1: Trouble - Fred Weasley

21. skyfall

let the skyfall, when it crumbles

we will stand tall and face it all together

at skyfall

-

Hogwarts was unrecognisable, in the days after that final task. The whole school seemed to be reeling, mourning, and ceasing to function. Snape had told them they'd be going home early, and refused to answer any other questions about Cedric, or Harry. Lessons had stopped completely, and though no rules had been put in place it felt as if the only things they were allowed to do were eat, read, and sleep.

Most students seemed to be keeping to their common rooms, which Imogen tried to do, for the first couple of days. Until some of her fellow Slytherins lost all respect and started openly discussing their theories on the circumstances of Cedric's death.

"Potter knew he couldn't beat him fairly for the cup," Mulciber announced, "so he did him in. I'll bet Dumbledore's trying to find some way to absolve him as we speak."

Imogen watched Draco listening with wide eyes, nodding along, and felt sick to her stomach. Why couldn't they all just be quiet? Every time she heard someone say his name, the dread of that night came back to her like a boulder, dragging her down to the depths of her mind. She was sure they'd soon know what had happened, and she was also sure it had not been the fourteen year old boy who'd been clutching Cedric's lifeless body who was responsible. It had to have been some freak accident.

From then on, she stuck to her dorm. Unsurprisingly, Mo was spending most of her time with Victor, although at the times they did see each other it was not as strained as it had been. Mo seemed equally embarrassed and grateful about seeking Imogen's comfort the night of the task. Imogen didn't mind. She liked getting the room to herself. It made it easier to try and forget it had even happened.

On the fourth day, when Imogen had dragged herself to breakfast, she looked up to find Fred standing at her side. She thought she was seeing things for a moment, him standing at the Slytherin table.

"Where have you been?" he asked, sounding frustrated. "I've been looking for you."

Imogen put her half eaten toast down on the plate. "I haven't been that hungry, I s'pose."

It was as if he hadn't heard her.

"I need to speak to you," he pressed on, his voice low and his eyes darting about.

Imogen blinked at him. "Okay. What's it abou-"

"Later," he said, scarily serious. "Just, meet me at eight, in that old classroom by the palisades."

She looked up at him for a moment, a chill running through her. His brows were furrowed, his mouth a frown. It brought her none of the comfort she craved.

"Okay. I'll be there," she told him.

She saw Hetty that morning too, huddled with some other Hufflepuffs outside the great hall. Each one of them had sullen, lost expressions, no doubt still trying to register the fact that their classmate was gone. Imogen hadn't known Cedric well, although she'd liked him. But these students had eaten with him, slept by him, done their homework with him. They'd sat in the stands that night hoping he'd emerge victorious, and they'd celebrate his victory with a party, and instead he'd emerged dead, and they hadn't even been given a proper chance to mourn yet.

When Hetty spotted her looking at them, she tried to smile. Imogen did her best to return it. She should have gone and spoken to her, embraced her friend and asked her how she was holding up, if there was anything she could do. Instead, Imogen had held a hand up in a weak wave and pushed on, taking herself back to the solitude of her bedroom. The shame of it coursed through her all of that day, as she sat with a battered muggle novel in her lonely dorm.