jjmarsden

My life is nuts

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 21:50:10 GMT

Yeah, yeah, hoc est corpus, Oxford Is Not Part Of The Real World and all that, but seriously things are getting a bit out of control.

My best friend has finally got a girlfriend, I introduced them. I've known him since high school, met her on an open day for a university neither of us attends on the other side of the world and they're so ridiculously perfect I suspect that not only does the Lord set a thousand messengers on a thousand roads but I'm actually one of them. I wonder where the others went.

After that stunning success, Fate counters by clearly deciding that I am to become a lawyer. I am not sure this was a good thing, but the scale of funding is gratifyingly un-credit-crunched and another two years here would be priceless - I can't leave when I'm just getting the hang of the place, never mind when Reverend Productions have about a decade's worth of shows to do.

Not sure where in the Fate stakes producing the Georgia Tour comes in. I got the drama office email, saw 'Summer Tour' and somehow it doesn't seem like as bad an idea as it did last summer. I don't speak the language, I have Finals, I can't cope with the Committee and I've never had the slightest intention of being blown up by the Russian Air Force, but I want the job anyway. It's Henry V. In a series of outdoor venues. With a budget from Thelma, and ending at the National Theatre of Georgia. How can this not be incredibly cool? OK, it can and probably will be a howling disaster. Everything that can go wrong, will. Even things that can't go wrong, will. Just this once, bugger caution. Onward to Atlanta! Oh, yeah, wrong Georgia.

The Senior Tutor and my thesis advisor have come to the bizarre decision that my thesis topic is very good and challenging, which in my less optimistic moments (roughly every time I look at the secondary reading) I translate as 'he's flipped, this will never work, never mind we can't stop him'. I wouldn't have minded being stopped at all, and it is indeed going to be bloody hard work.

My girlfriend is in fact not insane after all, just suffering from a workload usually associated with Magic Circle lawyers, wartime heads of government or Finalists. The prison atmosphere of the Social Sciences building seems to have a calming effect, but at least work is proceeding and I may see her awake for more than 30 minutes in January or so. Anyone know something good for SAD? The recurrent loopiness around December to March can't be entirely down to the rhythm of the academic year.

Nobody seems to be showing great enthusiasm for New Year. Quite possibly the magnificent party will turn out to be a random half-dozen watching Jools Holland and drinking red wine. There are certainly worse prospects. Of course, knowing my luck gathering 50 people of doubtful sanity would go off just fine, whilst a sober-minded handful are almost sure to somehow destroy the house and invite maternal wrath to descend upon my head.
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Apologies for absence

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 13:42:12 GMT

The theatrical world has taken over my life. I have two plays and a degree. This is excessive. That said, thanks to whoever left a Meatloaf CD in the boathouse CD player. No thanks to those who looked at me like I'd grown three heads when I collapsed laughing at the chorus of 'Tear Me Down':

"Cause I'm easy / Man I'm Sirius / Don't try to tear me down..."

Fan stereotypes are everywhere I tell you. Even fat, bombastic old Yanks have heard that our Padfoot was a man-whore in his day.

Whaddayamean it's 'serious'? No it isn't, it's Meatloaf. Whilst I'm on Meatloaf, how did the Rocky Horror writers know what he was going to sound like before he was famous? You can't tell me they wrote 'Whatever Happened to Saturday Night' as anything other than a Meatloaf parody, except that nobody had heard of him in 1976.

I will write something, eventually. I wrote down the setup for Cedric and Faith robbing Fort Knox (no, really) but have lost it. I recall there was a road trip, and New Jersey came into it somehow, and a doctor (lots of doctor jokes) but whether it was The Doctor or House - no idea. Maybe the road trip was because the TARDIS broke down again, so they went to New Jersey to get House to diagnose it. Probably not. Now I'm going to want to write that fic dammit.

Fic: For My Honour's Sake

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 09:51:08 GMT

Title: For My Honour's Sake
Characters: Kou, OC
Prompt: How did Kou wind up on the Leper Colony?
Rating: PG, gen. 808 words
Written for the 2008 Bujold fest. X-posted to bujold_fic and FF.net

~Security recording, Service Security HQ, Komarr Transfer One. 13/10 27^th year of Ezar~

“Come in!”

“Ensign Koudelka reporting as ordered Sir!”

“Ah... Ensign. Do you mind explaining precisely what you think this is?”

“My report, Captain. Into the disappearances from merchant vessel Ying Kreuger at Crystal Lake Station.”

“A 'report', Ensign, would not include allegations against a superior officer which you have shown yourself utterly unable to prove.”

“But I saw him, Sir. I don't know how he hid from our forensics, but I saw him with my waking eyes. If you'd just let me fast-penta him...”

“Ensign, do you know whom you are accusing? His father is Minister for Political Education. He is, of course, immunised against fast-penta. As you, Ensign, should know very well. You are, allegedly, a member of Service Security, are you not?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Act like one. And start by explaining precisely how you came to be investigating a restricted area, alone, without clearing it with me.”

“Well, Sir, I was examining the civvy-side security recordings when I saw someone who looked like the purser of Ying Kreuger being led by another man towards the old Marine barracks. There shouldn't have been anyone there – the barracks haven't been used for six years – so I decided to investigate.”

“Yes, yes, that's all in here. Why did you go alone? A dangerous situation, was it not, Ensign? Are there no security cameras in the barrack-block?”

“Well, Sir, actually there are no cameras. They were reported deadlined over a year ago, by the previous CO. As for going alone, Corporal Field had just gone off a 20-hour shift, and you said not to bother you on Transfer One unless it was an emergency. Besides, I am Vorvolk District Champion in coup de vitesse. I thought I could cope with anything. When I reached the main barrack-block, I heard voices coming from the CO's office. I, ah, entered the room and found Sergeant Lecter... cutting up the purser's corpse whilst Lieutenant-”

“Ensign, what have I been saying?”

“-Whilst another man in a vac suit looked on. The helmet was down and he was a tall, military-looking type with black hair and a scar over his left eye. He left by another exit as I was calling in backup, which was suspiciously slow to arrive.”

“Understandable, as you were where you shouldn't be late into the dog-watch.”

“Also understandable because... Sergeant Lecter is the senior NCO of the Customs and Security detachment which was the only Service unit on Crystal Lake other than myself and Corporal Field.”

“He is indeed. Are you suggesting this was some sort of conspiracy? That the whole detachment are a collection of crazed murderers?”

“When you put it like that – no Sir.”

“You will, of course, have realised that this report of yours has been seen by other eyes than mine. Certain officers wish to court-martial you. Others would doubtless challenge you to a duel, trusting that so young and forthright an officer would not hide behind the law.”

“They would be right Sir. I know what I saw, I will not claim otherwise. And I saw Lieutenant Vorhees standing in that barrack-block.”

“You will claim whatever I tell you to Service Security, Ensign! That is a direct order.”

“I can't. I - I'll resign my commission!”

“And do what? Starve in the street? Teach coup de vitesse in Vorvolk's hillbilly District? Throw away the training your father spent his life savings on?”

“For my honour's sake, Sir.”

“Your honour's sake. Yes, I thought you might say that. Well, Higher Up has found you a new posting, which you may prefer to a gesture of schoolboy idealism. It seems Someone wants you where you can't do any more damage, and I must say it seems fitting. All our martyrs to misplaced honour in one place. Are you quite sure you intend to resign?”

“...”

“I haven't got all day, Ensign.”

“I want to know, Sir.”

“Well, this is our lucky day. Ensign Koudelka will consider hearing what thousands of young officers would love. Ship duty, Ensign.”

“I don't understand, Sir.”

“Ship duty! Out in space, first line of defence for the Imperium and all that. Except that the posting is to the General Vorkraft, so the odds that you'll ever come back are... minimal.”

“The General Vorkraft, Sir? Are there any of the General-class left in service?”

“Slightly better known in the service as Vorkosigan's Leper Colony, I believe. Deep-space patrol until the noble Lord rots or his father makes us recall him. Dismissed, Ensign. And for your information, I believe you about Lieutenant Vorhees. That is the reason – the only reason – you have kept your commission. Make a good friend of Vorkosigan, Ensign. You'll need one. Now get out.”

~Recording Ends~

The End of the Diggory Papers

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 18:18:21 GMT

What took me 20 minutes to post took 2 1/2 years to write... but this is the end of it. Obviously, there are sequels. Well, going to be. And yes, my other fandoms will make appearances, so watch out for Faith, Xander, Ethan, the Doctor, Prince Rupert/Capt. Hawk, Marcus Tullius Cicero and George Bush (seriously!) joining Cedric, the Lestranges and possibly a Shakespeare plot in various shorts. Don't worry, they won't all come at once. Some may not even come at all.

Diggory Papers 14/14 "Dum Spiro, Spero"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

Rather to my surprise, I was just about calm enough by morning to enjoy the Prophet's attacks on Potter. I didn't think it was true (it was in the Prophet, after all), but I've never objected to seeing a rival done down. Besides, his embarrassment would take plenty of attention off me, as well as making Dumbledore look a complete cretin when it came out that one of his Champions had offed himself and the other was a raving loony. All in all, not a bad start to the day, as I scowled and disapproved of Rita Skeeter in the common room, reading out the juiciest bits in a tone of gentlemanly outrage.

As the painfully long day wore on, my mother showed up (alone, Dad was on an unavoidable trip to Kazakhstan and would if I was lucky arrive before the end), but I could hardly speak to her. Between my still pretty abject fear and the knowledge that I'd not see her for a long, long time if ever again, I'm amazed she didn't notice something badly wrong, but I suppose she was too busy being tearfully proud.

With my face screwed up in a purposeful scowl to keep the Hufflepuff stiff upper lip from wobbling, I checked my stuff was still ready for the flit – a bare minimum; broom, cash and that box of bits I mentioned. Summers actually asked me what I was doing, and for a second I realised just how insane my plan actually was – practically certain NOT to work, even if everything went right. Then I muttered something about keeping myself busy, and determinedly stopped thinking about it. The plan might well be dreadful, but it was all I had. Funnily enough, the Task hardly concerned me. I didn't care about winning it any longer, I had no reputation to care for, nobody to impress. I could concede if I got in any trouble, or limp through at my own pace in finest game Hogwarts style – all the better to fuel what might have to look like my 'despairing suicide' later. Hmph. Until lunch came around, I tried to avoid people I knew; they'd accept it as nothing more than pre-match nerves and given enough time they might well spot something off about me.

I wasn't prepared to be ambushed on the third floor. As I slipped along towards the South Wing to get some peace and quiet, I heard footsteps ringing behind me. They shouldn't have been there – the corridor was a dead end with only one, disused classroom. I lifted up the tapestry of Varadar the Venal to slip into the South Wing before whoever it was appeared. The door wasn't there. Cursing quietly, I recalled Tap's long-ago lecture on how the South Wing moved around the castle. I suppose after staying put for eight months it was too much to ask for one more sodding day, wasn't it? I slipped out from behind the tapestry, just in time to lean on it nonchalantly as the footsteps rounded the corner.

“Parkinson? What in the name of Circe's non-existent knickers are you doing here?” Whoever I'd expected to find wandering the dead ends of Hogwarts, it wasn't the Princess Consort Bitch of Slytherin. Especially not wearing what I might have said was her mother's best cocktail dress; if I'd thought her mother was a very, very expensive whore. Which isn't a bad description of your average high-born lady, but that's by the by.

She smiled, slowly and lasciviously. “I'll give you three guesses, unless you're too much of a Hufflepuff to see.” I remembered a similar performance before the Yule Ball, and saw. Being lumbered with Malfoy from the age of two can't have been much fun for her; small wonder she was after a real man before her lifetime with that little ferret. As I had before the Yule Ball, I hesitated to provoke the heir to Lucius Malfoy's millions (not to mention his unsavoury alliances), and then the most gloriously liberating feeling spread through me. One way or another, nobody, not Cho or Malfoy or even the Gods themselves, could touch Cedric Diggory any more. Either Delacour père would kill me, or he wouldn't. Next to that threat, Malfoy and all the world paled into insignificance. It's a great feeling, complete freedom. Like the final tip-over and dive onto the Snitch, when you know you've won, the whole world just flies away behind you, like it's all been hit with Impedimentia and you're the only thing moving at full speed.

“Oh, I think I can guess. How did you find me?”

“Honestly, do you think you're the only person who knows about the South Wing? Draco heard about it from his mother, and showed me. And I know where it's gone.”

Impressive work in the few hours since I'd left it, I had to admit. I let her lead me by back ways to the new entrance (seventh floor, south-east corner, round the corner from Barnabas the Barmy behind a suit of particularly large armour). Rather to my relief we didn't see anyone, though I did trip over a long string of what looked disturbingly like flesh in the corridor outside, and I wondered precisely what Slytherins got up to in a well-hidden few rooms.

It was time for my own piece of theatre. I rapped smartly on the locked door, silencing Parkinson's questions with a dramatic wave. “Qui derange la maisonette des toujours pûr?” I replied smoothly, contemptuously, and opened the door wide. Just in case Cho found the place again, I Conjured a sign ('Closed, Keep Out', with a fair copy of Flitwick's signature) and hung it on the door. Parkinson – Pansy – was already slipping out of the dress.

How else could I have nearly been late for my own death? Although the start time was nearing by the time I left the South Wing (I'd missed dinner for one), Hogwarts still had one last surprise to throw me, in the form of two ginger menaces lurking on the seventh floor. A Weasley twin smiled at me.

“We hope you enjoyed-”

“-your last time. If you survive-”

“-which we're sure you won't-”

“Chang will be interested.”

They smiled cruelly. “And if you give Harry the slightest trouble today, she'll be the last of your problems.”

I didn't know if it was a set-up or extraordinary luck on their part; and for once I didn't care. The Weasel Twins had finally got me, and it was too late, too late. I grinned, my bluff, all-good-chaps-together grin, and strode off to meet my fate. It's true what they say, there's nothing like sex to put a bit of confidence into you, and I was very nearly nonchalant as I went out to the Quidditch pitch.

That confidence didn't completely dissipate as Bagman gave us our last briefing. I didn't care about my reputation any more, didn't care about the score, just about giving everyone enough to remember Cedric Diggory by. No pressure, no do-or-die (yet), just a walk in the park. That didn't mean I wasn't enormously relieved that red sparks were enough to signal 'I surrender now HELP!' Dum spiro spero, but if I don't I can't(1).

Potter and I were first off, and we set off in opposite directions. I was crunching along at an easy jog when I spotted the first obstacle, a Conjured swamp covering the path. I performed a quick Four-Point Spell, and found the right way was straight through it. Rather than try to touch the swamp itself, I Levitated myself over it, and got to the other side at the cost of a bit of mud on the foot I'd used to push myself along.

The next two obstacles weren't so easy. First I ran across a solid wall of thorns, separate from the yew hedges but grown well into them. There was no obvious way around, and I didn't fancy going back in case I met Krum coming up behind me, so I smashed through with Reductor curses. I almost wish I'd gone back and met Krum; the other side of the thorns I ran into a scaled backside, like a lobster Engorged to the size of a giant. It was rumbling, as if the lobster had eaten something that disagreed with it, and I could see only one weak spot. Grimacing, I disentangled my right arm from the thorns, rammed my wand into what was presumably the Skrewt's arse and Petrified it from the inside out. Not quite fast enough.

As the tip of my wand left the armoured backside, it was followed by a great rush of fire and sparks. My ragged sleeve promptly burst into flames, and my frantic efforts to beat it out on the Skrewt's size alerted the fire-crab brain at the other end that something was wrong. As I sprinted past the gigantic hybrid, dodging its sting on the way, it dragged itself forward on its front legs, and even then it was nearly fast enough to catch me in the first twenty yards. When I almost tripped over Potter a hundred yards further on, I was reduced to babbling about enormous Skrewts before I picked myself up and carried on at a more relaxed jog, satisfied that there was at least one warm body between me and Hagrid's latest favourite monster.

Stopping to gather my breath at a sharp corner, I did another Four-Point and found I'd been running about the right way, but the path was turning sharply away and the middle was now somewhere the other side of the hedge I was facing. I dropped to my knees and hissed, 'Diffinido'. It worked perfectly; a section of hedge was neatly severed and I could push through to the other side. I carried on for a good distance, dodging around a Sphinx by the same method and hammering a group of rather lost-looking Red Caps with a barrage of Stunners.

As you can imagine, I was more than a little bit twitchy. So it was only natural that when I heard something behind me I dropped flat and threw a Reductor Curse over my shoulder. It was either the best or worst curse I ever performed; a dead-centre hit on a target I could hear but not see, behind my back. The target was Fleur, and her scream was the most horrible sound I've ever heard. If I had the slightest hint of honour or decency, I'd have stopped to help her, but my only thought was that she'd probably die happy if I went down beside her, so I carried on whilst her screams echoed in my ears.

I begin to wish I'd paid attention when Quirrell stuttered about Boggarts. I should have known that Charles Delacour couldn't really be standing in the maze (especially appearing out of thin air). I didn't, and all I could do was throw up my best Maltese Cross and run like hell. It worked, of course, and once that squat horror was out of my sight I realised what it was and slowed to a more reasonable pace.

Tiring rapidly, and not overly concerned with beating Krum or Potter, I walked the next few hundred yards, keeping a careful eye in front and to the sides. I didn't expect to find Krum sidling round a corner the other way. I knew I was going the right way, no question. Why on Earth would he come towards me? He could run and I'd probably never have hit him, could have won the Cup without my ever seeing him if he'd never turned round. And then I didn't have any more time to wonder, because his wand was coming up and I just had time to blurt something like 'what do you think you're doing' before the world dissolved in splotches of sheer agony. I take back what I just said about Fleur's scream being the worst thing I've ever heard. Mine was. You can't describe what the Cruciatus is like; if you've had it you'll know, if you haven't you never, ever want to. If you could be simultaneously frozen, burned, beaten and stabbed all over – it still wouldn't be half as bad. I'm the best part of eighty, I've seen and done more than most of the heroes who died along the way, and nothing else has come close to it, not two Lestranges with knives, not the werewolf on the road to Lhasa, not even – well, never mind.

It was Potter who stopped it – I don't know how. He seemed to think the thing to do after was stop for a gentlemanly chat; I've an idea I blamed Krum for Fleur's scream, and sent up red sparks for him. I wasn't very coherent really, as most people aren't under such circumstances. We set off in opposite directions again, and the next time I saw him I was behind him, and the Cup was only just in front of us. I went into a dead sprint on reflex, forgetting I was supposed to lose, and if I hadn't recovered enough to stumble accidentally-on-purpose just as Potter yelled, I'd have had my head taken off by the Acromantula which charged out of a side passage.

By some miracle it went for him rather than me, and I decided this was the time to surrender. If I'd had my wand, I'd have sent up red sparks and waited for the Aurors, but I didn't. By the time I'd got it back it had a firm grip on Potter with one set of mandibles, and the lower set was reaching for me. We were both throwing Stunners like confetti, but it must have taken a dozen or more before the massive thing keeled over, and Potter was crippled, standing on one broken-looking leg. I'd won the Cup. I was within twenty feet, my only remaining opponent couldn't walk and I didn't dare take it. The Triwizard Champion wouldn't be alone for a second tonight. If Delacour didn't murder me in public – and I'd just hit Fleur hard, so he probably would – there'd be any amount of chances for him to poison me, or curse me slowly, or something.

So that noble fool Cedric Diggory got to be noble one last time. I wanted it so, so very much, more than I'd ever wanted anything other than maybe Fleur. The glory, the money, the satisfaction of sticking it to everyone who'd ever pissed me off – and I still didn't dare, so I handed it to Potter on a plate. I gave him every argument I possibly could that he should just take the damn thing. And then he said we should tie for it. So help me, it was the single stupidest thing I've ever done. I was going to vanish; I had absolutely no use for my name on the trophy, but all is vanity, and I had beaten Potter fair and square (well, more or less). I rationalised that Potter would get all the attention – he always did – and we grasped the Cup between us. Seconds later, the Portkey took us to a much, much worse place.

It was a massive, overgrown graveyard – and somehow it was at least coming on twilight. We'd taken the Cup at about 8.30 or 9 in the evening, I reckon, and there should have been another hour of good light at least. Either we'd been in the maze much, much longer than I guessed, or something very funny was going on(2). I half-expected it to be Delacour's doing, though that didn't make much sense, and before we'd gone ten yards, I saw a short, hooded figure ahead. I was convinced it was him, so I put my wand up and began to mutter under my breath, 'Defensor cruce, defensor cruce'. When the figure drew its wand, I was ducking behind a stone angel even before a high, cold voice said 'kill the spare' and a sickly green light came at me faster than I'd have thought possible.

I didn't die. I 'came to' as a floating presence, hovering above what should surely have been my corpse. This didn't worry me; I had no brain to worry with, I saw without understanding. It might even be that I was dead for a while, that I was my own shade; I doubt a chain of events like that has ever happened before. I don't know why I'm not (still) dead. I think the spell took a deflection off the angel's leg, and I'm nearly sure the Maltese Cross had something to do with it. As I say, I had no thought at all at the time, as if I were drifting three-quarters asleep through a wireless programme or a complicated conversation in which I took no part(3).

I saw, or at any rate was present at, some sort of ritual which I assume was Voldemort's rebirth. Doubtless it would be very interesting, but as a disembodied Presence I had no more memory than understanding. All in all, I'm quite happy with that state of affairs. I remember Potter standing as best he could to defy whatever he faced, and what I later found was Voldemort himself staring him down. I remember other figures – Death Eaters, dozens of them. I remember bright lights – a duel – then golden strands everywhere, like being inside a huge Fabergé egg.

And I was myself again. Almost, at least. I was squeezed into something, and I wasn't 'me' – I couldn't feel my feet, or indeed much else except pressure all around, but I thought and reasoned again. I was sqeezed out of a wand – Voldemort's wand – like toothpaste from a tube, rather like Apparating in slow motion. Once I was all the way out, I saw Harry at the other end of this magnificent golden cage, and I knew he was somehow, impossibly, by what magical miracle I did not and do not know, holding his own. I think I told him to hold on, but not having any vocal cords I don't know if he heard. I looked something like a ghost, but very dense, almost black.

I also noticed three other things. First, other 'ghosts', less solid than I, following me out of the wand. Second, just how close I was to possibly the most evil creature that ever walked this earth, and certainly the ugliest – like a snake in human form, or a particularly starved demon. Third, I saw, or felt, a cord of the same dense grey smoke I was made of, leading to my body, which I must say looked very dead. And somehow, I knew the others were dead, and I wasn't. They had no cords, and they looked 'thinner' than I did, less substantial.

I tried to speak to Potter again, and I heard the others do so, telling him to get the Portkey and go. I told him to take me home, back to my parents. I didn't care about Delacour for the moment; compared to watching whilst a bunch of Death Eaters destroyed my corpse he was nothing. Somehow, he did it, and I was dragged along as if on a long chain as my body and Potter went back to Hogwarts.

When the journey ended, I was disembodied again, but by some freak of magic my mind stayed. Dumbledore came along, and cleared everyone off; even my parents. Delacour was there, being ushered away by two beefy Aurors. My 'corpse' was left alone as everyone found other things to worry about. I had something more to worry about too; getting back into my body before it rotted or was possessed or any of the other horrible things that happen to undamaged and unprepared corpses. I twisted my non-corporeal self about this way and that, trying to stuff it into my body, and eventually it clicked.

I was tempted to go to Dumbledore and reveal myself; he'd cleared the whole pitch and there was nobody around but me. And then I saw just how perfect the situation was. I was dead. No need to fake it, half the country had seen the corpse. All I needed was to stay that way. I Summoned a Red Cap, one of the ones I'd been stunning not long before, and started the short but fiddly task of Transfiguring it into me.

To be honest, it was probably my worst piece of Transfiguration since the dog in the First Task. It was clearly a body, but even Trelawney would have seen, without her glasses yet, that it wasn't me.

Inspiration! “Accio Skrewt!”

It worked. The beast came hurtling towards me, and when it landed it saw a nice, handy, non-moving meal. Maybe it even recognised the face that had Petrified its arse – it still wasn't moving too well, and it was the body I'd really cocked up, far too long and skinny. At any rate, it bit off a leg (there's a gruesome sight, if you like, watching yourself eaten by a wild animal) and scratched up the rest pretty well with its claws and stinger(4).

I Disillusioned myself, as badly as ever, and set off for the castle down the lane someone had conveniently blasted through the maze. I saw a great crowd rounded up in front of the door, so I went in the back one, through the greenhouses. My stuff – broom and one box – was on the roof, the high balcony where I'd woken up with Cho all those months ago on Boxing Day. With the whole school in or around the Hall, it was child's play to get up there. I picked up my broom, strapped the box to the tail, hopped onto the balustrade and flew off. Cedric Diggory died that night, and five hours later a man who I rather fancied might be Arthur Callahan(5) landed in Devon, Glamoured into blond hair and grey eyes which made him rather resemble a lanky Malfoy. This is his story. And so is the rest, if I live long enough to write it. For Cedric, his epitaph will still do just fine.

Cedric Diggory, 1978-1994

Died so that another might live

'And thus came Ingolfr in honour

to the shores whence none save gods return'

1) Latin for 'whilst I breathe I hope'. A famous and ancient proverb, and incidentally the title of Draco Malfoy's 2064 autobiography.

2) This corresponds with Harry Potter's recorded description of the graveyard at Little Hangleton, and is a mystery. Certainly Harry returned to Hogwarts in the dark, but the times of the whole day make very little sense. The task is recorded as having begun immediately after Hogwarts' usual dinner, but 'at dusk' which would have fallen several hours later.

3) It is regrettable, though understandable, that Cedric does not tell us more about this possibly-unique experience. His attempt at explanation, whilst plausible in that it contradicts no more magical theory than any modern-day attempt, ignores the well-known magical incompetence (in most fields) of the traitor Peter Pettigrew, known as Wormtail. As any Hogwarts graduate is aware, beginning students can create the most surprising effects with their spells, and Pettigrew is not known to have cast the Killing Curse before or since. There is no overriding need to attribute to the impossible what can be explained by simple idiocy.

4) There is no mention of Cedric's corpse recorded elsewhere, save that the funeral was held with a closed coffin – small wonder under these circumstances, though it would arouse no suspicion as many wizards feel it is either ill-mannered or unlucky to look upon a corpse.

5) It is surely no coincidence that 'Arthur Callahan' answering to approximately this description became quite a notorious figure in certain circles over the next twenty years.

Editor's Note: This represents the end of the main portion of the Diggory Papers. Several other chronicles were found with them, and appear to cover isolated episodes over the next several decades. Several interesting and long-standing historical mysteries are resolved therein, but the publication is to be undertaken by a different editor so this is goodbye from Cedric Diggory and also goodbye from Miranda Charity Weasley, editor-trainee, Lovegood & Boot.

Author's Note: It's been a long time coming. Thanks to all who stuck with me when RL intervened. As Miranda hints, there will be short sequels, including various crossovers, Cedric meeting some Lestranges and possibly even an excursion into the dimmer reaches of Shakespeare. They will be posted at FF.net and my long-standing but previously unused LJ, jjmarsden. I feel I've rather spoiled it now; I was determined not to have any A/Ns in this fic and I did so well. Goodbye from me as well, or rather au revoir for now.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 18:12:23 GMT

Diggory Papers 13/14 "Tired Eyes on the Sunrise"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

For probably the first time in my life, I really had to work at something, day in, day out, for weeks on end. As you may have already gathered, I didn't like the idea and I liked the reality even less. OK, kicking lumps out of my housemates was fun for a while, but there's only so much hexing of Harald Ostmann a guy can take before it gets deadly dull. It didn't help that of all the students who could stand with me in a duel, I wasn't on speaking terms with any of them other than Warrington. Flitwick, who loved me and had been a duelling champion back in the Fifties, climbed onto his high horse and squeaked that teachers were not allowed to give any direct help with the Triwizard Tournament. I did suggest that duelling had other applications, but even he wasn't that naive. Sprout might have been, Dumbledore or McGonagall would have pretended to be for Potter, but Sprout was a Herbology teacher for Merlin's sake and I wasn't Potter.

Of course, I wasn't supposed to be duelling people. I was supposed to be fighting monsters and navigating a maze. So much for theory. It was obvious to anyone that the creatures would be beatable; Dumbledore wouldn't let people die in a maze where they couldn't be reached. As for hedges, brute force and ignorance would get through those as well as any navigational skill. No, the real task was to beat the other three. I developed a rough plan in the course of several long nights in the Cellar, talking over the previous tasks and what we knew of the others with the usual suspects.

Tap (Seeker groupie extraordinaire) was first to point out that Krum always went straight for the target. He’d been the only one of us to deliberately attack his dragon head-on, and even in the World Cup he hadn’t resisted going straight for the Snitch when Bulgaria were still in with a pretty good chance. "Think of it like one of those exercises Vector sets – oh, sorry, forgot you gave up. Anyhow, she gets us to improve our first workings, get the same answer quicker and more elegantly. Krum'll do what's in the textbook. Do anything but the textbook answer. Those weird transfigurations you did in Moody's duel, that sort of thing. " I thought she had a point. If I stood up and traded hexes with Krum he'd kick me into next week. Karkaroff had probably coached him in the Unforgivable Curses personally.

The discussion of Fleur was a bit harder. What was I supposed to know about her? I couldn't exactly confess the reasons why she was likely to open with Avada Kedavra and work up from there. Fortunately, everyone accepted that I had a plan to deal with Fleur. If pretending to go crazy had worked on a Weasley, it should certainly panic Fleur, right? It was clear to anyone that she was a genius on paper, but the Second Task had raised serious question-marks over her ability under pressure, and it seemed only natural that I should want to exploit that. Only I knew that I had both a reason to be careful and an insuperable advantage in a straight-up duel.

Potter I was inclined to dismiss. He'd done well in the first two tasks, but I knew for a fact he'd cheated more than I had and he was only a fourth year after all. If Krum didn't slaughter him I was reasonably sure I could take him; the only way I could lose to Potter was if he outran me fair and square through the maze, and that wasn't likely. Tap's Seeker fetish was in full blaze, however, and she warned me a few times not to underestimate him. I promised not to, and promptly put him out of my mind to worry about what sort of Dark Arts Durmstrang had actually got round to teaching Krum. Entrail-expelling curses? Cursed flames? Cruciatus?

It might seem to you that I'd got used to terrible dangers and was being unwontedly level-headed about things. I wasn't. I just don't like repeating dull sleepless nights, bad dreams and occasional desperate schemes to leg it, especially as I'd long since given up on the latter as actual plans. By and large, I got on with things and quaked inwardly in quiet moments. I never quite started believing that I was Fearless Champion Cedric Diggory, but the pretence got easier over the year, to the point where I could think like the Hero on my feet. With that much practice I'd never have let Cho force me to enter – but I'd not have got so smooth any other way. The talent has come in handy, mind you.

And just as I started to believe that I knew what I was doing, everything changed again. I was leaving a Transfiguration lesson when a scared-looking firstie came up to me and hissed, "He wants you to go to Hagrid's hut, now, and on your own." Before I could ask who 'he' was, or what he wanted, the kid had disappeared – all I could see was a little blonde mop heading in the general direction of 'away'. I was, of course, disinclined to actually go. Yeah, right, I was going to go to the Forbidden Forest, alone, to meet some bloke who didn't give his name. If the kid had said 'she' I might have gone for it, but I'm not stupid. Well, not that stupid.

It didn't help much. I was sound asleep when he got me; I woke up with a stunner headache, tied to a tree on the edge of the Forest. About ten feet away was a short, forbidding figure in black.

"Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Diggory. I 'ope you 'ave guessed my name."

Well, the accent ruled out it being Moody, so that left... oh. Shit. I didn't manage an answer so much as a strangled croak.

"Oui, I am Charles Delacour, and you are ze bâtard 'oo 'as defiled ma fille, ma belle Fleur. Eef eet were not for zis Tournament, I would kill you here, and your precious Dumbly-dorr would probablee know nothing. 'Owevair, if I do zat, zey will say eet was done to aid my Fleur or zat Boche Krum(1) in ze T'ird Task. Non, you 'ave until ze twenty-fifth of June. No more. Ze best way would be eef you died in ze course of ze Tournament, zat would be ze honourable way out. Eef, as I suspect, you are too much ze coward to do zis, I will execute you like ze dog you are. Zis by my word as Delacour."

Well, that was nice and clear. I opened my mouth to beg forgiveness and mercy, but he Silenced me quickly and thoroughly. Clearly he didn't want to hear it, and I couldn't actually think of anything to say anyway. I was hoping he'd let me go, but that would have been stupid; he just Stunned me again and I woke up for the second time, with an even worse headache and incipient hysteria, in the Cellar, sprawled across a sofa. Clearly even Delacour wasn't quite good enough to risk entering my dorm again, though it was pretty impressive he'd managed to get in at all.

I didn't go to any lessons that day, didn't see anyone, didn't do anything other than panic in the safety of the South Wing. Only Cho knew the password, and she had a full timetable plus Charms Club; I was safe all day. For twelve hours I alternately bawled, fretted and planned. I can't really remember my train of thought, nor would it make sense if I could, but it should have gone something like this:

Delacour swore on his name to kill me. I'm dead the day after the Tournament ends.

I could run away before the Third Task. If I wanted to take the risk of having my magic stripped from me or dying, of course. Being a Squib would be preferable to death by Delacour, but dying obviously wouldn't, other than being quicker.

I could win the Tournament and trust my high profile and well-founded paranoia to keep me alive. If I'd been as brave as people thought, that would have been the plan. I wasn't, of course.

I could simply run away as soon as the Tournament ended; Apparate to London and keep running until I got somewhere even Delacour could never find me. Where that might be, I didn't know.

That night, shivering and dozing in the South Wing, I dreamed again. I was tied to the tree where I'd woken up the night before. There was a fire around my feet, cold flames tickling my toes. In front of me, I could see Fleur's back, straight and proud as when I first saw her. She turned around, very slowly, revealing a bundle in her arms that I knew was our baby. She smiled, a terrible Fury's smile that I'd never seen on her face, and set it down in front of her. The bundle fell apart, and the baby inside swelled up. At first I thought it was exploding, then I realised it was growing before my eyes. In an eternity flat I realised it was becoming me, or at least something very like me; I'd never worn sideburns, and its hair was parted on the wrong side. As soon as I realised this, it changed again, grew shorter and thicker and uglier until Charles Delacour was staring at me again. He cast a spell – Finite Incantatem – and I realised that he was ending the Flame-Freezing Charm around my feet.

I was going to burn, and it was a horrible way to die. The spell came towards me slowly, far more slowly than any spell ever did in real life. From somewhere behind me I heard Cho telling me I'd be fine if I could remember every time I'd said I loved her before the spell hit me, and then Moody bellowing about Constant Vigilance and ambushes. As the spell hit and I felt the heat blaze up around my legs, I heard Dumbledore's voice echoing again, the same message I'd heard in my nightmares all year. “You must face this alone, Cedric. I can no longer intervene.” I woke up just as I began to smell the hair burning on my shins. At first I thought I was still on fire, because I could still feel my legs burning. Only when I swung myself out of bed did I realise I'd scratched my shins raw and bloody.

For the previous couple of weeks I'd been pushing the Champions' licence to skive to the limit, but I was so completely thrown that I started going to lessons again just to give my body something to do whilst my mind spun the same few ideas over and over. Fortunately, even McGonagall was too worried about disturbing the Great Yellow Hope to censure me for my absence of mind – though she did mutter a bit when I Transfigured Ben Stebbins' hair into a thicket of snakes rather than the requested Veela-blonde.

Only in Runes was I anything like my normal self, but then Runes was always my time off, the one lesson where nobody would ever give a toss about me as long as I didn't, say, set fire to the school. I rather doubted Fan-Ten had even noticed I was in the Tournament – oh yes, he'd let me off a lesson for the First Task, but he might well have forgotten since then. This was the man who'd failed to notice the cancellation of Quidditch in my fourth year, continuing to let us out early on Thursdays regardless of how many students were lying Petrified in the Hospital Wing.

It was fitting, then, that Ancient Runes saved my life. Having finally got through the set wodge of Ingolfr, Fan-Ten set us a nice easy project for the end of term, a translation of an Icelandic saga about an arrogant Speaker (sort of mystic lawyer) who was cursed to spend three months of the year at the bottom of the sea because he was ungallant to a mermaid or something. Being basically a lawyer, he initially thought this would be very bad for business; there's a tremendous Lament where he bangs on about how he's going to miss the summer when all the big meetings and debates happen, and who's going to want a lawyer who's not around for the big cases and so on.

However, being basically a lawyer he shortly sees the bright side to his predicament. There's an inheritance, you see, and nobody's willing to stand up for the rich and beautiful heiress (she can't have been all that hot then) because her wicked uncle is bound to break their legs afterwards. Our boy manages to arrange the hearing for the day before his imprisonment starts, gives a disappointingly upstanding speech on the sanctity of dying wishes and so on, then takes a header off the cliff where they're holding the hearing and goes to join the mer-people. Of course, the court is moved by his desperate sincerity and all that bollocks, confirms the heiress and quelle surprise! Three months later, he comes back up and marries her (see, still single three months later, she probably looked like the back end of an Erumpent). The uncle, of course, assumed he was dead and retired to his hall to mope(2).

This heroic example made a deep impression on me; at three in the morning I sat bolt upright in my bed and said out loud, 'I'm going to die.' It was true – sort of. It had worked for Mark Tulliasson, it could work for me. Yes, I'd run away, but I'd leave a body behind me, having apparently committed suicide in despair or fallen off the Astronomy Tower in the celebrations, or whatever else sprang to mind – details could wait for now.

Yes, I'd obviously have to die. Once I'd decided that, it got a lot easier to think. I wasn't going to have to face Delacour in a duel, I could just run away. Of course, faking my own death so as to fool Dumbledore wouldn't be a trivial exercise, especially as I couldn't let anyone else in on my plan. I'd need a corpse, preferably not one that had belonged to someone else first, and some way to make sure it wouldn't be examined closely.

It was only when I got to this point of actual planning that I realised just what I would be letting myself in for. If I once ran, I could never be Cedric Diggory again. Well, I hadn't liked him much anyway. In fact, I'd been determined to get away from the country as soon as I could for years – I could make a new start, somewhere interesting but safe where they didn't do extraditions or get in the news very often. I expect you wonder who I expected to miss, how much it hurt to leave behind everything and everyone I knew. To be honest, I hardly thought about it. I wasn't going to die for real, that was enough. The enormity of it didn't really get to me until I was already gone, rattling through Massachusetts on my way to nowhere much, but I'll come to that in good time, if I live long enough.

The corpse business, like any really good piece of magic, started with a Ravenclaw, though surprisingly it ended with one of my odder housemates. You see, I wanted to stay good and dead once the Tournament finished, without the inconvenience of being buried. I went to Tap, believe it or not, for the first part of my plan. Specifically, I explained that in the interests of tactics it would be good to leave a few surprises behind me, for the next competitor to pass that way. For reasons I couldn’t possibly share, I knew that one of my rivals had a powerful aversion to corpses (which is pretty normal, I hope you’ll agree). Therefore, a few fake dead bodies would be very much in order. How, I asked, could I produce some decent remains without actually having to kill anything?

It turned out that Tap hadn’t got a clue, but knew someone who might – the resident Hufflepuff oddball Natasha Krelsky. This didn’t come as much of a shock in a way; I was surprised she knew such advanced stuff, and should have been embarrassed that a ‘Claw knew more about my year-mates in the Cellar than I did, but Natasha was into not-dark-but-weird all over; strange and disturbing Muggle rock music, odd bits of magical history or lore (you can tell someone’s weird when they pay attention to Binns) and everything she could find on vampires. I found her, to my surprise, right outside my door, curled up by the Common Room fire with a large and lurid-looking volume entitled ‘Chaos! Ordering Disorder from Eris to Eyghon’. This looked promising, alright – there’s no law against Summonings exactly(3), but nobody in their right minds calls up anything they can’t kill and those who try have to know all sorts of arcane crap.

“Hi, Natasha. Have you got a minute?” She didn’t exactly look eager to help out.

“Possibly. Depends when you need one.”

“When do you – er, now, if you’re not too busy.” I know Hufflepuffs have a reputation for being annoyingly literal about things, but this was really pushing it a bit. “You see, I need some help – for the Tournament – and I thought you might be able to help”

“Oh, really. What is it you need? Entrail-expelling Curses, the Keys of Numengard, a signed copy of ‘1001 Uses for Former Enemies’... ?” I thought only Snape could be that sarcastic. “You must really be desperate if you’re turning to the resident maniac for help, Mister Triwizard Champion.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. I’d never done anything to offend her – had I? I bravely carried on regardless, “Not exactly, Natasha. I’m going to die.” If that didn’t divert her, nothing could. “That is, I’m going to convince Krum I’m dead. If I’m dead, see, he won’t come after me with the Cruciatus. He’ll get cocky, slow down. But if I’m going to die, Natasha, I need a corpse. And to make one without, say, killing someone, I need your help. If you don’t like me, if I’ve done something to upset you, I’m sorry. I really am. But unless you want to see the Great Hall decorated in red and black next month, I’ve got to beat Krum’s Dark Arts somehow.” Evil foreigners using Dark Arts, Pride of the School, you’re-my-only-hope, I was really pulling out all the stops.

“And why do you suppose I’d know that?” Well, it was clearly an improvement.

“Come on, this is Hogwarts, who else is going to that isn’t frankly more dangerous than Krum? I know you’re interested in vampires and so on, stands to reason that vampires know about corpses, doesn’t it? Especially the ones here, with all those treaties saying they won’t bite actual people.”

“Treaties tvoyu maht! But, much as I hate to admit it, you may have a point there, and I do know a spell. But it’ll cost you.”

“Cost me?” Hufflepuffs didn’t haggle. Normally we didn’t even charge. What sort of ‘Puff wants rewarding for winning the house everlasting glory? Doubtfully, I added, “Well, if you say so. What?”

“Have you heard of the Scourge of Europe(4)?”

Actually, no, but I knew Krelsky’s preoccupations as well as the rest of the school. “Vampires, right? You tell me, you’re the expert.”

“They turned my—someone important. The Ministry won’t bar them from the country – say they’re English, near enough, and there’s no proof any of them ever attacked a wizard here so they’re covered by the Treaties(5).”

Wow. And there was me thinking she was obsessed because she liked vampires. Who knows what people are really thinking, and all that(6)? Fortunately, I didn’t miss a beat, “Merlin, that’s terrible.” I suppose it was, though I was mostly thinking of how terrible having to go anywhere near them would be. Any vampire is bad news, and anything called a Scourge is pretty certain to be downright horrible.

“If you win the Tournament, you’ll be quite influential, I should think. Rich, too. Certainly more of both than a foreign, technically orphaned half-blood. And even if you don’t win, you’re Champion of the School. There hasn’t been one in three hundred years, and the last one got the Order of Merlin – admittedly posthumous, for saving a spectator’s life, but still... if you were to speak up about the danger, people would listen. Tell them how dangerous vampires are, how they’ve got to be stamped out.” Her assurance was fraying rapidly; she looked almost desperate to make me understand. Personally, the last thing I wanted was to start advocating the death penalty for vampires; they tend to dislike being vilified, especially the ones who deserve it.

“Absolutely. A Champion ought to speak out for worthy causes and so on, shouldn’t he? Defend the opinions and worries of the student body. Dumbledore’s always saying so; I don’t see how he can object to me doing my job. Besides, my dad says there’re lots of people in the Ministry who don’t like the Treaties. I promise you this; the issue will only be dropped over my dead body.” Which, of course, was going to appear before I could do any campaigning at all, but she didn’t need to know that.

“In that case, we have an agreement. Basically, the easiest way to do it is by Transfiguration from something about human-size and alive - the blood-drinkers use pigs or sheep, but anything that’s handy should work. Getting the body should be pretty easy, but locking it in form for long enough is difficult – about three days is the longest it’ll stay for, it’s just too complicated Transfiguring living tissue and even if the body’s dead most of the cells in it aren’t. Of course, it’ll be detected pretty quickly by a competent wizard, but if he doesn’t have time to look – yes, that’d work fine. The locking spell’s past NEWT and I can’t actually do it – never tried - but I got it from Versipellis vivat, it’s a guide written by a Squib werewolf on how to survive after you’re turned.”

“Thanks Natasha. I won’t forget this, and I’ll do what I can with the Ministry and the Prophet, not that it’ll be much, mind.” I left quickly, eager to get away from the frankly disturbing ‘resident maniac’, find this werewolf’s book and find something to practice turning into my own corpse. All in a day’s work for a Triwizard Champion, though I could have done with a few more days to get myself completely sorted.

I got the hang of the Transfiguration pretty well, practising on some of the school sheep at nights – after two evenings' effort I could usually get something that looked like me and a couple of times I don't think my own mother would have known the difference, which was the object of the exercise. If I killed myself properly, there wouldn't be a huge amount to identify anyway. My preparations for the actual flit were limited to borrowing 50 Galleons from Summers, who was always flush and towards the end of term tended to act as a sort of miniature Gringotts to the house and, being a typical Hufflepuff (what can you expect from someone called Rupert?) wasn't half as good at debt-collection as the goblins.

The night before the final task – Cedric Diggory’s last night on this earth – I paced the Owlery one last time. Cho, as ever, found me there and if I were a fanciful man(7) I’d say she had a notion she’d not see me again. She was very slow, very gentle, and when I looked into her eyes there were tears there. With everything in place, all I could do was lie in her arms, fret and wait for the dawn.

1)Boche = German, which Krum was of course not. Doubtless the redoubtable Sous-Ministre was not concerned with details at this point.

2) A fairly accurate summary of the early plot of the Saga of Mark Tulliasson, one of the lesser-known epics. The name, which is not a common Norse one, is sometimes said to be derived from the greatest of Muggle lawyers, Marcus Tullius Cicero, though this is generally considered fanciful and the plot bears no resemblance to his life.

3) Attempting to call up the Powers and Dominations is considered legally as equivalent to suicide, and usually has much the same effect. The alternative outcomes tend to be worse. The Giles-Zirafel Principle states that it is Arithmantically impossible to achieve the intended outcome of Summoning a Chaos-oriented Power such as Eris or Eyghon, but the occasional lunatic continues to try.

4) The ‘Scourge of Europe’ consisted of four vampires first noticed in the last years of the nineteenth century, when they caused many Muggle and some wizard deaths in Central Europe. None has been noticed in Europe since the 1970s, though only one is confirmed 'dead'. Three of the four barely surfaced for most of the 20^th century, but all were notably active in America in the 1990s. By all accounts they were for most of their careers among the most fearsome Dark Creatures known in Europe. Unlike most European vampires of such power and age, they were completely unwilling to deal with the magical world except as dinner, or perhaps a source of worthy opponents.

5) The Treaties are those of Lancre and Schreik, which in the 1910s bound almost all the vampire clans of Britain and Scandinavia not to attack or turn wizards in return for the banning of vampire hunting. The Continent has no such official framework, but arrived at the same de facto situation in the 1950s in the midst of great bitterness (on both sides) over the events of Grindelwald’s War.

6) ‘Me’ has been added at this point. The Editor apologies for this irruption into the text, which is interpolated in a different hand without explanation, but may in the fullness of time allow us to learn something about Diggory's associations towards the end of his life.

7) Perish the thought.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 18:10:40 GMT

Diggory Papers 12/14 "Something is Rotten"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

Perfection ended rather badly. It took me a few days to notice that Fleur actually Wasn't Speaking To Me rather than just not speaking to me – for a long time I thought it was simply that her father was keeping her occupied. Only when she pointedly sat as far from me as she could get in Astronomy did I realise I was in the proverbial Kneazlery(1). I'd been assuming (hoping) she hadn't noticed my cunning diversion in the lake; obviously I'd been wrong. The real problem was that I couldn't apologise without admitting I'd seen her – which would merely confirm her worst suspicions, however I dressed it up. I decided that the best thing to do was wait; it wasn't as if I didn't have anything (or anyone) else to be doing.

Besides, I was having entirely too much fun with the fantastic sequence of articles Rita Skeeter was putting out. These featured every possible combination of Granger, Krum, Fleur, Potter and even Weasley's romantic entanglements to scandalous effect, all the while missing the only vaguely questionable relationship that I know for certain had indeed been going on – and would have made a better scandal than any. If I hadn't had so much to hide I'd have been quite offended at barely rating a mention. OK, it was a compliment to my talents at being good-old-Cedric who'd be above that sort of thing, but what's the point being a hero if everyone thinks you're as sexually exciting as cold soup?

Towards the end of March, Monsieur Delacour finally buggered off; Cuné told me he'd gone to Russia to talk to the strongman of the week there and presumably threaten him with death for the sake of peace and goodwill. Apparently their Head of IMC was a flamingly gay former lipstick designer and didn't quite have the image for getting tough with fourth-rate Dark Lords. M. Delacour would 'scare ze boche, 'e as les cuilles, ze balls...' Ah, I love diplomacy. Especially when it saves my life.

I started to realise there was something seriously wrong when Fleur disappeared around the start of April. I don't mean stopped talking to me (she hadn't done that for five or six weeks), I mean vanished. Didn't turn up to lessons, didn't talk to Cuné or the Boy Hero or any other Beauxbatons student anyone had ever spoken to. They said she'd lost herself in the dungeons, run back to the Pyrenées, transformed into whatever it is Veela transform into and flown to the top of King Arthur's Tower(2)... you get the picture. The only thing that was clear was that she'd been seen after a Charms lesson crying her eyes out, and the password on her cabin had been changed.

I don't know how I wound up deputised to sort things out. I didn't volunteer or anything, but there was a general discussion of the matter in the common room during the Easter holidays (I was hanging around to avoid Ludo) and being Hufflepuff, the house decided that Something ought to be Done about foreigners having a rotten time in our castle and Someone ought to investigate. Who better than the house's resident hero? I remember bleating something about privacy, but Hufflepuff's never been too hot on that and besides, it had been about a fortnight and I was as curious as anyone.

I flew to the Beauxbatons coach just after dark and hammered on Fleur's window. I wasn't expecting her to be there, certainly wasn't expecting her to answer, but the first thing I got was a Stunner hissing past my face, then she came to the window to see who she'd dropped (and check that the 40ft fall hadn't killed them). She looked as bad as an untransformed Veela ever could, starved and drawn, still a beauty but the sort that makes you think of romantic half-blood witches dying of consumption in a picturesque Knockturn Alley hovel. Even her hair was flat and dull, but the whole effect grew a thousand times worse when she saw who was at her window.

Some people dominate wherever they are, make things happen just by existing, so much that you can't focus on anything else in their presence. Some learn that trick of presence, being more real(3) than the rest of creation – Dumbledore, Lupin, Moody – some are just born with it. Malfoy was one, for better or worse, and Fleur another. To see Fleur shrinking, deliberately not be noticeable, was a travesty. Some people will tell you a Veela can't stop her charm, can't switch it off. I know differently, and I know why they don't. It's a horrible sight, all that power turned inwards, made to hide itself rather than light up the world. Dammit, I know better than to write under the influence, but I can't bear to think of that night sober.

I must have sat outside that window for ten minutes, or ten hours, before she spoke, in a very small voice.

"Cedric, je suis – je suis enceinte(4)." Pregnant? She couldn't be pregnant. The very idea was daft. Everyone knows how infertile half-breeds are; they're sort of anti-Weasleys. The odds against it must have been incredible – but there it was. I wanted to ask if she could be mistaken, but it had been nine weeks, maybe twelve. I bit my tongue and waited. I expected her to cry, but she didn't. She sat in silence again, until I clambered in the window and sat beside her on the bed. Eventually, she asked me what we would do. What we would do. I knew my cue, and said I would of course marry her after the Tournament if she so wished. It was the proper thing to say, the only thing to say. If this got out, I'd be reviled from Hogsmeade to Honolulu for anything less. Besides, what could go wrong? Sure, I didn't want to marry just yet, had never fancied the idea, but she was a brilliant, famous, rich quarter-Veela.

She said no. Just like that. Je ne peux pas(5). Four words to save or damn me, and I didn't see it. I thought I was off the hook, forgiven but kept at arm's length, and for all the idea of marriage had its points I was relived to be able to wait. In my relief, I babbled. I said quite right, really, and we weren't ready and wasn't it better to take our time – and if she got rid of the baby we could go back to the way we were -

"Tu me dis QUOI? MEURTRIER! NON! JAMAIS!(6)" I never guessed a girl could hit so hard. I still have the scar her nails left on my cheek. I was too shocked to apologise, to cover my arse or back-track. I jumped out of the window and flew as if a legion of Thestrals was behind me. Somehow, I came to a deserted stretch of roof and settled there to pace and figure out what in the name of Merlin's sagging left bollock I was supposed to do about this. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help but see the truth; I'd just completely and convincingly ended the slightest chance of Fleur ever speaking to me again.

Sitting on the roof of Hogwarts in an April gale, I took stock of the situation. The positive was very short. Fleur hadn't cursed me in anger (successfully) and surely she wouldn't be seen to nobble her rival before the Third Task. For similar reasons she probably wouldn't tell the world the details of her pregnancy – talk about scandal! - and nobody would believe it anyway. That was all. The outlook was, as they say in Manchester graveyards, fucking grim. How was I supposed to have known that Veela are death on abortion? Sure, it follows logically from the infertility thing, but since when does logic apply to women or magic? Or kids, come to that. I hate bloody children. If I didn't, I might not have suggested(7) abortion, but I can't see why anyone would voluntarily deal with snotty, screaming brats, much less produce more of them except by accident.

After a good hour of kicking myself, I remembered that half Hufflepuff was waiting for me downstairs. I didn't want to face them, but Questions would be Asked otherwise and the last thing I needed was people wondering what I had to do with Fleur's absence. Reluctantly, I flew down to a seventh-floor window and started down the endless stairs. When I got to the Cellar, everyone was agog to know what had taken so long. As if in a very bad mood brought on by embarrassment, I told everyone that Fleur was suffering vague but dreadful 'female problems', had thrown me out and was in no mood to see anyone(8). I also added that I'd felt like a complete twerp going to see her, and would they mind sending someone else next time they wanted the affairs of a lady interfered with. Maybe it's a good thing that Cedric Diggory died all those years ago. He was a pompous little shit sometimes.

It was pure fluke that I was in the Great Hall when Fleur, newly emerged from a particularly lengthy period (mostly of abject panic), managed to corner Maxime and Dumbledore. She said it was most urgent and concerned the Third Task. Naturally, I pricked up my ears and discreetly happened to wander in the direction they were going, towards the Beauxbatons coach. There wasn't any rule against hanging around there.There wasn't even anything against hiding under the coach – I could always say I'd been looking for an escaped Puffskein. I scrambled under the lowest point and listened at what I thought was the floor of the dining-cabin. I had to cast a Supersensory Charm before I could make out the faint words from above.

"Madame, je dois quitter le Tounoi. J'ai mal... j'ai mal au flanc(9)."

At this Maxime started blustering, offering help and medical aid and Merlin knows what else. Maxime told her to forget it, that no student of Beauxbatons would ever take such a cowardly way out. I was glad not to be in the room; a half-giant in a temper is not to be trifled with. Dumbledore didn't speak; I could imagine him sitting there. Sitting, and waiting for Fleur to say of her own accord what no power on Earth could drag out of her.

Eventually, he was proved right. I could barely hear Fleur's mumbled confession. Neither of them asked who the father was; I've no idea what she might have said.

With that revelation out of the way, Maxime got a good deal more sympathetic. She said she'd smooth everything over with the judges, it would all be fine, of course she wouldn't have to risk her enfant's life... but Dumbledore wouldn't have it. The Goblet, he said, made binding contracts. Nobody knew precisely what the penalty was, but as I've said before you usually expect loss of magic or death. In flowery Dumbledorese, he was very, very sorry but she was just going to have to take her chances. He did say that she could withdraw once the task began, but would have to take the risk of the contract 'knowing' she hadn't tried. In other words, bad luck, old girl, hope you don't die too horribly. For Dumbledore he was quite unsympathetic, though in my limited experience it was rather difficult to tell.

Considering all this drama, it was almost an anticlimax when Fleur gave in in floods of tears and said she would do her very best and keep her baby alive alone and unsupported in the face of terrible dangers – oh, the guilt would have killed anyone but a Head. They, of course, benefit from decades of exposure to teenagers. Once Fleur had been dispatched to her room, still wailing, and Dumbledore had gone to do whatever he does in the daytime, I tried to crawl out from the quagmire under the coach. Unfortunately, Maxime had decided to have a chat with a little old lady in flowery robes by the door, and I didn't think she'd be pleased to find me under her coach. Merlin knows who she was - probably an itinerant Defence teacher looking for a job.

Speaking of itinerant Defence teachers, Moody had been very quiet since Christmas, but the general air of scandal about the place woke him up and his teaching style got more paranoid than ever. From the Stinging Hex to the back he'd graduated to ambushing the first pupil in the door, the last out of it, people giving demonstrations... we learned sod all about Defence as Lupin or Quirrell had taught it, no theory or Ministry proportionate-response crap, but those who didn't drop the NEWT got much, much quicker and knew nastier spells than he had any business teaching.

A few weeks after the start of the summer term, he 'organised' a duelling contest between the sixth-year Defence students. By that point there were only nineteen of us left; we'd started the year with twenty-four. Naturally, we didn't get anything as useful as a warning, just turned up on Wednesday morning and got our instructions. I was pretty useful at Defence, but nothing special - none of us were, considering the teachers we'd had. Quirrell, old Evadne Everard, Quirrell again, Loveheart (blech) and Lupin. Inspiring, I don't think.

I say 'organised' with scare quotes because there wasn't much organising to it. He paired us off, rattled off the rules so quickly I think some of the Muggle-borns missed them completely and finished on a dire warning that even if we were about to die he would tolerate NO ILLEGAL CURSES (this last with a glare at the Slytherins, I wonder why). I wasn't actually much cop at offensive curses, but by great good fortune I drew Ken Towler, one of those Gryffindors who aren't so much brave as too stupid to run away. All I had to do was sit behind my Maltese Cross, absorb two Stunners and once he'd decided I wasn't going to move duck sideways and Disarm him from an angle. Easy.

In fact, I'd hit on a pretty good tactic. We weren't allowed to throw anything unblockable, so taking a few hits and smacking the other guy as soon as he got cocky was a good plan even for people who hadn't got the knack of my favourite 'emergency-only defence'. In fact, you could see a house divide between the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, who followed my lead, and the Slytherins and Gryffs who tended to keep smashing until something gave. This wasn't always a bad idea; the Weasleys threw hexes nobody had ever thought of before, prank stuff but with the benefit of complete surprise. Angelina Johnson, meanwhile, took down Tap by the completely nutty bad-novels-only expedient of leaping sideways, Disarming her whilst still in mid-air and catching her wand as she landed. That just doesn't happen in real life, but it looked pretty good. Benefit of being a top Chaser, I suppose.

I beat Terry Higgs in the second round quite easily, and was starting to think I could really duel after all. The lesson ended after just two duels in the second round, on a distinctly sour note. I'd be facing Weasley, F. next, assuming he didn't swap with his brother. The last time I fought a Weasley twin I was eight years old and mocked them for spending all their time together – pretty infantile, but what do you expect? They could have beaten me up, but that would have been crude. Instead, they followed me, jumped out from behind hedges at me, tripped me when I wasn't looking, nicked my stuff when my back was turned... you get the idea. They kept this up for a solid fortnight; by the end of it I'd given up exploring Ottery St Catchpole and taken to hiding indoors with a book, to the delight of my mother. We'd never exactly got on (I don't think they liked anyone but each other and later their Quidditch team), our families were barely on speaking terms and thereafter we hated and avoided each other. Naturally, I didn't like the idea of duelling one, especially considering the amount of arcane magic they'd picked up in planning their joke-shop.

The next Defence lesson was two days later, and the duelling was the talk of the school. I was highly fancied on the basis of being Triwizard Champion more than my showing thus far; Warrington and Johnson were next, then somebody would mention the Weasleys, Fred already through and George surely a dead cert to beat Harald Ostmann, and decide they were too unpredictable to consider. Jésuord was the sole foreigner still standing pending his second-round match against Ben Stebbins.

I didn't get to duel once in Friday's lesson; the utter pushovers had gone and the remaining duels in the second round generally took longer. Jésuord hammered Ben into the ground at the cost of having his ears Transfigured into cauliflowers and Warrington dangled Dawn Chambers from the ceiling until she gave in - she was too panicked to even try retaliation once he got her up there, not to mention worried he might drop her. Wizards bounce(10), but even twenty generations of pure blood and twenty years' practice can't tell your instincts that. At last, the final duel of the day brought a shock. Harald stood there like a stone wall, took his lumps (a severe nosebleed, horn tongue and furnunculus) and got Weasley, G with a Stunner straight to the face as he tried to do something complicated. One up to Hufflepuff at long last. A victory for stolidity, true, but the enemy of my enemy is a damned good chap and all that. If Herpo the Foul himself weighed in against the Weasley twins I'd probably have a kind word for him and a sheep for his Basilisk too.

The semi-finals lined up like so; me against Weasley, Warrington against the Boy Hero and Johnson with a bye to face the winner of that one for a place in the final. I spent the entire weekend plotting how best to squash Weasley. No illegal spells is all very well, but even after a year of Moody most of my classmates were less... vicious than you'd expect. Scourgify to the face hurts like hell, you can kill a man 'accidentally' with a Banishing Charm and a chair, and Switching feet for, say, table-legs will knock someone over as well as a Reducto, if not quite so permanently.

Monday afternoon, normally a free period, was taken over for the last of the duelling. Weasley and I were up first. I knew I couldn't stand up and defeat him. I'd be nibbled to death with daft hexes and made to look a complete twat trying to unswitch my balls whilst Weasley waited to finish me off. Equally, I couldn't sit behind a shield. Weasley wasn't dumb enough to knock on the door, he'd conjure a swamp around my feet or something.

"...Eight. Nine. Ten. Turn, gentlemen. Bow. I said BOW, Weasley! And on my first whistle, begin." Pheeeeep! I was right. Weasley wasn't going to go for me at all. There was ice all around my feet within a second of the off; I hit the floor hard, and kept sliding. I tried to Transfigure Weasley's wand-arm on the fly, but missed and he wound up with his arse-cheek sprouting a leek (there was a fashion for vegetables in the tournament; McGonagall's recent lessons had had a distinctly domestic flavour). I took a second to hob-nail my boots, then had to throw myself flat to dodge two Stunners in quick succession. After that things get a bit blurry, I remember a lot of dodging and a few good thumps that Weasley had trouble countering.

And then, as if someone had lit a torch, I saw the way I was going to win, rather than hold. I fell hard in front of a Stunner, then bellowed, "Right, Weasley. Die! Avada K-" Weasley managed to jump clear off the dais to hide behind a desk, and it was the easiest thing in the world to Disarm him before he could figure out I hadn't gone mad. I had just long enough to think take that before something hit me in the back and it all went black.

I woke up on the floor of Moody's classroom. It turned out he'd Stunned me, and I'd only managed to take Weasley because he'd been commentating to the class and hadn't figured out what I was saying quick enough. He lectured us for the rest of the lesson on not taking the Unforgivable Curses lightly, disqualified me and took ten points from Hufflepuff for giving him a heart attack. Weasley lost five points for diving towards the crowd, even though he'd had nowhere else to go, and his defeat stood so Angelina would duel Warrington or Jésuord for the title (made up by Lee Jordan who wasn't even in the class) of Try-Hard Champion.

Two days later, the real Champions were summoned to the Quidditch pitch to learn what our last Task was. I tried to pump Potter for advance information, passing him some bullshit I claimed was from Fleur, but he either didn't know or wasn't telling. Bagman was there, however, to explain that he was growing a maze on the Quidditch pitch (Potter looked outraged, I looked surprised) which would be filled with monsters for us to battle. These would be supplied by Hagrid, so no doubting they'd be really nasty.

Once the rest had scattered, I stayed behind to ask my questions in private, of Bagman who'd have to answer. The first one was whether we could bring something in from outside the stadium – I was thinking of doing a Potter and Summoning my broom. He answered that the whole pitch would be warded against spells travelling outside it, and if I could break those good luck to me(11). I tried a few more lawyering questions, but Bagman shot down every one. I didn't mention his relationship with my mother at all, though he looked nervous enough that I probably should have. Never mind. It was enough that I knew what I'd have to do, and had four weeks to figure out how I was going to live through it. There didn't seem any way to cheat, this time. Me, my wand, three opponents and some monsters. Death or glory, third round, three falls, no submission.

1) A rather quaint term for an out-building in which one houses Kneazles, distinguished by having rather heavier security than one built for ordinary pets due to the legendary talent of Kneazles for escapology.

2) The top six floors of Arthur's Tower have been inaccessible except by broom since the late 1970s, when a duel on the stairs destroyed them along with the old Divination classroom. Nobody knows what a fourteenth-century tower has to do with the seventh-century king.

3) Not entirely a figure of speech. The noted if eccentric magical theorist Terence Pratchett holds that magical objects and beings possess reality much as all objects possess weight. Some really are more real than others.

4) "I'm pregnant"

5) "I cannot"

6) "What are you telling me? Murderer! No! Never!"

7) The word Cedric is searching for here is 'assumed'. The rest of this footnote has been removed by the senior partner who does not wish to be sued.

8) All this was of course true. Not by any means complete, but true.

9) Madam, I have to withdraw from the Tournament. I'm sick... sick in the womb.

10) The most common manifestation of accidental magic, and one of few that continues throughout life. The panic induced by an unexpected fall can override any training. If not for this useful fact, Quidditch would be practically suicidal and Craeothceann would have wiped out magical Scotland.

11) Ironically, it is now clear that the false Moody did not put such spells in place.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 18:08:38 GMT

Diggory Papers 11/14 "Two Love"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

Alone in the Prefects’ bathroom, I dreamed. It started off well; Fleur was there again, warm and slick, but the water turned red around us, blood-red, and the colour came from a tap under the portrait of the mermaid. As the colour touched her, Fleur changed, as full Veela do when they transform. She didn’t stop at the Harpy, the winged and beaked monster that’s still on some level human (or at least human-shaped), she kept changing until I was cuddling a massive bird - an eagle or vulture or something. I was already scrambling back when an octarine flash hit the bird and it faded away to reveal Moody, towering over the bath as he’d never physically loomed in the real world. He bellowed “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” exactly as he had every lesson all year, then spoke again.

“You must face this alone, Cedric. I can no longer intervene.” But it wasn’t Moody’s bass growl any more; it was Dumbledore’s voice coming out of that scarred face… and it sounded like his heart was breaking.

I woke with a start, jerking upright in the bath and shivering from more than just the cold water. I’d heard those words from Dumbledore in a dream before, in November, and he’d never had any cause to say them to me for real. I believe in Divination as little as anyone taught by Trelawney, but she did say I had the Eye, and coward that I am I couldn’t help but wonder if she was right for once.

Eagles and dragons, curses, and Moody always there, friend and foe both - my dreams were repetitive to say the least, for a while, but it was Dumbledore’s voice that had really scared me, and I didn’t hear it again. I wouldn’t have had time to dwell on dreams anyway; I was too busy living. I’d told Cho about the Task, leaving out certain details, and she spent a lot of time researching things that I couldn’t see were relevant - like crash courses in Mermish and the theory of how spells change underwater. Typical Ravenclaw really, face them with a charging Erumpent and they’ll start analysing the properties of its horn. Oh, and lest I forget we still made the Marauders’ bedsprings creak from time to time (generally from half ten to five the next morning). The same mayfly intelligence that made it so very frustrating to rely on her for life-saving ideas was put to much better use in bed. For sheer amorous invention Cho more than kept up her… impressive beginning at Christmas, and I can’t say I’ve ever found anyone better.

Fortunately, I did find someone better than Cho at keeping me alive under the lake (I don’t understand this business I hear now about it being the Black Lake, unless someone drowned that bunch of Death Eater maniacs in it(1)). I’m not sure how lucky I was that it was still Fleur. We only slept together once more - after she all but cracked up testing a potion that was supposed to make air out of water and was developed from plant food. It failed rather spectacularly and, not for lack of gentle persuasion, it was the only time she let me have her again. ‘Jamais’ mon cul, as I never quite dared say to her.

For all that was frustrating, though, I can’t explain the satisfaction that her attention gave me - it wasn’t purely the ego boost, it certainly wasn’t love, I’m not sure it was even sexual except that something so complete had to be, but somewhere between her usual arrogance and Veela ancestry just having her full regard turned on me with any sort of affection made something older and more primitive than my brain want to roll over and do tricks. Like I said, it wasn’t just sex or beauty, and I should know the difference - it was Fleur, and small wonder I still can’t hate her as much as I want to.

By and by, we worked well together. Fleur could tweak and twist any spell under the sun, and whatever she could devise I could cast, though some of it I preferred not to - one spell to enable one to hold one’s breath longer would have made your blood literally boil, and we didn’t find this out until after Fleur asked me to test it on both of us and I refused on the grounds that the original spell was meant for cultivating waterweed and I wasn‘t a bloody plant. We still worked in the dungeons or in odd corners of the grounds; by the time of the blood-boiling debacle it was February and so close to the Task people would have wondered if they’d seen me speak to Fleur, let alone disappear for hours with her. As usual, people wanted to believe I had a winning plan, so they did.

By the thirteenth of February, though, we were back to the start. Fleur had come up with the Bubble-Head Charm about five minutes before Cho, but there were a couple of major problems with it. First, it took constant, and I mean constant, concentration to stop it collapsing completely. Second, the killer, it couldn't stand up to changes in pressure – it was in every textbook that you shouldn't use it underwater, even a sudden climb on a broom would pop it. I wasn't a strong swimmer in the first place; the idea of my air supply giving out at the bottom of the lake (90ft deep, thanks Cho) was downright terrifying.

It took a week of desperate experimenting to get a bubble that wouldn't burst under pressure, even then it wasn't as strong as we'd have liked and you had to go down very carefully indeed – or so we thought, neither of us fancied a real test on ourselves so our practice was limited to throwing things in and watching for the bubble (Hagrid's Skrewts were good, the bangs made them easy to keep track of). Ironically enough it was Cho who came up with the final tweak that made the whole thing just about sustainable under strain, and I was forced to pass it on to Fleur by the simple fact that it still wasn't finished and we were at that point down to four days left.

Somewhere in the middle of that crazy fortnight, Valentine's Day passed, I think. Cho insisted that I drop work for the day, and I was only too happy to comply. I wasn't anything like so happy to be dragged to Madam Puddifoot's flower-bedecked hellhole, and it was all I could do not to tear into Cho for her complete lack of anything vaguely resembling an imagination. Brains, yes, she had plenty of those, but Merlin forbid she should ever show the smallest sign of original thought when she wasn't half-cut. I bit my tongue, frequently (not to mention scalding it on Gods-awful ginger tea) and passed the time by plotting our evening... elsewhere. It was worth every bloody rose petal. What it wasn't quite worth was Cho mumbling something about growing old together. I like a compliment as much as the next man, but I wasn't thinking quite that far in advance. I'd settle for surviving into March.

By the last week, I hadn't time to be scared. For the first time in my life, I approached a dangerous task with almost complete calm, in the sure and certain knowledge that I knew what to do. Krum had been seen diving in the lake but Potter had, after sounding confident earlier in the term, vanished almost completely to do whatever Gryffindors do instead of thinking. I even thought I knew who would be at the bottom of the lake; I didn't have anything or anyone I'd sorely miss for themselves other than Cho or my mother and I was leaning towards the latter. I may not have been a Malfoy, but looking back I was still traditionalist enough to hold that blood is thicker than semen whatever the circumstances.

With three days to go, I still wasn't scared. I was furious. After my self-satisfied musings on the joys of family, two sets of parents decided to screw things up with a vengeance. First, my mother wrote to me in strictest confidence to say she was going to get a divorce(2) and would probably be moving away, maybe out of the country. It didn't take a genius to figure out good-old-Ludo was at the bottom of this. Second, Monsieur Delacour of the terrifying reputation actually showed up to watch his little girl conquer the world (or drown in a freezing Scottish lake, your call).

I know I keep saying I wanted to leave England more than anything, but I'd always imagined home being in Saleford(3), somewhere I could act as if I hated, and chafe against, and know was still there wherever I went and whatever I did. The idea that my mother might pack up and go to Bulgaria or somewhere was inconceivable, and she was going to do it anyway. And with Bagman, too – Bagman who was apparently in love with Potter already, who'd had to buy my silence with season tickets, Bagman the fat has-been clinging to a career that was fading when I was born. My mental rant didn't include Bagman who'd been called a Death Eater before and might be again, but it was at the back of my mind.

Delacour was a more immediate problem, not decently waiting for the end of the Tournament but present in the flesh on the 23rd. He was the single ugliest man I've ever seen – amazing that Fleur's beauty could be in any way connected to this short, hairy and incredibly scarred little man. If I was half as brave as I looked, I'd have quietly shoved him in the lake and done the world in general and the French in particular a favour. Unfortunately, I'm the coward you ought to know by now, and I balked at killing off a vampire-hunting Auror(4) just because he made my not-girlfriend miserable and sounded like he would cheerfully kill me, if not to clear the path for said not-girlfriend then if he found out I'd laid a finger on her. If you think I exaggerate, ask Fleur or read on.

I wasn't actually introduced to the old bastard until much later, but Fleur returned from meeting him in Hogsmeade and said we'd have to stay apart for a while or he'd kill me. I didn't really believe her, but I wasn't about to take the chance and in any case our Bubble-Head Charm wasn't going to get any better. Unfortunately, Delacour Sr's arrival did kill off the beginnings of our (well, my) nefarious plan to shaft Krum between us before going after the Merpeople. Fleur probably wouldn't have agreed anyway – she'd never liked the 'dishonourable' parts of the Tournament and as you remember it took plenty of fast talking for me to convince her that our co-operation was above-board.

The morning of the Second Task dawned bloody cold; I was in the Cellar that night and even there (normally the warmest spot in the castle by miles) it was cold. If the Triwizard organisers had wanted to kill off half the school and all the competitors by hypothermia, they could hardly have done better. With a lazy wind(4) freezing my bones, the fear I'd pushed to one side for the previous month finally hit me. I was going to the bottom of a deep and cold lake, using an experimental charm, to fight Merpeople. Right. Whose idea was this again?

The adrenaline rush of being cheered to the heavens by half Scotland distracted me from my fear just long enough to cast the Bubble-Head and wade into the lake on Bagman's call. If I'd thought the air was cold, it had nothing on the water. We hadn't counted on the cold, reasoning that the exercise of swimming would be enough to keep us going, and we were right... just.

The shock of fully immersing myself was painful, burning cold, and I fought vicious cramps as I dove deeper and deeper into the slate-grey depths. I could only sustain the faintest lumos whilst keeping my air supply going, but by its dim glow I saw a shoal of Grindylows off to one side and swung wide to avoid them.

It didn't work. They spotted me and came round in pursuit, far faster than I could hope to follow. I swam as fast as I could, but they were close on my heels when I spotted another light, low to my left, and a silver glitter which had to be Fleur's hair. I immediately changed course towards her, at first thinking she could help get the Grindylows off my back, but as I got within a few yards and she still hadn't reacted to my presence I changed my mind. I doused my light and put on all the speed I could, leaving Fleur to be hit by a shoal of enraged Grindylows, and myself free to carry on hunting.

A few minutes after, though, I noticed my breathing getting harder, the air tasting worse. The Bubble-Head is supposed to renew air, even through water after Fleur's tweaks, but I'd been using a lot swimming around, I suppose. I surfaced just long enough to drop the Charm and renew it, to the accompaniment of loud groans from the crowd who thought I'd given up. Surfacing, though, also let me get my bearings, and a quick Four Point Spell had me heading south-east, towards the deepest part of the lake where the Merpeople most likely were. I must have cocked it up, though, because I ran into shallow water within a couple of minutes and had to surface (swearing loudly), try the spell again and set off in the right direction.

The Merpeople lived in a sort of crude village of mud huts (no, I don't know how they held together in water either; magic, I guess), which I didn't see much of because I came down almost directly on top of the massive statue with four bodies tied to it. Something that looked like Potter badly transfigured into a fish was wrestling with three mermen whilst a Weasley lay untied but asleep on the bottom of the lake. I don't know what he did to upset them, but I pulled out my pocket knife and slashed Cho free. As Potter struggled with his new friends, I mouthed 'got lost' at him and headed straight up as fast as I could swim, dragging Cho behind me.

As we broke the surface, Cho revived and promptly did her best to drown us both by kissing me right there in the middle of the lake as Hogwarts cheered itself hoarse. Once I'd shaken her loose (only slightly reluctantly) we swam slowly ashore, basking in glory even as our lips turned blue from the cold. With some satisfaction (OK, sheer delight) Cho pointed out Fleur, who was being restrained by McGonagall and a couple of other witches from throwing herself back in the lake, and had a few nasty scratches presumably inflicted by the Grindylows. Stebbins told me she'd had to be rescued and was thus disqualified. I can't say I was too sorry for her fate – after all, it made me first champion home.

Krum drifted in about five minutes behind me, half-Transfigured into a shark and having serious trouble hauling Granger in – I guess he really had gone mad; it wasn't just Ball-induced daftness that got them together. He un-Transfigured his head in time to congratulate me fairly politely before Karkaroff hauled him off.

After that, though, it was a long, long wait for Potter. Everyone seemed to forget about me in the horrified excitement as more and more time passed – I'd returned about on the hour, he was well past time by then and still no sign of him. Even worse, the judges couldn't announce the score until everyone was back and the Merpeople had given their report. It was a long, long twenty minutes before Potter broke the surface towing not just Weasley, but a tiny blonde poppet who was obviously Fleur's baby sister. The crowd cheered, more out of relief than support, but the volume redoubled when twenty Merpeople broke the surface to escort Potter to shore.

It's a good thing Potter was the other side of the grandstand from me when Fleur got to him, or I'd have knocked his teeth in with or without magic for standing there soaking up non-existent glory whilst Fleur kissed him and worshipped his bravery in saving her sister – as if she'd ever been in danger; Dumbledore didn't actually kill complete innocents. The judges even got in on it – they gave him 45 for moral fibre (Karkaroff doing me a rare service by dissenting from the others) – though I couldn't really complain as I'd got 47. Fleur received 25 for looking nice, though to give credit where it's due I might have been dead without her. I didn't grudge her the points half as much as I did Potter, anyhow. Since when does naivete equal moral fibre, especially in the Triwizard Tournament? More fool him, I'd have said, and come back when he was older. I did say it, once or twice, but my soppy housemates were all in favour of moral fibre, so I quickly shut up and looked noble, which is all people really want from their champions most of the time and usually gets you a damn sight more credit than anything flashy.

The next fortnight was probably the best and happiest time of my life. OK, I couldn't see Fleur because her pestilential father hung around for two weeks bothering Dumbledore about extraditing French Muggle-baiters or something, but Cho was dippier than ever about me, Hufflepuff loved me more than ever, Potter was keeping his head down for once and Rita Skeeter left me out of her articles on Potter and Krum's tangled love-lives (interspersed, naturally, with photos of Fleur) except to note that I was clearly the most responsible and respectable of the Champions, which shows how much the stupid cow knew. Of course, perfection never lasts long.

The lake in the Hogwarts grounds became known as the Black Lake in the early 21^st century. The precise reason for this is unknown, but probably not, as Cedric suspected, connected to the Black family.
For Muggle-born readers, this was and is a much bigger deal in the wizarding world than outside – divorce without legal cause was only permitted from 1957 by the reformist Ministry of Niles Bevanage and social attitudes change but slowly.
Amos Diggory was, according to his acquaintances, touchy about living so close to two of the wizarding world's most notorious eccentrics, and always insisted that his house was in Saleford, a minuscule hamlet, rather than Ottery St Catchpole. Clearly he passed the habit on to Cedric.
Whilst Monsieur Jean-Charles Delacour, Sous-Ministre de l'Interieur, LdH MMM OM2^nd MICW etc. was indeed a vampire hunter in his youth, his career in public service was spent not with the regular French MLE but with the Quatrieme Bureau, whose work was and remains as secret as its reputation was and is unsavoury. When Cedric met him he was nearing the end of his career and held the second-highest position in the French Ministry, responsible for law enforcement, justice and security.
Note for foreign readers: a 'lazy wind' is a particularly chill one, so called because it can't be bothered to go around you and so passes straight through.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 18:06:05 GMT

Diggory Papers 10/14 "Never Wanna Come Down"

R-ish rating continues, no there is not an outtake, anyone who wants to write one is welcome.

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

There aren't many people you want to see less than the Weasleys when you're up to something thoroughly gossip-worthy. Come to think of it, I'm not sure there are any, and the Hogwarts Champion sneaking around at the crack of dawn in dishevelled evening dress is definitely news. I suppose, on reflection, Rita Skeeter might – I say might – have been worse. I wasn't facing Rita though, I was facing two ginger maniacs who looked like all their Christmases had come at once,

"I don't know, George. Where do you reckon he's going so early in the morning, when all good little mama's boys ought to be in bed?" Weasley (probably Fred) didn't sound quite right – drunk, exhausted, spell-shocked, Merlin knows what – but all I could do was brazen it out:

"Oh, nowhere. Just out for a wander. How's things?" Pathetic, I know. In my defence, I was tired and thinking more of my nice warm bed than smart answers.

"Oh, everything's great. Did I tell you about the self-spelling wand we've invented? Pull the other one. You're no more 'out for a wander' than we are. It's just that everyone expects us to be up to something. What is it, Ced? Did Phlegm get sick of the cabin-boy that quickly? You should have told us, you're not the only one who's interested." I didn't know why they always called Davies 'the cabin boy', nor did I particularly care. Fleur worried me, though – nobody was supposed to know about us, however little there was to know.

"No, and what makes you think I was with her? I, as you're so curious, got a little carried away" – in more ways than one, hah – "and am off to bed. What about you – last night not go according to plan?" I was just fishing there – they seemed fine to me – but their reaction was really weird - the only time I ever knew the Weasleys' twin-coordination be anything less than scarily perfect. Even as Fred opened his mouth George was grimacing at him as if to say, in the hope that I wouldn't notice, 'shut up, you pillock.' Not unusual for most people, but for the Weasleys...

"You could say that. How was I to know Angelina was a bleeding Sapphist? Oh, shit, I wasn't supposed to say that, was I?"

"No, Fred, you weren't. Diggory, if this gets out you won't have to worry about the Tournament ever again. Harry can be Champion – he's got to be better than you – and you'll be ours." I nodded, temporarily mute. The last time a Weasley lost it with me I was about eight years old. I wasn't about to let it happen again. "Good. Now bugger off."

Scared I may have been, but nobody talks to me like that when I've got blackmail material. "Less of that, Weasley. We wouldn't want any rumours, would we? About either of us, or anyone else." They got the point and moved aside for me to pass.

Now this was interesting. Weasleys, lesbianism, secrecy, threats at the crack of dawn – what wasn't to like? Unfortunately, I couldn't tell anyone. I may be a complete bastard, but nobody ever said I was a stupid one. I've done several things more stupid than challenging the Weasley twins' ingenuity, and they all have one thing in common. I really regret them. Except maybe Fleur – my biggest mistake of all, but can I really, honestly regret it? Yeah, I think I can. I died for her, after all, in a manner of speaking.

At the time, though, I hadn't a clue what to do, so in the absence of a plan I decided to get some sleep and see how the last couple of days looked with a clear head. I hurried back to the Cellar without meeting anyone else at all and went straight to bed, not even stopping to wake Tap, who was asleep in the common room, surprisingly not on top of Ben, whom I assumed had gone to bed. Bloody law-abiding prudes.

When I woke up I wasn't entirely sure of anything, least of all what to make of Cho's susceptibility, Johnson's sexuality, or Tap's burglary. In the absence of anything better to do – even at three o'clock there was nothing going on – I wrote a letter home, telling my mother the Ball had been better than expected, my girlfriend was lovely all around (and all over, I muttered to nobody in particular), I would see her in February and could she please send me my OWL notes, twenty Galleons and the box under my bed.

I think I'd better explain that box, because it was my own invention and had some useful stuff in it. The lock was the clever bit, because the key didn't quite fit it. To make it work, you had to put the key in, then Transfigure it to the right shape – which meant you had to know what it should be before you started. As I'd made it myself, nobody else knew, and I'd talked all sorts of people into warding it against magical intruders. In this box I kept Useful Stuff of the sort you don't want your parents finding – one bottle of horrendously expensive elf-made midnight wine I'd nicked from Aunt Mabel's cellar, some changing-room snaps that had gone around the team as far as me then been 'confiscated', the key to my grandmother's Gringotts vault which she'd left to me (sadly sans cash) and a DuSult's lingerie catalogue. I've still got the box(1); the rest came in handy along the line.

As I was finishing off the letter, Summers arrived with news. Interesting news. Specifically, Roger Davies had just been fished out of the rose garden, half-naked and under a fading Full-Body Bind. Evidently he wasn't quite as good a charmer as he thought – assuming it was Fleur who'd done it and not a jealous rival. Half the school had asked Fleur to the ball, everyone from baby Weasley via Malfoy up to (rumour had it) Krum himself.

I suspected rumour was wrong, because surely Krum would rather go stag than have it universally known he'd settled for Granger as substitute(2). General consensus in the Cellar was that Davies had taken liberties he wasn't invited to and got hexed for it. Roger being who he was, nobody seemed surprised. This opinion seemed to be confirmed by Harald, who brought news that Davies had sworn off all foreign skirt and would henceforth be confining himself to English women who could tell the difference between cuddling together to conserve heat in a Scottish winter and a rape attempt. It was left to Cuné to confirm this, along with the news that Fleur had locked herself in the carriage and was threatening to AK the next three men she saw on general principle. I would have thought this sort of thing would happen to Fleur too often for her to murder people every time, but on the off-chance that she meant it, I decided to stay well away. I don't think she'd have been in the mood for my brand of consolation anyway.

I was on my way to the Owlery when I was stopped by a breathless, bespectacled Ravenclaw firstie,

"Please, Mr. Diggory sir, Cho Chang says meet her in the Ravenclaw common room at four. It's important, she's got everyone looking for you. Sir." This firstie obviously had a gratifying sense of respect, so I patted him on the head, said he'd done well but not to call me Sir and gave him a rather squashed Chocolate Frog. I suspect the poor sap worshipped me from that point onwards. Cho, however, I was much less sure of. If she wanted to flay me alive in front of Ravenclaw house, I'd be walking straight into it. If she didn't, why not somewhere more private? Still, if I didn't show up my name would be Mud with her forever, so I headed for Ravenclaw Tower with my wand handy and soothing words at the ready.

I'd hardly got in the door (Ingolfr doing the trick again) when a blue blur raced across the common room, leapt into my arms and kissed me soundly before declaring loudly that I was the best thing since Self-Stirring Cauldrons, a credit to the school, top flier, last of the true romantics and exceedingly amiable drunk, or words to that effect. Between sheer relief and having a double-armful of warm, wriggling Cho I wasn't really paying attention to her jabbering.

"OK, Cho, that's great but isn't this a bit... public?"

"Oh, you see, Marietta didn't believe me so I thought I'd show her. You don't mind, do you?"

Mind? OK, so she was showing me off like a new pet Puffskein, but I was supposed to mind being told how great I was? When it could just as easily have been hexes and heavy objects flying at me head? "Of course not, love. Now how about we leave Marinella to get over her disappointment?"

"Yeah, sounds good to me."

Via several out-of-the-way alcoves and the Cellar, we made it to the Quidditch pitch – Cho wanted to try re-creating some of the last night's (more conventional) manouevres with all her wits about her. I talked her out of this, telling her that we might finish off her broom completely between us; I might have been a Seeker but I still weighed twelve and a half stone(3). It wouldn't have impressed her one bit to mention, much more to the point, that we'd surely run out of luck and I was too young to die.

Flying, as I'm sure I've said before, was probably the only harmless pleasure I ever had, and with Cho, even fully clothed, it was magnificent. Quidditch players, and especially Seekers, forget the joy of flying with someone just for the hell of it. It's good sometimes to be the only thing in the sky, alone on the wind, but there's nothing quite like having someone else there, someone to be impressed at your stunts, and challenge you, and laugh with about what didn't go so well. I won't quite say it's better than sex, but it can be as good, with the right partner. And, of course, many women are quite stimulated by danger, even (maybe especially) self-imposed. 'Desire for life renewal in the face of death', that's what someone I once knew used to call it. On the other hand, as the poet Cedric has it, desire needs no good excuse, just an opportunity.

There wasn't any of that on Boxing Day, though. Happily knackered, Cho gave me one last searing kiss and we parted, me to finally post that bloody letter and her to gloat to Ravenclaw assembled about her prize catch.

The rest of the holiday was just about as good as it gets for a man of simple tastes like myself. I had a drop-dead-gorgeous girlfriend who could fly like Gwen Morgan and shag like nothing I'd ever known. I had money and glory and the Second Task was a long way off. Life was good. Even the 'Marauders'' music collection had a lot to recommend it; if there's one thing Muggles can do it's music and Cho was particularly excited by someone or something called T-Rex(4). OK, so life wasn't quite perfect. There are times when an electric organ can really put you off using your own, like when it starts up unexpectedly because somebody kicked the gramophone.

Events, though, started again as events are prone to do. In particular, an increasingly panicked Fleur started asking me how I was going on with the egg, which I was apparently spending a great deal of time researching (I'd made it known I was egg-sperimenting(5) whenever I wanted some time with Cho). Apparently Maxime wouldn't or couldn't say exactly what was coming and Fleur had got precisely as far as I had with her investigations – nowhere. I remarked that at least we knew precisely what didn't work, and agreed that we'd still do better together than apart. After all, Krum and Potter showed no sign of giving up their Headmasters' help.

Suddenly, I stopped having free time, and started having to have at least three plans for every day – one for Cho, one for Fleur and one for me. Fleur knew I spent time with Cho but thought we weren't serious (or at least that I wasn't, and she was half right), Cho had no idea I even spoke to Fleur and neither would have appreciated the truth. Cho nearly caught on once, around the end of the holidays(6). She came up to me after dinner and said, "Where do you go, Cedric?"

"When?"

"All this morning, for starters. I came to find you in the Hufflepuff common room and they said you'd gone for a walk somewhere."

"Well, what's odd about that?"

"Er, there was a blizzard outside?" Oh. I hadn't noticed much snow in the deserted dungeon(7) where I'd been trying out Sound-Filtering Charms with Fleur and having a painful time of it. I had to think fast, and what I came up with wasn't great,

"I know, but it wasn't that bad and I just needed to get out and get some air. I used an Impervius Charm on my stuff, I'm hardly wet at all. This egg's driving me nuts though, I'm not getting anywhere. Walking helps... I dunno, clear my head."

"Well why didn't you say so? If you need your head clearing of Tournament stuff, I can do that..." and I'd got away with it. She wanted to believe me, it's as simple as that. Even the Hogwarts grapevine never got a sniff of me and Fleur, that I know of, because everyone assumed that when I vanished into thin air I was somehow going to end up with Cho in our hidden boudoir. If you ever get to have the world on your side, I recommend it.

After about another week, Fleur finally came up with something from her filtering. The egg was making a recognisable noise, but it would only work of the harmonics or something were different to trigger a translation spell of some sort – I can't remember the details. The upshot was that she'd been right about changing the conditions, and now we had proof. Anyhow, I remembered Moody's advice to take a bath, and resolved to try it that Thursday night when nobody was around.

I think tradition demands that this sort of thing be done in the Hour of the Dead, or at least midnight, but I was tired after a long day so it was about half past ten when I crept into the Prefects' bathroom, Sealed the door(8) and ran myself a bath. The egg seemed to scream just the same if I held it in the air whilst I was in the water, but underwater it sounded like someone with absolutely no talent trying to sing. It could have been McGonagall, considering the vaguely Scottish accent, and my first thought was that I'd really enjoy getting a chance to hex her legally. Unfortunately, it wasn't McGonagall. After a few attempts I managed to get the whole of the 'song' hovering in the air in front of me – something about seeking underwater for what they'd stolen from me, but only for an hour or it'd vanish forever. Who had taken what, why, when, where and how?

And then suddenly, gloriously, it stopped mattering because I had an Idea. Honestly, if I couldn't swing this to my advantage and solve the bloody riddle as well I should probably give up and become a hermit. I had – I glanced at my watch – an hour. It took me three-quarters of that to conjure my props, run another bath, dress appropriately and check the Sunday Prophet from November 29^th which I'd kept because it had the Triwizard Champion articles in it.

At the stroke of midnight, in the best romantic tradition, a black-cloaked figure flew to a top-level window of the Beauxbatons coach and hammered on the window,

"Pssst! Fleur! wake up!"

"Qu'est-ce qui se passe?(9)" a sleepy voice floated out of the ornate room.

"Never mind, just get dressed and trust me. I've got a surprise for you." All very mysterious, I hope you'll agree.

"Ees zat you, Roger?"

She sounded very suspicious and I was delighted to be able to say, "Non, je suis Cedric."

"Deux minutes, an' I warn you, I 'ave my wand readee." Well, you could hardly blame her for being a little suspicious of strange men appearing in the dead of night. My name had some effect though; she obviously hoped I'd come up with something good.

Five minutes later (Fleur would be late to her own funeral) she was following me up the path to the castle, begging me to explain what was going on. I kept silent and walked on with hope in my heart, sure that curiosity would keep her following. Eventually, we came to the Prefects' bathroom. I flung back the door to show off my tableau, and was almost shocked myself by how well it had worked. Spirals of scented steam were rising from the brimming bathtub, the golden egg sat beside it on a stand and the whole room was lit by two dozen candles. The Prefects' bathroom is pretty fancy anyway, and Fleur's jaw dropped briefly before she thought she knew what I was up to and turned to me with sparks crackling from her fingers,

"Fleur, no! I'm not trying to... I've got it! The egg. I know what it says!"

"Oh?" She cocked her head, still ready to hex me at the slightest provocation.

"Yeah, I have. Come over here." Fully dressed, I leapt into the water, taking the egg with me. I sat cross-legged on the bottom of the tub, opened the egg and let it sing. Fleur, hearing something that wasn't (quite) a banshee scream, bent over the tub, but couldn't hear it clearly, so hopped in, also fully clothed in a long skirt and blouse. Before the egg had got through one repetition, she was kissing me on the bottom of the pool, long and hard. If you've never received the kiss of life from a Veela, I heartily recommend that too.

<There follows a lacuna in the text, where the Office of the Chief Warlock's Censor has ordered that a passage unsuitable for general publication in the UK be censored>(10)

As we recovered our senses, leaning on the side of the tub, Fleur said something I still can't quite believe, however much my vanity wants to,

"Merci, Cedric. J'ai jamais connu... jamais, un amant comme toi."(11) Well, there you have it, from a presumably noted authority. I didn't argue, though I have a vague idea I said something about it all being her and she inspired me. I don't know, I wasn't exactly paying attention.

Five minutes later, she was all business again. The first lines of the riddle, she declared, were obvious – whatever it was, the task would be in water. That, she declared, was all that mattered. Anything more was nice to know, but she had to be up in a few hours and was now going to bed. Merci beaucoup, bonne nuit. I'm still not sure whether she was embarrassed, scared she'd made a mistake, worried that I knew too much and so unwilling to share ideas or just in need of sleep and time to think. I was all of those, and I didn't raise more than a token protest at her departure. After all, I was pretty pleased with myself to say the least and we had all the time in the world – when you're seventeen and stupid five weeks seems enough.

I lay in the bath, still dressed and thinking idly about Fleur and the riddle – mostly Fleur. The mosaic on the far wall, though, seemed to be trying to tell me something. It was a long, slim mermaid in a bathing-suit, simpering and flirting her tail. This mermaid was called Hieropa and had apparently done a strip-tease in about 1975 (according to breathless rumour) but I'd never even seen it move before and I was half asleep when it hit me. Mermaids. Of course. Mermish can be spoken in air, but mer-people can't leave water. Somehow, the task would involve taking something off mer-people. With that revelation echoing round my head, I fell asleep completely, still in the bath.

This is presumably the box in which Cedric left his manuscript for future generations, described in the preface.
Rumour was in fact completely wrong, but for rather different reasons.
For Americans, 179 pounds. For Continentals, 81kg. The International Confederation can't standardise weights and measures soon enough.
A Muggle band of the 1970s.
The editor apologises for not removing such an awful pun. Integrity's a bitch sometimes.
Monday, 4^th January was the first day of term that year (1995)
The extent of Hogwarts' sub-basements and dungeons is almost completely forgotten; even the Headmaster's master plans of the school are known to be incomplete. Some theorists have argued that they connect to other dimensions, as the Library is already known to do via the phonomenon of 'L-space'.
The absence of a proper lock on the Prefects' bathroom has been the subject of ribald speculation and outraged modesty for as long as anyone can remember. Generations of Headmasters and Headmistresses have argued that it is now a matter of tradition and provides a worthwhile distraction from academic affairs.
French for 'what's going on?' A cogent question.
Unexpurgated editions are widely believed to be available from various wild and wonderful wizards. Legal challenges are in progress and may yet allow the full text to be published openly.
"Thank-you Cedric, I have never known... never, a lover like you." Perhaps Cedric did after all have some worthwhile qualities, or Fleur was prone to over-enthusiasm.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 18:03:39 GMT

Diggory Papers 9/14 "Flying High"

If ever I actually earn an R rating, it's here. Drunkenness, sexual situations, flying under the influence etc. Also the chapter that most needs fixing if/when I get really bored.

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

I knew right away that there was something wrong with Cho's order. I almost moved to stop her, then decided it was almost certainly a bad idea, whatever the problem was. Instead, I waited, looking slightly put out that she was paying more attention to the barman than to her boyfriend. Eventually, just as her improbably turquoise drink appeared, I remembered what was wrong with it. Terry had said something about spiking drinks - the fake cocktails Cho was enjoying so much. If she was drinking those like pumpkin juice, she was going to get absolutely sloshed very, very quickly; Slytherins don't do things by halves.

This, I thought, was no bad thing; as long as she didn't get too drunk a little Firewhiskey would probably make her much better company. Unfortunately, the Fangs didn't HAVE any Firewhiskey in them. What they did have was enough Incertior to lay out half the school, and that put quite a different slant on things. If Cho got hammered on that, she'd remember everything, including the rat who took advantage of her in her inebriated state. Me. Somehow, I didn't think that was going to make her think well of me.

And then a Plan hit me, one of my very best ideas, and I do say so myself, of such unparalleled perfection that even Potter couldn't have topped it. Like all the best plans, it was dead simple (bad choice of words). Get drunk myself. Not because I was a teenage boy and therefore prone to do that anyway on any or no provocation, but just enough for Cho's guilty imagination to jump to the wrong conclusion in the morning. Cho was basically honest, so she'd blame herself for drunken idiocy at least as much as the poor innocent (and apparently also pissed) Galahad who was just trying to unwind after a stressful term. It's amazing what people can convince themselves of when they really want to think the best of you(1).

Pace yourself, Ced, I said to myself as everyone hurried to take their places for dinner. There were at least three hours to go before I could leave without questions asked, and being interrupted by McGonagall would take the gloss off any evening. Meanwhile, there was no reason I couldn't have some fun with the Slytherins, so I raised my voice just a little higher than necessary and shouted to Terry Higgs, “Hey, Terry, what was that Muggle drink you said I should try?”

Terry yelled back “Orange juice!” without even thinking about it, and didn't notice the shocked expressions on Slytherin faces all over the Hall. Take that, bloody cheating fourth-rate Seeker. If I'd needed a reason, he'd done me any number of injuries in our two years as opposing Seekers, even if he was OK for a Slytherin(2). His replacement, Malfoy, looked especially outraged and stormed away from his pink Pansy (Merlin, her dress was awful) to demand what in the name of Circe's non-existent knickers(3) Terry thought he was on about.

Hoping that the house-elves hadn't made a last-minute check of their supplies which would bring McGonagall down on my head, I firmly ordered orange juice from my place setting(4) and, when it materialised without a side-order of Scottish harpy, ordered the rest of my dinner.

A few minutes later, Cho appeared next to me, flushed and slightly breathless from hurrying to sit down. In that moment, I didn't think I'd ever seen anything more beautiful. I don't bring this up to gloat, but to explain why I acted like such an idiot, of which more later. I spent most of dinner admiring Cho, who was getting steadily merrier on her spiked Clean Whatsits and being entertainingly catty about the older girls and especially Fleur. We shared a good laugh over Davies, who was clearly out of his depth with her and so busy goggling that he stabbed himself firmly in the eye with a chunk of porterhouse steak. It didn't seem to upset Fleur too much; the little minx probably took it as a compliment.

“Oh, you two look so sweet together!” That was Tap, who bounced over to our table with a smile that could have lit up the Forbidden Forest. Just behind her came Stebbins, also grinning like an idiot and frantically scrubbing gravy off his sleeve. I could have kicked myself for not noticing why Tap was so happy, but settled for congratulating the happy couple,

“Congratulations, Ben – you lucky devil. Sarah, hex him if he gets above himself and have fun, both of you.” They looked desperate to get away to some secluded corner, so I added to their retreating backs, “And don't do anything I wouldn't do.” Cho looked quite upset at my apparent stuffiness, which I took as a good sign. If she or they had known just how little I wouldn't do they might have got the point.

Dinner finished and the Weird Sisters struck up again, to a much-diminished audience as many couples were braving the December cold for a tryst in the rose-garden. I considered joining them, but decided I had higher aims than scratches and hypothermia – which reminded me to get some more drinks in. As the dance went on and I got steadily more inebriated, though not as fast as Cho, I noticed one of those things that seems like deep wisdom when you're drunk – that you could tell all the Muggle-born girls by the fact that they were limping horribly. This, I supposed, was what Malfoy was talking about when he ranted about the superiority of blood(5).

I must have had a particular affinity for daft notions that night, because about the time the band were winding up I remembered Fleur's demand that I tell Potter about Moody's cryptic clue. It seemed like a good idea, somehow, and I felt sorry for the little brat who'd lost the girl of his dreams (odd though she might be) to Krum, and Fleur would be impressed, and Cho too... drink's a terrible thing. As everyone left, I told Cho about Moody's clue, remembering at the last minute to leave Fleur out of it. Her reaction was surprisingly cynical – in vino, Slytherin,

“Oh, Shedric, it's sho noble of you to want to tell Harry everything. Don't do it, pleashe. I want you to win, not him. He'sh a shweet boy, but he'sh not good enough to beat you on his own(6). The besht wishard winsh, not the nicesht. Would Vleur or Ficky do that for you?”

In the lunatic way of that sort of thing, this made me even more determined to be noble. I collared Potter by the first-floor staircase, told him about Moody's clue in as few words as I could and disappeared whilst he was still gobsmacked. I can keep my countenance fairly well however drunk I am, so I don't think he ever knew I wasn't 'doing the right thing' for purely altruistic reasons. Common sense is another matter, but I've never been so drunk I couldn't fake sobriety with people who didn't know me. Of course, my memory's a bit suspect, so I might just not remember it.

As I made my way back down the stairs, inspiration hit me between the eyes again, this time a much better idea. I remembered the South Wing, and how perfect I'd thought that room would be for a little privacy in the middle of Hogwarts. I asked Cho if she wanted to find somewhere a little quieter, and she almost ripped my arm off dragging me away... before realising that she didn't actually know where I meant. On our oddyssey through the Hogwarts halls we passed more happy couples than the registry office sees in a year, two blazing rows, one unconscious teacher (Sinistra) and Dumbledore storming down a corridor on the fifth floor, fortunately away from us.

To my everlasting mystification, the most important thing we passed was a display case containing the broom of some ancient notable who'd flown it in battle in the Third Aquitanian War or some equally long-ago conflict that Binns forgot to mention. This gave Cho the great idea of going flying on it. As I said, she was smashed. I talked her out of it pretty quickly, on the sensible grounds that a) we'd get killed and b) if we didn't, Dumbledore would have our heads. Death may be an irrelevant consideration to the truly drunk, but Dumbledore's wrath isn't. Ever.

Maybe if I'd been sober I'd have kept resisting Cho's lunatic ideas, but when she suggested going flying anyway, on our own brooms, I couldn't actually think of a good reason not to. We retraced our steps to Ravenclaw Tower and collected Cho's Cleansweep without running into anyone at all – I suppose the law-abiding Ravenclaws(7) went to bed at midnight on the dot. From there we turned towards the Cellar, and managed to make it all the way to the ground floor before we were interrupted,

“Hey! You there! Holt Lar! Handy Hock!(8)” Filch had obviously bought a phrase-book somewhere and, much more to the point, was watching the entrance to the Cellar. Somebody, I suppose, had worked out that half the house was out of bounds and warned him to keep an eye out. We tried to leg it up the back staircase, but Cho tripped over the top step. By the time I'd picked her up there was no way of getting out of sight before Filch came up. At least, I didn't think there was. Cho had other ideas.

“Less go, Shed! Relashio!” As I gaped, she blew out the mullioned window on the landing and ran over to it, trailing her broom behind her. I followed, still not quite seeing what she wanted to do. Then she hopped up on the windowsill – her balance now perfect, all traces of drunken clumsiness gone – and called me to follow. I nearly refused point blank, but between drink and fear I mustered the bravado to clamber up alongside Cho, mount her broom behind her and push off – a hundred feet off the ground.

There's a reason Quidditch players call that move the Death Drop. It's very, very easy to slide off your broom whilst it adjusts to the weight, or to hit the ground before it's stable, or shove too hard and roll straight over... only Dangerous Dai could ever have invented it. With two of us on a temperamental old piece of firewood, it sank like a rock. I yelled aloud in sheer terror, and heard Cho shriek as well. Hers, though, was of pure delight and she leant forward into a screaming dive which would surely have killed anyone else. The Muggles say their God protects fools, drunks and the insane, which I think probably explains our survival; we were covered thrice over.

Somehow, Cho pulled us up and we set off on a hair-raising ride through the freezing night around the castle's towers. Her balance might have been back to unnatural perfection, but her judgment was getting even more off and we had more than a few narrow escapes from trees, towers and Durmstrang's mast. Every one of them paled into insignificance compared to Cho's stroke of genius.

“Shift back a bit, Shed.” I moved. You do, when a drunk valkyrie tells you to. “Hold shtill.” She started trying to turn to face me in mid-air, but couldn't get her leg high enough because her dress was in the way. We wobbled dangerously for a bit, then she gave up, ripped the skirt off her dress and flipped herself round to look me in the eye,

“Alwaysh wanted to try thish. Fly 'nited. C'mere.” She leaned forward to kiss me, and I forgot I was freezing, forgot that we were fifty feet up, even forgot there was nobody holding the handle. By the time I remembered the latter, she was wrapped around me and we had no free hands between us. Somehow, we managed to level out over the lake, and got back to the matter in hand. We were drunk, frostbitten and in imminent danger of drowning, but I couldn't have stopped for a million Galleons.

I remember we crossed the lake-shore heading away from Hogwarts, but that's just about the last thing I remember coherently. After that it's flashes. Small, cold-clumsy hands scrabbling at my flies. Cho hitching up her dress and pulling me closer. Heat and hope and life as the snow started to whip round my ears. Leaning back into a screaming climb as we drove each other over the edge. Oblivion.

Yeah, I meant that. I don't remember anything afterwards. Not a damn thing. Next thing I knew, I was lying on top of the Astronomy Tower (sod romance, it's bloody cold up there in the snow) with a pounding headache and no underwear. After a short eternity gathering my wits, I managed to open my eyes. It hurt. The sun had never been that bright before, had it? My eyes protested vigorously, but they did focus, eventually, and I saw Cho lying next to me. Her dress robes hadn't survived the night intact, or anywhere near – they were more a very elaborate but skimpy nightie than anything you could wear to a respectable ball. Even a disrespectable ball might have taken umbrage, Britain being what it is.

It was too cold to lie there for long, however cold I was. If the sun was up, it had to be well past the time when I could have made it to the Cellar undetected, and Ravenclaw Tower was even further away by any route that wouldn't get you detention. Cho could fly, of course, and was a born roof-rabbit(9), but she had to be half-dead from the cold and exposure, without trying to navigate Hogwarts' maze of towers and roofs unseen. Fortunately, there was always the South Wing. It's nearly as far from the Astronomy Tower as the Cellar, but as I'd found out when fleeing Minshaw minor(10), you can get there by quiet routes. Anyone skulking in secret passages has better things to worry about than reporting a half-naked Prefect with blood in his eye.

I didn't meet anyone worth worrying about, anyhow. A Ravenclaw firstie ran for his life when I glared at him, the Fat Friar said something about youthful high jinks and winked at me, Cho didn't so much as stir from her place on my shoulder (I didn't trust myself to levitate her) and the flat was blessedly empty once I managed to find it; the rooms had moved again. In the absence of any parchment, or indeed a quill, I used a sign-writing charm I picked up from somewhere or other to leave Cho a message,

Morning, gorgeous. How are you feeling? Last night was perfect. Well, near anyway. Perfection wouldn't have given me frostbite, and I'd remember more. I'll be sorry it ever happened if you want me to be, but I'll be half-lying. I don't want this to be a mistake, for either of us.

More practically, you're in a hidden room off the South Wing. I didn't have time to do much with it, but nobody can find you here. I'll see you later,

love, Ced.

I hoped that struck the right note of regret that our first time hadn't been more romantic, hope that we could do better next time and complete devotion under any circumstances, but I wasn't sure. I'm not the most eloquent writer in the world and I've heard sincerity helps as well. Or maybe not, maybe it just gets in the way. Shrugging my figurative shoulders, I repaired enough of my robes that a casual glance wouldn't reveal anything strange (though someone might well ask why I was still in my dress robes) and returned to the Cellar by a very circuitous but practically safe route. Praying that Cho would take my note the right way, I was too distracted to notice a pair of plotters in a little-used corridor on the east side of the second floor. You'd have thought their hair would be visible enough,

“Why, Gred, what have we here? A Hogwarts Champion, still all dressed up and skulking about back passages! What can the matter be?”

(1) You really can fool some of the people all of the time, and most of the others don't bother to look. Cedric was intimately familiar with the principle upon which most of European magical society is based.

The hypocrisy is striking; Cedric would have made a fine Slytherin himself.
'Circe's knickers' was a popular WWN catchphrase until a nameless satirist pointed out that Circe was an Archaic Greek sorceress and wouldn't have worn any.
There was little human magic involved in Professor Dumbledore's famous catering system, merely a great deal of work for the house-elves. It could probably not be done anywhere other than Hogwarts, which has many elves and is extremely well-mapped.
Cedric had not heard of shoes which required Cushioning Charms. Lucky him.
Cedric, remember, had told nobody other than Fleur that Harry had warned him about the dragons.
Locked in an age-long battle with their implacable enemies the Ravenclaws
The latter two phrases are probably lower-class English renderings of 'Halte-la', French for 'Stop there' and 'Hande Hoch', which is German for 'hands up'.
'Roof rabbit' was and probably still is Hogwarts slang for someone who spends a lot of time on the castle's several acres of roof, either in order to navigate, get some peace and quiet or seek new thrills. The practice of 'steeple-chasing' across the roof is strictly forbidden (as is being on it at all), but continues nevertheless, mainly within Ravenclaw.Gryffindors tend to consider it a 'sissy' alternative to flying; Slytherin and Hufflepuff dwell underground and therefore have fewer opportunities.
Siblings in Hogwarts are frequently distinguished (especially Slytherins) by 'major' for the elder and 'minor' for the younger. This rule is never applied to Weasleys because there are nearly always more than two present.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 18:00:31 GMT

Diggory Papers 8/14 "Eggs and Plots Hatch, But Balls Drop"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

I grew to hate Yenaro's bloody Voricide incredibly quickly. I can't describe how weird it is to have no sex drive at all, and I feel almost sorry for the poor sods who go their whole lives feeling like that. Only almost, because I don't have much pity in me and I wouldn't waste it on the likes of Granger(1) and Madam Pince if I did. It was like there was a connection broken somewhere between my balls and brain; I knew there was some sort of message coming in but I couldn't read it. At least Tap's foul brew worked for impressing Fleur, but not quite as well as I'd hoped, and it came within an ace of making me look the biggest fool since Humphrey Belcher. Thank Merlin for Snape, and you can tell it was bad because I wouldn't be beholden to Snape for all the gold in Gringott's. I'm getting ahead of myself, though.

For a couple of days, the plan seemed to be working pretty well. I spent a lot of time with Fleur, talking about anything and nothing – I even told her how I'd found out about the dragons, and she admitted that Maxime had told her a day earlier. We usually walked the (less visible) parts of the grounds in the evenings, which gave me an undeserved reputation for diligent egg-studying. Fleur told me horror-stories about her father's attitude to all young men, foreigners and 'modern ideas' (in that order) but I thought she was exaggerating at least a bit, so I wasn't too bothered. If I'd paid close attention, I might not be dead now. We didn't talk about the Tournament – I don't think either of us was quite sure the other was a) trustworthy or b) going to be any use, but we actually had more in common than you might think – boredom, ambition and a powerful desire not to actually die for the greater glory of the Head and Governors. Sadly, it looked at first as if she was about as attracted to me as my Voricided libido was to her. Not very. The cheerful anecdotes she told me about putting down unwelcome suitors sounded worryingly like veiled warnings – I never thought that, after so long, dealing with drooling blokes would be more like a game, or a hazard of daily life, like dodging deadlines for everyone else.

By Wednesday night, though, I was running out of time and the number of girls queueing up to get their hands on me was well into the thirties, ranging from Moaning Myrtle via Hufflepuff's entire fourth year (who came and asked me in a body, saying I could pick whichever one I wanted as long as I gave the others a dance) to a terrified first-year who fainted before I got a chance to answer and was lugged off by her admiring friends. I screwed up my courage (my courage was screwed up all right, in more ways than one) and raised the topic of the Ball.

“What do you think of this?” 'This' was a notice from Sprout, Maxime, McGonagall and Flitwick offering dancing lessons to any fifth-year or above in need. Fleur, of course, replied that she'd learned to dance at her mother's knee (work that one out sometime) and certainly had no need of anything 'Ogwarts teachers had to tell her.

“And how about your partner?” I added. “Is he as good?” I knew, or at least was reasonably sure, that there was no partner as yet – Davies would have told the world if he'd asked her but was being uncharacteristically nervous and the Boy Hero was out of favour because he'd had one too many 'better ideas' about tackling the dragon. I thought I'd better check, though, because I couldn't be sure and I didn't want to find out when I asked her myself that some French git had got there first.

“Quelle partenaire?” Well, that was good news. I had some piece of outrageous flattery up my sleeve, but saved it on the grounds that it was too cheesy. Instead, I asked in my floweriest French (which is pretty ornate, because Mother made me read French and Swedish(2) novels to 'keep up my languages') if she would do me the very great honour of accompanying me to the Ball, then went on to how I was regretted to present such a sorry contrast to her unmatched beauty - I liked that bit, it doesn't do to act aware of your own looks - etcetera. Not too many cetera, just enough.

She seemed flattered, but more shocked than anything else. Her first words were along the lines of 'it's very kind but...' and my heart sank. Her objections turned out to be along the lines of 'everyone sure to disapprove', 'what about the Opening?', 'not safe', 'what if they find out about us working together?' and so on, all of which was undeniably true if not quite the point. I did my best to come up with answers, piously invoking international friendship, precedent(3), the strength of my feelings, hang the Opening Dance because Potter made the numbers all wrong anyway and other such rubbish, but it was a losing game. The best I could manage was that she really was sorry to turn me down, which I take as one of the best compliments I ever had from anyone (well, she gave me a better one later, but that was under duress, sort of(4)), along with Dumbledore's completely untrue speech in my memory, which I heard about many years after the fact and laughed myself sick over before getting drunk for a week.

By this time it was long past my curfew (nobody dared curfew Fleur, they'd just have got a torrent of outraged French and an aristocratic sneer for their pains) so I slunk off, defeated, back to the Cellar. Unfortunately, Filch was scrubbing the floor in the Entrance Hall and leapt on me (figuratively, thank Merlin) to demand what in Salazar's stinking drawers I thought I was doing out of the castle at this hour other than making trouble for him, and so ad infinitum. Panicked and in a very bad mood, I invoked the names of the Triwizard committee, Sprout, Sous-Ministre Delacour (I'd never met him, but neither had Filch), the Floo Regulatory Board and anyone else I could think of. Spell-shocked, the insanitary old coot gave up and let me get to bed – Sprout would back me up and the rest would ignore a mere Squib caretaker.

In the morning, I got up as a man on a mission. Specifically, a mission to get myself a date before my admirers gave up on me and every girl above fourth year was taken. I nearly finished before I'd started, as Pansy Parkinson (she of the unfortunate face and very nice tits) cornered me by Lakshmibai the Lascivious on the way to Runes. Her very best seductive act was pretty convincing and might just have worked out of sheer brass neck and even sheerer blouse, but Malferret (as the Weasley twins dubbed him in a rare moment of insight) showed up and dragged her off in a fit of pique. I think I heard the words 'betrothal', 'appearances' and 'half-blood' in there somewhere, which really got my goat as even some lunatic like Caradoc Crabbe(5) couldn't fairly call me a half-blood. Betrothal, well, I don't think that covers attending balls, but Malfoys and the like don't live in the same century as everyone else.

In Runes I very gently sounded out Tap, who would do in a pinch – safe, nice, would do anything for me and if she didn't look great you wouldn't kick her out of bed either. Stebbins, though, had had other ideas and asked her out in History the previous day. She said he'd been trying to work up the courage to ask her out for ages – no wonder he signed up for History where they could have nice long uninterrupted chats and bond over Goblin Rebellions. Ben should have been a Ravenclaw anyway, Merlin knows where the Hat got Hufflepuff from. Disgusted by her oh-so-sweet new romance, I went back to glaring at Book VI of the Cambridge Runes Course and trying to work out what the blazes dipthongisation was, before Fan-Ten got round to setting us the oral exam we'd been due since the third week of term.

I spent my free going through the school in my head, thinking who I should actually ask to the Ball now Plan A had let me down. Pansy was obviously right out, because you don't upset Malfoys and live, the seventh year might as well not have existed except the brainless beauty Elspeth who, as Head Girl, was stuck with Ozzy whether she liked it or not and my year were a depressingly monogamous lot; nearly all the girls were paired off, complete boilers or Natasha Krelsky. I wasn't particularly upset to realise that my original idea was about right. Cho Chang or bust – except even the bust had gone off with bloody Malfoy. I went to lunch then, thinking Cho would be easy to find, but she wasn't – I don't know where she went all the time, but she could give vanishing lessons to the castle ghosts.

For a change, I didn't run into her in the Owlery. Instead, I was on my way up to Transfiguration when I ran into her going the other way. I decided on the spot not to bother with any smarm and just said 'Hi Cho, d'you want to come to the Ball with me?' with the best imitation of trying-not-to-look-nervous I could do. It worked; before I could blink she was wrapped around me, hanging on for grim death, and if McGonagall hadn't shown up at that moment I don't know if we'd ever have got to Transfiguration (not that I'd have minded that). Unfortunately, the sight of Cameron tartan has an instant effect, which in my case meant swinging Cho neatly into a doorway and turning around with an innocent expression. Still, the knowledge that Cho was so enthusiastic about me kept me warm through Alexandra Sutton's attempts at human Transfiguration, despite the truly awful beard she gave me. Luckily for me, McGonagall was in what passed for a good mood and got rid of it for me. She wasn't so generous to the Weasley twin who aimed his Hair-Switching Spell rather low and would up with a Brazilian-waxed skull. I was never to look at Angelina Johnson in the same way again.

With asking Cho to the ball so publicly came an instant steady girlfriend, something I'd not had since I was a snotty fourth-year (for lack of inclination, not inability to find one). With something interesting to distract her, like choosing a dress, Cho wasn't very high-maintenance at first, and the odd hour was all we ever got to spend together before one of her friends dragged her off to look at fabric samples or something. I almost thought they were doing it on purpose, and whether they were or not I'd made no more progress than a few snogs by Christmas Eve. OK, so under the influence of Voricide I couldn't really go that much further, but still, not exactly great form, especially when Cho was clearly panting for me. The only black mark against us was that Potter apparently asked her to the ball on the last day of term, thoroughly tongue-tied and clearly heartbroken when she said no. I was expecting her to be cruel about this and had plenty of damning with faint praise ready, but she felt sorry for the little berk and said she might have accepted if I'd not got round to asking her myself. I muttered mutinously at this, which got her all heated up. She grabbed me by the back of my robes, pushed me into a corner of the corridor and... Nearly Headless Nick drifted along. Damn all ghosts and Gryffindors to an eternity in Snape's dungeons.

I decided to spend the first week of holiday making a concerted attack on the golden egg, and asked both Fleur and Cho (separately, never mentioning the other) to help. Just opening the egg was less than no use, but both my lovely ladies had a theory – Cho's was that it must be encrypted somehow, Fleur's that the conditions had to be changed. Between research with the two of them – and sadly it really was research – it wasn't much of a break. Within four days I'd tried every Revealing Charm I knew, dug up enough on code-breaking to encrypt the entire library, boiled, fried and even poached (back from Peeves, who'd nicked it) the blasted egg without any result at all. On Thursday Fleur had the idea that cooling it might work, but our stacked Freezing Charms went ever-so-slightly wrong and exploded. Fleur was quick enough to Disillusion herself before Moody came along with blood in his eye, but I wasn't. Grimacing at my soot-covered robes, winked outrageously, then told me to have a bath 'and take that egg with you, you might learn something new'. I marked his advice, and decided to take my clue for a soak some other time. Moody had no business knowing the Tournament clues, but he was more than paranoid enough to find out anyway.

When he'd gone, Fleur came out from under her Disillusionment (I don't think Moody even suspected her presence) and said she too would take the advice. I was tempted to say we could take it together, but instead made non-committal noises, playing on Moody's erratic reputation to stop her taking it too seriously. After all, I didn't want her to get the drop on me for no good reason – getting to have a bath with her, by the way, would have been a good reason. She did say, to my annoyance, that I should repay my debt of honour (her exact words) to Potter by passing this news on to him; I changed the subject and thought no more of it for a while.

Christmas morning came and went in a haze of Ball-related daydreams for most of the school – presents, cake and eggnog seemed to be on hold until the evening or even Boxing Day(7). I was more excited than I let on; official Hogwarts knees-ups were rare, especially ones where even McGonagall was heard to admit we could 'let our hair down'. With that end in mind, an unholy alliance of Hufflepuffs and Slytherins (the Weasley twins were under constant watch to stop them getting up to anything) had produced a triple whammy of Firewhiskey, Incertior and that compressed-hangover stuff that ought to be illegal(8). Robbie Ogden explained that he'd had an idea, and had only spiked the drinks nobody not in the know would ever ask for – Muggle orange juice and the Gillywater that went in something called a Clean Fang(9) were the two I remember. It was a pretty good idea, were it not for one fifth-year who'd been introduced to cocktails over the summer. That made it a great idea.

It was Tap who brought everything crashing down at lunch, by the simple expedient of asking how I was getting on with her horrible potion. In a flash of horrible memory, I remembered her saying that it took a fortnight for a dose to completely wear off. It had only been, let me see, ten days. Oh shit. I had my wand at her neck in no time flat and only just managed to convert the gesture to a joking threat in time. Rather than threaten like a Dark Wizard in a bad novel, I begged her to get me an antidote before the Ball. Looking terribly guilty, she rushed off.

Again, I was reduced to pacing the corridors and waiting, waiting for news. I polished my broom (my actual broom, you pervert, I didn't have a choice with that bloody potion in me), ironed my dress robes, dug out Mother's family signet ring - she was a Bragge, of the old political dynasty, and it was worth a small fortune, put it back, put it on again, dropped my cloak-pin down the sink, Summoned it back and got a chunk of the plumbing too... by five-thirty I was a nervous wreck fit only for the Hog's Head or the International Confederation. Eventually, Tap rushed into my dorm (and how she even got into the Hufflepuff Common Room I didn't know) babbling about getting expelled for burgling Snape's office. I didn't care about that, my eyes were locked on the vial of pink stuff in her hand.

It tasted absolutely foul, but as soon as the aftertaste faded I felt a massive grin spread across my face as the parts (speaking metaphorically) I'd hardly noticed missing most of the time slotted back into place. Tap echoed my smile with one that could have got her arrested in some countries but left quickly, muttering about lost time. She certainly made up for enough of it that night. Restored to my usual self, cloak-pins and signet rings were no obstacles at all, and I was ready to pick Cho up from West Tower with time to spare. I showed off just a little by beating Paracelsus at his own game – years of Ingolfr finally paid off when a quote from the Saga of Brolth Blackwand got me into the oak-panelled Ravenclaw quarters – they didn't have a Common Room so much as a library with lots of little carrels and a bunch of leather chairs by the fire. Cho was on her way down as I entered and she looked like a million Galleons in a midnight-blue robe with silver trim and whew! she'd better not let McGonagall see that neckline.

The Ball opened, as we'd been warned, with the Champions' Dance. Potter was with an Indian girl I didn't know, Fleur with Roger Davies (damn his eyes) and Krum... well, I didn't think I'd ever seen her before, but there was no mistaking Granger's grating whine even if it did come from what looked like a very young but at least potentially drop-dead-gourgeous socialite. I suppose you can do anything with enough Sleekeazy's and Glamour Charms, even make Granger clean up OK. What Krum was doing with her is anybody's guess – maybe he wanted someone who'd be so grateful she wouldn't expect him to talk, dance or otherwise make himself at all pleasant. It partly explained why Potter was looking so grim though; I'd have taken Pratsil(10) or whatever her name was over Granger any day, but there's no accounting for taste. Cho, incidentally, couldn't dance a step, so I actually got to lead for a change – younger girls tend to take charge and drag you where they want to go.

Cho was claimed for the next song by a plump German called Blowitz and went happily enough, so I let the fourth-years have their dances. When the last one let me go, I looked around for Fleur or Cho and saw both over by the trestle tables serving as a bar. Fleur was still trapped by Roger Davies and I decided to leave her for the moment, but Cho was alone, talking to one of the hired caterers. She was talking about her holidays, I think (he was young and handsome and I'd gone off with a bunch of my fans, so I couldn't complain) and finished, “... and they aren't like the real thing, of course, but I'll have another of those Clean Fangs please.”

A vile calumny, from where the editor is sitting. The fact the editor is sitting at all rather disproves Diggory's point.
It is to be presumed from this that Cedric spoke Swedish. This does not appear to hold any importance for this year, but at least one other volume of the Papers exists which may elaborate.
The Hogwarts and Durmstrang Champions of 1704 did indeed attend the Yule Ball at Beauxbatons together. The precedent is not entirely invalidated by the Hogwarts champion's convenient assassination whilst asleep in the Durmstrang quarters.
The passage referred to may be cut from your edition of the Papers due to the Ministry's antediluvian, paternalistic and wholly outmoded censorship laws.
The immensely aged patriarch of the Crabbe family was noted as the most extreme of the 'loyal opposition' throughout the Voldemort Wars, favouring repeal of the Acts of Toleration, the Nine Acts and the Muggle Relations Act, but deploring the Death Eaters' tactics and eventual goals in the strongest possible terms. Unlike many of his colleagues, he was completely honest in his disapprobation, but the deaths of his great-nephew and great-great-nephew (by then the only other living Crabbes) fighting as Death Eaters at the Third Battle of Hogwarts in 1997 caused him to commit suicide at the incredible age of 188, having been given a year to live ever since 1923.
American readers and other strange creatures may be unaware that in the UK 'Boxing Day' is the 26^th of December, usually a public holiday.
The Incertior potion reduces inhibitions but, unlike alcohol, actually intensifies the memory – one remembers precisely what happens under its influence. 'That compressed-hangover stuff' probably refers to a fast-acting but extremely painful variant on the Sobriety Solution.
A popular non-alchoholic variant on the 'Runespoor Fang' cocktail.
Actually Parvati Patil, killed at Third Hogwarts. Rumours linking her and her twin sister Padma to Harry Potter in later years had no basis in fact despite the sensationalist journalism of Keith 'Kinsfire' McComb.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:59:19 GMT

Diggory Papers 7/14 "Dragons, Charm and Balls"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

For a full minute, maybe more, I couldn’t even move. That was a blessing in disguise, because my first, overwhelming instinct was to run for it, stop only when I reached the coast and then start swimming. Instead, I was spectacularly sick over Krum’s feet, which drew no reaction whatsoever from the miserable sod. Later, Fleur said it had cheered her up and taken her mind off things.

Quaking in my fireproof boots, I heard the whistle which Bagman had said would signal the start of the task. A dull roar echoed in my ears: either the crowd or my own heartbeat, and I staggered out into painfully bright sunlight. The arena was much larger than I’d expected; the dragon was maybe 300 yards away, sitting in a pile of rocks, presumably on top of the egg I was looking for. It looked a bit like a rock itself, huge and blue-grey and very obviously asleep. This would have been excellent news, if it hadn’t been sitting right on top of the egg. Typical, I thought. Not only did I have to fight a dragon, I had to wake one up.

A stroke of insane genius hit me. Hadn’t the Founders been in this position? And hadn’t they found a foolproof method of waking a dragon? I just about managed to rasp out ‘Rictusempra’ through my tight, dry throat. That was a mistake. I should have made it some dinner first. Fortunately, there was enough distance between me and the huge, blunt head that it didn’t spot me as the cause of its discomfort. Instead, it roared, which drew a gasp from the crowd, and sent a gust of fire up into the air. Meanwhile, I took a firmer grip of my wand and, shaking so much I could hardly hold it steady, started work on Transfiguring a handy rock into something a dragon would think tastier than my gizzard.

As Transfiguration, it was frankly shite. That was my first mistake. McGonagall would, on a good day, have given me an A for it, and on most days P at best. It was recognisably a dog, but the fur was approximately the texture of rock, the body was lumpy and misshapen, I somehow managed to miss the tail off altogether… it was a sort of 30-yard dog(1), but it might do. I directed it towards the dragon and off to the right with my wand, still shaking so it staggered as if drunk or dying. It was working, though. The dragon’s head swung round to track it, further, further and yes!

Slowly, reluctantly, the huge bulk clambered to its feet, obviously in no hurry. I calmed down a bit as it moved away from the cairn, far enough for me to see a tiny golden glint and call out “Accio golden egg!”. Nothing(2), “Mobiliovum!” An egg rose up and started drifting towards me, but as it got closer I realised it was an ordinary egg, and dropped it in disgust. Second mistake. The third was to yell “Wingardium leviosa!” at the top of my voice, as if a first-year charm would somehow succeed where the others had failed. The noise attracted the dragon, just in time to see one of its precious eggs smash on the ground.

It wasn’t moving slowly any more. Its wings spread in front of me, blocking out the sun even at that distance, and a lick of flame reached out towards me, falling only a few yards short. The thought drifted across my mind that I’d forgotten to Disillusion myself, but it was rapidly expelled by fear. Never one to think on my feet, I got off them quickly, dropping to the floor. Down there, I conjured a large bubble (I was under pressure, OK?) and Banished it at the dragon to distract it and buy myself some time.

The dragon didn’t buy it. Flapping furiously, it rose into the air and sent a long tongue of flame straight at me, which I tried to reflect with a Maltese Cross. It didn’t work quite as advertised, and I got nasty burns on my face and left leg (it’s a vile lie that my hair caught fire). I didn’t feel them, though, because the dragon was coming straight down at me. Blinded by the smoke billowing from its nostrils, I ran. After a few seconds, minutes, years I could see again, but I didn’t look around. I didn’t have to, because I was running straight towards the diving Short-Snout.

The world seemed to stop dead, and I could finally think clearly. The dragon was far faster than I, with quicker reflexes. Whichever way I turned, it was sure to catch me. All I could do was keep running, straight under it, and pray that it didn’t just belly-flop on me. Somehow, I managed to put on an extra burst of speed. Fifty yards, thirty, twenty, Merlin those teeth were big and very, very close, ten and everything went black as the huge shadow swept over me. Hurling hexes over my shoulder, I kept running towards the egg. Somehow, I managed a Flame-Freezing Charm as well, and the first blast of fire caused only an itch between my shoulder-blades.

I can’t believe I never thought of that in the first place.

I reached the eggs a bare few yards ahead of the dragon’s teeth, grabbed the golden one, set off for the stands at top speed – and tripped over a rock. In mid-air, I fired off the first spell I could think of. A Banishing Charm. Straight at the ground.

Screaming, smoking and soiling my underwear, I flew off at an angle, but managed to land reasonably softly – Seekers never fall hard(2) – by the stands. As I’d got the egg, I just hopped over the fence and held it up. As if from a great distance, I heard an almighty cheer, then passed out or, to hear Stebbins tell it, fell asleep after four sleepless nights on the trot.

When I woke up I was in another tent – not the one I’d started from, but a smaller one with Pomfrey clucking over my leg and canvas partitions to either side. In a gap between two of them I saw Fleur stagger in with her skirt six inches shorter and smoke coming from the crotch. As there was no sign of Roger Davies, I presumed it was the effect of a dragon attack. She looked a bit shocked (though probably not half as much so as I did), but was clutching a golden egg. Two out of two survived, and a full-throated cheer from outside suggested that Krum was doing well too.

Bagman announced Potter just as Pomfrey started dressing my leg, but the cheering stopped after a second and was replaced by puzzled silence with the odd boo. This lasted a good minute, then Bagman gabbled something about flying and the crowd went absolutely insane. I sat up to hear what was going on, but without being able to see I couldn’t make head or tail of Bagman’s commentary. Whatever it was, it was popular, and didn’t seem to last long at all before Potter was announced as the quickest Champion. I gave a sort of strangled cry of disbelief at that, which Pomfrey took for a complaint about the state of my leg.

Potter staggered in trailing clouds of smoke and glory, but he was patched up very quickly and bounced out of the tent accompanied by a cloud of hair (which I recognised as Granger, Scourge of Ancient Runes and irritating sidekick) and a Weasley. The cloud of hair somehow managed to look adoring, hugged him and promptly burst into tears. Maybe he told her she looked like she’d got a dead Kneazle on her head. Pomfrey returned, stuck her wand firmly in my kneecap and asked how it felt. Fortunately for my reputation, I was too busy biting my tongue to tell her.

At around this point Tap and Stebbins burst in, yelling something about points. I got them calmed down enough to get the scores out of them, which rather cheered me up. Apparently, Fleur was tied with me and Krum two points ahead. Close enough for Ministry work to a three-way tie. Potter, though… we fell silent as the crowd oohed and aahed at the marks – one of them got an incredible jeer from the crowd, presumably Karkaroff showing his blatant dishonesty. Bagman, for once, shut up and didn’t announce the score, so I was left on tenterhooks waiting for someone to tell me.

Eventually, Rupert wandered in, bringing the less-than-delightful news that Potter had upstaged me again by not only surviving and beating my time but tying with Krum for first place. I couldn’t be too annoyed though; relief at my continued survival (with a whole skin, yet) outweighed everything else. Pomfrey came back a third time to slather orange gunk on my face, then Fleur was released from the other end of the tent and we left together, with her telling me all about the Entrancement that had, in the end, worked very nicely except that the dragon snored and set fire to her skirt. Full marks that dragon; it improved her attire nicely. Pity it didn’t snore a bit harder, really.

We’d just been joined by an undamaged but knackered-looking Krum when a messenger – one of the Durmstrang girls – arrived to send us back to the tent where Bagman would like a word. As we wandered over to him, I spotted Granger, still crying her eyes out. I called out, “Good one, Harry!” to Potter, who was just coming in and seemed utterly unaware that his girlfriend was so miserable – not what you’d expect from the honourable Gryffindor at all. To my slight relief, he took this as a compliment to his performance rather than a slight on his romantic qualities and smiled back, obviously flying high. Bagman explained in double-quick time that the eggs would open up to give a clue for the next Task, which would take place at the end of February.

When he finished, we scattered to celebrate our survival or, in Krum’s case, brood. I was most of the way back to the castle with Tap and a crowd of admiring fifth-years when Rita Skeeter appeared from behind a bush and started questioning me about my plan, and what I thought of Potter. I told her that Dumbledore moved in mysterious ways, which had the advantage of being true, and that he was doing very well, considering. She was free to take from that as much or little praise as she liked. One of her questions, though, floored me completely.

“And that Banishing Charm, Cedric. Do you take much inspiration from your reading?”

She what? What reading? I looked baffled, so she explained a bit, or at least, I think it was meant to be an explanation. Something about an Acromantula and throwing someone off a bridge. The first thing I recognised was a name, ‘Nymphadora Norville’, which belonged to a particularly nauseating series of kids’ books(3) about obnoxious Society brats adventuring round Hogwarts and Foiling Evil (now that I mention it, I bet Potter was a fan). I quickly came up with a vague reply.

“Oh yes, I know. Well, the classics are always with us and I suppose it was in the back of my mind.” I was only aware of those books’ existence because Hufflepuff was full of dippy girls and I rather resented the suggestion that I’d actually read them. On the other hand, I quickly realised that there might be some credit and/or cash in endorsing some cheap publisher’s back catalogue as ‘an inspiration to Triwizard Champion Cedric Diggory’, with a flattering photograph on a full-page ad in the Prophet. After a couple of minutes’ flattery, Rita’s cameraman got bored snapping me and dragged her off in search of Fleur, leaving me to go and celebrate.

On my way down to the Cellar, I ran into Jack Minshaw, whom I’d forgotten about. Before I could hex him into thinking he was a six-year-old girl (I was never any good at mind-altering spells, but I was enthusiastic), he actually apologised for setting his sister on me and said that I was OK really, for a Hufflepuff. I thanked him graciously, and surreptitiously Vanished his trousers as he walked away. Nemo me impune detrahit(4), as they say, ne celeriter debraccam. By the time he noticed the breeze around his balls, I was long gone, celebrating my survival in the Cellar. ‘OK for a Hufflepuff’ was hardly abject, anyway. You’d have thought a Slytherin would have crawled(5) more, considering that he was a fifth-year nonentity and I was a Triwizard Champion. I suppose that’s why the Minshaw family has never threatened to eclipse Black, Bones, Peverell, Scrimgeour et al.

For some reason, this was almost the only occasion in the year when Hufflepuff House didn’t throw a party to celebrate. Perhaps people had felt it would be tempting Fate to stock up before I’d survived, and Hufflepuff lacked anyone with the covert talents of a Weasley or Malfoy who could go to Hogsmeade at will. Instead, a steady stream of the concerned and worshipping admired my burns, praised my ingenuity and, in one star-struck case, had me sign a copy of The Case of the Vanishing Vipertooth, in which my Banishing Charm had made its first appearance. Minshaw junior was notable by her absence; the threat of brotherly retribution (or possibly of displaying her knickers to the common room) seemed to have worked.

During the celebrations, Rupert convinced me to open the egg, which turned out to be a bad idea, as ideas go. It screamed wordlessly, clearing the common room in no time flat. My useless housemates had plenty of ideas as to what it might be, from the mating call of a Selkie via a Banshee all the way down to a Muggle record of something called ‘heavy metal’, which Mildred thought might mean I had to either go to a Muggle concert or eat a live bat. Please don’t tell me why, I don’t want to know. Unfortunately, serious and plausible ideas were a bit thinner on the ground. I was reasonably sure that Selkies didn’t scream like that; Father had dealt with them before and the only one I’d ever seen (or heard) had sounded rather like a cow. Banshees are dead easy to defeat – NEWT Defence, but more because of the consequences of screwing up than because it’s hard – and Durmstrang would surely have died before allowing anything Muggle in the Tournament. Nought out of three for the innovative minds of the house.

Over the next few weeks, I managed to forget completely about the egg, as other things took over my life – most of them connected to the magnificent Fleur and her froggy friends. Krum, other than being an unwelcome distraction to the star-struck, was pretty much invisible as he spent all his time either in the library or on the Durmstrang ship. Funnily enough, I never saw him fly, whereas I and a few others from the upper years got out on our brooms fairly often. Fleur, sadly, disliked flying (Beauxbatons didn’t make as big a deal of it as we did), but Cho was a regular, zipping around the sky every Thursday evening on her unreliable custom Cleansweep. Obviously, as the most experienced Seeker in the school, I had to offer her a few tips from time to time and generally make myself useful. What else could an honourable Hufflepuff do? The fact that, for example, correcting grips is best done with your arms wrapped around the pupil from behind was completely coincidental. Of course.

You might, having now got a reasonable idea of my character, wonder why I was investing so much time in these two girls when almost every other one in the school would cheerfully fall at my feet. You have obviously never tried to find a Hogwarts girl willing to give you more than the odd snog in a broom-cupboard. Society families like the Malfoys were big on purity in all its forms (except when applied to their sons) and had a tendency toward illegal duelling or at least arranging nasty accidents for anyone defiling their daughters. The ‘good honest yeomanry’, as they called themselves, or smug provincial dullards, as I called them, made up the majority of the school, your Weasleys, Boots, Kystons and yes, Diggorys. The shining characteristic of this lot was that the older generation were complete prudes and had mostly raised their daughters the same way. Finally, there were the Muggle-born, who made you instant Slytherin-bait and tended to be pretty shy anyway.

Basically, loose schoolgirls (except those so loose they were falling apart) were rarer than Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and the odd school-broom exception was hardly stimulating(6). The French, as usual, had a much more sensible outlook on things, with a couple of nasty exceptions I’ll come to later. The Easterners were neither here nor there, being (as everyone knows) inscrutable(7). Quite simply, even Casanova would have been hard-up unless he could find someone daft enough to think he’d marry her, or an outsider, or one of the rare exceptions like Cho – not only a half-blood, but half-Chinese (the magical half, her father) and outside the little boxes Hogwarts tended to put you in. Not to mention, of course, drop-dead gorgeous, which helped considerably.

Rita’s next article came as a pleasant surprise. Advertised as ‘insights into the Triwizard Champions, companions to our popular piece on Harry Potter’, they were fawning, long on admiration for our collective and individual guts and short on anything that might possibly reflect badly on Hogwarts. A few girls had me sign the (very nice) photo of me after the First Task, bandaged, bloodstained and unbowed, brandishing a golden egg in one hand and my wand in the other. Nymphadora Norville and co. rated a bried mention, but Rita thankfully hadn’t suggested that I actually got the idea from them. Krum and Fleur had their own bits as well, but Krum’s was mostly about his Quidditch with about one line from him and Fleur’s was, understandably, mostly pictures and filler about her famous relatives – father an Under-Minister, grandmother a Veela, great-uncle a vampire-hunter and so ad infinitum.

Between one (charming young) thing and another, November passed into December with rotten weather and excessive paranoia from Moody, who started teaching us investigative methods as if we were so many junior Aurors. The man was insane. As if we were ever going to need that stuff in ordinary or even extraordinary life, especially when the Leprechauns weren’t recruiting(8). On the other hand, maybe he knew something we didn’t. It was certainly good timing. His lessons, though, had got much duller than before, which explains why I was mostly asleep over an essay on, I think, detecting spell-signatures when Sprout bounded into the common room. She announced, in tones of great excitement, that a Yule Ball would indeed be held (as the rumour mill had forecast), would be open to fourth-year and above, plus guests, and would take place on Christmas Day. The Champions would open the dancing, and no Hufflepuff was to do anything that might bring dishonour etc etc.

My chain of thought was like this; Champions had to open the dancing, therefore a date was necessary as well as a good idea on principle. Champions attending together would be impossible to disapprove of officially (international friendship, remember), but frowned on in private, so if I asked Fleur it had to be secret until the day itself. Naturally, I would be sure to find somebody, but man’s reach should exceed his grasp, as my grandfather used to say. I hit upon a lovely mind-game to play with Fleur, involving a little illicit Potion-brewing, a lot of self-control and considerable self-sacrifice. I started, as in all things academic, with a Ravenclaw – my old, useful, star-struck friend Tap.

“Hey, Sarah.” I hardly ever used her real name, but I was under the vague impression she liked it.

“Oh, hi, Cedric. What’s going on?” she giggled.

“Well, I’ve got a favour to ask you, seeing as you’re so good at Potions.” Flattering a Ravenclaw’s academic prowess, like daring a Gryffindor, will get the job done every time.

“Anything for you, Cedric.” It would have been too much to expect anyone to say that without a hit of sarcasm, but there was less than I’d expected.

“Well, you take Creatures as well, which might help. You see, I’m worried about Fleur Delacour.” I managed a tiny sneer at the name, as it seemed most of the girls couldn’t stand her. “If she used her Veela powers on me during the next task, she might distract me. Is there any potion to… reduce the effect?”

She snorted at my assessment of the risk. “I’d have to do some research, but I think it’s all done with pheromones, so unless you want to go round with your nose blocked all the time it’ll be pretty hard to do.”

“Oh well,” I shrugged, “it was worth asking. If it can’t be done I suppose…”

“Hang on a sec!” I knew that would fire her up. “I didn’t say it was impossible. You’d need something to reduce your sex-drive generally.” She tittered at this, having been one of the first to experience said drive. “And maybe a substitute focus, but that’s more like mind-magic, unless it’s for real. You’d have to ask Dumbledore. Or Snape, I suppose, maybe even Moody. They don’t teach any here – too dangerous.”

There was no way I was asking Snape for help with my libido. Not in this lifetime. Dumbledore would see right through me, and Moody was too suspicious. I moved the conversation back to Potions, and left her thinking of ways to keep my trousers firmly up, which was a new experience as half the school was conspiring to lower them. By Friday night I’d turned down offers from eight girls, one ghost (Moaning Myrtle, urk) and Roger Staines, the school’s token, outrageously camp shirt-lifter.

That night’s Astronomy lesson almost killed me, as I did my best to keep up relations without betraying the slightest hint of Veela influence. Furious concentration on the image of Snape in his underwear just about did the trick, so I pretended stomach-ache (with that expression, I had to) whilst carrying on a game conversation about the half-breed laws, the Weird Sisters (whom Fleur liked) and the latest fashion in dresses and dress robes. Apparently satin was in, lace was well out and nobody was wearing tall boots any more, which was a great relief as they hurt my feet.

Cunégonde, who didn’t really have the figure for high fashion (nice body, but too short and tough-looking), knew nothing of politics and hated folk music of all kinds, was mostly left out of the conversation, except when I tried (not too hard) to draw her in. This was no bad thing, as it gave Fleur the impression that I was mesmerised by her conversation and hers alone – unlike the Weasleys or most others, who just salivated regardless, I could keep an alert expression and talk sense unless she gave me the full brain-melting treatment. What I knew I couldn’t do was keep the same attitude up when we were alone, and the crucial moment when she wouldn’t care that I couldn’t keep my hot little hands off her was some distance away.

On Sunday, Tap announced that she’d found a suitable potion, something called Yenaro’s Voricide, whatever a Voricide is, and already had a batch brewed as part of an optional ‘extended project’ for her NEWTs – she’d told Snape the test subject refused to be named, but hinted it was another of the class. Snape, a completely dedicated Potions Master who’d never find a girlfriend, would understand that. I took it there and then, preparing my charm offensive for the next few days. It seemed, though, that I might be out-charmed by Roger Davies, who I noticed hanging around the Beauxbatons coach that evening.

If I had apparently Veela-proof balls, good looks and undoubted (yeah right) courage, Davies had Galleons, better looks, a diplomatic potentate for a father and a crucial advantage in time, and that was before I’d even started thinking about Jésuord the Frog Hero, or what Cho might make of the whole thing, success or failure. I had plenty to worry about, and it all to play for.

(1) Usually refers to something that looks acceptable from a distance but has serious flaws when inspected at close quarters. One might say that Cedric was a 30-yard hero.

(2) Triwizard clues are impervious to most spells, otherwise the traditional task of collecting them from some perilous location would be exceedingly simple.

(3) Cedric is remarkably generous to the ‘Adventure Club’ series, by Ena Troondeling, better described as derivative, repetitious and narrow-minded. The fictionalised tales of the very real Auror Nymphadora Tonks (A. Snorkack-Catcher, published FictionAlley Press, London, 2006) contain much that is of interest on the subject of these ‘novels’.

(4) ‘Nobody humiliates me and gets away with it’, a corruption of the ancient royal motto of Scotland, ‘nemo me impune lacessit’. The continuation translates to ‘lest I swiftly remove their trousers’.

(5) Upon thy belly shalt thou go, indeed.

(6) A racy and generalised summary of wizarding society’s attitudes to casual sex in the 1990s, which contemporaries report as largely accurate, with varying degrees of red-faced outrage and/or rueful looks.

(7) Apparently a reference to the Squib-and-Muggle duo of humorists W.C.Sellar and Peter Yateman, of the 1930s, whose seminal works of historical satire ‘1066 And All That’, ‘777 And Other Magical Times’ and ‘And Now All This’ are well-known to both wizard and Muggle readers. This reference appeared in both the latter works.

(8) Four Aurors qualified in 1989, two in 1991 then none until one in 1994 and no more until 1996, when a war-emergency training programme was begun. In quiet times, the Auror corps tended to either stagnate or become a mere ancillary branch of the MLE Patrol. With typical careers lasting 50 years and a paper strength of only 44, recruitment and promotion were understandably slow.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:58:07 GMT

Diggory Papers 6/14 "Lies, Allies and Sadistics"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley

‘Things’ came down with an almighty crash when Rita Skeeter publisher her article on the Tournament. Potter, Potter, more Potter, a photo of Fleur, some more Potter, Victor Crum, whoever he might be, and a final burst of Potter, crying over his father or trying to prove that he wasn’t just a famous name or some such rubbish. The little cow didn’t even mention me, just said that due to ‘administrative confusion’, Hogwarts had two champions, as if I was somebody’s lost paperwork. The article was published on Monday, and all anyone could talk about for three days straight was Potter. If I never hear another word about his damn parents it’ll be too soon.

The first thing I did on reading the article was bellow “POTTER!” with every intention of having him explain what the hell he’d thought he was saying. Then I realised I was in the Cellar and he was probably in Gryffindor Attic. I fumed for a few minutes anyway, declaring my intention to call him out(1) and try every curse, hex and jinx in Moody’s handbook on him, one at a time then all together. I’d never have done it – duels are too easy to lose – but it was satisfying to have a good rant to Ben and Rupert. I don’t suppose the posturing did anything to harm my reputation as a daredevil hero either, because a lot of people thought Potter was the best thing since self-stirring cauldrons.

Even Cho joined in the general Potter-worship, saying it was a terrible ordeal for a young kid to go through. She did note that nobody talked like that in real life, all ‘misty-eyed’ pauses and ‘haunted stares’. She was right, but I didn’t want to hear it. He must have said something to Skeeter, even if it wasn’t those exact words, and he certainly hadn’t mentioned any of the other Champions. I suppose the little bastard didn’t think mere Champions were important enough to share his article. Cho aside, Potter divided opinions like nobody else – he always did. Half the school felt sorry for him, some (like me) were convinced it was all fake and a few just laughed at how Rita had made him sound like a complete wimp. The Slytherins found it hilarious that he cried over his parents, which was no surprise.

The Goblet’s cock-up had driven Moody to new heights of paranoia by Tuesday. He drilled us to breaking-point on our defences, which resulted in one Weasley with his hat on fire, Warrington blasting Pucey into Moody’s Foe-Glass and an inexplicable tear right across the arse of Tap’s robes. Oh, and my Maltese Cross deflected an unexpected Stinger from Moody straight into Alex Sutton’s face. The Aurors weren’t kidding about the unpredictable interactions; it gave her an amazing purple rash. Moody saw the chaos he’d caused, and told us we were ‘getting there’. Merlin knows where we were getting, but at this rate there might not be too many survivors to find out.

Ten days later, I’d still had no word on the First Task. Not a sniff. I didn’t know, of course, that everything was still somewhere over Eastern Europe, but I knew I’d put out feelers in every direction I could think of. On Friday, though, with a bare four days left, Harald said something half-way useful for about the second time in his life. Apparently, Hagrid had been on tenterhooks in Creatures, muttering that he’d have something really impressive for them if he was allowed to keep it for a few days. Obviously, he meant whatever was in the First Task – presumably some sort of really large and terrifying animal. If Hagrid thought it was impressive, it was sure to be absolutely lethal. To give you some sort of comparison, the things he had for ‘normal’ lessons were half-Manticore, half-something else, explosive, poisonous, hideous, armoured and (then, aged no more than six months) four feet long. Something ‘better’ than that was a terrifying prospect.

The idea finally struck that I should have had straight off. I sent off Aello to my father with a note something like this,

Hi Dad,

Everything going well here; the Tournament’s getting a bit close though. Apparently the Care of Magical Creatures NEWT class is getting some sort of creature imported for them to look at. Any idea what it might be? Ben wants to know, says he’s having trouble with the course and could do with a head-start. Hope work’s OK, talk to you on Tuesday,

Ced

Not exactly convincing, but enough to massage his conscience. Even though he ought to know I was trying to cheat, he could tell himself, and anyone else who asked, that he was just helping a student get ahead of his workload. People would accept that from an ex-Ravenclaw animal-lover, especially one as oblivious as the old man, but if I’d asked for help flat out he’d never have dared give it to me. My plan worked, too – sort of.

Saturday was a Hogsmeade weekend, and I offered to show Fleur and a gaggle of her friends the town – not that there was much of it to show. Six Froggy noses turned right up at the Three Broomsticks, so I wound up spending some of my precious silver on a meal at the one restaurant in Hogsmeade, Chez Charles. The name was probably an overstatement – it was a hole in the wall with paper tablecloths and candles in old wine bottles. Fleur and company didn’t mind it too much though, and paid for their own food, which was a great relief. Conversation consisted mainly of the ladies discussing beauty aids and things, with me gallantly pointing out that they weren’t needed at all. I wasn’t lying, much, they weren’t all Veela but you wouldn’t have kicked any of them out of bed. Must be something in the French water; either that or they’re all Glamoured at birth.

On the way back from Hogsmeade, Ernie MacMillan stopped me to pass on a message from Dumbledore – the Champions were to be in the Great Hall at half-past twelve on Tuesday and would be shown to the First Task by teachers. Having a date and time of execution set hammered home just how close the Tournament was to beginning in earnest, and the day’s pleasure suddenly didn’t seem quite so worthwhile – what use is seduction when you don’t live to enjoy the outcome?

By Sunday I was getting desperate – two days left and no word beyond ‘some sort of creature’. I called together all my mates who might possibly be of some help – Tap, Stebbins, Ozzy, Dawn Chambers the Ravenclaw prefect, Pat Stimpson and Terry Higgs. We kicked around ways of getting past an unknown creature for a while, but most of them struck me as too dangerous. On the whole, if you hex something, it either keels over or hits back. I couldn’t exactly Avada Kedavra anything in public, and Stunners, Impedimentia, Full-Body Binds et al. tend not to work on the big stuff.

After half an hour of hexes that wouldn’t work, Tap finally hit on something sensible,

“Feed it,” she suggested, “nothing’s going to kill you if it’s got its mouth full.” For a minute I wondered what she was on – I was only allowed to take in a wand – but only for a minute. It soon sank in that I’d have to Transfigure it some dinner, which was possible but very tough indeed under pressure. I asked for more ideas, and Higgs suggested that I dodge. Useful, but not exactly a workable plan. Dawn recommended Disillusioning myself, which appealed. The whatever-it-was could probably smell or hear me, but it couldn’t hurt to be hidden.

I didn’t sleep on Sunday night. Instead, I paced the Owlery for hour after hour, hoping Aello would return and put me out of my misery. For once, I managed to get up there and back again without meeting Cho, or anyone else save a Weasley twin. One of them dashed in at about three o’clock, tied a message to a school barn owl and left without even noticing me on the other side of the room. I vaguely registered that the bastards must be up to something, but didn’t really care. Whatever they meant to do, it was hardly going to kill me, was it? Mysterious creatures, on the other hand, might well do just that. For all Dumbledore’s talk about safety precautions, I couldn’t see him fighting a cockatrice or chimaera on my behalf. Potter’s, yes, he’d do anything for his precious Potter, but not for just anyone, whilst Karkaroff and Maxime would be delighted to see me dead.

By five in the morning I could pace no more and crept back to bed, where Stebbins was already flipping through a textbook in search of the Disillusioning Charm. I fell asleep as he muttered the incantation over and over, promising to listen to him in the morning when I wasn’t so tired. My dreams were filled with formless beasts snapping at my head whilst Moody shot hexes at my feet and roared “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”. After some time, Moody turned into Dumbledore, who said he was sorry but I would face this alone and he couldn’t intervene, and the monsters kept snapping all the while. Either Trelawney was on to something when she said I had the Sight or fear does really strange things to your brain. I reckon the latter.

I crawled out of bed around eight, wishing I’d had the foresight to get hold of some Dreamless Sleep potion. Instead, I hurried down to breakfast in time for the morning post, which again brought no news. I think if I’d been less scared I’d have given up hope of finding out anything, but I didn’t dare contemplate what that meant. They say a coward dies a thousand deaths, well, I reckon I reached that mark over one weekend. In the Great Hall, some Slytherins and Rupert tried to cheer me up with exaggerated imitations of Potter, but I wasn’t in the mood. I think that worked to my credit, as they assumed my glower was due disapproval of their attitude to a Hogwarts Champion rather than lack of sleep and extreme terror.

And then Fate, in the guise of a bust book-bag, intervened and nothing would be the same again. I was half-way down the corridor to Flitwick’s room when my bag split, spilling books and ink everywhere. I waved the others ahead and bent to scrabble around picking up my stuff, but spotted Potter hurrying along the corridor. I didn’t particularly want to talk to him, so I bent down and muttered a greeting whilst cleaning ink off my Transfiguration text. I’d almost forgotten his presence when he spoke,

“Cedric, the first task is dragons.”

I stammered in confusion, and he repeated what he’d said, then added that there were four to get past, and that the foreigners already knew. My fear rose to full-blown panic and I have no idea how I kept my voice and expression even. I was so distracted that it took me a full minute to wonder why Potter was bothering to tell me, to which he blathered something about it all being fair now. It was such rubbish – and so completely artless - that I knew after a moment’s thought he was either the world’s worst liar or an honourable fool telling the absolute truth. During this moment, though, Moody showed up to usher Potter away, presumably to DADA.

Flustered and terrified, I skipped Charms – Flitwick would understand – and headed outside for a good long think and panic. Old Kettleburn had done a term on dragons (only theory, of course) in my fourth year, so I had a reasonable amount of information squirreled away in dusty corners of my mind. I ran through the advice on subduing dragons on my way out. The short version came to one word. Don’t. The long version added ‘unless there’s about 50 of you or you can do Avada Kedavra really well’, neither of which applied to me.

Sunk in despair, I wandered around the lake to the flat ground where Beauxbatons’ carriage was parked. I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice the sobbing until it was quite close by, almost under my feet. A voice was crying in French whilst another made soothing noises. The second voice asked some sort of question, and the response demanded my full attention:

“Oh, Cunégonde, il y aura un dracon! Un dracon, et je dois le vaincre!” It took me only a split second to realise that it was Fleur crying her heart out on the lake-shore, and that Potter had been telling the truth when he’d said everyone but me already knew about the dragons. Four competing impulses went to war in my head; delight that there was somebody more screwed than I, the knowledge that I could ambush at least one opponent before the task started, the usual red-blooded male’s desire to go to the aid of and sucker(2) a part-Veela, and the first glimmerings of a Plan.

Still undecided whether to gloat, sympathise or lead with a couple of Stunners, I strode over to the little beach (don’t say that in a French accent). I didn’t have to make up my mind, because a great cloud of blonde hair threw itself at my feet, babbling about dragons and enchantments and something to do with Naucrate(3). This seemed very promising, until she started calling me Thomas. Damn - she thought I was the Boy Hero of Beauxbatons, or that Gryffindor fourth-year… no, definitely the Boy Hero. I cradled her head on my shoulder and made soothing noises about how we’d cope with it by sticking together and she’d be fine.

Somewhere along the line, Cuné disappeared and Fleur realised who I was. She turned dead white and started to say something about traitors – I know not whether she meant me, herself or someone else – but inspiration struck and I repeated over and over that they couldn’t possibly expect us to beat dragons alone, the Tournament was supposed to teach international co-operation (ha!) and in any case Potter and Krum had their respective Heads coaching them, which we didn’t. As I thought of more arguments, like the fact that Krum was a Dark wizard and Potter might be as well, I added them to the litany and kept talking as if my life depended on it.

Eventually, Fleur calmed down and sat up. Soon after, we had a deal – that until the day of each Task, we were in it together. In public, we were the most cordial of rivals and may the best man or Veela win (as long as it wasn’t Krum). In case you’re wondering, the whole thing was indeed most unlike both of us, but the prospect of death by dragon in the morning, or even the afternoon, concentrates the mind nicely(4). Once that was decided, we got down to the serious business of how to defeat a dragon. Tap’s plan of ‘feed it’ was just about the best I could do, but Fleur’s Veela heritage (or Froggy arrogance) gave her a completely different idea.

“Je le transporterai,”

She what? Transport it where? Throw a Portkey at it? I’d already started stammering in confusion when a salacious corner of my mind threw up ‘transports of delight’ and I realised she meant she’d Entrance it. I was still shocked enough to answer in English, “Can you really Entrance a dragon?”

She replied in the same language, “I can, as you say, Entrance anyseeng. I ‘ave certain avantages naturelles een zat regard.”

She never spoke a truer word – it was all I could do not to have a good squeeze whilst she was crying on me. I still had my doubts, but I wasn’t about to stand up to her when doing so would be directly against my own interest. Somehow, it was lunchtime already and we returned to the castle – very carefully not together – with some small measure of hope. Logically, I knew nothing had changed for me, but my coward soul hung on tight to the only hope of aid available, and to the certainty that at least one of my opponents (and probably two, judging from Potter’s petrified expression earlier) was as thoroughly screwed as I. Maybe if one of them died first, the Task would be cancelled.

After lunch, I skipped Transfiguration (McGonagall would accept a lot to beat Durmstrang) and met Fleur in a deserted classroom where we could work on our dragon-dodging techniques. We quickly found that it wasn’t the best place, because there was nothing for me to Transfigure and Fleur rapidly got sick of Entrancing me, mainly because I didn’t put up much of a fight. Regretfully, I slunk off to Divination and Fleur to Arithmancy, planning to meet again outside after dinner, under cover of darkness.

From dinner to curfew I Transfigured rocks and branches into every sort of animal a dragon might want to eat, whilst Fleur corrected me. None of them were up to McGonagall’s standards, but the dogs and sheep weren’t all that bad, and I began to hope that they might work. The Disillusioning was no good though – it was as if I wasn’t putting in enough energy, so the goo ran out around my hips and left disembodied legs wandering around. Cool, but not much use against dragons which, as Fleur was at pains to point out, mostly see movement rather than shape. She wasn’t just a pretty face – indeed, I quickly discovered she was much, much better with theory and research than I was. Obviously the Goblet had been on form for its first two choices.

Meanwhile, Fleur practiced her Entrancing Enchantments of all kinds on the Beauxbatons horses, which were the nearest we could come to dragons in that they were very big, reasonably intelligent (she said) and very short-tempered. To me, with a pretty minimal knowledge of such things, they seemed very impressive as the massive Abraxans did the equine equivalent of rolling over and waving their legs in the air. I wish I’d had such a talent – it would have come in very handy on certain people. Not that I ever actually needed such an advantage, of course. Anyhow, I can’t complain. I’m alive, rich and, as Ben would say in a particularly Yorkshire mood, have had enough ‘oggins(5) to last me til t’ last trump, whatever t’ last trump is.

By ten that night I was exhausted, and crept off to bed with nothing more than a quick, almost dismissive “bonne chance” from Fleur. Ben and Rupert were obviously desperate to find out what the hell I’d been up to all day, but I just told them I’d been off practicing Transfiguration. This seemed to reassure both, and I went to sleep without further questioning. Despite my anxiety, which had diminished a bit with activity and hope, I slept reasonably well, all things considered.

My relative immunity to panic left me in the morning. I was too busy quaking and pacing the Owlery to even practice Disillusioning myself any more. Cho showed up again, though (she must have lived up there) to give me a shy smile, wish me luck and offer any help I needed, just a little bit late. I feigned gratitude and returned a charming smile, hoping against hope that the drawn, green-tinged face I’d just shaved wasn’t too apparent. I did, just about, make it to Runes, but Fan-Ten dismissed me at once, on the grounds that I wouldn’t want to die with Ingolfr as my last memory. I’d have appreciated the distraction, and I certainly wasn’t glad to be reminded that I was in deep, deep shit if my plan didn’t work.

For three straight hours I wandered the grounds, now thinking up not ways to win, but to run away; every method of escape I could think of from Duplicating myself via calling on the aid of a handy house-elf (I know my Timothy Joy(6)) to good old-fashioned hiding behind a solid object. I was waiting for Sprout by 12 o’clock, and fretted behind her as she led me round behind the Forbidden Forest to a part of the grounds I’d never seen before.

Sprout left me in a large tent with Krum, who looked grim and, when I said hello, didn’t reply. I went back to pacing, interrupted only by Fleur’s arrival. She looked like I felt, and in no fit state to Entrance so much as a fourth-year Gryffindor. Bagman and Potter arrived at around the same time from opposite directions, and my heart sank again. I contemplated lighting out for the mountains there and then, but common sense just about restrained me. Bagman, absurdly cheerful in ill-fitting Wasps robes, held up a large purple bag and blathered inconsequentially, almost drowned out by the arriving spectators. The important part I caught was ‘collect the golden egg’, presumably from a clutch of ordinary ones. This was very bad – the female of any dragon species is much more deadly than the male, and will cheerfully rend you without even bothering about nails.

On the other hand, it was also better than just having to get past a dragon, in a way. You can get hold of something any number of ways without touching it – Summoning, Levitating, Banishing, millions of them. I ran over the charms in my head, planning to try them all out from a safe distance before I even considered going within biting-distance.

Eventually, call-me-Ludo got to the point and handed round the bag, offering it first to Fleur. She drew out a tiny, perfect model of a Welsh Green. Obviously neither Potter nor Maxime had been lying. Krum drew a Chinese Fireball, then it was my turn. I reached into the bag, felt a tiny nip on one finger, then clutched a six-inch figurine and withdrew it. It was a Swedish Short-Snout, not bad as dragons go, but there was one other thing about it which drove everything out of my mind bar sheer, unreasoning terror. The number round its neck. One.

(1) To ‘call someone out’ does not mean inviting them for a drink but instead refers to challenging someone to a formal wizard’s duel of honour. These have been illegal since the International Ban on Duelling was passed in 1953, but continue to this day and were still relatively common in the 1990s. Traditionally, duels may be fought to death, surrender, first blood, incapacitation or disarmament.

(2) Cedric may well mean ‘succor’ (aid, relief) here. Equally, being Cedric, he may not.

(3) In Greek mythology, the mother of Icarus. Some Graeco-Roman legends name her as the first Veela, though most cite Celaeno (a Harpy), the Sirens or Olympian Iris, with rather more logical basis.

(4) A misquotation of the Muggle lexicographer Dr. Samuel Johnson: “Depend on it, sir, the prospect that one is to be hanged in the morning concentrates the mind wonderfully.”

(5) Hoggins = sex, especially illicit or casual.

(6) Tim Joy was a popular writer of adventure novels, including several highly-fictionalised versions of Harry Potter’s life. His novels were often set in worlds subtly different from our own, and were characterised by opinionated, beautiful and deceptive witches, grand passions, low comedy and happy endings. His seminal epic ‘White Knight, Grey Queen’ and the more light-hearted ‘This Means War’ deserve a prominent place in every young wizard’s library, but should not be relied on to stick anywhere close to even the generally known facts.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:56:17 GMT

Diggory Papers 5/14 "Glory Hound"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

As the sound of Hufflepuff in full cry dimmed behind the heavy oak door of the ante-room, I looked around for my opponents. They were standing at the far end of a narrow gallery lined with portraits. Krum was holding the back of his robes so he could warm his arse by the roaring fire. Surprisingly, he looked as grim as ever, but I suppose the Triwizard Tournament was pretty small after a World Cup Final. Fleur wore an aristocratic smile as well as ever, but a glitter in her eye betrayed her excitement. Krum’s expression shifted fractionally as I caught his eye, as if he was dismissing me from his calculations, and I remembered why I’d been so determined not to enter. My euphoria vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a sinking feeling that someone was going to die and it wasn’t going to be either of them. I was so focused on my own mortality that I didn’t notice someone coming into the room until a throaty French voice called,

“What ees eet? Do zey want us back in ze Hall?”

By the time I’d dragged myself back to the present and half-turned, another, more familiar voice was muttering behind me,

“ ...absolutely extraordinary!” Bagman cleared his throat and began again, “Gentlemen... lady. May I introduce – incredible though it may seem – the fourth Triwizard Champion?” Of course he couldn’t, was my first thought. The Tournament had three Champions and that was that. My second, when I saw Potter standing there looking bemused, was that he was my replacement. The third was outrage at the very idea of this terrified little snot upstaging me. How dare he? How could he? Surely there was some mistake.

Krum’s glower hit new depths of glumness, Bagman grinned idiotically and Fleur smiled, tossed her head and said, “Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman.” That, coupled with the grin, almost convinced me that this was some sort of prank on Bagman’s part. The hope didn’t last long, as Bagman frowned and started to blather about Potter’s name coming out of the Goblet, and the rules. Just then, the door opened and a crowd of staff spilled in, with Dumbledore in the lead.

Fleur started protesting to her Headmistress at once, obviously not realising that Dumbledore was in charge. Maxime and Karkaroff both started demanding explanations from Dumbledore, who said nothing. Karkaroff smiled coldly and tried his best sarcastic tones, which also had no effect. Heads tend to get very stressed over their schools’ honour; however much they talk about the ‘spirit of friendly competition’, they want to win at almost any price. Even Snape weighed in, defending Dumbledore on the grounds that Potter was always getting away with things. He had a point there; if anyone could get away with entering underage, Potter was the one to do it. The other Heads were obviously desperate not to start accusing him of cheating; Dumbledore just didn’t make mistakes with simple (well, simple for him) magic.

Dumbledore quizzed Potter, who denied everything with an expression of bewilderment and indignation. McGonagall and Dumbledore obviously believed him; equally obviously, nobody else did. After McGonagall blew up at Maxime (Dumbledore said something diplomatic which she, being an old Scotch battleaxe, didn’t appreciate), Karkaroff piped up again in an oily sort of voice, asking Crouch and Bagman what the rules said. He didn’t like their answer though – Crouch gave him chapter and verse on how Potter had to compete and Bagman, being Bagman, agreed loudly. Dropping the smile and the oil, he railed at Dumbledore, demanding to re-submit his students’ names and threatening to walk out. Moody(1) showed up at this point, told Karkaroff that he couldn’t leave and started arguing with him about how this was surely a plot to force Potter to compete and die in action. Everyone, even Dumbledore, looked disbelieving, but Moody made one good point. No fourth-year could kid the Goblet that it needed to produce four entries. I was one of the half-dozen best in the school at Charms, and I wouldn’t have known where to begin.

I glanced round at the other faces in the room. Krum looked almost bored and definitely didn’t think too much of Karkaroff– interesting, because he’d looked like a right Head’s pet from a distance. Fleur was almost blazing with indignation; I reckon she was this close to hurling fireballs, which she later told me she’d only done twice in her life. Snape and Maxime were both contemptuous of Potter’s attitude and were looking at Dumbledore and Moody as if they’d gone mad. McGonagall stood between Potter and Dumbledore as if daring anyone to argue, Crouch had faded into the background and Bagman... Bagman was actually cheerful. No idea why; all this was making his life difficult and Bagman, on the whole, wanted an easy life even more than most people do.

Eventually, Dumbledore got sick of Moody and Karkaroff winding each other up. He declared that Harry and I would both be Hogwarts champions, that was that and could we please get on with things. I was very, very glad that the other Heads’ glares – not to mention Snape’s – weren’t directed at me. Crouch, who’d faded into the background during the argument, reappeared to announce that the First Task would be a surprise. I think he had a Gryffindor-ish speech on courage in the face of adversity planned, but he sort of faded out and went on with the details. The task was to take place on the 24^th of November. Good, three weeks to find out what the surprise was. The next part was very interesting – no help from teachers allowed. So, help from anyone else was legal. Better.

Crouch went on to say we’d be armed with wands only and were exempt from end-of-year tests, which got a confused look from Potter and an indignant one from Fleur – she would have had her baccalaureate that year and was the studious type. As soon as he finished, Karkaroff and Maxime ushered their champions out double-quick, to my slight dismay. I was sure both of them were thinking up ways to cheat which Dumbledore would be far too honourable to use himself. I was still more than a bit stunned and stood there blankly until Dumbledore ushered Potter and me out of the room and told us to go and celebrate with our houses.

As we left, Potter looked at me as if he expected me to tell him what to do. I was a bit more comfortable with this – I’d had plenty of practice at being good old Ced, the honourable adversary, so I said, cheerfully, “So, we’re playing against each other again!” to which he muttered agreement. I couldn’t for the life of me see why, having got away with such an incredible stunt (the idea that it really was a set-up didn’t occur to me until long afterwards) he was so damn miserable. I asked him how he’d done it, but he denied everything and set off up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

“HURRAH!” That wasn’t what the cheer sounded like at all. Much louder, and not nearly so clear, a wild, euphoric scream that you’d never think Hufflepuff House could produce. A solid wave of sixth- and seventh-years met me at the door, almost fighting to get a grip and carry me shoulder-high into the common room. They could have been a bit more gentle about it, but that wasn’t exactly the time to say so. A massive Hufflepuff banner with “CEDRIC DIGORY TRYWIZZARD CHAMP” emblazoned on it covered one wall, to the great indignation of several portraits, and the whole room was decorated with flags and streamers. A rather pink (Shaving Charms, heat and Butterbeer) Rupert pressed a bottle into one hand and shook the other vigorously, congratulating me loudly. Harald, let out of the Hospital Wing for the occasion, told me that Cho had been hanging around, but Filch had come along and told her to beat it.

I quickly forgot my trepidation in the fun of being once more the hero of the hour. Terror could wait for tomorrow whilst I ate, drank and was merry. Very merry indeed, though fending off Mildred got progressively harder as we depleted the upper years’ stock of drinks. As the evening wore on, there were a fair few mutinous mutterings from the younger ones about ‘bloody Gryffindors’, ‘Potter’, ‘glory-hounds’, and suchlike, which I nobly pretended not to hear. It wasn’t very Hufflepuff to complain about the opposition, but I didn’t want to tell them off for being right. People started to trickle away sometime around midnight, though plenty looked set to go on all night. Eventually, I decided for the millionth time that the only unattached (or detachable) girls in my house were either plug-ugly or Natasha Krelsky(2) and slid off to bed, leaving Rupert and a few others to finish off the drinks.

The dorm was almost empty; Rupert still downstairs, Harald gone back to the Hospital Wing and Mark asleep, which left Ben. He was very interested in Moody’s theory, having somehow got the notion that Sirius Black had been up to funny business with Potter the previous year and had managed to kidnap a Weasley by mistake before Snape locked him in the Shrieking Shack(3). Something like that anyway, though he didn’t seem quite clear on how Black had got out of the Shack. I’d heard all this before, of course, but Stebbins insisted on telling me again. After a bit of ranting, he remembered that we were supposed to be celebrating, and got back to the serious business of toadying outrageously, saying how I was obviously the best at everything even vaguely active and he hoped I’d let him be whatever help he could, not that I needed it. I graciously agreed to let him be as helpful as he liked, but pointed out that the Tournament was unlikely to include a lethal death-or-glory History essay. That put him back in his place, and he shut up.

Left as the last awake, and just merry enough not to worry about the death toll (drink’s a terrible thing, you know), I drifted off contemplating glory, fame, Cho wrapped around me, a thousand Galleons, no exams, saving my opponents from fates worse than death – well, I’d leave Krum to die – Fleur’s gratitude at having her lovely neck saved...

Sunday was basically spent in bed; in true Hufflepuff spirit everyone else banded together to clear up the mess and left me to a nice lie-in. Sleep is a wonderful thing, especially when you ought to be doing something else. Just before lunchtime, Rupert appeared from I know not where and announced a meeting for all sixth- and seventh-years in the Great Hall to discuss the timetable. This provoked great confusion until Mildred finally worked out that the foreigners would have to go to lessons and they probably wanted to tell us who was joining what.

For once, she was spot on. McGonagall read out a long list consisting of ‘Whatsitov, Quelqu’un and U.Nautre will join seventh-year Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Moody’ ad infinitum. The thirty-odd visitors were called up to collect timetables, then stood around at the back looking variously bored, lost, fed up and contemptuous. I got half a dozen in Charms, Pullayakoff in Herbology – that got a good laugh, poor sod - a few more in Defence and Transfiguration and the best news of the lot, Fleur in Astronomy along with Cunégonde, who I’d imagined as a languid aristocrat but was actually blonde and, as Ben muttered to me, built like a brick shithouse(4). The one I’d seen sitting next to Cho was called something unpronounceable and spent the meeting trying to flirt with Krum, which looked like a losing game.

Eventually, McGonagall got to the reason the rest of us were there – a speech on making foreigners welcome, offering language help where we could and not sneering if they didn’t know as much we did – for all her kind words, McGonagall firmly believed that Hogwarts was the centre of the world. I was certainly willing to offer English help (but French leave(5), kisses, knickers, letters and so on) to needy Astronomers, even without her instructions.

By Monday night I’d started dropping hints to anyone who might know what the First Task was. I tried Ozzy, Tap’s brother who was a trainee Auror, and subtly tested all my teachers but got nowhere. If only I’d known that the answer was right at home all along – they couldn’t possibly have arranged it without Dad’s department. Later, I did try at home, though I’d sworn privately never to mention Bagman to my mother. Survival outweighed sparing her blushes, so I wrote home asking if he’d let anything slip. Unfortunately, she’d not heard a thing from him since September.

The week passed in a haze: fear when I was alone mingled with that glorious high of public worship and a dash of feminine admiration. I did notice a lot of Gryffindor-baiting going on – obviously Potter hadn’t done himself too many favours. I’d acquired my own fan-club somewhere, consisting mostly of lower-year girls, but a few older ones were obviously attracted to Champions as well. Even level-headed Tap had me sign her schoolbag and more than one snake – including little Pansy – was in the cloud of well-wishers that followed me through the corridors. After years of ignoring Slytherin taunts, it was nice to have them on my side for a change. They worked damn quickly too – by Friday morning Malfoy had half the house sporting nifty badges which read either ‘Support CEDRIC DIGGORY – the REAL Hogwarts Champion’ or ‘POTTER STINKS’. I didn’t wear one myself, because contributing a Sickle to the Malfoy coffers went against the grain, but half the school did and most of them were supporting me, presumably on the grounds that people could smell Potter’s odour for themselves.

Friday morning also brought theoretical Astronomy, an excessively dry and dusty class with far too much calculating and chart-checking involved. Fortunately, Sinistra had an idea, which could have been dangerous but actually worked out pretty damn well. In most subjects, the foreigners had to shift for themselves with the best translating spells they could (which aren’t very good – after fifty years’ travelling I should know), but Sinistra was Italian herself and knew how worthless they were. Instead, she got Dawn Chambers and me to translate into German(6) and French respectively. As there were only two Frogs, I got to sit between them and explain the intricacies of Saturn’s moons to a pair of lovely blondes. Tough life, but somebody had to do it.

In between dollops of theory, we managed to have a bit of a chat(7) about stuff like what they thought of Hogwarts (Fleur didn’t like it), why a seventh-year was in sixth-year Astronomy (timetable problems) and why Beauxbatons had brought almost all girls (which both took as an insult). After several more sallies in this vein, I took the hint that Fleur wasn’t feeling too chatty, so I started explaining British Quidditch to Cuné, who played Beater for Beauxbatons. Not a promising beginning and it would take lots more than that to break Fleur’s ice, but at least she knew something more about me than ‘The Enemy, looks good, does Astronomy’.

Friday afternoon was supposed to be free, so I was desultorily finishing a Herbology essay on the uses of the Venomous Tentacula when a third-year appeared to say I was wanted on the first floor double-quick to have my photo taken. I quite fancied being in the Prophet, so I took two minutes to polish my wand, shave and change my shirt. My third-year didn’t have a clue, but he managed to get me to the small classroom on the Transfiguration corridor quickly enough. A couple of desks shoved together were serving as a table, with Bagman sitting behind it next to four empty chairs.

Some fat twerp with a camera snapped me coming in the door, letting off a great cloud of black smoke from his camera, then went back to contemplating Krum, who was the only Champion present and looked less friendly than ever. Next to him, a tough-looking blonde in magenta robes was checking her long, crimson nails. I had a vague memory of seeing her in the paper, but I couldn’t place her until Bagman (talking mostly to Potter) introduced her as Rita Skeeter, a name I recognised from the WWN as an entertainingly nasty interviewer.

Fleur showed up right behind me, in high good humour at the prospect of being on the front page and getting to show off the present her father had sent her. Laughing at the attempts of the cameraman to look at something else (she loved nothing more than being admired), she flicked her hair back to show me a pair of diamond earrings that probably cost more than Beauxbatons’ carriage. As she went on about her best angle and some school photo she’d been left out of, I daydreamed about finding all her best angles, and curves, too. I didn’t even notice Potter enter until Bagman leapt up and started explaining nineteen to the dozen about wand-weighing and a photo shoot. Rita Skeeter pricked her ears up and promptly dragged Potter away. I didn’t pay any attention at the time, as I was busy listening to Fleur explain indignantly how her wand was a family heirloom and she didn’t want any anglais messing about with it. I’d have listened to her read a shopping list in that magical Provençal accent, and you would too, so don’t laugh.

After a couple of minutes, Karkaroff and Crouch appeared, looking frosty and definitely not speaking to each other. Madame Maxime was right behind them, looking worryingly pleased with herself. Merlin alone knows what she had to smile about – it’s not like she was photogenic. Dumbledore, bringing up the rear, ushered in a Confunded-looking Potter and Rita Skeeter, whose interview had obviously gone well. He introduced Ollivander, who was obviously the wand-expert. He didn’t weigh anything, though, just called up Fleur and inspected her wand carefully, flicking pink stars all over the place as he tut-tutted over the Veela-hair core. Fleur said rather frostily that it was one of her grandmother’s, which was nice to know. I hadn’t thought it very sensible to ask, though her ancestry was obvious to anyone with two eyes. The granny, by the way, was on her mother’s side. After producing a fine bunch of orchids (pink, of course), Ollivander grudgingly admitted that her wand was fine and moved on to me.

He sounded a lot more enthusiastic about my wand, probably because I’d bought it from him. I was pleased to know my unicorn hair was at least from a male unicorn that put up a fight – blokes with unicorn-hair come in for a lot of stick – then he congratulated me on how clean it was. I knew there was a reason I’d stopped to clean up, so I spoke up in my best apple-polishing voice, “Polished it last night,” and smiled politely. At this point Potter, obviously eager to get all eyes back on him, shot off a few gold sparks, but everyone ignored him except Fleur, who gave him a very snooty look which floored him completely. Ollivander ignored all this, then fired off some smoke rings, passed my wand back to me and called up Krum.

He didn’t seem too comfortable handling Krum’s wand – it was a Gregorovitch and like most Russians(8) he had a dodgy reputation – but he spent ages on Potter’s, saying nothing other than “How well I remember...”. I know now what he remembered, but I didn’t have a clue then, and sat mystified as he examined the wand. Eventually, he handed it over and Dumbledore tried to send us off to dinner. Bagman and the photographer weren’t having a bit of it, though, and demanded photos. Maxime got in the way, Karkaroff fiddled with his beard and Krum hid behind me. Meanwhile, Rita Skeeter and her photographer, who was called Archer, fought over whether Potter or Fleur should be at the front – they both lapped it up, of course.

At eleven that night, my first Astronomy practical with Fleur came along. Cuné had a genuine knack for the subject and filled in charts as fast as I could relay her the instructions, so there was plenty of time to talk. Fleur had no time at all for the Prophet, saying they were sure to only notice the English (she was half-right there), but talked quite cheerfully about the Veela enclaves in the Pyrenées, where those kicked out of the Carpathians had hidden from the Terror and decided they didn’t really want to go back. For all that, she obviously couldn’t stand the quiet mountains, and was desperate to get somewhere suitably glamorous for a Sous-Ministre’s gorgeous daughter with more gold than Nicholas Flamel.

Failing that, she at least wanted good food and fancy clothes, neither of which is exactly abundant in Andorra. I agreed heartily, and not just because that’s what she wanted to hear. I wanted to get away as badly as she did, to somewhere hot and debauched and ancient and not so damn parochial as England where everyone knew everyone and was far too Puritan about anything that looked like it might be fun. Rubbishing England and copying Cuné’s charts, we saw in Saturday considerably closer than we’d been on Friday morning. Things were looking up. For the moment.

(1) The true identity of ‘Moody’ was never made public, and Cedric evidently never knew about Bartemius Crouch Jr’s role in the Tournament.

(2) Cedric never reveals what was wrong with Natasha Krelsky, though her name appears several times as one to be avoided.

(3) For a somewhat less garbled version, see the celebrated history ‘Werewolves at War: Lycanthropes in the Voldemort Wars’ by Icarus Diggle, which includes Professor Remus J. Lupin’s account of the incident.

(4) For the benefit of those not speaking Yorkshire, ‘stocky and well-muscled’.

(5) ‘French leave’ = desertion - in this context, missing lessons illegitimately.

(6) German and Russian are the linguae francae of Durmstrang, which draws students from many nations.

(7) Cedric rarely distinguishes between speaking French and English to the Beauxbatons students, but as he spoke fluent French and Mlle. Delacour’s English was poor, we must assume they spoke mainly French together.

(8) The Eastern European community was at this time still recovering from savage purges by the Muggle government in the 1930s to 1950s, which, coupled with Grindelwald’s depredations, decimated the wizarding population in the so-called ‘Octarine Terror’.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:54:42 GMT

Diggory Papers 4/14 "Triwizard Champion"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

The Hallowe’en decorations seemed a bit out of place, somehow. It was as if the Tournament had stopped the calendar and should exist in a season of its own, not interrupted by Hagrid’s pumpkins and bat-droppings landing in the black pudding. I never did get round to telling Stebbins about those. Anyway, it was a cloud of very confused bats descending from the ceiling which drove away most of my well-wishers and made enough space for me to get to the Hufflepuff table and sit down to breakfast. The upper years were a bit thin on the ground, but every kid below fifth-year must have been there, great swarms of little faces chattering about how exciting everything was. A cluster of little ‘Puffs gathered around me after a while, but before I could say anything modest and noble that firstie from the Welcome Feast(1), the one who’d said I ought to be in Gryffindor, piped up and asked me if I had a girlfriend. I sort of grunted, which she obviously took as a no because she grabbed onto my arm as if the third-years behind her were slavering werewolves. They, of course, were laughing themselves sick.

Shocked by this forwardness in one so young, I squeaked “Gerroff!”, which didn’t have much effect. If anything, she hung on tighter and gazed up at me as if I was some sort of minor god. Typical, I thought. Cho just looks and this one hangs on like a limpet. Where did I go wrong? Remembering an old dodge for avoiding Venomous Tentaculas and suchlike in Herbology, I did a quick Impervious Charm on my sleeve, which caused her to slide off looking forlorn. Bolting down the last of my scrambled eggs, I muttered something about needing to see Sinistra and legged it.

Halfway up the stairs, I decided not to go anywhere near Sinistra, who after midnight with the NEWT class probably wanted a lie-in. Instead, I made for the Owlery to see if Aello had come back, as I wasn’t going to be at breakfast for the morning post. She had, bearing a massive parcel from home. I ripped it open eagerly, hoping for a good haul of birthday presents from assorted relatives. The day itself hadn’t been up to much; my coming-of-age present was money, supposedly towards a decent broom but actually for an Invisibility Cloak which Miles Bletchley had told me his Uncle Milton was going to sell. Unfortunately, everyone else had got me very dull things – socks, ‘useful’ books, that sort of thing. Aunt Cece sent another damn fruitcake. Sighing over my useless relatives, I scribbled a quick note to Mother, saying that I’d entered the Tournament but not to worry and I’d write again soon.

On my way down from the Owlery, nursing the hand Aello had cut open whilst I attached the note to her leg, I met Cho again – either some benevolent power really wanted us together or she lived in the Owlery.

“Hi Cedric, what did – oh, you’re bleeding!” Full marks for observation, Cho. “Here, let me have a look at that.”

I knew what was good for me, and showed her the inch-long slash across my right palm. She muttered a spell I didn’t catch, then jabbed the cut with her wand, which hurt like hell. Before I could start whinging, though, she let my hand go and said, quite cheerfully, “It’s nothing – we can’t have our Triwizard champion bleeding all over the place.” I don’t know what surprised me more; not only did she assume I’d opened my mouth to thank her (rather than to damn her for a handless creature who shouldn’t be allowed to look after a stuffed Puffskein), but she was apparently quite sure I’d wind up in the Tournament. Well, half-marks isn’t great for a Ravenclaw, but it’s not too bad.

“Not likely,” I replied. “It’ll be Warrington or that grea- er, Roger Davies.” I thought I’d made a complete fool of myself there, but Cho grinned with sudden delight,

“Oh good, you don’t like him either. He’s so boring. Never done anything in his life other than be perfectly nice. I don’t think he’s going to enter though; he doesn’t even do Defence.”

My heart leapt at this revelation; I’d said the right thing (by accident) and found out that Cho wasn’t attracted by ‘nice’. Things were suddenly looking up. Briefly. Then my ickle firstie showed up. Her eyes widened in sheer delight and she gave a possessive squeal of “Cedriiic! My hero! Come here, I missed you sooo much!”(1) I swear by Merlin, Morgana and the Founders, those were her exact words. I didn’t think people talked like that outside very bad novels, but then, she was young. Panicked, I hurriedly said goodbye to Cho – who looked utterly gobsmacked, so all my good work was probably undone - and walked off as quickly as I could. Even a smitten first-year could work out I wasn’t anywhere near Sinistra’s office, so I didn’t really have anywhere to go. Lacking any sort of plan, I just took every side passage, hidden short-cut and rickety ladder I came across, and somehow would up on the south third-floor corridor. Dead end. Surely she couldn’t have followed me through that route – even Snape couldn’t have done it.

The squirt must have had a Tracing Charm on me though, because I she skidded round the corner just as I leant against the wall to catch my breath and decide what to do next. Smiling like an ad for Toothflossing Stringmints, she sang out “Oh Ce-dric, I found yoooou. My, you know a lot about this castle. I bet even Dumbledore doesn’t know all those secret passages. What a good thing my brother’s tracking you for me. Jack’s so sweet, he thinks this is the most romantic thing ever.” I finally worked out who she was. Minshaw, not Monshawl. ‘Jack’ was a Slytherin fifth year who, in my experience, thought a great deal about his hair and damn little else. I didn’t think I’d ever done anything to him.

I looked about frantically and remembered a way out – well, at least a way into another dead end. Praying that it hadn’t moved again, I ducked behind a tapestry of Varadar the Venal and shoved open the heavy, iron-bound door into the South Wing. Maybe, just maybe, whatever she was tracking me with couldn’t find a vanishing room, even if it didn’t vanish whilst I was in it. I threw myself round a corner and into the first doorway on the left, which had been an empty room. Unfortunately, Tap hadn’t been wrong about the rooms changing places. I just had time to see the sealed door before I slammed into it. Hard. Face-first.

“Qui dérange la maisonette des Toujours Pûr?”(2) a voice snapped from nowhere. Startled, in pain and most unwilling to be interrogated by some obnoxious Frenchman, I growled to myself as I leant against the door, “Fuck ‘Toujours Pûr’.” It swung inward, silently. Still swearing, I fell inside. As I recovered my senses on the floor, I heard footsteps outside, and gently kicked the door shut. It closed as silently as it had opened, leaving me alone in a dark room. Cursing myself for my stupidity, I muttered ‘Lumos’ and looked around in surprise at what I saw in the dim light. I suppose the ‘Toujours Pûr’ were a literal-minded lot, because it was, well, a flat. More of a bedsit, actually, with a battered four-poster bed, a squarish table and a great pile of those Seventies things that Aunt Cece liked – banebags, or something.

Looking around the walls, I saw what looked like portraits, four in a row along one wall with another opposite, a curtained window and a torch-bracket. Result! I flipped the curtain back with a wave of my wand, letting in a shaft of sunlight. Funnily enough, the first thing I noticed was that the view was impossible; the lake is to the east of the castle, but appeared to be right below a window that, unless my sense of direction was totally cockeyed, faced west. It must have been a Dempsey window(3), like they have in the Ministry. Of course, a moving room could hardly have a real window, could it? There was nothing particularly enlightening about the furniture – what I’d taken for a table was eight desks rammed together, the bed was exactly the same as mine in the Hufflepuff dorms but in red trim and a gramophone sat on a stool next to the ... beanbags, that’s it.

The portraits – photographs, actually – were a bit more informative. The four were two couples and two boys alone, in various spots around Hogwarts. Nearest the door were a short, overweight guy and a woman, probably a bit older, with a deep tan, short blonde hair and impressively awful tortoiseshell specs. Next, a bloke with long, dark brown hair and a cocky grin, wand in one hand and a keyring dangling from the other. The third was another singleton; skinny, pale and posing slightly uncomfortably with a stiff smile. I’d seen him before, recently, but I couldn’t place where. The last, well, I noticed the girl first – a bit short and very ginger but Helga’s Gift, she was beautiful. And then my eyes fell upon the lucky bastard next to her.

Potter. It couldn’t be – if nothing else, Potter was only a third-year and this guy had to be at least sixteen, but it was. Skinny, in need of a haircut, sun glinting off his glasses, Gryffindor colours – in fact, all of them except the blonde were in Gryffindor colours. It was only after a good minute’s goggling that I noticed the pins on Potter’s chest. It was just possible that he was Quidditch Captain now, albeit without a team to captain, but I’d seen the other one just the day before, on Ozzy’s robes. No way Harry Potter was the Head Boy, however much Dumbledore liked him.

So, some sort of relative, must have been dead or really old otherwise there’d be Potter sightings in the Prophet all the time. Thus reassured, I turned round to look at the other photo, which was the boys from the other four, together by the Hogwarts lake. The caption read ‘Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot & Prongs. Marauders. Gryffindors. Friends.’ in neat, upright handwriting. How bloody sappy can you get, really? Disgusted with the Gryffindor sentimentality of the photo, I decided to have a good poke around whilst waiting for whatsherface to hopefully give up and go away.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, Always Pure Gryffindors etc., must have been a very tidy lot, because there was nothing left under the bed and nothing in the desk drawers except some boxers and a book called ‘The Cartographer’s Craft’ by C.Badge. The gramophone, though, had a small pile of records next to it – Muggle ones, I suppose, because I didn’t recognise a single title. One of them didn’t even have one, just a photo of a knackered-looking bloke carrying a dead tree on the cover(4).

I thought about playing one of the records to pass the time, but realised it would give away where I was hiding to anyone outside. Being caught by Filch doesn’t exactly start a weekend off well, and this room obviously wasn’t meant to be found. That thought reminded me how weird the whole place was; a sealed door that moved round at random, entered by a password Dumbledore would surely never allow, hiding a flat that nobody needed. Of course, it didn’t take me long to see the potential of having a room of one’s own in the middle of Hogwarts. I may not be much of a romantic, but a flat definitely makes a better impression than a broom cupboard.

The novelty of the flat wore off pretty quickly; I looked at my watch and was shocked to realise it was only half-past nine. That’s what you get for being woken up at some godawful hour by idiot room-mates with no more brains than a Flobberworm. Still, I’d been in there almost an hour, so it wasn’t likely Minshaw would still be hanging around. Cautiously, wand in hand, I eased the door open and crept out. Empty. The doors had shifted again, and I was standing at the end of the corridor. Practising, as Moody would say, Constant Vigilance (I wonder if he ever thought of using smitten first-years as a teaching aid. It wouldn’t surprise me), I slunk out of the South Wing and back to the Cellar.

Down in the common room, everyone was bustling about as usual. The Hat didn’t call us ‘unafraid of toil’ for nothing and Hard Work didn’t stop for minor things like holidays or even Triwizard Tournaments. If Ragnarok was announced for next Tuesday most of my housemates would still do Wednesday’s homework in advance. What wasn’t quite so normal was the type of bustling going on. Somebody was either preparing for a party or provisioning the House for a siege, and in the absence of Morgana hammering on the doors I assumed it was a party – what else would call for quite so much Butterbeer, food and other stuff in brown paper packages? I shied away from thinking about the obvious reason for a party. I didn’t want to be in the damn Tournament. Let some idiot Gryffindor die for the honour of Hogwarts and leave me in peace. Thoroughly fed up, I glared at a second-year underfoot, who promptly turned around and fell over. Eight hours to kill.

By lunchtime, I was so bored I did my DADA homework just to pass the time. Moody was finished with Shields, and had moved on to Incapacitating Jinxes of all sorts – Incarcerous, Petrificus Totalus and all the fancy advanced ones. Some, like St. Andrew’s Lash(5), provoked considerable sniggering from most of the class, whilst de Maupassant’s Mangler (I can’t remember the official name, but it tied you up then squeezed your bollocks for good measure) had the girls laughing and the boys wincing painfully. You shouldn’t go round teaching people things like that. Especially not girls who don’t know what a serious thing it is. My essay made a big deal of it though; Moody loved to pounce on one line in an essay and say ‘show me!’. If I was going to be ordered to painfully tie someone up, I could think of several people in need of a good squeezing. In case my target was picked for me, I put in a fair bit about St. Andrew’s as well, which sent me into a pleasant daydream about trying it on Cho. Ah, happy days. Don’t remember ever using it on her, but then, I don’t remember landing early on Christmas morning either and, as I woke up in one piece on terra firma, I assume I did(6).

Eventually, after I’d finished my essay, tidied my trunk, thrown Stebbins’ stinking socks into someone else’s dorm and contemplated doing – ye gods – Divination homework by the book, time for the Feast came around. Deciding to look good in obscurity, I slicked down my hair and shaved before going down to dinner with the also newly-shaven Rupert. Apparently Tap’s beard had proven resistant to Shaving Charms and Pomfrey had had to get rid of it with a Muggle thing called a razor. We shuddered together at the idea of shaving with something you were supposed to cut throats with(7).

Although the Feast was as good as ever, for the second time, I didn’t enjoy it that much, especially as I was still feeling a bit bloated from the night before. Nobody talked about the Tournament, as if mentioning it would bring down some sort of curse on the school. The Beauxbatons lot looked in even worse shape though, most of them hadn’t eaten a thing and some were distinctly green. Little Miss Veela had a Malfoyish expression trying desperately to cover up a severe case of nerves, whilst one I thought might be Cuné (she was sitting next to Cho, anyway) was shaking so much she spilt soup all over McAuslan.

Eventually, Dumbledore finished his dinner, which he apparently enjoyed more than anyone else present, and cleared the plates. As he stood up, the whole hall went dead silent. Not quiet, as it usually did for Dumbledore, with a few people finishing off their conversations in a whisper, but silent. He told us the Goblet was nearly ready, then waved his wand theatrically to snuff out the candles. The glare from the Goblet was painful in the darkened room, but I couldn’t have looked away as I mentally counted down Dumbledore’s ‘one more minute’.

When it burned red for the first time I glanced up at Dumbledore and knew it wasn’t the Hogwarts champion this time. I could see him relax as he caught the parchment and announced Krum, who got a good cheer, especially from the Slytherins. I had a feeling then that Hogwarts would be last. Dumbledore’s flair for the dramatic was... unique and he wouldn’t want his Champion upstaged by anyone. Thinking about it, he can’t possibly have had any control over the Goblet, but ‘impossible’ doesn’t mean quite what it used to. After all, you can’t survive the Killing Curse, or return from the dead, or duel Dark wizards as a fourth-year.

A few seconds later, another parchment shot up – and was it only in my imagination that it didn’t rise quite as high and fast as the other? Dumbledore’s ringing ‘Fleur Delacour’ didn’t get quite the reception Krum had – partly because hardly anyone recognised the name. Once they saw the Veela gliding up the middle of the hall, the volume grew a bit. As I watched her, I saw Cho comforting someone behind her, presumably one of the failed Frogs. It’s no surprise the Goblet picked Fleur; from what I saw of them the Beauxbatons lot were competent enough – better than ours – but a bit wet all round.

By the time Fleur was out of sight, you couldn’t have cut the tension with a knife. Excalibur might have done the job, but it would have been close. Warrington was already half-up, crouched ready to jump up and join the champions. An unsettling number of people were looking at me, more at the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables. Bagman gave me a little wave, as if he’d only just noticed me. Crouch was apparently either asleep or close, Karkaroff was off in another world, eyes glazed as, I suppose, he daydreamed about glory everlasting for Durmstrang, Krum and himself. Madame Maxime just looked excited, as much so as any student. Then the Goblet blazed for the third time. Again Dumbledore plucked out a piece of parchment, again hesitated just a fraction of a second, and spoke.

“The Hogwarts champion,” a pause which felt like an eternity, “is Cedri...” and my hearing vanished under an incredible, impossible roar. If you’ve never felt the rush that comes from pure adulation, I can’t possibly explain it. Something like an orgasm that just doesn’t stop, but more so, because you’re riding the peak of hundreds of people’s joy, and you never want to come down. Poltroon though I am, I couldn’t have been scared with that crowd cheering me to the rafters. I probably walked over to the ante-room and opened the door, but it felt like I floated on the wave of sound.

(1) This infatuation seems so preposterously over the top that it is almost certainly a none-too-subtle mockery. Perhaps Cedric’s ego would not allow him to recognise the fact. Equally, it is possible that Miss Minshaw was rather odd, or had been reading too many romances.

(2) “Who disturbs the flat of the ‘Toujours Pûr’?” - ‘Toujours Pûr’ or ‘Always Pure’ was the ancient motto of the now-defunct House of Black, one of the oldest and most traditional pure-blood families.

(3) An illusory window which mimics a real-world view from elsewhere. Those in the Ministry of Magic, for example, usually show views from the Tower of London (except in times of industrial action or special occasions). Named for Drusilla Dempsey of Halifax, who developed the necessary charms in 1766 because she was ‘sick of looking at grey skies and grey sea day after day’ from her office in the Undersecretariat for Colonial Wizardry.

(4) The editor is mystified, but Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin swears this has something to do with four lead balloons.

(5) Used to tie an opponent to a flat surface e.g. a wall or table. The most common variant uses four linked Incarcerous Jinxes to tie the target in a spread-eagle position, hence its alternative name of Sade’s Aid.

(6) This refers to a future episode in the Papers. Cedric’s logic is impeccable, for once.

(7) Probably an unfortunate misunderstanding of the term ‘cut-throat razor’.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:53:24 GMT

Diggory Papers 3/14 "Arrivals and Entries"

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

Unsurprisingly, I don’t remember the weeks between the first two days and just before Hallowe’en too well. What happened then and afterwards sort of drove everything else out of my mind. The next time that’s completely clear in my mind is a Tuesday afternoon Defence lesson. We’d been working on those reactive spells the Slytherins discovered in our first lesson, which were seriously nasty. Even Moody only let us try ones that shot Stunners back at whoever hexed you, but you could do Greek Fire or Putrescens without much more trouble, except to whoever got hit. Harald got a blast of Greek Fire from a Weasley who had decided Stunners were for lesser beings, but his skin grew back in a few days.

Ernie MacMillan, our Percy Weasley in training, caught me after that lesson to say the foreigners were arriving at the end of the week. He said he ‘decided that you ought to be informed in view of your avowed intention to compete.’ Pompous twat. I hadn’t avowed anything until he said that in front of half the year. Rupert said (again) that he’d like to have a go as well and it was a pity he’d not be of age by Friday. Daft sod. If I’d been born two days later I’d have been out of it as well.

As it was, my birthday was practically forgotten in the Triwizard preparations. The teachers were so nervous about being shown up by Durmstrang or Beauxbatons that nobody did much work – McGonagall seemed to have a morbid fear of the Durmstrang Transfiguration teacher and was terrified that someone would humiliate her in front of him. Either he could give lessons in nastiness to Snape or she was madly in love with him. He never appeared, so I don’t know which.

Flitwick took the opportunity to give us an entirely practical lesson in household charms – he told us to clean the South Wing (1), which I’d never heard of. When we got up there I was amazed to find a whole area of the castle none of us had ever been in, with about a dozen rooms including one that we couldn’t get into and another full of old – really old – textbooks and stuff, mostly on Divination. Tap, who seemed surprised we didn’t know all about the place, nattered away about how the rooms changed places unpredictably or vanished completely, thanks to a bollixed-up Summoning in 17something. When someone asked what the idiots had been trying to Summon, she turned a strange shade of pink and shut up.

After a few hours of diligent Scourgifying (and expert ‘overseeing’ by yours truly in the capacity of resident Charms whiz) the place looked clean enough, though almost completely empty except for that one old Divination classroom and whatever was behind the locked door. If we lost some foreigners in the Wing at least they’d have no complaints about the dirt. Meanwhile, Sprout wanted everything pruned yesterday and Trelawney went into a dead faint at what she ‘Saw’ about the Triwizard competitors (brought on by the sherry hidden under her desk). Fan-Ten, on the other hand, was so distracted by Filch polishing armour next door that he sent us away with instructions to translate four pages of Ingolfr and not come back until Tuesday.

By Friday everything had been cleaned that could be (some wonderful person even bathed Mrs. Norris) and everyone had moved on to discussing the foreign schools, their reputations and whether or not anyone knew their pupils. There were loads of rumours going around – Durmstrang was staffed by ex-Death Eaters and Cossack vigilantes (2), Beauxbatons’ Head Girl was a vampire, both schools were chock-full of half-breeds, miscegenators (Warrington, who knew neither what it meant nor how to spell it) and Dark wizards, Durmstrang travelled on giant sheep, and other such rubbish (3).

In the middle of all this bull, a few saner people were talking quite normally about people they actually did know – Cho was overjoyed that Cunégonde had made it into the Beauxbatons party and somebody’s cousin from Minsk was coming with Durmstrang. Cunégonde was bad enough, but did this mysterious Byelorussian have to be called Pullayakoff (4)? At least he didn’t have a sister called Ivana. The Weasleys actually asked Terry Higgs that; fortunately (for him) he didn’t actually hex them.

Two things about the arrival ceremony stick in my mind. First, the size of everything. Beauxbatons had a flying carriage the size of a house – a big house, too. Their Headmistress made it look almost normal; she was nearly Hagrid’s size and it was much more striking on someone so civilised. I was half expecting Durmstrang to show up in St Basil’s (5), onion domes and all.

I think I’d have been happier if they had. It sounds ridiculous, but the ship they actually used scared me. It looked wrong, somehow. All the individual bits were normal enough, but the whole looked dead, like it had been sitting at the bottom of a lake for much too long. Much, much later, I found that Muggle sailors frighten their children with stories of the Freischiff Durmstrang (6). I can’t say I’m a bit surprised; the ship itself is bad enough and every time I meet one of Durmstrang’s students I seem to get injured, hexed or murdered, so their stories about the crew are probably understatements. Anyhow, you have to wonder why a school would wear blood red. Did they not want the stains to show?

Viktor Krum stepping out of that nightmare was even more of a shock. International Quidditch stars have no business showing up when everyone’s already wound tighter than MacMillan’s arse, especially not with a suspicious-looking Headmaster and a gaggle of big blokes in fur coats. Most of the school were too confused by the conflicting signals of ‘hide, it’s scary’ and ‘oh Merlin, it’s Viktor Krum. Here. D’you think he’ll sign my hat?’ to do much more than turn round and get moving into the castle – a few of them trying to get ahead of Dumbledore and catch another glimpse of Krum. The hat-signer was Tap, by the way. She collected Seeker autographs; she even got mine later on. It’s probably worth more than any of her others, now. Just like all those old singers: once you’re dead, you’re sorted for life (7).

As everyone spilled into the Great Hall, there was a bit of a fight for good seats – that is, seats with a view of the Beauxbatons lot, who were at the Ravenclaw table. You won’t believe me, but for the first few minutes all eyes were on a very tall Arabic-looking guy with some sort of badge on his robes, who looked like a picture book Young Hero. You know, tall, dark, with a ‘piercing gaze,’ smart robes, cool hair, and all the trimmings. I remember thinking that Ozzy looked a sad disappointment in comparison, never mind our own pet hero, who had the ‘dark’ out of the above, but that was about it. Trust the French to have a leader who looks the part. Of course, everyone and his Crup knows whom we spent the rest of the year staring at. Thomas Jésuord, Marquis de Somewhereorother – that was our Boy Hero’s name, as if you couldn’t guess - wouldn’t have rated a second glance if she hadn’t been wrapped in a travelling-cloak, headscarf and muffler.

I wish our eyes had met across a crowded Great Hall as she took off the muffler to reveal that incredible cloud of silver hair, but they didn’t. She turned round, then tossed her head, not at all theatrically but just to get her hair hanging straight, and looked up with an expression that said very clearly ‘I don’t know why I’m in this dump, but get your acts together and I might deign to stay.’ Coming from a Malfoy or a Pucey, that expression would have been an obnoxious sneer. On her, it looked good. Most things did – especially me.

After the initial shock wore off, I wasn’t too surprised when she walked straight past the Hufflepuff table and up to Potter, who was eating near the foot of the Gryffindor table. Rupert, never the most graceful bloke, spilt soup over himself when he tried to gawk behind him and eat at the same time. It seemed only natural that a girl like that would want to hang around with the rich and famous, but at the same time bloody unfair that any girl would take a good look at Hogwarts’ finest and settle on a runt fourth-year with crazy hair and bottle-end glasses. Good for the rest of us that the rich and famous are also often the short and goofy. Potter, Malfoy, Sue Peverell – all short and ugly, but loaded.

Fortunately (for me), I’d only just turned back to share my indignation with the other lads when she returned to the Ravenclaw table carrying an absolutely huge bowl of something, which I thought the unchivalrous (and inopportunistic) squirt could at least have carried for her. Assuming, of course, that he could lift it himself.

The feast itself was OK, as Hogwarts feasts went – that is, I hardly noticed it at the time and would kill for it now. I did enjoy the French food; having spent two years living in Avignon as a kid, I was used to it. Pity Dumbledore had such an English attitude to wine with dinner though, because it would have been hilarious seeing pissed Hogwarts students try to impress a Veela.

Speaking of impressing Veela, Ravenclaw brains didn’t stop a number of arguments breaking out at the foot of their table. I heard that odious little crawler Carmichael boasting about his Quidditch-playing (which was shite) and wonderful marks. Meanwhile Roger Davies sat there looking smooth, obviously trying very hard to keep his mouth shut and avoid saying anything stupid. Winner of the Weasley Prize for Idiocy, hands down, was little Dand McAuslan, who’d obviously seen Davies’ strategy but hadn’t quite got the willpower, so he kept opening his mouth, making a sort of strangled grunt and shutting it abruptly. I think the French just assumed he was having some sort of fit. When he finally did manage to say something – only ‘can you pass the shepherd’s pie please,' but something at least – they couldn’t understand a word he said. Neither could many of the Ravenclaws, but what do you expect with a Glasgow accent thicker than my mother’s custard?

The real business of the evening came after dinner, though. I hear the Triwizard Tournament is a regular thing now, with even more safety measures and no deaths since mine. I don’t suppose, then, that I need to repeat Dumbledore’s explanation of the rules. The other judges were much more interesting anyway. Of the two Ministry types, one was Crouch, an old stick whose career had (according to the rumour which reached us Ministry brats about five minutes behind him) been stalled for ages because his son had been a Death Eater. Maybe that was why he looked such a miserable old bastard. Bagman was his usual cheerful self, milking the applause for all it was worth. He didn’t seem to look too long at the Hufflepuff table, though. If this was a bad novel, he’d have been unable to meet my eyes from sheer guilt, but I think it had more to do with fear of blackmail. He’d bought my silence once, with season tickets and charm, but I always planned to twist his arm eventually, if I could muster the nerve to go through with it. The shifty-looking bloke with Krum turned out to be Karkaroff, Head of Durmstrang, and the huge woman was appropriately named Madame Maxime, presumably of Beauxbatons.

I didn’t have much time to think about them, because Dumbledore got on with things pretty quickly even by his standards. I always liked the length of his speeches, but that one set a record. Maybe he wanted to get away from Karkaroff and Crouch, or just didn’t want to spoil too many of the surprises ahead. The obligatory bit about how you would ‘certainly face danger blah blah not to be entered lightly blah blah binding magical contract’ was entirely expected, and only confirmed my resolve not to enter. As you might have worked out already, I’m not a great fan of the ties that bind – especially if breaking them is going to kill me. That’s usually what ‘binding’ means, though sometimes you get off with being turned into a Squid (8).

As everyone got up, still gabbling, there was a general movement towards the Ravenclaw table. The boys wanted to chat up the Veela and the girls to gawp at Boy Hero whilst searching for something catty to say about the aforesaid Veela. If you really want to, you can find flaws in anyone. As you’re wondering, she had a small wart on the side of her right thumb and her arse was a bit on the skinny side for my taste. I didn’t bother; I knew that gawping was definitely not suave, sophisticated or impressive. Besides, I knew my limits perfectly well. Cho was possible, Veela were off the menu.

The idiot Weasleys somewhere behind me had also managed to resist joining the crowd – probably because they knew nobody would pay attention to them. They were talking loudly about using an Ageing Potion to get past Dumbledore’s precautions. I might have a pretty low opinion of most people’s intelligence, but the old man wasn’t that stupid. Even Trelawney probably wasn’t stupid enough to be beaten by a sixth-year potion. Rupert, who was just in front of me, turned round and said what a great idea it was. Nobody ever accused him of being smart, so I didn’t hold out much hope of him managing to make the potion in the first place.

Meanwhile, the Durmstrang lot formed up like some sort of parade and set off towards the doors in double-time, flanked by larger blokes with black pelisses over their blood-red uniforms. Not really paying attention, I stopped quite abruptly at the sound of Moody’s distinctive growl; he was saying something about moving out of the doorway, which was eminently sensible, as the Durmstrangers had stopped just inside. Before anyone moved, though, something heavy smacked into the small of my back. I spun round, just in time to catch my little Slytherin, who ... wasn’t so little. Short, yes, but she squished nicely where she hit me. Chivalrous to the end (in public), I set her back on her feet, checked she was OK and apologised for being so thoughtless as to be walked into. Selfish I may be, but nobody ever said I couldn’t be charming, when it suited me. By the time I turned again, the hold-up had cleared and Ravenclaws were streaming past. I noticed Cho giving me a curious look. Maybe she wondered why I was being nice to obnoxious little Slytherins, maybe she was impressed by my kindness and charm, but I like to think she was just a little bit jealous of this girl falling into my arms. Before I could do anything I’d regret, Rupert tapped me on the shoulder

“Hey, Ced, Tap says she’ll give me some of her Ageing Potion. We’re both going to enter, and Ben is too. Those Russians or whatever they are won’t know what hit them. Rupert Alfred Summers, Triwizard Champion. Well, maybe. You and Sarah both have a much better chance. It’s got a nice ring to it though, don’t you think?” He sounded far too excited, the fool.

“Suppose so. If you can fool anything Dumbledore set up that easily. I reckon we should all just leave it to the heroes and let them get themselves killed.” He didn’t have a clue, of course, that I was dead serious. If I’d told him so he wouldn’t have believed me, just laughed and said I was in an unusually sarcastic mood that day. As I didn’t tell him, he just chuckled and went on blathering. I think he might have said something about ‘Hufflepuff standing shoulder to shoulder’ at one point, but I wasn’t really listening. How you can stand shoulder to shoulder in an individual competition beats me, anyway. Maybe he meant that all of us put together might be able to beat one Beauxbatons or Durmstrang student. That would at least have been true.

I didn’t sleep easily that night. I don’t think anyone did, really. I knew I wasn’t going to enter the Tournament, or thought I did, but I couldn’t see a way out. With only a day to enter, there’d always be someone in the Great Hall and rumour would get around in no time flat that I’d never put my name in. After my posturing earlier on, people would have given me some damn funny looks when that came out. Fool that I was, I never came up with the obvious answer, which was to ‘enter’ a blank piece of parchment. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that, but worry does strange things to people. I can just see Dumbledore snatching a piece of parchment out of mid-air, announcing ‘the Hogwarts Champion is...’ then realising there was no name. I wonder what the ‘binding magical contract’ would have said about that (9). Eventually, lulled by Stebbins’ snoring, I dozed off.

The next morning, I was up early, along with everyone else in the castle. Unlike them, I didn’t choose to get up. No, I was hauled out of bed at six in the morning by Rupert, celebrating the fact that he’d spent all night brewing up his Ageing Potion and was now ready to put his name in the Goblet and go down in history. He said that he assumed I’d go and enter at the same time as he did, to which I replied, “How do you know I didn’t enter in the middle of the night, Mr. Potions Genius?” I didn’t think he could top that, but Ben pointed out that I hadn’t left the dorm, and he could be sure of that because he hadn’t slept a wink for worrying about the Ageing Potion and what Dumbledore might have set up to keep out underage entrants.

At this point, Tap came down from the girls’ dorms, where she’d stayed the night so she could get at the Ageing Potion bubbling away in the empty Hufflepuff Head Girl’s quarters – the Head Girl that year was Elspeth Morrison, a particularly hopeless Slytherin. Looking looked quite disgustingly cheerful for the time of day, especially as she’d obviously had no sleep; she berated Rupert for letting the fire go out. Ben looked admiring as she described how she’d fixed the curdled potion and was nearly sure it would do. Some guys like being lectured, I suppose. Especially when it’s some other poor bastard getting the full tongue-lashing whilst they stand by and admire.

To distract her, probably because he wanted breakfast, Rupert sent Mildred off to fetch the Ageing Potion. She came back a minute later, trying very hard not to drop three tooth-mugs (10) full of water with a few drops of Ageing Potion. Ben seemed surprised she hadn’t got one for herself, but she had always been a bit shy. The three of them, Ben, Tap and Rupert, downed their mugs with the customary grimaces, but only Tap changed – her hair grew an inch or so. All nervous – though for different reasons – we climbed out of the Cellar and made for the Great Hall.

Even at that time there were a few people hanging about the top table. My stomach, not in the best of states after my disturbed night, gave a lurch when I spotted a gaggle of girls, including Cho, Pansy and a half-dozen others. They weren’t eating, just standing against the far wall, talking. As I walked in, Cho rummaged about in her book-bag for something. I waved at the other three to go on, and sauntered over to the ladies, looking as suave as I could manage on three hours’ sleep. Cho was writing something now, using a spotty fifth-year’s back as a desk.

I was about halfway across the Hall when I heard two loud cracks, like tree branches snapping. I spun round, expecting Moody to be up to something, but saw McGonagall instead, looking furious. I soon found out why; Tap and Rupert were lying outside Dumbledore’s circle, both sprouting incredible beards. In fact, said beards looked suspiciously like Dumbledore’s. I reckon he came up with the idea himself. All thoughts of suave forgotten, I literally fell down laughing, as did Ben who’d obviously decided to wait and see what happened before risking his neck – a man after my own heart. McGonagall, to the great amusement of some Gryffindors standing in the door, tugged sharply on Rupert’s beard to get him moving. With a wince of pain, he stumbled after her, accompanied by a subdued Tap and slightly worried-looking Stebbins – presumably he was afraid Pomfrey would find out he’d taken the potion too.

I’d completely forgotten about the girls in the excitement, so it came as a shock when Cho tapped me on the shoulder. She handed me a piece of parchment with ‘Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts’ written on it. I don’t think it’s possible to be elated and depressed at the same time, but I must have come close. On the one hand, I had Cho impressed with my bravery, so much that she was giving me a token of her favour to wear on my wand arm (well, put in the Goblet, which was near enough). On the other, I couldn’t possibly avoid entering for a highly dangerous competition I’d have cheerfully sold my grandmother (11) to avoid.

After no more than a second’s hesitation, I decided to make the best of it. At least I could enjoy the admiration for a day, and the odds of my actually being selected were not high. I thanked Cho for her ‘gift,’ kissed her on the cheek and stepped over Dumbledore’s line whilst still slightly shocked at my audacity. Sending up a silent prayer to anyone listening, I folded the parchment in two and dropped it into the Goblet. The blue flames blazed red and hot for a second, scorching my fingers, and my entry paper was gone. Gone, at least for twelve hours, and how I wish I’d never seen it again.

(1) The South or ‘Vanishing’ Wing is known for the tendency of its rooms to change places and/or vanish entirely, according to no discernible pattern. This unusual power was caused by a Ritual of Summoning by some Ravenclaw students, which went awry in 1791. From 1943 to 1976 the entire wing disappeared and no teaching has been done in it since its rediscovery.

(2) After the Lienz Cossacks (both wizard and Muggle) were refused asylum in the UK, most were reduced to living as fugitives in the more deserted parts of the Eastern Bloc by the pogroms of the deranged Squib spymaster Lavrenti Beria. The survivors’ vengeance continued throughout the 1960s and 1970s, culminating in the dramatic assassination of Georgi Makarov in central London. Durmstrang did indeed offer sanctuary to many Cossacks, whose criminal records were of course despicable Communist fakes.

(3) Remarkably, this was largely accurate except for the vampire Head Girl (she taught Astronomy) and the giant sheep, which was a ship. By the ossified standards of wizarding Britain, practically everywhere was full of half-breeds and miscegenators by 1994.

(4) A reasonably accurate phonetic rendering of Poliakoff.

(5) The main cathedral of Moscow, largely designed by court wizards of Tsar Ivan IV ‘the Terrible.’

(6) The ‘Free Ship Durmstrang’, usually rendered ‘Flying Dutchman’ in Muggle legend due to the mutual incomprehension of German wizards and English-speaking sailors. The stories tell of a mythical ship cursed to wander the seas for all eternity as a punishment for the crew’s misconduct.

(7) A slight misquote of the Muggle singer Jimi Hendrix, who is often but inaccurately presumed to have been a Squib.

(8) ‘A Squib’ is more conventional and this is probably a transcription error. However, the editor is assured by competent authorities that an Oath incurring Transfiguration into a cephalopod is not impossible.

(9) After consulting two Curse Breakers, three Hogwarts teachers and a Wizengamot elder, as well as inspecting the lit Goblet itself, the most likely (though far from certain) answer is that the Goblet would have spat the blank paper straight back out again.

(10) These are mugs in which toothbrushes and other toiletries, not false teeth, are kept.

(11) Cedric’s grandmothers both died in the First War. The going rate for corpses was not high in those days, as necromancy was almost a lost art.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:51:54 GMT

Diggory Papers Chapter 2/14 "First Lessons, New Challenges"

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The Diggory Papers

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley

As soon as I arrived back in the Cellar (1), Ozzy Kiss poked me in the eye with his wand. I know how that sounds. Maybe it would help if I explained that Oswald Kyston was the Head Boy that year, a Welsh beanpole that frequently tripped over his own feet, and smiled constantly, whatever the circumstances. The reason he was poking people was the crowd of excited first-years, who had demanded a demonstration when they overheard him talking about human Transfiguration.

For no particular reason other than that he could – he was pretty hot at Transfiguration - Ozzy had decided to turn his feet into flippers. Then he tried to walk but, being a clumsy great Taffy, fell over and nearly put his wand through my eye. I howled at that, as you might expect from someone with a large stick in his eye, then ‘accidentally’ gave Ozzy a good kick as I helped him up. Politely (him) and firmly (me), we informed the firsties that it was their bedtime and they’d need the sleep.

Once we were rid of the lower years, the sixth- and seventh-years gathered round the fire to trade news, swap tall stories about the summer and speculate on who was going to be Hogwarts Champion. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or scared that I was one of the favourites. The other good bets were Angelina Johnson from Gryffindor, a Weasley (even though they were both underage)(2) and Rufus Warrington from Slytherin. Somebody tried to talk Ozzy into having a go, but he muttered something about being very busy and no use at practical stuff anyway. He was right, by the way. No use at all, and no balls either.

The next morning, everyone had calmed down a bit about the Tournament and gone back to worrying about subject choices and their interviews with Sprout. There was much comparing of subject lists, checking of the big ‘required grades’ chart on the wall and damning of Snape for his unreasonably high entry requirements. Mark Zaki said Snape set the entry level so high because he hated teaching and hoped to get nice small classes. I personally think he was just a sour old bastard who loved ruining people’s careers, but that’s by the by. What Snape did or didn’t do with his students was none of my concern; I would have dropped it even if I had got an O and the whole staff had begged me to continue.

My own interview went as well as could be expected. Sprout was pleased I intended to continue Herbology and delighted with my Charms result. However, being Sprout and a great believer in hard, sometimes dangerous work, she was a bit disappointed I hadn’t done better in Transfiguration, which I continued anyway, and Care of Magical Creatures, which I didn’t. She signed off on Astronomy, Defence, Ancient Runes and Divination without comment.

Everyone else seemed fine, though Ben Stebbins surprised everyone by signing up for History of Magic, usually home to a mixture of Ravenclaws trying for some sort of award and absolute duffers who couldn’t cope with anything more magical. Finding someone normal in there was like seeing me charge a dragon head-on – it happened once, but damned if anyone knows why. When Sprout goggled, he said it was good writing practice and far more ‘intellectually challenging’ than Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures. I didn’t get it. Why should a perfectly normal person offend his Head of House and sign up for two years of utter boredom in awful company, with an impossible exam at the end? It turned out to be something obvious, but that comes later.

That Tuesday was a hell of an interesting day. First period was free, and then I had Runes, which was a relaxing way to start off the year. Old Professor Fan-Ten was a nice enough bloke if he thought you had talent. The highest insult in his vocabulary was ‘plugger’ – anyone who disguised a lack of aptitude with unremitting learning-by-heart. You could do well that way, but he’d hate you. Nobody could mistake me for a plugger normally and I evidently had enough talent to pass the OWL, so he liked me. Rather than scare us as the other teachers later did, he spent most of the lesson deriding his least favourite fourth-year, who apparently had no instinct for Runes at all but persisted in learning every fact going. This forced him to pass her despite himself. For the first time I remember hearing the name of Hermione Granger, and I must say he seems to have been an excellent judge of character (3).

After that, we talked over the course for a bit and did the Daily Prophet Crossword, which he said was ‘a fine tool for sharpening the mind’ and, better yet, didn’t produce any homework. As Fan-Ten liked marking homework about as much as the average sixth-year enjoyed doing it, that was a major advantage. There was even a Rune in the crossword – 9 across: ‘He was almost confused by an offensive partnership – sounds like our man’ – five letters, answer ehwaz (4). I didn’t have a clue, but the old man never noticed – he thought I just wasn’t paying attention. The old Chinese teacher was like that; where most teachers didn’t care how you did as long as you tried, he preferred you not to try, as long as you were right in the end.

I was glad of the rest (and Sprout’s reassuringly normal Double Herbology) when Moody’s lesson came round. Apparently he had demonstrated Unforgivable Curses to the OWL classes, but he had something ‘better’ for us. He marched into the classroom like Death on one leg, roared ‘CONSTANT VIGILANCE’ and hit anyone who didn’t turn around fast enough with a Stinging Hex.

After that innovative beginning, we saw the patented Moody approach to giving out textbooks. Instead of levitating them over to us, or passing them out by hand, he Banished them at us as fast as he could – which was impressively quick. Anyone who caught a book got five points, those who dodged or deflected them were left alone and anyone who was hit lost five points as well as getting a good thump in the nose. I dived under my desk and cracked my head on the leg. Responding fast to large objects aimed at the head is sort of obligatory for Seekers, even sane ones who stay out of the melee as much as possible.

Once everyone had a not-too-battered copy of The Auror’s Field Manual, 1979 edition (one of the Weasleys blew his to smithereens and got twenty points), Moody set us a simple challenge:

“Right, you’re all sixth-years now, you all managed to make it through OWL. Now you get to see what REAL fighting looks like. Your last teacher dealt mainly with Dark Creatures and duelling spells, didn’t he?”

Rufus Warrington stuck up his hand. “Yes, Professor. We covered all the spells on the OWL, plus a couple of the more advanced Shields and some theory of the Light Arts.” I could tell he hadn’t been too impressed with the Light Arts. Magic based on faith and positive thinking would never get too far with the average Slytherin. Moody knew that too.

“The Light Arts, as you well know, are vital to an Auror, or anyone else. The Patronus Charm, for example, is the only way to disperse Dementors. ‘Lux Amoris’ is effective against many Dark Creatures, though dangerous to cast. This year, though, we will be covering curses. Dark curses, very Dark indeed. Get your books open, find and demonstrate by the end of Thursday’s lesson one spell from the chapter on Offensive Defences. And remember, even when you’re working, CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

That set the tone for the day’s lesson – we flipped through an amazing textbook full of all sorts of really good spells, from wand-destroying curses to five-man Shields that almost nothing short of the Killing Curse could break. Some Slytherins went straight for something headed ‘Kill me, target you’, which sounded lethal. The Weasleys dug up something flashy which looked like a mirror, but gave up on it and started Shielding their hats.

Meanwhile, I decided that if I wound up in battle all I wanted was to live long enough to get away. With that in mind, I found something just perfect, which ought to impress Moody and didn’t even look too difficult. It was called the Maltese Cross and the description was pretty simple:

Originating with the Crusading warlocks of the 12^th century, the Maltese Cross is a last-ditch defensive spell. It forms a spherical, impenetrable shield which, unlike other shields, is impermeable both ways – nothing can travel in or out except the Killing Curse and a very few others. Apparition from within the sphere is possible, but extremely difficult. The utility of the spell is thus restricted to covering a rapid retreat. Use of the Cross is advised against for the following reasons:

i) It is magically exhausting, to the extent that few can maintain it for more than a minute.

ii) Air cannot pass through it and consequently there is a danger of suffocation.

iii) Its opaque nature severely restricts vision.

iv) Spells deflected by the shield are affected in an unpredictable fashion – if they strike anyone else the effects may be wildly different from those intended.

The incantation is ‘Defensor cruce’ (5) and the wand movement, as the name suggests, is a cross, up-down-left-right-up, which must be maintained constantly.

Nothing there sounded especially risky, even though there were four warnings against using it. None of them worried me, anyway. A spell which sent your enemy’s attacks right back at him, modified, was something to dream about, not ban. I resolved to be paired for demonstrations with someone who wouldn’t be too imaginative in trying to break me down – anyone but the Weasleys would do, though Rupert or Harald would be best. Whilst I was thinking about all this, Moody stumped up quietly behind me and yelled as I was turning round,

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE! Not fast enough, Diggory!” He stung me hard on the back of the neck and deducted five points from Hufflepuff. Bastard. It wasn’t just me though, Adrian Pucey was rubbing his neck hard and there was a charred spot on the back of Tap’s robes. On the other hand, Alex Sutton looked almost cheerful – a rare occurrence for the sour Slytherin – and the Weasleys were positively grinning. All those years of sneaking around had probably given them some sort of sixth sense for approaching teachers.

After Moody let us out with a growled comment of ‘acceptable, for beginners’ and high praise for the Weasleys’ innovations, I hurried up to the Owlery to owl my mother. I know it wasn’t a very macho thing for a sixth-year to be doing, but it had been just the two of us nearly all the time I was at home - sixteen years whilst my dad worked all hours at the Ministry. I suppose I just didn’t want to leave her alone, or let her forget about me whilst she was off with ‘dear Ludo.’ Ironic, when you think that from the last day of the Triwizard Tournament to the time I’m writing this it’s been seventy years. I’ve not contacted her, or anyone else who knew me as Cedric Diggory, even once. I didn’t say much, just that my subjects were no trouble, I expected she knew about the Tournament which I might enter and the new DADA teacher was OK but extremely weird.

My luck was in that day. On the way to the Owlery, I ran into Cho Chang, who was coming down the ladder as I reached the bottom. My envy for that unknown firstie who could have been admiring her magnificent derrière all the way up to the Eyrie the day before went up sharply. Something else went up too, but I don’t think she noticed. Unlike certain people I could name, she wouldn’t have taken it as a compliment. We chatted for a bit about the smell, Moody, and the other small change of daily life – nothing earth shattering, but she seemed quite friendly and certainly not the whining, adhesive brat her reputation made her out to be.

She’d been writing to a friend at Beauxbatons, who rejoiced in the name of Cunégonde l’Ingusse (you couldn’t make that up). Apparently they’d spent the summer together and were hoping she’d be allowed to enter the Tournament (6), which would also get her out of exams. Cho seemed touched that I kept in contact with family, though I suspect she was just grateful for a guy who didn’t look like a starving man at a feast whenever he set eyes on her. Not that I didn’t want to, I’m just very good at keeping a straight face.

We parted quite happily; I offered to ‘tutor her in OWL Charms’ (at which she claimed to be terrible) and whilst she didn’t exactly leap into my arms she looked pleased and said she’d see how it went with Flitwick first. I still don’t know whether she’d have accepted if I hadn’t been made Champion, but I expect she would. She always tried to do the right thing, which may make her a fool, but nothing worse than that. Of course the fame and glory impressed her, but not THAT much. That was why she was a challenge. Well, that and her looks – every time I saw her she looked better than the last. Looking back, that might have been a bad sign.

Leaving Cho behind (and a lovely behind it was too), I sent off Aello (7) with my letter, then went off to dinner, which, as it was a Wednesday, was shepherd’s pie. Everyone was talking about Moody and how brilliant his lessons were – even I had to admit that being turned loose with an Auror handbook was pretty cool, if a bit dangerous. Three Weasleys were telling anyone who’d listen how sharp, experienced and generally fantastic he was – apparently I’d missed him Transfiguring that slimy little rich bastard Malfoy into a ferret. Pity, I’d have loved to see that. I was always perfectly civil to him in person – the Malfoys had too much influence for me to be anything else - but that didn’t mean I had to like him. Even by my low standards, he went too far and I hope the fear of Mad-Eye did something to hold him back.

After that, Wednesday was a bit anticlimactic. We spent most of it having the Fear of the Board (8) put into us by McGonagall, Sinistra, and Flitwick, which was at least as much use as giving us the day off. We knew NEWTs were supposed to be hard, but they all felt the need to tell us again. McGonagall was particularly fearsome towards those of us who she said had ‘coasted through OWLs without sufficient application’. That meant me. Sinistra just predicted direful consequences after Adrian Pucey forgot one of the Pleiades and Mildred Allen got the Bears mixed up.

In fact, after the first day, life went on pretty happily for a while. I got on with as little homework as possible, delighted in never having to speak to Snape and plotted the seduction of Cho or, failing her, my little damp Slytherin, whose reputation (and other assets) preceded her by a considerable distance. That reputation wasn’t the most savoury out there, but I didn’t really care. I wouldn’t want her conversation for long, after all. Not too much actually happened on either front, though. Everyone had other things on their minds, mainly the Tournament, the World Cup and somebody’s half-crazy aunt who’d vanished into thin air on holiday. I remember wishing at the time that my Aunt Cecelia (my dad’s sister) would vanish, but she just carried on baking really awful fruitcakes, which Mum felt obliged to send me every now and again.

(1) ‘The Cellar’ was the traditional name of the Hufflepuff common room, distinguishing it from the dungeon inhabited by Slytherin.

(2) Obviously the twins, Fred and George, as the other two Weasleys still in school were much younger and (then) less notorious.

(3) The editor is speechless, but would like to record that said student achieved O’s at both OWL and NEWT level in Runes, compared to Diggory’s E-grade OWL.

(4) A rather simple clue – a near anagram of ‘he was’, not meaning ‘defensive’ (a common Runic pun), literal translation ‘partnership’, from the Armanic rune system.

(5) Latin, ‘I am defended by the cross’.

(6) Evidently, Miss l’Ingusse was in the same year as Cedric – the French call it ‘Première’ - in which an OWL-equivalent certificate is sat, covering the core disciplines of magic.

(7) The name of Cedric’s owl, and of a Harpy in Greek mythology. Evidently Aello was a vicious owl.

(8) A colloquial term for the Wizarding General Examinations Authority, the trans-departmental body that administers OWLs, NEWTs and other magical examinations.

Diggory Papers ch1

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:49:36 GMT

First proper Diggory Papers Chapter 1/14 "New News"

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The Diggory Papers

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley

Home after the World Cup was pretty dull. My dad spent all his time first sorting things out after the attacks, then trying to get Mad-Eye Moody, who I already knew would be my new Defence teacher, off charges of illegal rubbish-dumping or cursing dustbins or something. Meanwhile, Mother ran about burning dinner and racing off to ‘Institute meetings’ – as if she’d touch the Witches’ Institute¹ with a dragon prod. Ludo Bagman, on the other hand, could touch her with whatever he liked. A handy thing, having the potential power to blackmail a Quidditch star. I never told Dad that I hadn’t won our Wasps season tickets with the Prophet’s Rearranging Crossword. If he’d had the brains of a Horklump, he might have known I couldn’t do it to save my life. On the other hand, if he’d had the brains of a Horklump he might have noticed that his wife spent an awful lot of time in meetings of a group she wasn’t really suitable to join. Never mind making jam - I had plenty of evidence she could burn salads.

I was quite happy to get on the train back to Hogwarts, except for one thing - OWL results. Most of us hadn’t seen each other since Results Day² and it’s bad luck to open your letter in public, so everyone wanted to know now exactly where they stood in the year and who’d be in their classes. Unfortunately, mine weren’t anything to shout about. Lurking quietly behind the scenes when there’s no danger afoot and letting others hog the limelight don’t come naturally to me.

Instead, I spent the trip Prefecting as obnoxiously as I knew how, which was excessive even then. Nothing to compare to that complete berk Percy Weasley, but enough to have the lower years in fits at the number of detentions they racked up. Pity nobody told them you can’t get detention on the train, but they’d never go and ask Snape or McGonagall why they didn’t end up disembowelling toads or doing lines. I was quite happy to let the little bastards think the staff merciful. After all, Snape’s reputation even with most of the Slytherins needed all the help it could get.

On my rounds, I happened to take a look into the guard’s van, which never actually had a guard in it but was usually full of people hiding from exes, vengeful boyfriends, bad-tempered elder siblings and so on. This time, though, the Weasley twins were in there, holding a large sack upside-down and shaking it vigorously, looking incredibly annoyed and upset that there was nothing coming out. I could hear them muttering, something like ‘must have made a mistake,’ ‘doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,’ and ‘bloody Wasps, all cheats.’

I considered marching in and giving them a piece of my mind about attempted theft (at a guess), being where they shouldn’t be and insulting my Quidditch team, but this was Fred and George Weasley, not some idiot second-years. They knew exactly what power I had (and hadn’t), were horribly inventive in their revenge and had been inured to all manner of insults by years of exposure to their dear Howler of a mother. I left ill enough alone and went to get changed.

Half an hour later, dripping wet, I was dodging water bombs in the Entrance Hall and admiring the effect Peeves’ work had on some Slytherin girls’ robes. One of them, a short plump one with a turned-up nose and sopping wet black hair, looked particularly appetising and I made a mental note of it when a tetchy blonde girl called her Pansy³.

The Welcome Feast was ... interesting. I hadn’t known about the Triwizard Tournament in advance – Dad had been so busy at the Ministry that he hadn’t had the energy to be smug about his Department’s great accomplishments in importing horrible creatures to attack (as far as he knew) innocent students. Dumbledore was more off-the-wall than ever – I think the old man must have been losing it even then, from what I hear – but Moody more than made up for it. Half the school was too gobsmacked to do anything, the other half (including me) wanted to hide behind the nearest large and solid object. Even if I’d never found out anything more about him after that night, Mad-Eye would still be right up there with Bellatrix Lestrange⁴, McGonagall and Monsieur le Sous-Ministre du bloody Intérieur Delacour in my personal demonology of Terrifying Characters.

Anyhow, Dumbledore dropped his bomb on us, to the general astonishment of all present. I was glad some of the other Ministry brats looked as shocked as I did – the Weasleys looked about ready to explode.

Whilst I was still digesting the phrase ‘death toll grew too high’, that prize cretin Ostmann immediately turned to me and said, “Well, Ced, I take it you’re entering. Wouldn’t be like our Captain to miss something this big. Think about it, Cedric Diggory of Hufflepuff House, Hogwarts, Triwizard Champion. Nobody would be calling us duffers then.”

The first part would have been exactly like me, because ‘Cedric Diggory etcetera, corpse,’ sounded more likely. I couldn’t exactly admit in front of the whole school that I was shitting myself at the thought. My glorious reputation could take a lot of kicking, but not that much. Maybe Potter’s could have survived, but I doubt it. Even Dumbledore would have got some funny looks.

I agreed with all the fervour I could manage that it was a great idea and I’d enter at the first opportunity, whilst privately resolving to do nothing of the sort. My birthday was still two months away; after that it would surely be possible to enter in secret, so I could always say I’d done that. Nobody would have to know, and I could cheer on our poor doomed idiot from a seat safely near the back. It didn’t seem like any of our dimwits had a prayer against Durmstrang anyway – in a fair contest, I still don’t think anyone could have stopped Krum.

My loud assurances did attract some attention as we started to file out of the Hall. The lower Hufflepuff years were delighted to hear such glorious posturing – most young ‘Puffs felt a bit short-changed at winding up in such a dull and traditionally useless house. A brand new first-year called Minstip or Monshawl or something⁵ said it was the bravest thing ever and I ought to be in Gryffindor, which got her glares from nearly everyone around. Gryffindor wasn’t the most popular house then, except with Dumbledore.

Much more to the point, Cho Chang, my opposite number on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team and even now one of the three most alluring women I’ve ever known, looked at me in as meltingly admiring a manner as I could wish for. I cheered up a bit. Maybe this damn Tournament – which was going to prevent another assault on the Quidditch Cup as well – had its compensations. Despite myself, I almost regretted that all our beautiful witches’ attentions would be wasted on some bone-headed glory hound. Probably, knowing my luck, that ape Warrington.

I turned to Rupert Summers, the best of our Chasers at the time and a useful if not overly bright guy to have on your side, and said, “You know, I think a bit of inter-house Quidditch practice might be in order. Keep the Seekers in trim for next year.” I put just enough leer into the last part that any sensible person would have known precisely what I was driving at

“Why? Last thing we need is the Pet, the Krait and the Golden Bitch⁶ getting even more advantages over us. No offence, mate, but the team needs all the help it can get.” Like I said, Rupert was a few Chasers short of a full team.

“Potter and Malfoy’s invitations will be conveniently dropped by the owl. I’ll be happy to take Cho Chang for a ride on my broomstick” – sweet Merlin, those were prophetic words, if you like – “but I don’t really think she could learn too much about strategy from that.” Even he couldn’t misinterpret that.

With a look of dawning comprehension followed by deep admiration, he mentioned that he’d be having a shot at the Tournament himself. ‘Tap’ Fawcett (oh, the famous Ravenclaw wit) piped up that she’d have a go too, if he was doing it, and what a pity they ‘couldn’t do it together’. I don’t know what sort of sheltered upbringing the poor twat had, but he just agreed quite calmly and went off to give the password to our new nuggets.

I dumped my Prefect’s duties on my colleague, Mildred Allen – possibly the ugliest creature in the school and yes, I have seen the house-elves– and hurried up to the Eyrie, Ravenclaw’s common room in West Tower. I expected to be spending a lot of time there if Cho’s look was anything to go by, so having the password would be a great help. I found out, by the simple method of standing behind a statue of Lakshmibai the Lascivious and listening to what was said round the corner, that Ravenclaw didn’t use a single password like the other houses. They used quotes instead – the tapestry (of Paracelsus) gave you the first half and you had to complete it. The first one was easy to remember; “he who knows nothing,” and the response was “loves nothing”. Obviously Paracelsus liked quoting himself, and it was a very Ravenclaw saying in the first place.

Cho had already gone past into the common room, leading a load of bespectacled midgets who were presumably the new Ravenclaws. Lucky bastard at the front had a perfect view of her arse, but the little squit probably didn’t appreciate it. Peeves, on the other hand, appreciated finding a sixth-year hidden behind a statue very much indeed. Fresh from water-bombing people in the Entrance Hall, he was evidently a bit fed up and attacked me with his last four bombs. Although Peeves’ aim was incredibly bad, he still managed to get one hit, which was one more than enough. I was quietly using a Drying Charm on my robes when Flitwick came along asking what I was doing. I pretended not to get it and said I’d been ambushed by Peeves. Fortunately, the daft little goblin took that at face value, dried me and left me in peace to head back to the Cellar and sort myself out.

¹The Witches’ Institute was a social organisation of middle-class country witches, known for activities such as cookery, swapping domestic charms and bringing complaints against youths on excessively fast broomsticks.

² Results Day was traditionally a gala day at Hogwarts on the first Thursday in August. Speeches were given, prizes awarded and the OWL and NEWT results presented. The more superstitious students considered opening one’s results at the school bad luck. After numerous protests from certain staff that they wanted to be left alone over the holidays, and in view of the Headmaster’s many commitments, the practice was abandoned in 1994.

³Obviously Pansy Parkinson, head of Arcturus Information Services. Her role in the Second War was unclear, but she emerged with a great deal of credit and the personal gratitude of Sir Harry Potter, Earl of Blackpool, Lord Roxbury, OM1st & Bar, GCB, OM, Hon. Pres. DFDL, etc. She is still alive at time of going to press, but has declined to comment.

⁴ It is unclear how Cedric met Bellatrix Lestrange. She was in Azkaban at the time of Lord Voldemort’s resurrection. Perhaps he met her on his travels; her husband’s family was at the forefront of the wizarding colonial movement and Lestranges may be found across much of the world. As two of the Lestranges are dead and Rabastan will never leave St. Mungo’s, the point is now somewhat moot.

⁵ Probably Minshaw, niece of the great Falmouth Falcons Seeker of the 1980s and 1990s, Hufflepuff 1994-2001. Her family had been Slytherin since time immemorial, so the comment was probably not a compliment.

⁶ Both Potter and Krum are occasionally referred to throughout the Papers as ‘pets’ of their respective Headmasters. The other two names almost certainly reference Draco Malfoy and Cho Chang, Seekers for Slytherin and Ravenclaw respectively.

The Diggory Papers

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:16:20 GMT

With the completion at long, long last of my fannish magnum opus 'The Diggory Papers, I do declare they ought to be on LJ, especially as I intend to do something with this journal, posting at least occasionally with fic, recs and random observations on life, the Universe and everything, mostly in the vacations.

Without any ado whatsoever:

Title: The Diggory Papers

Chapter: 0/14 "Prologue"

Rating: UK15 / soft R-ish

Summary: Cedric Diggory tells the story of his last year at Hogwarts, the
Triwizard Tournament and survival against all the odd (no, not odds, though those too). Because Cedric
Diggory did not die in Little Hangleton. Nor was he anyone's hero. Coward,
lecher and cheat, but never hero.

Type your cut contents here.

The Diggory Papers

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda Weasley

First Published 2074 by Lovegood & Boot, London

Editor’s Preface: As every child knows, the death of Cedric Diggory in the summer of 1994 heralded the beginning of the Second War against the ‘Dark Lord’ Voldemort. In death, Cedric was hailed as a model student and national hero, a self-effacing yet brilliant young man who died defending the honour of his school and the life of his comrade. Cedric Diggory, however, did not die on that night in June 1994. If these memoirs are to be believed, he survived the Killing Curse cast by Peter Pettigrew and fled to Pago Pago. It is a matter of public record that he was Hogwarts Champion in the Triwizard Tournament alongside Harry Potter, Seeker and Captain for his house Quidditch team, and recipient of nine OWLs, but little more was previously known about him. The discovery of this manuscript in a Little Whinging saleroom sheds a new light on his life and on those of his friends and contemporaries, the Golden Generation who fought Voldemort to a standstill and ushered in a period of peace all too few of them lived to enjoy. Despite the sometimes-incredible content of this memoir, its authenticity is almost unquestionable and the author’s explanation speaks for itself. From the style, it seems probable that he dictated the whole thing either to his quill or to a close friend. The editor’s role has been limited to correcting Mr Diggory’s grammar, introducing consistency into his bizarre rendering of some names and adding historical footnotes. Whilst his grasp of history after his ‘death’ is somewhat shaky, he is first-class on Quidditch of all eras.

In what appears to have been a fit of extreme paranoia coupled with a desire to protect reputations, the front of the box of parchment, which comprises the manuscript, is labelled as follows:

To be opened after the deaths of:
Cedric Diggory

Harry Potter

Chang Cho Li

Fleur Delacour

Viktor Krum

Professor Albus Dumbledore

Professor Pomona Sprout

And you’d better be damn sure Lord Voldemort really IS dead.

This command is backed up by an extremely unusual lock which no key can fit and no known charm can unlock. Fortunately for posterity, the fabric of the box itself was not quite so well protected.

I suppose this is a good time to tell the truth. I’m an old man now. I’ve had a long life well away from England and after sixty years it’s likely that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is properly dead this time. The news here, such as it is, said Potter killed him in 1998. Potter ‘killed’ him in 1981 as well; see how much that helped us. Anyway, nobody and nothing can touch me now, so it can’t hurt to tell the real story about the 83^rd Triwizard Tournament, the return of the greatest Dark Lord the world has ever seen (right before my eyes), and my survival by ducking, playing dead and running like hell, things no one would expect of a Triwizard Champion. I sometimes wonder what Potter did with my share of the cash. Probably gave it all to starving orphans or something, the honourable little twit. But I digress.

Nobody was more surprised than I when I was selected as Hogwarts Champion. Everyone knew I only had two talents, Charms and flying - to which I’d quite like to add charming the flighty. In that subject, my record is long and distinguished. For academic references, consult Beauxbatons’ classes of 1994 to 1996, and don’t be surprised when they pronounce my name ‘Sade Reek’. Sounds ridiculous, but I can tell you it’s not nearly as bad when it’s coming from a Veela¹ with legs up to...

Got a bit distracted again there. That’s somewhere in the middle of the story, anyway. It starts with me ending up in Hufflepuff, to the great irritation of the family’s hordes of Ravenclaw (or should that be ravening?) bookworms. I don’t really know how that happened: I’ve never worked hard if I could avoid it, equality is for people with no chance of being on top on their own merits, and as for loyalty, well, you can ask the aforementioned Beauxbatons classes about that. Most likely it’s because I asked the Hat not to make me a Slytherin, for the very sensible reason that I thought my mother would kill me. Gryffindor was right out, but the Hat blathered for a long time before eventually declaring that I ‘had a decent mind, but didn’t really want to be academic’, leaving the Duffers’ House with an unexpected infusion of style.

That’s not really too relevant either, though. The short version of the next few years is that I made a few friends of the sort who can detect success a mile away and follow it around like (and often with) a bad smell, got into the house Quidditch team in my fourth year, and got very good very quickly at cramming, plagiarism, divining the content of exams and brown-nosing the more susceptible teachers. Last-minute revision was nasty, but my talent for getting away with less than I should have needed meant that I didn’t have to do too much. Incidentally, the only exam you couldn’t hope to predict was Divination. Funny, that. You might almost think the Stick Insect was a complete fraud. I should know - one fake can always recognise another².

I first noticed Potter’s existence when I beat him in the opening Quidditch match of my fifth year. As far as I know, I’m the only Seeker ever to defeat him – something that made my father ridiculously proud. OK, most of the things I’m proud of he never knew about, but did the officious old fool have to latch on to one Quidditch match as the high point of his life? He wasn’t even there. It was after that game, though, that I first found out how much fun being a house hero can be. Flown with success, I even offered Gryffindor a rematch (knowing full well that nobody ever replays matches because of injury or accident), which went down a storm with the honourable, fair-minded and frequently somewhat dense Hufflepuffs.

Before that time, I was reasonably popular with the younger Hufflepuffs, but for one night everyone wanted to know me. Even the seventh-years, so busy and self-important they normally didn’t seem to notice the rest of the school, lined up to shake my hand and tell me what a fine fellow I was. All rubbish; if we’d lost, it would have been ‘well tried, Diggory, now go away’. The girls’ reactions were surprising though, innocent as I was then. Ever since, I’ve been relying on what I learned that night; most women will melt in the presence of six feet of victorious Quidditch player, and if the effect doesn’t last too long, there’re always more where they came from. That aside, whenever I see the name of Potter (there’s hundreds running around now) in the news, which is pretty often even way down here after this long, I can think with great satisfaction that the Potter never once beat me. One proper Dark Lord, a few aspirants, two other Triwizard Champions, innumerable Hogwarts Quidditch players and Death Eaters lost various things to Harry Potter, but not poor dead Cedric Diggory.

The rest of that year I spent basking in my newfound glory as star player, trying not to get killed by a particularly vicious Slytherin team (glory’s no use to a headless corpse), and conning all sorts of people into doing my work for me. Stebbins, for example, could never resist demonstrating how brilliant he was at essays and as long as I put up with his sarcasm, he corrected everything I wrote. In return, I let him hang around with me, introduced him to one of the Fawcetts (the young one, I think) and occasionally deigned to play Gobstones with him. I enjoyed that year, nearly as much as I did the majority of the next, when I wasn’t fleeing enraged Veela, hiding from merpeople, dodging dragons or being murdered by dead Dark Lords. I even got to see the World Cup, though that might have been more fun if I hadn’t spent the party afterwards being marched over by three dozen Death Eaters whilst I played dead for all I was worth.

¹ This presumably refers to the celebrated Fleur Weasley, née Delacour. In fact she was one quarter Veela, the Beauxbatons champion in the Triwizard Tournament and, after her marriage to William Weasley, one of the foremost heroines of the Second War. As far as any of her surviving relatives can remember, she never mentioned having met Cedric Diggory.

²It is strange that Diggory refers to Professor Sybil Trelawney as ‘a fraud’. The Seer is, of course, best known for receiving the Potter Revelations, as her three prophecies regarding the Voldemort Wars are generally known. Perhaps Diggory was not a great believer in Divination or Prophecy.

Been in DC, and ramblings

Fri, 02 Nov 2007 15:36:08 GMT

My iPod is getting involved in politics...
Whilst queuing for the Washington Monument it played (on shuffle between 2945 songs):
The Clash - (I'm So) Bored with the USA
Sex Pistols - Anarchy for the UK
Rammstein - Amerika
Green Day - American Idiot
Alice Cooper - Cleansed by Fire

Creepy. At least it didn't add 'Elect Death for President', anything by the PotUSA, 'Elected' or the March of Cambreadth, but it should have.
The security goons there are especially thick-looking by the way; I suppose you don't want too much imagination in the guards of a large and ugly phallic symbol. Especially not one which was built on vandalism - they're very proud to have a flagstone from the Parthenon in the foundations. Someone should tell the Greeks, because it would make a change from them banging on about the Elgin Marbles. I wonder if getting this ancient rock out would demolish the whole Monument... enough rambilng.
The Smithsonian Air & Space museum is very good though I'm annoyed that their famous SR-71 Blackbird is now somewhere near Washington Dulles airport where I didn't have time to go - I WANT ONE dammit, and if I can't steal it I'd at least like to have a look. The Natural History Museum and National Gallery have respectively small and extortionate cafes - Natural History is very quaint and has little signs everywhere saying such-and-such an exhibit is thirty years out of date and thus now considered wrong in all respects. The Gallery is very big and very Classical, which is fine. The White House is surprisingly small, and foreigners are apparently not allowed in for tours, which seems rather unfair as every other interesting monument on the planet is full of American tourists. DC is of course infested with schoolchildren on trips; these were however unusually well-behaved - perhaps Ritalin is responsible, or very good teachers.
Yorktown is also a very nice place though very sleepy - like a little bit of the Cotswolds in darkest Virginia, with added fortifications. The restaurant (there is only one) does dreadful beef Stroganoff and very nice carrot cake. Everything closed yesterday so it's a good thing I didn't go any later, and you really need a car because the battlefield tour is a 17-mile round trip.

On a completely different note the blasted Buffy addicts have now got my mind going in interesting directions. I feel a few more Diggory Papers chapters coming on, and possibly a sequel, because Bloody Awful Poetry (possibly written in Sussex by Pauls, Paulas or indeed Williams), homicidal brunettes (Lester, Lehane, Lestrange, what's in a name? Clearly the letter L for starters) and clever bastards who Won't. Stay. Dead. (see under heroes, anti-) are pretty much universal.
I also have a morbid desire to assemble the multiply-deceased of various fandoms in a bar and see what happens - it would probably be very wrong. Any advance on three deaths and still walking around*? I have a feeling somebody managed five, but I can't think in what. The Doctor (and any other Time Lord you may think of) doesn't count. Nor do the actually immortal.

* Lupe dy Cazaril in 'The Curse of Chalion', but I can't off the top of my head recall how he reached his prophesied three deaths.

As you may have gathered, dear Reader, I happen to be stranded in the Rare Books library with a pile of letters. Dull ones, though there is a very good bit about how ugly the Spanish are which is going to have to go in my final essay for amusement value.

Every silver lining has a cloud

Tue, 16 Oct 2007 19:08:38 GMT

One of those good/bad/ugly weeks going on I think.

Good: My research advisor thinks my ideas are good and worth pursuing so isn't going to bother me for a few more weeks
Bad: One of the options I presented is completely unworkable and I only mentioned it to look conscientious.
Ugly: That's the one she likes.

Good: I have a heart and that's official - widespread rumours notwithstanding.
Bad: The medics would like to examine it before they pass me fit to row.
Ugly: They can't do that til next Thursday.

Good: Family coming on Friday
Bad: I have to keep two sisters entertained Saturday night
Ugly: They're (much) too young to drink here, and will NOT like the fact.

Good: I'm writing again
Bad: About the Aeneid
Ugly: I have a deadline, and the most pretentious shit in America as a professor.

Good: I have a girlfriend whom I worship and adore (especially as she's probably reading)
Bad: She's 4000 miles away.
Ugly: I am in Princeton, which is so desperately hopeless that I actually qualify as vaguely cool and exotic. My timing really sucks.

Good: I have been introduced by unscrupulous persons to a new (to me) and interesting TV series
Bad: It's Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Ugly: After seven long years being called Harry Potter, I graduate to Giles. Rats. Can't I at least be Spike? I've never worn tweed in my life.

Introducing me.

Fri, 12 Oct 2007 15:09:36 GMT

It's what you might call a slow day in Princeton, as a) it's Friday so I don't have to go anywhere all day b) it's not lunchtime yet and c) I'd rather do pretty much anything than start thinking about my essay on the Aeneid, so I'm finally going to get round to posting something on this old but completely unused LJ account; welcome one and all to the journal of, well, me, sometimes AKA Machiavelli Jr, much more often KA James, Hey You! Idiot! etc etc.