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Oliver was in the stands when the two boys, the two remaining champions, appeared outside the maze. The crowd was tense, still, after the shock of the first two champions’ fates, but it happened so quietly that for a split second it occurred to no one that anything was amiss. Then, as one, the crowd noticed the blood, the Cup, the wrongness of it all, and the screaming began.
“What is it?” Oliver said, standing tiptoe but unable to see through the chaos of moving bodies to the pitch.
The screams resolved into something more certain: Dead. Diggory. He’s dead.
Oliver remembered almost nothing of those first minutes later, only a vague impression of standing still while fluttering black figures jostled and hissed and shouted around him. Dead, dead, dead, pounded through him, words with no more sense than the scene in front of him.
All he knew was that he somehow found his way down from the stands, but his feet never took him towards the pitch, even though the crowd was surging that way. His next clear impression was this: catching himself on the wood beams of the stands, his breath coming in fast, painful breaths. He stared across the grounds at the featureless shadow of the Forest, outlined against the fizz of stars.
The next half hour seemed as black and undefined as the Forest had been in that moment. Oliver moved through space - he must have - but his thoughts were a roar of static, of that single word. Dead. Cedric was dead.
It was McGonagall’s office he found his way to. It was empty and locked, so he just sat in the corridor outside it. He pushed his fingers into his hair, dug his fingertips into his scalp, trying to ground himself. He was never sure how long he sat there before he heard the brush of fabric on the floor and looked up. There stood Professor McGonagall, black robes buttoned to her throat, as severe as ever. But the lines in her face seemed especially deep tonight, the usual glint in her eye dulled. Somehow the sight of her made it real, and Oliver hunched over, shaken by tight, nearly silent sobs.
He heard the click of a lock and then McGonagall said, “Come in and sit down, Wood.”
He’d been in her office many times, but he’d never heard that note of gentleness in her voice. He forced himself upright and into her office. She conjured a chair practically under him, and he fell into it.
“I’m a mess, Professor,” he said, swiping the tears off his cheeks as they continued to come unbidden. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I came up here.” He couldn’t quite look at her, but he could see her bustling around the office out of the corners of his eyes - lighting candles with a flick of her wand, setting the tea to make itself.
“Have a cup,” she said rather forcefully, setting a teacup on the desk in front of him.
She settled into her own chair, looking across the desk at him. She was silent until the teapot had filled both their cups. “Drink,” she said. “It should help the headache.”
“Thanks,” Oliver said, reaching out to curl his hands around the cup.
“It’s never easy to lose a dear friend,” McGonagall said. “Under the circumstances, Wood, there’s no shame in tears.”
Oliver nodded, though dear friend wasn’t quite right. He had always wondered if she’d known. Over a year ago, she had come very near to seeing the truth with her own eyes…
It was something out of the most clichéd of Hogwarts rumors, the way he and Cedric had started. There was a chance meeting outside the prefects’ bathroom, Cedric leaving, Oliver on his way in; their eyes had caught.
Oliver had thought nothing of it: he just assumed Cedric’s cheeks, fair as he was, were flushed from the heat of the bathroom. He hadn’t expected to come out and find Cedric waiting for him, pacing back and forth along the corridor.
He distinctly remembered stopping short, half-expecting to be jinxed; Hufflepuff had lost its match against Slytherin earlier that day, and Hufflepuff’s last chance to improve its standing in the Cup would be in their match against Gryffindor in May. But that was months away, and Cedric wasn’t the type; he was usually disgustingly sportsmanlike. A paragon. And he was still pacing. “Diggory?” Oliver asked at last.
Cedric turned to him, squaring his shoulders with a look of determination on his face. “I wanted to talk to you on Valentine’s,” he started abruptly. “But Lockhart-” He made a face. “I didn’t want to make that big a show.”
“What are you talking about?” Oliver said.
Cedric rubbed his hands through his hair, letting out an explosive sigh, then looked up into Oliver’s eyes. “I like you,” Cedric said.
“I…like you well enough, too,” Oliver replied slowly, still watching Cedric’s face. “You’re an excellent player-” He stopped as Cedric’s mouth went tight.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, his voice low. “Never mind. Forget it.” He turned to go, and Oliver stared as the penny dropped.
Before Cedric could reach the end of the corridor, Oliver blurted, “Wait.” Cedric paused and glanced over his shoulder, and the hope in his eyes sent a shiver skittering down Oliver’s spine. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he said. “But you’re…” He swallowed hard. “Let me think about it,” he said.
Cedric nodded, and left without a word.
The truth was, Oliver didn’t think about other people that way much at all. He’d never been with anyone; which wasn’t to say he didn’t want to be. It was only that his feelings got so tangled that it was easier to ignore them than to saddle someone else with the confusion and the anxiety.
He couldn’t stop seeing Cedric after that night, now that he’d noticed him. He’d catch sight of Cedric across a corridor, or the Great Hall - a glimpse of his broad shoulders, or a flash of his grin. Once they met on the grounds and exchanged a few awkward words while Oliver wondered if it was the light of the sunset or if Cedric’s eyes were always that bright silver color. It was distracting, and he felt the strain even in Quidditch practices; it became more work to keep rallying his team. He was leaving practices feeling drained, instead of coasting back to Gryffindor Tower on the residual energy.
One day in March, Oliver was on the way to the Quidditch pitch, early for a practice, when he glanced up to find Cedric walking towards him along the path. Cedric’s entire face glowed with happiness, and as soon as he was within earshot, he called out, “The Mandrakes are growing up!”
“How do you know?” Oliver asked.
Cedric nearly ran to meet him, then fell into step beside him. He was practically skipping, which ought to have looked odd on such a big fellow. Instead, Cedric looked jovial and pleasant, and it was difficult not to let his enthusiasm infect him. “I’ve just come from the greenhouses,” Cedric said, breathless. “Sprout ended class early because they were throwing a party. I reckon she was just feeling generous, there’s always earmuffs in greenhouse three. Still, you know, we’re that much closer. I’m as glad as she is.”
“Do you know any of the…?” Oliver asked.
“Justin’s one of our second-years,” Cedric said. “The one who was Petrified with Sir Nicholas.”
“Oh.”
“Poor kid,” Cedric said. The happiness in his face had clouded over, and Oliver found he missed it. Cedric glanced along the blue expanse of the grounds towards the castle, then back at Oliver. “You’re busy,” he said. “Go on. Just thought you might like to know. Colin Creevey, and all.”
“I’m not in a rush,” Oliver said without thinking. “You could keep walking with me, if you have time.”
Cedric did, but he kept his head down. He seemed troubled; Oliver had expected hope, instead. Had Cedric gone off him? He felt a little sick again at that. He’d spent so much time trying to sort through his feelings lately - not something he did often or well. Maybe he had taken too long.
“I’m not,” Oliver started, then stopped again, shaking his head. “That night,” he said, “when you told me what you did, I was surprised. I don’t do this kind of thing” - he gestured between them - “a lot. Or, erm, at all.”
Cedric glanced up, hair almost shielding his raised eyebrow. “At all? I know for a fact at least a few of the girls in my year would go for it. And I always heard you and Spinnet had something. Or do you mean other boys?”
“At all,” Oliver said, crossing his arms over his chest. He stopped there, the Quidditch stands rising over them and casting them into a cold shade.
“Why not?”
Cedric’s eyes were steady on Oliver’s face, and he felt suddenly very strongly as if he were inside someone else’s body. This couldn’t possibly be happening to him. His heart was hammering in his chest. He wasn’t sure if this was panic or desire; it felt a little like both, terrifying but wonderful, like the first time he had ridden a broomstick up over the trees.
“Okay, come here,” Oliver croaked, reaching out his hand. Cedric stepped forward, and Oliver caught the front of his robes and pulled him closer. Their mouths met at an awkward angle at first, but they shifted and eased into one another, and now the earth was truly falling away underneath him. Cedric seemed the only steady thing, warm and broad and leaning down to kiss him even though Oliver was two years above him.
If he could just do this forever, only this…
And somehow, they did. For another two months, they snuck kisses whenever they could, and Oliver never did have to untangle the knot of his feelings; it became normal, this snarling, confused thing in his chest. And he became comfortable, easy in Cedric’s presence.
Almost.
The day that would have been the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, Oliver paced the locker rooms long after everyone else had gone. There seemed to be nothing inside him but coiled frustration and disappointment. Obviously, he felt badly for the girls who had been Petrified, but it still seemed cowardly and unfair to stop the Quidditch Cup. So what if everything was going to hell? Hogwarts continued on. It must, or they were giving in.
Cedric appeared in the doorway to the Gryffindor locker room, and Oliver wanted to scream at the concerned look on his face.
“I thought you might be here,” Cedric said, hands in the pockets of his school robes. He’d changed. Oliver still hadn’t. “I didn’t see you at lunch.”
Oliver screwed his eyes shut, fists clenched. “I wasn’t hungry,” he said.
He heard footsteps, and before he could react, Cedric’s hands were around his wrists, pulling his fists up to rest against Cedric’s chest. Warm fingers massaged his wrists. “It’s not the end of the world,” Cedric murmured, and on this ridiculous statement, he leaned down to kiss Oliver. Oliver’s eyes flew open, but he found himself kissing back instead of pulling away. Kissing was such a marvelous way to simplify things; he could focus on lips and hands and let the rest of the world slip away.
He didn’t realize that the tenor of the kiss had changed until his back was pressed to the wall and Cedric pulled away, face flushed, eyes lazy and amazed. Oliver could feel the heat of Cedric’s body all up and down his front, the cold of the wall against his back. Cedric gasped his name and kissed him again, and it wasn’t so easy this time to let everything slide away. The desire in Cedric’s voice burned through him.
“Wait,” he murmured, and Cedric pulled away again, his eyes flicking up to Oliver’s this time.
“Is this not okay?” Cedric said, his hand still on Oliver’s waist.
Oliver took stock. On the one hand, he didn’t feel so much like punching a wall anymore. On the other, they had seemed on the brink of something, some next step that Oliver didn’t particularly want to take. They had stepped directly into the briars of Oliver’s tangled feelings towards Cedric, and he wasn’t sure they could turn back now.
“Can we stop?” he said. Cedric stepped away immediately, and cool air rushed in. Oliver watched as Cedric went to sit on one of the benches, but he didn’t move.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Cedric asked, and Oliver sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. No, he didn’t, particularly. “I just don’t understand,” Cedric said. “You kiss me happily enough, but sometimes it’s like a switch just flips and suddenly you don’t want to touch me at all.”
Oliver dropped his hands. He had thought Cedric hadn’t noticed - that the other moments, smaller moments, he had played it off well. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” he said.
“I know that,” Cedric said. “But I can’t figure out what it is.” He looked down, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Is it that it’s different? Than being with a girl?”
“I told you I haven’t,” Oliver said.
“But it’s more acceptable, isn’t it? Dating girls?” Cedric made a face. “I mean, this is the first time I’ve been with a boy, too, so I’d get it, if it was that. I’m not exactly parading us before the school or anything, and I’m not trying to rush into anything…”
Oliver slid down to the floor and folded his hands between his knees. “It’s not just boys,” he said. “That I have trouble with. It’s everyone, I think. I did like Alicia - Spinnet - but I figured it was best not to mess with her head when I need her more as a teammate.”
“And you figured it was okay to mess with mine?” Cedric said.
“I’m not trying to mess with your head!” Oliver said, though guilt pricked him. He wasn’t trying to, but it wasn’t fair on Cedric; he forgot, most of the time, that he was so much younger. Two years could be a lot, by Hogwarts standards. “It’s just that I don’t know what’s going on in mine.”
“No. You’re right. I’m sorry.” Cedric stood, and came over to sit next to Oliver, leaving a little space between them. “Can you tell me some of it?”
“I can try,” Oliver said. He leaned back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. “I think it’s sex,” he said at last. He could see Cedric looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his gaze trained on the ceiling.
“I wasn’t going to just…jump into it in a public locker room,” Cedric said.
Oliver took a deep breath, frustration clutching at this throat again. “I’m just telling you why it happens. Things get heated and it feels like it could make you…want…something, and it’s not something I want to do, so it messes everything up.”
There was a silence, and finally Oliver looked at Cedric just to get some idea of what he was thinking. He seemed to be concentrating fiercely on a loose thread over his knee, twisting it between his fingers. “I don’t think I’m really ready for that, but I thought at some point we might, if we were still doing this,” Cedric finally said, his voice very quiet. Before Oliver could say anything, he looked up, his eyebrows knitted tightly together. He only held Oliver’s eyes a moment before his fell again. “Is that ever likely to be something you want?”
“Honestly?” Cedric nodded, and Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. “No,” he said, voice low.
“And yet you say you like me,” Cedric said, his tone absolutely expressionless.
“Yes,” Oliver snapped. “Obviously.” He sunk down, his shoulders rising up around his ears, arms still tightly crossed.
“I’m just trying to understand,” Cedric said.
“No, you’re not,” Oliver said, his voice rising. “You’re going all stoic and fair, but you’re not trying to understand, because somehow what you got out of this is that I don’t like you enough.” He stood and paced back and forth in front of Cedric. The other boy’s eyes followed him. “I really like you. I don’t see myself wanting to do anything other than kiss you. That’s pretty much how I’ve felt about the very few people I have actually felt this way about. Is that so impossible to believe?”
Cedric reached up and caught Oliver’s hand, and Oliver stopped, staring down at him. He felt hot around the eyes; not like he was really going to cry, exactly, but odd and exposed and brimming with unspoken fears and desires. “Okay,” Cedric said.
“Okay?” Oliver stood stiff, though Cedric’s fingers were warm around his.
“Just, okay,” Cedric said, and tugged very gently at Oliver’s hand.
All the breath went out of Oliver, and he let Cedric tug him down and into another kiss, this one quiet, tentative. Slowly, they felt their way back into their old ease, and Oliver let himself pull Cedric into his arms at last.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cedric whispered in his ear sometime later. “This is enough.”
And so it was, all the rest of that school year. During the summer, they wrote letters, and met up from time to time to play Quidditch (under the excuse of keeping in form) and steal a few hours together. They returned to school with renewed enthusiasm for each other.
Slowly, though, their free time disappeared in that frantic first term, until they found that they were only meeting in the library to work on their separate homework. Oliver’s parents had been appalled at his marks on last year’s exams, and had made him promise to study hard for his NEWTs; even if he made it in Quidditch, his career wouldn’t last forever, and he’d need them then. Meanwhile, Cedric had been named prefect, and between that, Quidditch, and his OWL-level classes, he didn’t have the energy to spare for more than the occasional stolen kiss. The presence of the Dementors patrolling the grounds wasn’t helping, either.
One night, Oliver spotted Cedric loitering in the Entrance Hall after Quidditch practice. He fell behind the rest of the team, telling them to go on ahead to Gryffindor Tower, and waited till they were gone to approach Cedric. “Evening,” he said, smiling, pleased after a good night’s work.
“Hey.” The corner of Cedric’s mouth twitched, and he turned to start down the corridor holding the classrooms. Oliver followed, but they didn’t go into any of them, just stopped leaning against the door to one. “Oliver…” Cedric murmured. “I’ve been thinking.”
Oliver turned to look at him, wishing he could make out his expression in the dark. He didn’t like the sound of that.
“You’re going to be done at Hogwarts after this year,” Cedric said. Oliver felt cold fingers on the back of his hand, then twining through his own fingers. “I’m going to miss you, when you go.”
Oliver heard the hesitation at the end of that sentence. “But?” he said, squeezing Cedric’s fingers.
“I’ll still have two years to go. I don’t want to spend that time like we spent this summer,” he said.
He had been expecting something like it, but it still felt like a physical blow to the chest. He found himself carefully breathing - in, out - as if that could stop it hurting. “So you’re breaking up with me now to get it over with?” he said.
“No,” Cedric said, and Oliver felt a painful hope. “I just…wanted you to know where I stand. At the end of the year, when we say goodbye, we’re saying goodbye. Maybe we’ll find each other after Hogwarts; maybe not. But I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to try to stay the same people for two years while we wait for each other.” He paused. “We could stop now, if you’d rather.”
Oliver held onto Cedric’s hand, but it still felt like a part of him was shattering. He hadn’t let himself think of it yet, what leaving Hogwarts would mean for him and Cedric. He had been too focused on his final Quidditch season, on the scramble to keep up with schoolwork, on the career he hoped to start building as soon as he was finished at Hogwarts. He thought about that final point, and how little they had been able to see each other this year. “Maybe we should,” he said at last, reluctantly. “We’ve both got a lot on our plates.”
Cedric’s robes rustled, and Oliver thought he might be looking at him. “I’ve been so exhausted,” he admitted.
“You put up a good act,” Oliver said.
“Come on.” Cedric bumped his shoulder against Oliver’s. “I know you see right through me. Thanks for dragging me out of the library last week. I needed it.”
“I mean it, though,” Oliver said. “You always look like you take everything in stride. I know I don’t.” He sighed. “My team keep making these faces at me when I tell them how much this season means…”
“Let’s not talk Quidditch,” Cedric said quickly, but he managed to sound like he was smiling. Oliver’s throat tightened.
“There you go again,” he said, his voice rasping. Oliver felt fingers on his chin, tilting it up, then lips on his, a soft, melting kiss. He wrapped his arms around Cedric, and they stood there after the kiss ended, still holding each other tightly. “I’ll miss you, too,” Oliver whispered into the dark over Cedric’s shoulder.
Suddenly, the tap of footsteps sounded at the head of the corridor, and Oliver and Cedric jumped apart, spinning to look. Professor McGonagall stopped about ten feet away from them, raising her lit wand and looking over them with pursed lips. “It’s nearly nine,” she said. She started towards them again, reaching into her pocket. What she pulled out was a crisp white handkerchief, which she passed without comment to Cedric. “You’d better get off to bed.”
Cedric pushed past both McGonagall and Oliver, mopping at his cheeks. Oliver watched him go, then realized suddenly that McGonagall was still looking at him. “Sorry, Professor,” he said, and left the scene behind him. He’d thought then that this was only the beginning of saying goodbye to Cedric, but he had never expected a goodbye so final.
Too many months later, Cedric’s body lying somewhere on the grounds of Hogwarts, Oliver looked up at Professor McGonagall. “How did it happen?” he asked. “How did it come to this?”