Chapter Text
Cedric knew he was hurt, and badly, he frowned down at the broken mess of his left leg. He should be panicking right now but instead, all he could do was watch with a strange disinterest as the ground around him grew dark with blood.
He was going to die. He didn’t know where the thought had come from but now that it had made itself known he accepted it calmly enough.
Somehow he always expected that it would come later than this and not in a graveyard. Who died in a graveyard? Oh well, some distant part of his mind piped up, at least it’s convenient.
No, not convenient. He had to do something. He had to. He stretched out his hand, in one last desperate attempt to grab his wand. If he could apparate then maybe…
“Won’t be needing this.”
The snap of the wand wood in the hands of the masked man might as well have been another bone snapping under the curses they had cast at him from the jerk of pain it sent through him.
“A shame really,” another voice spoke up, high and cold, but he couldn’t lift his head enough to see the face, “he fought well enough. Perhaps…” A nightmare filled his vision, a skull, bone white and with burning scarlet eyes. “Kneel to me, boy and I will spare your life.”
If this was Death he didn’t sound at all like expected.
Wherever the laughter came from inside him at this idea, Death didn’t seem to like it. The wand in those long terrible bony fingers slashed through the air and then he wasn’t laughing anymore.
He didn’t remember going to sleep, not until the voice kept shouting at him.
“Cedric? Cedric, can you hear me?”
Cedric opened his eyes just enough to focus on the face of Harry Potter? What was Harry Potter doing… gods he was tired, he just needed a little rest, just a little…
“Cedric! You have to stay awake!” The kid seemed strangely panicked, and something in him said he should be panicked too but…some searing agony pierced through his consciousness and he remembered. It was Death. Harry had to get away. Death was stalking the graveyard and he might find Harry too.
Maybe Harry already knew that, he seemed in a frantic hurry for something. “Just - just hang on.”
The tug of the portkey was another fresh agony, the landing knocked the air out of him and it hurt too much to keep breathing. His heart hammered in a jarring off-beat rhythm to the sudden sound of jaunty music.
Pansy was bored. Bored and irritated. She could see Draco sitting in the stands with the Greengrass sisters but her father had forced her to come sit next to him and Madam Pomfrey, as if she wanted to listen to them discuss the latest edition of La Revue de Médecine Magique instead of having actual fun. It’s not like staring at the outside of a hedge maze was her idea of a thrill, but it was the principle of the thing. She loathed being left out.
She leafed through her copy of Witch Weekly, making a mental note to experiment with that colour-changing nail polish charm later when Harry Potter returned. For a moment, there was a great cheer and then a loud, confused commotion as everyone realized he held the bloody body of Cedric Diggory.
Merlin and Morgana, was he dead? Pansy had never seen so much blood in her life, not even when Draco managed to piss off that hippogriff last year. She didn’t think someone could lose that much blood and still be alive.
“...out of the way…”
Blink.
“...now then he will be in a minute if…”
Blink.
There was something wrong with his eyes, as if they’d forgotten how to see properly, all the colours were washed out.
“Ced, CED! Oh god…no…no…!”
Hadn’t he won? He had touched the cup, then there had been…no, he had touched the cup. Someone should tell his dad that before he went and strained something.
He was cold.
“Stabilise him before we can…”
Whoever was tugging him needed to stop. He was trying to get some sleep.
“This should do it.”
Whatever this was, it definitely did not do it, unless it was a solid stone wall slamming into his body at full speed.
“Get your hands off me!”
At least that was what he had meant to say, the words didn’t seem to form properly. And he needed to change his shirt, it was wet and heavy against his skin.
No, sleep first.
And with that he slipped willingly into the waiting darkness.
Her father and Madam Pomfrey shoved her aside in their haste to get down there at once, leaving Pansy to stumble along after them. Some Hufflepuffs nearby started crying hysterically when she pushed past them, determined not to be left behind, and she felt her own heart beat rapidly.
It didn’t matter—her father rushed off to St Mungo’s to help and the students were rushed back to their dormitories by gray-faced prefects and professors.
Whispers and rumours spread like wildfire throughout the school before Dumbledore gathered them all in the Great Hall a few days later.
Harry Potter tried to kill Cedric Diggory for the Cup.
Sirius Black came back to finish the job, but got the wrong wizard.
Cedric Diggory was dead and they weren’t telling anyone yet.
Some pale blonde Ravenclaw insisted it was the Ministry’s army of heliopaths and they should all be prepared, but Pansy categorically refused to listen to someone wearing a necklace of stinky corks.
No story was quite as ridiculous as what the Headmaster insisted was the truth, Pansy thought. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned and tried to kill both Diggory and Potter. If that were true, he’d failed, as her father had owled her to apologise for leaving her behind and let her know that Diggory would likely survive. To Daphne and Tracey’s fury, she’d sat on her gossip, refusing to share the contents of her father’s letter beyond the detail that he’d live. For one, her father didn’t really give her much more than that, as he took his Hippocratic Oath quite seriously, and the other, is that she actually agreed with him. Cedric’s detailed condition was his own bloody business.
Not that anyone believed her, when more salacious stories were being bandied about.
Cedric Diggory was now an Inferi.
Honestly. People could be so stupid, sometimes.
“Cedric? Cedric, can you open your eyes for me?” The voice speaking his name did not seem to want to give up and go away, despite his best efforts to ignore it. He did as they requested if only to shut them up and found himself looking into the face of an older man he didn’t recognise, dark hair peppered with salt around the temples framed a square face, snub nose and keen brown eyes, which were studying him with an expression of not insignificant relief.
The man smiled broadly. “Good, now, squeeze my hand tightly.”
He passed this test too but every moment was a battle between the urge to close his eyes again and a growing awareness that he really, really did not feel…
He sat up sharply, taking just enough time to register the fact that his dad was also in the room, before vomiting spectacularly all over the Healer examining him.
“M’sorry…I…”
“Not to worry, not to worry,” the healer vanished the stain from his robes with what looked like a genuine smile. “You’d be surprised how often that happens. Here, drink this,” he picked up a glass filled with clear blue fluid and helped Cedric take a few sips. “It’s reassuring really, shows your body knows what’s what.”
Cedric felt utterly exhausted even from just that brief interaction. He didn’t want to talk or wake to any more strange faces and bouts of unpredictable pain. All he wanted was…
“D-dad?”
“I’m right here, Ced.”
His dad sounded so calm, so steady, that somehow it made everything worse. Out of nowhere Cedric found himself shedding hot tears as he buried his head against his dad’s shoulder, each ragged sob sending a dull ache through his ribs and stomach.
“It’s alright, son, I’ve got you, it’s alright.”
Cedric would have stayed like that forever if he could have but sitting up, and the unfortunate expulsion of his stomach contents, seemed to have taken what little energy he had and so he was glad to be allowed to sink back against the pillows and close his eyes.
“Where is Madam Pomfrey?”
“You’re not at Hogwarts, Ced,” his dad sounded tired, how long had it been? “You couldn’t be treated there, not properly. You’ve been in St Mungo’s for three days now.”
The Healer cleared his throat, seemingly awkward at having to interrupt the conversation. “How much do you remember, Cedric?”
A graveyard, masks, pain and then a skull with red eyes offering him life, he was pretty sure he’d end up on an altogether different kind of ward if he said that.
He kept his eyes closed, trying to suppress the irrational feeling that the man would know he was lying if he didn’t. “Not much, touching the cup and then…I think I got hurt. After that it’s hazy.” There was one thing he couldn’t avoid though, even if it resulted in more questions than he wanted. “Is Harry Potter alright?”
The dismissive scoff came from his dad. It was the Healer who answered. “Potter is - perfectly fine. There are some questions that-”
Whatever questions there were he didn’t get to hear them because his dad burst into the conversation again, this time with an edge of frustration threaded through his voice. “He’s just woken, Parkinson. Can’t you give him a minute?”
There was a cough, an awkward rustle of clothes and then something murmured too low for Cedric to catch, before the door closing brought silence back to the room once more. His dad’s hand came to rest awkwardly atop his own, warm and reassuring.
Whatever they had given to knock him out seemed to be wearing off now and he no longer had to fight to keep his eyes open. Now it was only thirst. The blue liquid had helped but his mouth tasted like something had died in it.
Reluctantly he sat up again. “Is there any water?”
His dad filled a glass and handed it to him. He wanted to gulp it down but the last thing he needed was another projectile incident and so he forced himself to take slow small sips. Eventually, he found himself able to meet his dad’s eyes.
“What questions?”
“About what happened to you, in the maze. You,” his dad took in a deep steadying breath, “you nearly died, Ced. If Paeon hadn’t been in the crowd, well, I can’t bear to think about it.”
Nearly died
The words echoed around the inside of his skull growing louder with every repetition. He shouldn’t be here, Death had come for him and he’d escaped. No, not escaped, Harry Potter had stolen him from Death. He frowned, trying to make sense of the fractured scraps of memory.
“What does Harry say happened?”
“They - they said not to talk to you about that until they’d been through. They don’t want the boy’s story influencing yours.”
“Dad, please…” he sounded small, scared, childlike and he couldn’t bring himself to care, “I really - I just need to know.”
“Potter claims that You-Know-Who is back, that he attacked you both and then Potter duelled him and won.”
Please be joking, Cedric pleaded silently, please, please be joking. But his dad looked desperately serious. Alright, Cedric thought, now the nausea really was back. “That - that sounds impossible though, doesn’t it?”
“So say the Ministry.” His dad’s lips pressed together in a thin disapproving line. “But don’t worry about any of that right now. I’ll - your mother will want to know you’ve woken. She’d only just stepped away to go home and get a bit of rest. Will you be alright for a few minutes?”
Cedric nodded before he really had even processed the words. He wanted to be on his own just as much as he never wanted his dad to leave his side again. Everything felt raw, fragile and dangerous in a way it never had before, even after having half his head set on fire by a Swedish Short Snout.
His dad left, not before uttering another apology at having to do so, however briefly. Cedric took the moment to stare around the hospital room, white walls, fresh flowers and the distinct lemony scent of cleaning charms. There were cards too, most of them looked to be just general well-wishers but someone, probably Alfred if he had to hazard a guess, had left a card for with the Holyhead Harpies seeker on the front. That at least made him smile. He was just reaching for the card to read it when the door swung open again and a man walked in.
“Ah, Mr Diggory, so good to see you awake.”
Something was wrong, even as he stared at the man he couldn’t make his eyes stick to the face, they slid away to the side, to the St Mungo’s robes, anywhere but the face. He wanted his wand, but they’d snapped it, the memory punching its way to the front of his brain had his hackles rising.
He had to stay calm, if he panicked then whoever this was might lose their cool too. “Hello, I - I don’t think we’ve met?”
“No,” the man paced closer, sitting down in a casual fashion on the end of Cedric’s hospital bed, “and I’m not about to go introducing myself, but I do have to ask you, just how much do you recall of your unfortunate little misadventure?”
“…You-Know-Who is back…”
Several terrifying facts clicked neatly into place. He had to play the idiot, if he looked harmless then maybe they’d let him live. Besides, they probably wanted to, murdering him in St Mungos would be a lot harder than it would have been wherever that graveyard was.
“They said I took a bad swipe or something, lost a lot of blood. Honestly, the whole thing is a jumble.” He put on his best impression of Cormac McClaggen at his most oblivious. “You couldn’t look to see if anyone’s left me chocolate could you?”
The man, or at least the person, masquerading as a St Mungo’s worker gave a strange little snort at this and then studied him, head cocked for another long moment before turning to the side table and reaching out.
“Only every flavour beans I’m afraid, Diggory.” The packet was pressed into his hands as the man stood, “take care eating them, wouldn’t want you to bite off more than you can chew.”
Cedric took the packet, forcing a cheerfulness he didn’t feel into his voice. “Thanks, you have a good day.”
Her father was busy at the hospital, so her mother came to pick her up from the train station. Pansy stood there with the Greengrass sisters, studiously avoiding eye contact with Neville Longbottom of all people, as her mother and his grandmother and several other Pureblood parents whispered politely about the Triwizard Tournament.
“Some of us have organized a meal train for the Diggory family. They don’t have a house elf, you know,” said Mrs. Yaxley. Pansy thought her name was Effie, or Feffie, or something equally ridiculous. “Such a tragedy.”
Next to her, Pansy heard Neville mutter under his breath. “Was the tragedy the injury or the lack of a bloody house elf?” and had to stifle her unladylike snort of laughter. He might be a boring lump most of the time, but she wasn’t going to turn her nose up at a good joke. Mrs. Yaxley’s lips pressed together in a thin line. She’d heard him, too.
Old Mrs. Longbottom gave a disdainful sniff but didn’t acknowledge her grandson’s rudeness, instead turning her hawk-eyed gaze on Pansy’s mother. “Are you sure you can’t tell us more about what happened, Emeraude? I am on the St Mungo’s board, you know. The Weasleys were there and won’t say a single word. We’ve a right to know what’s going on.”
“Gran,” Neville said, blushing slightly as he tried to attract the old witch’s attention. He clearly didn’t want to be here, either.
Her mother took advantage of Mrs. Longbottom’s temporary distraction, shaking her head with a falsely apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry, Augusta. You know how it is. Confidentiality. Binding magical vows.” She grabbed Pansy by the crook of the elbow. “I’ll be sure to send Tippy by with some pork pies for the Diggorys, Ephigenia. That poor family.”
Then she dragged Pansy to the Apparition point quite roughly and with a sharp crack, they were home.