Throwing Caution to the Wind

Clara had a crazy idea.

Before the competition began, she would stop Cedric in the stadium, in front of tens of thousands of people.

If she managed to stop him, she might embarrass herself, but that was all right. She could just go back to the Muggle World afterward.

If she failed, she would start over. No one would remember it anyway.

Clara stood in the shadows of the players' tunnel.

She knew Cedric would pass through here. She had seen it happen too many times—he always arrived fifteen minutes early and waited with his father at the entrance for Bagman to call him. She leaned against the cold stone wall, clutching her wand in her sweat-soaked palm.

Footsteps and the sound of laughter and conversation came from the end of the tunnel.

Cedric walked at the front, dressed in Hufflepuff's gold-and-black competition robes, his hair lifting slightly in the evening breeze. He was saying something to his father, his usual gentle smile on his lips.

Clara took a deep breath and rushed out of the shadows.

"Cedric!"

He turned around, but before he could offer a polite smile, Clara grabbed his wrist.

"You can't go in." Her voice was shaking, but her grip was as tight as an iron clamp. "There's something wrong with the cup. You'll die. Come with me, please. Just this once, come with me."

The noise around them abruptly died down for a few seconds. Cedric and his father exchanged glances. Mr. Diggory looked somewhat displeased; after all, no father wanted to hear someone say to his face that his son would die.

Someone in a corner of the stands gave a quiet laugh, thinking it was a bold declaration of love.

"Albert?" Cedric froze and tried to pull his hand free, but her grip was too tight. "You-"

"I'm telling the truth." Clara stared into his eyes, speaking each word distinctly. "I've seen it countless times. The maze, the cup, and then you died. Countless times, Cedric. You die every time, every single time. Please, don't go in."

Cedric's expression changed, becoming filled with shock and concern. He stopped trying to pull his hand away and instead gently laid his other hand over hers, as though soothing a crazed animal.

"Clara Albert," he said in a low voice, genuine concern in his tone, "you sound like you need help. I'll take you to the Hospital Wing after the competition, all right? Or I could call Madam Pomfrey-"

"I don't need Madam Pomfrey!" Clara's voice finally broke out of control, the words almost a shout. "I need you to stay out! Do you know how many times I've tried? How many times I've come to you? The notes, the library, the shore of the Black Lake—you always smile and say we'll talk after the competition, and then you die! Cedric Diggory!"

People were whispering.

She could feel eyes from all directions pricking her like needles—the spectators in the stands had noticed the commotion at the edge of the field, staff members in the tunnel had gathered around, and someone was calling for the Ministry of Magic's Aurors. She heard people muttering, "Who's that girl?" "Is she mad?" "Has someone used a Confundus Charm?"

A hand came down on her shoulder. Then another. Two men in Ministry of Magic uniforms pulled her away from Cedric, prying her fingers loose one by one.

"No, you don't understand-"

Cedric stood where he was, the light of the setting sun reflected in his gray-blue eyes, his expression too complicated to read. His lips moved as though he wanted to say something, but Bagman's voice had already rung out over the stadium, urging the competitors to enter. His father tugged at his sleeve. He hesitated for a moment, then was ushered toward the entrance to the maze.

He looked back at her once.

Clara was dragged in the opposite direction. She didn't shout again; her voice had already cracked, leaving her able to make only a hoarse rasp. Tears streamed down her face along with sweat. She didn't even know when she had started crying.

But she had one last thing to say.

Summoning all her strength, she turned and shouted in the direction of Dumbledore and the assembled professors-

"He's back! That man, he's coming back tonight! Harry knows! Harry Potter—he knows!"

The noisy crowd around her paused for a moment, but soon the clamor resumed.

No one paid any attention to what she had said.

Most people took it as another part of her madness. Along with "there's something wrong with the cup" and "Cedric will die," it was just more nonsense from another mad girl.

But Clara saw Dumbledore pause, and Professor Moody beside him—she didn't know what he was thinking, but his false eye kept swiveling.

For an instant, the old man's fingers stopped in midair. He turned, and his blue eyes behind his Half-moon Spectacles suddenly sharpened.

"Wait."

His voice wasn't loud, but the two Aurors escorting Clara immediately stopped. Dumbledore walked over, and this time he looked into her eyes. Clara thought that perhaps her last words had worked.

"You just said he was back." Dumbledore spoke so quietly that only Clara and the two people nearest him could hear. "Who is he?"

Clara froze. She suddenly realized she didn't know.

During her countless returns, amid the chaotic cries, she had only heard Harry say in broken words that he was back.

"I..." Her lips trembled, but she seized the chance. "I know. I just know. He's back-tonight, and it has something to do with that cup."

Dumbledore raised a hand, cutting her off. He gave her a long look, then turned to the people beside him. "Take this young lady to the tent. Please give her a cup of Pumpkin Juice and let her sit down. I'll speak with her later."

The two Aurors exchanged glances. Dumbledore said nothing more. He turned and walked toward the maze entrance, his pace a little quicker than usual. Clara saw him bend down as he passed Harry and say something in a low voice. Harry's face went pale in that instant.

He's probably asking Potter whether they knew each other before. Whether this was a prank they planned together? Clara thought.

Harry answered. Would that make her a little more credible?

Dumbledore didn't stop the competition-perhaps he couldn't, or perhaps he thought tighter security would be enough. Clara was taken to a small tent beside the field, where someone handed her a cup of Pumpkin Juice. One corner of the tent flap was raised, and she could see Ministry of Magic officials speaking quietly on the field. Several Aurors began patrolling the edge of the maze, their expressions tense.

They were tightening security. They thought that would be enough.

Clara set the cup on the table, clasped her hands in her lap, and waited quietly. She didn't try to rush out again, because she had already done everything she could.

She had said Cedric would die and that he was back, and Dumbledore had heard her. In all her loops, this was the first time someone had heard those two statements and reacted with something other than thinking she was mad. For her, that was already enormous progress.

Bagman's voice rang out over the stadium. "Ladies and gentlemen, the competition will proceed as planned! Competitors, please take your places-"

Krum entered the maze. Phoebe entered the maze. Then Harry, and then Cedric.

Through a gap in the tent flap, Clara saw Cedric pause at the entrance. As he had countless times before, he looked back toward the stands. Then, to her surprise, he glanced at the tent, some concern in his eyes. He turned and walked into the black mist.

Clara clenched the robes over her knees.

Wait.

Red sparks.

Krum.

Phoebe.

Screams and cries.

Clara closed her eyes. Her tears had already run dry over too many returns. When darkness swept over her, she even felt a numb sense of familiarity, like a tune heard too many times, leaving only a hollow echo.

She heard someone's hurried footsteps approaching the tent, but it no longer mattered.

When she opened her eyes again, there was the warm yellow ceiling, the aroma of sausages, and Rowle's voice.

June twenty-third.

She wasn't going to look for Cedric anymore.

Although Dumbledore's attention last time hadn't saved Cedric, it had at least made her realize that perhaps she should change her approach and focus on the words "he's back."

Finding out who he was might give her an opportunity to speak with Dumbledore face-to-face.

Every time Potter came rushing out of the maze, he cried out the same words-"He's back." She hadn't noticed how the adults reacted the first time, but the second, the third, and many times afterward, she had seen it clearly. Dumbledore's expression had changed, showing more than grief over Cedric's death. Professor Snape's face had been as white as paper.

They all knew who "he" was.

And the fact that "he was back" frightened them more than Cedric's death.

Clara wasn't a particularly clever student, but she had a strength characteristic of Hufflepuff: when she decided something was worth doing, she wouldn't let go, like a dog with a bone.

She spent the entire morning going through old newspapers in the library.

Madam Pince glared at her several times because she was noisily flipping through bound volumes of the Daily Prophet and spreading them all over the table. But Clara couldn't worry about manners. Her fingers swept line by line over the yellowed pages, searching for any clue that could make those adults' faces change so drastically.

Her intuition told her that all of this probably had a great deal to do with the boy named Harry Potter, so she turned her attention to him as well.

"Merlin's smelly socks, you actually don't know what the famous Potter did? You're Muggle-born, but darling, you're in your fifth year already!"

When she asked Rowle, "Is there anything special about Harry Potter besides that scar?" Rowle looked at her in disbelief.

Newspapers from more than a decade ago were hard to find, but Rowle was a great help-Rowle Collins's father was an editor at the Daily Prophet, and she had a complete collection going back to its first issue.

Then Clara saw it.

It was a newspaper from fifteen years ago. The front-page headline was printed in large, bold type, as though the person who had printed it had thought ordinary lettering wasn't enough to convey the horror of it:

"You-Know-Who and Death Eaters attack Ministry of Magic"

You-Know-Who.

The words landed in her mind like a pebble, sending ripples spreading outward.

Of course she knew about You-Know-Who, even though she had been born into a Muggle family.

Ever since she had come to the wizarding world, the name had been like background noise, unmentioned by everyone, yet present everywhere.

Like Cersei Bones's mother, or the Gryffindor Neville Longbottom's parents, they had always lived under You-Know-Who's shadow.

Another newspaper was dated Halloween fourteen years ago. On the front page was a house in Godric's Hollow that had been half blown apart. In the photograph, a faint image of the Dark Mark flashed occasionally, and the headline beside it was shocking-"The Potters murdered, one-year-old son miraculously survives, You-Know-Who mysteriously loses power."

She read on.

James and Lily Potter, core members of the Order of the Phoenix, had been betrayed by their best friend and murdered by You-Know-Who himself on Halloween night. But when he tried to kill their one-year-old son, Harry Potter, the Killing Curse rebounded. You-Know-Who lost his power and disappeared, leaving a lightning-shaped scar on the boy's forehead.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

Clara put down the newspaper, leaned back in her chair, and stared at the library's mottled ceiling.

So You-Know-Who didn't die back then?

So when Harry Potter came back, lying on the ground with his hand pressed to his forehead, was it because of that scar? Was there some connection between the scar and You-Know-Who?

So was Cedric killed by You-Know-Who? But why would You-Know-Who kill him?

She now knew who he was.

But that was far from enough. Clara felt she still needed to know more.