Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The semester is drawing to an unceremonious close, which, unsurprisingly, means that the halls are sparsely populated—with only a few straggling upper years dotting the corridors in their small, anxious clusters. The weather is being unusually cooperative, even for June, and most of the now thoroughly drained student body, regardless of house, are taking full advantage of that fact. Exams have finished for everyone but the seventh years; cue Cedric, arms quite literally overflowing, finding himself on his way to return a hefty stack of books to the library—as is the long standing, post-OWLs tradition of Hogwarts students through the ages—huffing and swaying as he tries not to drop everything into a sprawling mess on the floor.

It’s a few days until everyone heads home for the summer holiday, and Cedric, for the life of him, cannot wait. He’s tired. Exhausted, more accurately—his body aches and his mind feels like a big mound of sludge. He feels like he could regurgitate an entire novella on the trans-species transformation process of turning a puffskeins into a parakeet; the history of finite incantatem; and the complete properties of the potion of everlasting elixirs.

Running into his little brother is, admittedly, the last thing on his mind.

So when he turns the corner of the corridor just a ways beyond the library, and sees a rather stiff looking Harry staring aimlessly out of one of the many vast windows of the hall, he freezes—An Anthology of Eighteenth Century Charms tumbling to the floor with an echoing clatter as he nearly trips on the hem of his robes.

He blinks—and opens his mouth on instinct to say something. No words come out, though a strange, strangled croak escapes past his lips. Harry doesn’t so much as flinch at his presence, his scrawny frame hunched in on itself, eyes far away in their gaze and jaw clenched what Cedric’s can only assume is painfully tight. It’s as if he’s entirely unaware of his surroundings, and Cedric is reminded in a sick, vague sense of the petrified students from last year.

“Harry?” He sounds more startled then he means to, feeling a bit like an idiot, just standing there with a bundle of textbooks and scrolls in his arms. His brother doesn’t respond. Something inside Cedric’s chest squirms uncomfortably.

It’s no secret to him that his little brother is considered—in nice terms—a bit of an oddball to the rest of the school. Though everyone and their mothers’ seem to know his name, Harry’s not what Cedric would exactly describe as being popular. He was always off by himself, in his own little world; a world that Ron Weasley—Harry’s long time best friend—and that Granger girl—with the bushy hair—were primarily, and almost solely, a part of.

Harry preferred to be something of a recluse—and Cedric couldn't exactly blame him for that. There was by no means anything wrong with his little brother. It was just that he could be—was often, perhaps—a tad strange seeming to people watching from the outside. Stranger, that is, than most people at Hogwarts. He was aloof and had something of a reputation for being a troublemaker. Where Harry went, the unusual seemed to follow suit. People seemed to like to keep his particular brand of strangeness at an arm's length; of course, Cedric thinks with a grimace, that is unless he was winning Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup.

Shaking his head, he tries again. “Harry!” he repeats, louder this time.

Harry jolts at the change of volume in his tone. Finally, his attention snaps directly to Cedric; eyes sharp and wary, his hand—Cedric processes belatedly—already halfway to his wand pocket.

They gape at each other for a long moment, an unpleasant coldness trickling down Cedric’s spine. There’s a cut running down the side of Harry’s face, matching nicely with the ever pleasant lightning bolt scar on his forehead; there’s bruising on his left temple, and little red flecks of blood decorating the upper part of his lip.

There’s a beat, and then, hesitantly, Harry opens his mouth. “Uh, Ced?”

He sounds normal. Or, as normal as one can sound, Cedric supposes, given the circumstance.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Harry asks dumbly.

“Really?” Cedric demands a bit hotly, irritation and worry flaring inside his chest. “You just—nevermind,” he huffs. “What’s so interesting about that window?”

He cringes as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Harry bristles, rolling his eyes in a not so subtle fashion—a recent favorite to all of Cedric’s questions. He shifts his weight, arms crossing defensively.

“Is not looking out windows a new rule or something, oh great prefect?”

Ah, yes, Cedric is reminded pleasantly, giving his little brother a sour look of his own. This was one of the factors contributing to the recent deviation between them, he supposes. Harry’s new insistence on being a shit.

“No,” he grits out, gripping his books tighter and ignoring the hot weight of the prefect’s badge currently pinned against his chest. “But you weren’t looking at anything. You were just, I dunno, staring,” he finishes lamely.

Harry, predictably, flushes. His mouth turns into a deep, angry frown, nose scrunching up as his eyes slit into a glare. Instinctually, Cedric braces himself; for the arguing, for the insult—but shockingly, just as quickly as he puffs up, Harry deflates. His mouth opens and then clamps shut just as quickly, as if the fire has suddenly been blown out of him. His shoulders droop and his entire expression falters.

He looks… worn down—old, almost. Cedric notices the bag under his eyes for the first time in weeks, and takes in the paleness of his skin. He looks, in all honest, ill.

“Whatever,” Harry says tiredly, curling away from himself just slightly.

Instantly, the alarm bells are blaring inside of Cedric’s mind. Something must be very, very wrong for that to be Harry’s only response. His little brother looks like he’s nearly had the life sucked out of him—which, Cedric realizes with appall, is in fact a distinct possibility. Dementors are nasty creatures, and one’s that hardly discriminate when choosing their next meal.

“Hey,” Cedric says around the awkwardness and frankly panic he’s starting to feel. “I’m not, uh, I’m not judging you here, mate. I’m just…” Concerned. He bites down on his tongue harshly, nostrils flaring as he lets out a sharp breath. “You’re just looking a bit peaky, s’all.”

“Oh,” Harry says blandly, and gives Cedric a look that tells him he’s entirely unimpressed by that response. “Sorry.”

This isn’t what Cedric’s expecting. Not at all. It’s not often that conversations with Harry end with anything but a fight, at least not these days—but this is—

Cedric cuts himself off before he can even think the word. Harry stares at him, as if he knows just what exactly is going on inside his older brother’s head. Heat flashes through Cedric’s face, embarrassment filling him along with equal parts shame. Freaky, he almost thought. His mouth feels dry and his throat tight.

Harry, with some grumbled excuse, turns on his heel and hurries off before Cedric can say anything else.

It takes a while for Cedric to collect himself, to bend down and scoop up his book. He feels slimy, inside and out, by the time he sees the stern-faced Madam Pince and all but dumps his heap onto her desk with a muttered apology.

The feeling doesn’t vanish long until after he goes to bed.

Going home feels like breathing fresh air for the first time in ten months. At the end of the day, even with all the hassle and stress that comes with being there, Cedric does love Hogwarts—but, still, nothing comes close to being home. Stumbling into the Diggory family living room, warm and bright, with floo powder caked beneath his nails and soot on his face, is like stumbling into an entirely different world; one where every minute of every day isn’t cramped full with endless anxiety and the heaping expectations of overbearing teachers. This is home, Cedric thinks, this is safety. This is the place he grew up, the place where his mum is, where his room is; the place where all the smells are familiar and all the faces are that of those he loves. The place no professor can touch, the place no one can judge him.

He’s grinning from ear to ear, the second he catches sight of the inside of the house—the familiar dark, cherry colored floors and cream colored wallpaper with tiny red flowers dotting it. His parents’ aren’t there at the moment—Dad being at work and Mum visiting a recently widowed, second cousin of hers in Ireland—but his mum had promised him that they’d both be back by this evening. For now, though, it's just him and Harry. Which is fine, of course. For the most part.

The sound of flames erupting sounds from behind him, followed promptly by the sound of his little brother’s cough, fills the air. Harry stumbles out of the fireplace, looking a bit worse for wear, in all honesty. His round rimmed glasses are skewed on his nose; his black hair filled with barely discernible gray flakes of ash; and so on. He stumbles to his feet, back straightening, and looks around the living room, much like Cedric had just moments ago. He grimaces—taking off his glasses and rubbing at the lens.

“Where are mum and dad?” he croaks, having readjusted his glasses, and then pulling a face that lets Cedric know he’s tasting soot.

Cedric winces in sympathy. “They're not home—said they’d be back later.” He pauses. “I thought mum told you?”

Harry huffs, sparing him an annoyed look. “No. She didn’t. Reckon she thought you would,” he says the last part accusingly.

“Right—sorry about that, then.”

Like the days previous, Harry’s entire presence seems to droop. The happy, light feeling in Cedric’s chest fades, the atmosphere in the room becoming awkward—yet again.

The two of them haven’t really spoken since the library incident. In fact, Cedric’s hardly seen Harry—not even in passing—since that afternoon. In spite of his best attempts, Harry seems to have become startlingly adept at avoiding him when he so wishes to do so; to the point where even Weasley and Granger hadn’t been of much help in tracking him down. Every time Cedric thought he might’ve been able to corner him, it was as if Harry knew he was coming. He kept turning up, all to be informed by some poor passerby, ‘‘sorry Diggory—I think you just missed him.’’

It had been both obnoxious and dumbfounding; and eventually, in the interest of his own sanity, he had been forced to give up, settling on the fact that—realistically speaking—they had the whole summer to talk.

We’re here together now, though, Cedric muses. It’s true; there’s nowhere for either of them to go. Yet for some reason, Cedric finds himself unable to muster up the words. He wants to ask what’s going on; but more than anything, a little, childish part of him just wants Harry to tell him. There was a time when that wasn’t so unreasonable to expect; a time when his little brother couldn’t—and wouldn’t, even—keep a secret from him to save his own life. Ceric wants to be able to fix whatever the problem is. He wants to fix it and then move on.

Harry sighs. “I’m going upstairs,” he says.

“Right,” Cedric says. “Want me to get your trunk?”

“It’s fine,” Harry says sullenly. “I’ll ask mum to get it later or something.”

“Ah, right then.”

Harry casts him a tired look.

This, Cedric thinks, good mood losing steam, is going to be a long summer.

Cedric doesn’t see Harry for an entire forty-eight hours after the first night of being home. He shuffles out of his room long enough to say hello to their mum and dad, before quietly returning to his den, as Cedric so affectionately dubs it, the moment dinner is done and over with. It’s—Cedric tries to resist the urge to think this—obscenely strange, the whole thing. He mentions it to his mum, something unpleasant curdling in the pit of his stomach, but she merely waves him off with excuses of ‘he needs space’ and ‘I’m sure he’s just unwinding from the year he had’. Which, sure, Cedric might have been able to believe too; had he been able to stop thinking back to that stare, to that distant look in Harry's eyes, in the hallway. Something, he thinks for the millionth time, laying in bed after dinner the second night of being home, isn’t right. Did he miss something? Cedric considers this. Maybe he’s fighting with Granger or Weasley, he thinks, before brushing the thought away. That doesn’t make much sense, does it? After all, those two had looked equally—if not even more—concerned than he felt when he went to talk with them.

Was someone giving him a hard time? Cedric is aware that Harry and Dean—Drake?—Draco?—Malfoy have had their issues, but that has always seemed undeniably mutual—a feud more than anything else. Girl problems? Cedric literally shakes his head at the idea, grimacing. He certainly hopes not. Trouble with school work? But no, Granger always seemed too on top of her things to let either of her friends slip behind. Besides, he’s seen Harry’s report card. It’s full of mostly Es, with sporadic Os in DADA and Care of Magical Creatures, alongside a few hushed As in History of Magic and the like; nothing ghastly or anything near the sorts.

If it’s not people, and it’s not a romantic hold up, and it's not school—then what, Cedric can’t help but wonder, is—was—going on? Maybe he’s overreacting. That’s a starter. But still, he can’t shake the sense of foreboding lingering heavily inside his gut.

These thoughts go in a continuous loop inside his mind, until finally, on the third day of Harry's self imposed seclusion, he snaps. Feeling sick of both being very annoyed and incredibly concerned, he finds himself standing outside of Harry’s bedroom door. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the trepidation rushing through his head, and knocks.

Nothing.

“Harry?” he calls. “You in there, mate?”

It’s a false question. Cedric knows damn well that he is. But still, he gets no response. He knocks one more time, before deciding, bloody hell, screw it. He’ll brave the lion’s den, invited or not.

He opens the door, and, immediately, he has to blink. The room is pitch dark compared to the rest of the house; the curtains shut tight, no candle or anything. He has to squint to see anything at all.

“Harry?”

He gets a small grunt in return, coming from the slight mass curled up on the bed across the room.

Cedric resists the urge to pinch to bridge of his nose.

“S’pretty dark in here,” he says as gently as he can manage. “What’cha doing?”

Harry lets out another displeased sounding grunt. “Tryna sleep.”

“In the middle of the day?”

Another grunt. Cedric sighs and bites the bottom of his lip. Think, he tells himself. Say something; anything.

“You wanna fly?” he settles on, hesitantly. Harry has always, always loved flying—a love that’s only grown since starting Hogwarts and becoming a seeker. Usually, Cedric thinks he'd already be outside by now, zooming through the air; if not here than by the Weasley brood. “It’s a nice day out,” he adds, hoping that temptation, if nothing else, will work.

For a moment, Harry doesn’t speak—as if he’s actually considering it. Cedric’s heart soars at the thought—spirits lifting. There’s the slight sound of rustling sheets, and then, nothing.

“Har—”

“I’m tired,” he says, finally, voice raspy but firm. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Cedric turns around feeling his heart might just be a little bit broken.

A few more days pass, and, at long, long last, Harry appears from his room for something other than the bathroom. He looks horrid, frankly; his skin is pasty, his hair, if possible, even more disheveled than usual. He looks at Cedric with big, heavy green eyes, which are only highlighted by the massive bags stamped beneath them.

“Morning,” he croaks from his seat at the table.

Cedric pierces his lips, carefully gauging the potential danger of his next action, before, tentatively, ruffling his hair. “Morning, bug,” he says pleasantly.

Surprisingly, Cedric keeps his hand. Harry only rolls his eyes, both at the old nickname and the action, which Cedric considers a rather impressive win. He takes a seat at the table next to him, watching their mum flutter about the kitchen. Harry rests his head on the table, closing his eyes softly. Cedric holds back a frown.

“All right, love,” their mother says brightly, coming to the table with a bowl of what looks like it might supposed to be oatmeal. “Here we are—and, oh, morning darling,” the last part directed at him. Cedric greets her back, raising a questioning eyebrow.

It's a known fact in the Diggory house that Darlene Diggory does not—and, Cedric has to admit privately, should not—cook. For as long as Cedric could remember, his father has jested, ‘your mother doesn’t like the kitchen and frankly, Ced, the kitchen doesn’t like your mum.’ Of course, his mother had always taken great offense to that, though she could reluctantly agree (after a particularly memorable incident that ended with an entire pack of sausage filling exploding all over the kitchen—walls, ceiling, everywhere) that there was perhaps a grain of merit to the joke. Knowing she had cooked breakfast for Harry was somewhat alarming, for multiple reasons.

“Anything I can get you, Ced?” she asks him casually, eyes darting to her youngest son. Harry is staring down at his bowl of… whatever that is, as if it’s his potions final. “Eggs, maybe?”

He smiles wryly. “Nah, thanks mum—but I’m good.” Really, he doesn’t add.

“Well, all righty then,” she says. “I’m off to visit Mr. Fenwick—you know him, don’t you, darling? Lovely old fellow, lives all alone. I promised him I’d drop off some treats.” Cedric cringes, despite himself. His mother gives him a dry look. “Oh relax,”she sniffs, “they’re from the muggle bakery.”

“Ah.” Relief fills him.

“Honestly,” he thinks he hears her grumble under her breath, “I’m not that bad.”

She is, but he doesn’t tell her that.

A few minutes later, his mum departs, though not before kissing them both on the head and giving a hasty farewell. In a blink of an eye, she’s off through the floo, leaving a puff of bright green smoke and the smell of soot in her wake.

Cedric stretches out his limbs, slowly, his neck giving a satisfying crack as he rolls it. He gets up from the table, and heads for the cupboards. Harry, he notes, hasn’t touched his food.

“So,” he says over his shoulder, his eyes glossing over the various cabinet items intently. “Want me to make breakfast?”

He imagines Harry shoots him a look. “Mum made me something already,” he says.

“Let me rephrase that—do you want me to make an edible breakfast?”

For the first time in what feels like forever, Harry snorted with laughter. Cedric glances back at him, watching as he drops the tip of his spoon into the mystery porridge. Cedric swears it makes a gulping noise, as the spoon sinks deeper.

Harry makes a face.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Cedric says merrily.

He ends up frying some eggs and making a couple of pieces of toast. It’s nothing special, but by the time he’s done—ten or so minutes later—he feels happy enough about it. He sets up a plate for him and Harry both, and makes his way back to the table.

They eat in relative silence. Harry mostly just nibbles on his toast—but Cedric doesn’t mind. The longer he thinks about it, the more unsure he becomes on what he’s actually seen Harry eat since they got home. Eating anything is better than eating nothing, he reasons, and tucks in.

The meal lasts a matter of minutes, but it’s the longest they’ve been around each other in months. Cedric finds himself savoring it—both the food, however underwhelming, and the company.

He gives Harry a little more time to poke at his place, before taking the dishes.

“Thank you,” Harry quietly says, when Cedric’s about half-way through with washing the utensils.

“No problem,” he replies and means it.

Things seem to improve in the days from there. Cedric more or less—leaning towards less—lets go of the idea of trying to find out what’s wrong, and resolves to just try his best to help Harry along in any way he can. It’s not easy—in the sense that Cedric can’t exactly be overly blunt about it. Harry’s stubborn; he’s not exactly the kind of person who likes to admit they need help—let alone from their big brother. Tentatively, they start making shitty jokes to one another again; grumble about the absurd amounts of homework they have (Harry’s load isn’t necessarily light, but Cedric’s is literally ridiculous); and Cedric even manages to drag Harry outside for a quick fly. Things are looking up—and Cedric is hopeful that whatever it is that was bothering his little brother, it’s lessened in its grip around him.

On Thursday, Harry announces Ron’s coming over for the afternoon, which Cedric doesn’t think much of. There’s nothing unusual about the statement, other than the fact that generally speaking, the two boys prefer to hang out at the Burrow. Their mother says something along the lines of ‘that’s nice, dear’ and that’s the end of it. Ron comes over, informs them that his mother says hello, and he gets directed off to Harry’s room. Cedric spends the afternoon trying to make a dent in his homework, and that’s all there is too. He doesn’t even look up later when Ron clunks down the stairs and gives an off-handed, ‘bye Harry’s mum!’

The whole affair is utterly unexceptional. Harry comes down for dinner later, a bit distracted looking, but not horridly so. They eat dinner (their dad’s hand having cooked it, thankfully) and everything is fine. Their parents’ go to bed early. Harry stays up for a few more hours before heading off, too, and Cedric stays up, taking advantage of the lack of early wake-up times to do some pleasure reading.

Understandably, he all but falls out of his seat when he hears screaming an hour or so later.

His book hits the ground with a hard thud. Cedric bolts to his feet, instincts taking over as he charges up the stairs. His heart pounds as he flies down the hall. He doesn’t even glance at his parents’ room; he doesn’t have to. Somehow, he knows that scream. He doesn’t stop moving as he flings open the last door at the end of the hall, reaching out a forceful hand to flick on the light.

“Harry,” he breathes. His brother thrashes, limbs tangled in his own sheets—screaming bloody murder. “Shit, Harry.”

It's perhaps not his wisest decision to shake his brother awake by the shoulders, but it gets the job done. Emerald eyes flash open, cutting a scream off midway through. Harry’s head snaps up right—just barely missing Cedric's very exposed nose.

“Oi,” Cedric tries to say, through the horrid sound of Harry’s rabid breaths. “Harry—Harry, shh!”

Harry let out a strangled cry; his pupils blown wide and face nearly drained of all colour. He looks around frantically, as if he’s looking for something; someone. His knuckles are white as he grips the fabric of his quilt, which is half-hanging off the edge of his bed.

“Ced,” he wheezes, “glasses.”

Fumbling, Cedric grabs them off the bedside table—unfolding them with shaking fingers before all but shoving them at his little brother’s face. Harry takes them gratefully, hands shaking nearly as much as he slides them on his face. He relaxes, marginally, leaning back into his pillow. He still looks vaguely ill, but not like he’s about to be sick.

“I’m here,” Cedric murmurs, because for some reason, it seems like the right thing to say. He runs a hand through his brother’s hair, gently untangling its unruly strains. “You’re safe, mate—everything’s all right, s’all right. Take a deep breath—that’s it—deep breath for me.”

Distantly, Cedric wonders where their parents’ are. They were even closer to Harry than he was—yet neither of them came running. He finds it a bit discomforting, if he’s entirely honest; but, if it bothers Harry he doesn’t hint at it. Though to be fair, he’s busy sucking in shuddering breaths, appearing very much so as if it’s taking all his strength to not pass out.

“You’re all right,” Cedric keeps assuring, mostly to Harry, but a little to himself. “You’re all right, bug—s’all right.”

Tears stream endlessly out of the corners of Harry’s eyes, as he hiccups out half-stifled sobs. It’s a gut wrenching sight—seeing one of the most resilient people he knows, seeing his baby brother reduced to such a miserable state. For a moment, all Cedric can think of is little Harry—five-year-old Harry who used to come staggering into his room after a particularly bad dream or during a nasty storm. This Harry seems just as helpless as that Harry; and once again, all Cedric can do is offer up measly amounts of comfort. He wants to do more; wants to take it all away. But he can’t.

They stay like that for what feels like a lifetime. Cedric runs his fingers through Harry’s nest of hair over and over again; Harry does his best to quiet his cries and calm himself. Eventually, Harry stops trembling, and the tears are diminished into sniffles. His cheeks are red—be it from exhaustion or from embarrassment, Cedric can’t guess. He doesn’t have it in himself to move or retract his hand, regardless.

“Harry?” he murmurs, eventually. “Harry, what’s going on, huh? What’s the matter?”

“S’nothing,” Harry rasps immediately, both of them flinching at how raw his voice comes out.

Anger flares in Cedric’s chest. It’s not nothing. Anyone can see that. But he shoves that anger down, and instead goes the route of, “are you sure?”

Harry nods, squeezing his eyes shut. “Positive,” he croaks.

And that’s it. Cedric almost, almost snaps. He wants the truth dammit. He wants to fix this, but he can only do that, if Harry talks to him. He wants to grab Harry’s face in his hand and demand, demand to know what happened; demand to know what he’s supposed to do. But the longer he looks at Harry’s face, the more he begins to wonder: does Harry even know what’s going on? Does his little brother know that what’s happening to him is wrong? Cedric can’t say, his brain filling with a steady stream of maybe, maybe, maybe…

“You wanna try to go back to sleep?” he finally offers, enthusiasm weak even to his own ears. The room is awkwardly silent, outside of Harry’s still wheezing breaths.

Harry shakes his head, looking aghast at the thought. “No,” he says vehemently, “I—I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he soothes, before mustering up a wry smile. “I think sleep’s a bit of an overrated concept, anyways.”

Harry gives him a look. “You know you don’t have to stay awake, too… right?”

Cedric shrugs. “Like I said,” he says, “sleep’s overrated. Besides—” he snorts— “how else do you think I got through my OWLs?”

There’s no repeat display the next night, or the one after, or the one after that—but Harry still looks dead tired and Cedric witnesses as his little brother falls into a quiet sort of melancholy. He looks troubled most of the time, when Cedric sees him, and when he doesn’t look troubled, it's only because he’s staring off at something no one else sees. An uneasy atmosphere falls over the Diggory Household, one that becomes increasingly difficult to ignore.

On an unrelated note, Cedric learns from his mildly flustered mother that apparently most wizards have silencing charms on their rooms, ‘after their children reach a certain age’ she explains. Right then, he thinks, his face and parts of his neck turning red. He probably should have guessed something like that. He tries not to think about the implications too hard.

For lack of anything better to do, Cedric continues to try and get through his days as normally as possible. Harry starts avoiding him—and everyone else, for that matter—again, much to Cedric’s dismay. His little brother either locks himself in his room, or bustles out the door with a stormy expression, never bothering to leave an inclination as to where he’s going. It's that or he heads over to the Burrow, coming back—when he’s not staying the night—with an on-edge look to him. Cedric, again, raises his concerns with his mother.

“I’m telling you, mum,” he says, running a hand through his hair. They’re in town, hopping between shops. Though shopping isn’t what Cedric would consider his favorite past-time, he doesn’t mind it. “I dunno what’s going on, but we both know he’s been acting off, don’t we?”

He bites down on his tongue, letting out a shuddering breath through his nose, as his mother stops in front of another store window. She looks down at their list. He doesn’t want to tell her about the nightmares or night terrors. He gets the feeling of Harry having kept his mouth shut on the matter, and Cedric—for all his heavy-handed attempts at concern—doesn’t think it's his place to lay the information out, even for their mother. What happened stays between him and Harry, he decides.

His mum puts the list back in her pocket, muttering under her breath, before leading him off in the opposite direction of which they were previously heading. The street is full with a sea of muggles bustling about in the fine summer air. Though St. Ottery is a small village, it’s not without spirit, and Cedric usually finds himself enjoying their however rare excursions to the place be.

“Both your father and I have noticed your brother’s recent behavior, yes,” his mother says finally, as they make their way towards yetanother shop, this one simply marked as Corbyn & Evans since 1871. “I’ve tried talking about it with him,” she admits, ushering the two of them inside, “but you know how he is. Always so quick to insist he’s fine, that one.”

Cedric nods. The inside of the shop is nothing particularly impressive—especially when compared to those of Diagon alley—but it's nice enough, and not too busy. There are rows of shelves, with different jars of preservatives and the likes, along with plenty of various sized and colored boxes marked as different foods and brands. The ceiling is low and wooden, but somehow it manages to make the place feel cozy rather than claustrophobic, with a wall of big display windows next to the door.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I don’t suppose he’s told you anything, has he?”

Cedric holds back a scowl. “No—he hasn’t talked to me much since… well. We haven’t talked much recently, is all I can say.”

“Did you two have a row?”

Cedric shrugs, picking a particularly boring looking container off the shelf, with the bright, red wordCrisco on the front.

“Not as far as I’m aware of… I was pretty busy last year, so we didn’t talk much,” he admits, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that points out that, truthfully speaking, they haven’t seen each other much in the last three years. “Guess that might’ve put me in a bad spot with him.”

His mother hums as she picks up a jar full of questionable looking, pale-ish green vegetables. “I suppose anything is possible,” she says. “But I hardly see how this could all be your fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“No, but you thought it, I’m afraid.”

She wasn’t entirely wrong. Cedric, perhaps foolishly, has considered that as a possibility. Not a likely one, per se, given the fact they’d hadn’t been particularly close since Harry started Hogwarts, but still—a possibility. One just likely enough to make him feel guilty when he lay awake at night, already drowning beneath all his other anxieties and thoughts.

“I know he had a lot of issues with the dementors,” Cedric says instead, setting down the mysterious Crisco, keeping his voice low in case of any muggle ears. “I mean—he fell, what? Ten, twenty meters of his broom because of them during our game.”

The memory of that is particularly awful for him to recall. Even now, it sends his stomach into knots. He can still vividly recall turning back, snitch in hand, only to see Harry plummeting towards the ground. He had dived after—fast enough to have any professional quidditch star salivating, at least according to one of his friend’s rather enthusiastic accounts—but his bulk, which had helped him throughout the rest of that dreadful match, had finally shown as a weak spot. Cedric hadn't been fast enough—the whole thing a tad ironic, at the time, given the fact Harry’s specialty had always been dives and ruthless speed.

In the end, if it hadn’t been for Dumbledore, his little brother would have died, or—alternatively—had his soul sucked out, thereby reducing him to little more than a breathing, drooling husk.

He doesn’t mention that last part to his mum, though he’s quite certain she already knows.

“That's true,” she says, tone deceptively light. “But I don’t reckon he had quite enough exposure to cause any lingering effects.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sure it didn’t help, though.”

Cedric remembers the coldness of passing by dementors; the heaviness in his gut, how it felt as if every horrible thought he’d ever had came rushing back at him, all at once.

“I’d reckon not, no,” he says quietly.

His mother finds what she’s looking for—something canned, called Cambell’s, which is a type of soup apparently—after a few more minutes of scrounging between the two of them. She has him carry no less than a dozen cans of the stuff to the shop register, which the cashier checks out with something like barely concealed amusement. They bag it up, and Cedric and his mum head on their way, off to the next stop.

The rest of July passes in a relative blur. Cedric, at long last, gets his exam grades back, opening the letter with sweaty palms. The results are satisfactory enough, he finds; he gets Os in Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and—somehow, miraculously—Potions; and Es in most everything else, with the only exception being Ancient Runes (he almost bangs his head against his desk when he sees the Acceptable; it's a class he wholly regrets taking). He sees some of his friends, which ends up being nice—for the most part. There’s the expected jabs of his perceived perfectionism—especially once Amy Lewison brings up OWL results—but all in all, he’s happy to see them. They talk about quidditch, and the upcoming Quidditch World Cup—and, all in all, Cedric enjoys the afternoon.

Soon enough, the month creeps towards its end, and, just like every year for the last nine, Cedric is seized with the panic of having to find his little brother a birthday present. One would think, having considerable experience gift hunting for Harry, that he might have it down to a science by now; but no. With three days left until the thirty-first, he spirals, having to beg his mum—who looks torn between laughing and holding her head in her hands, when he approaches her—for a couple spare galleons when he can only find two of his own. He goes to Diagon Alley, relieved that he’s allowed off alone in hopes of keeping it discreet, and spends nearly an entire afternoon trying to find something.

He ends up picking out a pair of nice seeker gloves—complete with a self-adjustment charm, for when Harry inevitably starts to grow out of them—and—as more of a gag gift than anything—a funny looking book with the title: All You Need To Know About Dragons! The name isn’t anything eye-catching, of course, but the cover has an illustration of a dragon, breathing fire whilst it chases down a rather offensive looking warlock in deep, purple robes. The whole thing is rather stupid, but it makes him laugh, which is enough for him to spend the five knuts the book store asks for it.

Maybe if he’s lucky enough, it’ll make Harry laugh, too.

When he gets home, he checks to make sure his little brother isn’t home (he’s off at the Burrow, of course) before dragging out the wrapping supplies—much to his mother’s chagrin. He pulls the two items out of the bag he brought with him, and lays them out side-by-side on the floor. It occurs to him then that he could just have his mum do it (the spell for an easy wrapping job isn’t terribly difficult, she assures), but, then again, that’s not nearly as much fun as watching the affronted faces she makes as he abuses the wrapping paper into a nearly unrecognizable mess of colors and tape. She gives him a questioning look when she sees the dragon book, to which he only shrugs. She gets a strange look on her face, and she smiles at him softly; that is, until he picks up the scissors and nearly shreds the entire roll without even trying to.

It takes upwards of an hour just to get the two presents wrapped, and the living room is in shambles with ribbons, bows, and tape everywhere, but Cedric doesn’t mind. Even when his Dad gets home, takes one look at the mess, and nearly walks straight back into the fireplace.

He cleans it up. Eventually.

The next two days are full of disarray. The main upstairs bathroom floods; Harry accidentally spills an entire container of flying bat wings when rummaging around for something to help with his headache in their mum’s potion-cabinet; and dad unintentionally brings home an entire gaggle of miniature pixies from work, after forgetting to put his briefcase through mandatory sanitation.It’s about as chaotic as things can get in the Diggory home, and Cedric would be lying if he said he didn’t absolutely love it. The mayhem, while perhaps stressful to some people, is something Cedric finds exhilarating. It's perhaps one of the only positive traits he can think of, when considering himself—the fact that he can take abrupt, unpredictable inconveniences like these in stride. Tell him beforehand that they’re about to happen, and he’ll fret endlessly; but catch him off guard? And he can make light of just about anything. For one glorious moment, he can keep everyone afloat.

The evening before Harry’s birthday—after they all managed to round up the majority of the pixies that invaded their house—dad sits both him and Harry down on the couch. There’s a grave look on his face—and Cedric’s upbeat mood falters. He catches his little brother fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves, beside him. It’s not just him, then, he thinks.

“Boys,” their father says, tone serious. “I have some news for you both.”

To his surprise, he catches Harry’s anxious gaze darting to him out of the corner of his eye.

“Okay,” he says, simply.

“Your mum and I have made a big decision. One that’ll affect the both of you.”

Cedric’s gut instinct is, well shit. Harry shifts beside him, looking faintly green.

Their dad gives the two of them a profound, lengthy look.

“The two of you and myself,” he says heavily, “are going to the Quidditch World Cup.”

For a moment, both him and Harry are literally stunned. Their mum, meanwhile, cackles—genuinely cackles—from somewhere off in the kitchen.

“Wait,” Harry says. “Seriously?”

Their dad’s eyes shine with glee. “Indeed,” he gives a boisterous laugh. “Happy birthday, my boy!”

“Holy shit—!”

That was not what Cedric was expecting.

Harry’s birthday ends up being a relatively quiet, yet fortunately joyous occasion. Cedric’s happy to see that his little brother seems to be in genuinely good spirits throughout the day. They open gifts after breakfast, and Harry is shockingly elated at the sight of the seeker gloves. He doesn’t get quite the same kick out of the dragon book as Cedric had, but he appreciates the humor of it enough to make it a worthy investment. There’s a few other bits and bobs from their mum and dad—a tin of chocolate frogs; a pair of red socks with the Golden Snitch stitched onto the top; a couple fresh rolls of ‘the good’ parchment; and a book called The Thirteenth Century to the Modern Day: A Fan-atics Guide to Quidditch, that is so large, Cedric could very easily see it doubling as an improvisation tombstone.

Most of the Weasley brood and then some—by which Cedric means Hermione Granger—come over a little before lunch time; one by one, popping in through the floo, broomsticks in hand for the majority of them. There are choruses of greetings and plenty of ‘happy birthday, Harry!’s. Cedric finds that whatever animosity that exists between him and the twins hasn’t dimmed since the school year, based on the muttering and sharp looks he receives. Still, he doesn’t have it in himself to care at the moment; Harry’s beaming, and so, he finds himself, is he.

After a heap of debating over what was the fairest way to split teams, they play a round of quidditch. They end up with a bit of a clunky arrangement, with Cedric, Ron, and Harry on one side, and Fred, George and Ginny on the other—Hermione firmly reassuring she would much rather be the referee than fly. It’s about as even as Cedric figures they’ll get, but regardless, the game ends up being a bit of a disaster, though at least everyone has the sense to laugh about it. Harry hoovers next to him, all but doubled over as George—maybe Fred—tackles a red–in-the-face Ron mid-air.

They break for lunch before they’re all off again. By the time the sun starts to dim over the horizon, everyone is exhausted; even Hermione, who Harry only managed to trick into letting him take her a few feet off the ground. There’s still a fair amount of rough housing as they make their way inside—joking and laughing all the way. They have cake; Harry opens the few additional presents gifted from the Weasley family; and they taper off their Sunday with the twins accidentally letting off a dungbomb before they leave.

It's a good day.

By the time Cedric gets ready for bed, he feels light. His previous worries have all but been forgotten by this point. He finishes his necessaries in his and Harry’s newly-un-soaked bathroom, and turns down the hall, ready to all but collapse into his mattress. He doesn’t expect the pair of scrawny arms that wrap around his waist.

He freezes, arms raised in shock. It takes him a second to register—Harry. Harry’s hugging him. Harry initiated a hug to him. Openly. Willingly.

“Thanks,” Harry says, in a muffled sort of voice. “For, uh, you know, everything.”

Cedric squeezes him back tightly, throat burning.

“S’no problem, bug,” he says back, hoping his voice doesn’t waver as he speaks. “Happy birthday.”

Two o’clock in the morning, Cedric decides, is an ungodly hour to wake up at. It’s one thing to stay up that late—whether it’s by screwing around with friends or for studying—but to be woken by an alarm clock, or in Cedric’s case by his father, at this hour? It's a new level of suffering.

“Up and at em’, my boy,” his father crows. “We don’t want to be late for this. Your brother’s already ready to go.”

Yes, but he also probably didn’t sleep to begin with, Cedric thinks blurrily, as he lets out a long, painful groan. His dad chuckles, shaking his head. He levels, calling over his shoulder and warning him not to fall back asleep. Cedric resists the unsightly urge to bury his head back in his pillow, and throws off his sheets instead, before—slowly, very, very slowly—swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor beneath his feet is freezing; which is both cruel yet simultaneously rather effective at making him more alert, to say the least. He takes a second to breathe; and then ruefully forces himself to get up.

His dad wasn’t kidding when he said Harry was already basically ready to go; and, Cedric realizes, he himself probably wasn’t wrong in his assumptions that Harry hadn’t slept at all. He passes his little brother's room as said little brother tosses a few final items into an already quite stuffed pack; he looks up and Cedric gives a tired wave. Harry sends him a grin, looking far too eager given the current circumstances.

“Sleep well?” Harry asks him, cheekily.

Cedric grumbles something incomprehensible to his own ears in response, before stumbling towards the bathroom, the sound of Harry’s laughter following him down the hall.

Despite the shaky start, they make it out the door in good time. Cedric still feels like a bit of a mess by the time they begin their trudge off towards St. Ottery Catchpole to meet the Weasley family, of whom Harry had blithely mentioned over the past weekend were already planning on going to the game. The sky was of course pitch black overhead, and the air cooler than any night in August had the right to be. It might have been gloomy any other time, but their dad made light of it—quite literally.

“All right, boys,” their father says. “You know it a bit of a ways—far side of the village and all that. Stick close together now. Harry—no wandering off.”

Cedric thinks that last comment is a bit comical, given the fact Harry is all but bouncing in place. He can only see his little brother’s face via the glow of their dad’s wand, but he looks more excited than Cedric can scarcely remember him being in years. The likelihood of him doing just about anything to jeopardize his risk of going to the Quidditch World Cup is near nonexistent, Cedric reckons. Still, his fuzzy head takes the opening to tease, nonetheless.

“Yeah, mate,” he says, yawning. “As tempting as it may be to go running into the swamps at this hour—please find a way to restrain yourself.”

Harry gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re hysterical,” he says, voice deadpanned.

Cedric merely shrugs, adjusting the straps of his own backpack. It's regrettably full. “What can I say? My comedy is a gift.”

Their trek ends up being longer than Cedric admittedly anticipated. Though he knew it was going to be a long walk, two-and-a-half-hours later and he feels just short of dead on his feet. Their dad looks worn, and even Harry appears somewhat sapped; but their spirits grow higher, all in all, as the world around them begins to take on a yellowish hue. The sun hasn’t quite begun to peak out, but the all consuming darkness has lessened considerably. They chat amiably amongst themselves, the closer they get to the outskirts of St. Otter, and Cedric finds himself perking up after their dad pulls out a vacuum flask of coffee. He’s quite possibly the only person who prefers a cup of coffee over a cup of tea—but what can Cedric say for himself? It's not his fault the rest of them are just wrong.

They make it to the meeting spot (an unsuspecting hill just outside of town) before the Weasley folks do, about a quarter of an hour before five. Their dad has the two of them stand around, counting all heads—including that of his own, to both Cedric and Harry’s amusement—before loudly announcing he’s going to go hunt down the portkey. Harry gets a slightly befuddled look on his face at this, and it takes Cedric a moment to remember that—right. Although Harry has spent the last decade shy in the wizarding world, he most likely doesn’t know what that is. Their family never did much traveling after Harry came along, so the younger boy probably hasn’t heard the term portkey outside of in passing exchanges.

“It’s a transportation method,” Cedric explains airily, without Harry having to ask. “Portkeys, I mean. They’re objects, usually small ones, that, uh, basically, have been enchanted to take a wizard or witch to another spot. You’ve never used one before.”

Harry doesn’t look at him, simply nodding as he stares off into the distance.

Their father comes back about ten minutes later, grinning broadly.

“A boot,” he says, shaking his head. “A bloody damn boot. Brilliant, ay?”

Cedric can only grin back. Harry looks mildly bemused.

The Weasely bunch arrive right on time—a whole fleet of redheads strong, with a singular bushy brown haired wonder in their midst.

“Harry!” Hermione comes sprinting ahead, beaming wildly. “Oh, Harry, it’s so good to see you!”

She throws her arms around his brother, who Cedric can just make out a flush on. He hugs back, looking a tad awkward, but altogether pleased. Cedric tries to hide his laughter, as he spots the two youngest Weasley children all but glowering at the display. He can’t say for sure if Harry and Granger have a thing for one another, but it's not hard to tell who has one for each of them. Their dad and Mr. Weasley exchange ardent greetings, their dad all too happy to say the portkey has already been located.

“All right then,” Mr. Weasley says, sounding pleased. “Fantastic! And Harry nice to see you as always—and ah, yes, Cedric! Haven’t hardly seen you at all this summer! What a fine young man you’ve grown into.”

Cedric blushes furiously, feeling all too awkward as most eyes seem to dart to him. He’s pretty sure he hears the twins snicker.

“Hasn’t he?” their father says, oblivious to his son’s desire to disappear into the ground. “Ruddy good one, I’d say! Makes his mother and I proud, this one does.”

“Kill me,” he mutters to Harry—who has detangled himself from Granger and is now standing beside him—feeling utterly mortified. Harry gives him a pitying glance. “Merlin, just kill me now.”

“Eh, give him a break,” Harry whispers back quietly, whilst still somehow managing to look completely sympathetic to his pain. “I mean, you gotta give the man something. If he doesn’t have you, then the only other thing he’s left with is me.”

He sounds actually indignant on their father’s behalf as he says it. Cedric physically reels.

“Oi,” he says, feeling struck. But the two of them, along with the other lot, are already getting called over by the parents before Cedric can say anything more.

Portkeying is… an experience, to say the least. He knows that he’s technically done it once before—as a very small boy—but the whole thing is still rather jarring. His gut lurches at the sudden movement, and the world fades into a twist of blurrish colors. There’s a number of screams—most notably from one of the girls, but the boys too—and then sharply, everything settles.

Cedric barely stays on his feet. Everyone else—save for his dad and Mr. Weasley—gets sprawled across the ground.

Right then.

It's a relief for Cedric that, for the most part, the day goes smoothly. There’s a few… incidents, to put most accurately, but nothing heinous happens. The Diggory's stick with the Weasley gang, the oldest three sons—Percy, Charlie, and Bill—joining sometime around midday. Things go smoothly, relatively speaking. Cedric ends up being rather relieved that Percy comes; he doesn’t know the other boy particularly well, but better than he does the others minus the twins, who are still behaving somewhat hostile towards him anyways. Conversation ends up being a bit rough, but he manages—out of sheer desperation, more than anything—to get Percy chatting. Their group ends up bumping into a couple other people that Cedric knows—and he’s happy to bump into a few of his friends' families. Harry and his friends end up dispersing off for a little while, doing Merlin only knows what, but Cedric doesn’t let himself worry—too much, that is. The day flies by for the most part—and, at long last, everyone starts the migration from the campsite to the pitch.

The game ends up being one of the most fantastic things Cedric has ever witnessed. The roar of the crowd; the nearly visible amounts of excitement and competitive spirit in the air; it's like nothing he’s ever experienced before. Sure, Hogwarts games are fun—and the Gryffindor and Slytherins are nothing if not egregiously competitive—but this, this is different. This has wizards and witches from all across Europe—from all across the world—coming together. He doesn’t love quidditch in quite the same way Harry does—for him it's always been more about the flying than the sport itself—but he is still utterly overwhelmed by the thrill swirling inside his stomach, as he watches the Bulgarians' and Irish play. Viktor Krum is a marvel of a seeker; and Cedric finds himself watching him more than anyone else. The seeker is only a little older than he himself is, but the way he moves—it's with hesitation, without thought, as if this is what he was born for, nothing less. Every single movement looks natural, and even though Bulgaria loses the match, it's Cedric’s opinion that Viktor Krum is the real winner.

By the time the night starts to wind down, Cedric feels delighted. Harry’s happy; their dad is happy; everyone is smiling. Even the twins are bumping his shoulder, actually talking to him for the first time since the Hufflepuff-Gryffindor fiasco, and not just making underhand comments or shooting him disgruntled glares.

At last, the two family’s split. Harry goes off with the Weasley’s, and Cedric goes with his dad. The two of them ramble on about the game with one another and head to their camp. They settle down in their tent, still chatting and cracking the occasional joke. They both decide to stay up for a while yet, still. Despite his earlier tiredness, Cedric finds himself too hyper to sleep, and his dad wants to make sure Harry doesn’t end up coming back to grab something.

An hour passes.

For the second time this summer, Cedric is jolted in his chair by the sounds of screaming.

His mind fizzles for a second. There’s been plenty of yelling, shouting, and screaming throughout the entire evening—the sound of fireworks has been nonstop. But it only takes a moment for him to register that this is different. His eyes dart to his father instinctively. They look at each other.

“Dad?”

“Stay here,” his father says, rising from his seat.

His father leaves the tent. Cedric is alone. His heart races, as the screaming grows louder—closer. More voices join. He can hear it shifting—can hear as the world around him dissolves from celebration to something akin to terror.

Shit, he thinks, hand clutching his wand. He stands, facing the door. The back of his head is buzzing.

His dad comes stumbling back in, tossing the entrance to the tent aside with vigor. He’s panting, breathing labored, with his face a blotchy red.

“Get back to portkey,” he gasps out. “Cedric—I need you and your—”

As if the situation wasn’t already bad enough, they both freeze.

“Fuck,” his dad breathes. Cedric flinches. “Fuck—all right, son, get back to the portkey zone. I’m sure—I’m sure that…”

The air rattles with the sound of a particularly loud, particularly close explosion.

“We have to find him,” Cedric says, voice trembling. “Dad, we can’t just leave him!”

His father looks at him sharply. “The Weasley’s—”

“Have a billion other children!” Cedric interrupts angrily, terror gripping him. “He’s our family! He’s my—”

There’s another explosion. The screaming, impossibly, seems to intensify.

“We don’t have time for this,” his dad says, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him from the tent. The entire campsite is a mess of confusion and fear. People are running; wailing. Things are burning. “Get back to the portkey! I have to go—do not stop.”

His father pulls him into a gripping hug so tight that Cedric can hardly breathe, before shoving him away. He gives Cedric one last firm look, before turning off in the other direction.

Cedric, for a moment, is still.

He’s terrified. Absolutely terrified. There’s no way around it. People push by him, yelling out at him to move.

And then, someone lets out a shriek. “DEATH EATERS!”

Death Eaters, his mind repeats. And then, Harry.

He runs, blindly, in the direction of where he knows the Weasley tent is. Harry, his mind thinks again, as his feet slap against the wet ground of the field. Panic drives him forward, as he races on, desperate to keep his footing as he slips about. He knows his father will kill him, if he finds out; but he doesn’t care. He’s not going to the portkey—he can’t. There are Death Eaters and Harry is here. You-Know-Who’s followers are within a campsite radius of the Boy-Who-Lived—of his brother. If they find him, if anyone finds him, he’ll be dead, or worse. He pushes through the sea of men, women, and children, for once uncaring if he’s rude.

Cedric wants to believe the Weasley’s will watch after Harry; and he knows, realistically, that they’ll do everything they can to watch after his little brother. But it’s not enough. Not for Cedric.

“Harry!” He shouts, the sound tearing at the inside of his throat. He sucks in a breath, and the pungent smell of ash fills his nostrils. “Harry!”

Distantly, remarkably, he catches a wisp of familiar red hair.

“Weasley!” he bellows without thought, not caring which—if any—one it is. He runs towards the figure, wand at the ready. “Weasley!”

A head turns; Cedric skids to a halt.

Bill. His brain registers the long red hair, the broad shoulders, and the firm, strong jaw. He looks jaded; his brown eyes wild looking, with the reflection of flames casted into them. There’s blood trickling down his forehead; and his jacket is cut at one of the arms.

“Diggory?” he says, looking flabbergasted. “Diggory, what the hell—”

“Where are your siblings?” he interrupts, breathing raggedly. “Where did they go? Do you have any idea?!”

“I—the woods,” he says finally, looking startled. “Dad said they were heading to the woods.”

“Harry,” he breathes, and understanding flashes across Bill’s face. He mouths an oh, shit. “Death Eaters—when was the last time you saw him?”

“He was with Ron and the other kids,” Bill says immediately, shaking his head. “Diggory, you’ve gotta go. They’re—”

Cedric doesn’t let him finish the sentence. He runs—towards the woods. His lungs burn like he’s flying through the air on a broomstick; his eyes are filled with tears from the haze of smoke that’s been growing. He has to find Harry. The space around him morphed into little more than dark figures and the sound of running footsteps, as he reached the tree line. For the first time, Cedric almost regrets his actions. He stumbles to a slow jog, muttering a quiet lumous, as he looks around.

“Harry!” he calls out, frantically. “Harry James! Harry—!”

It’s useless. Harry’s not here, there’s just no way Cedric found the right part of an entire forest, in the dark, with this many people around. There’s just no chance, and now, not only is Harry missing, but he’s lost.

He almost gives up.

A figure stumbles out of the thicket.

“Cedric?!” a distraught sounding voice calls out.

He actually laughs aloud, relief stabbing through his chest. “Harry.”

His little brother scuttles forward. His glasses are skewed, and all he has on are his pajamas and a jacket. He looks frazzled, and a bit ridiculous, frankly, but Cedric’s never been more relieved in his whole life. The weight of his body hits Cedric like a train, but he holds steady, tugging his little brother close.

“What’re you doing here?” Harry asks, sounding breathless. “Aren’t you guys on the other side of the field?!”

“Dad said to head for the portkey,” is all he says, in return.

“Oh.”

Cedric winces. “I… might not have listened.”

Harry stiffens, before looking up at him, eyes wide. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Maybe, uh, don’t mention that? To him… or to mum, for that matter.”

“Right.”

“Where…” Cedric starts, not entirely sure if he wants to know the answer, “where are the others? I ran into Bill—he said you’d all headed to the woods. They—no one bloody left you, did they?”

He gets an affronted jab in the stomach, in return.

“No!” Harry says fiercely, cheeks red. “No one left me! I—well, actually, I might’ve left them—”

“You what?! Are you mad—”

“I thought I heard you! And I knew dad would’ve gone with Mr. Weasley, and—and—” he trails off, sounding flustered.

Cedric opens his mouth, ready to retort, to let his brother know just how stupid of an idea he thinks that was, but he stops. Something moves behind them.

“Ced—”

Instantly, he makes his wind go dark. He pulls him against his chest—cutting him off mid word. His free hand digs into the back of his hair, making sure they’re both wholly still. His pulse is racing—but he can’t look. He doesn’t dare turn around. Something cold trickles down his spine. His gut warns him that it’s not just some lost spectator traipsing around the woods in the dark. It’s someone—someone who's there for a reason. Someone, he thinks, dangerous.

“MORSMORDRE!”

The sky above them erupts with a start into a horrible, sickly shade of green. Cedric watches in horror as the light shifts, and turns into a symbol—a garish skull with a serpent oozing from its jaw—that he’s only ever seen in books and the newspaper clippings his parents always kept tucked beneath their bed. His entire body goes cold.

“Harry,” he whispers as quietly as he can. “Harry, we’ve got to run. On three—”

Popping fills the air around them.

Shit, he thinks, before Harry yanks him by the front of the robes, and pulls them both to the ground.

A lot of everything happens after that.

They portkey home as soon as they can.

Their mum is bustling around them, the moment they step through the door. Her face is pale but relieved, and she wraps him into her arms without saying a word. Cedric feels shaky, as he hugs her back, just as tightly. They were lucky, so very, very lucky, he knows. The fact that their dad had been one of the ministry officials to find him and Harry last night…

He almost shudders to think what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been.

The whole event plays over and over again in his mind. The Dark Mark had hung above them; there was the whole ordeal with Mr. Crouch and his—the—house elf, Winky; and so much more, that Cedric nearly had trouble comprehending it all. Even now, he feels on edge; jumpy, to the point where he almost snaps at Harry when he slams the door behind the two of them and dad.

It’s an exceedingly bad feeling.

He keeps thinking of all the what ifs. What if he hadn’t found Harry; what if their dad hadn’t found them; what if, what if, what if…

His nerves must show, because his mum frowns when she pulls back to take a look at him.

“Oh, darling,” she murmurs gently. “I’m just glad you and your brother are all right.”

“Not dad, though?” he tries to joke, though it falls flat, even to his own ears.

His mum laughs softly despite this, and he swells suddenly with affection for her.

“You’re father, too,” she amends, eyes twinkling.

The urge to cry right then and there is strong. He wants to break down. He’d been so scared—so scared, for himself, for Harry, for their dad. He hadn’t seen the muggles—the Roberts’ family, he reminds himself—that the Death Eaters had tortured—too caught up in the crowd and in his drive to find his brother but he had heard about it afterwards. It was real. People—decent people, innocent people—<were hurt. And it makes Cedric ill, knowing it happened and knowing it still could have been worse.

He does not remember much—if anything—from the last Great Wizarding War. But he sees the grim look on his parents’ faces whenever it's brought up. They hadn’t fought in it, per se, he knows, but still—they’d lived through it. They’d lived through the disappearances of friends and family, lived through You-Know-Who’s rise to power. They’d lived through not knowing whether or not their family would be next to go, if they would be added to the ever growing list of families labeled as blood traitors and muggle-lovers. They’d lived through the terror of it all, for years.

Rationally, he knows what they experienced at the Quidditch Cup was a drastically different one than what his parents and so many others went through. Death Eaters, You-Know-Who, that was their world. But nonetheless, there’s an inkling in the back of his mind. For a fleeting second, he thinks he understood what it was like to live in that world.

He buries himself back into his mum’s shoulder, breathing deeply.

“I had to tell him,” he says, voice thick with emotion. He doesn’t know why he says this of, of all things, but it's another moment his brain keeps reverting back to. “I had to tell him about Death Eaters. He—Harry asked who all the people were, and—I had to tell him. Dad was busy trying to get all the aurors and such to calm down, and I had to tell him.”

“I’m sorry,” his mum whispers, kissing the side of his head. “You should never have had to do that.”

“He didn’t seem surprised. He didn’t know their names but it was like… like he expected it, almost.”

He can almost see the way his mum’s lips pierce together. She’s silent for a moment, before letting out a lengthy sigh.

“No, I imagine it wouldn’t surprise him,” is all she says.

After another minute or so, they break apart. His mum gives him one last gentle smile, before making her way over to Harry. Cedric watches as he clings to her, much in the same way as he had. But there’s something different in the way the two of them stand. Harry is the one with his back straight; the one bearing the weight. As if he’s the one comforting her.

Cedric turns away, aching.

The house remains quiet. Cedric goes off to his room and simply lays on his bed for a while. Despite only getting a combined total of seven or so hours of sleep over the past two nights, he doesn’t feel tired. His mind keeps racing, mostly about the events of the game, but of other things too. His thoughts drift to that of the coming school year; of the past summer; of all the friends he doesn’t really want to see, and the couple few that he does.

He hardly notices as the hours pass by, until his dad knocks on his door and tells him it’s time for supper. His appetite is all but nonexistent, but he goes downstairs anyway. It’s a nearly silent affair. Cedric offers to do the dishes afterwards; Harry helps. Nobody seems to know what to say.

Their parents’ go to bed. His mother looks worried, as she informs them both to get some rest. Cedric assures her they will.

It's just him and Harry in the living room now. Cedric sits in one of the arm chairs, while Harry stays curled up on one of the ends of the—still and as quiet as a mouse. Neither of them speak. Cedric picks up one of his books from the side table, and, within minutes, finds himself reading the same passage over again; unable to focus. Eventually, he lets out a sigh of frustration—slamming the book close with a conclusive thud.

“It gets better.”

Cedric raises an eyebrow. “The book?”

“No,” Harry says. He’s staring off into the fireplace with an empty gaze. Despite it being the middle of the warmest month of the year, their dad had seen it fit to light a fire. “It… this.”

“Mate,” Cedric says, a sudden lump forming in his throat.

“It gets easier,” Harry says, voice blunt and emotionless, but the words still somehow carefully spoken. The look in his eyes—the far away one—is back. He’s not thinking of last night, Cedric somehow knows. “You gotta give it a lil’ bit is all. It gets better, eventually.”

Cedric looks at his brother long and hard. He looks at him, and sees not just his little brother—but someone hardened, someone who’s seen things. He’s fourteen-years-old, yet his shoulders look as if they’re waiting for the weight of the world to come slamming down on them. He’s giving Cedric the kind of advice an old man should be giving—not a little boy.

“Bug,” he says hoarsely. He has questions—so many questions—that he wants to ask. He wants to ask so badly. He wants to know the truth. But tonight, he hesitates. Tonight, he realizes this is all he’s going to get.

“It’ll be all right,” Harry says firmly, eyes rimmed just red enough for Cedric to notice.

“Yeah,” Cedric murmurs softly, a sickening pool settling in the pit of his stomach. He lets the book fall to the floor. “I know.”

There’s not much to say about August. Cedric feels jumpy; Harry wakes up screaming a few more times and Cedric doesn’t bother to ask what he was dreaming about; and throughout the month, he catches his parents exchanging worried glances with each other out of the corner of his eyes.

Yeah.

There’s not much to say about August.