Northern Lights: Chapter Seven
Title: Northern Lights
Author: fictionalbf
Rating: PG
Character(s): Cedric Diggory
Summary: To the well-organized mind, death may be nothing more than the next great adventure. While what greets Cedric Diggory on waking is neither life nor death, it will definitely be an adventure.
"I have to go back."
To Carlisle's credit, he doesn't voice any of the objections that throng to the forefront of his mind. Instead, he asks, "Why?"
Cedric considers laying out the whole sorry tale of what happened in the maze. But that begs the question of why they were there, and who is You-Know-Who, and then Cedric would be trying to explain the whole wizarding world, and that can wait until he has more time. "I…a friend of mine…it was my fault, really, but…" He stops, and tries again. "I have to find out if my friend is all right." If he's still alive. "I was the reason we both ended up in…trouble, and I…I ran. And I left him behind." As he says it, Cedric realizes that it's true, and just how awful it is. Harry Potter would be safely snuggled down in his bed at home if Cedric had just taken the damn cup. Instead, the shining hero of the wizarding world might be in mortal peril - or even dead - because Cedric Diggory had to go and be noble.
The thought pulls him up short. Isn't that exactly what he's doing right now? Trying to be noble?
What if it makes things worse?
Cedric can't meet the doctor's eyes, instead examining the bookshelves that line the walls as if they're terribly interesting. Which, as it turns out, they are. Cedric's only been inside the restricted Section of the Hogwarts library twice, doing research for Defence Against the Dark Arts, but these shelves would make that collection of unearthly and ancient tomes cringe in jealousy. Some of these books look as though they've survived at least one war; others, as if they'll speak once opened. And leather-bound first editions rub spines with recent paperbacks, their bright colours looking slightly out of place. The smell of paper, newly printed or crackling with age, of dust and ink and knowledge, fills the room.
"And you think you can make amends by returning?'
Cedric had hoped to have a coherent answer. Really, if Harry Potter is dead, if the Dark Lord has returned, then going back wouldn't make any difference. But Cedric has to know if his stupid Hufflepuff sense of fair play has killed a man, doomed his entire world. If You-Know-Who is really back.
If his father is all right.
"No," he admits. "It won't help. But it would help me."
There's a long, frustrated silence during which Cedric attempts to focus on the décor again, rather than eavesdrop. The stretch of dark wood-paneled wall behind Carlisle's mahogany desk serves as backdrop for a variety of paintings, woodcuts, and photographs from an incredible range of eras. Add a few mysterious and probably magical mechanisms, Cedric realizes, and he could almost be sitting in Dumbledore's office. Somehow, the thought is comforting. Despite his often-mysterious and sometimes downright weird disposition, the Headmaster has a curious way of making it seem like everything will turn out all right.
And in a moment, the full weight of Cedric's homesickness threatens to drown him.
When Carlisle speaks, Cedric starts; he'd half-forgotten that he was having a conversation. Or an argument, to be precise. "It's not that easy. You can't merely pick up your life where you left it. Remember what happened this afternoon? The effect that the faintest whiff of human blood had on you?"
Cedric bites his lower lip. He doesn't need to be reminded.
"Imagine yourself in a city."
Cedric can't quite fit the full horror of this into his brain.
When he manages to speak again, it comes out sounding more whiny than he'd intended. "But it doesn't bother you."
"It's taken me over three hundred years to completely conquer my instincts." Dr. Cullen's voice is soft, his thoughts swirling from a plague hospital to what looks like a medieval sewer to a succession of faces, images that Cedric doesn't try to interpret. It feels disrespectful to even be seeing this, and he wonders if he should start studying the furniture again. "You might be able to manage a brief encounter after only a year, but for you to completely rejoin human society would take much longer than you could explain away to your friends and family. And even if you could…well…"
the young man standing before him is perfectly still, almost eerily so, without any of the tics or twitches that mark any long period of motionlessness in a human. When he does move, it's almost too fast to follow even for vampiric eyes, and predatorily graceful. He's pale as fresh snow and will surely scintillate in the same way when sunlight strikes him
which Cedric refuses to believe means what he thinks it means. He must have misinterpreted the thought, somehow. Besides, the image of himself that he's seeing through the doctor's eyes is frightening enough. He hardly recognizes himself. Cedric has always been good-looking - it's earned him something of a reputation in Hufflepuff house - but the angular, brooding young god looking back at him is, while unmistakably him, also both beautiful and terrible. While his face could undoubtedly intimidate, even terrify …well, it could just as easily earn him Witch Weekly's 'Most Charming Smile' award for a year running. And, set in that face like twin accusations, glittering like malignant stars, are scarlet eyes.
Carlisle seems to notice Cedric's distress. "I'm sorry. But that's without your habit of answering questions that haven't been asked, or your new strength, or…" He sighs. "I'm afraid you won't be mistaken for human. Not yet."
Cedric considers protesting that reading minds isn't that unusual in the wizarding world, that people know vampires exist, there's even a registry, but something stops him. If his own reaction is anything to judge by, he won't exactly be welcomed back with open arms.
There's no one in the wizarding world who won't recognize him instantly for what he is, or even who he is, for that matter - the Tournament's gotten no end of press, and even though most of it's been centred on Harry Potter (Cedric tries to squash a twinge of jealousy), he's sure the disappearance-presumed-death of a contestant will have drawn a lot of coverage. For that contestant to suddenly turn up sporting brand new fangs - purely in the metaphorical sense, of course - would almost certainly be newsworthy.
Cedric shudders to remember his sole interview with Rita Skeeter, and what was actually printed. If she's a good indicator of the Daily Prophet staff, Cedric doesn't doubt that at least one reference will be made to the Dark Lord's non-human armies, and if Potter's been able to spread word of You-Know-Who's return -
What would it do to my father?
It would kill Amos Diggory. It would kill him by degrees, to have the son who had always been his pride and joy cut down, made a monster first by a vampire and then by the press. And no matter what Cedric may do, he knows that to the wizarding community, he will at best be nothing more than another Ministry statistic. Another non-wizard part-human.
At worst, to most of them - to his own father - he will be a monster.
Cedric's voice cracks slightly as he says, "I need to think about this."
Carlisle's smile is, as always, kind and understanding. "Of course." I hope you'll make the right decision.
...
Life without magic is different.
The electricity is fascinating to Cedric, who was brought up by his pureblood family - his mother always said that if she didn't have magic she'd never have time. This is the first time he's ever used, for example, a washer and dryer, and he's amazed at how easy it is. He's always sort of pitied muggles for not having the conveniences that come with household charms.
It's odd how easily Cedric finds himself slipping into this new reality. Without fuss, without too much effort on his part, life with the Cullens has become…normal. It's only every so often that he remembers how strange, how unnatural they all are, himself included. It's only so often that homesickness overwhelms him and he escapes into the branches of the forest all around him, trying to get close to the sky, the only place he really feels at home when one of these moods strikes.
The sun and moon chase each other across the sky under thick grey blankets of cloud as the days lengthen, reaching towards summer. At one point Emmett asks if Cedric has always made a habit of sitting in trees and staring at the sky, to which Cedric has to embarrassedly admit that yes, he sort of has. It's after that that Alice starts hounding him to get a hobby.
"Scrapbooking's fun," carries her through a whole day. "You should try scrapbooking." The next day it's knitting, and the day after that it's pottery. Cedric takes to the piano mostly to stop her from trying to get him to try macramé or yoga or whatever she'll think of next. Luckily, he's good at it, another natural talent his father could have been proud of, though music's not exactly something he would've chosen to take up if he hadn't been pressed to it.
What he really wants to do is take his broom out and let the wind wash his thoughts away, scorn gravity for a while, try out a few new moves - he thinks he might just be able to pull off an impressive Wronski Feint with his new speed and reflexes - but his beloved Cleansweep Seven is somewhere across an ocean and out of range of a Summoning Charm even if he could still do them, and Cedric doesn't know if he could even make it fly anymore. He's not sure if he wants to find out.
At first, this 'baseball' game seems like a poor substitute. But soon enough Cedric discovers that even without brooms, this muggle sport captures some of the same thrills - especially when you can move so fast and so lightly that it almost feels like flying. Cedric's Seeker background makes him an ideal outfielder, and before the game's over, he's hoping for another thunderstorm soon.
In short, Cedric is fitting right in. And with each passing day his plans to go back become a little more like daydreams.