Chapter 2: Out of the Frying Pan

The worst has passed, but the night is not yet finished for Cedric.


Cedric felt like his entire body was going through a tight tube. He was beginning to wonder if he had been hit by a curse when suddenly his feet sank into soft, wet snow. It blinded him, its whiteness a stark contrast to the dimness of the forest he was just lost in a second ago.A cold gust blew from behind.

We escaped… He trembled at the realization, tears streaming down his face as he fell on his knees. We escaped!

"Viktor, we-" But he wasn't beside him as he was in the forest. Instead, he lay a few feet to Cedric's right, body sunk deep in inches of dark snow.

Blood.

Knee-deep snow hindered his movements as he waded to Viktor. In the brightness of the moonlit snow, he could clearly see now the true extent of damage the battle had caused the older boy. The curse that threw him into the forest gloom had hit him in the side. Where once there was a woolen sweater, now it was just a singed hole; where before there was skin, now it was a festering wound so horrid Cedric almost puked again.

Viktor's torso was black as if burnt. It was stripped of the skin, exposing the raw sinewy muscle that was oozing with blood. The curse ate through the surrounding skin, creeping steadily outwards, while peeling the flesh beneath layer by layer.

Cedric inserted his right hand inside his own sweater, feeling the hard lump inside the secret pocket, but winced as a sharp pain shot from the tip of his hand to this shoulder. Pulling it out, he saw that he, too, was bleeding. His entire hand was covered with blood. What was left of his hand, that is. Pieces of flesh dangled from where two of his fingers and a quarter of his palm were once before. The bones of his knuckles shone white amidst the red tendons in his hand. He screamed in agony as his mind registered the pain that pulsed from his splinch.

He raised his hand over his head to try and slow down the flow of blood. The warm liquid poured down his forearm to his elbow and soaked his sleeves. He groped in the snow for his wand and, once he got hold of it, immediately pointed at the hideous wound. White cloth spurt out the end, swathing the wound in a snug bandage.

Dropping his wand, he pulled out with his left hand a crystal from within his pocket. It glittered in the moonlight, its content sloshing inside. He bit on the cork stopper and pulled with his teeth.

Steam rose as the liquid splashed against Viktor's torso. In an instant, the blood stopped oozing from the wound, and a translucent pinkish layer formed on the naked flesh, like a finely spun web that stretched across the wound.

The last drop fizzled with a hiss and Cedric tucked the empty crystal into his sweater pocket. The air bloomed with the sweet scent of lavender and cinnamon. He sat back on his knees, happy that the worst seemed over, stomach growling with hunger. How many hours has it been? It seemed years ago when he was just playing with his food at dinner around the Hufflepuff table, all nerves and excitement at the hour that the final challenge begins. Now they're here, high up on snow-capped peaks and battered by strong winds, hundreds of miles from Hogwarts. They must be looking for us now, he thought, trying to reassure himself. They'll see that the Cup is missing, and they will wonder where we all are.

Yet he wondered at the chance that the school will even know where the Cup took them. Both he and Viktor had apparated as well, taking them farther from the school. Where are we, even?

They stood on a sharp outcrop of rock that jutted towards the night sky like the hilt of a dagger shoved deep into the side of the mountains. Everywhere he looked he saw gentle slopes abruptly ending in plunging ravines and deadly terraces where one misstep can send you diving into your death a hundred feet below. In the distance, nestled snug at the foot of the mountain valley, lay a village. Thickets of pine-dotted the mountainside, some stretching expansive as a forest, some isolated into groups. The precipice they stood on lead to such a forest, the woods growing wild as it sprawled across the mountain.

There goes trekking. The village lay at least a hundred miles from where they were. Though he was warm enough in his sweater, his toes will surely fall off before they get halfway through it. It won't do to escape from the hands of Death Eaters themselves only to die, freezing. Besides, Viktor will never make it through like this.

The older man was burning with fever. He was shivering violently, his teeth chattering loudly and breath steaming in the cold air. With a wave of his wand, Cedric conjured a wooden litter that raised Viktor from the wet snow. With another flick, it was levitating, ready for wherever Cedric wanted to take it.

He looked ahead towards the snow-laden pines. Going through another dark forest was the last thing he wanted to do after the ordeal he went through just a few moments ago. But he had no choice.

The trees pressed close on either side of him. Moonlight streamed between the sparse needles on the branches above, shining halfway down the tall pines before melting into the shadows from below. Squirrels scampered along the branches above him. The wind howled eerily and played sounds that unsettled him. Once, he heard what seemed like a growl, and he had paused rooted to the spot. He didn't hear it again, though, so he shrugged it off and blamed the wind.

Just find a shelter from the cold. Then I'll plan how we'll get out of this damned place.

A few feet in front of him, the ground started sloping downwards. Ice gave way to frozen undergrowth that bristled as he walked on them. Even the pine grew sparser, and he wondered whether they had already made it out to the other side. The moon slipped behind a cloud, and in a moment the gloom that had bathed the forest with a dreamlike quality turned so impenetrable that chills ran across his back. No sound stirred except for his ragged breathing. He clutched at Viktor, finding solace at the warmth emanating from his skin. I'm not going mad.

Raising his wand, he said, "Lumos." A wink of light flashed in his periphery. Icicles? Yet as he scanned the surrounding branches nearby, he found no hint of ice hanging from them. Steadily, he walked towards the source, his ears straining for any sound.

His eyes went wide as he stepped into the clearing: in the middle of a circular enclosure formed by the pine, a wooden cabin stood. The orb of light floating above him had glinted off its windows.

The house itself was tall to the point that it looked stretched. The main facade was two stories of high walls punctuated by a steep roof. The entire cabin's symmetry only added to its vertically long appearance, with the left and right wings seemingly squashed into the sides. It would have been a very comical house had it not for the color of its walls: a dark blue hue, the grain of the wood the deepest black. Solid and domineering, Cedric can't help but quickly avert his eyes downwards as he glanced upwards to its roof. Like a hunched grotesque creature glaring down on me.

Yet in truth, it was far from grotesque. Every inch of the house's exterior, upon closer inspection, was carved with twisting vines and their varied fruits and flowers: grapes, squashes, bitter gourds, melons, orchids, hydrangeas. They curled around the columns supporting the awning over the patio, even around each of the pegs of the balustrades, on the door, and overhead on the ceiling itself - like a petrified orchard married to the wood.

Pity that it has fallen to ruin. Part of the patio's roof has collapsed into the patio itself, snow piling high in a thick mound on the stone platform. The door creaked as he opened it. It's not locked? A warm gust welcomed him as if the house was sighing, breathing out the stagnant air that has settled in its insides. He stepped inside, lugging Viktor's bulk carefully.

The moon slipped out, then, its light streaming through the murky windows. It cast a panel of light that ran across the floor and up the walls.

"Nox."

When outside it looked arresting, inside was completely different. It was cozy-homely, even. A marble fireplace stood opposite the door. The vine motif was present there still: leaves crawled up and around the mantelpiece like a nest of fire and charcoal. A long couch, its frame gilded with gold and its plush seat made of a heavy fabric with an ornate pattern, was to his left. In front of it was a low wooden coffee table that rose up to his knee. Opposite were two smaller chairs in a similar fashion as the couch.

He laid Viktor to rest on the couch and began attending to him. From under his sweater, he pulled out a chain necklace. At the end of it hung a small cloth pouch like a pendant. It clinked slightly as he pulled the chain over his head. A special pouch he had enchanted, it carried numerous herbs and powders: shrivelfig, dittany, mandrake root, toadstool, wolfsbane-all relatively common, admittedly. The rarer ones he had collected over the years were kept hidden in his dorm room back in Hogwarts. Inside were also glass vials, sets of pewter tools and utensils, and miniature scales. He carried it everywhere since the beginning of the Tournament as a sort of first aid kit of ready-to-brew potions. Let's hope this will be enough for the task at hand.

With a fluid flick of his wand, he deftly cut Viktor's sweater off. In the moonlight, Viktor's skin had an eerily ghostly complexion, but even in the relative dimness, Cedric can still see his toned muscles. He had a wide chest, chiseled and strong. His abdomen was flat and firm, the valleys of his rippling abs made even more distinct by the light. A dark pool of fine hair trailed down suggestively to underneath his pants. His torso was damp with sweat, making his muscles glisten under the shimmering light.

Where to start? An indicative bruise and lump on Viktor's right side, below his rib cage (Episkey!); numerous cuts and the horrid open wound at his neck (a healing salve of dittany and warm broth of the same herb: "Simple enough"); paleness due to blood loss (Blood-replenishing potion, "For the both of us," at the sight of his own mutilated hand); bruising (snow, which were plentiful).

He pulled open the strings of the pouch and prepared himself for a long night.