Panic engulfed Cedric as he snuck out of the Hufflepuff house to get to Hermione. The fulgent torches illuminated his way as a tissue floated through the whiffle of wind. He imagined this sequence of events: an aperitif, popcorn and Scooby Doo, followed by some yum-tastic Blakeycakes and a slow dance.
He hoped Hermione would show some duplicity—forget about her silly posable obsequious reliability and develop some footloose basorexia. It was plausible that she had feelings for Cedric, unbeknownst to him. Right? He wasn’t as self absorbed as the asexual nefarious Draco and the other Slytherin assclowns.
All she needed was a little epistemophobia, to fathom a world without her Kafkaesque Illuminati-like theories that Kraken would transmogrify and cause mass decapitation. If she would let go of the prestige and prizes that would come from her future employment in wizardry—just for one date night.
Poor Cedric didn’t know that she would never be his queen, but that his life would come to a painful end with no hope of resuscitation.