Dyed by afternoon light, Umbridge's office was silent, save only the sound of a single quill scratching parchment and the tap of a heel from a remote corner of the room. Harry could see the faraway sprawl of the Quidditch pitch, small and verdant in the left pane of a window and every now and then, the rattling noise of sporting calls and Quaffles clanging against metal hoops rang distant from across the bounds of the field.

I must not tell lies, Harry wrote. He sat straight in the wooden chair, the cut on the back of his right hand prickling like someone was pressing too hard against it but, to his pleasant surprise, the wound did not open.
As if layers of skin had healed over, tough and hide-like, the slashes did not budge as he wrote over and over again—I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies—neither searing heat nor the colour of red flashed in the middle of his eyes, only stillness, a certain peace stayed and fed into the hope that he could get through these hours and into his bed quickly.

I must not tell lies. There was a cutting sensation that dug deep but only a dull ache settled, not even stinging under his skin. The meowing of a hundred or so cats faded, and the walls of the room melted in his vision—it was only his heavy hand, moving in a rhythm of strokes that scrawled identical red lines on parchment, and his head counting to the beat of the clock; I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies, I must not tell…

For a moment, his mind lingered on the memory of Cedric; of warm torchlight splashing against stone, and the sound of his voice whispering "Enfizo"…

It echoed at the back of his head, the way it did in the passageway… and again…

not tell lies, I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies.

No blood. Not a drop. His wrist was clean, and the parchment blemished only when the quill blotted. It hurt, still, to write but in no way could it be compared to the agony of last night or even, just a few hours ago.

I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies, I'm... I mustn't... Ah I've made a mistake—Harry's hand tingled.

Cedric smiled when he ran. Stray hairs, his cheeks flushed pink from wind-burn and the light of his spells that curled around in the passageway were incandescent, gleaming.

Scratch out the last two lines: I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies.

The anger surprised Harry: it didn't really settle well into Cedric's features. It only sharpened his face and tuned it tightly, the grey of his iris curdling like dark thunderclouds, heaving giant's storm on the horizon. But then, he thought about how Cedric's eyes softened in that moment of weakness, his weakness—and then how Cedric's hands felt wrapped around his own.

He thought about the jut of his jaw, how shadow and light played, dancing around the curve of his cheeks; that slow way Cedric took his hand and kissed it, like some sacred rite and Harry didn't notice this, but all the while he began thinking, drifting, daydreaming; his handwriting loosened. It looped and slanted toward the end of the sentence, unfocused. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. And when he next looked up, he was surprised to find that night had fallen and that he had forgotten to even glance at the Quidditch pitch, which was no longer visible in the darkness that lay outside the window.

As the realization struck him, Umbridge's sickly voice crept in.

"Let's see if you've gotten the message yet, shall we?"

She moved toward him, stretching out her short be-ringed fingers for his arm, but the moment she frowned, Harry relished it—triumphant as he brandished a hand that had stayed as clean as it was when he first entered.

"Have you been casting healing spells, Mr Potter?" Umbridge said, softly. "Because that would most inappropriately derail the point of the exercise."

Harry resisted a shudder.

"No," he said, shaking his head.

"… No, Professor Umbridge."

Harry stared at her a while and then simply shook his head again, as if he didn't hear the second part, "Is there something wrong?"

Umbridge's lip twitched but she said nothing. As she took hold of him to examine the words on his skin, pain seared, not across the back of his hand but across the scar on his forehead.

Harry wrenched his arm out of her grip and leapt to his feet while Umbridge stared back at him, surprised.

"Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" she said slowly. He did not answer. His heart was thumping very hard and fast and whatever satisfaction, whatever warm feeling he had felt seconds ago, had been replaced by a most peculiar sensation somewhere around his midriff; Was she talking about his hand or did she know what he had just felt in his forehead?

In his silence, Umbridge's hands returned to their clasped position and she said, "Well, I think I've made my point, Mr. Potter. You may go."

Harry caught up his school bag and left the room as quickly as he could. When he turned the corner, he broke into a sprint across the corridors and hallways.

Stay calm, he told himself as he ran without stopping—not able to care about the potential of Filch's creeping figure behind corners or even the rupture of his own lungs as he raced up the stairs—Stay calm, it doesn't necessarily mean what you think it means…

"Mimbulus mimbletonia!" he gasped at the Fat Lady. She swung forward with sluggish grumbles while Harry wobbled through, the world spinning all around him. But as the Fat Lady clicked back into place from behind, Harry was surprised to find that the common room was not covered in darkness, instead; streams of firelight stretched across the floor and in their warm glow, he could make out that the common room had been completely cleared of furniture except for a large table that stood directly in the middle, plates and mugs stacked at its edge and a burlap sack that was filled with what looked like… confetti?

By the fireplace, three figures sat on the rug. "Ron, Hermione—what are you two doing so late?" he said, dumping his bag on the couch. The figures turned and his heart skipped, legs almost stumbling over themselves, "Cedric? What are you doing here?"

Before anyone replied, Harry felt a cold mug press into his hand, "We, are celebrating that you're finally off Umbridge's detentions, and that I got into the team," said Ron, who gently pushed him to the couch.

"You got it?" said Harry, wide-eyed.

Ron grinned, "Apparently."

"You got it!" Harry stuck his hand out and ruffled his friend's head, sending his hair to spill all over his eyes.

"They were throwing a real ruckus for me, hours ago!" Ron laughed, swatting at him in a half-hearted way, "But it felt a little strange with you away—"

"You were waiting for me?"

Ron hit their two mugs together, "'Course! It's your night as well!"

"But…" Harry shot a confused look to Cedric, who sat stiffly cradling his own cup, "Well then, why are you here?"

Cedric smiled. It was his usual smile, but there was something unusually stagnant behind his eyes, "Is it a crime?"

"I just… erm… I feel like there's got to be some kind of unspoken rule about the sanctity of common rooms—"

"The sanctity of common rooms?" Ron repeated, bewildered.

"Actually, that doesn't matter if you're a prefect—" said Hermione, factually "We can go to any of the house common rooms under some circumstances."

"How'd you know that?"

"It was in the orientation booklet they gave on the train, Ronald."

Harry put up his hand, "But Cedric isn't—you aren't…"

"Well, that's the funniest thing," Cedric said. He flashed something golden from between his fingers, "They never actually asked for the badge back."

"Oh, what a load of—! It's only because the Fat Lady's sweet on you. You're probably the first person in the century to compliment her singing, of course she'll let you in!" Ron snorted. Despite himself, Harry laughed as well, taken aback at how easily it came out when minutes ago; he felt like he had cusped the threshold of a heart attack.

"Anyways, Harry, are you hungry? Have you eaten anything?" Hermione asked. "There's a lot of leftovers from the celebration… Angelina actually baked a really nice cake!"

"Oh I'm fine, Hermione, I was thinking of going to bed actually..."

"You must eat something! It's been hours since dinner,"

"Yeah, drink up now, mate! Fred and George treated everyone to Butterbeers, 'sides you'll be able to sleep all you want tomorrow," Ron said.

"I could sleep some more if I go now though…"

"Harry!"

"Harry!"

"Alright, alright!" Harry sighed but there was a bright mirth on his face as he gave in, "Could you bring me some of those leftovers, then?"

Earnestly, Ron and Hermione jumped to their feet and made their way across the room, opening the lids of some platters on the table. A delightful smell seemed to dance its way to the fireplace, bewildering Harry—who watched them with a small but secret smile—and as he sunk into the back of the sofa, he pressed the back of his hand against the coolness of his mug, slowly, but with the smallest wince in his breath.

"Give me your hand." someone said.

Harry turned to see that Cedric was frowning at him, staring down so vexed and furrowed, that it suddenly became obvious why he had chosen to come here and stay, so late into the night.

Gingerly, he lifted his arm, "Here."

As the fingers curled around, Harry felt something leap at the thought of his hand being kissed one more time.
But Cedric only muttered the incantation—his eyes flashing a brilliant yellow before once again, a beam of light streamed and melted into Harry's palm—the soreness alleviated like it was under a wave that washed over, warm, until the pain completely and utterly disappeared.

"Thank you," Harry breathed. He waited but Cedric did not let go of his hand.
And strangely, he did not want to let go either.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Cedric. His touch lingered a second, two and then he let go. The warmth of his fingers gone and Harry's palm his own again.

"Last one," Cedric murmured. He gave a smile, gentle, and realer this time. As if the fledgling stillness behind his eyes had melted away. "Last one. Let's keep it that way."

Harry smiled back. Something surged inside him but he could blame only his mug of Butterbeer, from which he had yet to take a sip, "Do you—Could you go somewhere tomorrow? With me?" he asked.

Cedric blinked.

There was something unresolved between them, something other than the crackle of burning logs and Hermione and Ron's bickering in the background that wrest in the air. Harry didn't know whether it was just tension, perhaps from the vague resolution of their earlier argument, or whether in actual fact it was something kinder. Something soft and different shifting between them.
All he knew was that Cedric's smile deepened at his question, and that the glow of the fireplace did not hold back from lighting his handsome face.

"Of course," he said, like it was the easiest thing to say in the world.

"Okay," said Harry. He took a sip of his mug and waited patiently as Ron and Hermione's chatter grew louder behind the couch, glancing—every now and then, just glancing—at Cedric's lips painted by firelight.


A hand slapped the trunk of a tree, holding onto its lower branch with red-bare knuckles, "Tell me, why am I trekking in the woods this early in the morning?"

All around them, the land lay in that morning dimness—the type of morose blues that would settle in shaded undergrowth, just as the sun rose to the sky. Cedric felt his boot crunch against leaf and dirt and began to regret wearing such a thick sweater, the cold clinging to each knit like a ghost too heavy to be barely there. A little further up the path, Harry stopped, taking a brief pause from battling the slope to turn toward him.

"Because you agreed to come with me," he said, with a wry grin.

To call their surroundings a 'woods' would be a disservice to actual forests and busheries.

The trees that grew along the path were but a thin grove, blanketed by even thinner mist that wove endless around the moor. In the distance, you could make the vague outline of the castle and Hagrid's hut a few ways down the larger hill. Even their destination—the Owlery—remained in sight as they walked on; it's rocky mound melding into tower and tall steeple that glinted, serendipitous, in the beginnings of the rising dawn.

Harry slowed so they could walk side by side, noticing that Cedric's entire body, with great discomfort, bent and trudged up the hill; arms swinging forward in a stiff way. He was breathing slowly, the air was so brisk and so cold that he could almost feel the shape of it circulating within his chest. Before Harry could even ask if he was okay, Cedric gave a heavy huff of breath.

"—'m just not shape yet…" he protested, "I'm not usually like this... But I didn't have time for much of any training this past week."

"What were you doing?" Harry asked, he recalled the pain of having to search for him for four straight days, "I haven't seen you at all."

"Well I've just been in the library, pouring over the old handbooks,"

"What?"

"I told you, yeah? My friends and I, we lobbied for a way to keep my captaincy," Cedric rolled the sleeves of his sweater, the mist spilling out his mouth in his short breaths, "I think... I think we were going through piles of Hogwart's old rulebooks per day—every edition, every version under every headmaster. Hidiyah even... she found some scrolls that look they've been written by the founders."

Harry and Cedric began to crest the hill, the path flattening around the bend as they regained their breath.

"So you found something to support your case, then?" Harry asked. Cedric nodded.

"As soon as we found proper litigation, we presented the case to Sprout and McGonagall and now... I'm back on track for a rematch with you and Gryffindor without all the Dementors running around!"

Harry shook his head in disbelief, incredulous and feeling almost guilty that he had felt so deprived of Cedric's presence these past few days.

"The library... I can't believe I didn't check the library..." Harry muttered. He then shook his head.

They crossed the wooden bridge and reached the base of the Owlery's steps, where at that moment something brushed his ankles. He looked down and saw the caretaker's skeletal grey cat, Mrs. Norris, slinking past him. She turned lamp-like yellow eyes upon him for a moment before disappearing behind a statue of Wilfred the Wistful, with the unmistakable air of a cat that was off to report to her boss, yet on the surface Harry could not see why; he and Cedric were perfectly entitled to walk up to the Owlery on a Saturday morning.

"We're not doing anything wrong!" Harry called after her, then more hesitantly, "At least I don't think we are…"

Cedric motioned him over and they began to climb the staircase, uneven and weathered rough over the years, "She's probably suspicious that we're out so early on a Saturday morning," he said.

"But it's better to come around this time,"

"And why is that?"

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, "Less people. You don't want a lot around, especially when they've taken to screaming our names like it's a hex—"

"Ha!"

"—And besides, you told me to go to an adult," said Harry. He took out the sealed envelope from his pocket, where he had written the name 'Snuffles' hastily in black ink. "We need less people around if I'm to go to my adult."

Cedric grinned.

"So you were listening back there..."

"Hard not to. What with you and Ron both being upset with me,"

"I wasn't upset—" Cedric looked to him and gave an astonished laugh at the face Harry made—"I wasn't!"

"You told me to shut up!"

"Yes, when I was concentrating on healing you and besides, you got hurt! I wasn't—..." his brow furrowed, "I wasn't angry at you..."

Harry wavered, chest warm.

"But you were angry?" he asked, smirking. Cedric pursed his lips and tried not to smile so openly at his brazen face.

"Merlin!" he exclaimed, and he grabbed the rim of the red knitted hat on Harry's head and pulled down, completely covering the top half of his face. Harry gave an indignant cry—"CEDRIC!"—and promptly gave chase as Cedric raced up the stairs, their shouts light in the wind that carried it and their laughter as easy to spill, echoing below.

When Harry and Cedric entered the Owlery, panting after their run, the sun was higher in the sky and the towers glassless windows dazzled their eyes. Thick beams of light crisscrossed the circular room in which hundreds of owls nestled on rafters and in arch-shaped carvings in the walls; dozing or a little restless in the morning brightness, while some clearly just returned from hunting.

Harry craned his neck and looked around him and called aloud, "Hedwig!"; the straw-covered floor crunched a little as he stepped across tiny animal bones, but he could not find her white-feathered form anywhere in the rafters. "Where is she?"

"Maybe out for a meal?" Cedric suggested.

In the weak hope that they could catch her flying back from a hunt, Harry and Cedric ambled toward the window where a chill blew right through their clothes and took them aback—eyes bleary at the sight of the Forbidden Forest patched with auburn and lightened greens and russets against a brilliantly blue sky. Clusters of mist, like smoke drifting from the trees, clung to the canopy here and there but Harry watched as the treetops swayed, unperturbed, in the light breeze. He savoured the rush of the wind on his face, and heard Cedric take a great gulp of air and exhale.

"Wow…"

"Yeah," Harry took a similar big breath. It suddenly occurred to him that though he had come here many times to take in the scenery: he had never really enjoyed it with another person before.

"Really?" said Cedric curiously, "I thought you went everywhere with Hermione and Ron,"

Oops.

"Well, most people don't really go to the Owlery for the view," Harry said.

"It sounds like you do."

"I mean besides nutters like me."

Cedric looked to Harry, his cheeks warmed red from the biting gust.
"I ought to just come with you more, then," he decided.

Out of instinct, Harry looked down and felt himself smile, his hands burrowing deeper into his pockets,

"That might be fun."

For a moment, everything stilled in the Owlery. Harry and Cedric abandoned any pretense of talk and simply stared out the window, the wind blowing sometimes fierce, always invigorating around them.
It would be a lovely day to fly.
The roll of meadow and it's surrounding mountains set before you, the sky clear overhead—each gale that rushed through their hair, that cut into their clothes reminded Harry and Cedric of the thrill of Quidditch; of flying and soaring with everything endless above and below you.

"I can't wait.." Cedric said. He was beaming, and Harry knew—he probably looked the same.

"Yeah..." he said. "I can't wait."

Dust cascaded down, caught in fractures of light, and from behind them the owls were crooning—almost like they were singing lullabies to themselves and they settled to sleep for the day. Then, Cedric saw it; a great, reptilian winged horse, just like the ones pulling the Hogwarts carriages, with leathery black wings spread wide like a pterodactyl's, rose up out of the trees like a grotesque, giant bird. It soared in a great circle and then plunged once more into the trees. The whole thing had happened so quickly Cedric could hardly believe what he had seen, except that his heart was hammering madly and that he was lurching backward, only stopping when Harry promptly flung a hand behind, to keep him from stumbling backwards.

"Cedric? What's—!"

Without warning the Owlery door opened behind them and this time, it was Harry that leapt in shock as Cho Chang stood in the doorway, holding a letter and a parcel in her hands.

"Hi," said Harry and Cedric automatically.

"Oh… hi," she said breathlessly. "I didn't think anyone would be up here this early… I only remembered five minutes ago, it's my—"

"—Mum's birthday."

Harry turned to Cedric, who scratched his neck. The fear had vanished from his face and instead replaced by a tight smile, almost a grimace.
He looked to the ground while Cho stared at him in surprise.

"Yeah... yes, that's right." she nervously held up a strangely shaped parcel. "Sorry, was I—am I interrupting?"

"What?" Harry dropped his hand to his side, "No, we were just looking out the window and well…well… it's a nice day," Harry said, gesturing outside. Almost instantly his insides seemed to shrivel with embarrassment, and even as he turned away, he felt the urge to hit himself various times—… the weather. He was talking about the weather…

It would've been better to be funny or interesting but when he glanced at Cho's modest smile and Cedric's forced one, he decided that he couldn't possibly say anything that could deter from this current strange and amalgamated form of awkwardness.

Cedric looked between them, "I can… I'll wait outside—"

"What?" Harry turned to him right away, "Why?"

"Oh, because… erm," Cedric look between him and Cho again, and for the first time, lowered his gaze, evading; inching ever closer and closer towards the door.

"Stay." Harry said. He surprised himself. The word slipped so fast from his lips that he hurriedly began to speak again, "I mean—it's alright—just a few minutes."

Uncertainly, Cedric stepped away from the door and walked closer to him, "…Alright."

As if on cue, a flutter of wings tumbled through the open windows from above, each head tilting upward as their attention shifted—

"There you are!" Harry cried. Hedwig had swooped in and hovered somewhere near the very top of the vaulted ceiling. "Get down here, I've got a letter for you!"

With a low hoot she stretched her great white wings and soared down onto his shoulder, dispersing the tension as if she had reset the room with her presence. Cho gave a timid wave as Harry scratched under Hedwig's beak, moving to the opposite side of the room and gazing at the many occupied carved arches in search of a school-owned owl, listless enough to deliver her parcel.

Cedric—in the midst of Harry explaining to Hedwig in a low voice, the identity of 'Snuffles' and who the true recipient of his letter was—wandered by the window once more, staring hard into the sea of autumnal leaves.
Nothing peculiar flew into the air. Only a few more owls rose from the Forbidden Forest, their various brown and black-speckled plumes growing more vivid in the light, but nothing that resembled scales or lizard-like creatures emerged from the same vicinity. He then began to lose focus on the details of the horizon while a soft voice slipped in, "...—ing?"

Cho had sidled up beside him, still clutching at her package, causing his heart to jolt.

"What?" he said.

"... What?"

"No, erm, sorry," Cedric shook his head, "What did you say?"

Cho blinked, "Oh! Err—what are you doing?" she repeated.

Cedric pointed out the window, "Just looking. Since it's nice weather and all."

"Yeah, I noticed on my way here. Harry was right..."

"Right."

As if to avoid talking to each other, they silently looked out the window, while Cedric felt every individual muscle inside him tense like loaded spring-locks.

"Hey erm... it's been a while," he said, quietly. Slowly Cho shifted, though whether it was out of discomfort or to solely to face him, Cedric was unsure.

"Yes. It's been a while..." she nodded. "How... how have you been?"

Cedric considered what sort of words he could use to describe the things he had seen, heard and been through since the last time he had written to her.

"I'm okay... I've been okay," he said. He could hear George and Fred laughing at him in the back of his mind. "You?"

Cho gave him a small smile that used to make his heart drop.

"I'm alright," she said. She combed through her hair—it was much longer than Cedric remembered.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yes, I think so," she replied. They gave each other stiff smiles before they simultaneously turned to the window again.

This... This is strange, Cedric thought.

Little was known about what happened between Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory after the tournament—nothing could be known or said besides whatever gossip or speculations had been put forward to spike more interesting rumors.
The two of them had made many friends in the last year, but none could truly attest to what transpired over the summer break.

All that was known in between any of the students who cared, was that when the year began; Cedric and Cho sat in their classes, passed each other in the halls and have gone through the entire week completely ignoring each other—as if there was an unspoken agreement that binding an air around and between them, convincing even their most distant and unloyal friends to pretend that the last year had never happened. And for Cedric, that was fine. It was.

It's no one's business, he thought, staunchly. Even in his letters to Evan and Hidiyah, his break up with Cho occupied maybe two lines at most. No one's business but her's and mine.

And yet... here she was.

Everything from the way Cho's eyes never met his to her nervous tick of playing with her fingers, her hair—everything was a reminder of how painful it had been for the both of them. Or at least, how their pretense of nothing, of indifference could only go so far.

Cedric could feel his smile stretch stringent on his cheek.
Cho's voice was so quiet and so restrained, he could almost hear the way she consciously pulled onto strings of her tone, dissecting each word's weight before they could even left her mouth.

It felt so uncomfortable.

"I heard that you were demoted from being Prefect," Cho said suddenly, frowning. "That's awful. I can't imagine how that would feel."

Cedric smiled. Not unkindly.

It was just funny.

I can't imagine how you feel.

Not, I'm sorry that it happened. Or, How do you feel?

I can't imagine how you feel.

They were only 5 feet apart and yet the distance between them—between then and now—it felt immeasurable.
And Cedric had never truly felt it more acutely than now.

"It's not too bad," he shrugged. Cho raised an eyebrow, and Cedric knew exactly what went through her mind.

"Really?" she asked.

"Really."

Cedric used to think his heart would ache if she ever spoke to him like this, acted like this—like she was talking to him from behind a wall; talking to him like all the others.
He used to think that his body would wrench when the day came where her smile would never be his, always thinking, believing that there would be a pang; a bell that would toll in his head even if they only ever had one conversation after the summer.

He used to think this, but—

"It's a work in progress," Cedric said, answering the question that she never really posed. Cho fiddled with the string wrapped around her parcel, not directly avoiding his gaze this time, but Cedric was certain that her attention wasn't fully spent in being engrossed with the window.

"And how's that going?" she asked.

"Well... someone's helping me," Cedric couldn't help but let his eyes linger toward Harry before noting, with faint amusement, that he looked to be in the middle of a very animated conversation with Hedwig. A soft laugh, involuntarily, bubbled in his throat.

"What's so funny?" Cho asked. Cedric shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his face.

"It's nothing, they just—... I've been having a lot of fun with them," he said.

Cho faltered, caught off-guard for a moment, before she nodded knowingly and smiled, warm.

For what it's worth—it really used to make his heart flutter.

Used to.

There were other things now.

And Cedric didn't need to reach up and feel his chest to know that despite tripping over her pretty smile a year ago; now, it was silent.

"He's really great, isn't he?" Cho said, suddenly. She turned back to Harry who continued, oblivious to their attention, to pat Hedwig's head. And Cedric saw a smile, all too familiarly, all too devastatingly, soften Cho's face.

Oh.

He felt the knot in his chest tighten.

In a moment the soft smile that played on Cedric's face changed, and he looked between Cho and Harry.

"Yes." he whispered. Only to himself. "Yes he is."