand.
“Are you hiding something?”
It screams, and screams, and screams.
He sticks his hand inside, but there’s nothing to find. It’s as empty as ever. Drops of soapy water slide off his hand, brushing against the gold metal interior. There is a sudden scrap of melody. A burr in the screaming. The egg stutters, then the screaming resumes.
Look. For a moment, he’s sure he heard a word. Look.
He draws in a sharp breath. Without daring to hope, to think, he takes a dripping, soapy hand and wipes it along the hollow interior of the egg.
The screaming falters, and for just a moment he can hear a scrap of beautiful, harmonious song.
“...past— hour, the prosp—t’s bla—”
And then the screaming resumes, as loud and jarring as ever.
He closes his eyes. In that moment, he thinks of Moody.
“Chuck it in the bath if you want to. Maybe the damn thing will sound better underwater.”
He plunges the egg below the surface of the foamy pool. The screaming stops, cut off in a snap. Now all he hears are the muffled edges of song. Without a second thought, he plunges his head below the water.
He floats, suspended in the soapy warmth. He hears. He understands.
He stays in the bath for a long time after, replaying the song in his mind as the bubbles slowly fade. The room is quiet now. The only sound remaining is the sporadic drip of a faucet, or the splash of water parting as he moves. Occasionally, he hears a sort of strange squeaking that he attributes to the age-old pipes. It’s always been present in this room. It’s odd, how girlish the pipes can sound sometimes.
They would take something from him. But what? And who? If the egg could only sing underwater, it must be some…
“Underwater creature.” His words echo off the marble ceiling.
“The giant squid?”
No, that doesn’t seem right.
“Multiple voices.” He speaks his theories aloud, the echoing sound giving weight to his thoughts. “A chorus.”
He spends longer than he cares to admit trying to remember if grindylows can talk.
He isn’t sure how much time has passed by the time he spots the painting of the mermaid. She’s giggling and winking at him, her fins flashing in the painted sunlight.
“Merpeople,” he says, and it all comes together. He’ll be going down to the lake to search for merpeople. Breathing won’t be a problem; he’s well familiar with the Bubble-Head Charm. Finding the merpeople in an hour and tracking down his lost item may be more problematic, but he’s sure he can manage. They wouldn’t have assigned a task that was impossible to complete.
He’s giddy when he leaves the bath, the egg in his arms lighter than a feather.
Outside the door, he nearly walks straight into her.
“Cho!” he gasps, wobbling to a halt inches away. His nose is filled with a sudden flash of jasmine. His world made up of her thick, black hair; her smile. The very ground seems to shift beneath his feet.
She steps back, holding a small basket, and grins sheepishly.
“Hi,” she says, making a failed attempt to hide the basket behind her back. “Fancy seeing you.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks, though at second glance it’s obvious. But it’s one in the morning and she isn’t a prefect, and his mind is in another plane. He wasn’t expecting her, and her appearance is jarring. And the way her silky hair curls slightly as it reaches her shoulders does something to his stomach that he can’t quite describe. She’s stunning. He’s always thought so every time his eyes met hers across the pitch. He’s thought it in moments when he watched the Ravenclaw table at mealtimes, or spotted her in the halls with her group of chattering friends. When he saw her in the stands at the first task, cheering him on. But he’s never seen her stand so close. So unguarded.
“Taking a bath,” she admits, and sighs. “Ahh, I’ve done it now.”
He says nothing, still staring. In the silence, he feels the frantic beating of his heart, and wonders if she can hear it too.
“I know,” she says. “I’m not a prefect, but Clara's given me the password.”
“Has she?” Cedric says, and inwardly curses himself for not saying something more clever.
“She has,” Cho says dejectedly, then brightens. “But she told me to come at night, you see, so no one would know. But I’ve messed that up, haven’t I?”
“Have you?” He smiles.
“What’ll it be?” Cho says, smiling back. “House points? Or will you give me lines?”
“I could give you lines,” Cedric says, pretending to contemplate it. “I can offer you a wide array of detention options. Would you like an evening with Snape or McGonagall?”
She considers. “Snape.”
“Interesting choice,” he says.
She shrugs. “I’m a rebel. I support the Tornados, you know. I’m all about the underdog.”
“So you’re willing to take one for the team?” He shifts the egg to a more comfortable position and smiles wider — happy to be here, sharing this space with her. It’s the longest conversation they’ve ever had, and the only one they’ve ever had alone. It makes him ridiculously happy that her wit and character are as bright as her smile. “I suppose I’ll have to let you off with a warning then, since you’re so understanding.”
“No detentions?” she says, in tones of exaggerated shock. “Not for being out of bed at this ungodly hour? Not for sneaking into your secret baths? ”
“Well,” he says, “I don’t think you’ve actually managed to sneak in anywhere. And as I’m out of bed myself…”
She laughs at that. “Merlin, you’re a terrible prefect. Worse than Clara.”
“I know,” he says. He has no arguments; it’s true.
“So, have you solved your secret clue?” Cho asks, glancing down at the golden egg in his arms. “Or do you just like bathing with it?”
“Both,” he says seriously. And she laughs again, and the sound of it is bright and beautiful, and he hopes it doesn’t carry down the hall and bring the fury of Filch upon them. But even if it does, it’s all worth it for this moment.
“Cho,” he adds, suddenly struck with a terrifying jolt of inspiration. “Have you got a date yet? To the ball?”
“Not even a whisper of one,” she admits, looking disappointed. “Marietta says it’s because I’m an exceptional Seeker and that’s terribly intimidating. She’s wrong, of course, but here we are.”
She smiles again, and it catches him for a moment. She’s doubly intimidating, because doesn’t she realize how lovely she is. How beautiful her smile is, and how much her eyes shine when they catch the light. And she’s funny. The way she talks is the same way she flies. Open. Free.
“Well.” His stomach clenches painfully, but his voice sounds confident. Prefectly. Champion-like, even. But he won’t mention that, because he’s a Hufflepuff, and that’s just far too much. “That’s definitely a conundrum. I suppose you’ll just have to go with another Seeker then, so they’re not too dazzled by your popularity. What do you say — would you like to go together?”
She appraises him for a bit. “All right, then.” And she smiles, and it’s like the sun casting warm rays of light on his face.
He walks away in a state of happiness. He’s halfway down the corridor before he hears a door snap and realizes Cho had no intentions of abandoning her endeavour of sneaking into the baths. He laughs so hard he nearly drops the egg.
The next day, Moody stops him outside the Great Hall before lunch and asks if he’s had a productive detention.
“Y-yes,” Cedric stutters guiltily, wondering if he should mention the cleanliness of the baths or stay silent. He doesn’t reckon staying silent is the right thing.
“Good,” Moody says. “Just what you needed, was it? Get to lunch then. I hope you’re not tired of pumpkin soup.”
He winks at Cedric and limps past him into the Great Hall.
Cedric thinks back to the egg, locked in his dorm for the first time since November, and smiles. And wonders if this is what favoritism looks like.
Cedric takes Cho to the Yule Ball. It’s wonderful. They dance all night until their feet hurt and she abandons her shoes and he wishes he could, too. They feast and drink and laugh, and talk through all the empty moments until none remain. She’s beautiful, funny, smart. It’s perfect, all of it. There’s only one shadow weighing on his mind. Harry.
Cedric spots him at the table, where he sits morosely with Ronald Weasley. He stays there for the majority of the ball, and looks dejected whenever Cedric glances over. Once or twice, their eyes meet.
Cedric wonders how he’s getting along with his egg. Harry told him about the dragons. And Moody’s helped Cedric with the egg. And now he wonders if anyone’s helping Harry. He’s only fourteen, after all. He may have broken the rules and tricked the goblet and outdid Cedric with the dragon, but he still balks at the idea of sending Harry blindly into the lake.
The bitterness he held for Harry a short month ago is now so distantly removed it makes him feel ashamed.
He should know what he’s signing up for, Cedric decides. He should at least know that.
He leaves Cho at the foot of the stairs.
“Take a bath,” he tells Harry.
“What?” Harry looks at him blankly, and Cedric realizes he’s doing a terrible job explaining. But he’s halfway up the marble staircase and the entirety of Hogwarts is rushing past. Besides, Moody wasn’t direct with him either. Probably because the answer was something he needed to earn. And Harry, too, will need to work that out on his own.
“Use the prefect’s bathroom,” Cedric says finally, and rattles off the password. Then he smiles at Harry and hurries back to the foot of the stairs where Cho is waiting. He’s done the right thing, and now he can enjoy the rest of the night without guilt.
They slip back out into the enchanted winter garden and spend the whole night talking. When the first grey light of dawn seeps into the sky, he asks Cho to be his girlfriend.
She smiles and nods, her face perfectly serene; her lips warmer and softer than the budding sunrise.
On the morning of the second task, he can’t find Cho anywhere. The previous night she kissed him and promised to send him off at breakfast. She never comes. He spends as much time as he dares looking, but the search comes up empty.
“I don’t know,” her best friend, Marietta, says, when he asks. “She never came back to the dorm last night.” She seems entirely unconcerned, as if this is typical Cho behavior. He tries to remain calm.
He tries asking Flitwick, but doesn’t get any sort of straight answer. By the time he shows up at the lake, he’s in a state of near panic. He barely notices Harry running up to them at the last moment. He contemplates walking away from the task, but knows that would cause an uproar big enough to only hinder the search. And then Bagman is blowing his whistle and they’re all wading into the lake, and he has no choice but to follow. And hope she’s okay.
When he finds her beneath the murky waters — tied firmly to the tail of a stone statue, with her black locks a soft cloud about her head — his heart nearly stops. For a moment, he feels as though his bubble has run out of air. But she’s alive. He can see her moving gently, as though in sleep. The fine stream of bubbles issuing from her mouth and vanishing into the dark water of the lake.
Of course she is. He almost laughs at himself for thinking Dumbledore would allow a student to die on his behalf. And then he realizes, really realizes, why she’s here; she’s the thing that he would miss the most. Thing, being a rather loose term, for he was imagining his broomstick or his wand being taken. But no, it’s Cho. That’s what someone has decided. Professor Sprout, perhaps, or Dumbledore. And Cho has agreed to this. Cho believed so much in his ability to save her that she allowed herself to be put into enchanted sleep and brought down here, to the bottom of the lake. And he will not let her down.
He propels himself forward, toward her. There are three others around her waiting for their champions to arrive, and he’s glad that Cho didn’t have to go through this alone. He hopes the others don’t wait much longer for their rescues, though he knows Dumbledore will let no harm befall them. At first he thinks that he’s the first to arrive, but then realizes Ronald Weasley isn’t tied down and spots Harry several paces away, staring him down from behind several merpeople. Harry has beaten him again. Well, at this point it’s nothing new. No surprises there.
He mouths a silent greeting and Harry nods, seemingly in no hurry to bring Weasley to the surface. Perhaps he’s torn, choosing between his two best friends. Having to leave one below… Cedric doesn’t envy him the choice. He would offer to wait with him, but Cho’s been here far too long already. Her skin is pale and wrinkled and cool to the touch, and he’s loath to leave her here a second more. She’s counting on him. And he won’t breathe freely until she does, too. So he cuts Cho free and pulls her away, up toward the surface. Harry remains.
It’s only when the water turns clear and lightens with the weak February sun, that he thinks back to Harry and wonders why on earth he was restrained by three merpeople. Harry is endlessly getting into some tight spot or another. What on earth did he do now? But then they break the surface and Cho’s eyes flicker open.
“You did it,” she says hoarsely, and offers him a bright smile — though some of the effect is lost since her lips are rather blue. “Merlin, it’s cold.”
“Let’s get you out of here,” he says, and they swim quickly toward the shore, where the crowd roars and Harry and his merguards are driven clear from his mind.
Once they are stuffed full of potion and tucked away beneath warm blankets, and the crowd is distracted by the arrival of Viktor Krum, Cho catches his lips with her own.
“My hero,” she whispers, and smiles at him again. He grasps her hand and realizes that nothing in the world — not being first to the surface, not winning the tournament, not anything — is comparable to her, here beside him.
Win or lose, he’s won already. And the look she gives him, the one that seems to contain the entire universe, makes him suspect she feels the same. And he closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine it — what a future with Cho could look like.
He doesn’t want to jinx it; doesn’t want to dream too far. But he thinks of summer. Of lakes much warmer than this one, and days spent in sunshine and warm wind. Kisses stolen in the firelight. And, one day, maybe something more.
“I hope you win,” Cho tells him, smiling. “Because next year, I’ll destroy you in Quidditch, and that would totally unbalance the dynamic of our relationship.”
And Cedric grins the widest smile he’s ever known, because here she is, promising him the future he doesn’t dare imagine. He brings his lips to hers and doesn’t let her go until Viktor and Hermione appear beside them, wrapped in blankets of their own.
The night before the third task, Cedric and Cho walk out onto the Quidditch pitch. They stand in the warm breeze beneath a sea of stars and gaze up at the dark walls of the maze.
“I’ll be watching from here tomorrow,” Cho tells him, her dark eyes twinkling. “From right over there.” She points to the stands. “Bet I won’t see a thing.”
“Let’s see,” he says, and they walk over. Halfway up into the stands, he’s forced to concede her point. They sit, watching the maze stretched out before them. Cho makes a terrible joke about perspective and Cedric defends Dumbledore’s intentions. Cho suggests setting up Muggle screens to view the event, and Cedric points out that Hogwarts’s magical field would destroy them immediately. They sit beneath the stars and spend twenty minutes discussing Muggle technology and how it can be applied in the wizarding world. He loves that she appreciates the things that he appreciates; that they can banter like this.
“I’ll be rooting for you,” she says finally, after they have fallen into a comfortable silence. “Even though I’ll have nothing to do but chat with Clara and Marietta and stare at a hedge for two to five hours. And for Harry, too.” She pokes him, grinning. “Just so we’re clear.”
“That seems fair,” Cedric says easily. He’ll fight Harry — and Fluer and Viktor — to the bitter end. But it will only be bitter because it’ll be over. This year has taught him so much. And given him so much. And best of all, it’s led him to her. It doesn’t matter if he loses tomorrow — nothing he can win could ever be better than this.
“But you’re definitely my favorite champion,” she says, winking. And kisses his cheek. And for the first time, he realizes that the panic that usually accompanies these tasks… is gone. Cho is by his side. And all he feels is happiness.
He laughs and brings his lips to hers. They kiss beneath the starlight, her mouth hot against his as his fingers trail through her silky hair. Her breath fills his mouth and he tastes chocolate, smells jasmine. His heart beats. Faster. Her hands cup his face and trail down his neck. Brush his chest. He pulls her closer, holding her tightly, their lips still pressed together. She breathes, and in the silence he can hear her heart. And his own. The soft rustle of fabric as it falls away. The heat between them. The moment is bigger than anything he’s ever known. They stay, skin brushing skin, until nothing exists but her, and him, and the endless expanse of sky.
In the maze, he meets Harry thrice. Twice, Harry saves him. He should be out of this race already. He should be lying in the hospital wing, cursing Krum and holding on to the shreds of his sanity. But he isn’t. He’s standing at the heart of the maze, within arm’s reach of the cup.
He’s fought his way through every obstacle for it. Pushed through the pain of Krum’s Cruciatus, which shocked him to his core and left him shaking. He still stands in the shadow of a thousand burning knives. But he didn’t stop. Not for the skrewt, and not for Krum, and not for the acromantula, which nearly killed him and Harry both. But he stops now, for Harry. He’s inches from the cup.
And he can’t take it.
And Merlin, that hurts.
“You should take it,” he says quietly. Harry watches him in silence, leaning heavily on the hedge. His leg is bleeding badly, and Cedric is sure it will give way any minute. If he chooses to run, Harry will never catch up.
“You should win,” Cedric insists, and the words cost him everything.
Last night, with Cho, winning didn’t matter. But today it does. How can it not, when he’s standing so close to victory that he can practically feel the cup’s magical energy melding with his own? He doesn’t need the cup, but in light of what he’s faced — what Krum’s done to him — he wants it. For himself. For Cho, who’d look at him with pride even though he knows she doesn’t really care if he’s the one to bring it home for Hogwarts. But Hufflepuff would care. And that’s precisely why he can’t do it, because he knows it wouldn’t be right. He may be inches away, but he hasn’t earned this. And in the real world, it may not matter what’s been earned or hasn’t because people don’t care, and choose the easy road, and take whatever they want all the time… but in his world, it does.
So he steps away and shakes his head, ignoring Harry’s protestations. It’s taken him a long time, nearly a whole year, to realize that Harry is the better person.
“You stayed behind to get all the hostages,” he says. “I should have done that.”
But he cared only for Cho. Harry, the Gryffindor, was the one who stayed, who made sure all of them were safe. And in the maze, he’s saved Cedric too. He would’ve won already, had he not stopped to do the right thing, over and over again. Until it left him hurt and bleeding.
But Harry is stubborn. And so they stand, both unwilling to take the prize they’ve fought so hard for. Months ago, Cedric might have thought it was pride. But tonight, he knows it’s more.
And then Harry says it: “Both of us.” Still willing to share a victory that Cedric doesn’t deserve. And one he can no longer refuse.
“You’re on.” He can’t help the smile that breaks across his face. He thinks of Cho, and how her eyes will sparkle when they carry the cup out together. She’s always had a soft spot for Harry; Cedric understands — so does he.
He reaches for Harry’s arm, helps him walk toward the center. To the plinth. The cup.
It’s so alive with magic, it nearly glows.
“One,” Harry counts slowly, “two — three.”
And they reach down, together, and grasp the handles.
And then the entire world is wind, and roaring sound, and whirling color.
And everything he knows, everyone he loves, is gone.
He wishes he had time enough left to breathe her name. That her twinkling eyes could be the last thing he sees in this world, and not the blazing green of death drawing nearer. That the sweet sound of her laughter would fill his ears, and not, “Kill the spare!” and “Avada Kedavra! ” and the relentless, rushing sound of death.
It’s cold.
Forgive me, he thinks. Forgive me.
Forgive me for wanting more. For taking the cup. But it’s all pointless. Why is he apologizing, when the alternative was sending Harry here alone? And that isn’t a choice he could have lived with. So he will die… with this one.
Live, Cho. Be happy.
I’m sorry.
His vision is bleeding into green. And all is terrible, bitter cold. The last beat of his heart drowned out by silence.
And then there is nothing at all.
At first, he thinks After is gold light, and painful screams, and phoenix song. He’s in the dark, forcing his way through a forest of shadows, and the gold thread pulls him. The song is in his ears.
Is this how it all ends? he thinks.
He steps into the gold and turns, expecting something endless and beautiful, and perhaps his grandma waiting at the gates to greet him, but After is the same ugly world he’s left. The same ugly graveyard. And there’s Harry, just where he left him. But he looks harder. More worn. More bloody. As if he’s lived five different lifetimes since Cedric… went away.
And there, across from him, is a dark spot in the golden dome. A tear in its purity. A face he never thought he’d see in his lifetime.
And he knows, then. He isn’t done. Not yet. He hasn’t earned his After. Because he may be gone, but Harry’s still fighting. Still holding on, despite the way his eyes shake and his hands tremble.
“Hold on, Harry,” he says softly, and his voice echoes across the distance between them. It seems so short — just a few feet — but it is much too far to cross. He’s halfway gone already. And Harry looks at him, his green eyes shimmering beneath the golden dome, and nods.
And Cedric stays, and watches the others appear beside him. Frank Bryce. Bertha Jorkins. Lily and James Potter. Somehow, he knows them all. And they fight — with words that have to be enough, because it’s all they have. It’s all they can touch. He’s less than ghost; just smoke and shadow now. Fighting a war that isn’t his anymore. But his heart is still whole, even as it breaks.
“Harry…” he whispers, when it’s clear that Harry can’t hold on a moment longer, “take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents…”
“I will,” Harry says, his face screwed up with effort, and then he pulls his wand upward and the golden thread shatters. The golden dome flickers and dies, and the song fades to silence.
And he’s fading, too. Fading… Into the After at last. But he walks on, the others beside him, blocking the way to Harry, hiding him from sight. Firmly. For as long as they can. Until their bodies turn transparent. In the final moments, he’s nothing but air and heart.
In the moment before it all ends, he hears the scream of fury and sees the small flash of blue before all sound fades. And knows Harry is gone. Back to Hogwarts. Back to his parents. To Cho.
The goodbye breaks off from his invisible lips, which still remember the shape of hers beneath them, and trails silently into the wind. With it, he hopes she finds the courage to keep walking.
No. He knows she will. No matter how much it will hurt. The spark of life within Cho… is far too strong to crumble.
He raises his eyes to the starry sky as it rushes down to meet him, and the graveyard fades from sight. There is nothing but sky around them now. A sea of stars. And new grass beneath their feet.
There’s a soft whisper in his ear. “Come.”
Lily Potter is there beside him, her hand a warm weight on his shoulder. “They’ll be all right,” she says gently. “Thank you for standing by him.” He turns and sees the sad smile upon her face. “You did win, you know.”
“Then why?” he says hoarsely, and tears sting bitterly at his eyes. “Why does it feel like losing?”
Her eyes — green like Harry’s — tremble. Thirteen years later, she’s still only 21. Barely older than he’ll ever be.
“Because,” she says gently. “Love hurts. And love lives on.”
“Even mine?” he whispers.
“Of course,” she says. “That’s how we live. In memory.”
And then she pulls him up, up into the starry expanse of sky, until his feet leave behind the broken earth.
The broken earth, where love remains.