The Diggory Papers

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.