The Diggory Papers

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'.