Note: From here on out, it'll be necessary to have a general idea -- if not perfect recall -- of events in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Some events from that book will not be rewritten in Finding Himself, but knowledge of them may still be assumed.
Hermione knew she was in the doghouse even though Dumbledore said virtually nothing to her as they exited St. Mungo's. But once they were on the street, where not a few passers-by stared at him, he turned to face her. "Miss Granger, while I appreciate -- in fact, applaud -- your concern for Mr. Diggory, you were taken to headquarters for your own protection. Was there a reason you've been sneaking out of the house to come down here?"
"I wasn't sneaking. Sir," she said. "I got permission to visit my parents. St. Mungo's wasn't far, and . . . I thought it might be polite to pay a visit to Cedric. I really didn't expect to keep coming back, but I don't think anyone's been to see him all summer -- odd as that sounds -- and he seemed, well, lonely. I wasn't sneaking," she repeated.
He continued to watch her, but she couldn't meet his eyes. "You have been very lucky," he said finally, then his whole manner changed from mildly disappointed to instructive. "Regarding Cedric . . . as you've no doubt gathered, he's much beloved in his house, and greatly admired. But that, itself, can be distancing. After all, how can one be a true friend to devotees? I believe Cedric could do with a friend, especially now -- one who isn't either bedazzled or intimidated by him."
Embarrassment pinked her cheeks. She'd been bedazzled, all right -- but by a real person, not an idea. "I'll keep it in mind, sir," she said.
And so she was returned to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, if not in disgrace, at least in disfavor. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to see Cedric Diggory?" Ginny demanded almost as soon as she could get Hermione alone to do so.
"Because I didn't know that I would. I went to see my parents, Ginny; Cedric was a . . . sidetrip."
If not strictly true, it was true in spirit. Originally, she'd gone to see Cedric for Harry's sake, nothing more, whatever Ginny was implying. And while the story of Dumbledore finding her there had been related to the house at large, Dumbledore hadn't mentioned the two other times she'd been there, nor how lengthy each of her visits had turned out to be.
Ginny, of course, was ignoring Hermine's attempt at deflection. "So what's he really like?"
"Very nice," Hermione said, then immediately realized how inane that sounded and tried to elaborate. "He's clever, of course, and rather funny. But just . . . such a lovely person -- genuinely nice. I can't think of a better adjective. Talking to him, you'd never guess he's the most popular boy in Hufflepuff."
"Hufflepuff? Try all Hogwarts." Ginny flopped back on her bed. "Cedric Diggory . . . " she trailed off in an almost stereotypically dreamy tone. "He's gorgeous."
And that annoyed Hermione for the sake of the boy she'd come to know; it brought to mind what Dumbledore had said outside St. Mungo's. "And quite human, Ginny. He doesn't walk on water, at least not that I saw, and it might be better if people stopped talking about him like he was St. Peter."
Both eyebrows raised, Ginny lifted her head to stare at Hermione. "Wow -- tetchy!"
"I just -- I don't think it's fair to Cedric to put him on a pedestal like that. He's bound to fall off."
Ginny laid her head back again, grinning. "Somebody's got a crush."
"I do not!"
"Don't lie. You're so bad at it. Just join the rest of the female student body -- and a few of the boys -- in the Diggory Appreciation Society."
Hermione threw her pillow at Ginny. "I am not joining any such society, Ginevra!" But Ginny only laughed in reply. Still annoyed, Hermione turned her back to unpack, putting away clothes and tucking under her bedside table three new books she'd bought on Wednesday afternoon when she'd left St. Mungo's following her second visit to Cedric. As she'd passed a bookshop window on her way to the library, she'd noticed a particular title propped up on display under "new books." So she'd dropped in. And if she'd never reached the library, she'd come home three books richer all the same.
Well used to Hermione and books, Ginny might have paid no attention except -- "Those don't look magical." She was craning her neck to see the colorful, paper covers.
"They're not. Research," Hermione said.
"For what? I thought you dropped Muggle Studies two years ago? Seemed a kind of pointless class for you anyway."
"I wanted to get the Wizarding perspective," Hermione said, then added, "And this is some research for next year."
"It's summer, Hermione," Ginny reminded her, but as Hermione had suspected, it deflected Ginny's interest. Hermione, books, and research were a sacred trinity, eternal and immutable, and therefore boring. Much later that night when Ginny was well asleep, Hermione slipped the top book from the stack and pulled it under her covers, switching on the torch she'd borrowed from home. The title -- which had first caught her attention in that bookstore window -- stared up at her in yellow letters on bright blue: Easy For You To Say. Q & As For Teens Living With Chronic Illness Or Disabilities. She hadn't lied to Ginny. It was research for next year. It just didn't have anything to do with classes, and somehow, she didn't think she'd find a book like this in the Hogwarts' library.
Coming home undid him.
By the time he left St. Mungo's, Cedric was, if not reconciled to his crippling, at least neither hopelessly depressed nor impossibly angry. He was mostly glad to be getting out of hospital, in fact.
Until he reached home.
It was the ramp his father had installed around the back, so he could enter his own house, that did it. Probably he could have climbed the front steps on crutches, or just levitated himself, but his father had gone to the trouble of altering the rear entry so he didn't need to do either one, adapting the house to suit his needs rather than forcing him to adjust to the house. The message was clearly meant to be: You belong here.
Instead, the message was: Nothing will ever be the same -- even home. And he felt damaged all over again.
He couldn't bring himself to leave the Ministry-loaned car. He just sat in the back, face in hands, fighting to get a hold of himself. His father kept asking what was wrong until his mother ordered Amos out of the vehicle. "Take your time," she said to Cedric, and climbed out herself. Then they spelled in the piles of things that had come back with him from the hospital -- clothes, cards, letters and assorted other tributes from friends, as well as the Triwizard Cup.
It took him almost half an hour before he could get out of the back seat and, on crutches, make his way into the house in which he'd grown up.
The changes inside were no less significant, but at least he'd known one was coming. His bedroom -- which had occupied the attic from the time he'd been seven -- was now on the ground floor. He could probably have reached the attic still, but it simply wasn't practical on a regular basis, and there was plenty of space downstairs. He'd adopted the attic as part of his general fascination with getting to the top of things -- trees, roofs, high seats at the pitch, and eventually into the sky with a broom -- but the place was, if no mansion, still a sizable country house.
Built in the very early 1800s for a family the size of the Weasleys, seven generations of Diggorys had lived here and only the most recent had produced but a single child. Besides a drawing room, kitchen, dining room, gallery, and study, there was a bathroom, master bedroom and second bedroom downstairs, plus a solar-cum-studio, another study that served as a library, a bathroom, and more bedrooms upstairs. And that didn't count his attic, or the basement. His parents had simply moved all his things down to the room at the end of the hall, rearranging it as best they could to fit into the more regularized space of four even walls rather than slanting ceilings and tucked-away corners.
But he'd loved that attic, and sitting in this room, he felt cold despite the wide windows letting in bright summer sun. It wasn't his, and he didn't know if it ever would be. Yet he also couldn't run up two flights of stairs several times a day to fetch minor things. This was a pragmatic change.
After he'd faced his new room, accepting the other changes came easier -- handholds in the bathroom, widened doors to admit his chair, little ramps to cover the steps leading down into the kitchen and scullery. But an unexpected difficulty could send him flying into a rage, such as the back hall connecting kitchen and dining room being too narrow for his chair. It required a squeeze charm -- which he didn't know how to do yet because it had never come up. So he had to go through the porch gallery to get to the dining room.
This problem of the chair being too wide affected most of the house, really. If doors had been altered, when he moved down the hall even a small weave would crash a wheel into a chest or bookshelf. Thus, after less than a week, he ditched the chair in favor of the crutches, and before long he'd learned patterns of movement that allowed him to get from place to place using furniture or shelves for support without crutches at all. It wasn't walking unaided, and he still couldn't carry much in his hands, but at least he didn't always have to cart around 'extra limbs.' Also within that first week, he'd stopped thinking about how he looked every time he moved. He became more focused on getting there.
But he didn't go out of the house much, even here in the country. He spent his days reading, listening to the Wizarding News Network on the wireless, or writing letters to friends while his father was at the Ministry and his mother went up to work in her studio, door shut to mean she wasn't to be disturbed. He'd learned young that an open door invited company and admiration for her latest project. A closed one meant her head was in her painting, and nothing short of the whole house being on fire was a valid excuse for interruption.
"Master Cedric! Medicine!"
He looked up from his study. (A letter to Professor Flitwick about squeeze charms had resulted in a package containing a small notebook full of handwritten spells "that you might find of use, Mr. Diggory"; Cedric had been touched by the kindness.) Strawberry their house-elf was holding out a small tray with a vial of pale yellow liquid. "Thank you, Berry." He downed it as she watched -- to be sure he did -- then she scurried off again. He didn't return to the notebook but dropped his head back against the blue floral wing chair he occupied and let his hands rest on the arms. His involvement with the spells had distracted him from the growing discomfort in his lower body. It wasn't sharp pain that he dealt with these days -- although occasionally he suffered bad twinges in his right leg -- but chronic, throbbing aches and cramps, as well as tingling in his feet and toes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled free a small silver flask and took a sip, then let his head sag back again until the Abdoleo took effect.
When the first batch of Restituo Potion had been ready, his Abdoleo concentration had been halved -- yet if Restituo protected and even restored his nerves enough that he wasn't in intolerable pain, he no longer enjoyed the strong analgesic he'd had at hospital. On the one hand, Abdoleodid dull his wits and made him act out of sorts (as that moment with Granger in the lift had shown), but learning to deal with chronic pain left him sharp tempered and impatient with his own body, and often tired because he slept poorly. Dyer had warned it would take a while to learn to manage (or really, ignore) the pain. He just hoped he succeeded before school began; the last thing he needed was to drift off in McGonagall's NEWT class because he'd tossed and turned half the night before.
And of course, sitting quiet in the chair, his aches eased for the moment, he did drift off. His father's stomping arrival through the front door into the gallery woke him. "Cedric!" his dad called, startling him badly enough that he jumped and knocked the notebook onto the floor.
Before he could bend over to fetch it, his father had swooped in to retrieve it for him and hand it back.
"I could have got it, dad."
"I know you could, but, well, there's no reason for you to. You just take it easy, son."
Cedric resisted pointing out that bending down wouldn't kill him, and in any case, he'd been able to handle a Summoning Charm since his third year. But his father, dressed still in work robes, pulled up a stool to sit down in front of his chair. "I have some bad news. I just heard it today from Arthur Weasley. Harry's under threat of expulsion from Hogwarts."
"What?" Cedric sat up straighter. "Why? This isn't to do with the Ministry attempts to deny --"
"Indirectly, yes. He was attacked by dementors last night --"
"Dementors!"
"-- and used a Patronus Charm to protect himself."
"Well, if he was attacked by dementors, of course he did!"
"Unfortunately, Fudge's office is claiming it can't be dementors." Cedric thought his father looked troubled. "They're questioning what dementors would be doing away from Azkaban -- and I have to admit, they have a point."
"Dad, if Harry said there were dementors, there were dementors. He doesn't lie like that."
"Arthur said the same thing. We shared lunch in his hole of an office; that man collects the strangest things. But in any case, and according to Arthur, Harry was attacked by dementors in an alleyway together with his . . . cousin, I think it was. A Muggle. He had to drive them off with the charm."
"I thought Dumbledore said somebody from the Order would be --"
"Somebody was supposed to be there. A man named Mundungus who you've not met, an old soak and petty thief. Can't imagine why Dumbledore's bothering with him; he's not exactly reliable, is he? Left Harry early to conduct some shady deal. It's a right miracle the boy survived that attack."
"Harry's talented."
His father glared a moment; Cedric knew that Amos Diggory still resented the fact Harry's participation in the Tournament had virtually eclipsed Cedric's own -- and that his son had come back wounded, but not Harry Potter. Yet his father hadn't seen Harry's eyes, or he'd know Harry was wounded, too. Cedric just shook his head. His father was a good man, deeply devoted to those he loved. He'd defend them irrationally (even when they didn't want to be defended), and to object to his father's even more embarrassing praise seemed ungrateful to Cedric. But it put him in the difficult spot of having to offend one person's loyalty in order to avoid hurting another. "Dad," he said now, "Harry is talented. Exceptionally, in fact. Nothing that happened was his fault; he's as much the victim here as me. Don't blame him. Please."
"I don't."
Rather than argue with that, Cedric changed the subject. "So what's going to happen to Harry?"
"He's got a hearing scheduled in Amelia Bones' office. They'll determine then if it's an expelling offense. Technically, it shouldn't be -- certainly not if those really were dementors. We're hoping everything turns out for the best -- Amelia's very fair -- but, well, in the current climate . . . " His father trailed off.
Amelia Bones was Susan's aunt, and Cedric was already planning a letter to his fellow Hufflepuff. "When's the date of the hearing? Do you know?"
"The twelfth of August. We'll know more after tonight; your mum's got a meeting at headquarters."
"Not me? Or you?"
His father just pulled in his chin and looked at him a little sideways. "You're an adjunct member. And I'm staying home with you -- only one of us is really needed." What he didn't say, but Cedric could guess, was that he was staying home to keep an eye on Cedric.
After supper, with Esiban sitting on his desk, watching, Cedric wrote:
Dear Susan,
Thank you for your last letter, and I'm sorry I haven't answered before now. I was discharged from hospital about two weeks ago, and things have been rather chaotic since. I am home, and quite well. But if life is chaotic, there's not much of actual interest about my day, so I'll spare you the boredom of a recounting.
As you've probably heard by now from your aunt, Harry Potter has been accused of practicing underage magic and is under threat not only of expulsion from school, but of having his wand broken. Minister Fudge doubts his claim that he performed the spell in self defence.
Susan, I believe him. If Harry says he acted in self defence, he did. I 've no idea if you've got any influence with your aunt, but for what it's worth, Harry has my complete faith.
I look forward to seeing you and everyone again in September. Be well.
With Affection,
Cedric
He read it over twice before sending it. He thought it vague enough not to give away any secrets, and general enough not to ask Susan to do anything in particular. He was never comfortable with that. But he was fairly sure she'd get his message, and if she could do something, she would. Badgers took care of their own -- including honorary badgers who happened to be lions.
The night that Harry was attacked by dementors, the whole house at Grimmauld Place fell into an uproar with people coming and going, and Dumbledore in a towering rage the like of which Hermione had never before seen. It all quite thoroughly distracted her from Cedric Diggory. But amid the chaos and rather to her surprise, Dumbledore took a moment to pull her aside. "Given these developments, and Harry's likely state of mind, I think it best if you avoid mentioning anything about Cedric's current condition to him. He'll have enough to worry over without adding Cedric, as well."
Hermione wanted to protest -- Harry was more likely to resent having it concealed -- but given that she was already on thin ice, she didn't think protest a good idea. Instead, she asked, "After the hearing, may I tell him? I think, sir, he should know about it before seeing Cedric on the Hogwarts Express."
Dumbledore seemed to consider this, then agreed. "Very well. You may tell him after the hearing."
"What if he asks me -- directly, I mean -- before? It's no secret I went to see Cedric."
"It's not, but I find it unlikely anyone else will bring it up." And he excused himself -- polite as always despite being much in demand that day -- and left her standing in the den.
Sirius came in shortly after, looking angry and worried at once. Seeing her troubled face and misinterpreting what had her troubled, he said, "The Ministry can't convict him. It was self defense."
"Yes, of course," Hermione agreed, sitting down on an overstuffed footstool, one of the few comfortable pieces of furniture in the room. Then she blurted, "Dumbledore told me not to tell Harry about Cedric."
Sirius appeared thoughtful. "I'm not sure I agree, but I don't want Harry feeling guilty over Cedric, either. Lucy -- Mrs. Diggory -- says Ced doesn't blame him."
"He doesn't. He told Harry so back at Hogwarts when we visited him in hospital."
She and Sirius just sat together for a few more minutes then, wrapped in their private apprehensions. "He'll be all right," Sirius reiterated finally, "The Ministry can't convict him for self defense."
"Of course not," Hermione agreed, again.
When Harry arrived the next evening, Hermione became preoccupied with trying to keep his mind off the trial and dealing with his frustration and anger. If she couldn't exactly blame him for being frustrated, when he yelled at her and Ron, bellowing (among other things): "WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE FROM HIM? ME!" she felt tears of outrage on Cedric's behalf sting her eyes. Harry wasn't the only one who'd gone through hell during the Tournament. And at least he could still walk.
But obedient to Dumbledore, she kept her mouth shut. It didn't stop her from comparing Cedric's reactions to Harry's, though. Cedric had been furious at having things kept from him as well, but even angrier at the Ministry's campaign of disinformation. It had been his honor that he'd worried about -- a man's upset, rather than a boy's tantrum. Then again, Cedric was seventeen, almost eighteen, and Harry just fifteen. And if Hermione herself was not-quite-a-year older, she was suddenly very aware of the age difference.
She pondered sending an owl to Cedric, telling him about the dementor incident (she thought he'd want to know), and asking his advice on how to handle Harry. After all, if anybody could understand, it was Cedric. But given that moment in the lift, she wasn't sure if she should. After he'd spoken with Dumbledore at St. Mungo's, she'd had a brief chance to bid him good-bye before being escorted out. He'd thanked her for her visits but hadn't said anything to her about coming back -- or writing. And she thought his eyes might have kept sliding away from hers, except hers were doing the same, so she couldn't be sure.
But later that same evening, when she, Harry, and Ron were finally permitted to hear more about the Order, she climbed up after to the room she shared with Ginny and sat down at the desk, getting out parchment and ignoring Ginny's pleas to tell her everything. "In a moment," she said. Then she wrote:
Dear Cedric,
I hope you won't mind my writing to you. I'm not sure if you've heard about the Ministry hearing for Harry, but as your father works for the Ministry, perhaps so. If not, I thought you might want to know. It amounts to charges for the underage use of magic, even though he was defending himself. He's being threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts. It's all very ridiculous; they can't convict him. But Harry's upset, and for reasons I don't entirely understand myself, Dumbledore kept him at his aunt and uncle's until just recently. They're Muggles and so he hasn't known what was going on anywhere. I'm sure Dumbledore's just trying to protect him, but he's very angry about it all. I suppose I can see both sides to the matter.
And, well -- this is why I'm writing -- I don't really know what to say to him. I thought you might, being as you were in the same position earlier this summer. He infuriates me and makes me want to cry for him at the same time. I can't blame him for being angry -- I really can't -- but I'm at a loss.
Please forgive me for imposing on you, but any advice you might have would be deeply appreciated. I'll understand, though, if this isn't something you want to talk about, or if you've got lots to do. There's no need to write back if you don't want to.
Sincerely,
Granger
She wasn't exactly sure why she'd signed it 'Granger' instead of 'Hermione,' or even 'Hermione Granger,' but she'd done it on instinct. It took her an hour to decide to send the letter, however, and she went to bed that night very restless, waking the next morning, half anticipating an owl with his reply, and half anticipating she'd never to hear from him again.
A little before noon, his reply came, delivered to her by a rather bemused Mrs. Weasley.
Granger,
I'm glad you wrote. Yes, I've heard about the charges brought against Harry. You're right -- they're ridiculous. But that doesn't mean they're not serious. For what it's worth, I'm trying to pull a few strings, but I'd rather not say how, and I fear they won't amount to much. You should know, as well, that Dumbledore told me all about phoenixes, and I'm participating as much as he'll allow. I won't say more by post. Ask our mutual furry friend who lives there.
Hermione read that paragraph three times. Dumbledore had told Cedric about the Order? And he was in it -- or at least partly so? He also seemed to know where she was staying, given the last line (she'd been quite round-about in her original post address). She'd been aware he knew about Sirius, but she hadn't realized he knew about Grimmauld Place.
As to your other question -- I'm not sure how to advise you, really. All I can say is what I might want myself, were I in Harry's shoes. But I'm not Harry; we're very different people. For what it's worth, my advice would be just to listen and not to take offence when he blows his top, even if what he says hurts your feelings. Remember that when people are angry, they say things they don't mean. I've yelled at my parents a lot this summer, and I mean really yelled. I felt just awful later. Fortunately, my mother's quite good at ignoring me when I'm being an idiot, and my father pretends he didn't hear. It's probably a good thing more people haven't been to see me, or my school reputation as Mr. Polite would be completely shot. (Ha! I'm joking, you know. My House says I'm Mount Vesuvius -- a dormant volcano -- which is true. I put a hole through a door during fifth year when Zacharias Smith gave me grief once too often. Got detention with Sprout ... along with Zacharias. Zach doesn't give me any more trouble. Or at least, when he does, I just put him in a headlock instead of putting a hole through my door. It's more effective and less messy -- for the door and my hand, both.)
Hermione blinked and laughed. She could easily see Zacharias giving people grief but not Cedric punching a hole through his door. Yet it was like Cedric to become Zach's friend (of sorts) in the wake of it.
In any case, I believe Harry depends on you quite a bit -- that's what I saw during the Tournament, both before the dragon task and later. In the Lake, when I got down there, I wasn't sure who he was trying to cut free first -- you, or Ron. So when he yells at you, remember that. I'm sure he doesn't mean it.
Be well,
Ced
She read the letter several times more, half memorizing it, then sat down to write back:
Dear Cedric,
First, please be very careful with phoenixes. I understand they can bite. You know what I mean, and I'd rather not visit you in hospital again.
As for your temper, you hide it well -- at least, most of the time. When the Ministry isn't being stupid and censoring facts, that is. As for getting angry about that, if you hadn't, there'd be something wrong with you.
And I think you're the only person in school who can stand Zacharias Smith for more than five minutes. Your reputation as Mr. Polite is quite safe.
Last, I appreciate your advice, and your honesty on such a personal matter. And your words about Harry and the Tournament, and me. I suppose it's what I knew already, but wasn't terribly sure if there were perhaps more I could do, or say. And if so, what?
Well, I won't take up more of your time, but Harry's hearing is the 12th of August, so please keep him in your thoughts on that day.
Sincerely,
Granger
She wasn't sure why she'd apologized for taking up his time, but his answer -- so prompt and personal -- had thrown her. It hadn't read like a letter to a semi-stranger, but a note to a friend. Did he consider her a friend? (Dumbledore had perhaps implied it, or at least implied that she could be.) And if he did consider her a friend, how close of one? Enough to joke about his temper and confess to yelling at his
parents, and feeling badly for it. And what would Cho think of all that?
Sighing, she folded her own note and attached it to Hedwig's leg. She wasn't sure Harry realized she was borrowing his owl to send notes to Cedric about him, but Hedwig didn't seem to mind the excuse to escape the house.
Cedric read Hermione's second letter several times, trying to stamp down both disappointment and confusion. On the one hand, it seemed friendly enough, but she'd made it clear (I won't take up any more of your time) that she didn't expect a reply -- in fact, might not want one. Then again, she'd stated in her original letter why she'd written to him in the first place: she'd wanted advice on Potter. It wasn't an invitation to correspondence. Once she'd received the advice, she was done with him.
It made him wonder about the hours she'd spent with him in hospital. He'd thought something was there -- friendship, anyway. He'd never found a girl -- a person -- he could talk to like that. But had there been an ulterior motive for her visits then, too? Or had she just felt sorry for him? He didn't need pity, and he didn't know what to think anymore. So he didn't write back. But he had 12th August marked already on his calendar.
On that day, he woke early and dressed in his school robes. He wasn't exactly sure why he did so, but he was working on instinct. Sometimes instinct served him best when anticipating people's reactions, and his guesses were often right. Making sure his prefect badge was still attached to the black fabric, he went downstairs to get breakfast from Berry while he waited for his father.
When Amos Diggory arrived in the kitchen only to find Cedric already there, he halted in the doorway and blinked in surprise. "You're up early. And dressed for school? Did I miss an announcement or something?"
"I'm going into London with you," Cedric said quietly around a mouthful of egg.
His father clearly wasn't sure what to think of that, and didn't immediately respond. Instead, he took his packed lunch from Berry and two pieces of toast. "You should eat more for breakfast, dad," Cedric said, helping himself to another slice of bacon, which he shoved in his mouth before standing, braced on the crutches.
"I'm not a growing boy." His father was still studying him. "You know you won't be allowed into the hearing, right?" It wouldn't have taken much for his dad to guess why Cedric was planning to accompany him today when his parents hadn't been able to pry him out of the house for over three weeks. "A hearing isn't a trial."
"I know that," Cedric replied after he'd swallowed. "I just . . . want to see Harry beforehand." Be there, in case. In case of what, he didn't know, but he had a bad feeling about it all.
"All right," his father agreed, and Cedric was relieved. He'd half-expected a quarrel, or at least opposition.
They left the house together and his father glanced back at him as he stopped on the drive at the usual spot from which he Apparated. "Will you need my help . . . ?"
"No. I can do it." Well, actually he had no idea if he could still do it, but he wasn't going to ask his father to Apparate him, too, as if he were a child. He'd been able to Apparate for months. In fact, in light of the Tournament, Dumbledore and Barty Crouch had secured him permission to take his test early: last autumn, instead of waiting for spring with the rest of the sixth years.
Yet the crutches changed things.
"You go first then," his father said, and while Cedric would have liked to protest, he could see the logic of it. If he tripped and fell and splinched himself, he'd need someone there to sort things out.
Taking a deep breath, he positioned the crutches just so to take the little step-and-turn, then he just . . . did it. Didn't think about it, just did it, felt the familiar squeeze, and he was standing in a small, old, narrow alleyway near a pub. He glanced down at himself. He appeared to be entirely there, and he let out the breath he'd been holding. A moment later, there was a crack and his father -- grinning broadly -- was beside him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good boy. Let's go."
Because Cedric was with him, Amos Diggory took the visitor's entrance, and Cedric got his visitor's badge. When they arrived in the long atrium with its polished walnut floor, his father escorted him past the fireplaces and the fountain to the gold gate and security desk where his wand would be registered. The man, who appeared bored and barely glanced up, took Cedric's wand and set it on a scale, then accepted the printout. "Ash, unicorn-hair core, twelve and a quarter inches . . . that's long." He peered up at Cedric. "Tall kid --" Then, abruptly, he seemed to realize who Cedric was. "Amos? This is . . . Cedric?"
"That's right," Amos Diggory said, grinning as if amused and clapping Cedric on the back. "Wondering when you'd wake up, Eric. Had your coffee yet? Cedric, meet Eric Munch, Ministry security."
Munch almost leapt to his feet and held out a hand to shake. "What an honor! Cedric Diggory! Our Triwizard Champion!"
Embarrassed but compelled to be polite, Cedric shook the man's hand. Munch waved Cedric and his father on. "Never mind the search. Not going to insult our Triwizard Champ." He flashed Cedric a grin, and Cedric tried to return it -- wasn't sure he really succeeded. Others in the atrium had stopped now to stare, and he heard the whispers. "Diggory's son." "The Triwizard Champion." "The one who came back crippled." "Oh, I read about that -- how sad." "He was such a tall, handsome boy." "Such a shame."
Couldn't they see him standing here? He wasn't deaf, and he gritted his teeth, felt his father's hand squeeze his shoulder. Here, now, it was his father's steadfast support he needed to get through this. But he couldn't have not come today. He tried to close his ears to the whispers. And the pity.
He and his father took a lift up to Level Four where he planned to wait until it was time for Harry's hearing. Then he'd go to Amelia Bones' office on Level Two, just to be there, shake Harry's hand -- let him know he wasn't alone -- and wait to learn the outcome.
His father worked in the Beast Division of the Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and handled, among other things, registration and licensing for magical pets such as crups, kneazles, and puffskeins. Cedric had grown up surrounded by animals his father had found abandoned and brought back to the farm for fostering until a new home could be found for them. That was, Cedric had often thought, his father's real vocation. The Ministry job just earned him a living. At the moment, his father had four crups at home that he was giving obedience training to, and a pair of kneazles, and there were six more crups in kennels and a kneazle mother with kits in the office. Cedric played with the kits while his father dropped his briefcase on his desk. A memo flew in the open doorway, zipping past Cedric's nose to land neatly right on top of the creased brown leather. Picking it up to unfold it, Amos scanned it quickly, then tossed it in the air in a characteristic display of temper. "Another crup pup mill's been reported south of London. I thought we'd got the last of those. Damn the idiots. Interbred crups don't make good pets!" he declared as he headed out. "Back in a bit, son. Need to talk to Benjamin about this."
Cedric smiled to himself. His father had a new crusade. He'd be happy for at least a week.
But under five minutes later, his father was back, looking startled and a bit flummoxed. "Harry's hearing's been changed," he said. "I just ran into Kingsley. It was supposed to start at eight, sharp -- fifteen minutes ago -- and they've taken Harry down to Tenth Level."
"But that's --"
"Courtroom Ten, yes." His father's dark eyes were worried.
"That's not a hearing, dad."
"It's a trial," Amos Diggory agreed. "Or as good as."
Cedric didn't wait to hear more. Replacing the kits he'd had in his lap, he grabbed his crutches and pushed himself to his feet. "If it's a trial, they've got to let me in. Trials are public."
And he was out the door. "Cedric --!" his father's voice drifted after. "Watch yourself!"
Cedric wasn't sure what his face looked like, but people got out of his way as he headed back to the lifts. His heart was beating hard; his premonitions had proved more prophetic than he'd have liked. At the lifts, he paced back and forth on his crutches, punching down buttons at random in a fury. People stared. He didn't care. When a bell announced an arrival, he swung around and hobbled over as fast as he could -- although he wouldn't have made it had Kingsley Shacklebolt not been in it to hold the gate open. "Thanks," Cedric muttered. Shacklebolt was one of the few members of the Order Cedric had actually met, as the Auror had been to their house several times to talk to his parents. Cedric liked him, but here, now, he couldn't let on that he knew the man. They stood side by side and stared silently at the doors as the lift rattled downward.
After a minute, Shacklebolt whispered, "You got my message," under cover of a loud conversation between two witches behind them.
"I did. Thanks. They're after blood, aren't they?" Cedric asked.
Shacklebolt didn't reply. The lift had reached the atrium, but as he exited he shot Cedric a glance and small nod.
In fact, all the remaining riders exited at the atrium, leaving Cedric alone in the lift as it descended to the Ninth Level, where the door rattled open with the announcement, "Department of Mysteries."
Cedric practically exploded out of it. He'd never been down here, but he knew by reputation where Courtroom Ten was located. At the end of the Level Nine hall was a plain door, and he turned there to face the stairs, muttering, "Crap." They were old, of slick stone, and moderately steep, and he couldn't get down that in a hurry. Collapsing one of his crutches, he used the other and the rail to make his descent. The last thing he wanted was for his right leg (the untrustworthy one) to go out and send him crashing to the bottom on his arse.
He managed to avoid it, and at the bottom, muttered, "Engorgio" to his crutch, expanding it again. Then he turned right to head down the dungeon hall towards Courtroom Ten. It was a long walk, and there was a guard posted outside who impassively watched him come. When Cedric had reached the soot-grimy door, he said, as politely as possible, "Excuse me."
The man stood directly in front of the iron handle, and bore a great pike upright. Yet as soon as Cedric spoke, he swung the pike down sideways to block the entrance. "No admittance by order of Minister Cornelius Fudge. This is a private hearing."
Cedric's manners fled. "Like bloody hell," he snarled. "If it's being held in Courtroom Ten, it's a trial. Trials are open to the public, by the Wizengamot Charter of Rights." Cedric had verified all that the night before. "You can't keep me out."
The guard just looked Cedric up and down. "How do you plan to get past?" he asked, sneering a little. His point was obvious -- he had the pike and Cedric was on crutches.
For just a moment, Cedric saw red. Everything that he'd suffered in the past two months simply boiled over. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way!"
The sneer turned into a smirk. "Or what?"
Cedric had his right crutch collapsed and his wand out so fast the guard was taken completely by surprise, but before he could do something rash and foolish, he heard a quiet, "Wand down, Mr. Diggory," behind him, and spun, almost falling, balanced as he was on but one crutch.
Dumbledore stood there, an elderly woman with him. His eyes held Cedric's calmly. "You needn't do that."
"It's not a hearing!" Cedric snapped. "They can't keep me out of a trial!"
"Nor will they." Dumbledore stepped up to the man at the door. "Alfred, I have information and witnesses pertinent to the disciplinary hearing of Harry Potter. Please admit us at once."
Cedric had stepped back beside the old woman, who smiled up at him and patted his arm despite looking nervous herself. "It'll be all right, dear," she whispered even as the guard at the door reluctantly raised his pike and stepped aside. He might have been willing to stop a schoolboy barely of age, and take obscene pleasure in it, but he clearly wasn't prepared to hold off the greatest wizard of their age.
"Come, Cedric," Dumbledore said and, as Cedric passed him at the doorway, muttered, "Stand at the back and don't say anything unless I call you forward. Let me handle this." The woman, whoever she was, appeared to be staying outside for the moment.
"Yes, sir," Cedric replied, and, "Thank you, sir."
Cedric had never been in this room, but he'd heard plenty of stories. Square and dank with rising benches all around the perimeter and lit by dim torches, the chained chair of the accused sat in the center. Just now, Harry occupied it, facing the entire assembled Wizengamot. At least the chains weren't binding him, but he looked as pale as death, and turned in surprise at Dumbledore's entrance. Several in the court rose, as if to protest. As promised, Cedric made his way to the side just under the benches nearest the door on the left. Harry was staring at him, mouth open in shock. Cedric nodded once and smiled a little. Harry didn't smile back, but his face . . . eased, perhaps, and he returned his attention to Dumbledore. Cedric himself looked up at the witches and wizards assembled. He recognized the Minister of Magic there, and Susan's aunt, Amelia Bones. She looked right at him, one gray eyebrow raised over her monocle -- but not as if she were angry. More as if she were surprised and curious at his arrival. He smiled at her. She'd been in Hufflepuff once, too, Susan had said. She might understand why he was here, why he'd had to come.
But most of the witches and wizards were more concerned with Dumbledore than with Cedric, which was fine with him.
"--witness for the defense," Dumbledore was saying, "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. And character witness for the defense, Cedric Gwalchmai Cerne Diggory."
Cedric could feel the eyes shift to him again, and Harry turned once more. Cedric gave him a covert thumbs-up, which made the boy smile finally.
An exchange between Dumbledore and Fudge followed, about trial times and notification owls, and then Dumbledore called up a chair for himself and sat down. Cedric might have liked to do the same -- his right leg was hurting him after the stairs -- but he felt it important to stay on his feet . . . crutches in full view, and school robes displayed neatly. He caught Percy Weasley's look of disapproval and it almost made him smile. The uptight git. He wondered what Percy would think when he learned that Cedric had inherited his old position as Head Boy?
Fudge then read the charges against Harry, who replied to each, growing increasingly upset and desperate. Cedric wished he could intervene, but he'd promised Dumbledore he'd be quiet and let the headmaster handle this. And Dumbledore didn't look worried, so Cedric probably shouldn't be -- but it hurt to see Fudge so callous with Harry. The suppressed rage in Cedric's gut was stirring again, bubbling up like an overcooked cauldron. He bit his tongue, literally, in an effort to keep quiet.
Finally, at the mention of the dementors, Susan's aunt interrupted, "You produced a fully-fledged Patronus?"
"Yes," Harry told her. "Because --"
"A corporeal Patronus?"
"A -- what?"
"Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to say, it was more than vapor or smoke?"
"Yes, it's a stag. It's always a stag." Harry was sounding somewhere south of desperate, though Cedric himself was glad to see Madam Bones take over from Fudge. That was very much in Harry's favor, whether or not the boy knew it.
The exchange went on for a bit until she declared, "Impressive. A true Patronus at that age . . . very impressive indeed."
And Fudge, feeling the trial was getting away from him, spoke up almost petulantly. "It's not a question of how impressive the magic was. In fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!"
"I did it because of the dementors!" Harry said.
"Dementors?" Madam Bones asked, "Yes, I believe my niece did say something to me about this being in self defense." And Cedric nodded slightly to himself, struggling to keep back his smile. Susan had come through for him. He owed her a bear hug. "Explain what you mean, boy."
And Harry tried, but Fudge was right there to undercut him, implying Harry was making it up for attention, or to conceal his crime. Cedric ground his teeth as matters fell to sniping, but Dumbledore cut across it. "We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of dementors in the alleyway -- other than Dudley Dursley, I mean."
Eyes shifted back to Cedric, but Cedric knew Dumbledore wasn't talking about him. There was more debate between Fudge and Dumbledore until Madam Bones backed up Dumbledore's assertion that Harry had a right to witnesses and Percy was sent out to fetch whomever Dumbledore had meant. It turned out to be the elderly woman who'd told Cedric not to worry, though she still looked quite nervous. And Cedric suddenly noticed that she was wearing house slippers. Had Dumbledore packed her off straight from a rocking chair? Not exactly the best impression. He ran a hand down his neatly pressed robes.
The woman, named Mrs. Figg, proved to be a Squib, which might have explained some things. Her testimony sounded half rehearsed, and Cedric wondered what that was about. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't have brought a false witness? Cedric was tempted to put a hand over his face when she described dementors as "big and wearing cloaks." Could she be any more generic?
But when pressed by Madam Bones, she went on, "I felt them. Everything went cold, and this was a very warm summer's night, mark you. And I felt . . . as though all happiness had gone from the world . . . and I remembered . . . dreadful things . . . "
Cedric shuddered. The woman had seen dementors, all right. He could clearly remember the first time he'd felt them on the Hogwarts Express two years ago. It had been as if every nightmare he'd ever feared had come alive in one moment, turning his flesh and blood to ice.
Fudge, of course, wasn't convinced -- but Cedric thought Madam Bones was. A few more exchanges followed, and the poor old woman was released. She hurried out as Fudge said, "Not a very convincing witness."
"Oh, I don't know," Susan's aunt said. "She certainly described the effects of a dementor attack very accurately . . . "
Yet more debate ensued over the likelihood that dementors would show up randomly in a Muggle subburb, until Dumbledore interrupted again to say, "Oh, I don't think any of us believe the dementors were there by coincidence."
That got near-instant silence, until Fudge asked, "And what is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I think they were ordered there."
And that devolved into a heated argument about who the dementors were taking orders from these days. Cedric listened carefully to Fudge and the woman called Umbridge, Fudge's Undersecretary, who had the hideous appearance of a human toad with a ridiculous bow in her hair. Ghastly.
In the midst of the debate, Dumbledore suddenly turned to the back of the courtroom where Cedric was still standing. "I call our second witness, Cedric Diggory."
Cedric nodded once and clumped his way forward. He'd been wondering if he'd be stuck in the rear, silent throughout the whole trial -- and suspected that Dumbledore might have hoped so. But for his own part, he was ready and past ready to do something. Even if he had no idea what the headmaster wanted him to say, precisely.
As he drew even with Dubledore's chintz armchair and the chained seat in which Harry sat, Harry looked up at him, then dropped his eyes to the crutches. The boy's entire expression was pinched with guilt and between that and his look of complete surprise earlier, Cedric wondered whether anyone had told him about Cedric's crippling -- even Granger. But perhaps that meant Granger really had come to hospital just to see him.
He found that thought strangely encouraging and straightened his back as best he could, facing the assembled court.
Madam Bones nodded to him, ever so minutely. "Mr. Diggory, we've heard a convincing report of a dementor attack on Mr. Potter, and Albus Dumbledore claims that He Who Must Not Be Named has, in fact, returned -- and that these dementors may be under his control, not the Ministry's. You were among those present on 24th June." She paused, then asked bluntly, "Is He Who Must Not Be Named back?"
"Yes," Cedric replied as clearly and calmly as possible.
The entire Wizengamot erupted in noise. It was one thing for Dumbledore to say such a thing, or even for Harry Potter. Cedric had read the articles that summer in The Daily Prophet and heard what had been said on the Wizarding News Network -- the insinuations and jokes about Potter's capacity for fibbing or attention-mongering. And everyone knew of his connections to Dumbledore. But Hermione had been right.
Cedric Diggory saying Voldemort was back was quite another matter.
Fudge stood, his solid, square face red. "How could you possibly know, boy? You never saw him when he was alive, and you were distraught that night, under extreme pressure, you can't --"
"I know what I saw," Cedric snapped, then took a breath and went on more calmly, "I wasn't that distraught. When we arrived at the graveyard -- Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, Mr. Weasley, and myself -- I was ordered to take cover. I wasn't supposed to have gone back." He glanced down at Harry, who was watching him with wide eyes. "I acted without thinking, and so when Professor Dumbledore told me to hide -- I did. They had enough to face without worrying about me. I took cover behind a tombstone out of the way of the fight, and saw everything that occurred right up till the moment Lucius Malfoy moved forward to attack Harry. That's when I broke cover to --"
"Mr. Diggory!" Fudge interrupted. At the name of Lucius Malfoy, half the Wizengamot had drawn sharp breath and begun muttering. "Mr. Diggory, that is quite an accusation against an upstanding member of the Wizarding Community and very generous humanitarian. You cannot possibly expect us to believe Lucius Malfoy was present that night and fought among Death Eaters! Preposterous! Given your youth, and your obvious . . . infirmity . . . I'll pretend I didn't hear you make such a claim."
Completely enraged, Cedric bent forward on his crutches, almost spitting in his fury. "How dare you call me a liar! Lucius Malfoy cursed me, Minister Fudge. I'll never walk again because of that bastard. I'm not --"
"Silence!" Fudge shrieked. It rang around the chamber. "Silence!" And Cedric knew his outburst had blown whatever credibility he might have had with half the court. The other half looked troubled, but not outright angry -- including Madam Bones.
"Thank you," she said now in her booming voice, halting the exchange before worse could ensue. "You've answered our chief question. The witness is excused."
And Cedric had no recourse but to withdraw again to his place at the back of the court. He could feel the eyes of everyone following him as he made his way back -- thump, scrape, thump, scrape. For once, he wasn't ashamed. Let them all see what Malfoy had made him.
The silence lasted only a few moments, however, before Fudge, Dumbledore, and the rest were back to quarreling. Cedric wasn't listening closely; he felt like a fool. He'd let Fudge get to him, make him react instead of act. But the Minister had implied Cedric's handicap somehow affected his powers of judgement, not just his legs, and Cedric was boiling again inside. He'd never felt so insulted in his life.
His anger preoccupied him so much he missed the actual conclusion of the trial, which seemed to have turned into a struggle between Fudge and Dumbledore for things more esoteric than underage magic, including authority over Hogwarts, and Cedric had to kick himself for not paying attention. Meanwhile, the Wizengamot was chattering urgently among themselves while Dumbledore and Harry waited for them to finish deliberating. Finally, Madam Bones called for the vote. "Those in favor of clearing the witness of all charges?"
Cedric counted hands. That was clearly a majority, and he closed his eyes, breathing out. Whatever idiot he'd made of himself, it hadn't affected Harry's outcome, thank goodness.
"And those in favor of conviction?"
Cedric's eyes snapped back open. There were hands up -- Fudge's, predictably, but others, too. Cedric made a note of the faces, even if he didn't know all the names. Fudge glanced around and saw he was in the minority, then snarled, "Very well, very well . . . cleared of all charges."
"Excellent," Dumbledore said, and stood up, looking spritely. "Well, I must be getting along. Good day to you all." Vanishing the armchairs he'd summoned, he headed out, leaving Harry to stare after him. As he passed Cedric, though, he said softly, "You did very well, Mr. Diggory, despite everything. Fudge was intent on provoking you; don't be too hard on yourself over it. See to Harry."
And he was gone, leaving Cedric to stare at Harry, who stared back from the room's center.
The Wizengamot was breaking up now, witches and wizards chatting animatedly but not really paying the boys any attention -- except for one. Madam Toad, as Cedric had named her to himself. The woman Umbridge. She watched them both as Harry took a deep breath, then hurried over to Cedric. "Is it true?" was the first thing out of Harry's mouth. "You can't walk ever again?" His face was horrified.
"It's true."
"They didn't tell me!" Harry exploded. "Why didn't they tell me!?
"I think you had a few other things on your mind," Cedric pointed out.
"It doesn't matter!"
"Yes, it does," Cedric said quietly. Harry glared at him, but Cedric just stared back until Harry dropped his eyes. "Harry," Cedric went on, "there's nothing you could do. And it's not your fault -- I told you that before, right?"
Harry looked back up, still glaring. "It's not," Cedric reiterated, then abruptly lost his temper again. "Just stop it, would you? Stop it! It makes me feel awful!" Harry was gaping at him and Cedric realized that -- conversely -- they'd switched roles from the last time they'd met, when Cedric had been the one feeling guilty for having left Harry behind in the graveyard. "I've got enough to deal with now. I can't handle your guilt on top of it!"
"Sorry," Harry blurted. "I didn't -- I wouldn't -- That wasn't -- But if it weren't for me, you'd still be able to walk! This is my fault!"
"No, it's not," Cedric snapped. "It's Lucius Malfoy's fault. He's the one who performed the curse. He did this to me -- not you. And if I'd been thinking, I'd have realized I had no business going back to that graveyard. In the end, it was good that I did -- but that doesn't make my own choice any less foolish. Learn to recognize where real blame lies, Harry. It's very . . . frustrating, you know, when you blame yourself or other people apparently at random."
Harry flushed, dropping his eyes yet again, but with a mulish expression on his face at Cedric's scolding. Cedric didn't regret pissing him off, though; Harry needed to hear the truth just like Cedric himself did sometimes. More gently, Cedric added, "It sounds like you've had a bloody terrible summer -- we both have. I'm not angry with you, Potter. I just want you to be reasonable here, okay? This" -- Cedric tapped a crutch on the floor -- "isn't your fault."
Harry nodded abruptly, but still couldn't meet Cedric's eyes. "I just -- if you feel awful for me feeling guilty, imagine how I feel? You're crippled. That should never have happened to you! And then here, today -- you came here and did this for me, stood up for me, despite everything."
Cedric thought about how to respond. "I'll accept that you feel badly; that's an honest reaction. But I won't accept your guilt -- and I don't need any pity. I could use a friend, though."
That got Harry's attention, and he raised his eyes. "Absolutely," he replied, then added, "We'll get Malfoy, Cedric." He sounded much older, and more certain, than his fifteen years.
"I'm sure we will," Cedric replied. "And you can call me Ced, Harry. My friends do." They shared a grin. Whatever came next, Cedric knew that today, he'd found someone who'd always watch his back. And he'd watch Harry's, as best he could.
Notes: Cedric's socio-economic class was never specified, but I've guessed upper middle class. "Gwalchmai" means "Hawk of May" and is the Celtic name for Gawain (knight of the Round Table, older foster brother to Arthur). "Cerne" (also Herne) is the Celtic god of the hunt, associated with Cernunnos. Easy For You To Say. Q & As For Teens Living With Chronic Illness Or Disabilities is a real book; it's now available in a revised edition, though Hermione would have had the original. The pragmatic and (in some cases) blunt approach is really useful. Originally published in the mid-summer of 1995, I'm not entirely sure it would have been available in the UK immediately, but let's fudge and pretend. ;
Note on spelling: As an American, I use US English spelling in all narrative -- for my and my editors' sanity -- but for the letters, written by British characters, I use UK spelling.