The Diggory Papers

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.