The Diggory Papers

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 Firewhisky would probably make her much better company. Unfortunately, the Fangs didn't HAVE any Firewhisky 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 odyssey 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 everslasting 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 war 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 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 protected 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 ill 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.