This World (1)

Cedric no longer knew how he had made it back to Hogwarts.

After Clara fell, it was as though all sound had vanished from his world in an instant.

It was the first time he had ever come face to face with death so directly.

Dumbledore arrived with a group of Aurors, and a silver Patronus drove the Dementors away; he saw the Death Eaters vanish into black smoke and Harry finally break free of his bonds. The images flashed before his eyes one frame at a time, like a slideshow under a Nonverbal Spell.

He knelt beside Clara. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes coated with a mixture of dirt and sweat, and there was a trace of blood at the corner of her mouth. But her expression was peaceful, as if she were asleep. Her right hand was still clenched tightly around her wand, her knuckles white.

"Clara," he called, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. She did not answer. "Clara." He called her name again. Still no answer. He had never been so afraid.

For the first time, he realized that death was not an abstract word. Death was a person. Someone you knew. Someone who had been talking to you at the Hufflepuff table that morning, chatting with you by the fireplace the night before. It was her pulse disappearing beneath your fingertips. It was never hearing her voice or seeing her eyes again.

He wanted to ask her why-why had she been there? Why had she taken that curse for him?

They could not even be called particularly close friends. She was not Cho, not Ernie, not any of the people he had thought would be by his side at a moment like this. She was just a younger student he had chatted with a few times in the common room, who had given him a book on Defense Against Dark Magic. Beyond that, they had had very little to do with each other.

Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder. Madam Pomfrey knelt beside Clara, a faint light glowing at the tip of her wand—and then the light went out. She was silent for a long time before gently shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, Albus," she said quietly. "She's gone."

Cedric did not know how he got to his feet. Someone draped a cloak over his shoulders and helped him toward the Portkey. He was like a marionette, no longer aware of himself.

Just before passing through the Portkey's blue light, he looked back one last time. Clara lay on the grass in the graveyard, moonlight falling on her face. The petal pendant on her wrist had lost its glow and lay lifelessly on the ground.

Then the light swallowed everything. When they returned to Hogwarts, the students in the stands were still cheering and screaming.

But they soon realized something was wrong. They saw Harry and Cedric covered in blood, the body on the stretcher, and the expressions on Dumbledore's and McGonagall's faces. The screams turned to silence, as though a Nonverbal Spell had been cast over the entire Quidditch Pitch.

Cedric's father pushed through the crowd, his face deathly pale as he seized Cedric's shoulders and called his name.

Cedric merely said, numb, "Dad, I'm all right," then turned back to look at the stretcher. Mr. Diggory held him, trying to comfort him.

Cho Chang ran down from the Ravenclaw stands, her long black hair blowing loose in the night wind. She stopped when she reached him, her hand hovering in the air without touching his arm. She looked at his expression, and then she cried.

He tried to raise a hand to wipe away her tears, but it felt too heavy to lift. He just stood there, feeling as though the world had taken on a different shape.

Rowle rushed down from the stands, practically tumbling down the last few steps. He pushed through the crowd, shoving aside anyone in his way-Ernie tried to grab his sleeve, but he shook him off—and stopped beside the stretcher.

He looked down at her face. That face had fought him for the last piece of toast that morning, had smiled by the fireplace the night before last and said, "I'll buy you a Butterbeer in a couple of days," and had worn a helpless smile every time he pressed a beef roll on her. Now it was as pale as a sheet of paper.

He did not seem to believe it.

"Lyla," he called softly.

There was no answer.

"Clara Albert! Get up!"

His voice rose, as though he meant to shout her awake from a lie-in-just as he had done countless times in their dormitory. But this time Clara did not sit up rubbing her eyes, did not mumble, "Rowle, let me sleep five more minutes," and did not hit him with a pillow. That face lay still, so still that it was unlike her.

Rowle's tears finally fell, and he began to sob uncontrollably. He clutched the hand that hung over the side of Clara's stretcher. It was frighteningly cold, but he refused to let go.

"You said you'd explain it to me—you promised—you never lie to me, Clara Albert, but you lied to me this time-get up-get up and explain-"

Dumbledore gently put an arm around his shoulders. He did not struggle, only clutched at Dumbledore's robes, his whole body shaking as he cried.

Cedric stood at the edge of the crowd, watching Rowle hold Clara's hand and listening to his hoarse cries echo over the silent Quidditch Pitch.

He should go over. He should say something to Rowle-say he was sorry, that it was all his fault, that she had died to save him. But his feet seemed nailed to the grass. He looked down at his hands. They had held Clara's hand only moments ago, felt it turn from warm to cold.

Madam Pomfrey took him to the Hospital Wing. She said Harry still had some things to deal with, and Dumbledore had asked Cedric to go to the Hospital Wing first to have his injuries treated. Mr. and Mrs. Diggory went with him.

"I'm all right." He tried to comfort his parents, but they clearly did not believe him.

Madam Pomfrey brought him a potion. Cedric asked nothing and drank it all in one gulp. Everything around him blurred, and soon he fell into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke again, he saw Harry lying beside him. Someone was arguing outside the curtains and running toward the ward.

Harry was awake too, his head turned toward Cedric.

Fudge, the Minister for Magic, strode in, followed closely by several professors.

The sudden noise gave Cedric a headache. He and Harry exchanged a glance and decided to pretend to be asleep.

Fudge was arguing with Dumbledore about whether Voldemort had returned. Cedric could not understand why Fudge refused to believe something so obvious, when so many Aurors had seen it.

"Cornelius, what about the death of a student? Was that an accident?" Professor McGonagall could listen no longer and cut in.

"Yes, Miss Albert's death was an accident. We at the Ministry of Magic deeply regret that an innocent student died as a result of the Goblet of Fire being held."

"It wasn't an accident." Cedric could not bear it any longer and interrupted them.

His voice was hoarse and low because he had gone so long without water, but in the suddenly silent room, every word was frighteningly clear. Everyone turned to look. Cedric had sat up.

He wore the Hospital Wing's patient clothes, and his face was pale. The wound on his forehead was still covered with gauze, and the bandage on his arm had loosened slightly when he sat up, a small patch of pale red blood seeping through. But his gray-blue eyes did not waver as he stared straight at Fudge.

Mr. Diggory stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder.

"Minister, you said her death was an accident." His steady voice carried across the ward. "But I was there. Harry was there too. We saw that man kill her with the Avada Killing Curse. The curse was meant for me, and she pushed me out of the way. It wasn't an accident. It was murder."

Fudge's face twitched. He clearly had not expected a student covered in injuries to sit up and contradict him. He tried to recover his official composure, and a note of forced reassurance entered his voice. "Mr. Diggory, you've been through a terrible trauma. I quite understand that right now you-"

"I wasn't hallucinating, Minister." Cedric threw back the blanket and stood barefoot on the cold floor, which made him more alert. He was a head taller than Fudge, and his whole body was tense as he stood there. He thought he probably wished more than anyone that it had been a hallucination. "I saw Voldemort come back to life. I saw him cast the Dark Mark with his wand. I saw dozens of Death Eaters answer his summons and appear in the graveyard. I saw him kill Clara Albert himself. It wasn't an accident. It was murder, committed by Voldemort."

When he said the name, Fudge visibly recoiled a step, as though he had been burned.

"Cedric." Dumbledore's voice sounded softly. He walked over and patted Cedric's shoulder. "You've made yourself quite clear. Leave the rest to me."

Cedric remained where he was, his chest heaving and his fingers still trembling slightly. His father's hand had rested on his shoulder the whole time and had never moved away. Dumbledore turned to Fudge, his voice returning to its usual calm, though every word carried an unquestionable weight.

"Cornelius, I think that is enough visiting for today. My students need rest. If there is anything else you wish to know, you may come to my office, and I will explain everything to you."

Snape also stopped Fudge and rolled up his sleeve to show him something, making him turn pale with shock. Fudge did not press them any further. He left the room, then came back and tossed down a bag of gold coins.

"One thousand Galleons, for the two of you to split. There was supposed to be an award ceremony, but obviously, under the present circumstances..."

He strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

Cedric and Harry looked at the bag of gold, neither willing to reach for it.

Cedric met Mr. and Mrs. Albert the following morning.

They were a very ordinary Muggle couple, and there was clearly much about the magical world they did not understand. But Cedric also knew that they loved their daughter very much.

Dumbledore had sent people to fetch them—an Auror and a Ministry liaison. The two Muggles stood in the Entrance Hall amid robed wizards, floating candles, and whispering portraits, but there was no curiosity on their faces, only a numb pallor.

Cedric stood around a corner in the corridor and watched Dumbledore himself lead them toward the Hospital Wing. His feet followed of their own accord, but he stopped outside the door. He did not go in. He did not want to disturb their last moments alone with their daughter. He leaned against the corridor's stone wall, looking down at his hands as he waited.

After a long time, the Hospital Wing door opened. Mr. and Mrs. Albert came out. Mrs. Albert's eye makeup was completely smudged, and Mr. Albert's tie had come entirely undone and hung loosely over his chest.

They saw a young man standing by the door, tall and broad, wearing patient clothes, with gauze on his forehead and a bandage around his arm.

"I think you must be Cedric Diggory," Mrs. Albert said. It was not a question, but a statement.

Clara looked a great deal like her, with amber eyes, faint dimples, and dark brown curls. Cedric froze for a moment when he heard his name from her lips. "Lyla mentioned you in her letters. She said you were the best person she'd ever met. I think if she knew she saved you, she'd be very happy."

She took two steps forward and embraced the boy who was a head taller than her.

Cedric stood there, unsure where to put his arms. Her embrace was gentle, and she smelled faintly of laundry soap—the scent of Muggle laundry detergent, entirely different from Hogwarts' magical laundry.

"I'm sorry." His voice finally broke. The strength he had not dared let go of in front of his parents over the past days crumbled in an instant. His shoulders shook violently in Mrs. Albert's embrace, and his fingers clenched the edge of his patient clothes, his knuckles turning white.

Mrs. Albert did not let him go. She simply held him a little tighter and gently patted his back, as though comforting a child who had had a nightmare.

"She wouldn't blame you. If she did, she wouldn't have pushed you out of the way."