The Diggory Papers

The Diggory Papers.

Cedric Diggory

As edited & arranged by Miranda C. Weasley.

The Halloween 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 "Gerrof!", 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.

Half-way 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 whatserface 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 of close, Kakaroff was off in another world, eyes glazed as, I suppose, he daydreamed about glory everlasting for Durmstrang, Krum and his great Headmaster. 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.

EDITOR'S NOTE: AS CEDRIC MADE NO CHAPTER BREAKS IN HIS MANUSCRIPT, THE CHOICE OF SUCH WAS LEFT TO THE EDITOR. ALTHOUGH THIS SECTION MAY SEEM A LITTLE TRUNCATED, IT SEEMED THE BEST PLACE FOR A BREAK, AS CEDRIC ENJOYS HIS SELECTION AND THE GOBLET MULLS OVER ITS INSTRUCTIONS.

(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'