When she left the hospital, Hermione cried almost all the way home on the Tube. It earned her a sympathetic pat from an old Muggle woman. "With a face like that, it's either a boy or a tragedy," she said kindly.

"A little of both," Hermione replied politely. "A schoolmate of mine was . . . in an accident. Now he can't walk ever again. He's only seventeen." Why she was talking to a stranger about it, she didn't know -- perhaps just for the complete anonymity.

"How terrible," the woman said. "It's always such a sad thing, when the young are crippled." She peered at Hermione from under her straw hat. "Can't be your boyfriend, or you'd have said so, but maybe he's a bit more to you than a schoolmate?"

Hermione blushed. "No, no -- just a friend. He's got a girlfriend; he's very popular. He wouldn't be interested in me."

"No? You're a pretty little thing with all that lovely hair."

Hermione just stared. The woman thought her hair was nice? "Thank you," she said, because she didn't want to accuse the woman of being barking mad.

But talking to her had helped a bit, and Hermione had her face under control by the time she got home for tea. Her mother greeted her with, "I'm buying you a cell phone, missy -- witch or not. I've been holding supper back for half an hour."

"Sorry, Mum." She kissed her mother and then her father, both still dressed in their smart office clothes, and sat down to eat. Her mother had prepared a cold meal because of the heat -- tabouli, cheese, and a salad. All the windows of their semi-detached were thrown open in the hope of catching an evening breeze to stir the gauzy net curtains. Neighborhood sounds came in: children playing, dogs barking, a lawnmower, a telephone ringing, somebody's radio from a house across the street -- and of course, the ever-present sounds and smells of traffic. That was one thing she didn't miss about the Muggle world -- car horns and the stink of exhaust fumes.

"So I take it you found your school friend?"

"Oh, yes. We just . . . got talking. I didn't notice the time." She let most of the meal go by before saying, "I might drop in on him tomorrow, too, when you and Dad are at work."

Both her parents glanced up at her, then at each other. "What's this boy's name?" her father asked in a tone that fairly dripped 'attempted casual but intensely interested.'

She bit back a smile. "Cedric Diggory. And he's a friend, Dad -- like Harry, and Ron. Well, not even that, really. An acquaintance. He's got a girlfriend."

"Well," her mother said, "As long as you're not late tomorrow, I don't see any reason why you can't go and visit him again."

So she did. And was rewarded by a positively luminescent smile from Cedric when he saw her come through the door. "Granger! You came back!"

"I promised I would."

"Well, yes, but I didn't think it'd be the next day."

She flushed hot, feeling stupid. Of course he wouldn't expect her back so soon; what had she been thinking? That he'd be sitting around, counting the minutes until she showed up? The likes of Cedric Diggory didn't need charity attention from Hermione Granger. But he was still smiling at her -- because he was polite like that -- and used his wand to call up a chair for her. "Have a seat."

Sitting down, she reached into the bag she'd brought to pull out that morning's The Daily Prophet. "Since you said you hadn't a copy."

"Thank you," he told her earnestly, taking it and stuffing it under his pillow.

They spent two hours talking this time. And laughing. He was funny in a sly way. When his mother arrived around mid-afternoon, Hermione decided it was time to leave, but he asked, "Come tomorrow?" which surprised her.

"Right. Of course."

His mother stood off to the side, watching with an assessing gaze. Hermione recalled what she'd overheard Sirius say of Lucy Diggory -- clever, loyal, but not 'nice.' Still, Hermione didn't think the woman looked angry or disdainful, and certainly there was none of that haughty sneer Hermione had seen on the face of Narcissa Malfoy at the World Cup, as if Hermione were slime under a rock. Then again, Hermione didn't think the Diggorys were pure bloods.

Embarrassed, she rushed off with a muttered excuse about going to the library (which was, in fact, where she was headed), but came back the next day as promised. It was a Thursday. Although she'd arrived home on Sunday, it had taken her all of Monday before summoning up the courage to visit Cedric on Tuesday. Now, she regretted not having come sooner. He seemed so genuinely glad to see her each day. Didn't he have other visitors? But she hadn't seen anybody, and he didn't mention any. That seemed very strange, that Cedric -- Mr. Popular -- wouldn't have visitors.

Today, she found him waiting for her, and not in his bed. He sat in a sleek blue wheelchair that looked quite sporty, and spun it around in place -- without magic -- to make her laugh. "I thought we'd go up to the roof," he said.

"The roof?"

"There's a garden there. Muggles can't see it. I need to get out of this place sometimes, feel the air and sun. I can't believe I'm stuck inside all summer." Abruptly he paused and asked, "It's not raining, is it?"

"Raining? No." Then she remembered that his ward didn't have windows. "It's a nice day, actually. A bit hot. But, well -- I think you'll be fine, as long as you don't get sunburned."

"Not a problem, Granger. Come on." And he wheeled out of the ward. She followed, ready to open the door for him but he didn't need it, just pointed his wand soundlessly and the door swung open so he could roll out into the hallway. He obviously knew his way around, and several of the healers and medi-witches spoke to him as they passed. Just as at Hogwarts, he seemed to have become a favorite. In the lift, she turned to say, "I think they like you."

He just snorted, but it was amused, not dismissive. "That's because I'm reasonably sane and don't throw my medicine at anybody. Or my food tray."

The roof access was off the tea rooms, and they headed out into the sunshine. The garden was enormous, but Hermione had learned that in the magical world, apparent size and actual size bore little relation to one another. Other patients and visitors sat on benches under gazebos, or strolled along paths wide enough that she and Cedric could travel abreast, even with him in the chair. Spring flowers were long past, summer heat leaving only the hardiest of them still in bloom, such as marigolds and petunias. He didn't move quickly, but not because he couldn't. She'd been amazed by how he'd sped down the hallway, earlier.

Now, he seemed to be enjoying the air too much to be in a hurry, and turned his face up to the sun more than once, eyes shut, a small smile on his face. And although he didn't say it -- didn't say much at all, in fact -- she had the impression he'd brought her to the gardens to share something magical (and not in terms of its actual magical properties). Hermione, who'd been accused more than once of chattering like a magpie, found herself matching his quiet. It was comfortable -- which surprised her, as Viktor's silences had often just annoyed her. Yet Viktor was always quiet so Hermione had felt compelled to carry on her half of the conversation and his, too. Cedric, she'd discovered, could talk plenty when he had something to say. If his reputation at Hogwarts for being low-key and phlegmatic was sometimes equated with thick-headedness (especially by the likes of Fred and George), such an assessment was, Hermione thought, half jealousy and half an inability to recognize intelligence that didn't feel a constant need to show off. Cedric conversed to exchange ideas -- not to prove himself right, or to display what he knew. He asked her questions, and seemed genuinely interested in what she thought. In fact, more than once, she'd paused to give him a chance to interrupt, and then when he hadn't butted in, she'd felt self-conscious and kept talking until yesterday, when she'd started to repeat herself yet again in different words, he'd finally cut her off to say, "Have you finished?"

She'd blinked and replied, "Well, yes, I suppose so, but --"

"Then shut up."

It had surprised her so much, she had. He'd been smiling. "You don't have to say something over and over again, Granger. Just say it once -- then shut up." She might have been offended, except he'd very clearly not been making fun of her, unlike Ron and Harry, who seemed by turns amazed by what she knew, or defensive about it. Cedric was neither.

Even before yesterday, his manner of conversing had drawn a completely new response out of her. She found herself asking him questions, to hear what he thought. Instead of debate, they engaged in mutual discovery.

Talking to Cedric was exciting.

And maybe that's why she was content to be quiet now. Silence didn't scare him. He wasn't shy, or retreating into it -- like Viktor. He simply . . . wasn't talking. So she watched him watch those around him. Cedric didn't miss much, she thought.

She also noticed, out in the sunlight, how very pale he was from being cooped up inside for more than a month. His hair was mostly brown now, though she remembered it as blond-streaked. It was also rather a mess, and he needed to shave -- not something she was used to seeing on him. At Hogwarts, he'd always been so extremely well-put-together, hair styled, tie neat, shirt tucked in, robes pressed. Today, she wasn't entirely sure he'd even combed his hair. Then again, he probably spent most of his day in bed and there wasn't much reason for him to dress up for her. Had it been Cho, he'd look a bit different, she thought.

But she liked it that he didn't feel the need to dress up; she was being given a glimpse of the real Cedric Diggory. And although she'd been dressing up for him, she doubted he'd noticed what she wore.

"You're very good with that thing," she said now, of the wheelchair.

"It's a bit like riding a broom, in an odd way." She thought she caught a shadow pass over his face, but wasn't sure. She wanted to ask if he could still ride a broom, but was afraid to, in case the answer was 'no.'

"The crutches are probably less trouble," she said instead.

His smile faded. "I look like an idiot on them."

"Not especially." It wasn't even a lie, but he jerked his head around to stare up at her, his expression conveying his perfect skepticism without a need for words. "You don't," she told him. "Really. You . . . look like a person walking with crutches. That's all."

"And that's not --"

"No," she interrupted. "It's not." But she couldn't really blame him for worrying about such things. "The crutches will be easier to get around on at Hogwarts. And you really don't look idiotic at all. So stop worrying about it."

"I'll take that into consideration, Granger."

"I do have a first name, you know."

"I know. It's also three syllables. Granger is two."

She turned to gape at him. "You can't be that lazy."

"Sure I can." He was grinning again.

"Then I shall have to call you Diggory!"

"Diggory is three syllables. Cedric is two. Ced is just one." She stared at him; she thought he might actually be serious. "Or," he went on, slyly, "I could call you Hermy."

"If you call me 'Hermy,' I'll push you off the roof."

"Then I'd better stick to Granger unless I do have a broom."

"Can you still fly?"

It just . . . popped out, and she winced.

"I haven't tried." His expression sobered. "I don't know, but I think maybe I could."

"I hope so. You seemed to like it."

"I do." He eyed her. "You don't?"

"It's all right. But" -- she blushed -- "I'm a bit afraid of heights. I don't like planes, either."

His playful smile came back. "Then I shan't tell you to look over the side of the roof." And, "You've flown on a plane? What was it like?"

"You haven't?" That surprised her. "But I thought -- You went to Canada -- "

"By portkey. Not by plane."

"Well, it's . . . a bit tedious, really. And the seats aren't quite big enough. You'd probably hate it, with your long legs. The cabin gets stuffy, and dry." She thought about it further, wrinkling her nose. "I'm not sure I really prefer portkey, though. How did you manage not to fall on your bottom, on the way to the World Cup?"

"Practice. You'll get the hang of it." He turned his chair down a side path and she followed. It was a bit odd to find herself looking down at Cedric; he'd always been so tall. "I don't mind heights," he said, returning to the previous topic. "When I was a boy, my father kept having to pull me out of trees. I'd get up in one, then couldn't get down."

She smiled at the mental image of a young Cedric stuck up a tree like a cat. "I remember you jumping out of that tree on the way to the World Cup. Startled me a bit."

"I was trying to see where you all were. Dad was getting impatient. Then again, he's usually impatient." But the criticism sounded more fond than annoyed.

"You seem to get on well with your parents."

"I do. My friends think me a bit peculiar."

"Because you get on with your parents?"

"Exactly." He eyed her sidewise. "What about you, Granger? You fight with your mother?"

"No, not really. I --" She frowned. "I suppose I live in such a different world now, we've drifted apart. I wish I did fight with her sometimes. It'd give us something to talk about."

His expression was thoughtful. "That must be terribly hard. I can't imagine having been born a Squib."

"It's not that bad, you know, living as a Muggle."

He grinned at her defensive tone. "I wasn't criticizing Muggles, Granger. I just said I couldn't imagine living as one -- or really, making the transition. That's the hard part, I think." He eyed her. "What's the strangest thing you've found, moving from one world to the other?"

It was the most interesting question anybody Wizarding-born had ever asked her. Mr. Weasley just wanted to know odd details and bits of Muggle trivia, nothing she considered very important, and the rest of them almost pretended she wasn't Muggle-born, even those who were so themselves, like Dean, or Harry. She supposed they wouldn't need to ask questions, but still. They never talked about it, and the near-silence on the topic sometimes bothered her.

"The strangest thing," she said now, "was -- and is -- realizing that magic has its own set of laws and limitations."

"Really? Why does that surprise you?" He seemed genuinely curious.

"Well, in the Muggle world, when you say something's 'magic,' you mean it doesn't make sense. It doesn't obey the laws of physics. In short, it shouldn't work. There's a scientific explanation for everything. Moving into the magical world, there isn't a scientific explanation. But that doesn't mean there's no explanation. You see?"

"Biases," he replied.

"I'm not sure I'd call them 'biases' so much as 'expectations.'"

"And expectations aren't biases?"

She glared at him -- because he was making her think, not just accepting what she'd said. "Biases are unreasoned expectations."

"Ah -- there you go. Everybody has biases, Granger. We just need to figure out what they are, so they don't trip us up, you know?"

And in that moment, Hermione realized she could fall quite completely for Cedric Diggory . . . which wasn't a good idea, as he had a girlfriend -- whom she happened to like -- and he wasn't interested in her. But the boy had a brain, and he wasn't afraid to use it. She found that terribly attractive.

"Why did you ask me that?" she inquired. "You're the first person to ask me such a thing in the four years I've been at Hogwarts."

He shrugged. "People interest me, and the differences between cultures. Wizarding culture, Muggle culture -- they are and aren't the same. I spent a little time in the Muggle world, and I've wondered what it might be like, to go the other way."

"You lived as a Muggle? When?"

"In Canada." He turned that charming smile on her again. "I can, actually, use a telephone -- and a microwave. I just wouldn't want to do it all the time."

She laughed. "You know, Diggory, you can be really odd at times."

"See? I told you -- peculiar."

And that only made her laugh harder. They talked and walked (or rolled, in his case) for another hour before going back in. And whatever he'd said about sunburn, his fair skin was looking pink, and he was sweaty from the heat and exertion, his damp, messy hair curling on the ends and at the nape of his neck. She tried not to think about how she wanted to run fingers through it, neaten it up a bit (and see if it was as soft as it looked).

In the lift, he turned in the chair to look up at her -- and caught her staring. For just a moment, there was a connection there, like electricity, sparking hot between them and making her weak in the back of her knees. The pupils of his gray eyes had dilated, and that was not just a friendly look. Hermione couldn't breathe, felt herself falling, pulled like gravity. And if gravity wasn't a Wizarding concept, it still functioned in the Wizarding world. It was functioning now, sucking her in -- sucking them in. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to want another girl's boy.

She coughed and looked away, and suddenly, the ride back to the fourth floor wasn't comfortable at all.

You could fall for Cedric Diggory, she told herself. But you won't. Because he's not yours to fall for.

Cedric was enormously grateful when the lift doors opened and he could escape. He needed, just then, to get away from Granger -- because he didn't want to. And he realized that since Tuesday, he'd been thinking about her far too much. He was spoken for already, and whatever his mother thought, he did care for Cho. Not to mention Hermione had gone to the ball with Viktor Krum, and she'd been his 'treasure,' too, for the Lake Task. Krum would drop-kick Cedric for looking sideways at his girl. And Cho would help.

Heavens, what was he thinking? (Was he thinking, at all?)

So what if Granger was witty, pretty, dependable, and clever? She was also bossy, a know-it-all, and disinclined to listen to other people, or so he'd heard. Cho was not bossy, not a know-it-all, and liked to listen.

Just like him, and he didn't need Cho. He needed Granger. He needed his antithesis, for balance. But he was a little afraid that if they ever actually met in the middle, they might spontaneously combust. It had felt that way in the lift. His heart had been racing and his blood on fire for no reason but meeting her dark eyes.

She's not yours, he told himself firmly.

The awkwardness of the lift continued as they moved down the hallway, but the visitor they found waiting for them back at Cedric's ward erased all such personal matters.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Cedric and Hermione said at the same time. Hermione looked -- to Cedric's eye -- a bit guilty. He wondered what that was about.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "Would you mind waiting in the hall? I wish to speak to Mr. Diggory alone."

--which request certainly got Cedric's attention, wondering what could possibly bring the Headmaster of Hogwarts to St. Mungo's just to speak privately to him. "Please," Cedric said, gesturing to the ward door. Dumbledore preceded him inside, then settled in the chair beside the bed, idly flicking his wand once as Cedric settled in. Cedric could tell from the way the air reverberated that what they said now could be heard only by themselves.

"I'd like to learn that spell," he muttered.

Dumbledore just smiled. "I'm sure you will someday. Just now, I need to ask you several questions, and I require honest answers." Dumbledore's eyes were piercing when he wanted them to be. "Not, mind, because I think you're inclined to lie, but because you are inclined to . . . adjust your replies, if you believe the full truth might be hurtful or unwelcome."

Cedric blinked. He wanted to say that was untrue -- but of course, it wasn't.

"As kind-hearted as the impulse may be," Dumbledore went on, "what is needed now is absolute truth, regardless of whether you think I want to hear it. Understood?"

Puzzled and slightly alarmed, Cedric nonetheless nodded agreement. "All right."

"First, how much do you know of what is happening outside these walls?"

"A bit." Despite his promise, Cedric was reluctant to divulge what he did know if it might get Hermione into trouble.

Dumbledore just smiled. "More than 'a bit,' I suspect, if you've been talking to Miss Granger." Cedric opened his mouth to defend her, but Dumbledore just raised a hand and shook his head. "She is not in trouble, Cedric. Or not for that. I didn't ask her not to speak to you, so she has trespassed no orders. In fact, I had no idea she'd planned to visit you at all, and I fear I will have to ask her to go back to a safe place after today."

"She's not safe?" Cedric sat up straighter. "What's she doing here, then?"

"Keeping you company, I would wager." Cedric blushed (for reasons he couldn't explain and didn't want to examine closely), but Dumbledore just smiled. "It is not a crime to be lonely, Mr. Diggory. But in the current climate, for Hermione, a Muggleborn close to Harry Potter, to travel unprotected is not safe. If she wishes to return, I'll arrange to have her escorted to and from -- and I see no reason she shouldn't return, as according to the medi-witches, you've smiled more in the past three days than in the last four weeks."

Still blushing, Cedric asked, "Maybe -- if it's that dangerous -- she should just stay away then?" Yet he wondered if he were really worried about Hermione, or just about the current comfortable construction of his world. He had a girlfriend, she had a boyfriend, and maybe spending so much time together wasn't a good idea -- not if that moment in the lift repeated itself. Dumbledore was eying him curiously, and Cedric glanced down. "The potion will be ready tomorrow anyway," he went on, "and they think I should be going home in a week after that."

"As you wish. Back to my questions. I presume you know the official Ministry position on what happened this summer?"

"Yes. They're idiots. It drives me crazy."

That brought a tiny grin from the headmaster. "See -- it is possible for you to be blunt and impolite, Mr. Diggory, and it doesn't even hurt." Cedric laughed in spite of himself. Somehow, he'd never have expected Dumbledore to encourage him in rudeness. "Although I can't say I'm displeased to hear your assessment. I take it, then, that you would hold firm in your report of what happened on the 24th of June, which you gave to Minister Fudge when you first arrived at St. Mungo's?"

"Absolutely."

"Has anybody spoken to you about this since?"

"No. Granger -- Hermione -- seems to think they're ignoring me." He wasn't sure why he'd corrected himself on her name, but in a strange reversal, Granger had become his name for her, and Hermione what he'd call her to others. He should probably have recognized that possessiveness for a bad sign.

"I think her assessment correct. You are their problem, you see. The others present -- Harry, Professor McGonagall, Mr. Weasley -- all have long-time associations with me. They can be more readily dismissed as a party to my madness. You, however, occupy a different category, and are therefore a bit harder to explain. Being the Triwizard Champion -- legitimately -- helps. But I want to be very clear that if you do persist in holding to your story, you may face a certain amount of unpopularity in the coming months."

Setting his jaw, Cedric said, "I'm not going to lie just because Minister Fudge wants me to."

"Even if your father's job were on the line?"

That brought Cedric up short. "What? They'd sack him if I don't go along with what they want me to say?"

"Not directly for that, but excuses can be found, and the winds of change blow quickly. I want to be frank with you that there could be consequences."

Cedric's jaw just got tighter. "They can bloody go to hell."

Dumbledore chuckled. "There is a lot of your mother in you, Cedric -- but not a little of your father. He said something similar."

"He did? You've talked to him about this?"

"Indeed. Your father is rather . . . disgruntled with the Ministry's refusal to acknowledge the full cause of your injury, or to arrest Lucius Malfoy for casting a spell that's only escaped the list of Unforgivable Curses by virtue of not having been seen in nearly seventy years. But I wished to know what you thought before you heard what he thought." Dumbledore's eyebrows went up, and Cedric remembered the headmaster's earlier appeal to him for honesty. "My next question concerns how much you wish to be involved in this fight against Voldemort, which you were accidentally drawn into against your will."

"Accidental or not, I'm involved. I can't walk because of him, and it being an accident doesn't mean it's against my will -- especially not now." After having seen Voldemort in that graveyard, he couldn't imagine not taking a stand. "Nobody asked Harry, either."

Dumbledore nodded, as if he'd expected Cedric to say that, but had to inquire. "You are, still, a student, but you are also of age, and I shall not insult you by denying your right to choose -- as long as you are aware of the consequences. Do you plan to return to Hogwarts in the autumn? I have assumed so, but it really is your choice."

Cedric realized that he hadn't, in fact, given it a lot of thought, just assumed as well. "I still have NEWTs to take. So yes, I think I'd like to, if Hogwarts can, well -- if I can get around."

"We've had both students and teachers before with ambulatory issues." Dumbledore winked. "There are quite a few modifications to the castle that aren't widely known, which I'll show you when you arrive in September. Your ability to get to your classes will not be an issue. But it did occur to me that coming back to Hogwarts, as you are now, might be a difficult hurdle for you."

And Cedric frowned. He'd been somewhat intentionally NOT thinking about having to walk down hallways on crutches and being stared at, and pitied -- or laughed over. But he couldn't hide in a hospital for the rest of his life. "It's not going to be easy, no," he said now, started to say more, but just finished with a shrug.

Dumbledore seemed to understand the unspoken. "Then, Mr. Diggory, I would like to make you an offer. Normally, these choices are simply conferred as an honor. In this case, however, I am not doing you a favor and you have quite enough to be going on with, without adding more to your shoulders. This matter will require no little amount of shrewd diplomacy and personal restraint -- yet I think there's no one better suited to it, if you're willing. Therefore, I am asking, not telling. Would you be willing to accept the office of Head Boy for the coming year?"

Utterly astonished, Cedric just blinked.

It wasn't being selected as Head Boy that floored him. Truth was, he'd half expected it, whatever he'd told Susan Bones, and if he wouldn't have been angry had someone else been chosen, he couldn't say he wouldn't have been disappointed.

What shocked him now was that Dumbledore had asked. To Cedric's knowledge, no one had ever been asked in the whole history of Hogwarts. One was made Head Boy -- or not. And the fact that Dumbledore was asking meant Dumbledore knew something nasty was coming, and Cedric was getting Head Boy because the Headmaster trusted him -- both for his loyalty and his symbolic value. Cedric wasn't unaware of the latter. He started to ask, 'What if I said no?' but shut his mouth on the question because there wasn't any point in asking it. He wasn't going to say no.

"Yes, of course." He kept his voice as steady as he could manage. If Dumbledore needed him in the fight against Voldemort, he'd do what he could, even if it had to be from a wheelchair.

Dumbledore held his eyes for a long time, and Cedric suspected he was checking Cedric's thoughts. Cedric didn't attempt to resist. Finally, Dumbledore nodded. "Very well. You'll receive your badge along with your usual letter, and additional instructions." He held out a hand to Cedric, who took it. "I'd say congratulations, but I believe a thank you is more in line." He let Cedric go, then leaned in a bit. "Now, Mr. Diggory, let me tell you about the Order of the Phoenix . . . "

"You joined it." His mother's greeting to him later that evening was almost reproachful.

"Pot, kettle," he replied. "You joined too. He told me."

"That's different. They need me, and I'm quite a bit older. This is dangerous, Cedric. You were a baby when the Dark Lord rose last time; you don't remember what it was like --"

"You'll be in more danger than I will," he retorted, annoyed. "And I want to fight."

"You have no idea! People die." She collapsed in the chair by his bed, almost as if her legs wouldn't hold her up. "To the young, war sounds glorious. It's not. I know what they can and will do to you --"

"They've already done it, mother."

"Yes! And I don't want them to take more!" She wasn't crying; her eyes flashed and she got up again to stalk around his bed like a golden lioness. "Dumbledore had no right to ask!"

"He had every right. Or rather, he owed me the offer. That's how I see it. And if you're going to fuss about me, I can fuss about you. If they find out you're involved in this, you'll become their special target. Right up there with Potter and Black. I assume you know about Sirius?"

She waved a hand. "We talked. But that's why they need me."

He resisted snorting at her logic -- or lack of it. "I'm an adult now," he said finally. "I can make my own decisions."

"You're a seventeen-year-old boy who thinks he's immortal. You may be allowed to use magic unsupervised, but you're not an adult."

Piqued, he resisted snapping back because that's what she wanted him to do so she could prove her point. He'd been living with his mother's psychological tactics far too long to be so easily caught. "I'm only an 'adjunct' member anyway -- that's what Dumbledore called it -- until I finish school. He said the twins will probably join then, too."

"That's Molly's problem. You're mine."

He found he could only grin. "You know I love you, mum."

"You're maddening, Cedric. And this conversation is not over. You can be Head Boy, but don't just assume you'll be graduating into full-scale Wizard battles. You're on crutches!"

And oh, that didn't just prick, it stung. But she was crying now, and she spun around to stalk out before he could say anything else. Sagging back on his bed, he glared up at the ceiling.


Notes: Because Cedric's chair is a fixed wheelchair, it's more stable ... and wouldn't normally fold up (although wheels do come off). But, well, it's magic. (G) He can collapse it down to fit in his pocket (an option that would be the envy of anybody who actually has to use one).