I'm trying to update as much as possible.

Imogen Heap – Hide And Seek
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it's all for the best? Ah of course it is.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it's just what we need? You decided this.


CHAPTER TEN – Obsession

"Kill the spare."

Her legs felt locked in place. She saw the green light before it even left the wand. She'd seen this scene before, so many times now. It was almost boring. Of course, her reaction during the conflict was much different. Her eyes widened behind the wire spectacles. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as she saw Cedric stumble back, squinting against the green light that would determine his fate.

"No!" a voice shouted, deep and nothing like her own, although she'd felt her lips move. The dirt underneath her fingernails grated on her nerves, and Hermione really wanted to tell Harry to cut the damn things. But of course, this was a dream, and something unrelated to real life.

Terror gripped her like nothing before as she tackled Cedric to the ground, hearing his exhale of breath due to the impact. She knew this wasn't real, she knew. And yet she still had to carry through with what she'd told herself she'd do. She was saving Cedric, a subconscious thought that influenced all her actions.

He looked confused, staring up at her from the dusty ground. She returned his stare, trying to tell him through her – Harry's eyes that she loved him, and that there was no way she would lose him so suddenly.

Oh, the hell with it.

"I love you, and there's no way in hell that I'm letting you die, Cedric!" she shrieked, although to Harry's ears it sounded more like a desperate yell. The Hufflepuff's eyes widened and he frowned simultaneously. She grabbed his shirt, the yellow now a dirty mustard colour, and yanked him up off the ground. She could hear the ragged breath of Pettigrew behind her, and his loud conversation with whatever the hell was in his arms.

"Kill him!"

She ran, pulling a stunned Cedric along behind her, afraid of what would happen now. She had never gone this far before, and she felt a rush of exhilaration go through her.

"My lord, Potter-"

Hermione pushed Cedric behind a large block-like statue, obscuring them from view as an inhumane scream erupted from behind the blankets in Pettigrew's lumpy arms, reverberating throughout the graveyard. She knew she didn't have much time. A noisy rustling was heard from twenty feet away, and Hermione grabbed at her chance.

Still holding him up against the statue, Hermione whispered to Cedric feverishly, looking straight at him due to her new-found height.

"No matter what happens, do what I say. I'll explain things later. We're getting out of here. Together."

The pants were getting closer now, and her fear was rising. The rat was sure to come across them soon, as was inevitable. There was a long pause as Cedric gazed at her fully, the frown forming into a look of disbelief.

"Hermione?" he said. Too loud. Much too loud. She slapped her hand over his mouth, silencing him.

"POTTER!" the screech caused her to spin around, and she gave an unmanly scream-

Hermione jolted awake, panting heavily and very alarmed. She felt tears running down her face, and her bangs stuck to her forehead uncomfortably. She saw, and felt, a sheen of sweat coating her skin in the moonlight coming from the dorm window.

That was new… very new.

She got out of bed, covers long-forgotten on the floor from her restlessness, and snatched up a self-inking quill from her desk, seating herself in the cushioned but rather hard stool.

Hermione's note-taking caused a wave of exhaustion to come over her, but she couldn't sleep. If she slept, she'd forget her findings and she'd be back to square one. The meticulously scrawled sentences on parchment were crucial to her understanding and prevention of such dreams and events.

Sighing, she set down the quill, shoulders falling into a hunched position. This was hopeless. Why was she trying to stop these dreams? Nothing would ever work. She needed to focus on saving his life. Meddling with time, breaking the rules, and the law, and possibly sacrificing herself in the process.

This needed to stop. This self-doubt, this depression; she was ruining herself. Spending copious nights up late trying to find a solution to her never-ending problem was doing her no good.

It was that thought that made her realise the core of her haywire emotions and unstable mentality as of late.

She was obsessed.

She was obsessed with her problem. Obsessed with herself. To the degree where it was all she could think about. She was ignoring her friends, her school work, and her parents. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd owled her family, and felt guilt wash over her. She was a horrible daughter, a horrible friend. What had she been thinking? The things she'd been researching… they'd been almost dark in nature. Mixing Dark Arts with Divination was tricky business. Who did she think she was, thinking she was immune to the allure? They were addictive for a reason. And it had taken only days for their hold on her to be suffocating. They were on the way to destroying her.

So unremarkably naïve of her to believe that she couldn't be affected, couldn't be tainted. She'd been nearly attacked by a unicorn, for Merlin's sake! One of the most pure living things on the planet, and she still hadn't been able to see the impending darkness consuming her.

Hermione could have hit herself.

She sat there; self-pitying, depressed, and helpless. This was what she'd reduced herself to. Some pathetic little girl, sobbing into the darkness of her dorm and too idiotic to think of a silencing charm.

"Who's there?" a voice cut through the sounds of Hermione's agony. She stopped abruptly. She couldn't stay here anymore. Gathering her notes, not caring for the noise she made, nor bothering to find the comfort of a quickly-cooling bed or some warm woolen socks, Hermione almost tripped in her haste to escape her Dark Arts haven.

Shutting the door behind her with a soft click, Hermione only just saw the drapes of Lavender's bed open as she left. Running down the stairs, Hermione stopped at the bottom, breathing heavily into the dark of the deserted common room. She didn't know what time it was, but no one was up, and that was good enough for her.

Not far enough, she thought.

Rushing over the portrait hole, she opened it slowly, careful not to wake The Fat Lady. She'd be coming back in the morning, so waking her now served no purpose.

Her bare feet slapped against the dark stone of the corridor silently, and her pyjama bottoms dragged along behind her, rustling slightly. Holding the parchment to her chest, Hermione's eyes darted constantly, and her breathing was very shallow. The dark circles under her eyes were very prominent in the fire light of the hallway, and her skin still pale from her dream. Her hair, still so very wild and curly, stuck to the back of her neck and the sides of her face, hardening in the stale air surrounding her.

She didn't really know where she was. The fire light wasn't particularly good down here, but she deciphered she was near the Entrance Hall. With no signs of Filch or his bloody cat, she took the staircase down to the Hall and turned left to enter a door situated directly next to the stairs. There was a long staircase down to the dungeon level of Hogwarts, and Hermione saw the entrance to the kitchens down a hallway at the bottom of the stairs. She walked past the hallway and continued down the corridor, turning right, and then left, coming to a stop in front of a still life. Hermione felt rather stumped given the now-unusual stillness of the painting, but jumped when an orange sported a rather large mouth, a gravelly voice coming from it.

"Password?"

That was a sight problem. Stumbling over her words a bit, Hermione professed the truth to the piece of fruit.

"I… uh… don't know, exactly." she whispered, her voice raspy from her nightmare.

"Well, that doesn't help now, does it?" it said rudely. "I don't know why I ever agreed to this. Rowdy students turning up in the early hours of the morning, and I'm supposed to let them in without the password?" it gave the equivalent of a sneer in Hermione's direction. "I don't think so, missy!" the orange whispered harshly, and she thought she heard a snicker from one of the apples. Looking blankly at the portrait, Hermione turned to the wall next to the picture, and plopped herself down on the cold stone.

"What are you doing?" the apple asked, its voice nasally. Hermione winced. Her ears were sensitive, as they always were after her nightmares. "You can't just sit there!" it exclaimed in a whisper.

"Watch me." she said flatly, eyes half-lidded in her exhaustion. She wasn't sleeping now, however. She shuffled the parchments in her hands, and read over her latest writings.

It was a while before Hermione looked up from her notes, seeing a scared-looking first year staring at her, lip trembling, and chest, emblazoned with a black and yellow badger, heaving.

"W-w… w-what are y-you… do-d-ing h-here?" she stuttered. Hermione didn't answer, and the question hung in the air above them. She narrowed her eyes.

The little Hufflepuff ran off down the corridor, looking back at Hermione fearfully.

What was wrong with her? It wasn't like she was a Slytherin or anything.

A few more students staggered out of the portrait hole over the next hour, each varying in their amount of wariness toward Hermione. Just as she was thinking about giving up and leaving, he stumbled through himself.

"-ckon they can beat them next match, Ced. We should get tickets! Skip a few classes or something." said a cheerful voice, emerging from the portrait hole.

"I'm not going to watch a stupid Quidditch match." he said, rolling his eyes as the portrait shut behind him.

"Why not?" his friend whined, looking at Cedric desperately. "You're the only one who plays Quidditch out of us all!"

"I play. I don't watch. Plus, I don't need that right now. The Tournament is stressful enough as it is, I don't need Snape on my back…" he trailed off, spying Hermione huddled against the wall next to the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room.

She looked up at him from under her lashes, hair falling over her eyes and goosebumps on her arms, making her feel a prickling sensation.

"Granger," he said, stunned. His friend quirked an eyebrow in questioning. Cedric held out his hand for her, and she clasped it greedily.

"You're freezing." he commented, rubbing his hand over her arm as she stood up, only a foot away from him. His touch was so gentle, yet had such a contrast because of his Quidditch-weathered hands. She shivered. "No wonder," he said, looking her over. "You're barely wearing anything."

Hermione looked down at her cotton pyjama bottoms and tank top, what she now always wore to bed. Her almost nightly terrors were guaranteed to make her over-heat every time, and so she'd become accustomed to wearing her summer nightclothes all-year-round.

"You have my book." she croaked.

He frowned, worry etched all over his face.

"And you're going to give it to me." she croaked once more. "Now."

Cedric knew it was a demand, not a request, but his frown deepened.

Now was the time.

"I need answers." he said.

"Not until I get my book."

"But they have everything to do with it."

"Not until I get my book, Cedric."

There was a pause. Cedric looked over his shoulder, hands still grasping her forearms.

"I'll see you later, Matthias." Matthias looked taken aback, but with one final glance he turned and left for the Great Hall.

Cedric released his hold, reaching for her hand instead.

"Boomslang." he pronounced, and the portrait swung open. "Come on," he muttered to her, pulling her inside.

The Hufflepuff common room was exactly as she expected it to be. The luscious colours of the yellow hangings and cosy armchairs accentuated the gold picture frames and black leather couches. The fire was going, earlier than Hermione had ever seen one alight in the Gryffindor common room. Rugs covered the floor, warming up the cold stone and giving Hermione the feel of home as her toes felt the soft fur on one. A dark mahogany table sat in front of one of the couches, and Hermione saw a bowl of Honeydukes' chocolate sitting in the middle, surrounded by Daily Prophets.

"Stay here." he said to her, rubbing his hands up and down her arms in an attempt to warm her. He gave her a last glance and Hermione saw him move over to a rounded wooden door; its shape, she noticed, softening the room.

She stood there, not knowing what to do. Still cold, she settled for a seat in front of the fire. She stared into its depths, feeling horrible.

She heard Cedric before she saw him, but turned her head anyway. He burst from the round door, slightly out of breath, hair a mess, and cheeks stained pink.

In his hands, he held her answers.

Hermione jumped up from the armchair, and walked quickly toward him. She stopped in front of him, and placed her hands over the book. She could almost taste the end, the solution. It was there. Right there.

Just as she was about to tug the troubling thing toward her, he spoke.

"I read it."

She paused.

Crap.

That's what he meant by answers, Hermione realised. He wanted to know what she wanted with such a book. He wanted to know why she was reading something so out-of-character for her. And lastly, he wanted to know why she needed it so badly.

This wasn't going to go very well.

"I need to know, Hermione."

With a shock, she realised it was the first time he had called her by her given name.

She moved her head slowly to gaze up at him through her bangs.

"I'm- … I'm one." she said, and the room was silent except for the crackling of the fire. Hermione didn't really want to explain herself right then, but she knew it was only fair to him that she did. She'd been avoiding him and making up excuses for far too long. She had tried to delude herself into thinking he'd never know, but she was again naïve to think he wouldn't figure it out. Cedric was intelligent. She knew that.

His expression didn't change at her confession, so she figured he needed a more detailed description. Lips trembling with contained emotion, she spoke the words she'd been denying for so long.

"I'm a Death Seer."

He'd been trying to corner Granger ever since Wednesday when he'd left her with his words of wisdom to go shower in the Hufflepuff dorms, but she'd been almost impossible to find. Embarrassed, he'd even resorted to Weasley and Potter to find out her whereabouts.

"What do you care, Diggory?" Weasley had spat in the hallway leading to the Entrance Hall, "As far as I'm concerned, Hermione's none of your business."

Cedric had been very tempted to reply with something along the lines of 'If she's not my business, why did I rescue her from the lake?', but thought better of it when he had chanced a look at Weasley's almost purple face.

Potter really wasn't much better, albeit less aggressive. "Cedric," he'd sighed when Cedric had followed him to the Library on Thursday, "I'm waiting for that explanation. And until I get it, I'm not letting you in on anything."

Well, what was he going to do? Tell Potter then and there that he happened to like his bushy-haired friend, but she'd been avoiding him for most of the year for some unknown reason?

Of course not.

Adding that she was interested in this whole Death Seer business probably wasn't a bright idea, either.

So he was on his own.

He didn't know where she got it from, but Granger's stealth was soon becoming legendary to him, and he'd given up the search, figuring she would come to him.

He was happy to be right, this time. Turning up very early in the morning clad in her pyjamas wasn't exactly what he'd been thinking of in regards to waiting for her to come to him. But who was he to question things? She had come, and that was all that mattered.

He thought that maybe she was crazy. Well, he didn't complain because he happened to like a bit of crazy in his witches, but it worried him. She didn't seem to be taking care of herself.

"You're freezing." he'd commented. "No wonder, you're barely wearing anything."

It was true. She had been in loose, light blue cotton bottoms, and a white tank top. He was slightly appreciative, but snapped himself out of it at the time. He felt so perverted every time he thought things of that nature about a girl – no, a woman – two years his junior. Normally it wouldn't worry him, but she was Hermione Granger, Potter's best friend, and he was Cedric Diggory, resident Golden Boy and expected to live up to his name. If they were together romantically… well, let's just say that the population of Hogwarts wasn't even contemplating it as a possibility.

But regardless of whether she looked good, those were not appropriate nightclothes for late February. Surely she'd known that?

She probably had, the little minx. Teasing him, no doubt.

He'd snapped himself out of it again.

He had acquiesced with her request to retrieve the black book, pulling her into the common room with him. He found the book in his dorm almost instantly, hiding under his bed from where he'd thrown it in his frustration before the task. He hadn't known what it all meant then, and thought it interesting, but pointless. It was one step backwards to figuring out the Granger puzzle. Thankful to be wrong, Cedric opened the book, an idea coming to mind.

Without a doubt, Granger would freak and run. Or freak and deny everything.

And so, he'd ripped a small piece of parchment from his nearly due Potions essay, and wrote in his messy scrawl,

Meet me in the kitchens at eleven o'clock this evening. Don't be late.

He'd shoved it into the book at a random interval, and rushed out of his dorm and into the common room. She'd come to him almost immediately, looking at the book in such a way that made him think she liked it more than him.

Telling her he'd read it was a smart move, in hindsight. She'd frozen, lost for words. Finally he was getting somewhere.

Then she'd gone ahead and told him what he didn't think she'd ever say.

So here he was now, stumped, staring into her face in disbelief.

"What?" Cedric asked incredulously, taking a step back. And the book with him, Hermione noted.

"I- …" she went to touch him, hand half-raised, but thought better of it and dropped it soundlessly. Oh how he wished she'd touch him. Every time they had touched, he'd instigated it. He found her over-thinking nature adorable, but sometimes he wished she'd stop thinking and just do.

"So that's why you wanted the book? You're… one of them?"

It looked like she deflated. She looked down at her hands and nodded solemnly.

"You should've told me sooner." he sighed, wearily rubbing his hands over his face.

Hermione's head snapped up suddenly, eyes fiery. She was sick of his games; the hidden messages behind all his words; his weird affection towards her, and the way in which he gave her the cold shoulder for weeks. She was sick of being pushed and pulled, a puppet for his own amusement.

"What?" she said abruptly. "And make you see me as some pathetic, insane fourth year?" she laughed darkly, cold with no humour.

"Don't be so stupid." he scoffed.

"Is it really stupid, Cedric? I'm sure my sanity is already being questioned by the majority of this school, you would just be one among many." She spat, turning her head away from his piercing gaze.

"Is that all I am to you? Some… pushover?" Cedric asked angrily, fists clenching around the book in his grasp.

"You're Cedric Diggory." she snarled, "Of course you are."

Cedric dropped the book, taking the last step so that he was only a foot away, and grabbed her arms roughly, his hands almost white with the pressure he exuded. Her expression changed, and she looked at him with wide eyes. He could safely say he never wanted to hear her speak like that again, ever. It wasn't like her.

Something was happening. She was different. She was changing.

He glared into her eyes, and Hermione was getting that same feeling she'd had all those months ago when he'd stared into her, not at her. He was seeing through all the walls she'd put up as a defense, and she knew he wouldn't like what she saw.

"What's happening to you?" he growled, giving her a tiny shake. She whimpered quietly. Cedric stiffened at the sound, still burning his eyes into her. There was a pause, and Hermione thought that he would refuse to keep talking to her, or that he would demand that she tell him why she was acting like this. She wasn't ready for something like that.

Hermione felt his grip loosen, and saw his face soften slightly.

He was suddenly everywhere; his right hand brushed down her arm to her hip, the left covered her own hand, his head rested in the crook of her neck – almost nuzzling – and she could feel his hot breath across her collarbone. Her skin came up with goosebumps from where he'd touched her, and her breathing quickened. His hair was rubbing against her cheek, a slight tickling feeling, and his chest was wonderfully close to her own. She was hyper-aware of his body so close to hers.

Cedric inhaled deeply, nose skimming her neck.

"I'm sorry." he breathed. She knew she could only hear him because he was so very close.

He pulled back, and Hermione knew that if she were to lean only an inch forward, she would be kissing him.

And it was so tempting.

"But you have to trust me." he continued.

Her eyes flickered back and forth between his, searching his face for any sort of indication to what he was thinking. She knew she could trust him, but this involved him in a way that he hadn't even thought of.

"I'm having dreams." she whispered, looking at his lips to distract herself from what she was saying. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply to stop the choking up of her voice. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. She had to be strong.

"Seer dreams." she said.

There was silence for a few minutes.

"I presume you're not going to expand on that?" he asked as he looked down at her, already knowing the answer. He knew, regardless. That book was quite handy, indeed. She was having dreams of someone dying, dreams of the future. And she wasn't telling him.

Hermione placed a hand on his cheek, feeling the searing heat emanating from it.

"I can't, Cedric." she said hopelessly. Her eyes begged him to understand. "It would ruin everything." Her head bowed to rest against his chest, and she felt the slow rise and fall.

Cedric came to the conclusion that that was as far as he was going to get.

She and Cedric were in the library, huddled in an isolated corner, hunched over the book she'd been meaning to read a month ago.

He was making her skip to all the parts he believed to be relevant. Grudgingly she let him – he'd read it, after all.

There are no known Death Seers alive today, but the curious case of…

Sometimes the ability can be triggered by something else entirely – often a traumatic event, but occasionally something as mundane as meeting a new person.

The object of a Death Seer's prophecies is labeled a 'charge'. This is because Death Seers often feel the need to protect them, or stop their deaths from happening. There is not a case before the publishing of this book in which a Death Seer has successfully prevented the predicted death of their charge…

Almost all Death Seers have been women. It is not known why this is, but speculations have been made about the perceptiveness and emotional attachment of females in relation to their charge.

Most uncommon, is the resurgence of the Death Seer gene in Muggle-born witches, as the gift is purely magical and suspected to have been 'watered down' throughout generations in the Wizarding World. Albus Dumbledore was…

Hermione paused. Wait… what?

She stopped Cedric in his turning of pages by grabbing his hand.

"Look at this!" she exclaimed, pointing her finger at the relevant line. She read on.

Albus Dumbledore was in contact with a Death Seer in 1938, who predicted the death of a girl named Myrtle Flinders, a half-blood student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. After her death and the knowledge of the Death Seer made public, he stated,

"Very regretful I am about Myrtle's untimely death. However, it is not something to be feared, and if myself or Miss Flinders' Death Seer had intervened – it would have been a sorry sight indeed."

"So ask Dumbledore." Cedric said after she swore under her breath. That was why he'd been so suspicious of her. Surely the mention of Cedric in their conversation wasn't coincidence either. Just how much did the Headmaster know?

"I can't just 'ask Dumbledore', Cedric." she responded with a heavy sigh, shutting the small book and placing it on the table. She could feel Cedric's fingers brush her back, as they were placed on the back of her chair. She turned her head in his direction.

"Granger, you're going to have to ask for help sometime. This is eating you up inside, I can tell." he snapped.

"Well, I have you!" she exclaimed, shifting her body so she was facing him in her chair.

"And what good am I?" he retorted. "You're going to have to talk to someone who knows their stuff." He rested his hand on her shoulder.

"I'm no help."

As Cedric stood up straight and walked away from his favourite Gryffindor fourth year, he was outside the Great Hall when he suddenly realised he'd forgotten to ask the most important question-

Just who was going to die?

Ahh, this was an effort and a half. All these complicated ideas… didn't realise they'd be so hard to put to paper. But I've done it, and there's more coming.

Just know that I endured a reprimanding from my mother dearest because of this – she's angry because I spend hours on the computer doing 'who knows what'. If I told her I was writing fanfiction I think she'd get quite worried. She already knows I'm a bit of an obsessive freak, heh.

I'd really like to know what you're all thinking about this… I'm trying to do my best here, so review!

PheeCullen