Cedric stood up, took his empty mug back, and said, “Tomorrow, when that dragon looks at you — don’t think about winning. Think about flying.”
The tent was huge — silk panels embroidered with magical beasts, braziers burning low blue flames. But the other three Champions weren’t there. Fleur’s sleeping area was sealed with a shimmering charm; Krum’s side smelled of salt and iron; Cedric’s hammock swayed empty, probably off walking the edge of the Forbidden Forest again.
Harry stared at him. “A scone?”
“I’m thinking about dying,” Harry said flatly. “But running’s on the list.” Harry Potter.4
Ron was snoring in the next bed, still not talking to him. Hermione had sent him a message via a tiny, folded paper crane that morning: “Read about Swiveling Distraction Spells. Page 394.” But Harry had barely opened Magical Me without wanting to throw it across the tent.
“No,” Harry said. “I didn’t.”
But for the first time all week, he didn’t feel alone. Cedric stood up, took his empty mug back,
“Why aren’t you panicking?” Harry asked.
Harry hesitated, then took the mug. The tea was sweet and strong. It tasted like someone’s kitchen — not a castle’s, not a feast’s. Just a kitchen. A normal one.
He sat up, pulled on his trainers, and crept out into the Champions’ enclosure. Fleur’s sleeping area was sealed with a shimmering
“Dried currants. Very flammable, apparently.” Cedric took a sip from his mug. “Want some tea? It’s from my mum’s thermos. Stays hot for a month.”
He didn’t go there. He went to the lake instead.
It wasn’t a question.
Cedric sat down a few feet away. He didn’t offer false cheer. He just said, “I watched my mum burn a scone once. Whole kitchen went up. Dad used a Hose Charm for an hour. After that, dragons seemed slightly less terrifying.”
The water was black glass. The Durmstrang ship sat moored like a drowned bone. Harry sat on a flat rock and pulled his knees to his chest.