Even in a crowded room such as the Great Hall, Hermione's awareness of Cedric was preternatural. She could be talking to Harry or Ron, Ginny or Neville, but she always knew where Cedric was. Divided attention. She wondered if he suffered the same.
And it was because of her awareness that she knew it the minute Cho stormed off from the Hufflepuff table at lunch. Beside her, Harry noticed too, and attacked his Cornish pasties with renewed vigor, frowning. Yet she didn't think him unhappy, and when they left the hall, he even plucked up the courage to say, "Hi, Cho," as they passed where she now sat with friends at the Ravenclaw table.
"Hi, Harry," she replied with a smile that disappeared as she spotted Hermione behind him.
It was, Hermione thought, an odd feeling to be the 'other woman,' certainly not a position in which she'd ever expected to find herself. Other Women were slags, predators, lacking in moral fibre, all the things she despised. They were sexy and beautiful, not bookworms with fly-away hair. She wasn't the kind of girl to make the boys come undone, and if she might try to paint Cho as awful or undeserving of Cedric, she knew it wasn't true. There was nothing wrong with Cho, but Hermione couldn't meet the other girl's eyes as she slid past behind Harry. At least Cho didn't attempt to confront her, or say anything like, 'Stay away from Cedric.' Maybe Cho wasn't brave enough, or maybe she just didn't want to sound ridiculous, but whatever the reason, Hermione was grateful to be ignored.
Cedric caught her at dinner. She and Ron had come early to eat with Harry before his detention with Umbridge, so she was leaving the Great Hall as Cedric was coming in. He called to her and she left Ron with a word about going up to the library. Ron didn't protest; he seemed in a hurry to get somewhere himself, though he was dodgy about exactly where.
Walking over to Cedric, she asked, "How was Potions?"
"You mean how many times did Snape call me an idiot? I think . . . only twice today. That's better than average."
She smiled despite herself. "What are the special classes about?"
"He wants to teach me to make my own medicines. We're starting with Abdoleo; it's relatively simple, although neither of them is easy. I can already tell he's dubious as to whether I'll get the Restituo right. Frankly, so am I. There's a reason it has to be made by an apothecary."
"I heard what happened with Umbridge, by the way." She tipped her head. "Were you actually passing notes in class?"
He laughed. "You're the first person to ask that. Everyone else wants to talk about her taking the potion. And yes, actually, Scott was. He's bloody lucky I'm good with Vanishing spells."
She eyed him. "Shame on you."
"What? You'd rather he got caught?"
"No, just -- I can't believe you were passing notes."
He seemed vastly amused and leaned in. "It was just a bit of fun, Granger. Lighten up."
She huffed at him; somehow, she'd expected better, but boys would be boys, apparently.
"Anyway, what I wanted to say is that we've got a House meeting after dinner in the common room." The humor slid off his face. "We need to choose a new Quidditch Captain. Hufflepuff elects; we don't appoint. So I won't be in the library till later."
"You're not staying Captain? Didn't Harry talk to you?"
"He talked to me. I don't want to do it. I can't fly. I just -- I can't watch them." And he turned abruptly, hobbling off. Hurting for him, she watched him go.
With Harry in detention and Ron off . . . somewhere, Hermione had the entire evening in the library to herself until Cedric showed up. He was in the wheelchair, and looked tired -- or perhaps simply sad. Rolling up to her table, he found the top too high for his chair and she watched him drop his book bag on it with a resounding thump, then motion out the wooden-backed chair across from hers and shift himself into it. He didn't need his wand to move the chair; a wave of his hand sufficed. Seventh years did begin working with wandless magic, but she suspected he'd been practicing some spells over the summer. "You're quite good at that," she said.
"What, getting out of the chair? Sort of have to be." He sounded short and irritable.
"No, I meant doing spells without a wand."
"Oh, uh -- thanks. It's not that hard, really, if it's something you use a lot." He unpacked his books. Although all she'd asked earlier was to talk about house-elves, he seemed to assume they'd study together, too. She wasn't sure if that was because he wanted to spend time with her, or because he didn't want to spend time right now in the Hufflepuff common room, listening to whoever had taken his place talk about Quidditch. She could tell he wasn't in a good mood, frowning deeply as he sorted his books and got out his quill.
But then he looked up at her, face smoothed, and asked politely, "What did you want to ask me about house-elves? Do you have an assignment in History of Magic or something?"
"What? Oh, no." And reaching over, she retrieved the shoebox with her S.P.E.W. materials from the chair where she'd put it, placing it on the table in front of him. She handed him a badge. "This," she said, grinning. She felt a rush of excitement at having something to show him that might cheer him up.
His frown was back as he studied the badge. "What is this? Spew? Sounds like what you do after too much firewhiskey."
Used to Ron's jokes, she just rolled her eyes. "It's the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare, you ninny."
"Never heard of it, and couldn't the person who started it have come up with a better acronym? 'Spew' sounds ridiculous."
Stung, she reminded herself that he'd just been through a difficult evening after a difficult day. "I'm who started it," she told him -- and had the satisfaction of seeing him blush. "It's all right. I didn't really think about how it sounded till I'd already made the buttons. Ron reminds me regularly."
Cedric snorted in amusement and set the button down on his blank parchment. "So -- what's the point of 'spew'?"
"S.P.E.W.," she corrected. "And that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Excitement back, she wiggled a little in her chair as she pulled out the notes she'd made and launched into her explanation of why she'd started the society, and what she hoped to accomplish. She talked about how horribly house-elves like Dobby, Winky, and Kreacher had been treated, and her conviction that most house-elves had been beaten down into accepting their low status, not protesting it. "It's the worse kind of Uncle Tomism."
"Uncle Tomism?" It was the first time Cedric had said anything. He'd just sat listening in that way he had.
"The term comes from a character in a book -- a Muggle book -- but it means anybody who plays a servile stereotype in order to avoid being punished for getting uppity, or to find favor with the people who enslave them. And it's what the house-elves are doing, Cedric. They play along for their own safety, or because they don't realize they're not less than us." And she went on with her explanation.
She talked for twenty minutes, and he listened, only having interrupted the one time. But she began to notice halfway through that he was only listening -- being polite, because Cedric didn't interrupt -- but he was frowning. It leeched away her excitement and set her on edge. Finally, she concluded, "So you see? That's why I started the society. It's unjust how the elves are treated, and I want to put an end to it." But it was plaintive, not triumphant, and she sat there, hands gripped tightly, awaiting his response.
It didn't come immediately. Unlike Ron, or even Harry, he took his time before responding to things. Now, he leaned back in the seat and just studied her -- still frowning. Finally, he said, "Too bad you didn't think to actually consult more than a handful of house-elves before launching your crusade."
The words were brutal, and delivered in a tone she'd never heard from him before. He wasn't making fun of her. It was far worse. He disapproved.
Crushed, she raised her chin and felt her hurt transform into righteous indignation. "So you think keeping house-elves is acceptable? You don't see anything wrong with it? You think . . . you think they should be beaten and abused and enslaved and --"
"Shut up, Granger, and let me talk now. You had your turn."
His voice was still hard and for a moment, her ire flipped to show the pained underside. "Why are you angry with me?" She couldn't believe her gentle Cedric would agree with the enslaving of house-elves.
Picking up the button, he tossed it back in her shoebox. "This is the most patronizing load of shit . . . " He trailed off, his voice practically shaking with rage and she began to realize he didn't just disapprove, he was furious. "Who gave you the right to decide what's best for the elves, or what their lives ought to be like?" Her mouth fell open, and he leaned over the table, face full of thunder, gray eyes dark. "You are not a house-elf. And near as I can tell, you've only talked at length to three house-elves in your life, one of them right off his sodding rocker. Damn splendid statistical sample you've got there, Granger. I thought you were the math person?" He sat back again, long hands splayed flat on the tabletop, pale skin against dark wood.
"Instead of actually finding out what the house-elves might want," he continued, voice not raised, but not lowered, "you've condescendingly decided it for them. This is how they ought to think, and if they don't, then what? They're just deluded? Did you pay any attention to what that elf Winky said to you? You rattled it off to me, but I don't think you heard a word of it yourself. In one ear, out the other because it didn't fit your preconceptions. Instead you decided she was . . . Uncle Toming, or whatever you called it."
She sucked in breath. She could feel the sting of tears in her eyes. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "How can you think anyone would want to be treated like we treat the elves?"
"That's not the point!" he practically shouted, and drew glances from everyone around them. Leaning in, he said, "The point is you have no effing clue how they want to be treated. You got some batty notion in your head and went off on a tear, pumped full of your own certainty. It's what we've done all over the world and it's bloody embarrassing. We march in somewhere, see a culture that's not like ours, decide they need tea and civilization, and impose it. We can't imagine that people in other places may not want to live like us."
And a light went on in Hermione's head; she knew why he was outraged. She'd heard him say these same things, but not about elves. They'd been talking about the British in India, or the Americas, or Africa, or Australia. And she'd agreed with him. But he was letting it blind him now to the plight of the house-elves. "How can you be so . . . thick!" she exploded finally, although she kept her voice down. "I'm not talking about imposing British culture on someone else, Cedric. The house-elves are British. Well, at least ours are. I'm talking about our enslavement of a whole group of people for our convenience! Do we pay them wages? Do we provide them with healthcare? They have no rights -- "
"You can't stop talking long enough to actually listen to somebody, can you, Granger? I listened to you. Then it was my turn but you're still talking." He was slamming his books back into his bag. "No wonder people around the world hate us. We never listen to anybody else!"
"I am listening to you, but you're completely missing the point! I know what you're thinking. I know how you feel about the Ojibway, but you're reacting with a knee jerk --"
"And you're not?" He'd finished packing up and pulled his wheelchair around so he could get into it. "It's not about the Ojibway. Don't accuse me of special interest. It's about the larger problem -- it's about one group waltzing in to decide what's best for another without bothering to ask any questions first! You've magnanimously decided what house-elves should want after talking to three of them! That is just so . . . it's beyond arrogant! I can't stand that attitude." Now in his chair, he grabbed his book bag and set it in his lap. "If you really want to help the elves, Granger, go find out what they want. Listen to them. Don't just talk."
And he rolled away.
Swept first by a sensation of heat, then of chill, Hermione sat, stunned. She wanted to cry. She wanted to leap up, follow him out, and scream at him for being pig-headed and irrational. It didn't help that everyone in their section of the library had seen (and heard) a good portion of their quarrel. People kept throwing her looks as she sat there, putting away her S.P.E.W. materials and trying to concentrate on her essay about moonstones for Snape. But the parchment just swam in front of her eyes and she realized she was dripping tears onto it. Spelling dry what she'd finished, she packed up, hands shaking. The shock was starting to pass and the aftermath setting in.
This wasn't like a fight with Ron, or Harry. With them, sniping and quarreling had been part of their relationship from the beginning and after four years, she knew they'd get over it eventually. Even Harry at his worst lately hadn't left her feeling this furious. And hurt. And humiliated. She and Cedric had never disagreed on anything -- not seriously. Disagreement had been a starting spot to find consensus. That was part of the problem. Cedric teased but he didn't quarrel, and Cedric angry was a rare and frightening phenomenon because it meant something.
She just had no way to know what it meant -- feared he might never speak to her again.
Cedric went back to his office off the prefects' lounge because he hadn't been able to stay in the library another moment. He'd have to make do without the books he needed or get up early again, skip breakfast, and finish the work then. Yet concentrating on his Charms paper, or History of Magic, seemed impossible, and he threw his fifth aborted attempt across the room with frustrated curses. Fortunately, he was the only person around to hear.
If he'd thought yesterday had been bad, today had been worse, starting with that confrontation in Dark Arts. Then he'd quarreled with Cho, put up with Snape, and surrendered his captaincy. The fight with Granger had just been the last straw. For every small thing that had gone right (discovering he could still swim or getting his Abdoleo back from Umbridge), something worse had followed.
Bent over his desk, he pulled at his hair. The one person he might have gone to, the one he'd thought could really understand him, who liked him for him . . . she'd turned out to harbor an attitude that made his hackles rise.
It wasn't even her crazy S.P.E.W. itself. When she'd first started talking, he'd been honestly curious, if amused by the awful name she'd chosen. He'd seen people mistreat house-elves and didn't like it, and he'd been delighted to hear the Malfoys had lost theirs. Yet the more she'd talked, the more it had been like nails on a blackboard until he'd been so irritated, he'd mostly just waited for her to finish so he could --
What? Jump down her throat? That's what he'd done, and he knew it. If he hadn't already been upset, and tired after waking before dawn, he might have reacted less violently -- but he wasn't sure of that. There was little he hated more than the patronizing, 'we know what's best for you better than you do' busybody attitude she'd exhibited. He'd thought Hermione better than that.
That's what had hurt most -- why he'd become so angry. He felt as if he'd somehow misjudged her, seen only what he'd wanted to see. He'd been falling in love with somebody he'd made up in his own head.
At least Cho didn't decide how other people ought to live their lives.
He pulled out his flask of Abdoleo and took some, but not because his lower body hurt any worse than usual. He just wanted to feel numb. That probably wasn't a good thing, but he didn't care. His image of the perfect girl had imploded.
He was still there, trying valiantly to concentrate when the prefects turned up to give their evening report. Mary O'Dell reported for Gryffindor -- without Granger -- and he wasn't sure if that relieved him or upset him further.
Reports finished, he went up to his room, fed Esiban, and got ready for bed. The raccoon was waking from his daytime nap. Having a nocturnal pet meant he slept when Cedric was in class, but it also meant he was awake half the night threatening to get into things. At least in these new rooms, Cedric could be fairly certain there was no food stashed where Esiban might find it. In the Sett, he'd waged a constant battle to keep Esiban in his cage or to convince his Housemates to lock up any snacks or sweets. There'd been more than a few mornings he'd awoken to furious bellowing from somebody who'd discovered exactly how adept raccoons were at opening virtually anything that smelled like it might be edible.
In any case, he wanted another bath but the bathroom was occupied so he spent the time writing to his mother about Umbridge, then scribbling in the little black journal that Lupin had given him. If he couldn't talk to Hermione herself, he could at least talk to the blank page about her.
Finally the bathroom was empty and he escaped into the hot water, using the Bubblehead charm he'd learned for the Lake Task to sink beneath the surface and let himself drift in the water with his eyes shut until he ran out of air. It would have been more relaxing had he been able to stop going over and over the fight and every little thing they'd said, wondering if he'd fucked up or if she were off her rocker. But he couldn't get past her condescending attitude. Every time he thought about that, it just made him angrier.
When he finally returned to his room, he heard a rather pathetic hissing coming from the sitting room and rolled his wheelchair out there to find the raccoon swinging from the chandelier. He'd forgotten to put Esiban in his cage before going into the bathroom.
Putting his face in his hands, he just laughed, because it was better than crying. Eventually recovering enough to speak, he pulled his wand and said, "You dope -- how did you get up there?" And he Levitated the animal down. It wasn't the first time Esiban had been Levitated somewhere and he hissed and chittered, but at least he was out of trouble (and the chandelier appeared undamaged). He shot off behind a sofa and Cedric left him be and went to bed.
The next morning, he overslept and so never made it to either the library or breakfast. Fortunately, Binns gave him an extension on his essay as he'd not actually been in class the first day. "Extenuating circumstances," Binns said. There were advantages to being a good student. As he didn't have Transfigurations, he spent the next period and half of lunch in the library, then ate quickly by himself before Care of Magical Creatures. Into NEWTs, his course load had dropped so he had spare periods for prep. Cho came to study with him after dinner, and they spent a pleasant two hours in the library, sharing books and toffee and playing footsie under the table until she accidentally kicked his brace and hurt her foot. "Sorry," he said.
"It's all right," she replied, rubbing her toes through her shoes.
Hermione picked that moment to come through the library door. Spotting him sitting with Cho, she turned and marched off in the opposite direction and he ignored her. Involved in working out a problem for astronomy, Cho didn't appear to notice, and the way her brows furrowed as she concentrated made him smile. When they were done for the evening, he set her on his lap in the wheelchair and raced her down the hallway while she squealed and laughed. The few minutes in the lift down to the ground floor they spent snogging, and when she left him in front of the prefects' lounge, she said, "You seem more like yourself."
He didn't know what that meant. He hadn't felt like himself since 24th June, but didn't say so. He just smiled and replied, "I'm glad. I'll see you tomorrow."
Hermione sent her evening rounds report through Mary O'Dell again. He was tempted to have O'Dell tell Granger to report for herself, but wasn't sure he really wanted to talk to her, either. As long as she was doing her job, did it matter how she chose to report? She could send him a parchment plane for all he cared.
After dinner every night that week, Hermione attacked her homework and her knitting of house-elf hats with a vengeance. Harry was in detention and Ron was sneaking off somewhere to do something that she wasn't sure she wanted to know about. After finding Cedric and Cho laughing in the library on Wednesday, she didn't go back there, not in the evenings anyway. She rearranged her own schedule to avoid being in the same place as Cedric at the same time -- not terribly difficult outside of meals as he was a seventh year. The worst of it was evening rounds, but Mary kindly agreed to take her reports, although not without an explanation. "What's up with that?"
"He just . . . rubs me up the wrong way," she replied.
Mary had tipped her head. "I wasn't sure if you two were friends or enemies -- after the train and the prefects meeting, I mean. Is he harassing you?"
"What? No, no. Nothing like that." She didn't want to talk about Cedric, just avoid him. Mary didn't ask anything else, and Hermione henceforth gave her rounds reports to her, or to Ron.
Once, Ron tried to get the problem out of her in his usual graceless way. "So what'd you and Diggory argue about?"
"Nothing. What makes you think we had an argument?"
"Uh -- because you head in the other direction as soon as you see him coming, and he looks grumpy half the time. Practically bit my head off last night because I was a little late with my rounds report."
"Why were you late? Violet said on the train that they want to go to bed too, remember? I'm sure that's all it was."
Ron dodged her question, looking a bit shifty. "Doesn't matter. And, well, he's turned out to be an all right bloke, supporting Harry and all. But, uh, heshouldbenicertoyou." And Ron shuffled off, hands deep in pockets. Hermione watched him go, wondering what that was about.
Harry was so distracted by his detentions and falling behind with homework that he didn't appear to notice she and Cedric weren't talking until Friday. A moment finally came when she couldn't turn around and go the other way when she saw him coming, so they passed each other in the hall, he on the crutches, she with her head down over her books. Ron was right; he did look grumpy. Harry greeted him and received a reply, but when he ignored Hermione, Harry stopped stock still, staring after him, then around to Hermione. Ron feigned interest in a painting of a dour old witch. "What was that about?" Harry demanded.
"Nothing."
"They're having some sort of quarrel," Ron put in without turning.
"We are not. We can't be having a quarrel since we're not talking." And she stalked off, leaving them behind. They had divination and she had arithmancy anyway.
It was Ginny who finally got the story out of her. Now that Ginny was seeing Michael Corner of Ravenclaw, she didn't spend as much time in the Gryffindor common room, and Hermione had barely seen her outside meals since Tuesday. But after dinner on Friday, they walked down to the Quidditch pitch together to watch Gryffindor Keeper tryouts. It was drizzling, and they sat under an umbrella, huddled against the rain. "So what happened with Cedric?" Ginny asked.
"Nothing," Hermione replied, stubborn.
Ginny sighed. "That's not just a lie, Hermione, it's a pathetic lie. By all accounts, you've done nothing all week but study and knit --"
"Well, I've got loads of homework!"
"-- and whenever I've seen Cedric in the hallways, he's scowling. He never scowls. Well, he didn't used to scowl all the time, anyway. The only person who seems cheerful is Cho."
Hermione's snort wasn't even delicate. But after a moment of internal struggle, she broke down and told Ginny about her fight with Cedric on Tuesday, and everything he'd said. Ginny appeared more thoughtful than sympathetic, although she did put an arm around Hermione to hug her. "He wasn't very nice," she said finally. "But, you know, he might have a bit of a point."
"Not you too!"
"Hermione, it's not that I disagree with S.P.E.W., I just . . . um, maybe you really ought to talk to some house-elves, you know? It's not like there's a shortage of them at Hogwarts."
"I have talked to them!"
"You've talked to Dobby and Winky and Kreacher, and you have to admit, none of them's exactly an advertizement for house-elf society." She patted Hermione's shoulder under the poncho they shared beneath the umbrella. "Your heart's in the right place, however. Even Cedric should be able to see that! I don't know why he was so mean."
"He had a bit of a hard day, I think," she admitted grudgingly. "But he was still . . . " Her voice trailed off. Even thinking about it brought tears to her eyes, and she was glad of the rain to blame for her wet cheeks. "I thought he'd understand." Her lip was trembling now. "It's . . . it's something I want to do, Ginny -- help the house-elves. It's something worthwhile, you know? I just wanted him to understand."
"Of course it's worthwhile!" Ginny agreed, patting her arm again. "And there's no one better suited to it than you. But, well, perhaps you should consider some of what he suggested, even if he was a prat about it. It certainly wouldn't hurt to talk to the house-elves, would it? Then you'd have a much better idea of what needs to be changed, so they're happy. It's about elvish welfare, after all, right?"
Hermione nodded. Despite Ginny's sometimes-temper, the younger girl had a way of putting things so it didn't sound as if she were telling someone she was wrong -- even if she was. Sighing, Hermione rested her head on Ginny's shoulder and let her friend rock her. After a while, the tears came and Ginny still held on. "That's right," Ginny whispered softly. "Cry it out. You'll feel better."
And the funny thing was, she did. By the end of the tryouts, she was cheerful enough to congratulate Ron on making Keeper and really mean it. "I'm so proud of you!" she told him, which made him blush. "Harry will be, too."
"Thanks," Ron replied, head ducking.
A butterbeer, her general exhaustion, and Harry's news about Umbridge's touch on his arm causing his scar to burn drove further thoughts of Cedric right out of her head. "You're worried that You Know Who's controlling her like he controlled Quirrell?"
"Well, it's a possibility, isn't it?"
"I suppose so . . . " Hermione said without conviction. She had her doubts about Umbridge being under anybody's control but her own. Certainly Cedric hadn't thought so -- then again, what did Cedric know? "But I don't think he can be possessing her the way he possessed Qirrell, I mean, he's properly alive again now, isn't he, he's got his own body, he wouldn't need to share somebody else's. He could have her under the Imperius Curse, I suppose . . . "
Somehow, that didn't feel right, either. "But last year your scar hurt when nobody was touching you, and didn't Dumbledore say it had to do with what You Know Who was feeling at the time? I mean, maybe this hasn't got anything to do with Umbridge at all, maybe it's just coincidence it happened while you were with her?"
"She's evil. Twisted." And the look on Harry's face when he said that made Hermione shiver.
"She's horrible, yes," Hermione agreed. "But Harry . . . I think you ought to tell Dumbledore your scar hurt."
Harry's face grew stubborn. "I'm not bothering him with this. Like you just said, it's not a big deal. It's been hurting on and off all summer -- it was just a bit worse tonight, that's all -- "
"Harry, I'm sure Dumbledore would want to be bothered by this -- "
"Yeah, that's the only bit of me Dumbledore cares about, isn't it, my scar?
Hermione was shocked. "Don't say that! It's not true!" Harry hadn't seen how desperately frightened and angry Dumbledore had been the night Harry had been attacked by Dementors. Or how driven Dumbledore had acted earlier in June when Cedric had returned to tell them Harry was alone in the graveyard with You Know Who. There was little Hermione was more convinced of than that Dumbledore cared deeply about Harry's welfare.
"I think I'll write and tell Sirius about it, see what he thinks --"
"Harry! You can't put something like that in a letter!" How could he be so careless? "Don't you remember, Moody told us to be careful what we put in writing! We just can't guarantee owls aren't being intercepted anymore!"
"All right, all right, I won't tell him then! I'm going to bed. Tell Ron for me, will you?"
"Oh no, if you're going that means I can go without being rude too. I'm absolutely exhausted and I want to make some more hats tomorrow." They disappeared faster than she could keep up, and what would Cedric say to that? Obviously the elves were eager for freedom and he didn't know what he was talking about. She invited Harry to help her knit some, but he declined with excuses of homework that she knew weren't honest. Boys.
A pounding on his door woke Cedric much earlier on Saturday than he had to be up. "Cedric!" Cho's voice called from beyond. "It's me!"
What in the name of Merlin? "Wait a minute!" he called back, and got his braces on, then grabbed a robe and his crutches, and went to let her in. "Did something happen?"
She grabbed his upper arms. "I need your help! It's my mum's birthday and I completely forgot!"
"I'm sorry." He wasn't sure what else he was supposed to say.
She was pulling a large rock out of her pocket and held it up. "Can you do something with this? Make something pretty for me to send to her?"
"You want me to Transfigure a rock?"
"Aye -- into something pretty. Something crystal, perhaps? She likes crystal."
Cedric blinked, trying to wake up enough to think of something. "Wait a minute," he said, and went over to his desk, flipping through books. "Bring it here."
Leaving the door open, she hurried over to place the rock on the desk. He looked it over. There were bits of smoky quartz in it. Perhaps he could do something with that. Flipping pages until he found what he was looking for, he turned back to the rock. "Get me my wand, would you? I left it in the bedroom by my bed."
She dashed off to fetch it and brought it back. Pointing the wand at the rock, he muttered the spell -- a bit complicated since he wasn't making a single transfiguration but several at once, then watched with satisfaction as the rock became a Fabergé-style egg in gold, blue and brown, the brown formed of the dark quartz. Beside him, Cho gasped and then hugged him tightly. "You are so amazing! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She pulled away and looked up at him. "How long's it going to last, though?"
He laughed. "It's permanent, don't worry. That's why I picked something mineral and of the same weight."
She hugged him again and gave him a sound kiss even though he hadn't brushed his teeth yet. "I love you!" she said, grabbing the egg and hurrying off.
He stood on the crutches with his mouth hanging open, absolutely gobsmacked. When the door shut, he sat down on the sofa. She'd been speaking figuratively, surely? He'd just done her a great favor; Transfiguration wasn't anything she particularly excelled at, and it took a bit out of a bloke to create something like that egg, too. Rubbing his face, he said to the air, "You don't love me. Please don't love me."
All week he'd sought comfort in Cho for his defaced dreams, wrapping her attention around him like a security blanket. But it was only security, and that wasn't fair to her. Harry and Scott were right; Cho wasn't the girl he wanted. Maybe Granger wasn't, either, but that didn't make it honorable to stay with Cho. After nine months, people began to make assumptions, and he needed to stop going round the houses. He couldn't stay with Cho any longer because he didn't love her and he wasn't going to; that had nothing to do with any other girl. Hermione coming into his life -- even if she'd now gone out of it -- had served only to wake him up. This was the time to end things, when it couldn't be construed as leaping into another relationship.
Esiban hopped up on his desk. "When did my life get so complicated?" he asked the raccoon, who simply chirped back at him. "Let's go for a swim, right?" It was what he'd taken to doing all week when stressed -- which meant he swam every day, sometimes twice. He'd never expected to turn into a fish, but if he couldn't fly anymore, or walk, or run, at least he could swim. Sometimes Esiban swam with him, but the raccoon usually preferred to sit on the poolside and watch, or wade on the shallow top step. One of the reasons Dumbledore hadn't taken Esiban for the Lake Task was because waking up in the middle of a very deep and cold loch could have panicked the raccoon into scratching Cedric badly -- not to mention all the other Champions had recovered people. It might have looked a bit odd for Cedric's 'treasure' to be small and furry all over.
After his bath, and steeling himself for the unpleasant, Cedric headed down to breakfast. He'd find Cho, they'd have a long walk, and a talk. He wasn't sure how gracefully he could do this, but he'd try. Unfortunately, Cho wasn't at breakfast when he arrived, and her absence mostly relieved him. Ed was there instead, dressed in Quidditch robes, and he wanted to talk about tryouts. "What do you mean you're not coming! I need your advice!"
"You'll do fine. You were elected for a reason."
"I was elected because you nominated me, mate."
"You'll do fine."
"I need you."
"No, you don't. If I'm there, the team'll defer to me. You're captain now. Be captain."
Comet 260 gripped in one hand, Ed watched him eat for a moment. "I still feel badly about this."
"You shouldn't. I can't do it; it's that simple. And you've been on the team longer than me."
"Never had your strategy, mate. Everyone knew that."
"Don't put yourself down so much, all right? It bothers me. You're a good flier, and a good player. The team needs you to believe in yourself. Now go out there and find a new Seeker and Keeper. I've got work to do and a catch-up lesson with McGonagall."
Ed left. He hadn't, Cedric noted, eaten anything. He was probably as nervous at running tryouts as the candidates were at auditioning, and perhaps Cedric should've gone for moral support but he just couldn't. In fact, he wondered if he'd be able to steel himself to watch a game at all this year.
While he was pondering that and pushing around the remains of his cornflakes, a shadow fell over him and he glanced up. It was the youngest Weasley -- the girl -- fists on hips, looking . . . not quite murderous, but not far off. "I would like a word with you, please." Despite the 'please' it wasn't a request and he was just a little amused. There weren't many fourth years prepared to tackle a seventh year like that (and unless he was much mistaken, the look on her face promised a Howler).
"All right," he said, putting his spoon down. He was finished anyway. He turned to face her.
"You've got an office, haven't you?"
"Yes, it's off the prefects' lounge --" She was gone before he finished, marching back up the aisle between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables.
Rising, he followed behind more slowly. Ernie MacMillan leaned backwards into the aisle to stop him. "What was that about, Ced?"
"I suppose I'll find out," he replied, and Ernie righted himself to let Cedric pass.
The girl was waiting in the prefects' lounge, her arms crossed, slouching in irritation. He crossed to his office and muttered the password. She followed him inside and practically slammed the door. "You are a prat!" she began, which took him aback a bit.
"You mind putting that in some kind of context?" Though he had a fair suspicion of what it might be.
She dropped her folded arms. "I know Hermione's house-elf theories are a bit dodgy, but Merlin's beard! Did you have to be so . . . nasty? She's a good person! She just wants to help them! If I didn't think you could probably block me, I'd hex you!"
She probably would. This was the dangerous Weasley -- not any of the boys. "Ginny, right?"
"Yes, Ginny." Her arms were crossed again and her blue eyes flashed. "And don't change the subject. We all thought you were her friend, but you hurt her something terrible about the one thing she really cares about! Maybe the twins are right about you and you're a just a spoiled pretty boy who's no better than Draco Malfoy in how he bullies people!"
"That's enough," Cedric snapped. No one called him a Malfoy. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might have a real objection to her ideas? That we might have a point of actual disagreement? That perhaps she made me angry, too? That maybe she's not what I thought?"
The last came out bitter, and Ginny's head went up. "So what did you think she was? Some simpering cow like Cho Chang who'd follow you around and sing your praises even if she disagreed with you?"
He glared a moment. "First, don't insult my friends. If you're going to defend yours, I'll defend mine. Cho is clever and sweet-natured -- and you don't know her. Calling her a 'cow' is unfair and unkind."
The girl actually had the good grace to appear a bit sheepish.
"Second, the last thing I ever wanted from Hermione was simpering or praise-singing. She's not good at either one, and it's not how our friendship worked."
The fact he was talking about it in the past tense felt depressing.
"But no, I don't think she's the person I took her for. Not if she goes around deciding how others ought to think, and if they disagree, decides they're either prejudiced or too stupid to see her logic." All right, so she'd not actually accused him of either one, but he'd felt it implied. "I don't agree with her, Ginny. And I find her attitude patronizing. That's the one thing I like least in a person, that arrogance of thinking you know what's best for everyone."
Ginny had dropped her arms again and was staring at him, but not with rage. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her. "Hermione can be like that," she said . . . a bit unexpectedly. "She's bossy. We all know it, but she's that way because she cares. How can you not see that?" The question sounded confused more than upset. "She cares and she worries and she tries to make sure everyone is all right and looked after and their homework is done and they're . . . happy.
"Sometimes she tells us what we ought to be doing, but she's usually right. That's part of why it's so annoying. She's usually right. She . . . mothers everyone. You didn't see how worried she got last year for Harry, how she couldn't sleep but just read and read and read, looking for spells. Or how angry she got when the fake Moody made Neville watch him cast a Cruciatus Curse on a spider. Ron told me. She screamed at Moody and was ready to cry right there in class. That's Hermione, Cedric. So what if she's bossy sometimes? She just wants to take care of people -- including the elves. It . . . it hurts her to see anything mistreated."
Cedric didn't reply because he couldn't. He just sat there, astonished. Ginny had returned him the girl he thought he'd fallen in love with, the one who'd come to see a stranger in hospital, then kept coming back because she'd realized he needed somebody to talk to, the one who'd written to him as soon as she'd seen the article about his father in the The Daily Prophet. And he'd witnessed first hand last year how she'd trailed after Harry, even breaking rules to sneak into the Champions' tent before the Dragon Task just to give him moral support.
That was his Granger.
He still thought her wrong about the elves -- and yes, patronizing -- but Ginny had managed to connect the two Hermiones for him so that he no longer felt as if they were two different people and he'd somehow mistaken one for the other. He hadn't been wrong. He'd just . . . whitewashed her a bit, or tried to make it either-or. But people were never that simple, and if she could only figure out what properly to fight for, she'd be unstoppable because she didn't do those things for herself. At the root of it, Hermione Granger had the heart of a servant, and he admired that. It outweighed her occasional (or not so occasional) know-it-all attitude.
But. "I'm not sure she's interested in talking to me about anything any more, Ginny."
"Agggh!" Ginny tore at her rusty red hair. "Boys are so stupid! Do you want to talk to her?" He swallowed, and nodded. "Then go and find her! She's furious at you and you really hurt her feelings, but for whatever reason, she still thinks the sun shines out your backside." Ginny frowned, then admitted, "You had some good points about the elves -- things Hermione needs to hear. Remember, she didn't grow up in our world. Mostly, she gets along, but there are things she doesn't understand. She still thinks like a Muggle sometimes and that includes considering elves people, as if saying they're not is somehow a bad thing. She's not used to living with other intelligent creatures that aren't . . . us."
And Ginny had a point Cedric hadn't really considered, for all that he found her Muggle worldview fascinating. She didn't think like him, and in a weird way, he'd been guilty of doing to her the same thing she was doing to house-elves: assuming she should see the world the same way he did. It was a . . . painful recognition, and he found himself smiling a little ruefully. "Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"Kicking me in the arse."
Ginny laughed and it made her look far less frightful. "Somebody had to do it. You're all right, Diggory." And she left him.
He should talk to Granger. Except, of course, he should also talk to Cho. Yet that talk was nothing he looked forward to so he convinced himself that finding Granger was more important, to see if they could discuss the house-elves without getting up each other's noses. And shouldn't he do that before he talked to Cho anyway? He didn't want it to look as if he were running straight from her to Hermione.
Unfortunately, Hermione was nowhere to be found. She must have come to breakfast while Ginny was giving him an earful. Or she'd been down earlier when he'd been swimming. In any case, she wasn't anywhere he expected her to be, and he couldn't tramp around the castle all day; his legs just wouldn't take it. She was probably in the Gryffindor common room working on something, and he needed to head to McGonagall's tower office for the missed lesson.
McGonagall was waiting for him and had the door open, though whether for his ease of access or to hear him coming, he wasn't sure. "Professor?" he said, poking his head in.
She looked up from the book she was reading while she dictated something to a quotes quill. With a wave, the quill put itself away and she shut the book. "You're early, Diggory."
He clanked in. Her office was as he remembered it -- full of books and papers, and for all her severely neat appearance in class, this place always seemed in a perpetual state of disarray. Belatedly, she realized she had piles of books in his way and gestured for them to restack themselves. "So sorry; have a seat, please."
He settled down in the chair that sat at an angle to her own desk where it was pushed up against a wall and covered in student papers. Above it hung a small painting of the Roman goddess Minerva, her namesake, reading a scroll. Unlike most of the paintings in the castle, this certainly was no portrait, although if the face bore a slight resemblance to a younger Professor McGonagall, it was because the artist had sought to flatter her professor and patron. It wasn't the mature work of a Master Painter, but it occupied pride of place all the same. He liked to see it when he came in here. It was through such small things that McGonagall revealed her affection for students -- current or former.
She glanced at the painting, then back to him. She said nothing; they'd discussed it, and the artist, before. He had, she'd said once, got his gift for Transfigurations from his mother. Now she pushed a pile of books across the desk in his direction. He picked up the top one and glanced at the title. The Transfiguration of Living Creatures. He blinked. She thought he was ready for this?
He looked back up, his mouth open in surprise. She smiled; it made her face almost pleasant. "Once in a decade or so, Diggory, I have a student who shows the ability to cast permanent transfigurations before the end of his seventh year, a student able to vanish and conjure silently, even able to perform temporary transfigurations of large inanimate to animate objects -- as you did last year in the Dragon Task. You are, obviously, such a student.
"Therefore, I think it time to push you harder. I believe you could transfigure living creatures -- but as you well know, magic at that level is not only a matter of talent, but of ethics. To turn a rock into a dog that will become a rock again in a few hours is one thing. It was never really a dog. To transfigure a dog into a rock, however, is something else, and not to be done for convenience or ego satisfaction."
He nodded to show he understood.
"Animate Transfiguration must be registered and licensed, and every apprentice must be vouched for by a Transfiguration master." She smiled. "I am prepared to vouch for you, if you wish to pursue such a course of study. When you complete it and demonstrate competence, it would offer you vocational opportunities you wouldn't otherwise have, even with a NEWT in Transfiguration. I have little doubt you could take the Transfiguration NEWT tomorrow and pass it." He blinked. McGonagall wasn't in the habit of empty praise. "This is a level or two beyond that."
He just nodded again. "I'd like that." He wasn't sure his ultimate career goal had much to do with Transfigurations, but she was right in that such a certificate would open jobs to him that most people couldn't get, and he'd need a job after he left school. With Fudge in office, he wasn't likely to be hired at the Ministry even if he got Os in all six NEWTs.
"Very well," McGonagall said. "We'll meet every Monday afternoon -- it's the only day I'm not teaching at the same time you're not in a class. We may meet in off times as the need arises, but you're perfectly self-motivated, and at first, you'll be absorbing more theory than actual spells. I want you to begin with Adamson's book on top. It deals with the fundamental difference between Transfiguration of a non-living versus living object. You have until Monday-week. For this coming Monday, practice inanimate to animate transfigurations and feel the shift. See how long you can make such a spell last. Time it. On Monday, we'll begin discussion of working with living creatures."
"Yes, professor."
She tilted her head down. "Now, the last thing. It's not uncommon for we who deal with animate transfiguration to master the Animagus transformation as well. I believe you've the potential to become an Animagus, Diggory. Among the books there" -- she patted the pile -- "is an introductory text to Animagi Transfiguration. Once you've mastered basic animate transfigurations, we'll begin preparing you for that, but you may as well start reading about it ahead of time." She paused. "You're frowning."
And he was. Unlike the opportunity to work with animate transfiguration, the prospect of becoming an Animagus didn't interest him. "With all respect, professor, I don't see much point in learning to be an Animagus."
She appeared taken aback. "Whyever not? For somebody of your potential, Diggory --"
"It's not about that," he said. "Whatever I'd become, I'd still be crippled. I don't think they make crutches and wheelchairs for animals."
Understanding washed over her face. "Ah." She tilted her head. "But you don't know yet what you'd become. It's entirely possible you'd be something for which your crippling wouldn't matter."
"What? A seal?" Then he blushed. "Sorry, that was rude. It just seems that it's a great deal of effort for something that I probably won't be able to use. Maybe I should spend my time learning something more useful?"
She tilted her head down and eyed him over the top of her square spectacles. "Knowledge is never useless, Mr. Diggory. Even if the Animagus transformation isn't one you wish to employ, to understand how it's done and be able to do it is the keystone of animate Transfigurations. I think it important for you to learn to make that transformation, and will therefore expect you to read the books and make an effort in that direction."
"Yes, professor." But he wasn't happy about it, or convinced, and knew she could hear it in his voice.
As he was leaving, he paused in the doorway and looked back. "May I ask an odd question? Have you ever thought about the house-elves and how we treat them?'
Eyebrows hiked, McGonagall looked up. "Talking to Miss Granger, I see?"
He blushed. "I think she's wrong in some of what she says. But perhaps not entirely."
"I think her heart is in the right place, however peculiar her ideas might be, Diggory. Have a good day."
Notes: What Cedric says about the British overseas could equally be said about American attitudes now. I'm not picking on the Brits. I've gone with the tower-film location of McGonagall's office, rather than the book's second floor. One note on Ginny's appearance. In the books, she has brown eyes, but the actress Bonnie Wright's eyes are blue. As per my previous statement that I've defaulted to actor appearances, Ginny's eyes are therefore blue.