(i)
Harry was having a nightmare. It wasn't one about Voldemort for once; it was an entirely different sort. He was back in the cupboard under the stairs. It was dark, a thick, velvety darkness, so complete that he couldn't make out the shape of his hands or knees. He felt young, and small, and absolutely hopeless.
The dream collided with memory so perfectly that Harry sometimes woke half way through it, and yet the thoughts continued with impunity. There was nothing he could do. As soon as he felt himself back there, in the cupboard, with the gauze of spider webs against his cheek, he was six years old again, and nothing would stop the images.
He had been in the cupboard for a long time. He could no longer remember why, if there had been a reason. His mouth was dry, his tongue was heavy; he was thirsty enough to no longer notice his hunger. He'd wet himself several hours ago, and his clothes were sticky and cold. He was hunched over on the side of his bed, and there were tears in his eyes, but he was refusing to cry.
The door opened, and Harry was on the floor. He'd never been able to remember, not in these dreams, not in memory, how the door opening and his being on the floor happened simultaneously, but he remembered, clearly, staring up, and seeing Uncle Vernon, framed in the light of the hall.
"Get up, boy," his uncle had shouted, and when Harry tried to cower farther under the bed Uncle Vernon grabbed him round the scruff of the neck.
"Filthy thing, he's pissed himself," a voice said from the other side of Vernon, and Harry hung from his Uncle's hands, shaking and humiliated, with Aunt Marge's eyes on him.
"We'll get it out of him, Vernon," Marge said, and Harry shook, not knowing what she was talking about.
Vernon looked less sure, but said, "yes. For Petunia."
"Something wrong with the bitch, something wrong with the pup," Marge said.
"Nothing that a beating can't cure." Uncle Vernon's moustache quivered, and Harry shook more, not really comprehending what he was hearing.
"Put him down, Vernon," Marge said, and Harry half fell from his Uncle's hands, and crouched on the floor.
Harry woke as his six year old self's feet touched the floor. He stared at Hogwarts ceiling willing himself back there, but he was still six, cold and terrified, and in a cupboard.
He didn't really remember the pain of the blows. He just remembered the terror. The endless, hopeless fear, Uncle Vernon's hands on his shoulders, and Marge's blows, to his face, his ribs. They were trying to stamp something out of him. He was wrong, there was something disgusting about him.
They left him to cower against a wall in the darkness, and he had lain there for what felt like days, shivering, the bruises stinging, and his eyes refusing to close, so they had seemed to seep in all the black, with one tiny nagging voice in his ear, which had whispered that he was bad, that no one would ever love him.
Harry struggled out of the memories, gripping the pillow, staring at the dark curtains. He opened them quickly, and looked around, at the faint light of the night.
It was okay, after that, he reminded himself, no one ever touched you. It was just once, and it didn't really matter. He lay on his back, and stared at the shapes of the other boys. They breathed and snuffled, bringing him back from the recesses of his mind.
It was only once, it didn't count, he repeated to himself again, but one tear coursed down his cheek, and he didn't try to stop it.
(ii)
In another part of the castle, Cedric was having a bad dream, too.
His father stood over him, weeping. "You've ruined us, boy, no one will ever respect us," he sobbed, his head bowed, his hands shaking.
Then his father, Amos, was congratulating him for his triumphs in Quidditch, for his excellent OWLs, telling him what a good son he was, how proud he was. Tears still trickled down his face.
"How could you, Cedric, how could you?" he whispered. Cedric had never seen Amos cry. Not even at his sister's funeral. But this, Cedric's secret, Cedric's shame, reduced him to endless tears.
Cedric hadn't apologised. He turned away, and stood in front of the staircase, not able to bring himself to go up it. Behind him, across the hall, his father wept and raged on.
He woke suddenly, as his dream self was about to abandon the sounds of Amos, to run upstairs, to hide. He crept out to the common room quickly, trying to banish the dreams from his mind.
He sat beside the fire until first light, looking through various books, but only managing to read one or two sentences.
(iii)
The snow was beginning to melt on Saturday morning. Ron looked out at it gloomily.
"It's not fair, I knew I could've won the next snowball fight," he said.
"No one can win those snowball fights, they're too disorganised," Hermione said cheerfully.
"How would you know, you don't play," Ron said.
"I have better things to do than get cold snow down my back."
Hermione was flicking through the 'Daily Prophet'. "There's nothing bad in here today," she said. "Rita Skeeter must be waiting till after New Year."
This thought didn't cheer Harry up at all. He was feeling horribly nervous about meeting Cedric that night. He wanted to see him again, very little could drive the image of Cedric laughing in the water from his mind, but he wasn't sure what was going to happen, or even what he wanted to happen.
But thinking, he likes me, tended to turn Harry's cheeks pink with pleasure. And the thought of meeting him tonight sent as much warmth as it did fear through his veins.
"Want to play Quidditch, Ron?" Harry asked, needing something to distract himself.
Ron nodded, and they rounded up Fred, George, Lee Jordan, Seamus Finnegan and, rather reluctantly, Ginny. The game was as disorganised as their snowball fights and lasted most of the day.
Harry didn't manage to eat very much supper, but instead played with his stuffing and carrots.
"Something wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked, watching him.
"I'm worried about Hagrid," she said after a moment. "After what Madame Maxime did. I think we should go and talk to him this evening."
Harry shook his head, "I can't, I'm – I'm working on my clue."
"Oh, excellent, Harry, how's it going, d'you want some help?" she gushed immediately.
"It's okay, no, I don't need help," he said, and pushed away his plates, escaping upstairs before she could ask any more questions.
He was earlier than Cedric had suggested, and he went behind some of the smaller shelves, grabbing any books that looked likely.
When he came to the table, Cedric was standing there, some chocolate in his hand.
"You rushed out of the Great Hall," he said, "is everything okay?"
"Yeah, fine," Harry said. "Hermione was just asking too many questions, that's all."
Cedric looked a little perplexed, but nodded. He held up the chocolate. "I brought you some desert," he said, and looked around, "just don't let Madame Pince see."
"Thanks," Harry said, breaking off a piece under the table. "D'you want some?"
Cedric took a chunk. Madame Pince was busily writing down a list of student's names that had damaged books they had borrowed from her. It was the sort of activity that kept her engrossed for a long time.
"Not the most romantic choice of places, I know," Cedric said. "First the bath and now the library."
"Well, at least it means I'm not going to fail miserably when it comes to my clue."
"You were never going to fail miserably," Cedric said.
"Oh no?"
"That time with the dragon – that was an amazing bit of flying. I'm supposed to be a good Quidditch player, and I didn't even think of it."
"I got help," said Harry. "And now I'm getting help from you."
"I got help with the egg, too," Cedric said. "And we can both figure out how to breathe underwater."
"It can't be that hard. I always that once I could fly everything else would be dead easy."
Cedric burst out laughing, "you're such a muggle," he said.
Harry punched him playfully, and grinned.
They looked down at the books again, but Madame Pince was upon them. "Out, out, out!" she said, "My library is no place for social meetings."
As they staggered outside, Harry carefully hid the chocolate, not to incur her wrath any farther.
"Where shall we go now?" Cedric asked, scuffing his feet on the floor.
Harry shrugged, "I'd say outside, but it's chilly."
"The prefects' bathroom again?" Cedric suggested. "It's not very nice, but-"
"It is nice," Harry said, "and it's the only place I can think of to go."
Cedric nodded, "we'll find a nice secret passage some time," he said.
They made their way back up to the painting, and Cedric muttered the password to it. The mermaid in the painting was awake now, and she flashed her tail at Harry and Cedric.
"Let's hope none of the prefects wants a bath," Harry said.
Cedric nodded, "most of them don't come in here. Using the bathrooms in the dormitories is easier."
"But it's so beautiful here," Harry said.
In the watery evening light it looked even better than the day before. The taps around the sunken bath glinted, and the mermaid chuckled at them, the ceiling was high and beautifully adorned. Tall, stained-glass windows ran along one wall. They cast brightly coloured lights onto the bath.
"I know, it is," Cedric said, "I come here all the time."
Cedric sat down on a window seat, leaning back against the bright glass, which depicted a brilliant green dragon.
Harry sat down beside him, feeling a little awkward. A sudden thought of Cedric kissing him struck him, and he felt confused and excited. To hide this he bent over his chocolate.
"Do you want some more?" he asked, and Cedric nodded. They munched for a moment.
They talked about the other champions for a while. "I don't like Krum," Cedric said. "He's a good Quidditch player, but I don't trust him."
"He seems okay," Harry said, "I'm not sure. My friend, Hermione, went to the ball with him."
"I saw," said Cedric. "Did you mind?"
"Not really," said Harry. "She seems to like him."
"I don't trust Durmstrang, I expect them to play dirty," Cedric said.
Harry shrugged. "I just don't want to fail miserably at my tasks, I'm not too fussed otherwise."
"So the Hogwart's trophy rests on my shoulders, does it?" Cedric said.
"Well, you're helping me, so there's an off-chance I could win," Harry said.
Cedric smiled, and yawned hugely.
"Tired?"
"Yeah," said Cedric, "I didn't sleep very well last night."
Harry nodded, "Neither did I."
They sat still for a moment, and Harry noticed that the patches of light had faded to darkness. The windowpanes were cold.
"Nightmares?" Cedric asked.
Harry shrugged. "Sort of."
"Me too," Cedric said.
They sat in silence for another little while, and then Cedric sighed and rested his head on Harry's shoulder. Harry was startled by the sudden weight of it, the feeling of his hair pressed against his neck. Cedric yawned, and Harry felt it rather than saw it.
"What were they about?" Cedric said.
Harry paused. "The Dursleys," he said, "the muggles I used to live with."
"Where they – where they not nice?" Cedric asked, shifting his position slightly.
"They didn't like me much," Harry said, after a moment.
Cedric slung one arm around Harry's neck, and Harry found himself leaning into Cedric, and Cedric half resting upon him. He felt Cedric nose against his neck, and then Cedric's mouth, which said, "how could anyone not like you?"
Harry lost the power of thought for a moment, and then he shifted so that he was closer to Cedric. "My family likes me too much," Cedric said.
Harry laughed, "that's not much of a complaint."
"It is," said Cedric, "I'm never going to live up to who they think I am. I'm going to disappoint them. I already have."
Harry bit back his nerves and cuddled against Cedric. "How did you disappoint them?"
"By being gay," Cedric said.
"I'm lucky, then," Harry said. "I don't have anyone to disappoint."
Cedric turned his face against Harry's neck again. "You'd be surprised," he said.
They sat like that for a while longer, nestled together, until it was late enough for nobody to be awake in their common rooms. Until their bodies started to grow numb, and fit into each other's shape. Then they disentangled, and drifted off to bed.
"See you tomorrow?" Cedric asked.
"After supper, the entrance hall," Harry said.
He was ready to sleep, and think about Cedric's warm form beside him, holding him, listen to the part of his brain, which kept saying, over and over, in a slightly squeaky voice, 'oh yes, oh yes'.
But Ron and Hermione were awake in the common room, talking beside the fire.
"Where were you?" Hermione demanded. "You said you were researching."
"I was," said Harry defiantly.
"You weren't in the library," said Ron.
"It wasn't that kind of research," said Harry. "We'll need that later."
"You've figured out the clue?" Hermione breathed.
"I have to know how to breathe underwater," Harry said.
"We'll work it out," said Ron.
"We went to Hagrid's hut," Hermione told him.
"I reckon he's really upset about Madame Maxime," Ron said.
"Oh," said Harry.
"Yes, anyway…" Hermione began.
"I'm going to bed," Harry said. He could feel Ron and Hermione exchanging looks behind his back.
Ron came into the dormitory shortly after. He looked at Harry oddly.
"What were you really doing, mate?" he asked.
"What do you think of Sam Wandsworth, then?" Harry asked.
"What about him?" Ron said.
"I reckon he's quite good looking, despite the ears," Harry said, and rolled over, so Ron couldn't see his face.
If Ron was going to ask another question he was silenced by both Dean Thomas and Seamus, who both groaned that they needed sleep.
(iv)
Harry and Cedric walked into the entrance hall almost simultaneously the next evening.
Cedric smiled at him, and Harry found himself grinning broadly back, and leading them both out into the evening.
"It's cold," said Cedric, but it wasn't a complaint.
Harry's hand, without any direction from Harry, grabbed Cedric's.
Cedric held it, and smiled again. "You okay, Harry?"
Harry felt like shaking his head. No, he wasn't okay, not okay at all.
They crunched across the slush together. It soaked through Harry's old trainers and wet his feet. When the Durmstrang ship came into view, Cedric leaned towards Harry, and Harry reached up and kissed him.
They stood still for a moment, arms wrapped around each other, chapped lips together.
Then they continued walking aimlessly, through the dark, cold snow. If it weren't for the solid feel of Cedric's hand in his, Harry would have thought he was dreaming.
Disclaimer: This is not mine. JK Rowling owns all. I'm just taking photos.
Also, many, many thanks to my reviewers. Feedback is what keeps me writing.