RP: "Have some damn tea"
Date: November 5, 2004
Character(s): Cedric Diggory
Location: his house-tent
Status: Private
Summary: Cedric spontaneously combusts ... with a little help from a bottle of brandy
Completion: complete
It had taken almost two full days before the full import of "The War Is Over" finally hit bottom for Cedric Diggory.
Then he shut himself up in his tent and did something quite unexpected.
He got roaring drunk -- fall-over-his-own-feet, stupid-and-sick-in-the-morning drunk. That in itself might not have been shocking. Half of Stoatshead had been celebrating for the past 48 hours. But when he was quite thoroughly pissed, he buried his face in his own pillow and cried with no one there to see such a spectacular failure of Stiff-Upper-Lip resolve. He sobbed until he was hot and sweaty and as sick from crying as he was from bad brandy.
He didn't understand his own reaction. It was over, wasn't it? Voldemort was DEAD. The man -- thing -- who'd almost killed him had been killed in turn by Harry Potter. Yet he, Cedric, was alive ... impossibly, unexpectedly, but quite vividly alive.
Why the fucking hell was he crying about that?
Sensing his upset, Zen vaulted onto the bed and picked her way across the quilt to sniff his face, hers cold-nosed and whiskery to his wet. Smiling, he rubbed her ears. "It must be nice to be a cat," he told her. "If somebody upsets you, you just hiss, then forget about it half an hour later. I think I needed a good cry."
In fact, he'd needed a good cry for nine years. But being such a proper Brit, it had required a full bottle of brandy and getting himself as drunk as a lord to manage it.
"There's a difference," Gwen had told (scolded) him once, "between not talking to strangers about how you feel, and pretending you don't feel at all. Maybe you'll learn that someday, ain't it?"
Neither Indians nor Brits expressed strong negative feelings to outsiders, but for entirely different reasons. He'd been taught young to stay strong, keep his chin up -- be a man. Yet the Ojibway didn't cry in front of strangers because 'Why should I spoil their joy with my sorrow?'
Cedric would never forget the day Daniel Whitecalf's younger son had drowned in the lake. At the clinic, Daniel had been stony-faced at the news. Back at his house, however, surrounded by family, he'd sobbed hysterically while clutching one of his dead son's unwashed shirts to his chest. Cedric had understood the first but the latter had left him thoroughly uncomfortable, at a loss for what to say.
Grief and anger and sorrow weren't emotions he knew how to handle. Ill-prepared by his upbringing, he'd stuffed it all down inside his chest and slammed the lid shut tight. Every time something new had ripped at him, into the trunk of unacceptable emotions it had gone. The frustration of learning to walk and talk again after waking up in Canada? Into the trunk. The desperation after hearing Albus Dumbledore was dead? Into the trunk. The humiliation of being repeatedly turned away by the Canadian Ministry and U.S. Department of Magic when he'd gone to beg for assistance for Britain? Into the trunk. The guilt of hearing Cho had died fighting in his name? Into the trunk. The grief in learning that Ed was dead, and Scott, then even Peter too? Into the trunk. Being torn between the woman he loved and the country he'd felt increasingly driven to return to? Into the trunk. The staggering pain of finally leaving Gwen because he couldn't look himself in the face anymore while safe in Canada? Into the trunk. The fury of finding his childhood home flattened by Death-Eaters? Into the trunk.
Stiff upper lip, Diggory. Chin up, Diggory. It could be worse. Have some damn tea.
Fucking, buggering, bloody hell.
Was it any wonder if hearing the war was over had sprung the lock to let it all come rushing out like the trapped evils of Pandora's box? Maybe, if he kept the lid up long enough, Hope could escape too.
Assuming Hope wasn't the greatest evil yet, teasing a man with possibility.
"Since when did I turn into cynic?" he asked himself, rolling over on the bed and pushing up gingerly. The room spun and his stomach heaved. He got out of the bedroom and halfway to the toilet before spilling the contents of his dinner and the bottle of brandy all over the throw rug. "Fuck!" he moaned, reaching for his wand and hoping he could manage to banish the mess and clean up the carpet in his current state.
In the end, he found he couldn't, or at least, not entirely. He'd have to do it in the morning, and he sat on the floor of the tent for a long while before feeling centered enough to pull himself to his feet again and make it to the bathroom. There, kneeling at the toilet, two fingers down his throat, he got rid of the rest of it. Then splashing water on his face, he staggered back to bed and dropped down on the sweat-damp covers.
"War's over," he told Zen when she curled up into his side, his fingers threading through her soft fur. "I think I can finally sleep now."
And sleep he did, for fourteen hours straight. For the first time in almost nine years, he had no nightmares.
Character(s): Cedric Diggory
Location: his house-tent
Status: Private
Summary: Cedric spontaneously combusts ... with a little help from a bottle of brandy
Completion: complete
It had taken almost two full days before the full import of "The War Is Over" finally hit bottom for Cedric Diggory.
Then he shut himself up in his tent and did something quite unexpected.
He got roaring drunk -- fall-over-his-own-feet, stupid-and-sick-in-the-morning drunk. That in itself might not have been shocking. Half of Stoatshead had been celebrating for the past 48 hours. But when he was quite thoroughly pissed, he buried his face in his own pillow and cried with no one there to see such a spectacular failure of Stiff-Upper-Lip resolve. He sobbed until he was hot and sweaty and as sick from crying as he was from bad brandy.
He didn't understand his own reaction. It was over, wasn't it? Voldemort was DEAD. The man -- thing -- who'd almost killed him had been killed in turn by Harry Potter. Yet he, Cedric, was alive ... impossibly, unexpectedly, but quite vividly alive.
Why the fucking hell was he crying about that?
Sensing his upset, Zen vaulted onto the bed and picked her way across the quilt to sniff his face, hers cold-nosed and whiskery to his wet. Smiling, he rubbed her ears. "It must be nice to be a cat," he told her. "If somebody upsets you, you just hiss, then forget about it half an hour later. I think I needed a good cry."
In fact, he'd needed a good cry for nine years. But being such a proper Brit, it had required a full bottle of brandy and getting himself as drunk as a lord to manage it.
"There's a difference," Gwen had told (scolded) him once, "between not talking to strangers about how you feel, and pretending you don't feel at all. Maybe you'll learn that someday, ain't it?"
Neither Indians nor Brits expressed strong negative feelings to outsiders, but for entirely different reasons. He'd been taught young to stay strong, keep his chin up -- be a man. Yet the Ojibway didn't cry in front of strangers because 'Why should I spoil their joy with my sorrow?'
Cedric would never forget the day Daniel Whitecalf's younger son had drowned in the lake. At the clinic, Daniel had been stony-faced at the news. Back at his house, however, surrounded by family, he'd sobbed hysterically while clutching one of his dead son's unwashed shirts to his chest. Cedric had understood the first but the latter had left him thoroughly uncomfortable, at a loss for what to say.
Grief and anger and sorrow weren't emotions he knew how to handle. Ill-prepared by his upbringing, he'd stuffed it all down inside his chest and slammed the lid shut tight. Every time something new had ripped at him, into the trunk of unacceptable emotions it had gone. The frustration of learning to walk and talk again after waking up in Canada? Into the trunk. The desperation after hearing Albus Dumbledore was dead? Into the trunk. The humiliation of being repeatedly turned away by the Canadian Ministry and U.S. Department of Magic when he'd gone to beg for assistance for Britain? Into the trunk. The guilt of hearing Cho had died fighting in his name? Into the trunk. The grief in learning that Ed was dead, and Scott, then even Peter too? Into the trunk. Being torn between the woman he loved and the country he'd felt increasingly driven to return to? Into the trunk. The staggering pain of finally leaving Gwen because he couldn't look himself in the face anymore while safe in Canada? Into the trunk. The fury of finding his childhood home flattened by Death-Eaters? Into the trunk.
Stiff upper lip, Diggory. Chin up, Diggory. It could be worse. Have some damn tea.
Fucking, buggering, bloody hell.
Was it any wonder if hearing the war was over had sprung the lock to let it all come rushing out like the trapped evils of Pandora's box? Maybe, if he kept the lid up long enough, Hope could escape too.
Assuming Hope wasn't the greatest evil yet, teasing a man with possibility.
"Since when did I turn into cynic?" he asked himself, rolling over on the bed and pushing up gingerly. The room spun and his stomach heaved. He got out of the bedroom and halfway to the toilet before spilling the contents of his dinner and the bottle of brandy all over the throw rug. "Fuck!" he moaned, reaching for his wand and hoping he could manage to banish the mess and clean up the carpet in his current state.
In the end, he found he couldn't, or at least, not entirely. He'd have to do it in the morning, and he sat on the floor of the tent for a long while before feeling centered enough to pull himself to his feet again and make it to the bathroom. There, kneeling at the toilet, two fingers down his throat, he got rid of the rest of it. Then splashing water on his face, he staggered back to bed and dropped down on the sweat-damp covers.
"War's over," he told Zen when she curled up into his side, his fingers threading through her soft fur. "I think I can finally sleep now."
And sleep he did, for fourteen hours straight. For the first time in almost nine years, he had no nightmares.