Chapter Text
The Great Hall was buzzing.
It was not the usual, comfortable hum of a thousand students eating and talking; this was a different beast entirely. It crawled under the skin, a restless, sharp energy that pressed in from every direction, making the air feel thick and electrically charged, like the breathless pause before a lightning strike split the sky open.
Seated at the Hufflepuff table, Cedric Diggory could feel it. It was a low-frequency vibration that seemed to travel up through the soles of his shoes and settle somewhere behind his ribs, humming there insistently.
Even so, his face was a mask of cool charisma.
He was leaning back in his chair with easy confidence, one arm draped casually over the back, posture loose and unthreatening. A small, practiced smile curved his mouth as he nodded along to something Everett Avery was saying about the Charms homework—something about wand motion, maybe, or theory?
He made the appropriate sounds of agreement at the right moments and laughed softly when the other boy did. He looked exactly like what everyone expected him to be: warm, approachable, and reliable. The kind of boy professors trusted instinctively. The kind of boy people assumed would do the right thing.
Under the table, his hands were clenched into tight fists. His fingernails bit into his palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped impressions, the pressure grounding him, keeping him contained.
He could feel his pulse in his wrists, in his throat. Cedric wanted this. Not just for the glory—though he would never pretend the thought of his father’s proud, shining face in the stands wouldn’t make something fierce and possessive bloom in his chest. But well… Cedric deserved this.
It was his turn. Finally.
Years of early mornings and disciplined practice. Dueling drills until his arms ached. Flying until his lungs burned. Cedric was fair—a hard worker, just as Helga Hufflepuff demanded. He was controlled. He relied on skill, not theatrics or luck. He was solid. Dependable. The kind of person you could rely on. This tournament… this was to be his reward.
Dumbledore’s voice, amplified by a simple Sonorus, cut cleanly through the din. “The moment has come,” he announced.
The Hall fell silent so abruptly it was almost painful, the sudden quiet ringing louder than the noise that had preceded it.
“In another moment,” Dumbledore continued evenly, “I will select the three champions… one from each school.”
Cedric’s eyes were fixed on the Goblet of Fire. It was burning brighter than ever, its flames a brilliant, dangerous white that hurt to look at directly if you stared too long. They twisted and leapt as if alive, as if eager.
He let himself imagine it—just for a second. His name, echoing through the enchanted space. The sound of it carrying, settling into the stones of the castle. The roar of the crowd from his own house first, loud and unrestrained, and then, grudgingly, from the others. The weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders, heavy but right, a burden he was ready—eager—to bear. It felt right. It felt like his destiny.
The first shot of fire spat out a charred piece of parchment.
“The champion for Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore read, his voice steady, “is Fleur Delacour.”
She rose from the Ravenclaw table with liquid grace, every movement deliberate and assured, beauty sharpened into something intimidating. Applause thundered through the Hall, and Cedric joined in automatically, his hands still faintly damp despite the cool air.
Another flame followed—deep blue, crackling with restrained power.
“The champion for Durmstrang,” Dumbledore called out, “is Viktor Krum.”
The Bulgarian Seeker barely moved, offering only a stiff, almost imperceptible nod from the Slytherin table before standing and making his way to the front of the Hall. The reaction was deafening.
This is it, Cedric thought.
His breath was caught in his throat. The air felt thin, suddenly, and he realized he’d been holding it without meaning to. His chest ached with it.
The fire flared a third time, a brilliant pillar of gold, and a final piece of parchment fluttered down into Dumbledore’s waiting hand. He unfolded it slowly, deliberately, the old parchment crackling in the hush.
“And the Hogwarts champion…” A pause—calculated, theatrical. “…is Cedric Diggory.”
The Hufflepuff table exploded. It was nearly physical—a wave of sound and motion that lifted Cedric to his feet before he consciously decided to move. Hands clapped at his shoulders, voices shouted his name, and someone laughed loudly in his ear.
Cedric was grinning, a real, unguarded grin, clapping people on the back, accepting congratulations with a dazed, almost giddy joy. His chest tightened painfully. This was it. This was his moment.
Dumbledore gestured toward a small side door behind the staff table. “If our champions will please join me in the antechamber.”
Cedric walked through the parting crowd like a king. People reached out to touch him as he passed—hands on his arms, his back. His name followed him in a low roar. This was perfect. This was how it was supposed to be.
The antechamber was small and wood-paneled, smelling faintly of lemon polish and old books. It was quiet, insulated from the roar of the Hall. Fleur and Krum were already there, imposing in very different ways.
Cedric was still buzzing, adrenaline humming pleasantly under his skin. The three of them. The champions. A neat, tidy, perfect picture.
All too soon, it came crashing down.
A sudden roar of sound filtered from the hall into the antechamber, a sharp, angry crackle that made the hairs along Cedric’s arms stand up.
Quickly, he and the other champions moved to the door, eager to witness whatever was happening. The fire burned an ugly, shocking red, unnatural and sickly, and a fourth tongue of flame shot into the air before spitting out another piece of parchment.
Cedric’s smile faltered. Dumbledore caught the paper, and his face went pale. He stared at the parchment, knuckles whitening around it.
“Hogwarts,” he whispered, the quiet word projected by his still-active sonorous. Then he looked up, eyes scanning the room. “Harry Potter.”
For a second, Cedric’s mind simply stopped.
Potter? Harry Potter? The boy may have had a habit of surviving things that should have killed him, but he was only a fourth year! Didn’t the Goblet have an age line?
Harry stumbled up from his seat and into the room, looking lost and terrified, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. He was so small. Up close, it was worse. Narrow shoulders. Too-thin wrists. Absently, Cedric was reminded of a little lost lamb.
In that moment, all the warmth, all the pride, all the joy Cedric had been riding curdled violently in his stomach, turning sour and acrid. This was his moment. His glory. And Harry Potter was here to steal it. Jealousy lanced through him, hot and sharp and deeply unflattering, made worse by Potter’s claimed innocense.
Apparently, he hadn’t submitted his own name. Hadn’t even tried. These things just happened to him. The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Got Everything.
Harry’s gaze flicked up, panicked and searching, and landed on Cedric. Cedric reacted on instinct. He put on the face. The charming, reassuring Cedric Diggory smile. The one that made people relax.
“It’s alright, Harry,” he said evenly, amazed at how steady his voice sounded. “We’ll figure it out.”
Inside, he was seething. How dare he stand there looking so fragile, so dainty, and ruin this? All wide green eyes and trembling hands.
And then—unbidden, violent—the thought slammed into him: I could break him. The idea was visceral. Immediate.
He could see it too clearly: Harry on the ground, pinned without effort, delicate wrists held down with one hand. Cedric was bigger. Stronger. A better wizard. It would be effortless. The shock of it made him take a step back. Guilt washed over him cold and sharp. What the hell was wrong with him?
Before Cedric could examine the thought further, the door to the antechamber creaked open, breaking the spell.
Dumbledore stood there, his expression grim but resolved. "Come," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The other headmasters are waiting."
He gestured for them to follow, leading them out of the suffocating, small room and into the cold, stone corridor beyond. The heavy door swung shut behind them, sealing the four champions in with the weight of the future.
—
The next two months were an exercise in avoidance.
Hogwarts became a maze of carefully planned routes and deliberate timing. Cedric perfected the art of leaving rooms just before Harry entered them. A glimpse of unruly black hair down a corridor sent him abruptly changing direction. Meals became brief, efficient affairs, his back permanently angled away from the Gryffindor table, as if the sight of Harry Potter might poison his drink.
At the wand-weighing ceremony, he stared fixedly at Ollivander’s long fingers, pretending fascination with silver scales while feeling Harry’s gaze like a physical touch against his skin. Distance made the resentment easier to manage.
Until mid-November, that was. Harry was waiting outside the greenhouses, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, biting absently at his lower lip until it was swollen and red. The sight hit Cedric like a blow.
I want to kiss him.
The thought was so sudden, so powerful, it almost made him stumble. It was like a misstep on a staircase — that moment of weightlessness where the body reacts before the mind has time to catch up. His foot caught slightly on the uneven stone, balance shifting just enough that he had to correct himself.
The shock of the thought lingered in his chest even after he’d steadied himself, pulse spiking, breath shallow. He hated it, just like he hated the boy himself.
He hated how Potter looked, small and vulnerable and so impossibly… kissable.
He wasn’t weak-looking, so much as he was narrow. It emphasized every line of him — collarbones sharp beneath fabric, wrists thin enough to disappear into sleeves, joints that looked loose and flexible, made to bend rather than break.
Unbidden, Cedric’s eyes caught on the slim line of his waist. He swallowed, shaking away the focus. It was a distraction he didn’t need. It was that kind of distraction that made people lose.
“Cedric,” Harry said, his breath pluming in the frigid air.
The soft sound of Harry’s voice seemed to reverberate in his bones.
Harry’s breath fogged visibly between them, dispersing and reforming with each quick inhale. The cold reddened his nose, the tips of his ears, the exposed skin of his face. He looked keyed tight, like a wire pulled too far. He was nervous, his green eyes wide and earnest. Too wide. Too bright.
His gaze flicked up to Cedric’s face and then away again, like he was bracing himself for impact. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, fingers flexing once, then curling slightly, betraying tension he wasn’t managing as well as he probably thought.
“I need to tell you something.”
Cedric shifted the weight of the dittany plant, using it as a shield. The movement was instinctive — a subtle adjustment, arms tightening around the bundle as if it were something solid he could hide behind. The dried leaves crinkled faintly under the pressure. He crossed his arms over it, posture closing, shoulders angling back just enough to create distance.
He was going for casual, like he hadn’t just been mentally cataloging the exact shade of Potter’s lips — darker where he’d bitten them raw, lighter at the edges where the cold had leached the color away. Despite himself, Cedric catalogued the faint sheen of moisture there as Potter’s tongue poked out to nervously wet his lips.
“What is it, Potter?” The name came out colder than he meant it to. Cedric’s tone was clipped — sharp enough to bite. It cracked through the space between them like frost under pressure, brittle and unforgiving.
“The first task,” Harry said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned in without seeming to realize he’d done it, head tipping forward slightly, shoulders rounding as though he were instinctively trying to protect the secret he was about to share. He glanced around, quick and wary, eyes darting toward the archways, the stone gargoyles, the open corridors beyond. “It’s dragons.”
Cedric stared at him. For a heartbeat, his mind went perfectly, terrifyingly blank.
Dragons. Of course it was dragons. A fresh wave of irritation washed over him, hot and immediate, climbing up the back of his neck and settling tight behind his eyes. How did he know? Who had told him? Had Dumbledore pulled him aside, voice lowered, hand on his shoulder? Had Potter’s name once again opened a door that stayed firmly shut for everyone else? And why was he telling him? Was this a ploy? Some Gryffindor maneuver meant to soften him up? A calculated attempt at false camaraderie? Did Potter think Cedric would be grateful? That he would owe him something afterward?
The idea was profoundly insulting. He, Cedric Diggory, did not need a warning from a fourteen-year-old whose body still looked half a season away from fully settling into itself. Someone who relied on instinct, luck, and survival instead of discipline and control.
“Dragons,” Cedric repeated, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
He let his eyes drift deliberately over Harry’s frame. Slowly. Not a glance. An assessment. All scrawny limbs hidden in an oversized coat that swallowed him whole, exaggerating his slightness. The coat made his shoulders look narrower, his torso longer, his waist smaller. His hands disappeared almost entirely into the sleeves when he shifted his grip, fingers barely visible at the cuffs. “That’s… helpful.”
The pause hung in the air. He watched Harry through it, watched the way his posture tightened, the way he seemed to brace himself without quite knowing why.
“Good luck with that, Potter. You’re going to need it.”
He meant every word. In his head, the image was vivid and cruel: Harry standing alone in the arena, dwarfed by scale and flame, that narrow body swallowed by heat and roar. There would be no room to dodge. No space to slip through. Just fire and bone and inevitability. He’d be cooked alive.
Cedric expected the boy in front of him to flinch, shrinking away from the looming danger.
Instead, a slow, sharp grin spread across Harry’s face. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t uncertain. It was all teeth and challenge, something bright and feral flashing behind his eyes.
It was a spark Cedric hadn’t accounted for — defiance stripped bare and sharpened. It was like prodding a sleeping beast and discovering it had been awake the entire time.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Harry said, his voice clear and steady. He took a step closer. Just one, but it collapsed the space between them, closed the distance until Cedric could feel the warmth of him through the cold air, could see the faint rise of his chest, the tension in his shoulders. “You bring it, Diggory.”
And then, without another glance backward, he turned and walked away.
Cedric stood there, alone in the cold, the dittany suddenly feeling like it weighed a ton in his arms. The winter air pressed in around him, biting at his cheeks, his hands numb where they clenched too tightly around the bundle. That grin stayed with him. Burned into the backs of his eyelids.
Bring it, he would.
—
November 24th dawned grey and cold, the kind of day that promised rain but stubbornly refused to deliver it. The champions’ tent smelled like nerves — sweat, ozone, damp canvas layered over one another.
Cedric tried to stretch, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers, but the tension clung stubbornly to him. His muscles felt wired tight, coiled and waiting. He felt like a bowstring drawn too far.
You bring it, Diggory.
The words looped through his mind, maddeningly calm. The nerve of him. The sheer, idiotic arrogance.
When his name was called, he walked out into the arena with his head held high. The roar of the crowd washed over him in a distant blur. The world narrowed to the enclosure ahead. The Swedish Short-Snout loomed — blue scales, intelligent eyes, heat radiating off it in shimmering waves.
Okay.
Time to bring it.
—
Bring it, he did. Cedric swiftly defeated the dragon, managing to escape with the golden egg with nothing but a burn on his shoulder.
But when Potter stepped out into the arena and summoned his broom… Cedric forgot everything else.
He forgot the pain in his arm. Forgot the crowd. Forgot himself.
Harry did more than simply fly, he seemed almost to swim through the air, a merman out of water. He folded and stretched around the dragon’s fire with an ease that felt obscene, bending his body in ways Cedric’s couldn’t imagine.
His spine curved, shoulders rolled, and hips shifted fluidly as he threaded himself through spaces that should have crushed him. Every movement was deliberate. Instinctive. Perfect.
Cedric tracked him without blinking. The flex of his thighs around the broom. The way his torso twisted and arched, loose-limbed and precise. The way he trusted his body completely, surrendered to motion without hesitation.
Heat pooled low and dangerous in Cedric’s gut.
When Harry stole the egg and rolled needlessly through the air, Cedric’s thoughts went dark and possessive.
I need him, he thought, curling his hand into a fist. Mine.
—
The adrenaline was still thrumming through Cedric’s veins, a potent cocktail of victory and pain. The burn on his arm was a dull, throbbing reminder of his own success, but the image burned into his mind was of Harry, a flash of gold and defiance against the sky.
He was trying to get Madam Pomfrey to leave him alone, to just give him a potion and let him breathe, when a shadow fell over the entrance to the tent. Cedric glanced upward.
Harry was standing there, his hair a mess from the wind, his face smudged with soot. He wasn’t even looking at the healer. He was looking right at Cedric, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
He’d won. He’d survived. And he knew Cedric had been watching.
Madam Pomfrey finally bustled away, and Harry walked in, his steps deliberate. He stopped just a foot away, close enough for Cedric to feel the heat radiating off him, to smell the smoke and air that clung to his clothes.
“So,” Harry said, his voice quiet and a little raspy. “Was that impressive enough for you?”
The question hung in the air, a direct, sharp-edged callback to their last conversation. Harry Potter was taunting him.
It was the last straw.
Something inside Cedric snapped. The careful, charming facade he wore like a second skin shattered, and the raw, possessive jealousy he’d been nursing for months came roaring to the surface.
In two long strides, he closed the distance between them, crowding Harry’s smaller form easily. He used his height, his bulk, the sheer solid presence of him, and he backed Harry up until the smaller boy hit the canvas wall of the tent with a soft exhale of air.
But Cedric didn’t stop there.
He followed, pressing his body against Harry’s, pinning him with his weight. He was a solid wall of muscle and heat, and Harry was… small. So much smaller than he’d seemed from a distance.
The younger boy felt delicate under him, all sharp angles and bones, his frame completely swallowed by Cedric’s broader one. The top of Harry’s head barely reached Cedric’s chin.
Cedric leaned down, bringing his face close to Harry’s ear, his voice a low, dangerous growl that was barely more than a breath.
“You can use all the pretty little flying tricks you like,” he murmured, his breath hot against the shell of Harry’s ear. “But I’ll be winning this tournament.”
He was heady with the rush of it, the sheer, intoxicating power of having Harry trapped beneath him.
He could feel Harry’s heart hammering against his chest, a frantic, trapped bird beating against his ribs. He could feel the way Harry’s breath hitched, the way his body went rigid with shock before a tremor ran through him. It was intoxicating. He felt like a predator who had finally cornered his prey, and the thrill of it was a dark, heady wine.
He let the moment stretch, let Harry feel the full weight of his presence, the undeniable physical reality of him. He reveled in it, in the way Harry’s hands had come up to press against his chest, not pushing him away, just bracing himself. He was completely, utterly at his mercy.
Then, as suddenly as he’d moved, Cedric took a step back. The space between them was suddenly cold and vast.
He let his features smooth out, the intense, predatory glint in his eyes replaced by the easy, charming smile he’d perfected over years of being the golden boy of Hufflepuff. All evidence of his unsportsmanlike conduct, of the raw, possessive fury that had just consumed him, was gone. Vanished as if it had never been there.
Harry was still pressed against the wall, his back flat against the canvas. He was frozen, his face a brilliant, blotchy red, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panting breaths. He was flushed and utterly overwhelmed, his green eyes wide and dazed, his lips parted slightly in shock. He just stared at Cedric, completely undone.
Cedric’s honey brown eyes studied him, eager to memorize the flushed look to his features, how he peered up at Cedric from beneath long lashes.
Cedric smiled kindly, hidden once more behind his friendly facade. “Talk to you later!” And then he was gone.