Chapter 1
A glint of gold just above the Quidditch stands.
It’s mid-game and yet, the harsh light seeping through a sea of clouds on the horizon renders the tiny metallic gadget practically invisible—the entire stadium washed in a stark shade of grey. One hour till sunset. One hour before catching the Snitch becomes exponentially more difficult.
A wild smile stretches Cedric’s lips tight over his teeth.
Gotcha.
In one smooth motion, his broom tilts perpendicular to the ground and he shoots towards the clouds.
Look here, Harry. Follow me to the skies.
And the boy does. A brief glance down reveals thick dark hair flailing wildly in the wind, obscuring the third-year’s famously curse-colored eyes.
But Cedric knows with near certainty that they must be a vividly angry shade of green.
That’s it, kid. This way.
Oxygen fast growing sparse, Cedric barely registers the shudder that ripples under his ribs. He feels it in the involuntary contraction of his chest as the rapid change in air pressure drags a net of vicious pain through his torso. No matter.
Another quick look over his shoulder confirms Harry is still hot on his trail—ever closer than before. Close enough for him to see the feral glint in the boy’s eyes.
For a third-year seeker to keep up with him at all, let alone at this altitude… Cedric would have whistled in admiration had he not been so pressed for air.
Harry’s a good Seeker. At this rate, he might far surpass me one day. But for now—Cedric savagely jerks his weight down and yanks his broom up into a forced backflip, successfully somersaulting over Harry as the boy barrels helplessly past him—I’m still your better.
Arms spread wide open, Cedric embraces the rushing air, compromising the rest of his breath in a holler of pure exhileration. The broom remains trapped securely between his calves as he spins end-over-end, down, down, down, in an entirely unpredictable spiral marked for death.
Cedric’s broom hums violently under his grip as its charms scramble to recalibrate the sudden disruption of weight and gravity. If he doesn’t assist with stabilizing its trajectory, the broom’s enchantments will have no chance at correcting the free fall—spinning too wild for it to latch onto any cardinal direction. And doesn’t the broom seem to know it.
Thrumming escalates to angry throbbing, no doubt chastising Cedric for his stupid recklessness. Shift your weight! It almost seems to scream at him.
Sorry girl, not just yet.
He gives his body over to the spinning momentum, tucking in his limbs and leaning in precisely the opposite direction every time his broom desperately manages to snag a second of stability. This must be what it’s like to ride a bull in one of those strange muggle rodeos his mother took him to once. Except he is the bull, and his broom the horrified rider fighting for its life.
The world has long since become an incomprehensible blur, but he still makes out the dark smudge that is Harry, whipping past the edges of his vision every few milliseconds. Of course, Harry has the advantage of being angled aerodynamically downward , and assisted by broom propulsion to boot—Cedric’s gravity driven free-fall is bound to be slower. The boy is keeping pace at a safe distance, apparently wary of Cedric’s spinning form; not entirely sure what Cedric might be up to, but at the same time not willing to fly off in case the older boy really had seen the Snitch. He periodically glances uncertainly between Cedric and the sky, and amusement blooms through Cedric’s chest even as the ground rushes up to meet him at a startling speed.
You should have just left me to fall.
And then Cedric tears the broom from between his ankles, holding it up and away from his body so it can regain some semblance of orientation. His limbs unfold like a kite, providing the resistance needed to barely slow his hurtling trajectory—it’s enough. The charms on his broom snap triumphantly back into place, the pent up whorl of energy flooding down his right arm with white-hot magic. It gives one last indignant buck before all its enchantments fire at once, and it shoots up and away towards the nearest Quidditch stand at a wholly impossible pace, Cedric hanging from a single arm like an oversized monkey decked in black and gold.
Harry whirls after him, gaping, hardly able to believe his eyes. He wastes no time collecting his wits and following suit, kicking his broom into full gear—though this time not with the intent to chase; he too had finally seen the Snitch.
Quite a few paces above the young Gryffindor, gusts of wind lash mercilessly at Cedric’s face. Any bare skin soon chafes a coral-pink tone; even the protective charms aren’t doing much anymore, he’s flying so terribly fast, and with just a single hand anchoring him to survival. The recklessness of it all is far from lost on him.
Pure joy races up his spine in bursts of flashing brilliance; it colors the world in myriad hues of light, and he closes his eyes to relish the stinging clarity of it all.
He knows this feeling. Holds dear the familiarity of its brittle touch.
Just a moment longer.
This is where he belongs.
Not studying for NEWTs or hosting club meetings every waking hour of the day. Playing golden child to the glowing pride of his father. Not at home or in Hogwarts or even the company of his friends. None of it.
Because here— Here in the merciless grip of the elements, his heart pumping with adrenaline and the prospect of death hanging sweetly over his head, Cedric feels, truly, at peace.
-
His senses snap to attention just as his arm begins to spasm, muscles silently wailing in protest to the prolonged abuse. He ignores the pain in favor of leaning forward, free arm stretching out as his hand forms an eager claw.
You’re mine.
And then he has it—golden Snitch fluttering helplessly in his grip.
The long awaited drag of deceleration allows him leeway to finally hoist himself back up, though not without great difficulty. He grimaces in grim satisfaction. Looks like his arm is going to be out for the rest of the day unless he pays a visit to Madame Pomfrey.
Having caught some of his breath back, he bends over his broom to pat it approvingly. It buzzes in response, trembling indignantly at his efforts to sooth it. Electric waves of incensed disapproval shuttle up his skin.
Cedric chuckles. Pauses.
The scores haven’t been announced yet.
He blinks around himself in confusion.
Why? Lee Jordan always recaps the games immediately after the Snitch is caught.
In fact, he’s certain he must have missed Jordan announcing his capture of the Snitch as well. Bewildered, Cedric lowers his gaze to scan the stadium, and as the wind dies out of his ears at last, the muffled sound of screaming finally filters through. The wild-eyed crowd shifts with agitation, their attention fixed at a single point behind Cedric.
He cranes his head around just in time to see a falling, broom-less Harry.
He’s going to die.
Their grey-washed world is suddenly stained a brilliant red. Stark white bone shatters on impact, splintering across the field; a mess of steaming organs spilling from the gaping cavity behind cracked ribs, and a pair of sightless, angry green eyes glaring blankly up at him in the sky.
Cedric feels the taste of bile rise up his throat. No. No. Harry can’t die. Not in a godforsaken Quidditch game.
Because you pulled that stupid move.
No.
Because your pride wouldn’t let you take it easy on a thirteen year old.
No!
It should have been you.
It should have been me-
He blinks and the bloody vision is gone. Dumbledore catches the falling boy and banishes the pursuing Dementor—what in the world is a dementor doing here?—with a furious wave of his wand and a glittering cascade of his silver Patronus.
Safe. Harry is safe. Cedric wobbles unsteadily from where he sits on his broom, grabbing hold of it with a white-knuckled grip as all the strength saps from his legs. Sweat slowly drips from his fringe and past his broom handle; down, down, down and out of sight. Just like how Harry had—
Cedric closes his eyes and breathes out.
Thank Merlin.
Harry wakes up in silence, his mouth working frantically around weightless words. Instinct alone compels him to stifle the gasp that comes from jolting out of a nightmare. Years of living with the Dursleys has etched practiced silence into his very bones.
He takes a few moments to orient himself as he blinks blearily into the dark, registering the stiff mattress beneath him and the unsettling grain of wood on the wall he’s facing. Both instantly set him on edge. This isn’t his cupboard under the stairs. This isn’t even the Gryffindor dorm rooms. Lord have mercy, he’s landed himself back in the school infirmary the third time this week.
Madame Pomfrey is going to thrash him. What could have possibly delivered him here this time?
His temple throbs as he tries to recall what blurry memories he can, an exercise which ends with him groaning in exasperation and rubbing blistered hands across his face. Of course he had been chased by a Dementor. Why did that not surprise him? Why did things never surprise him? He might as well ask the universe why he’s Harry-blasted-Potter.
He lobs a pillow across the room because the universe never answers and is, in Harry’s professional opinion, a colossal fucking prat.
“Harry?” The sudden sleepy voice nearly sends Harry tumbling off his cot. “Oh Harry, you’re awake!”
A few awkward seconds of fumbling through his robes later, Harry finds his glasses and is greeted by a very tired, relieved looking Hermione. She has a quill jammed haphazardly behind an ear—though Harry had always been of the opinion that she could’ve stuck it anywhere in that mane of hers and still seen the same results—and a very long trail of dried spit creeping from the corner of her mouth. She blinks owlishly up at him, eyes still rheumy from sleep. Everything about her is as hilarious as it is endearing, and for that reason alone, he resolves not to tell her about the drool stains until she leaves.
“What are you doing here?” He croaks, wincing at the way his voice scrapes past his throat. “Isn’t it past curfew?”
“Oh, bother the curfew. You know the Fat Lady loves me and you’ve pranced around at night enough that I don’t want to hear all this curfew nonsense from you.”
“I suppose you have a point there.” He huffs lightly as she plucks the quill from her hair and shoves it back into her bag. “Do you mind explaining all this on my bedside then?”
She barely even pauses. “I thought I might get some studying done while I waited for you to wake up. I suppose I fell asleep somewhere along the way.”
He looks down at the assortment of parchment scattered all over his bedside, a good half of which are rudely encroaching onto his blankets. “You couldn’t have studied somewhere else that’s not the comatose body of your best friend?”
“Really, Harry, you should be thanking me. I swear I heard Malfoy walking down the hall a few hours ago and who knows what he might be plotting with you unconscious,” she absentmindedly shakes his blankets, all business as she collects her study material and frowns down at them sternly. “Gosh I really need to get a three-ringed binder or something. Do you reckon they have hole-punchers here?”
“Really, Hermione, I don’t know what you expect from a place like Hogwarts.” Harry mimics her tone and grins widely at the glare he earns. “Just magic some twine around them. That should get the job done.”
“Yes, and make me feel like we grew up in feudal Europe, thank you for the advice Harry.” She waves her sheaf of papers at him fondly. “I suppose it can’t hurt. We’ve already been conditioned into using quills, not much can top that.”
“Well I can’t say I don’t miss a good old pen,” He agrees in solidarity.
It’s just the sort of encouragement Hermione needs to launch into a longwinded rant about outdated wizarding prejudices, and “really, I can’t believe they consider pens technology! It’s a hollow stick with ink in it!”, followed by a long list of Muggle tools she felt the wizarding world had no business trying to institutionalize as silly Muggle fancies. If Harry thinks the wildly sleep-mussed hair and long traces of drool make her speech more entertaining than it is convincing, he keeps it to himself.
“And that’s on practicality versus overinflated wizard pride!” Hermione concludes. She’s finished packing and now goes to sit on the edge of his cot, swinging her legs comfortably. Turning to him, her gaze softens. “All that aside, how are you feeling, Harry?”
“Fantastic. Like I just escaped meeting my maker. You know, the usual Boy Who Lived stuff.”
“If you’re well enough to be sarcastic I guess I shouldn’t be worried. Though,” Hermione levels a serious look at him, “I do hope you know you can talk to me about anything on your mind. Anytime.”
Harry sighs. “Yes, yes, I know. I just… the Dementors were terrifying like you would expect and I’m still processing everything that’s happened.”
“I understand,” she lightly hops off the cot and wraps her arms around him in a quick hug. Harry beats back the urge to stiffen—he could handle this much for Hermione. “Don’t fret too much. Talk to the Headmaster if you need to. I’m sure Ron would be willing to lend an ear too. He was here earlier but I ran him off after supper.”
“And a good thing you did, or I’m sure he’d be pestering me for details about the accident all night long,” Harry says drily.
“Well yes but he also hasn’t finished his final paper, and he’s got less than forty-eight hours left,” she throws her hands up dramatically. “Besides, I have better things to do than buffer between two idiots, the both of you.”
“But you love us anyway?” It’s more a statement than question.
“Sometimes I find myself wondering why.”
Harry grins at her. “Nobody else has the patience to put up with a self-important know-it-all like you.”
“If I was still a first-year you would have been hexed silly by now.” She shakes her head and proceeds to upend a stack of books on his torso. “Anyway, just because I won’t push you for details doesn’t mean I didn’t do any research of my own. These are the volumes I found on Dementors. These here are recorded encounters with them. Read them if you like. Just be sure to return them in two weeks, they’re on my record and you know how I get with deadlines.”
Harry rubs his chest indignantly and, with an air of affected disgust, shoves the books onto the desk-stand next to him. “Oh that’s very kind of you. You know exactly how I love when you meddle.”
Hermione flicks her hair over her shoulder, though it really looked more like a hay toss than a hair flip, and steps for the door. “A simple thanks would have sufficed. And it’s no problem at all, you’re welcome.”
Harry flashes her an annoyed look. It’s quickly replaced with a smirk as he calls merrily after her retreating back. “Before you go, I thought you might like to know about the drool on your face!”
There is an immediate floundering of robes and a muffled thump as she trips around the corner. Followed by a curse.
“A simple thanks will suffice,” he finishes smugly.
“Oh, do be quiet.” She hisses behind herself as she hurriedly shuffles off.
Harry was having the hardest time counting enchanted, prancing sheep on the ceiling in a desperate attempt to fall asleep after Hermione had left—and after Madam Pomfrey had come to feed him something thick and purple and very, very minty before also departing—when the soft sound of someone rapping the door interrupts his mind-numbing torture. Yes!
“What time is it?” He calls out.
There is a distinctly bemused pause. And then, a distinctly male voice says, “A quarter till midnight…?”
“Thank Merlin, a boy! Since you’re neither Madame Pomfrey here to shove potions down my throat, nor Hermione forcing reading assignments on my poor Dementor-addled brain, please come in.”
Harry inwardly cackles when he’s answered by an even longer pause—the sheep had nearly murdered him through sheer boredom, alright—only to have his nefarious cackling cut short when the door opens hesitantly to reveal one very notable Hufflepuff face.
All the amusement shrivels up into a petulant, dry rock in Harry’s chest.
“Diggory.” He says flatly in greeting.
“I’m glad you’re doing alright, Potter,” the other boy says. He gently closes the door behind him and makes his way over to where Harry lies. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Oh not at all, anything for you, Diggory.” The last two words twang with something unpleasant.
Another barely noticeable pause from the Hufflepuff, and then he sits down with an obvious air of distress.
“I’m sorry.”
If the apology takes Harry by complete surprise, he doesn’t show it—makes sure of it—though he is horrified to find that he actually feels bad about his uncharitable behavior.
And what of it? he asks himself. Diggory won his team the game and caught the snitch while you were getting rescued from Dementors by Dumbledore, a whole sodding damsel in distress. You can act like a whinging, slighted little brat if you want.
Besides, it isn’t like Diggory of all people will hold it against him or complain to anyone.
And so, feeling even more pathetic now that he's consciously exploiting Cedric’s peaceful nature in the name of venting, Harry sticks his nose up and snorts at the older boy.
“What in the world are you sorry for?”
“Well, a lot of things really,” he sighs and runs a hand through his stupidly nice hair. “You almost getting killed by Dementors, for one. And I was so bloody lost in the moment I didn’t even notice you falling...” a haunted look briefly crosses his face and he seems lost in thought for a moment, before blinking his focus back onto Harry. “But mostly, I’m sorry I couldn’t convince Captain Wood to agree to a rematch. I don’t know why he doesn’t want to, but Professor McGonagall agreed with him so I had to drop the issue.”
If the slump of his shoulders is anything to go by, Cedric feels quite miserable about it indeed.
“A rematch?” Harry just stares at him. He tries to wrap his head around this new information; the captain of his rival team is actively trying to renounce their advantage. “What? What for? You won!”
“If you call catching the Snitch while the opposing Seeker is being chased by Dementors winning, I’d rather we hadn’t won at all.” The vehement distaste in Cedric’s voice rather shocks Harry. He hadn’t known the other boy was capable of anything outside of being a cheerful menace.
Harry shakes his head. “Hufflepuff won, and that’s that. D’you really think your house would leave me alone if we did get a rematch?” He struggles to put a lid on his growing irritation. He just can’t understand where Cedric is coming from. “If Oliver decided you won fair and square, by all means, take it. I don’t need your charity.”
Ironically, if Cedric hadn’t tried to ask for a rematch, Harry sure as hell would have. It was only fair since he’d been caught unaware in a life-or-death situation, right? Even the most powerful wizard in the world, Dumbledore himself, had deemed the situation dangerous enough to interfere on the field, so really the game shouldn’t count. And the most important part of all was that winning Quidditch games meant points towards the House Cup. The fate of all of Gryffindor was in his hands.
But now that Cedric was apologizing for not getting a rematch, Harry was suddenly ashamed to have wanted one in the first place. It wasn’t fair. Did Cedric have experience with emotional manipulation? He had to. It only made sense. Maybe that was why he was so damn popular.
Harry resolves to ignore the more kindly part of himself, which is kicking him in the head at the moment for thinking such horrible things about someone who is obviously perfect. Too perfect. Harry wishes Cedric had bad hair or something.
“Thanks for trying to get a rematch, I guess, but it really isn’t necessary.” Harry stares resolutely over Cedric’s head at the swinging pendulum of a grandfather clock. “Honest.”
“Even if you say that…” Cedric rubs the back of his neck with a sigh, “I can’t help but feel bad.”
“Then, um…” Harry goes a little cross-eyed as he focuses harder on the pendulum. Left. Right. Left. Right. Don’t be a prat. Don’t be a prat. “What do you want me to do then?”
The older boy shakes his head emphatically and leans forward.
“No, what can I do for you?”
Harry reluctantly pulls his eyes away from the clock and is immediately blasted by the full impact of Cedric’s earnestness. The Hufflepuff’s face is open with unguarded honesty as he watches Harry patiently, waiting for an answer. Harry inches back further against his cot. Merlin, he can’t deal with people this sincere, it makes him feel disproportionally bad about his snark.
“You don’t need to do anything for me.” Just go away before I shrivel into nothingness. Harry fancies himself a tortured vampire screaming into the morning sun. He feels horrible enough about himself on a regular basis without Cedric barging in to beam his purity rays everywhere.
“I insist. You lost an important game due to outside circumstance and my team got a free win. As captain, the least I can do is try to make it up to you. And if that reason alone isn’t enough,” Cedric snaps his fingers as if he had just been struck by a brilliant idea. “Just take it as me trying to do something nice for an underclassman. Who nearly died. If any other player had gone through what you did, I would be offering them the same.”
And Harry is disgruntled to find that Cedric is right. He can stomach the second reason—obvious excuse or not—much better than the first.
Think of all the things you could put him up to. Think of what they could accomplish if you handed Mr. Goody-two-shoes over to Fred and George, oh, the potential chaos of it all—
“No, I really, really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Harry says calmly.
“Do you need help with studying? Or even dueling! I could give you some pointers before you even take the course, and no one would have to know.”
Ooh, Cedric circumventing authority? Interesting.
Tell him to do all your homework—
“No, thank you.” There’s a note of desperation in Harry’s voice now.
“Nothing at all?” And the disappointment coloring Cedric’s features is just asking for it, isn’t it?
“Alright, fine!” Harry sits straight up and points at Cedric. He’d asked for it. “I’ll come with you on your rounds after curfew sometimes. And no take-backs,” he narrows his eyes at him, “you asked for it.”
An opportunity like this doesn’t come every day and it really isn’t something he can afford to pass up. Especially with how often he skulks around at night and, not to mention, everything that happened last year—the Chamber of Secrets, Tom Riddle, Basilisk, and all that nonsense. Harry has no plans to die this year and if having a Prefect in his cards ups his odds of survival, so be it.
“Oh…” Although clearly taken aback, Cedric’s surprise melts into a more thoughtful look. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how that’s going to work without us getting caught.”
“Don’t you worry about it,” Harry says with no lack of smugness. “I have my own ways of sneaking around, you’ll see.”
A raised eyebrow. “Are you sure? I’d rather not be demoted.”
“Yea—yes, look, I told you it’ll be fine.” He pauses. “Why? Don’t tell me you’re going back on your word?” It almost comes out as a sneer, as if it wouldn’t surprise him if Cedric did.
Okay so sue him, Harry just can’t resist taunting people sometimes. Malfoy would know.
Cedric, however, simply regards him carefully. “No, I just wanted to be certain.” And then, “You don’t like me much, do you?”
Harry’s shoulders hitch, caught off guard. “What? Why do you say that?”
Shrug. “I get that feeling. I see your face sometimes during Quidditch and it’s not how other rival Seekers usually look at me.” A slow blink. “It’s like you’re trying to prove something.”
“Of course I’m trying to prove something!” Harry says hotly. “You’re one of the best Seekers around. It’s Quidditch!”
“Yes but,” Cedric frowns, “you always seem upset. Have I done something wrong?”
Harry bridles at that. Had he heard correctly? Had this self-absorbed git really assumed he was the source of Harry’s raging sass? It grinds his gears a bit. A lot, actually.
“You haven’t done anything wrong. Not everything revolves around you, Prefect sir.”
Placid grey eyes stare steadily down at him, and—no. Cedric is sorely mistaken if he thinks he’s being slick, because puppy-dog eyes have not and will never work on Harry. He witnessed Dudley smother it in Aunt Petunia's face one too many times. Harry meets his gaze defiantly, raising his own Eyebrow of So What as he does so.
Cedric drops the sad eyes and sighs. “That.”
“That what?” Harry responds extra petulantly.
“I mean, that’s what I’m talking about.” He gestures at all of Harry with a small grimace. “The… passive aggressiveness. Look, I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to offend you. I just have no idea what, and I’d really like to clear the air between us, if you’re willing to.”
Offend him? Harry mentally scoffs. Cedric had never offended him, unless you counted being a witch magnet, which Harry wasn’t upset about at all—
Harry’s traitorous brain flashes an image of Cho and her laughing smile—a thought which he quashes immediately. Then quickly follows with the equivalent of a mental facepalm. Of course. He can’t believe it. Of course. It’s so like him to get prickly about something as stupid as a crush, without even bothering to question his newfound hostility for a generally unproblematic schoolmate. Well, when you were already jealous of Cedric on the regular, it wasn’t hard to tack on another point of contention.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think…” He drags a hand down his face in mild dismay, the itchy feeling of budding guilt now gnawing little holes in his stomach. “Actually, to clarify, I just realized I’m being especially horrid you. Kind of just chalked it up to my generally rancid personality, y’know. I’m like this to half the school.”
“So you mean you’re usually less horrid than right now.” Cedric affirms with a straight face, inwardly amused at Harry’s definition of horridness.
“Yes, well, to everyone except a fourth of the school.” Harry concedes, and then wrinkles his nose. “You should see how much worse I am then.”
Cedric opens his mouth to preach something about the dangers of extreme House rivalry, before conscientiously snapping it shut again. He gathers he’s on rather thin ice with Harry’s goodwill—although the boy still hasn’t told him why—so it seems wiser not to push any obvious buttons. He can lecture Harry about House prejudice later if, Merlin willing, the boy ever loses his distaste towards him.
Instead, he reaches into his pockets and hands Harry the Chocolate Frog he brought with him.
“Don’t go antagonizing the Slytherins too much,” Cedric says lightly. “We’ve already got our plates full with the Weasley Terrors, I don’t think my colleagues would appreciate third years tussling in the halls as well.” Harry snorts at the mention of the twins. “Anyway, have this for now since I can’t take you anywhere tonight. Madame Pomfrey would skin me alive.”
Harry scowls down at the Frog trying to escape its colorful wrapping. “These are expensive.”
Cedric waves his hand dismissively. “We’ve got a stash. And I’m not fond of them anyway. You need it more than I do after a Dementor encounter like that.”
Harry doesn’t ask who we is, even though his interest is piqued. He busies himself with containing the frog instead.
“Thanks,” he mutters sullenly after finally managing a mouthful of struggling amphibian.
Cedric nods in acknowledgement, pleased, and then leans back to give Harry space. His attention turns to his wand instead. Comfortable silence settles around them as Cedric trails his wand through the air in meandering little flicks—conjuring shimmering eddies of light and sending flocks of warm shadows dancing across the room.
Countless scenes play out across all surfaces; a shadowy centaur pokes inquisitively at a rack of Madame Promfrey’s potions with one elegant foreleg, before shaking out his hair and dissolving into the outline of a hippogriff, taking flight above rows of tinctures and disappearing behind a curtain. Creatures and people fill the walls, never ceasing their shifting as they dart merrily after one another, clambering over long shadows thrown by the infirmary’s collection of potted plants and cots and Madame Pomfrey’s two-meter glass sculpture of horror. Just barely in his periphery, Harry thinks he sees flashes of brooms chasing snitches, rabbits among wildflowers, in those fleeting silhouettes. And it all strikes him as magic far too detailed, filled with too much life, to be the work of a regular charm.
“How are you doing that?”
Cedric hums. “Bit of wand and rune-work,” he shows Harry what he’s holding in his left hand, a piece of black driftwood engraved with glowing runes. “Feeding magic into this rune-piece creates calculated distortion patterns in the immediate surrounding magic field. Simultaneously casting a modified Lumos creates a backdrop. You can think of it as something like a canvas of light.”
Impressed, Harry peers around the room. “So it’s like wordless magic?”
Cedric’s eyes shine with amusement at the question. “Actually, rune-magic doesn’t need words. Information that’s usually outlined by spell incantation and wand motions is instead directly translated into the rune inscriptions. It’s great for detail work. All you have to do is channel your magic.”
“Are you serious? I didn’t know that. I thought Runes was just an old magic writing-system… or something like that.”
“You’re not entirely wrong.” Cedric gestures at his light show. “To be fair, this stuff isn’t exactly common knowledge. It shows up in Application of Runes and their Mediums and that’s a course exclusive to students Professor Babbling selects.” Cedric smiles fondly down at the patterns flowing through driftwood. “If you want to know more you should consider taking Ancient Runes next year.”
“I’ll consider it,” Harry agrees distractedly, his attention caught by a little figure executing a perfect Wronski Feint on the far wall. “Hey, wait a minute. That Lumos was wordless wasn’t it?”
“Maybe I whispered it,” Cedric says conspiratorially.
“That’s not an answer and you know it.”
“…Yea, okay.” Cedric sighs, and turns his attention away, back to the shifting walls. “Yes, it was wordless. Now finish your chocolate and let me practice in peace.”
All around them the shadows carry out their tireless dance, ducking and weaving, joining and splitting—no single shape ever staying still enough for Harry to truly focus on. Cedric watches his handiwork with a critical eye, occasionally ducking his head to make some alteration to the runes on his driftwood.
Harry considers Cedric thoughtfully.
“Why,” he pauses to chew, “are you so nice?”
The canvas of light dies; the shadowy creatures wave as they melt back into darkness. Cedric looks at him. “It’s just a Chocolate Frog.”
Harry nods solemnly. “Yea. You know, a stranger in a van gave me chocolate once and now I think he’s a wicked great bloke.” With a roll of his eyes, Harry swallows the last bit of frog leg. “Are you daft? I meant nice overall, as a general rule. To everyone.”
“I haven’t a clue why people keep saying that about me. I’m just being normally decent.”
“Oh give me a break. I don’t think anyone has ever heard you raise your voice and you’re a fifth year.” Harry flaps his arms. “What gives? Five years of school madness and you’re still the model of human decency.”
“I’m just normal,” Cedric repeats, the beginning of a frown denting the bridge of his high brow.
“Huh.” Harry squints at him, suspicious and starting to feel the effects of staying up too late. He really needs to yawn. “Touchy subject?”
“No,” Cedric’s voice is quiet as his gaze wanders off. “Everyone else just has a habit of fitting explanations where there are none.”
“What does that mean?”
“That you’re mistaken.”
“Bloody hell, is it that hard to take a compli-,” he tries and fails to stifle the blasted yawn, “-ment?”
A small smile flickers across Cedric’s face. “Alright then. You’re still mistaken, but thank you.”
Harry glares at him for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “People are wrong. You’re more strange than nice.”
“Thank you,” Cedric says again. “That’s a new one.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.” Harry halfheartedly throws his wrapper at him. “Bit dense, aren’t you.”
Cedric catches the trash as easily as he would a Snitch and vanishes it with a flick of his wand. “Thank you, I suppose I am.”
“You’re just taking the piss now.” Harry flops back onto his pillow and his next words are muffled. “Also, that was wordless magic for sure. I’m not blind.”
“Deaf, you mean. And you still could be mistaken,” Cedric replies, his eyes laughing as he gets up. “I need to get back to my rounds, but I’m glad you’re doing alright.”
Already halfway unconscious, Harry grumbles something inaudible as Cedric makes for the door.
“Goodnight, Potter.”
You’re more strange than nice.
Cedric goes to sleep that night wondering why the words sound so familiar.
Ah.
Ah what an abundance of recklessness you have. Quite the thrill-seeking menace aren’t you?
Cedric shifts uncomfortably. He’s eleven again and sitting in the Sorting chair with the Sorting Hat snugly atop his head. A sea of young faces stare at him from across the Great Hall.
No, sir. I wouldn’t risk jeopardizing myself. I’m an only son.
So you say, the hat laughs. A glib tongue too, then. Lying comes easily to you eh? Though… hm. It doesn’t seem like you think you’re lying?
I hate lying.
Yet you’re good enough a liar to convince yourself. What an Occlumens you could make.
An… an Occlumens?
Never you mind, let’s focus on the Sorting shall we? It falls silent once more, nothing but the faint dusty rustling of what sounds like leaves of a turning book above Cedric’s ears.
Oh dear…
Cedric waits, curious.
All the reckless abandon but none of the passion for life. My dear boy, you do realize this may be cause for concern?
What do you mean?
It means you’d not be fit for Gryffindor, it says conversationally, and yet Cedric somehow catches the tail-end of something sad in its voice
Is that bad? Cedric wonders. I’m sorry. Don’t be sad.
Oh, no, dear boy. Not every Gryffindor is good and not all those who are good are Gryffindor.
So you’re not sad?
Silly child. I am a hat.
Then… Cedric hesitates. Then you’re not… you’re not disappointed?
I am disappointed you think I would be disappointed. All the Houses have their merits, child. It flaps its brim sternly at him. Let’s see here—
The hat goes silent again.
Ah. I see. What commitment to duty you have.
Cedric perks up. Father says that‘s a good thing.
Hm. Well. It has stripped you of something fundamental to children.
I don’t understand.
Of course you don’t. You’re as detached as they come.
The undercurrent of sorrow is back, and Cedric indignantly thinks the hat must have lied about being incapable of sadness. Then he realizes it simply dodged the question. It hadn’t said no, after all.
He mulls over the concept slowly. It might come in handy when Mother asks if he’s having fun at school. Or worse, what his plans for the future are. He files the tidbit of knowledge away for later. He doesn’t like lying and he doesn’t like when his mother is worried.
Detached but still with intentions that belie a heart of gold. How strange.
I don’t want to be strange.
It chuckles. You’re in luck, I know just the house to help foster those vague inclinations into something less strange to the untrained eye.
Cedric holds his breath. This is it.
“HUFFLEPUFF!”
Isa Diggory is not a happy woman.
She has a wonderful husband who works in the Ministry, with a prestigious position as vice-coordinator of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—a department unimportant enough in the grand scheme of things that politics never comes within a dragon’s breadth of it. It’s a stable and lucrative occupation. Safe. Secure. All she had ever wanted of a husband.
Isa herself is a housewife. She still studies wards and runes in her spare time, and sometimes her Cursebreaker acquaintances from school drop off a mundane artifact, one that usually promises more endless tedium than the merits of groundbreaking discovery to crack. She wiles the time away with these small projects on those days her husband is out working late at the Ministry—these years during which Cedric is off at Hogwarts—and the dinner set for two on the table goes cold and untouched. On those days, she takes her little collection of warded artifacts and goes to work with an old monocle balanced on the end of her nose. And every few months, a new piece joins the vast gallery of the Collection of Lost Magical Society Artifacts at the Ministry. And Isa Diggory takes pride in her small but growing contributions to the completion of history.
But Isa is a housewife before that. And she is a mother first and foremost.
Cedric is a wonderful son. She loves him with every last trembling fiber of her being. His gentle voice is inherited from Isa herself and the heavier velvet overtones are from Amos. He has his mother’s grounded steadfastness to complement the steelier competence characteristic of the Diggory bloodline. He is everything she has ever wanted in a son, and more:
In all fifteen years of his life he has never so much as thrown a single tantrum. He finishes every task and chore laid before him with an easy smile. He knows exactly how to comfort Isa’s silent panic attacks without her needing to utter a word.
Never, in these fifteen long and wonderful years, has she ever seen her son shed a single tear from his bright, beautiful grey eyes. Bright and bright. Too bright. Sometimes they almost seem silver. But Amos has such dark eyes you can hardly tell what color they are. Isa thinks of the earthy brown tones of her own.
And Cedric’s face. His face is a feast of symmetry. Bold lines for the edges of his profile, but softer, kinder strokes around the mouth and eyes. He looks nothing like Amos or herself. If she really squints, she can maybe find the vague likeness of Amos’s sternness in the curve of Cedric’s jaw, and perhaps even a hint of her own delicate brows on the slant of Cedric’s forehead, but she cannot say anything else looks alike on good conscience.
Cedric Diggory is everything Isa has ever wanted in a son, and more.
She loves him with every last breath in her body.
And Isa Diggory has never been a more unhappy woman.