ALOHOMORA | CEDRIC DIGGORY

42〝forty-two〞

IT WAS IN THE HISTORY of Magic classroom that Cedric seemed recalled back to earth.

"Why are you looking so down?" asked Margaery, nudging him with a significant grin. Her mood had definitely heightened since listening to his musical valentine.

"Yeah, Ced, why are you looking so down?" echoed Jaime. "That's not how 'the boy of my dreams' looks like."

"But I wonder," said Podrick thoughtfully, " 'Will he go out with me?' "

The guys promptly roared with laughter; Margaery cackled shrilly and doubled over. Everyone else turned to goggle at them amidst settling into their seats. Most boys were smirking; many girls giggled. (Roger Davies looked particularly baleful for some reason, though.) Cedric had the sneaking suspicion that they, too, were all present in that fateful corridor. They had, after all, come from the same lesson the period before.

Professor Binns, however, still floated in his usual spot, serenely distributing back last week's homework (and to all the wrong people, no less), acting as though he was quite deaf to the commotion—even when Margaery suddenly uttered a shriek. Beside her, in contrast, Samwell recoiled and leaned away from her, shielding his right ear, which had been nearest.

"Ced! Y-y-you're b-bleeding!" cried Margaery, alarmed and ashen-faced.

"What?" Cedric glanced down to where her quivering finger was pointing at, and discovered himself with a bloodstained palm. "Oh," he said, hiding it quickly—for Margaery was quite the haemophobic (hence her reaction), and her extreme aversion had never been so convenient—and feigning a grimace. Flustered, he fought to think fast; nobody needed to know the blood wasn't his. "Er, might've cut myself picking up my stuff just now. It's all right"—he gave Margaery a reassuring look—"Madam Pomfrey'll be able to patch it up." He straightened himself and stretched his other hand into the air. "Professor Binns?"

No response—apart from Taylor Boot's essay (marked with an "A") landing in front of him.

"Professor Binns," repeated Cedric, louder and firmer now, so that people who had resumed their own business stared with renewed interest.

Slowly, the ghost of a teacher motioned his eyes towards him, a nonplussed expression on his translucent face.

"Mister—?"

"Diggory, sir," said Cedric briskly. "I seem to have cut myself"—he flashed his "injury" at Professor Binns—"by accident. May I be excused to see the matron?"

For four whole seconds, the ancient spirit looked as if Cedric had just spoken Mermish, and he hadn't understood a word of the boy's. Then his shriveled head nodded in that typical, vague, languid manner.

"Yes...yes..."

"Thank you, sir." Cedric shouldered his bag and whispered to Jaime, "Get my paper back for me, won't you?"

"Of course," said Jaime at once, almost too gladly. "Anything for the boy of my dreams."

Cedric shot him a patronizing smile, to which Jaime reciprocated being dramatically "knocked out." The former rolled his eyes, and was, therefore, careful to whack the back of his best friend's head as he exited. But as Cedric marched back up the hall, all the teasing was put out of his mind. He had other, more pressing, issues to return to.

Had his little pretense backfired—ironically—on the very person who had necessitated it? But surely she knew he was faking it? He hadn't held up his end very well, ultimately. Her facade, on the other hand, was thoroughly solid, to the level that it unnerved him. And that was even with her nose all smashed up.

Yet again, she had been proven right.

Indifference: it was easier said than done.

With every stride Cedric cursed himself. Why didn't he just step forward and take her to the Hospital Wing himself? Of course her well-being was more important even than his promise? In his defense, he had desired to. But no, he took the advice of the nagging voice in his head to remain stock-still. Then, his idiot of a brain tried to compromise by suggesting he simulate fumbling with his belongings and in the chaos slip her his handkerchief—a handkerchief! He cringed simply remembering it.

Fat help that would be, he thought scathingly.

He wouldn't go so far as to deny that the idea was right—it was a nice gesture—but it could very well still have been done should he have been her escort—then, wouldn't it be nicer?

Sighing, Cedric now concentrated on her mangled nose. It was not a question of Madam Pomfrey's capabilities—she was absolutely able to restore it, and in a heartbeat no less—but how much pain it had subjected Ellis to. He dithered as to whether it had been more agonizing to witness, or experience.

It had certainly put him through hell to watch, so much so that he was close to placing blame on the redheaded girl who had rammed into Ellis as though blind. But that would not have been guided by good sense: given her plight, her behavior was quite justified. Anyone—even Ellis, he reckoned—would have been sent running if they had been outrightly exposed for sending a musical valentine that had just been made a spectacle of itself (albeit Cedric deemed the verse rather original and charming). It simply was misfortune.

As for Ellis, she did look somewhat distraught, though Lockhart was probably the source. She had an extraordinary tolerance for suffering as Cedric knew it, and he doubted if—measured against everything else had been forced through—something as trivial and superficial as a fractured nose would rattle her even the slightest.

His preoccupation carrying him all the way to the infirmary, Cedric pushed open the doors without hesitation. He was prepared to deal with all its repercussions, whatever they might be.

Nobody was manning the reception. Behind it, the entrance to the ward was wide open, but curtains had been erected around several beds so that he couldn't glimpse any patients. He edged inside.

"Now, go on, drink up," he heard Madam Pomfrey directing before she swept out from behind the first divider. "Mr. Diggory?"

Immediately, her eyes were scanning him with such energy Professor Binns could never muster even in a million generations. Meanwhile, a spluttering noise (like someone had gagged on their drink) emanated whence the matron had emerged. Feeble though it was to find a cough familiar, Cedric thought he recognized it.

"What's the matter with your hand?" demanded Madam Pomfrey frantically.

"Oh, er, nothing," he informed her. "That's not my blood."

If that had meant to mollify her, the attempt rather rebounded on him. She looked scandalized.

"Whose blood is it?"

Cedric peered towards the partition that was most likely to be obscuring Ellis from view. Madam Pomfrey copied him, and when she gazed back, she was livid and her tone accusatory.

"Tell me you were not responsible—"

"No, no," said Cedric hastily. "I was there, b-but no... Can I see her?" he added in a tentative whisper.

"Not before I get you cleaned up," she snapped, waving her wand—the dried blood coating his palm vanished. "But just a few minutes. She needs her rest." And as Madam Pomfrey bustled away, Cedric caught various bouts of muttering. "...the poor thing...so delicate...needs feeding up..."

Wholeheartedly agreeing, he proceeded around the pale blue screen, and the first thing he saw was probably the last thing he had expected: a wand.

AN: Oops, realized I wrote in much shorter chapters at the beginning so y'all gotta wait for the next one 😬