Chapter Text
I couldn’t stop staring at him.
Cedric Diggory rose from the Hufflepuff table as though the motion had been waiting inside him all evening, easy and unhurried, like the Goblet of Fire had simply confirmed what most of the hall already felt in their bones: he was the right choice. Tall, shoulders relaxed yet carrying that quiet assurance, dark hair still falling perfectly even after the feast had left everyone else a little rumpled. The cheers erupted before Dumbledore had quite finished the name. Hufflepuffs leapt up, shouting, hammering the table until the plates jumped. Gryffindors clapped too—some of them with real heart, louder than they ever had for me, and that cut deeper than it ought to have. Even Ravenclaws and a handful of Slytherins joined in. It was unanimous. Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts’ true champion.
I clapped because everyone else was, but my hands felt thick and clumsy, like they didn’t belong to me. The sound of it all crashed over me in waves—cheers, whistles, someone shouting “Dig-go-ry!” over and over like a chant. And there he was in the middle of it, smiling that modest, perfect smile, looking surprised but not really, because why would he be? Of course it was him. Sixth year, popular, Quidditch star, good at everything without even seeming to try.
For a second something sharp twisted in my chest. Not quite anger… more like the air had been sucked out of the room and he was still breathing just fine.
It wasn’t fair. He got to be normal and still get chosen. No lightning scar. No dead parents. No Dark Lord trying to murder him every year. Just… Cedric. Good old reliable Cedric who’d caught the Snitch fair and square last year while I was busy falling off my broom because dementors decided to show up. He didn’t even gloat about it afterwards. Just helped me up, asked if I was all right. Like a decent human being.
And that decency—it stung worse than any taunt ever could.
Across the hall, I saw Cho watching him. Her dark eyes were bright, her hands pressed together as she clapped. She was smiling—really smiling, full and radiant, like she didn’t have to try at all. I’d gotten soft smiles from her before, quick and polite, like the one in the corridor last year when our fingers brushed over her books. But nothing like this. Nothing this open, this easy. Not for me. Not that I’d given her much reason to. I hadn’t even worked up the nerve to talk to her properly yet. And now Cedric was walking past the Ravenclaw table, and she called something to him—congratulations, probably—and he stopped, leaned down a little, said something back that made her laugh.
Dumbledore was saying something about the champions gathering in the antechamber, but I barely heard it. The noise was dying down now, people settling back into their seats, buzzing with excitement about Cedric. About how he’d represent Hogwarts perfectly. How he was going to win the whole thing, probably.
And then the Goblet flared again.
Red flames shot higher, brighter. A second slip of parchment spiralled out. Dumbledore caught it, unfolded it, and read aloud in a clear voice: “Fleur Delacour.” The Beauxbatons girls erupted in screams and applause. Fleur rose gracefully from the blue-clad table, silver hair gleaming, chin high as she glided toward the front amid a storm of cheers from her schoolmates.
The Goblet dimmed, then flared once more. “Viktor Krum.” A roar went up from the Durmstrang contingent—deep, thundering claps and stomps that shook the benches. Krum stood, broad-shouldered and unsmiling, and stalked forward like he’d already won. The hall settled again, the excitement shifting to satisfied anticipation.
Three champions. One from each school. Perfect.
Then the Goblet flared a final time—angrier, spitting sparks higher than before. The hall went dead quiet. Another piece of parchment flew out, curling and blackened at the edges. Dumbledore caught it, unfolded it slowly, and I saw his face change—just a flicker, but enough to make my skin prickle. “Harry Potter.”
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard. The name echoed in my head, wrong and impossible. Harry Potter. That’s me. But it couldn’t be.
“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore said again, louder, looking straight at me.
Every head turned. Hundreds of eyes. I felt them like pinpricks all over my skin. Ron’s mouth was hanging open. Hermione had gone very still, her book forgotten in her lap.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. This wasn’t happening. I hadn’t put my name in. I couldn’t have—the age line, the rules—I was only fourteen. Someone was playing a joke. A sick, twisted joke.
“Harry,” Hermione whispered, nudging me hard. “You have to go up.”
My legs felt like lead as I stood. The scrape of my bench was deafening in the silence. I started walking, feeling the stares boring into my back. Whispers started up behind me, sharp and quick.
“He’s too young.”
“How did he get past the age line?”
“Probably cheated.”
“Attention-seeking again, typical Potter.”
I kept my eyes on the floor, counting the flagstones, trying not to hear it. But I did. Every word. And when I risked a glance up, I saw Cedric.
He was standing near the staff table, waiting to go into the antechamber. His arms were crossed, and he was looking at me—not smiling now, not cheering. Just watching, with this quiet, serious expression. Like he felt sorry for me.
That was worse than anything.
Pity. From Cedric bloody Diggory.
I looked away fast, heat rushing to my face. He probably thought I’d done it on purpose. Entered illegally just to steal some of his spotlight. Everyone did. Why wouldn’t they? That’s what Harry Potter does, isn’t it? Makes everything about himself. The Boy Who Lived, always needing to be the centre of attention.
I reached Dumbledore, who put a hand on my shoulder and steered me toward the door behind the staff table. His grip was firm, but I barely felt it. My head was roaring.
I hadn’t asked for this. I didn’t want it. I’d been perfectly happy—well, not happy, but fine—watching Cedric get chosen. Watching him get everything.
And now the whole school thought I’d cheated to take it from him.
Including him.
I stepped through the door into the antechamber, the roar of the Great Hall cutting off as it closed behind me. Fleur and Krum were already there, looking at me like I was an intruder. Cedric came in last, closing the door quietly. The room felt too small with all of us in it.
The fire crackled in the grate, throwing long shadows across the stone walls. No one spoke at first. Fleur Delacour stood as far from me as the small room allowed, her arms folded tight across her chest, silver hair gleaming like a barrier. Every time her eyes flicked my way, they were sharp with disdain, like I was some filthy creature that had crawled in off the street.
Viktor Krum leaned against the wall, thick arms crossed, dark eyes boring into me. His silence was heavy, accusing: a fourth champion, underage, breaking sacred rules. Whatever trick I’d used, it mocked the danger and prestige he’d come here to claim.
Then there was Cedric.
He stood near the fire, hands in his pockets, calm as ever. When our eyes met, he gave me a small nod — polite, careful. Not hostile like theirs. Just… distant. Like he didn’t quite know what to make of me anymore.
The door opened and the adults flooded in—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Moody, Crouch, Maxime, Bagman. The air thickened with tension.
Mr Crouch looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole. His face was rigid with fury as he snapped about rules being broken, contracts violated, the sacred nature of the Tournament defiled. Madame Maxime loomed beside him, her massive frame trembling with indignation, declaring in her booming French accent that this was an outrage, a deliberate insult to Beauxbatons’ honour. Fleur echoed her headmistress with a haughty toss of her head.
Bagman, on the other hand, was practically bouncing. “Two Hogwarts champions!” he kept saying, rubbing his hands together, eyes gleaming. “Think of the excitement! The headlines! This’ll be the best Tournament in years!”
I wanted to disappear into the stone floor.
Dumbledore watched me quietly, his blue eyes steady behind his half-moon spectacles. McGonagall’s lips were pressed so thin they’d nearly vanished. Even Snape’s usual sneer had an edge of something else—doubt, maybe, or calculation. Moody’s magical eye whirred madly, fixed on me like it was trying to bore into my skull.
“Do you swear you did not place your name in the Goblet, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, voice calm but firm.
“I didn’t,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I swear.”
He nodded once. McGonagall exhaled sharply. Moody grunted something that might have been agreement. Snape just narrowed his eyes.
But no one else believed me. Not really.
The meeting dragged on—Crouch insisting the magical contract was binding, that I had to compete whether I’d entered or not. Maxime demanding investigations. Bagman still grinning like a fool. In the end, there was nothing to be done. Four champions. No way out.
When we were finally dismissed, Cedric lingered for a second as the others filed out. “Harry,” he said quietly, “this is… a lot. You holding up?”
I looked at him—really looked. That same careful expression. Concern, maybe. Or just pretending.
I shrugged. “Fine.”
He hesitated, then nodded and looked back at the fire.
Watching the flames move across his face—still calm, still composed, still somehow the hero even with me here—I felt it settle like lead in my chest. He had everything. And now, because of me, he had to share it. That thought hurt more than I wanted to admit.