C/Hr Drabble
-By Convolution
(A little under 500 words.)
It’s the morning before the third task. Harry’s sweating.
“Hermione, I feel...weird…” He begins. She’s sitting with him, cross-legged on the grass. Within a few hours, he has to report to the labyrinth, with the other champions. The anxiety is heavy and oppressive, weighing down all of the air around them.
Hermione closes the spell book in her hand, frustrated. “Harry, I-”
It appears neither of them can finish their sentences.
From seemingly nowhere, Cedric Diggory materializes before them, looking just as glum. “Potter. Granger.” He acknowledges.
He’s stands there, a bit awkwardly, and Hermione peers up into this long face. “Can we help you?” Harry asks, irritably.
“I just-” Diggory falters. Clears his throat. “I just wanted to wish you luck.” He mumbles. He glances down at Hermione. “So… good luck, Potter.”
“Thanks, Cedric.” Harry replies. He doesn’t care. He’s thinking about how people DIE in these tournaments. He’s four-fucking-teen, which is too fucking young.
“Also,” Cedric continues. “I was thinking that maybe-”
What is it with today and no one being able to finish their thoughts? Hermione thinks.
“Never mind.” Cedric stops. “Never mind. Just- see you later, Harry. Bye.”
He leaves.
Harry hugs his knees and looks at Hermione. “That was weirder.”
“Yeah,” She replies. “Definitely weirder.”
Ten minutes before he has to go out to the labyrinth, Harry runs up to her. “Wish me luck, Hermione.” He says. He looks truly terrified. She has to admit; they’ve done well with making up this task- the maze is dark and gray, throbbing with a desperate and angry violence.
“You’ll be fine. Just get out of there alive.” She says.
“Right.” Harry says, nodding his head shakily. “Right.”
Two minutes before the champions have to go out the labyrinth, Hermione is stopped from stepping onto the stands by a warm hand on her shoulder. Diggory.
“Yes?” She says, turning. “Oh. H-hello, Cedric.”
“You know, Granger, what I was trying to tell you before was-”
Shit. Dumbledore’s calling for the champions. Cedric smiles a pained smile. “Hey, if I make it out of their alive, you have to find me. I really need to talk to you.” He says, jokingly. Then more seriously, “I mean it!”
“All right,” she says, smiling. “I’ll be here as soon as you all make it out of there.”
“Right. All right, wish me luck!” He says, as he walks away from her, to the maze.
“Good luck, Cedric. You’ll be fine. We’ll talk later.”
He grins, jogs towards the maze, pulls out his wand and runs in with Harry at the sound of, “GO!”
How treacherous does Hermione feel, sitting in the Gryffindor stands, knowing she’s wished Cedric good luck and not Harry?
She feels very treacherous.
It isn’t until some months after his funeral that she can ever utter the words ‘good luck’ to anyone ever again.
(A little under 500 words.)
It’s the morning before the third task. Harry’s sweating.
“Hermione, I feel...weird…” He begins. She’s sitting with him, cross-legged on the grass. Within a few hours, he has to report to the labyrinth, with the other champions. The anxiety is heavy and oppressive, weighing down all of the air around them.
Hermione closes the spell book in her hand, frustrated. “Harry, I-”
It appears neither of them can finish their sentences.
From seemingly nowhere, Cedric Diggory materializes before them, looking just as glum. “Potter. Granger.” He acknowledges.
He’s stands there, a bit awkwardly, and Hermione peers up into this long face. “Can we help you?” Harry asks, irritably.
“I just-” Diggory falters. Clears his throat. “I just wanted to wish you luck.” He mumbles. He glances down at Hermione. “So… good luck, Potter.”
“Thanks, Cedric.” Harry replies. He doesn’t care. He’s thinking about how people DIE in these tournaments. He’s four-fucking-teen, which is too fucking young.
“Also,” Cedric continues. “I was thinking that maybe-”
What is it with today and no one being able to finish their thoughts? Hermione thinks.
“Never mind.” Cedric stops. “Never mind. Just- see you later, Harry. Bye.”
He leaves.
Harry hugs his knees and looks at Hermione. “That was weirder.”
“Yeah,” She replies. “Definitely weirder.”
Ten minutes before he has to go out to the labyrinth, Harry runs up to her. “Wish me luck, Hermione.” He says. He looks truly terrified. She has to admit; they’ve done well with making up this task- the maze is dark and gray, throbbing with a desperate and angry violence.
“You’ll be fine. Just get out of there alive.” She says.
“Right.” Harry says, nodding his head shakily. “Right.”
Two minutes before the champions have to go out the labyrinth, Hermione is stopped from stepping onto the stands by a warm hand on her shoulder. Diggory.
“Yes?” She says, turning. “Oh. H-hello, Cedric.”
“You know, Granger, what I was trying to tell you before was-”
Shit. Dumbledore’s calling for the champions. Cedric smiles a pained smile. “Hey, if I make it out of their alive, you have to find me. I really need to talk to you.” He says, jokingly. Then more seriously, “I mean it!”
“All right,” she says, smiling. “I’ll be here as soon as you all make it out of there.”
“Right. All right, wish me luck!” He says, as he walks away from her, to the maze.
“Good luck, Cedric. You’ll be fine. We’ll talk later.”
He grins, jogs towards the maze, pulls out his wand and runs in with Harry at the sound of, “GO!”
How treacherous does Hermione feel, sitting in the Gryffindor stands, knowing she’s wished Cedric good luck and not Harry?
She feels very treacherous.
It isn’t until some months after his funeral that she can ever utter the words ‘good luck’ to anyone ever again.