Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Note: This chapter has been beta'd by Queen of Stars. Thanks to her.
Prologue
Hermione Granger had always known that she was a powerful witch, but what she had done was beyond all of her expectations. Though she was a very modest girl, she had always known that this much was pretty obvious. Yes, she was a little insufferable know-it-all, as Snape always called her, but that only served to remind her that all the knowledge she gathered from reading one book after another was put into good use. Her personal academic achievements were proof enough of that. But again, that was beyond everything she thought possible. Even magic must have its own limits!
She didn't believe in fate, destiny, karma or all that other associated rubbish. Her particular dislike for Divination was proof enough for that. Sure, she didn't see, feel or predict anything, but it was not a problem with her but this rather rubbish subject she always told herself. Her father had always told her that it was not the Fates that chose her destiny but that it would only be herself. That when someone made a poor choice in his life, he would always blame it on the Fates, but not on himself. Yes, only she would be able to choose whom she wished to become, not some silly superstitious concept for the weak minded. She would never base what she would do, wear, eat or whatever for the day, week, month or year on the horoscope, for example. Her father would always tell her to never let any rubbish like that decide what her life should be. He also told her to never give up on what she wanted her life to be. But what had happened, the events that led to how it happened and what she had done to achieve that formidable feat of magic might seriously get her to rethink her position on that front alone. After all, she had indeed appealed to them.
And to think that this morning began so well with her personal little victory over that snarky little beetle that was Rita Skeeter. True, the night of the third task was supposed to be that big, happy, and mighty event what with the Triwizard tournament. The Triwizard champion claiming the cup for eternal glory and have his name marked for eternity in the history books. To see him appear before all, triumphant and brandishing his prize. But why had everything gone so wrong that night?
With the rest of the spectators, she had been cheering when the champion appeared in the middle of the field with the cup, but as silence quickly fell upon them, she realised that something was wrong, terribly wrong. She was not what people would call a pessimist and surely not an optimist; she was, and would always be, just a down-to-earth realist. She preferred it that way as she was never overly disappointed or too surprised. She didn't like surprises, never had liked being surprised at all. When she heard Fleur Delacour's scream, she realised that she was right; though at that moment in time, she desperately wanted to be proved wrong. She so disliked being wrong. Something horrible, really horrible had happened.
She was so frantic that she didn't realise she had started moving; she actually forced her way down the stands to the field. After all, her best friend was still a contender; he may still be in the maze or he may have appeared on the field, but why had this pandemonium begun then? She so hoped that he was okay and was so wrapped up in her own world that she didn't hear the cries, wails and screams around her. She didn't hear the whispers, the murmurs that were floating in the air. Had she actually stopped to catch her breath, she would have been able to listen. She would have known what had happened before she witnessed it herself. She would have understood then, but there was only one thing on her mind at the moment: making sure that Harry was alright. She prayed to all deities above that her best friend got out of this damn tournament alive, and thus by doing so, she completely forgot about the last contender that had still been in the maze with Harry after Victor Krum and Fleur Delacour came out.
When she was finally on the field and drawing nearer to where Harry was, she finally understood the cause of this pandemonium. Harry was crouched low clutching not the Cup, which was lying a few feet from her, but someone by his shirt, a black and yellow Quidditch shirt, Cedric Diggory's black and yellow Quidditch shirt. She, at first, didn't understand what had happened, but as she paused to catch her breath, all the noise surrounding her again reached her ears, and she froze in shock.
He was dead.
Cedric Diggory, the beloved son, the cherished student, the formidable friend, the sweet, modest, honest and good young man was... dead.
She was instantly overwhelmed by sadness. She had seen only briefly one dead person before him this close, and that was when she had gone to her grandfather's funeral when she was ten years old. She loved her grandfather; he was always there for the holidays, family reunions and other things like that. True, she had been immensely sad when she understood that Grampa would not be there to see her go to a higher school or congratulate her on any new outstanding academic achievements, but she didn't remember feeling so much sadness at his funeral like what she felt just right now. Maybe, it was because that event was too far in time for her to recall properly how she felt. She felt herself drown in a flood of emotions in which sadness, pity and compassion were the most prominent. Tears were already streaming down her cheeks when she recognised why she felt so overwhelmed.
She thought of what could have been, what he could have become. He was a talented, smart and promising young man who would have had opportunities to prove what a fantastic wizard he was in a wide array of disciplines. She imagined everything that this brilliant young man would not be able to do or achieve. Like any normal young student now, he would have gone on to pass his NEWTs with high marks assuredly. He was, after all, a hard worker like every other Hufflepuff though he really stood out in his house. But one thing she would at least give him; he was the model poster student of Hufflepuff. He wouldn't be able to get a job. In her opinion it would be the recruiters who would have been incredibly lucky if he accepted their offers.
He was an excellent athlete who could have made a wonderful career in Quidditch. Though Hermione didn't give a tosh for Quidditch, she had to admit that watching him fly on a broom was absolutely mind-blowing. Though Harry was a brilliantly fast seeker for Gryffindor, Hermione had to say that Cedric surpassed Harry in grace, fluidity and charisma in the air. But she would never say that to Harry's face. Yes, he had that incredible aura in the air, and when she looked up, her eyes would always be drawn to him. It was really a pity that she had gone to very few Hufflepuff matches other than those opposing her house to his.
He was a brilliant mind who would have done wonders in the fields of research or analysis. He was talented and had that knack and affinity for magic that made it seem like watching what people would call poetry in motion when he'd cast a spell. She had watched him, mesmerised by his control of magic in the first task. The fluidity, the ease with which he had transfigured that big boulder into a live dog and sent it as decoy for his dragon. She had been impressed by him that day.
He would never ever bring a girl home to present to his parents, and he would also never get presented as the handsome boyfriend to the girl's parents. If she had ever had Cedric at her side at her parents' house, her mother would be overcome by joy, and she was sure that her father would have accepted him instantly, even though he would have been the man that would take his baby girl away from him. She had no idea if the relationship between him and Cho Chang was anything that serious or if it was just a school fling. He would never be able to marry the girl, have a naughty honeymoon or any morning cuddlings that would degenerate into more naughty moments.
He would never get to be announced by his lovely wife that she was pregnant. No special Valentine's Day or birthdays. He would never get to see his children growing up. Yes, she thought that a man like Cedric Diggory was the kind of man that would not contend with only one child. See them to Platform nine and three-quarters meet their friends, watch as they grow older and in turn find someone to love. He would not be able to grow old, to become a caring grandfather who would spoil his grandchildren in excess with love in company of his wife. No, he would not be able die of old age. All this was now not possible for him; he wouldn't be able to walk down that path because a sick megalomaniac bastard just happened upon his path and decided to put an end to his journey.
Hermione sadly watched as Mr Diggory rushed to his son, clutching him by his shoulder, looking at Cedric's lifeless body and crying for all to see that his son, his beautiful son, his pride and joy was gone. A short, blonde woman, whose normally kind features were twisted to show pure, undiluted grief, walked up to Amos Diggory, crouched there and took one look at Cedric while caressing his face before she snuggled into her husband's chest.' Her body was shaking violently, and Hermione didn't have to be Sybil Trelawney to guess that the woman was crying.
She started again to walk towards them, towards Harry, who was still crying near Cedric's body. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, crying over Cedric Diggory, the Boy Who Died. She rushed to Harry, who had let himself be carried away by Professor Moody, but then she stopped when she was directly in front of him. And she looked at him. His handsome face was slowly draining of colour, and his body was losing all signs that it had been one healthy, living being only mere hours ago.
She knelt down and stared at him. In front of her, Cedric was half lying in his parents' laps while Dumbledore stood behind them with one hand resting on Mr Diggory's shoulder conveying all the pain he himself felt at losing one amongst all his prized students. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks, but she didn't bother to wipe them as more cascaded down. She grabbed his hand; it was already so cold, so lax. Just one cold body. But she didn't drop it; she just squeezed it, willing it to squeeze hers back. Like when she had barrelled down the stands to the field to get to Harry, she prayed to all deities, be it Wizarding or Muggle ones, the Fates or any higher spirits. She implored them, pleaded with them, to give this young man (as he couldn't still be considered a boy) a second chance. A second chance at life so that Cedric Diggory could live all these experiences, and achieve all promises that his talents and aptitudes hinted at.
Still squeezing his hand while sending her prayers to whom might make them come true. She felt a strong burst of magic inside her and focused on it, willing it to summon Cedric Diggory's soul back to his body. She knew that this would never work, but for the first time in her life, she believed. She felt in tune with her magic; it did not feel the same like when she had her wand in hand and where she had to focus to will her magic to work. She felt like her whole body swelled with magic, that it seeped through every pore of her skin and engulfed everything around her, though it seemed no one else noticed this.
She did not know how long she had stayed that way, praying while tears still flowed freely down her cheeks, but she felt someone's hand touch her shoulder gently. She turned around to see her Head of House looking at her sadly. She knew what her Head of House was silently asking of her, and she slowly nodded. It was time for her to go and see how Harry was doing. She was reluctant to leave Cedric Diggory's side, but she had to make sure that Harry was not blaming himself for what had happened to Cedric, as he would surely do.
But just as she started getting up, she felt the hand she was still holding twitch. She stopped and stared at it. Did that just happen or did she only imagine it? That was surely her imagination playing tricks on her, but as she started to get up again, she felt it twitch again. She again stared at the hand, then at his face, but nothing had changed. Wasn't his left foot twisted the other way? Again, Hermione cursed her imagination, and she looked up to see Dumbledore looking at her and Cedric's clasped hands, a deep frown on his face. She turned again to her Head of House, but that was when it happened. Cedric Diggory's hand squeezed hers tightly and she gasped. She watched mesmerized as Cedric's body arched upwards, like some gigantic invisible hook had gripped him and was pulling him towards the sky. He then collapsed entirely. And again, for a second time, just as suddenly his body jerked upwards. And that's when Cedric Diggory screamed, a long heart-breaking scream.
Bloody freaking Merlin! What the hell has just happened?
To say that she was shocked was most certainly the biggest understatement of the century or of the millennia; she was paralysed as before her eyes a breathing, albeit still screaming, Cedric Diggory was shaking. He appeared to be in great pain like he had been cursed with a never-ending Cruciatus curse. But Hermione Granger was actually hypnotised by the rapid rise and fall of Cedric Diggory's chest. He was actually breathing!
HE WAS ALIVE!
End Notes:
It's very curious but the initial inspiration for the story happened after I actually watched a rerun of "Frankenstein". I told myself that I could write a story where someone would bring another back to life.
As I've always liked Hermione's character, she was my first choice. And there was no better second choice than Cedric. So, that's just it.
This is a story that I have been considering for a long time now. I don't know if you'll like it but please I'd just want to know what you think of it. Constructive criticism is of course most welcome.
Ludo