Title: The Artifice
Author: join_the_conga
Rating: teen friendly (adult language and themes, but no nastiness)
Characters: Cedric Diggory*, Tom Riddle Jr., Hermione Granger
(* denotes main character; story revolves mostly around him)
Summary: Cedric Diggory wants nothing other than to survive through the tournament that he can take lightly no more. Unexpected second parties agree with his goal and begin to help him in his plight. However… just who is it that can really help him? The faceless benefactor who has taught him the importance of a ruse… or the girl whose hair is as unmanageable as her worry? Who can Cedric depend on when he doesn't think he can depend on himself? Throw in a bit of romance, drama, and a mysterious diary and you've got the makings for an exceptional sixth year at Hogwarts for this Hufflepuff.
SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY—
THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION!
Cedric was fairly certain that a "REAL Hogwarts Champion" would not be mulling forlornly over a table stacked head-high with books in the middle of said school's library at seven in the morning on a Monday. Tuesday was the day that unerringly (and hopelessly, in Cedric's case) followed Monday. In XX cultures, as Cedric knew quite well, Monday was the twenty-four hour time span that acted as the prelude to the ever-dreaded (in Cedric's case—again) twenty-four hours in which the world and its inhabitants lived harmoniously (or not) in the day called Tuesday. And this Tuesday in particular loomed like the entire world was preparing to take the mickey out of poor Cedric.
He'd spent the last… he didn't even remember how long... on preparing (sort of) for a challenge that he knew nothing about.
This contest is supposed to be difficult, not impossible!
A sigh. A scoff. A whimper. Cedric Diggory and the shelves of leather bindings surrounding him were quite familiarized with these sounds.
He was desperate. And hopeless. In a bad, bad way.
"I reckon you're just brushing up on your spells, then, Mr. Diggory?"
Cedric was struck out of his counterproductive attentions on self-pity. With cheeks the color of a spring flower and beetles of the same season crawling around his gut, he lied (not convincingly, he thought) to his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
"Uh, yes sir! Just, uh, perfecting the magic." He smiled and cleared his throat, though, in reality, he really only wanted to choke himself. Perfecting the magic? He sounded like a complete dunder-head! Cedric tried not to let his eyes widen in realization. He sounded like he was trying to come on to him. Oh, bloody-hell—
"Perfecting, eh Diggory?" Professor Moody leaned with subtle intent over the cluttered desk between them, one of his hands lying heavily on a tower of transfiguration encyclopedias and charm guides and, and… He really had raided the library, hadn't he?
Once again, Cedric's wandering concentration (an oxy-moron, no?) was stirred up, and his mind, now sluggish from the monotonous hours of studying both in the early morning and in the dwindling hours of the night before, was wrenched back to focus on Moody's words. Of advice, perhaps?...
"Well then, I wish you luck in your endeavors that you seem to have flawlessly planned. It is very good to see a Hogwarts Champion so prepared for his task, especially one from Hufflepuff…"
Cedric's eyes tightened, but his head nodded and his lips curled despite himself. His fleeting intention to come forward with his… exaggeration… was cinched by the liquid indignation that clenched in his throat and threatened to spew out of his mouth, should he have opened it.
He didn't.
Moody's one real eye glinted in expectation. After a minute passed, his face contorted into a grimace (what was supposed to be a smile, Cedric thought loathingly), and a grunt squeezed past his chapped, ugly lips. He muttered, "Again, best of luck to you," and straightened, strengthening his grasp on the wooden staff beside him.
Cedric watched him begin to walk away when Moody unexpectedly stopped, peering minutely over his shoulder, magic eye-ball darting frantically (Cedric noted that it appeared to be attempting escape from his hideous face). The professor's words were low and frustratingly cryptic:
"It appears that you have all you need to guide you right in front of your nose, Mr. Diggory; don't be looking too far, or you'll never see it."
And he clunked away.
And Cedric looked dumbly at the overbearing stacks of books around him, noticing only after a few moments that something was different (a significance that he'd later wish he never knew of). Cedric reached for a small tome from the precipice of the tower that Moody had leaned upon, one he hadn't seen before (he didn't think—but then again, he was very distracted). As he flipped the pages in his hands, Cedric sensed a nudging tingle in his fingertips—a tingle which he ignored. He used his fingertips instead to trace the indents of what may have once been a puncture that was now (not without flaw) resealed and touched up.
Now why would someone want to stab clear through a nearly blank-paged book?
He turned it so that he could examine the unembellished spine. The book's pages were water-damaged (he could barely read the name on the first page), the creases of the cover were bent and frayed (from years of mistreatment, it looked), and the dark black leather appeared to be… stained… so much so that he couldn't make out what the year on the cover had been (what could possibly stain black?).
Cedric mused that T. M. Riddle was certainly going to be displeased when he saw the condition of his perfectly empty diary.
Or perhaps T. Riddle was a girl?...
- - - - -
He was in a great deal of trouble. A great deal of trouble.
"Dragons?..." Cedric breathed to himself, his whisper the only sound floating amidst the dusky air of the sixth-year boys' Hufflepuff dormitories. He was supposed to have gone to his Charms class after his run-in with Harry. Flitwick had dismissed him immediately upon seeing him, however. His barely concealed panic had flooded through him up to his eyeballs the moment that Moody and Potter had gone out of sight behind the corner. Letting himself have a minute, he'd bent down to pick up his things that he'd dropped again—"damn bag!"—and trudged off to class… where he had been sent back to his quarters to rest. And throw-up his insides in peace.
He'd go crazy if he was locked in this room much longer. Classes would've at least distracted him! This "resting" was really only him bringing himself into a panic. But how else could he deal with this situation?
"Dragons!" Cedric felt like hitting something. Or dying. Which he probably would. Tomorrow.
A very tortured voice. "Oh, tomorrow…" His fingers tugged at his hair, and Cedric sat with slumped shoulders on the edge of his bed. In his mind, he was already defeated. How could they possibly expect students to face off against dragons? He had absolutely no idea of how he could succeed.
Stuck in his dormitories, he sourly wondered where all the time had gone. Did he really accomplish nothing in all of the late nights and early mornings? Was every extra hour poured over books so meaningless in light of this new information? Had he really blown it all away so easily? And here, he thought he had been working. But the only times he could truly remember were the ones when he was smiling as fellow classmates congratulated him, when he was chuckling a bit at the badges but feeling ashamed to do so, when he was grinning as people stopped what they were doing just to take one glance at him, the champion… Had he really forgotten what it truly meant to be the champion? Forgotten what his father had told him about the honor he would receive, not because of the title, but because of the bravery and the hard work and the intelligence that he showed? He wasn't a celebrity; he was a boy, still a boy, and this opportunity to prove that he could be a man… he had been wasting it. He had been embracing the wrong things all along. And now there was no time to remedy his mistakes. No time to learn what he needed to. There was absolutely nothing stopping him from getting his arse killed tomorrow, and it was all his and his overfilled ego's bloody fault!
Cedric had never felt so foolish. Never felt so scared.
Even defeated, he wouldn't give up just yet. In all actuality, there really wasn't an option but to go through with the whole mess and hope for the best. But now that he knew… he was going to try his best… not to win… but just to survive…
There were some minutes left before he could actually do something about it, though. He'd realized that he should at least wait for classes to be over before he left (he wouldn't be accused for faking illness and ditching). Then, he could go back to the library and start with his new approach of terror-filled determination. If he was honest with himself, though, he didn't want to set foot in that book-yard again for at least the next week.
Yet, in twenty minutes time, Cedric Diggory could be seen slouching into a chair, the same chair as in the morning and as in the day before and as in the day before that… He was tired and panicked and utterly hopeless. How did one approach a task with a dragon…?
He pulled out some texts that he had carried with him to add to the still towering stacks around him (it was quite nice of Pince to lend him a reserved table; normally she was a bit... tart). Charms. Defense. Transfiguration. Cedric sighed. At least he had transfiguration. Something he was good at.
Cedric stared at the little black diary he next pulled out of his bag (an old, used bag, now) and let it rest on the table in front of him. It was a curious thing, surely. Something that he knew he shouldn't trifle with right now (especially now, after his very recent revelation of his own stupidity) when he was supposed to be working on not dying—but he really needed to sort out his thoughts before they drove him barmy. He needed to get it all out now so he could focus more certainly on his task.
So he wrote. On the first blank page of the little journal.
Monday, 23 of November,1994
Cedric looked back to his ink bottle, refilled his quill, and turned once again to the book.
…
Perhaps he really was mad.
Because he knew that he had just written the date upon the sheet of paper before him. But there were no markings on the paper. At all.
And so he wrote again.
Monday, 23 of November, 1994
And he watched, astonished, as the words were absorbed into the paper. He flipped the page. Blank, all the way through. He turned back to the very first page of the book, where the name "T. M. Riddle", though badly smudged, was still visible. Then, he flipped back to his first page and wrote, once more, the date.
Monday, 23 of November, 1994
His astonishment only increased after the words disappeared again. His letters were gone. And in their place were someone else's.
We have established that the date is, in fact, Monday, 23 of November, 1994.
Cheeky book.
He was completely baffled.
What is this? Cedric wrote.
It was a few moments before the book responded.
What you are writing in is the journal of T. M. Riddle. Who are you?
Did he have time for this? It didn't seem a clever thing to chat with a journal that talked back. He had no idea what kind of magic was placed on the book—no idea of the threats it could be hiding. But he was so curious… And this was definitely putting his mind at ease with the smart use of distraction…
Who are you? Cedric knew that answering the diary truthfully could prove potentially dangerous. He tried to think of a name—quickly, mind you—and took a look about the library area. And there he saw Harry Potter's little bushy-haired girlfriend (really, he knew better after traveling with the two of them to the World Cup, but still, they were close). She was writing. He watched as her pale hand almost flew over the parchment, neatly scribbling in small lines of script that seemed to run out of her sleeve rather than from the inked tip of her quill. Cedric didn't know that it was possible to write so quickly.
He looked to the diary and wrote without thinking.
My name is Hermione Granger. What is your name?
That was a mistake. He may have avoided the storm, but—he looked over to the fourth-year, her hand still fluttering diligently over the scroll—where exactly did he push it to? In his mind, he sent a quiet apology over to her and hoped that this wouldn't leave him (or her) buggered in the long run.
He registered that the book was taking a considerable amount of time to reply.
Hmm…
Oh dear. His eyes flickered to the girl and then back down, where new words were already beginning to fade.
I find myself not believing you. You are not Hermione Granger.
Well. Good for her, bollocks for him. What now? Keep it talking.
How is it you would know if I was lying about who I am?
I know. It is that simple and does not require explanation for the likes of a liar and an intruder.
He scrambled for something to reply, his writing now spiky with stress. His rush left tiny blots of ink across the page.
My name is Cedric Diggory, and I have no intentions to intrude upon… your privacy. I merely wished to talk because this diary is a curious thing. I would understand completely if you did not believe me or wish to speak to me after my misgivings, but I would like to chat and ask you for some advice.
How was that for charm? But now the diary knew his name… He was not unaware that this could bode quite badly for him.
As if he needed more problems.
…It is quite a bore, if I may say so, being confined to one's own memories, and for that reason alone we will keep up this correspondence. Cedric let out a sigh of relief. I may choose when and if I answer any of your questions; my secrets are mine, and you have no rights to them, even if you think otherwise because of my diary being in your possession. I have rights to question you, however, and I would appreciate if you always answered my interrogative truthfully… Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tom Riddle. And now, my first question… Why did you choose the name Hermione Granger?
Truthfully, he rather hoped that the book would have forgotten the name; he didn't want her mixed up in any business she didn't need to be. He already fumbled the situation enough for himself, anyway.
She was the first person I saw after you asked. I thought it would be best, at first, not to give my true name to a diary that writes back… I apologize if you take offense.
Cedric held his breath.
It was a wise precaution, I admit, but I do not do my dealings with those who lie to me. It is an inconvenience, no?
Could a diary's words convey menace, Cedric pondered? He rather suspected they could. He wrote back: The morality of lying is not what fazes you? The only way he could think of to rectify the situation was to avoid it.
'Immorality' is the word I'm sure you were thinking of, but no. Cedric blinked and, after a moment, exhaled quietly. The diary went on. Who am I to decide what is morally correct for society? People lie for themselves, and selfishness, though frowned upon, shows love for one's being. Lying only irritates particularly when something that needs knowing is lost behind falsities. It is an inconvenience to have to dig it up and reveal its importance. Time and resource are lost, wasted on the inane that could have been avoided with truth.
Cedric thought a bit through his words and began to pen back his reply.
An interesting theory, but morality must come into play somewhere. Do you not find yourself disgusted based on the actions of people because they conflict with your own beliefs? There was a brief pause in his writing as he mulled over the intelligence of inquiring what he knew he now had to. And are you familiar with the name Hermione Granger? Is that why you are curious?
Mr. Diggory, I find myself disgusted with many, but their confliction with my beliefs rarely has anything to do with morality so much as… disagreements of nature. And the name Hermione Granger… Cedric couldn't help but look over at her again; she was still scribbling away, and he could hear her writing even when he once more focused on the book. It sounds as if you made it up. I was going to advise you not to use the name as a pseudonym. Ever.
These words disappeared before a new sentence (made up of quite neat and intricate lettering, Cedric thought not a little enviously) turned up.
Can she see you writing to me?
Cedric tried to look inconspicuously, even though there was an odd twist in his gut (something didn't feel right), but he only saw her ever-laboring form of slouched girl hidden by voluminous hair and cloak, eyes still on paper and nowhere near his table.
No. She isn't even looking. Too preoccupied with her own studies—
I would appreciate it if this interaction is kept secret, Mr. Diggory. Could you please do this for me? It was surprising that the diary had interrupted him, for some reason.
Can—
Cedric scribbled that out.
May I ask why?
You may. Cedric either wanted to scoff or smirk. But I choose not to answer at the moment. Now, please, Mr. Diggory, I ask that no one be made aware of these conversations. I do not wish to make you doubt your trust in me, but I must maintain privacy and secrecy... If you do not think that you can keep a secret, I will be forced into irresponsiveness.
…And he knew he certainly did not have time for this. It was too puzzling, too cryptic, too many holes left blank. It wasn't safe. It wasn't smart. It was simply another opportunity to find out just how stupid Cedric Diggory really had become.
The book left him another message.
I am sorry, if this is what you choose.
Later, Cedric would note that this particular response was the one that changed everything. Later, he liked to think that he wouldn't have carried on with the book if it hadn't presented those words.
… I will keep all interactions between us a secret. And please, refrain from calling me Mr. Diggory. Cedric is fine.
And the deed was done. Cedric knew (and ignored) that he should have stopped; given the book up, perhaps; not trusted it so willingly. He would research the diary later, though, and would continue to chat for now. He knew that this wouldn't be the last he spoke with the diary. Especially if it could help him.
The diary seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.
Then Cedric I shall call you. But for now, what is it you wish to learn? And nothing on my origins, please. I've already told you far too much to maintain the pleasantness of light conversation.
Cedric preoccupied himself with refilling his quill while he pondered over his response. What did he wish to learn from the diary? And, more importantly, what information did the diary have to offer?...
I'll agree simply because the conversation must move on, but, I must tell you, I feel more befuddled now than I did when my ink first disappeared.
That was a safe statement. He needed to stall a bit, think his way through…
For that, I am sorry, but you are right in thinking that we must move forward. The trick to polite conversation is to never talk about oneself or the weather. Anything else is debatable, but do refrain from mentioning politics and spell-casting too much.
Cedric laughed aloud, not under his breath like he wanted to. He noticed that Granger looked up at him, seemingly noticing him for the first time. He pretended to be busy so as to not keep her attention. He wrote again to the book and did not include her observation in his writing. It was better that way, he knew.
You are a diary with wit; how charming!
Cedric, if you please… I am a part of man within a diary.
That was… perplexing. And it made him uncomfortable; he shifted, squirming in his seat. This was ominous, and he didn't think that his worry was founded only in his head.
…And how did you get there?
The diary—Riddle—did not, at first, respond.
Forgive me for prying, Mr. Riddle; I know we've already discussed the matter of your origins and privacy—
I killed a man.
And this time, when the diary interrupted him, a bolt of fear zinged through his entire body; it started in his heart and spread through to his toes, his fingers, up to his hairline. Cedric shivered.
He dropped the quill immediately. The inked end of it slid across the page and left a trail of chicken-scratch hairs of black. They quickly disappeared—were consumed. He wondered how he should shut the book, for a gut instinct told him it needed to be shut. He didn't want too touch it, though.
Script somehow appeared cleverly around the broad white feather and its sharpened end. Cedric wondered, for the first time, how peculiar it was for something to drift from pure softness and transform into a deliberate point, a prickled danger.
And then I wrote myself in.
His fingertips trembled. He couldn't breathe—was this the diary's doing or his own? He felt out of control, frightened, terrified! What was happening? Was his shortness of breath all in his head?
Tell me, Cedric…
He couldn't look away. He couldn't!
Did you really believe that?
And he almost choked. Cedric blinked rapidly, not wanting to believe his eyes and desperately wanting to believe them at the same time. He noticed that these words lasted a bit longer on the page.
He could almost feel a faceless smirk.
Cedric Diggory was right well irritated now. He huffed and puffed and sulked. He hadn't been teased—and such a horrible thing to tease!—like that since he was small.
And it wasn't funny. He was angry. He wanted to drop the diary, kick it into some dark corner, and leave it be. He wanted to write back the nastiest things he could think of—and he was feeling quite creative at the moment, too.
But he couldn't do that, and he knew it.
So what are you, a diary that shocks people to death?
It wasn't as original (or as demeaning) as he wanted it to be, but anything else would be outright offensive. This was a backhanded insult, an easy, subtle jibe.
Unless it actually was a diary that shocked people to death.
It may have been a bit of cruel humor, but I did not lie when I said that I am more man than pages of writing canvass, as I'm sure you wish I was. It was a jest, dear Cedric. Don't tell me that you actually brought yourself into a panic over the absurdity of a murdering book?...
Well, his backhanded insult had seemingly backfired. How is it that Riddle managed to paint him into a fool so easily?
One would think that, for having so much free time, as I'm sure you do, you'd be able to work up an actually acceptable sense of humor. Forgive me for being startled by the responses of a faceless, mysterious author.
Forgive me, as well. It has been a while since I've made jokes.
"C-could I use that?" a hesitant voice asked of him.
Cedric looked up. And slammed the book shut on his quill, breaking it in the process.
"Excuse me?" he asked of Hermione Granger. She, however, was looking at his ruined quill. He glanced back down and made sure his hands covered the book completely. "Oh, um, I can fix that. And I mean, if not, I have… er, others." She was looking at him now, brow furrowed, and he could see the indecision in her wide brown eyes.
"I just, uh," she began to stutter, "I was wondering if I could use… that charms book! For my paper, I mean."
The charms book in question laid atop one of the piles closest him, and he wondered how she would have seen it from her own table. She cleared her throat, and Cedric saw through her strained nonchalance quite easily. Her arms crossed in front of her, and she shifted her weight unsteadily, biting her lip while doing so. Cedric thought she looked… torn. Her gaze only met his every few moments; she seemed as distracted as he felt.
He glanced down quickly. It felt as if the book beneath his fingertips quivered in irritation.
Eyes back up, Cedric replied, "Of course, if you need it, take it. It's not checked out under my name, I just, uh… picked it up just now, so… of course." How is it that he managed to acquire a stutter within the last five minutes? Even under duress he could still talk, surely (excusing his previous shock, though—or perhaps because of his previous shock)? Besides, he only felt this agitated when he knew he was interrupted in doing something wrong, bad. Perhaps he was?... He spared another glance at the diary and suddenly hoped that he wasn't acting too suspicious.
She hesitantly grabbed the book and tucked it to her chest. And then she stood there, not leaving but not contributing anything more. He watched as she bit her lip—very pink, he thought—again.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out; she choked on soundless words before him. He let her, because, really, he couldn't think of anything to say either.
Perhaps not "either." She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn't work up the nerve to say it. Cedric waited (he was quite good at listening) for her to find her thoughts.
"I shouldn't—I mean, there's—" It was nothing, but it was something. He still looked to her, calmly meeting her eyes, trying to look encouraging without asserting any pressure on her. He managed to cover up the little book with another text on the sly, making it look like he was simply shifting around materials, keeping eye contact with her all the while. He could be patient.
"Has… has Harry… have you talked? With Harry, I mean?" she asked finally. Her eyes were wide with concern, and he began to feel nervous simply because she looked it.
"Yes." He nodded as well. "Just earlier today, actually." His supposed tranquility surprised him. In his head, thoughts were spinning. Could he confide in her that he knew about the dragons? Did she know about the dragons?
Did he look like he was trying to keep a secret?
If he did, did she merely write it off as nervousness over the tournament?
It took quite a bit of effort to not rip the diary off of the table and shove it into his bag and out of sight.
"Do you know about… the dragons?" she whispered, leaning in after she checked to make sure that no one was around them.
He nodded slowly.
She breathed a sigh of what seemed to be relief. He watched as her eyes closed and her breath left her. She looked so much looser now. Had she actually cared? If he knew or not?
"I just," she began, "I just wanted to be sure you knew. I mean, Harry knows, Viktor and Fleur do as well, I'm sure… I just needed to be… certain… that you knew too."
Her cheeks and neck were a bit redder, he noticed.
"Can—Can I ask why? Why you wanted to tell me?"
She paused, biting her lip once more. It was sort of endearing, but it made her look quite young and unsure of herself. Perhaps she needs more confidence, he thought to himself. Confidence? Blimey no! She's a Gryffindor! She just needs more social skill, that's all.
"I… wanted to make sure you knew so you didn't get… hurt." He blinked, surprised. She lost her poise then, sighing, grimacing, and she pulled out a chair across from him. After she plopped down, they both noticed that they could only see a part of the other's face over his stacks. He laughed quietly and moved his chair around so they could speak more amicably.
"I've done so much research," she sighed, clenching her eyes shut and rubbing her forehead. "There have been so many accidents in this tournament. It's a disgrace that the faculty—and the heads of the wizarding world!—should want to continue such… barbaric customs." She shifted more to look directly at him, pouring out her worry to his practically stranger's status. "Harry, he doesn't know what he's in for—that people have died, Cedric!" They both flinched, and she muttered an apology.
"But don't you think that the 'heads of the wizarding world,' as you put it, would stop the games if we were in danger? I mean," he took a breath, "don't you trust Dumbledore to keep things in control?"
"But that's just it!" she cried, lifting her arms exaggeratedly. He almost quieted her, but she continued on in a softer tone. "They—you will already be in danger! Just by setting foot in those—those… monsters' paths!" He didn't think it fair to refer to the dragons as monsters, but he definitely conceded the point.
She huffed angrily. "It's just so stupid! So sickening! Sickening to think that people would derive enjoyment from students, learners, facing off against a fire-breathing dragon! It's pure stupidity to be involved in the whole thing!"
Granger finally seemed to grasp who it was she was talking to and had the guile to look sheepish. "Not to say that—that you are… unintelligent." She was very, very red. He nodded his forgiveness, and she exhaled, once again, in response.
"I'm sorry, but… it's so worrying. And I just had to make sure that you had as much protection as the others do—as much prior knowledge and such. It's… fairer that way… still vile, but fairer."
She looked at him again, and he thought that maybe, for a second, she could see how forlorn he felt. "It's also safer." Granger put her hand on the edge of the desk, leaning in reassuringly. "You—all of you—are so much safer with that knowledge too."
He had never thought of it that way. Up until now, he almost wished he didn't know about the dragons so wouldn't be constantly seizing up to a panic. He realized she was unquestionably right, and her concern unsettled him but also made him feel better.
"Thank you, Granger—Hermione." She gave him a smile; he noticed it was a bit watery and began silently begging to whoever was listening that she wouldn't cry. He patted her hand that was still on the table-top comfortingly, if a bit awkwardly too. She laughed a bit at that but finally sniffled, wiping the other hand over her face just a bit to catch any tears that may have traitorously leaked out; he was happy that there weren't any.
"I'm sorry to have bothered you, and I would have asked Harry, but he's so stressed… I imagine you all are." He gave a grimacing smile that made them both chuckle.
"I hope for your safety tomorrow, Cedric."
"Even still, you'll be rooting for Harry, no doubt." The statement was supposed to make her smile, but he thought it sounded a bit like he was flirting. That was surprising to him.
She blushed prettily once more and blinked a bit. Not trying to catch his attention, he could tell, but thinking and trying not to look like she was.
"I might wear something yellow, I suppose. After all, the tournament is supposed to be about wizarding cooperation and all. I believe that it could be extended and applied just within the school too."
He smiled and agreed quietly. They paused and examined each other. Their conversation wasn't exactly uncomfortable; just new. "Thank you again, Hermione," he said.
"You don't have to thank me, Cedric. It was the right thing to do."
He shrugged. "All the same."
She stood and stepped away from the chair. He was contemplating if he should stand too for her exit when she noticeably turned her attention back to him.
"Oh, and… if you need this book… well, I don't really need it, I just didn't know how to…" she trailed off awkwardly, tipping her head to the side slightly in embarrassment.
"Yes, thanks," he offered, taking the book from her and setting it on one of the stacks on his table.
Gauche and tactless. That was what the air between them had once again become.
It was a pity; he thought it quite nice to talk to her. He knew before that she was undoubtedly intelligent. Now he knew she was kind. Perhaps they could interact more in the future.
"Well, I-I have to go… Harry needs… um… for tomorrow…"
He wanted to ask her if she knew his strategy—it was likely she was helping him with it. But he knew that wouldn't do and only nodded.
She dipped her head, seemingly asking permission for dismissal. He gave it, and, after a little, shy wave, she walked back to her table, picked up her bag—she had put all of her materials in it already, he saw—and hurried out of the area, towards the exit of the library.
It was his turn to sigh now, albeit tiredly.
And then, suddenly, he remembered. The task was still tomorrow. He still was unprepared. And… now he probably had a furious book to deal with.
He dragged his chair around and sat back down. With a flick of his wand, he vanished his old quill and took out another. Then, he opened the little diary.
Before he actually wrote, he dropped a blob of ink, thick and pooling, onto the paper which he had been writing on.
His talk with Hermione was a refreshing dose of (somewhat) normal, human interaction. He felt like he hadn't had that in weeks.
If the blob didn't disappear, he knew that he had really been imagining all this time. The book was, most likely, the product of his panicked and overactive mind. Granger's interruption with this "conversing" had changed his perspective on the book to absurd and impossible now. He felt a bit silly and unwilling to believe his previous thoughts of an actual talking book—
His ink disappeared into the book's pages.
Hmm. For a moment, he was a bit disappointed; a talking book was quite a creative, if troubling, thing to imagine.
And he had really wanted to laugh this entire situation off later.
Because Granger had reminded him—dragons. Tomorrow.
And, when he thought things couldn't have picked a more opportune time to become just a bit more peculiar and frustrating…
Tom did not write back.
Are you there?
No answer.
What's happened? Can you not respond?
Still, no answer.
But the dark ink kept slowly fading, into the sheets. He quickly flipped through all of the pages. They were all still blank, excepting the very first; the first page where Tom's name still (barely) stood out in elegant script.
Cedric wrote again.
Tom? Are you there still? I haven't meant to offend you, but you told me not to let others know of your… (here, Cedric pondered) existence (hopefully, the right word). I was interrupted briefly and thought it best not to be writing in a diary that responds—
Granger?
Cedric was baffled and (more than slightly) impressed.
Yes, she interrupted me. Us.
Riddle's answer was slow-coming.
What, if I may, Mr. Diggory, was our symbol? Draw out the password for me.
Cedric's brow turned heavy with disbelief and confusion. What symbol?
Password?
Riddle's response came with pointed spines of taller letters and thin, thorny vowels. He was very restless.
Draw it now, or I will not respond. I have warned you before.
No it hadn't! He and the book hadn't even mentioned passwords, let alone symbols or any such thing! Perhaps the book was demented (or at least the speaker was), but Cedric knew it best not to point out that fact lest it become downright angry (he still didn't know what powers it held and, even when complacent, it had no intentions of telling him). But still…
You didn't speak anything of symbols. We don't have a password.
Cedric glared at the little (puny, Cedric thought; it sounded more derogative) diary. He was stressed again. But he was upset mostly because he had finally reached a calm after his conversation with Granger that was quickly being diminished.
He was about to shut the book, fingers almost brutalizing the pages with his vicious, angry grip—the book had merely been wasting his time; he was a fool yet again—when it responded. And not unpleasantly, Cedric noted.
That is correct, Mr. Diggory.
Those words had almost disappeared completely as Cedric spent time blinking. Of course it was correct!
But, I feel as if we should have a symbol. Not a password, those are too easy to guess.
A symbol? Cedric finally wrote dumbly. Had it really all been a ploy? A ploy directed at someone that wasn't him, should he have lost the book?
Yes, a symbol, so I can know it is you who is speaking. I may have the intelligence and the information you seek, but, unlike you, I do not have eyes. Writing can be forged, but secrets cannot be easily stolen. Do you agree?
Cedric took a breath. It claimed to have the answers he needed. And, while the entire thing was too suspicious—the diary had been found to be paranoid—he was too, too desperate. He vowed that (contrary to his earlier assumptions), after he asked about the dragons, it would be the last he interacted with Tom Riddle.
I agree. Though he wouldn't need to use a password after this. His manipulation was cruel, and he felt a bit shamefaced (irrationally, he kept telling himself), but he didn't think that the diary could be trusted. If it wasn't for his predicament with the tournament, he would have already turned the blasted thing in.
At least, that was what he told himself.
Do you have any suggestions, Mr. Diggory? It cannot be something you will forget.
Cedric wanted to point out that it would also have to be something that Riddle himself wouldn't forget either. He didn't.
Perhaps something from your name? A picture from some of the letters, maybe?
Cedric thought for a moment.
Would this work?
And then he drew a small circle, no bigger that a sickle, and put a vertical line right through the center of it. It looked like a little "O" divided in half.
C and then D, all in one.
Cute.
Cedric wanted to growl in irritation.
Shouldn't you have one to respond with, so I know that it's you in there? I may have eyes, but I can't see into books. At least not past the words, and seeing as how yours only come up when I talk to you… He trailed off a bit snobbishly, but it did make him feel (guiltily) a bit better. The bloke in the book hadn't been exactly antagonistic (at least, not without some provocation), and he had offered to help Cedric out. But he—it— was still rude.
Riddle appeared unfazed, though. In fact, his response was laced with a touch of amusement that made Cedric sniff.
Oh, dear Mr. Diggory, do not fret. I promise you, I am the only one within these pages. You need not worry over little old me.
The corner of Cedric's mouth twitched. Even as it did, he wasn't sure if it was twitching up or down.
But, I think that I should help enable you to put, at least, a little trust in me. When you draw out yours, I will respond in kind with…
And then a strange picture appeared. It was a little box with a "t" in the middle, splitting it into four equal parts. The section on the bottom left had a tiny "V" in it; a few moments passed before Cedric recognized its attachment to the sides of its box as being an "M". The section on the upper right had a diagonal line drawn through it, like a little hill up to the corner of the entire box. Cedric could see that the entire right half of the drawing had been transformed into an "R".
I think that my task was more difficult than yours, by the by…
You managed well enough. But yours is more convoluted and difficult to interpret. Must everything be so complex with you?
I do wish you knew how you make me laugh, Cedric.
Cedric contemplated this strange banter. He breathed deeply, preparing himself. His conscience was at war with his plan, and yet, he knew his plan to be a good one. He didn't think that the book could be trusted, but that didn't mean that he should take advantage of the man that was inside. It was wrong, morally, ethically, and socially wrong, and, though his gut twisted, he forced himself to write:
Tom, do you know anything about dragons?
The reply seemed to take hours in appearing, and Cedric thought that he might've started to sweat.
You know, Cedric, I do. But what is it, exactly, that you wish to know?
What is the best way one can fight a dragon?
Cedric held his breath.
…One doesn't.
Cedric threw down his quill. He ran his hands through his hair and pulled, almost crying out with his frustration. What was he to do? He only had one idea of how to get help, and that had been completely—
Cedric, are you in a spot of trouble? Tell me what's going on and why you would need to fight a dragon. I will help you, but I must know what you're facing…
Cedric clenched his eyes shut tightly before picking back up the feather and pouring out his soul into the "listening" pages of Tom M. Riddle. And he felt so much lighter afterwards. Better than he had felt after his conversation with Granger. He felt himself able to think again…
A Triwizard Champion, you say? Well, first off, congratulations…
Cedric rolled his eyes and bit his lip, praying to Merlin for just one answer, one idea, one thing he could do…
And second… Will you let me show you something, Cedric?
Cedric, confused, replied, If it helps, I'll let you do anything you wish.
I don't need you to do anything but wait a bit while I find what I'm looking for… Trust me, I think this will help.
His words completely faded, and Cedric had to move his hands back from the diary because of its briskly turning pages. When the fluttering settled, he noted that he was much further into the book of blank paper. However, there was a date beginning to substantiate on the corner of the new page.
16 of October, 1957
And then, a small, framed slit of a box appeared with the date. It flickered with color and looked as if it was trying to find a particular image. Cedric leaned in to the book and tried to hold the tiny box up to his face. He wasn't supposed to be watching this, surely? Nothing was—
And then, something did happen. A very extreme something.
Cedric felt pulled and squeezed and bent and falling. It was like apparation (he'd been side-along with his parents before—that and those classes that the ministry offered) only almost more unpleasant and disconcerting.
And when everything finally stopped and his blurred senses became clearer, Cedric found himself looking at the back of a tall, cloaked man.
Cedric was breathing heavily, and the man turned slightly to look at him.
He had dark, dark eyes, was older, and had hair so brown that it was black.
His sharp cheeks, his intense stare, his considerable height, his pale skin…
"Tom?" Cedric gasped. "Tom Riddle?"
Cedric wished that there was more light; the sky was so cloudy that it blocked out the moon and the stars. They were deep inside a forest, it seemed, and Cedric tried not to be frightened when he thought that the trees looked familiar.
They were in the Forbidden Forest in the late hours of night. He was certain of it.
"Tom, is that you? What are we doing here? How did I—?"
The man turned his back on Cedric and strode away without response. Cedric, irritated, firmly stood his ground, waiting for the man to say something until he realized that he was being left alone. He quickly scrambled after him.
It was only a few moments before Cedric Diggory noticed that his clumsy, hurried tread made no noise on the frosted ground.
So distracted was he by his peculiar realization that he only barely managed to stop himself from running into what, he supposed, was Tom Riddle's back. Cedric noticed that Riddle had his wand out at the ready. Cedric took out his as well, frightened at not knowing what was going on.
"Tom," he whispered (though he didn't know exactly why he kept his voice low). The man did not stir. "Tom, what's going on? Can you hear me?"
He went to put his hand on the man's arm and was terribly shocked when it sunk right through.
He was fairly certain that neither he (nor the man) was a ghost. So what could have…?
Cedric studied the man once again; he had to squint because of the inconvenient darkness. But, when he had gone to try lumos, nothing had happened. Cedric didn't allow himself to panic, though, because he finally noticed how odd the man really was.
He was attractive, to be certain, but his hair was parted in a style that Cedric recognized for being… aged. His cloak and other clothing were old-looking too. And he finally realized that the man hadn't once seen him or heard him this entire time, despite what Cedric had originally thought.
Was he in… a memory? One of the entries in Tom Riddle's diary that Riddle himself had put there, perhaps?
If so, what could he possibly learn from this?
He had thought that he was corporeal; he wasn't. Even if he didn't think he could get hurt (and knew that he couldn't use his magic anyway), Cedric kept his wand tightly in his hand.
It seemed like time was slower than usual; the darkness altered his senses, and he was stressed, uncertain, and very frightened. His blood pumped hot and quickly, but he felt sluggish and muddled despite it. The man, cool as the damp night air around them, kept his eyes focused off into the thickest of trees, waiting for something that Cedric was certain he did not want to see.
There was a rustle, and Cedric had a feeling that it wasn't just imagined on his part; he could tell that the man recognized it. However, the man did not tense. He merely ducked low, body hugging a thick brown trunk, and, with no hesitation at all, Cedric quickly copied his movements.
Another stirring in the darkness. After a minute, Cedric could just barely see the shadowed stranger hidden in the trees opposite them. He wouldn't have found it, though, if he hadn't been watching Riddle's eyes.
Time passed while they all stood still.
And then the other creature—man or beast, Cedric did not know—left them, darting quickly away.
Tom stood and swung his wand arm around the tree in the direction of the dark figure's path. Cedric watched him flick his wand, the man's eyes black and furrowed in concentration. Cedric moved so he could see to where Riddle's magic was aimed.
At first, there was nothing, not even a jet of color from the tip of his wand.
And there was still nothing until a great, fiery explosion shook the forest around them and blinded Cedric with the unexpected flash of light. He fell to the ground with a surprised yelp and flung up his wand-wielding arm to protect his eyes.
What was that?
Shrieks and roars echoed throughout the forest from far away—all except for one squeal that came only from some two-hundred meters distance.
Cedric peeked out again and was surprised that the core of the fire was so far away. How big was the explosion that it blasted even him at his considerable distance? Because of the new light, he now could see the profile of the half-man, half-horse that tore up the trees' roots with its heavy, uncontrolled stomping. The creature's hands covered its face as it screamed in agony.
The centaur's eyes were burnt out.
Cries of anger and ferocious shouts were nearing Riddle and he. Cedric turned, terrified (and he wasn't certain of whom, now that he noticed that Riddle still gripped his wand), and began pleading with the man to take him away, get him out of the forest, make him understand that his wand didn't work and that he didn't want to harm the centaurs anyway. He knew that this was a memory that he was being shown, though, and Riddle took no notice of him. Cedric's mind whirled in panic, and he thought he might vomit if the screaming got any closer.
Riddle calmly reached under the neck of his robes and pulled out some type of pendant hanging from a chain around his neck. Cedric couldn't see it clearly; Riddle was still kept hidden behind the tree. He bent his knees and slid against the rough trunk at his back until he half-sat on the ground. One hand held his wand tightly and the other worked its way around the pendant, rubbing against some bit of gold.
A fog of nothingness started to slide slowly over Riddle's body, starting from his neck and spreading out from there. Some seconds passed before the only visible part of him was the faint outline of his form that hunched in the darkness against the sad-looking tree. Cedric quickly sat next to him and hoped with all his might that the fast-coming centaurs wouldn't notice them both.
Bodies of horse and men suddenly stormed past his stricken, pale face. None hesitated and none stayed behind. The pair waited a minute. And then, when Cedric finally looked back to Riddle's silhouette, he noticed that one of his arms was bent around the tree again.
And the forest brightened once more, and, again did the shouts increase. Four more centaurs raced past the pair's hiding place toward the burning. Two lagged behind the small group after they noticed that they had been abandoned at their posts. Six in total that Cedric did not notice; he wondered how Riddle knew of their presence.
Only then did the invisible Riddle rise and begin to walk away from the fire, away from the centaurs, away from Cedric, and into the still dark areas of fog, trees, and dampness. Cedric began to follow but couldn't help himself from looking back once more.
If he didn't know better, he would have thought that the centaurs were doing some wild, spiritual dance around a fire so high.
But he did know better, and he knew that they were enraged with this atrocity being committed in their home, being committed to those of their own people. Cedric knew that they would eventually put out the fire and tend to their wounded; he did not think that any had died, not even that lone creature that he had first seen.
He did not think that Tom Riddle had even wanted to hurt any of them anyway.
Riddle simply did not want them where he was going, Cedric realized, and he watched the wizard's shimmering outline disappear into the darkness that he knew to be the dwelling of those centaurs that were now putting out Riddle's own fire.
Cedric was then blinded again by the lights of the library as they quickly came to meet his eyes; he almost screamed, and he found that it took him a full minute to finally control his breathing.
Almost ripping the paper, Cedric penned, What was that?
If I may make a request, Mr. Diggory… do not ask me what I was searching for. Ask me of my tactic and not of my whereabouts, please.
You did not answer me. And you are making it quite difficult for me to trust you in any way, even for help with these dragons. But Cedric didn't write that…
Pardon. It was a memory, Cedric, a memory from my 28-year-old self. I decided to share it with you because I think it may be of some use.
He had been right. A memory. Cedric glanced around the library. He noticed that there were not any students among the shelves but all of the candles were still brightly lit. It was time for dinner, perhaps?...
Dinner?!
Hours have passed! I don't have much time now, so, please, do try to be less cryptic.
I'll be as forthcoming as I can be in light of the situation. I promise that any omissions I make are merely present to keep you thinking. And now, I shall ask you… What is it do you think that I did?
And that was a loaded question, at least to Cedric. There were quite a few responses that immediately popped into Cedric's mind, among them being, "Scared the pants off of me!", "Terrorized a group of centaurs", and…
…and the response that Cedric wrote down to Tom.
…You kept them from where you wanted to be.
Cedric could have sworn that he felt the diary beneath his hands hum with appreciation and approval.
And how did I do that? Where was Riddle taking this?… Cedric thought he might be able to see the importance…
You gave them something else to do. You started their bloody forest on fire!
I did start the forest on fire to "give them something else to do"; now tell me why, Cedric.
That spell was wicked by the way. Yes, Cedric, stall for time to become less confused and shaken.
Riddle ended up calling him out.
Go on, please…
Cedric hesitated a moment, though he was almost positive of Riddle's intentions.
You wanted to keep their attention elsewhere so you could slip by.
Exactly. I wanted to distract them. One does not always have to fight, you know. Cleverness does have a part in determining success.
So… Cedric took a breath. …you think I should distract a dragon and not necessarily fight one?
Riddle seemed to hesitate too. …I think it foolish for one as young as you to fight a dragon. I mean no offense or patronization when I say that, Cedric. Surely, you must understand…
I think I understand. Instead of acting offensively or defensively, I should avoid conflict altogether. That is what you mean, right?
Correct.
Cedric had to pause here. What the diary was telling him made absolute sense, even though he still felt a bit green about the whole ordeal. Distraction would be a good method, but such tactic would take a lot of control out of his hands if it didn't work.
I know it would work. Cedric thought that Riddle had considerably good timing, seeing as how he was encased in a diary. Dragons are intelligent creatures… but you are smarter. Distraction would work, Mr. Diggory. I think you need to put some more trust in yourself, too, if you are determined to do this.
…When did this conversation suddenly turn into a pep talk? Oh well. Cedric knew he needed some confidence boosting, among other things.
Like an actual plan.
Not just a clever idea. A clever idea that he knew to be very, very intelligent, considering his (low) skill level with dragons. But that same idea didn't sit well with him quite yet… Perhaps it was the look of the devastated centaurs when they realized what had happened… Or maybe it was the deviousness (it felt like he was manipulating others; very cheap and almost cheating) of Riddle's suggestion… Or maybe… his already bruised ego… Using distraction didn't seem fitting for a champion... But neither did stupidity, and it would definitely be stupidity reigning if he went out to face that dragon tomorrow head-on.
He really, truly wished that he could know what the others had planned. Perhaps he could try to get some more information out of Granger? Nicely, of course. She had already been… well, not a great help, as she hadn't told him anything he hadn't already known… but she had seemed quite decent. Decent people did those sorts of things, like make sure that a fellow classmate (and possible rival—damn buttons) know that he could very well be burned to a crisp the next day if he didn't get his act together…
Tom interrupted his pondering (and fretting, if he was honest… which he was, even if he felt a bit guilty about his building plans of… distracting manipulation).
There is no shame in clever avoidance. However, there is shame in the foolishness of trying to complete a task that you know you cannot do. Tell me that you are not a Gryffindor and will not let your pride be your downfall?...
I'm a Hufflepuff. And, regardless of my house, I can see the stupidity of facing off with a dragon because of being too stubborn to back down. Even though he wasn't sitting very well with the idea.
Just remember, it is wrong to pursue the things that we are incapable of doing. We must always know our limits, and I mean it when I say that I do not think you weak or stupid. Few adult wizards could survive a conflict with a dragon, and even they would have scars. You are young and it is too much to ask for you to openly fight a dragon. My guess is that they—your school leaders—will merely ask for you to get past it. And the only way for you to realistically do so is for you to distract it.
Riddle's tone sounded almost pleading, and his seriousness did, in fact, have quite the moving affect on Cedric. He knew he was resigned with his tactic now, but he did have a few questions for Tom.
…You wouldn't distract it, would you?
What makes you ask that, Mr. Diggory?
Cedric hesitated, biting his lip and squinting his eyes. Almost reluctantly did he start to write. That spell—I don't know what it was, but it was… ridiculously powerful. And your pendant… You are obviously a powerful, clever wizard. You would not need to distract a dragon.
Although Tom had paused many times before, Cedric was most curious this time as to why. He wasn't exactly anticipating the answer—he'd already pegged that Riddle would respond indirectly—but he was certainly interested in the motives behind this particular timidity. Was he thinking out the situation? Was he editing? Was he formulating a lie?
…What I would or would not do when faced with a dragon is none of your concern. I am not you, I am older than you (twenty-eight was not so old, Cedric thought), and, if I were clever, I would not ever find myself face-to-face with a dragon of my own volition. I was not lying when I said that the best way to fight a dragon is to not. What you must do is out of necessity, and I think that I have given you just the idea of how to do it.
Cedric pursed his lips. An idea, but not a plan… How do I go about distracting a dragon?
Riddle's answer came surprisingly quickly, and it certainly made Cedric think.
Well, you need to figure out what it is that you can work to your advantage. Curses are out of the question, unless you can target them away from the dragon in some way, like I did the fire. Are you particularly good at charms? Transfiguration? Any useful hexes coming to mind?
It took merely a moment for Cedric to answer; though he had been a fool up to this point, he had, in fact, studied up on his strengths, had taken more notice of what was useful to him and what he was best at.
I'm actually quite good with transfiguration. Charms probably comes in second with my top abilities, and then arithmancy, but that probably wouldn't help. And I really haven't studied so much on hexes… They fascinate me, but they frighten me too.
…How well do you excel in defense, then? Cedric did not like the fact that he thought Tom might've just become a bit worried…
I'm not horrible, but I'm not genuinely worth mentioning. Back when the professors reintroduced the dueling club, I was… Cedric tried to think of a word; he didn't want to describe himself as mediocre, or even average. Modesty had its places, but he knew that Riddle and he had to be absolutely truthful in this evaluation. With a gulp, he realized that his health (mostly his skin; he did not think that being burnt would be comfortable at all) depended on it. …I was somewhat talented but wasn't quite in the same category as the best students. I know the curses… They just… don't always work for me.
…Hmm… While your prowess in charms may be useful, I think it best to focus our attention on what you, yourself, feel most confident with. Cedric could almost imagine the dark-haired Riddle cracking his long fingers and settling in with determination. Strangely, picturing this Riddle made him wonder exactly how old he was when he was—put in? trapped in?—the diary. Cedric thought that his final age had to be longer off than only twenty-eight. He shook his head; that was a question for another time.
Another time? He had to keep telling himself that this was the last time. He couldn't do this again. He wouldn't.
He cleared his head once more with a quick shake and then began to write.
What I am most confident in is, in fact, transfiguration. Also, it does not take concentration to maintain a transfiguration spell once cast, unlike when using a charm. I think that it would be prudent to pursue a plan with transfiguration as our main tool.
Good, good. Now, we must not underestimate your dragon problem. How is it that you think we should use transfiguration against it?
Well, it would depend on what my surroundings were. If I could find something the right size, I could probably transfigure… Cedric trailed off. What? What could he transfigure or conjure to distract a dragon?
Cedric… how adept are you with inanimate to animate transfiguration?
He thought for a second or two. Fairly, I would say. If I could find something big enough… I think I could probably transfigure up to… a horse, maybe? In size, anyway, and temporarily, of course.
Yes, you wouldn't need anything non-temporary. Do you have any ideas?
Cedric bit his lip, pondering his abilities and how to best use them. He could, quite nicely, take advantage of his skill with transfiguration and form some type of other target for the dragon—as long as he could find some appropriate base matter within the area, that was.
I think you're on to something with the inanimate-animate transfiguration. The dragon would be most inclined to put its attention in something that was "alive" rather than not. I believe that, should there be any useful materials… I could make some type of creature (animal, maybe?) for about… seven minutes maximum, if it's bigger than… well, about a dog, I'd say. Cedric frowned thoughtfully. But Tom… I don't even know if there will even be anything sizeable—let alone something I can transfigure!—where I'll be.
Hmm… You know the summoning spell, don't you? A simple accio should do the trick—but it might take a minute, depending on where you are. However, I'm presuming that you'll be outside; no dragon would be allowed in the castle, even for such an event as this.
Cedric was somewhat happy with Riddle's suggestions. He was even starting to feel… giddy? He almost bounced in his chair as he kept writing, a slight smile on his face.
Cedric was, actually, quite fond of solving puzzles.
In fact, he would love brainstorming for a way around this—if he wasn't the one that had to face the dragon.
What do you propose I summon, then, if there's nothing there? And what animal do you think a dragon would most be distracted by? I'm thinking that it has to make noise…
That is an excellent idea. You say you can create something up to about a horse?
I'm actually thinking that a dog would do the trick—I'd mentioned it before, and I think that it would work. I can make it bark, if I find the right trigger spell and infuse it with my original transfigurations.
Because, of course, inanimate to animate transfigurations do not have appropriate sound as they are not the real creature. Impressive, Mr. Diggory.
Cedric chuckled a bit; he was just about to point that out.
I must say that I am impressed as well. You are quite the bookish fellow, you know.
So clever, aren't we Cedric?
He laughed. Again.
He was actually enjoying himself. How was it that the diary, of all things, was keeping him calm? And actually helping him? Last ditch efforts sometimes did come in handy.
Anyway, I might suggest that, should you have no proper material, you should summon something that is found outside and relatively close to the area. Rocks, fallen logs, large chairs even. Whatever is nearest and whatever is easiest are two different things that you have to account for, because (and not to make you nervous, Cedric) you will have to hurry. The dragon will not be lounging around and waiting for you to attack, so you best take note of the area you're in as soon as you get there, not as soon as you face your task. It is important that you leave room for some adaptations to your plan depending on timing, skill, and defense as well as offense… I do wish I could be of more help, Cedric.
Cedric blinked. He did not expect that.
You are helping, he reassured, more-so than I've helped myself these past few weeks. He bit his lip. If I hadn't have stumbled across your diary, Tom, I don't know what I would be doing right now besides panicking.
...Thank you, Cedric. But, if you'll excuse me and my melancholy, we really must focus on you right now. Cedric sighed and shook his head. He thought that Tom was maybe editing what he really wanted to say, sacrificing his own problems in light of Cedric's rather precarious one; it was surprising. The diary had quite the peculiar personality. Like I was saying, you must be prepared to adapt. And if you have enough materials, I think that you should transfigure more animals. One dog (and I do like this choice—it would be best if it was larger than the average crup, though) may not be enough to distract a dragon for very long, and we don't even know what exactly it is you'll be doing anyway as the Triwizard task. Be prepared to have more than one distraction. This is important, Cedric. Because the distraction you are aiming to create is relatively small, it would be quite clever to have more than one at the ready.
Cedric furrowed his brow in thought. But will I have enough time? That's something we have to figure in too. Also, how much energy will making these dogs take as compared to how much I need to complete the task? Those are things we have to consider.
You are correct, Mr. Diggory, but you must also not let yourself panic. Panicked people often think they have less time than they actually do. Be level-headed, but do let your adrenaline work for you too. Instinct is often better than clear thought in active situations, unless that instinct is really only fear in disguise.
But how to tell the difference between the two?
You're right, he conceded.
Cedric… if you do have to stall and wait for a summoning to be completed… what do you plan on doing?
Well, here's where I think it would be invaluable to know exactly what type of dragon I'll be facing off with. I can think of a few small things like light charms and such, but I really don't know how effective they'll be. I mean, I don't know a lot about dragons, but I know that a concentrated light spell would have more of an effect on a Norwegian Ridgeback than, say, a Green Welsh. For the Welsh, I would probably use a fire light, as that dragon is most sensitive to the combination of heat and brightness. If I had used the same spell on the Ridgeback, I would've increased the possibility of being harmed because it responds well to heat, despite having residence in Norway, of all places. It's those things, Tom, that would determine success. And despite all that, I'm panicking over the thought of provoking the dragon—because, surely, that's what I'll be doing if I used a light charm. How would I distract it after antagonizing it so? How could they not have told us it was dragons!?
He was getting worked up again.
Do calm down, Mr. Diggory. We cannot come up with a good plan while you are being unreasonable.
Cedric scowled, lighter mood currently forgotten. He thought it was quite reasonable to be upset over his lack of knowledge—and it was reasonable to expect the heads of the competition to tell him a bit of the tasks, too.
I think it best for you to not worry yourself too much over which type of dragon you'll have to face. Instead, focus on light charms in general (you want them blinding, not damaging—less irritation, I'd think, in regards to your other objections). If they don't distract the dragon, at least they'll put it off guard. But beware of that, Cedric. An off-guard dragon is still dangerous; it'll probably tramp around, snort and roar, and there will still be fire, despite whether it's aimed intentionally at you or not.
Cedric ran a hand through his hair and dipped his quill for more ink. So, use a concentrated light charm, should I have to.
…Yes, I believe that concentrated would do the trick. Try more for making the lights bright and not just big.
Good point, he wrote, chewing at his lip.
Now… unless you can think of anything else, I believe that you have some brushing up to do.
Yes, you are absolutely right, Tom. Cedric's left-hand fingers were lodged in his hair in his petulance—and a bit of worry; it was all well and good to have a plan, but now he needed to make sure that he had skills enough to carry it out. I should be going. Transfiguration texts are calling, and the library should be closing soon.
I may suggest that you try to find a book called Animal Animates by Fawley. Cumbersome, but helpful, especially for this. He gives you tricks on how to make the animates last longer, should you need it. Oh, and he does list all sorts of appropriate original matter too. Don't forget what I said about the accio.
Cedric let a little smile squeeze over his lips. Thank you, Tom. I think I'll also study up a bit on light charms, just in case.
Cedric? Do me a favor?
What is it, Tom?
No researching on dragons tonight. Contrary to what you may want, it'll do you no good, and you know it.
He sighed heavily, acknowledging the truth in Tom's statement, even when his stomach squirmed in nervousness at the thought of seeing tomorrow's ventures without much foresight on the creatures he would be facing.
But such studying would only make him become more frantic.
Yes, Tom. You are right.
And if you are practicing and getting frustrated because something is not going well… just go to bed, Cedric. Do you have any vials of Dreamless Sleep potion anywhere? I'd recommend it, because I daresay that you need to rest. Not too late to bed.
Cedric frowned peevishly, but, again, he could not refute what Tom had said. His words were wise, after all.
I may be able to ask for a vial from Madam Pomfrey before hours are over.
Good, Cedric… I wish only for your safety, dear Mr. Diggory.
Cedric's mouth twitched and he even blushed a bit, but he wasn't sure why.
Why, many thanks Mr. Riddle, he responded too-cordially, for your advice and for your touching concern.
You are most welcome. Do tell me how things turn out, yes? It would be a shame for me to have to believe you dead if you did not write again. And then what would I do, stuck in this diary by myself?
Cedric laughed, despite the bit about him dying. Become madder than you already are, I'm sure.
Ha.
With another chuckle, he bid Tom farewell.
May your success be great, as I'm sure it will be.
Cedric blushed again in modesty, but, secretly, he took great pleasure from the compliment.
At the end of the (worrying) night, however, he did need that Dreamless Sleep draught after all. His nerves would not listen to him, even as he listened to Tom.
He quite liked having such a comrade in this. Their discussion was of merit and truly, truly helped.
Tom Riddle was one of the most strategic coaches that he had ever come across, he decided. Cedric positively forgot all about his earlier testament to never correspond with the diary again. It was quite the useful thing.
- - - - -
Waking up on Wednesday was one of the greatest reliefs of Cedric's life.
He had done it. He had actually done it!
Not particularly well, mind you… but he had gotten past a dragon, for Merlin's sake!
He had panicked when Tom had told him not to. He only got one measly dog out, though it had worked… for a time… And when he noticed that the dragon had turned its attention back at him, what had he done?
Absolutely nothing. Not even a bloody light charm.
Cedric was immensely disappointed with his iced-up moment of panic and what it had cost him—how many points and how much pain (even if relieved now) it had cost him. But he didn't really care about that, if he thought about the outcome enough.
Because he was so damned elated that he had gotten past a dragon! He'd succeeded! And no amount of points (or scars—there weren't any, thanks to Poppy Pomfrey) would change that.
In his heart, he had already won the task, even if he wasn't in the lead of the tournament.
His head, however, told him that he still had to focus, that he couldn't fool-off like before, that this tournament wasn't over, and that, most of all, he could do better if he just kept at it this time.
It shamed him (just a little, even though he kept telling himself that it shouldn't) that Harry Potter, the illegitimate, younger champion, had gotten a better score than he. Cedric didn't dislike Harry, per se, but he was certainly a tad bit miffed when it was announced for the first time that there would be two Hogwarts Champions. He had tried not to act out on it, of course, but even if he didn't encourage the "Support Diggory!" badges… he didn't discourage them…
But the boy had told him of the dragons… and he had looked just as green as Cedric when waiting in the tent before the first task. Cedric remembered Hermione Granger sneaking into the tent and him seeing the both of the fourth years share a hug of terror, concern, and friendship.
Glancing down at his shaking hands, he had been not a little envious. Where were his friends during all of this? Oh, yes, sitting in the stands with the vain belief that Cedric had this "in the bag."
But Granger had surprised him once again with her kind concern—though Cedric had unhappily noted that she looked closer to tears more then than ever he had seen her.
"Cedric," she had started carefully, panic and embarrassment warring in her eyes and across her cheeks and neck. He'd gulped and had not responded; his vocal chords had been caught in his own dread and, for the life of him, he couldn't return her acknowledgement.
"I-I… You need to—" Her own choke had cut her off.
She had blinked back tears and looked quickly to Potter who had been sitting with his head slumped in his hands. Her shoulders had straightened when she turned back to Cedric. He remembered them both hesitating when Dumbledore and the other heads had then chosen to enter the tent, signaling the beginning of the task.
"Please," she had gasped hurriedly, hands clenching and trembling, "please, be careful."
The pair had let their widened, panicked eyes connect for a long moment before he managed to force out, "O-kay." They both had trouble breathing and controlling themselves and their worry.
He'd watched as her eyes flickered back over the inhabitants of the tent, her gaze pausing on Fleur and Viktor most as she saw them—no doubt silently wishing them safety and luck. Hermione was a good girl with a warm heart. She had proved that much to him already.
She had looked back to him, nodded jerkily, and then dashed out of the tent, presumably, to her seat in the crowd.
Cedric had forced himself to breathe and knew that her plea to his caution would definitely be heeded… He was brave, intelligent, and had the potential for heroics…
But he was no Gryffindor. No way in hell would he not be careful around such a beast as a dragon.
Even still, he had left the stadium a bit singed.
Ego deflated. Ego inflated as well, if you understand. It was a peculiar feeling, and Cedric had quite the time trying to explain it to Tom that morning.
No, I am disappointed in myself for letting my fear rule me like you said I shouldn't, Cedric wrote (the password/symbol hassle from earlier forgotten with this new turn of discussion, thankfully). But, he continued, I'm still happy with my success. I mean, it was still a success despite it not being top-notch, you know?
I believe I might understand what you say, Riddle informed. However, I think that you would do well to put in more effort and thought for the next task—this coming year's February, correct?
The twenty-fourth, yes.
Mm. You have much time to deliberate your next strategy. Starting now would be a good idea, Cedric. What was it you said that you'll have to do?
Cedric sighed at the thought of strategizing right then. He really wanted to just have a day to embrace his "victory"; yesterday, he was still getting over the shock of making it (and the shock of being scorched so) when he was offered all his congratulations from housemates and the rest of the school. He had tried to thank Potter after the task in the medical tent for his help, but Pomfrey had kept a firm eye on him, telling him that it wouldn't do to be fussing about with such burns. She had been fluttering about him in a menace, and Cedric was actually made quite a bit nervous, even after facing the Swedish Short-Snout.
Merlin! He had faced a dragon!
Yes, he did need a day to himself, outside the tournament.
But Tom was still writing, pausing every now and then to give Cedric the time to interrupt him.
…it really must have been something, to see a Short-Snout so close… I hear that you can still find dragons with scars from attempts at illegal poaching… Diggory, are you even with me anymore? I've been prattling about the almost-extinction of your particular dragon during the 1870s for the past few minutes now. I'm even boring myself.
Sorry, sorry Tom. It's just… I had a lot to think about for a minute.
I can imagine. This tournament is a big, big thing…
Ha, don't I know it? Actually, he really didn't until two days ago. He knew it now, of course, and was quite certain that he wouldn't ignore its significance to him anymore.
Tom, thankfully, said nothing.
Anyway, you know the egg I had to pick up? It's supposed to be a clue. Well, if I undo the hinges on the top, it comes apart. It's empty, but it makes the most blasted noise I've ever heard. I have no idea what the clue is supposed to mean—other than it being the off chance that I'll have to sacrifice my hearing for the next task, that is.
Hmm… Tom ignored his joke, and Cedric shook his head. Can you describe this noise to me? And are there any markings on the egg at all? Including the inside?
Cedric frowned in thought. Well, it's just an empty golden egg from what I've seen. I didn't really have the chance to look at the inside of it for very long—the screeching— Cedric halted and then scrambled. Oh, yes, the screeching; well, it's just that. It sounds like this ungodly wail or shriek. Really high-pitched and loud. No discernable words or even language. Just… wailing, I guess.
Hmm. And where did you open it?
I opened it yesterday a couple of hours after the task. I wanted to be sure that I opened it when I was alone in the dormitories, and that took quite a while.
Ha, I can imagine. So, how is it you think you're supposed to hear the message then? I'm assuming that's what it is. The egg itself may mean nothing—it was part of the lure from the dragon task, and I'm rather certain that it and the next task are unconnected; there has never been a tournament where the tasks are linked or similar as each is meant to test something different. However, we cannot omit the possibility of the egg—or the gold—as being a symbol of sorts. There has to be a way to hear the message…
Tom… can we not talk about this now? I really want this day to be tournament-free. I'm having a really good morning and don't want to ruin it.
Cedric was rather nervous as a trail of dots crossed the page.
…I feel that it is wisest for you to go over everything you have recently learned at once so as not to forget or overlook any certain thing. I may be able to pick up on something you brushed aside, or you may remember something that seems important in retrospect… It would be foolish to just push it all to the back of your mind.
Cedric ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. I see your point, Tom, but I've already told you everything. If there was some hidden clue that I've missed, I've already told you about it.
…You're certain?
Yes.
…well then, let us talk of something else. But, Cedric, for me?... don't forget the words that they've used, what has happened so far… please?
He was irritated, but he knew that Tom only asked for his own good.
Yes, Tom, I'll remember. You're right; it could be important.
There was a minute where neither of them wrote. Tom broke the tension.
So, how is it that the others did, then?
Cedric scoff-sighed loudly, his hands tugging at the hair that dangled irritatingly on his forehead. This was Tom's way of not talking about the competition?!
Tom, please!
Oh, very well. I just was wondering if you had an ally of sorts—if that other little boy from Hogwarts succeeded, namely. It makes me curious, how his name managed to come out of the cup. Even more curious, how he would be allowed in the competition. Obviously, he must have cheated; he is too, too young.
Cedric squirmed uncomfortably. He had thought all of those things too, once, and he didn't know quite how to respond. He certainly couldn't blame Tom for his train of thought—Potter's guiltiness did seem quite the obvious outcome when one looked at it reasonably. But—
I know that you say the things you say rationally, Tom, but… I don't think that he cheated. I don't think that he truly wants to be in this competition. Not after I've talked to him. And, he helped me, Tom, by telling me about the dragons. He can't be all bad if he told me—he can't be cheating and trying to win if he told me something that could help me beat him.
Couldn't he? Cedric still had doubts, though he did feel badly about questioning the boy that had helped him so much.
Cedric, Cedric… Cedric didn't appreciate the patronizing quality he felt from Tom's words. You must know that he—this Harry Potter?—has every reason to help you if it could help himself in the end. Did you not think of that? After all, you are the other Hogwarts Champion; he would pick you out of the Veela and the Bulgarian to aid him. You are the most logical choice when it comes to manipulation.
Cedric definitely did not sit well with that. He was a little disgruntled by Tom's casual, dismissive descriptions of Fleur and Viktor—as if they were unimportant as witch and wizard (he was almost cruel). And he was not a little concerned over Tom's statements of his trust in Harry. Of course he had thought the very same things, sick as he felt afterward, but he was most positive that the boy would not do him, or anyone, harm, that he didn't even want to be in the tournament anyway.
Cedric believed Harry Potter when he said that he didn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire.
However, the more logical part of him reminded him that it wasn't just a trick of luck that had the fateful parchment—the one with Harry's name on it—spit out of the flame. Something was up, and damn the world if he didn't have time or patience enough to figure out what. It was a troublesome thing, trying to trust Potter…
…But, for some reason, Cedric felt all the better for it.
I have thought of that, Tom. But I think I will trust him, even if you deem it foolish.
Tom did not respond immediately. Cedric continued to reassure him.
Don't worry though—I won't be sharing secrets or strategies or anything like that. I'll just… stop doubting… his integrity, or something like that. I think he's a good (boy? man? Gryffindor?) chap.
Chap? Why didn't he just grow a mustache and have a few cigars by the fire with a sharp dog named Kensington sitting at his heels?
Cedric shook his head quickly, clearing it of the (somewhat amusing) muck that clouded any reason he had. He frowned over Tom's responding words.
I do hope you know what you're doing, Mr. Diggory. Cedric knew that Tom was either admonishing him or worrying over him when he referred to him by such title. He wasn't sure which Tom was doing at the moment.
Cedric decided to level with him—it was the least he could do for the man in the book. Besides, it might help to get all of his ideas about the boy out of his head, to make them stop ruminating in doubt.
In the past, the boy was in… quite a lot of slip-ups. By that, I mean that he and his friends—a Weasley and the Granger girl I've told you about—were in constant trouble. Well, not trouble, necessarily… but there were a lot of rumors. Whenever something big or strange happened, those three were the ones behind it. Cedric bit the inside of his cheek in thought. Like… the year when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened.
Cedric thought back to the year even before that one, his third year at Hogwarts. He knew that there had been a lot of rumors too, then, about Quirrell's disappearance at the end of the year, and he had even heard mutterings about the Philosopher's Stone. That event he didn't know much about, but…
Cedric? What about the chamber?
Cedric blinked in surprise, realizing he hadn't carried on with his story—and feeling a bit guilty for it. Inking his quill, he stopped to read Tom's new words.
You've intrigued me, now.
Cedric chuckled and wrote, Well, there was a lot of speculation—more accusation and the like—that Harry Potter had been the one to do it; that he was the heir of Slytherin. He frowned, thinking over the logic behind the accusation, even though he, too, believed it at the time (he distinctly remembered a moment where he had seen the boy—two years younger than him!—walking down the hallway; Cedric had about-faced and walked off in the other direction, causing him to be late for a transfiguration class; he wondered if McGonagall had ever forgotten that). It's actually quite silly, now that I think about it. I mean, the heir of Slytherin, opener of the chamber, best friend of a Muggleborn witch and in Gryffindor, of all houses! It's almost laughable in retrospect. I must not have been a very clever child, he joked, and, apparently, neither was anyone else in Hogwarts!
I'm sure you were quite the clever child. And, let me guess, you apologized to him at the end of the year for behaving uncouthly around him, which I'm sure you must have (and that was not an insult, merely an assumption).
Cedric nodded, even though Tom couldn't see it; he understood the man's reasoning this time and couldn't begrudge him for it. People were people, and Tom understood that. He thought that Tom might've begun to help him learn that too.
Actually, no, I never did. And now Cedric felt sicker with guilt than ever. A request for forgiveness and the like… well, it had just never come up! He had to remedy that fact, even if the apology came two years too late and in not very good circumstance. But, I never acted too coldly toward him, you must understand. I didn't want the heir angry with me, after all! It was a joke, but Tom didn't write anything; Cedric thought that he must not have known that he was waiting for a response. He just continued. However, I did tell certain members of my house not to associate with him—I never encouraged name-calling or gossip or whatnot. Though, a member of my house did, in fact, become petrified. Cedric frowned. That must have been what truly set me against him that year, made me not trust him.
At the end of the year, when his name had been cleared, I think I remember feeling a bit foolish, but… I was never exactly guilt-filled, or at least not memorably… I wonder why? And he did wonder why… Perhaps he never… truly forgave Harry for his (false) wrongdoings. Perhaps… he deluded himself into thinking that Harry somehow knew that those who were his accusers now bowed their heads in embarrassment.
And then, Cedric thought particularly hard.
Why was it that he had never known who the opener of the chamber was? Who it was that had been linked back and back to Salazaar Slytherin?
And… I wonder what did happen to the real heir…
Hmm… there are some things that we just will never know. Tom speculated. However, I am now a bit irritated that you have brought up an interesting story with so little conclusion.
So sorry, Tom.
I am shaking my head at you right now.
Cedric laughed loudly, momentary ponderings forgotten.
And I am chuckling heartily.
There was a sharp knock on the door before a blonde, bespectacled young man stuck his head in, grinning ear to ear.
"Hey'a Cedric! You're missing out. Sprout's gone and supplied the whole house with that giddy-draught from those salahynths she's been growing! There's not much left, and I don't know how long I can hold up the line for you without you there."
Cedric calmly closed the book (he'd learned since that last time with Granger) and smiled. "Thanks Will. I've just got to finish this up and I'll be right down."
Will's eyes twinkled with amusement. "God, Ced, you've been up here for hours now! Surely your essay can't stand much more perfecting—say, do you want me to bring up some of the draught here for you? She's added some honey this time, and it's damn delicious."
"Uh," Cedric began, trying to will his friend back down the stairs (without seeming rude, of course), "I think I'll be down in just a few minutes. Ten tops, promise. I just really need to finish this." He gestured his head toward the oak desk next to his bed, the wood covered with papers, books, and quills. There wasn't anything in particular that he appeared to be working on, and he noticed this just a moment too late—
"Hey, Ced, that a diary?"
Cedric blinked awkwardly. "No!"
Will grinned wickedly. "Why, it is!" He winked conspiratorially. "Promise, Ced, I won't say a thing about it. But, honestly, you may want to put it someplace where no one who will can find it."
In all actuality, Cedric probably would not have been embarrassed at the act of keeping a diary. However, he knew enough to keep up his façade, even if it meant his continuing of the teenage-male's mortification at doing something so "feminine." Really, it was as if keeping a journal was as girlish as donning heels and powder!
But, somewhere inside of him, Cedric wondered as to why he felt so frightened of discovery. He wouldn't be fearful of being caught if he wasn't doing anything wrong, now would he? It wasn't wrong to keep secrets, but—he glanced at the diary and then at the dormitory door as it swung shut after Will's exit—why did keeping this secret seem so… dangerous?
He trusted Tom's word. More than he trusted himself, it seemed.
And, when Cedric told Tom later that evening that he had decided to hide the diary, Tom was pleased.
A.N. So, this is going to be a full-out, multi-chaptered story. It might not be most people's cup of tea, but stick it out with me. Something I thought was really cool about this story was that it originally written for the lovely Harry Potter Big Bang contest of 2009 (I was only recently allowed to publish it due to contest restrictions). The whole thing was a blast, and I was privileged enough to work with some very amazing people. I think everyone should go and check out the page (link coming to my profile soon), if not to appreciate some awesome fan creations, at least to see the lovely artist I was able to work with over at LiveJournal, nicccc.
And... that's a wrap! Reviewing is just as perfect as reading, so I encourage you to do so. Thanks much, everyone!
