Harry shoves his freezing hands into his thick winter cloak, the material not entirely helpful against the biting cold of December.
He sits by the Black Lake, propped up and nestled between jagged rocks that are coated by a thin layer of snow. It had been snowing since morning, but that wasn’t enough to defer Harry from making a trip outside. Even now, as he sits close to the shore, knees to his chest and hands in his pockets, the snowflakes continue their dance downwards from the sky.
It’s awfully peaceful, Harry thinks. Unless the sun is shining and the temperature is above zero, students rarely step foot outside during the winter. Even if they do, they cast warming charms and bundle up in warm gloves and scarves. Harry does none of that. His hands are bare, his exposed throat aches from the cold and he notices the way he slowly looses feeling in his nose and cheeks. His breaths puff into smoke from the cool air and, somehow, that brings him a sense of comfort. He takes deep breaths, feeling the wintry air invade his throat and lungs. Harry shudders.
He can’t quite rid of the burning on his lips.
An hour prior, he closed the last Dumbledore’s Army meeting before the Christmas holidays. Everything had gone well, all things considered, until everybody left and Cho kissed him under the Mistletoe. It was wet and mildly uncomfortable, with the girl crying and all. It took Harry a few moments to leave and detour from his trek to Gryffindor tower and go outside, to the place he’d been hiding in the whole of fifth year.
To put it simply, he feels miserable. Cho is obviously still grieving Cedric (as is he) and Harry doesn’t want to be a sort of rebound for her. He can admit that she is very pretty, with her long and silky dark hair, her adorable freckled nose and straight white smile, but their kiss felt wrong in a way Harry can’t decipher on his own. He knows that going back to Ron and Hermione up in the Tower would’ve been the wiser decision, but he craves his alone time. So he sits on the pointy rocks, chin resting on his knees and bag thrown somewhere beneath his feet.
The setting December sun gnaws at his exposed skin, making him tremble. The wind tears at his robes and cloak, intent to chill him to the bone. Harry doesn’t blame it. Right now, he sort of wants it to swallow him whole.
It’s not only the kiss with Cho, it’s a bunch of little things building up into an overwhelming crescendo in his frayed mind. It’s the way Dumbledore acts as if he doesn’t exist, giving him the cold shoulder during the trial and through the whole year. It’s the way the other students hate him, call him a liar and a murderer, taunt him and blame him for Cedric’s death. It’s the way that his scar throbs and bleeds in the dead of night after he wakes up from yet another nightmare where he runs through empty, never-ending halls, looking for something that is quite out of reach. It’s the way Umbridge tortures him, makes him carve words into his own skin until the message sinks in and he has to heal his stinging hand all on his own in the dead of night, then pretend that nothing is wrong the morning after.
It’s the fact that every moment of his day, he sees glimpses of Cedric Diggory around the castle. It’s the fact that the boy haunts him in his dreams, then illusions of him torment Harry during the day time. He feels trapped everywhere he goes, the face of a dead boy following his every move. He can’t get rid of the guilt, can’t help but grieve and live with the open, raw pit of hurt and loss in the bottom of his stomach.
Harry is so exhausted and he isn’t sure how long he can keep up the pretext that he is fine. So he sits and lets the frozen air gnaw at him in its' unyielding hold, take his mind away from thoughts about how terribly unfair the world is and pull his focus on the fact that he can’t feel his face any longer. He likes that.
Being in the cold reminds Harry of his childhood. When he was locked out of the house on the nights when autumn turned into winter and the fallen leaves woke up with frostbite on their tips. He remembers how he trembled in his rags outside in the garden, the ratty clothing barely protecting him from the temperature drops. Once, he tried hiding in the garden shack to find any resemblance of warmth behind the thin wooden walls. When Vernon found out, he locked it and threw Harry outside that very same night with a twisted smile on his lips.
Harry likes to think that he has built an immunity to the cold, that he is averse to it. In a way, he finds it comfortable, familiar, like the embrace of an old friend that cannot help but bite and tear at him like a little kid. He doesn’t mind.
Then the sun settles below the horizon and the sky plunges into darkness. Harry is fine with that. The dark reminds him of his cupboard, yet not as cramped or damp as it had been. He sits long enough for the stars to breach the night sky, plunging Harry into another wave of hurt. He misses Sirius. He doesn’t take out the two-way mirror, as it is back in his trunk in Gryffindor Tower.
Suddenly, a coldness of another sort envelops him in a pathetic resemblance of a hug. It drapes over his shoulders and back, making the wintry chill depart from his crumpled body.
Harry is sure that he’s hallucinating again once he spots that distinctive dark hair and grey eyes in the corner of his vision. He hates when his mind plays these tricks on him. He hates that his body plays along, recedes the cold that had been tearing at him and replaces it with a numb, prickly sort of feeling.
A voice that haunts his dreams whispers in his ear, something along the lines of ‘idiot’, ‘cold’, and ‘dangerous’. Harry can’t follow, because he knows that voice and wonders, briefly if he froze to death.
With trembling hands, he reaches out to touch the ghostly weight on his back, hoping— then chokes down a sob, curling further into himself as his hand reaches through nothing but air. The whole time, he has his face buried into his knees, which are wobbling and trembling from the thin layer separating them from the cold. The hallucination doesn’t relent, whispers in his ear and shields him from the terrible biting of winter.
He hates it most when his mind makes up images of Cedric.
Sometimes it's visions of him dead in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, sometimes it's him dry heaving in the courtyard as the light of the Killing Curse dances around him. Most often, however, Harry can see him standing besides the Great Hall, a longing look on his pale face.
Harry knows that he isn’t quite there since that night in the graveyard, and is sure that what he’d been seeing is enough to put him in Janus Thickey’s ward at St. Mungos.
With the cold not muddling his movements, Harry tears his face from where it lay on his knees and tries blowing warm air onto his hands. It barely does anything to warm them up. He could use a warming charm, but that feels like betraying his childhood self.
“Harry.”
Cedric’s voice croons and Harry can’t help but flinch. His hallucinations are rarely auditory. He tilts his head in the direction of where he heard the sound and winces at the soreness the motion pulls from his neck.
In the darkness of the night, it’s hard to make out the translucent figure floating beside him. But when clouds move and the moon isn’t obstructed by them, Harry sighs. Cedric’s body is clad in the uniform he wore the night he died (he always looked like that in Harry’s nightmares and hallucinations), his hair is ruffled as if he’d just run his hands through it. Oddest of all, is that he doesn’t have that solid form he does in his nightmares. His form is see-through, the outline of his body glows in a distinctly teal colour.
That is new, Harry admits to himself. Never before had his imagination decided to fuck him over like this. Pretend that Cedric is a ghost.
The Not-Cedric shifts, a weary sigh escaping his lips.
“Why are you freezing out here?”
Harry mulls the question over, wondering if he should start a conversation with something his subconscious had come up with to torment him once again.
“I needed some quiet.”
“And cold?” Not-Cedric tuts, crossing his ghostly hands over his chest. Harry follows the motion with his eyes. Most often than not, the Cedric’s that he sees are dead and unmoving, or screaming at him bloody murder. “You don’t even have a warming charm up.”
“I don’t need one.”
Harry decides he’s not as strong willed as he thought when that stern look makes him lift his wand and cast a warming charm over where he is sitting. Relief is instantaneous, his shoulders fall and a shuddering breath escapes his frosted lips.
“Better.” Not-Cedric murmurs, floating in front of Harry and downwards. Harry scrambles backwards, away from the water and closer to the rock behind him. The other teen crosses his legs and leans his elbows on his knees, studying the fifth-year before him.
They sit in silence for a few moments, Harry dreading the moment when he perfect image of Cedric would shift into a monster from his nightmares. He knows better than to hope his mental state is better than that.
“Why did you come here?”
Admitting secrets to his own mind shouldn’t be a problem.
“This is my comfort space.” He doesn’t elaborate further. He doesn’t think that he needs to.
“And the tears staining your cheeks?”
“What?” Harry asks, bewildered, and reaches a shaking hand up to his face. Sure enough, there are frosty little traces of what must’ve been tears. They must’ve frozen over.
“Wanna explain that?”
“No.”
Not-Cedric sighs, uncrossing and crossing his legs another way. He seems restless. Maybe now he will pounce with the accusations that Harry killed him?
“Harry, my death is not your fault.”
His first instinct is to sneer. Never before had his hallucinations been so cruel. He knows it's trying to trick him, lull him into a false sense of security before tearing him apart with its' cruel words.
“I mean it.” Not-Cedric’s eyes are full of compassion and understanding, both emotions something Harry hasn’t seen in a long while. “You didn’t cast the Killing Curse and it was me who offered we take the cup together.”
Now Harry really does sneer, his face contorting into something akin to hurt.
“You died because of me, because I’m the Boy-Who-Lived. You were a target because you came with me. You died because I wasn’t fast enough.”
“Even you couldn’t deflect the Killing Curse.”
“I could’ve tried.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Not-Cedric sighs, leaning back and crossing his arms again. “You were fourteen.”
“Yes. And you died at seventeen, and your blood is on my hands.” Harry snaps back, teeth clashing in a way that makes his jaw throb. The hurt, grief, loss curls deep inside his ribcage and makes his stomach churn.
“It isn’t your fault, Harry.” He presses on and Harry wants to tear out his hair in frustration. Why was his mind so intent on torturing him today? First that horrid kiss with Cho, then those memories of his childhood, now the imaginary Cedric trying to convince him he wasn’t at fault only to scream profanities at him later. Granted, he’d never taken on the appearance of a ghost, but that might be another form of torture his mind decided to settle on.
“Yeah and you know everything about that.” He grumbles, actually tearing at his messy hair this time.
He can see Not-Cedric frown at the action, but the other boy doesn’t comment, thankfully.
“Look, man, just start screaming at me already and we can be done with this nonsense.”
“Screaming?”
“Yeah, you finished your little show, now you can stop being the nice guy my mind conjured up and start accusing me of killing you. That’s how it always goes.”
The look the grey eyed boy gives him gives Harry such a whiplash that he flinches. There is hurt and sadness in that look, of course, but the emotion that prevails most is understanding. It shines so bright that his voice hitches and gets stuck somewhere back in his throat.
“Oh, Harry.”
That.. caring, heartwarming sound coming from Not-Cedric makes Harry burst into tears, somehow. He hates himself for it. A picture that his mind conjured up or not, he doesn’t want to look pathetic in front of Cedric.
“I promise that I’m not a hallucination.” Not-Cedric says that and sounds a bit unsure, as if he doesn’t believe that Harry will trust his words. He doesn’t. Through the tears, he gives a humorless chuckle.
“That’s what they always say.”
Not-Cedric flinches back and Harry feels bad, but just for a second. Then he remembers that none of this is real and relaxes, hands coming to wrap back up around his knees.
Silence stretches between them, a little uncomfortable. Harry shifts in his place on the rock and notes how sore he has become. He knows that it’s dark and, possibly, nearing curfew, but he can’t will his body to move. Perhaps it’s the fact that the hallucination has been quite nice so far. Harry doesn’t want to push away the kindest version of Cedric he’d seen in months.
“When I was little, my mum would make me crowns out of the daisies that constantly grew in our garden.” Not-Cedric says, his voice wistful and melancholy. “The yellow flowers stained her fingers for days and sometimes, our neighbors kids’ made fun of her. But she never stopped, because she knew how much I liked those wreaths."
Harry listens, a little confused.
“When I found out what she was suffering through because of me, I got mad and pushed her away. I told her that I hated those crowns and that I didn’t want her to make them ever again. I didn’t explain the actual reasoning of why I did that. I saw how upset she was, but decided that she would be better hurt than mocked.”
Not-Cedric looks at his hands as he talks, the pair of them resting on his crossed ankles.
“Then she died, two years after.”
Harry flinches. This is his imagination talking, making up stories to push him off balance and throw him off his feet. He knows, and yet..
“What are you trying to say?”
Not-Cedric smiles, one cheek pulling into a dimple. “Nothing, I only wanted to tell you a story.”
Harry huffs, disbelieving.
“Did that really happen?”
“It didn’t, if you’re intent on believing that I’m just a product of your tormented mind.”
Harry finds that he doesn’t have much more strength to keep on fighting the teenager before him. He sighs and mirrors the position Not — possibly — Cedric sits in.
“Why should I believe you?”
“You don’t have to,” that baffles Harry enough to make his mouth gape like a fish, “I just want you to know that I don’t think you at fault for my death. Whether you believe me or not.. I suppose that’s a conclusion you’ll have to come to on your own.”
Harry doesn’t understand. He can’t understand any of the nonsense that the conversation entailed. He shakes his head like a dog shaking off water and runs a trembling hand down his face.
“Okay, what if.. what if you really are a ghost?”
“Then I would be a ghost.”
“No, I mean..” He isn’t sure how to ask, doesn’t know if he wants to. The longer he drags on this game the harsher the consequences could be, after all. “How did you become one, then?”
Possibly-Cedric seems to think for a moment and Harry hopes he’s not coming up with a story on the spot.
“I’m not sure. I don’t have any lingering disbelief or denial about my death like most ghosts do, so, in theory, I should’ve gone on.” He explains and Harry listens intently. He didn’t know that, actually. “But then something pulled me back, like a tug on my navel, and I felt myself going back through the thin folds of the afterlife and back to the living.”
“What then?” He presses, the situation seeming more real by the second, his heartbeat beats urgently in his chest.
“I found myself in Hogwarts. There was nobody around, no matter how long I searched. At that time, I thought it might be another version of the afterlife. When September started, I realized it must’ve been the summer holidays. I was excited so see everyone back and wanted to show my friends that, even though I was dead, they could still talk to me.” Possibly-Cedric sighs and his colouring flickers between teal and grey, like The Grey Lady’s ghost sometimes did.
“Did you?” Harry knows the answer to his question. None of Cedric’s friends acted like they received any sort of closure from their friends ghost. And most of all, Harry wants to believe the teenager in front of him. He doesn’t want to be a puppet to his frayed mind any longer. He wants to believe that Possibly-Cedric could actually be the ghost of the boy he killed.
“No. When I heard what they were saying about you I couldn’t bring myself to speak to any of them. So I sort of hid, unsure if my presence would help or hurt your case. But essentially, the reason I hid was because I was scared.”
“And you’re not scared right now?”
“I am scared for you.” Harry blinks, unsure if he heard that right. “When I saw you practically run away from Cho in the Room of Requirement,” Harry chokes, a burning colouring his cheeks “I followed you here. I hid and watched you freeze.” Cedric hisses, like the word is hot on his tongue.
“I’m fi-”
“No, you’re not.” He interrupts Harry, leaving no room for argument with his stony expression. “I realized that I couldn’t keep doing absolutely nothing all the time. And that I could try and help you, at the very least.”
Harry wants to fight back against those words. He wants to accuse Cedric of looking at him like a pity project, of leaving him to hurt for months before deciding to make a move. He does none of that. Instead, he wills his muscles to relax and slumps against the jagged rock behind him. He runs a hand down his face to conceal his teary eyed expression. He knows Cedric saw it and hopes he won’t acknowledge it.
He doesn’t. Cedric just sits cross-legged in front of him, calm and collected.
“And this is helping me?”
“Well, I prevented you from freezing to death.”
Harry scoffs and crosses his arms. “That wouldn’t have happened. That wasn’t the point.”
“Then what was?” Cedric asks, all concern and honest to god worry in his ghostly voice. Harry sighs and knows he won’t be able to resist responding.
“Punishment.”
Cedric frowns and Harry looks away. He doesn’t want to look at him when he says the words, doesn’t want to say them. But, in a way, it did concern Cedric so he feels sort of obligated to voice it.
“When I was little, my muggle relatives would often lock me outside in the cold. It was a punishment that was reserved for me whenever I did something really bad,” like burnt the food or messed up a chore, he thinks bitterly, “And I— craved that tonight.”
He knows that Cedric is looking at him with his mouth hanging wide open, but Harry can’t really bring himself to care when shame and guilt are churning in his gut.
Before the Third task, he and Cedric bonded, in a way. They sat by the Black Lake, days before the task, under one of the bigger trees, and shared their worries for what was about to happen. Cedric told him about the messed up relationship he had with his father. Harry opened up about how much his relatives hated him. They understood each other, then. Cedric didn’t judge, didn’t inquire about more than what Harry said. Harry didn’t either. It was enough. Now, he can tell that Cedric wants to know more.
“What happened?”
“It’s like— a build up of things, really.”
And he knows that Cedric understands, because he’d told him that before. That being his father's perfect son, the perfect prefect, the golden boy of Hufflepuff and somebody that everyone expects something grand out of was incredibly exhausting. Harry understood him then and he knows that (if it's really the ghost of Cedric and not a cruel trick) he understands him too.
But he doesn’t expect the cold breeze that wraps around him, teal lights flickering with something he can’t place. He knows that, theoretically, ghosts can interact with the living world. He’s seen that when Moaning Myrtle flooded her bathroom and with Peeves’ multitude of outrageous pranks. He just didn’t expect to be hugged by Cedric.
Harry feels himself melt into the hug, hanging on with all that he has. Cedric’s arms tighten around his shoulders and Harry feels the terrible thoughts that clung to his brain peel away.
He knows that Cedric must’ve seen what happened with Cho and was grateful that he didn’t comment. He’s glad that he doesn’t have to explain anything to him. Above all, he’s happy that Cedric isn’t mad at him. With Cedric’s arms wrapped around him and his voice humming some sort of lullaby, Harry knows that this moment is real. That Cedric isn’t something his exhausted mind came up with.
And so, he feels the tears dampen his cheeks and soil his robes. He indulges in the moment and lifts his trembling hands to rest around Cedric’s back.
Things aren’t okay, and they won’t be for a long time, but Harry lets himself get lost in the moment, far away from the rest of the world. He lets himself forget the guilt gnawing at him and the hatred he has for himself while the arms are wrapped around him and the chill of Cedric pressed against him is not as biting as the cold of December.