That Damned Twenty-Third of June

"Lyla? Lyla! Wake up! We have Professor Snape's class today. If you keep sleeping, we'll be late!" Rowle's voice sounded in her ear.

Clara's eyes flew open.

She was sitting on a sofa in the Hufflepuff Common Room.

No. That wasn't right.

She looked around, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. This was the Hufflepuff Common Room, all right. Pale green light reflected off the water through the round windows, warm flames danced in the fireplace, and the air smelled of toast and butter—but why was she on the sofa? Rowle had woken her in bed, hadn't he?

"You're finally awake." Rowle came over carrying a plate, speared a sausage and shoved it into his mouth. "How did you fall asleep on the sofa last night?" he mumbled. "Cersei and I tried waking you for ages, but you wouldn't budge, so we went upstairs to bed. Look at you-you didn't even change out of your robes."

Clara looked down and saw that she was wearing yesterday's school robes.

Her pupils contracted sharply.

"What's today's date?" She grabbed Rowle's arm so hard that he cried out in pain.

"Ow, ow, ow—what are you doing? It's June twenty-third!"

June twenty-third.

Clara let go and sank back onto the sofa, as though all her strength had been drained away.

She had returned to the day before the Third Task.

She remembered what had happened on June twenty-third. That afternoon, she had gone to the library to return a book and passed Cedric and Cho Chang in the corridor. He had nodded to her, and she had stood there, clutching Advanced Potion-Making, watching until he disappeared at the end of the corridor.

What an utterly insignificant day.

But now she stood here with everything that would happen tomorrow perfectly clear in her mind—that flash of green light, those gray-blue eyes drained of life.

Clara slowly sat back down on the sofa, pulled a blanket over at random and clenched it in her hands until her knuckles ached.

Twice. Now she was certain the first time hadn't been a dream either.

She had watched Cedric die twice.

She didn't know why, but this time fate had thrown her back to the day before the final, like a fish thrown back into the water. The water was the same, but the fish already knew its fate.

What could she do? What should she do? Tell someone? Who would believe an utterly ordinary fifth-year girl who claimed she had foreseen the future? Go to Cedric himself? On what grounds? Was she supposed to say, "Hello, Cedric Diggory. My name is Clara Albert. You probably don't remember, but I invited you to the ball and you turned me down. That's not the point. The point is, you're going to die tomorrow-"

And what would she get? A polite, bewildered smile and a "Are you all right?"

Clara closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them.

Rowle sat beside her, looking puzzled. "What's wrong, Lyla? Is deep breathing your new sport?"

"Do me a favor," Clara said. "Find out Cedric Diggory's schedule for me today."

Rowle's eyes widened. "Cedric Diggory's schedule? What are you planning? Wait—you're not holding a grudge because he turned you down for the Yule Ball, are you?"

"Rowle, please." Clara looked him in the eyes. Her voice was soft, but her gaze made him swallow the teasing words on the tip of his tongue.

"...All right." Rowle put down his fork. "You're really acting strange today. You owe me an explanation later."

Rowle's network of contacts was astonishingly efficient. Before lunch, a hastily scribbled sheet of parchment landed on the table in front of Clara. Cedric's schedule was simple: Charms in the morning, lunch in the Great Hall, the library in the afternoon to prepare for exams, spell practice in an empty classroom at dusk, and a small get-together with friends in the Hufflepuff Common Room that evening.

Clara stared at the parchment, her mind racing. Talking to him face-to-face was too risky, but what about a note?

Clara pulled over a fresh sheet of parchment and wrote quickly: Cedric, don't touch the cup at the Triwizard Tournament tomorrow. There's something wrong with it. Someone will return tomorrow-Potter might know who. Please, believe me. Burn this after reading it.

She folded the note, pulled out a Transfiguration textbook and pretended to study in the common room. When Cedric returned, Clara's heart nearly leaped out of her chest. She pretended to get up for some water, and as she passed his table, she let the note slip silently between the open pages of his book.

Cedric looked down and saw the note. Clara had her back to him, her ears practically straining. She heard the faint rustle of parchment unfolding, followed by a few seconds of silence. Would he believe it? Would he take it seriously? A quiet sigh came from behind her.

"...Roy, stop messing around."

Clara's back went rigid. Cedric had read the note, but he had taken it for a prank.

It was all the Weasley brothers' fault. They had been playing pranks with parchment every day lately.

Clara couldn't sleep that night.

Then June twenty-fourth arrived as scheduled: the maze, the green light, death. She knelt on the grass, looking at those gray-blue eyes for the third time.

Darkness swallowed her.

When she opened her eyes again, she was lying on the sofa in the Hufflepuff Common Room, and Rowle's voice and the smell of fried sausages arrived right on time.

June twenty-third.

Clara decided to speak to Cedric face-to-face.

She caught Cedric outside the library. He had just come out with two thick books in his arms. He looked startled when he saw her, then gave her his habitual smile. "Albert? Did you need something?"

"Yes." Clara got straight to the point. "Tomorrow night, you and Harry Potter will come across the Triwizard Cup in the maze. There's something wrong with the cup-don't touch it. Someone will return that night, and Potter might know who he is. Cedric, you'll die."

Cedric's smile froze. His brow slowly furrowed, and his expression grew somewhat complicated. Clara knew that look. It was the look people gave a madwoman.

"Albert," he said, choosing his words carefully, "have you been under too much pressure from your O.W.L.s lately?"

"I haven't-"

"I understand. Fifth year really is tough. Should I contact Madam Pomfrey for you? Or Professor Sprout? Or did you eat one of the Weasley brothers' new products? I'll speak to the Gryffindor Prefect. They've been going a bit too far lately." The boy's voice was as gentle as ever, with a hint of resignation.

Clara opened her mouth, but no words came out.

She pressed a hand to her forehead and turned to leave, afraid that if she stayed any longer, she wouldn't be able to resist slapping him.

No one would believe that kind of nonsense. Cedric had shown good manners just by hearing her out.

June twenty-fourth.

Death.

Darkness.

June twenty-third again.

Clara sprang off the sofa and rushed out of the common room before Rowle could say a word.

She tried going to the professors.

Professor Sprout looked at her kindly, brewed her a cup of calming tea and advised her to get some rest.

Failure.

Professor McGonagall patiently heard her out, then asked her, "What evidence do you have?" She had none.

Failure.

She even considered breaking into Dumbledore's office, but after shouting at the stone phoenix for ages, she didn't even make it through the door.

Another failure.

She decided to try sabotaging the tournament, though she couldn't say whether she was doing it more out of spite or to solve the problem. After all, even a Chocolate Frog knew there was no way a student who hadn't even taken her O.W.L.s could affect an event like this.

But she did it anyway. She poured an entire bucket of water over the maze's hedges, hoping to stop them from growing. The next day, they grew even thicker.

Failure.

She tried to steal the cup before the tournament, but it was surrounded by layers of Ministry of Magic guards. She never got close enough to touch it, and Hufflepuff lost fifty points.

Failure.

She began trying to keep Cedric trapped.

She got a powerful sleeping draught from the Weasley brothers, but no matter how much she used, Cedric always appeared at the Third Task on time.

Then she had no choice but to try tying him up literally. With rope stolen from the broom shed, she waited outside the boys' dormitory until the middle of the night, intending to attack him from behind when he came out.

Naturally, she failed. How could a girl who couldn't even make the main Quidditch team take down the best Seeker at Hogwarts?

Cedric merely gave his wand a little wave, and she was frozen on the spot. Then he politely handed her over to the Prefect, who had come after hearing about the incident. The Prefect deducted five points from her for "attempting to attack a fellow student late at night, though her motive was unclear and her technique clumsy," and she earned herself a week of cleaning the Hufflepuff broom shed.

Clara had never been punished in her life. She sat on the common room sofa and cried before Rowle came back.

She thought that, in Cedric's eyes, she was probably a complete madwoman now, though he wouldn't remember what had happened.

Then she remembered-there was someone else.

Someone Cedric might listen to seriously.

Once again, she returned to June twenty-third.

At dusk, by the Black Lake, the setting sun dyed the water gold and orange. From a distance, Clara saw Cho Chang sitting with her back to her beneath the beech tree.

Cho Chang could undoubtedly be considered the most outstanding girl at Hogwarts, in every sense.

Clara's steps faltered. She had never imagined that one day she would approach Cho Chang of her own accord.

Cho Chang turned around, her long black hair lifted by the evening breeze, surprise in her eyes.

"Can I help you?"

"Cho Chang," Clara said, looking into her eyes, "I know you don't know me, and I know this sounds absurd. But there's something wrong with the cup in tomorrow's Triwizard Tournament. If Cedric touches it, he'll die. Please, all I'm asking is that you stop him. Don't let him touch that cup."

Cho Chang's eyes widened, but she didn't refuse. She simply nodded to show that she would pass the message along.

Cedric stopped Clara at dinner.

"Albert," he said gently, with even a hint of apology, "Cho told me what you said. Thank you for the warning. But I think we should trust the school, don't you?"

He looked at Clara, still smiling, though his expression grew more serious. "But I don't want you joking about things that would upset Cho. You can come directly to me." He smiled, seemingly trying to lighten the mood while also afraid of hurting Clara's pride. "How about this? Once the tournament is over tomorrow, I'll buy you a Butterbeer and we can talk."

Clara stood where she was.

Cedric had openly stood up for Cho Chang in what he said. She had once thought it would hurt to see that-that, just like at the Yule Ball, her heart would ache as though someone had it in a fist, and she would be distraught for days afterward.

But now she stood there, her heartbeat steady, tired, barely feeling a ripple.

She suddenly realized that affection could be worn away by watching him die again and again. Those girlish stirrings of her heart, those afternoons spent secretly watching his retreating figure, those days when a single "good morning" from him made her happy all day—they were all still in her memories, but buried beneath so much death that they had gradually withered.

Now, when she looked at Cedric, she no longer saw a boy she had secretly loved for five years, but someone she had tried to save countless times and could never bring back.

She wanted to say, Cedric, you say that every time. Every time, you say we'll talk after the tournament. But once the tournament ends, you die.

If I get the chance, I really would like to have that Butterbeer.

But her lips moved, and in the end she said nothing. She turned and left.

She simply walked back along the Black Lake, the June evening breeze brushing her face with the scent of water plants, and suddenly found herself ridiculous. She had actually gone to Cho Chang.

She had actually thought one girl's concern could make another boy change his mind. Cedric wouldn't believe her because he was too normal, too normal to understand what "you'll die tomorrow" meant. It wasn't even that he didn't trust her. He probably just couldn't fit something like that into his head.

How could someone who had never seen death possibly understand it?

Clara didn't return to her dormitory that night. She sat on the common room sofa, staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace until dawn.

June twenty-fourth.

Green light.

Darkness.

She opened her eyes again. June twenty-third.

Clara didn't get up. She lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling for an entire day.

She thought that since everything she did would fail anyway, she might as well do nothing.

The next day: green light, darkness.

June twenty-third again.

Clara had lost count of how many times it had been.

She had tried writing letters, sending anonymous notes, posing as a Seer, threatening him, pleading with him, shouting in the Great Hall, and sending Rita Skeeter an anonymous tip in the hope that public opinion could stop the tournament. She had even tried aiming a Stunning Spell at him from a distance. Of course, he dodged it easily, and only a wisp of gray smoke emerged from the tip of her wand.

They all failed. Without exception.

She was like an insect flying into glass. Every window was lit, but none led outside.