Chapter II
Parastastes, the Cretan word for boyfriend, means "him who stands beside me in battle."
The Boy Who Lived awakened that morning full of expectations. That week he had seen Cedric, the seeker for the Hufflepuff team, around the halls and had been contaminated by the Diggory-mania, as Hermione called it, along with the rest of the giggling fan girls. Cedric had always been very popular, but now that everyone knew of the tragic loss of one of his friends and he had become a damned good seeker, the craze had reached its peak. At last, his Quidditch game against the Golden Boy was coming, Hufflepuff vs. Griffindor.
Diggory, as he was obliged to call the older boy, had wished him luck in the upcoming game and had even taken to speaking to him in short, random intervals about his favorite Quidditch teams. As a result, Harry had unexpectedly begun to tidy himself up a bit, glancing at his own reflection every once in a while in vain hopes of seeing some improvement. His hair was as untidy as ever, and his appearance bore that disheveled quality that was seen as disarmingly charming or patently unattractive depending on whom you asked.
Hermione, the ever watchful little owl, had caught on to something and asked Harry why he, for the 10th time in the space of an hour was smiling to himself and stroking his lips, when his natural mood state was more than slightly melancholic. He had no reply for her, except to state that on this, a most marvelous of days he would play with—against Cedric Diggory. In his own heart of hearts, he hoped to win. To show himself worthy of admiration, and not just for being The Boy Who Lived (he deplored the title which only reminded him of those who had died) but simply as one of the very best seekers Hogwarts had ever produced. After all, Cedric really seemed to love skilled playing. Harry remembered how his eyes would light up whenever he mentioned a particularly able score, a particularly able player.
And was Cedric worthy of admiration? Whether he won or lost, Dear Merlin, YES! He was Cedric Maria Diggory, beautiful, modest, fair, popular. The stereotypical Hufflepuff. Which made him a catch by Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff standards. (The Slytherins seemed to go for the balding, weird, shoeless, pasty-faced, snake-look.)
And then it had all gone to hell.
With a pounding, blinding pain in his head, and refusing to open his eyes just yet, Harry vaguely recalled the exultation and joy he had felt just that morning. A day, a life, full of possibilities, in which Cedric smiled benignly up at him as he caught the ever crafty little snitch. The full force of what had really happened struck him, and he was filled with humiliation and dread. Harry had lost the bloody snitch, because of those sodding Dementors. The infernal things had gone after him and he hadn't been able to enact the Patronus or catch the snitch in time. He had only one hope, that Cedric had NOT caught the snitch and that the game had been postponed once it was seen that the Gryffindor seeker was not likely to recuperate in time. At last, unable to take the suspense, Harry Potter opened his eyes.
"Har- Potter? Potter? Are you alright?"
As his eyes adjusted to the light, sparks of star-like images blinking before him, desperate thoughts invaded his brain. Dear Merlin, no please, let him not be him. Was his hair untidy? When wasn't it? How do I look? Like crap, most likely. Yes, damn me, it's him.
The blurry outline of Cedric's beautiful face loomed above him. As Harry reached out to put on his glasses he felt a hand on his head, caressing his forehead, and then stroking his cheek gently as one would an anxious child. Harry's hands shook a bit as he put on his glasses, and he smiled, producing something between a grin and a grimace. Looking around then, he realized he was in the infirmary. The Terrible Two, as they were now calling Ron & Hermione in face of the terrible jungle-like sounds they made during love-making, sat staring fretfully at him from one corner of the room as Cedric continued his ministrations.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, he didn't really know how he felt, just at that moment Madame Pomfrey barged into the room. Matter-of-factly, she pushed Cedric out of the way and began touching his head, examining his eyes, tongue, toes and elbows, at last giving him something which tasted a bloody lot like vomit while murmuring to herself about the dangers of Quidditch and the proposed ban on the sport, which now seemed to her like a good idea. "It's not enough that we have that blasted Black around and those dastardly Dementors…" The furious healer looked around the room, peering into the concerned faces of Ron, Hermione and the dreaded, divine Diggory and told them quite firmly that they could not stay more than a few minutes.
"Please, let him—them stay," Harry heard himself saying.
But what the bugger was Cedric doing here? And why was Cedric staring at him that way? And what in the hell was wrong with him, that he fainted like a Lockheart whenever the Dementors came his way?
"What—what happened?" he asked, suddenly not wanting to know.
"Well, we lost, obviously—ouch!" Ron exclaimed as Hermione poked him harshly in the ribs.
"A little sensitivity, please!"
After they told him what had occurred, he threw himself back on the pillow remembering too late to pretend not to look too dejected.
Cedric, appearing abashed said: "I'm sorry, Potter. We shouldn't have won. I was so intent on the snatch—snitch, I mean. When I saw you falling I tried to catch you but I just wasn't fast enough…"
His face transformed in alarm, as he relived Harry's fall in his head. Unconsciously, Cedric took Harry's hand, pressing it.
"No, no, it's alright, really." Harry couldn't quite pretend he wasn't disappointed at losing, but Cedric's hand was a nice little compensation prize. He had never expected this reaction, and he thought, some-what smugly, that he would have to fall off his room more often. Smiling to himself he said, "It's not like it was you, your fault, I mean, unless you sent those Dementors after me?" He tried to chuckle and winced.
Cedric lifted Harry's torso expertly off the bed, fluffing his pillow and placing him in a more comfortable position. "Harry, you should really rest now. Madame Pomfrey will be angry at us if we stay here much longer. We'll come back to visit you later, is that alright?"
As they all filed out, throwing reassuring gestures in his way Harry seemed unable to utter a single word. He felt very strange at having Cedric speak to him as if they were life-long friends, instead of people who barely knew each other. In all his short life, Harry had never had an easy time meeting people, his circumstances had left him unequipped for it.
In the Muggle World, those of his own age never tried to find out who he really was. They assumed that they knew him from what the Dursleys said about him, and from his messy hair and his disheveled appearance. In the Wizarding World, people were just as prejudiced, having grown up with the myth of him as the Boy Who Lived their heads were filled with so many preconceptions there was no room for the real Harry within them. At this moment, his mind turned back to Cedric and the bizarre attention he was getting from the older boy. He was probably just being nice, Harry reasoned, after all he appeared to be very popular. Always laughing, always talking and joking with his multitude of friends and with that Kane fellow, the beautiful Japanese bloke girls seemed to go crazy for.
But…someone in his family had died, or was it a friend? Everyone spoke about how it hadn't seemed to affect his disposition at all, about how well he was bearing up, but Harry had begun to observe Cedric, closely and discretely, when he did not think himself watched and the younger boy had noticed something very close to his own sensibilities, a certain cloud of gloom that seemed to settle on him in moments of solitude, a shadow in his beautiful blue eyes. The way the Golden Boy had looked at him as he pressed Harry's hand, it was filled with concern, but there was something else there latently pumping underneath.
&&&&&&
Walking through the corridors of Hogwarts with Hermione and Ron in tow, talking about Black and the ever pervasive presence of the Dementors, Harry couldn't help but turn his mind to Cedric. It was ridiculous that he would be filled so completely with this infatuation, but it was as if his mind, body and soul had conspired against him and they were all fixated on an impossible object of desire. If only Cedric had not come to the infirmary, to inflame him with vain hopes and fantastic illusions, he could focus on the real problems at hand, to the fact that he had to defend himself from that murderous Black, to the fact that he had to find out what really happened all those years ago.
"So," said Hermione looking sideways at him with a wicked expression on her face, "what do you think of the Golden Boy of the Hour, Cedric Diggory, Seeker Extraordinaire?"
"What? Who?" Hermione's accuracy into the very nature of his thoughts, shocked him into an extreme sense of exposure and he couldn't help but look around to see if anyone was listening.
"Right," said Hermione, smirking.
"Well, he's a nice bloke, I suppose," said Harry, gesturing vaguely, and noticing the nervousness revealed in his hands shoved them in his pockets through his open robes.
"Do. You. Like. Him," said Hermione, bumping into him playfully.
"I don't dislike him," replied Harry cagily, "do you like him?"
"It's not me he's worried about, my dear, it's not my hand he's pressing, it's not about me he's asking after to my friends."
"He's been asking after me? To you? He's just a very nice--
"—bloke, yes, I know," said Hermione.
Ron eyed them dangerously, saying, "Hmm, what are you both babbling on about?"
"We're not babbling, Ron," said Hermione with some asperity, "it's nothing sexy, if that's what you're insinuating, so don't get your wand in a knot."
"You know, I really detest that expression, it was probably witty the first 50 times you said it. Anyway, I just want to know why my best girl and my best mate are whispering like two naughty, numb-brained school girls."
"First of all Ron, I don't know if you've noticed," said Hermione taking Ron's arm, "but I AM a school girl, and second of all you'd not be interested in the least, believe me."
"I don't believe you," replied Ron softening his tone, "would you allow me to be the judge of that? You really shouldn't keep secrets from me, you know. I AM your boyfriend."
"So you keep telling me," said Hermione rolling his eyes, "So…perhaps, you can give me a hint to what exactly lies under your mattress?"
"Other than you, you mean? None of your business, you silly tart."
"Tsk, tsk, I lie on your mattress every time I fake an orgasm, my dear, not under it."
"Bloody hell, you do not! Take it back!"
Hermione giggled in reply and kissed Ron, taking him, and half the school, by surprise.
&&&&&
Why had Hermione said such things? Harry kept thinking about their conversation all through Potions, while he was supposed to be measuring the exact quantities of balamander sperm. How was he supposed to speak to Cedric again now that he realized exactly the nature of his feelings toward the boy? But did he, did he truly know exactly what he felt? Not really, but he knew it wasn't affection or friendship. It was lust, perhaps passion.
Passion. Harry realized almost subconsciously that his character was such that he reserved his most passionate sentiments for the negative aspects of his life. For Voldemort, for those who choose to make his life miserable and those he loved miserable. To feel such powerful emotions toward a possibly positive thing, toward a love affair, confused and unnerved him.
Suddenly a familiar voice crept into his consciousness; he heard his name repeated over and over as if from a great distance. Harry flicked a hand over his face as if swatting a fly.
"Potter," his name cut through the air like an acid whip, "Once again, I've asked you to enumerate the poisonous qualities of the Dead Sea Balamander, you will do so on the count of ten or face dire consequences." Snape's pasty face loomed above him, shocking him into alertness, "One, two, ten."
"Dire? Oh, yes, well, um, I believe, er, that—the poisonous qualities of the Dead Sea—wait they're not poisonous."
&&&&&&
"Blimey, Harry, that was a close one," said Ron snorting.
"Damn right that was close, I thought I was going to have to do detention 'till the end of term, at the very least," said Harry, shaking his head.
"Until the end of the century more like. By and by, are you going to Hogsmeade next week?" said Ron, putting his arm over Harry's shoulders.
"I don't know, I can't. I mean, I don't think I can. My permission slip is not signed, the Durseley's – well, you know the story."
"Hi, Harry."
Cedric had sidled up to Harry in such a sudden way, it seemed as though the boy had apparated at his side. Disengaging him from Ron's grasp he slap shook the red-head's unsuspecting hand, then veering the black-haired boy to one side, expertly holding his elbow and smiling in the irresistible open way of his said, "Would you like to go with me to Hogsmeade?"