Cedric made his first bid to fulfill his promise to Blaise Zabini at Halloween. Despite what first years sometimes thought, the Great Hall didn't decorate itself. It fell to fifth, sixth and seventh years, and constituted a lot of hard work -- but was also a chance to show off one's skills, get out of class, and represent one's House. So it was a task both sought after and avoided, and among the responsibilities that fell to the Head Boy and Girl involved drafting likely labor . . . who traditionally complained about it because they were expected to.
On Sunday evening two days before Halloween, Cedric and Violet made their choices, tapping shoulders (or sending notices by parchment plane in Cedric's case). Seventh years who had the best magic were among the first chosen, but other draftees typically included prefects as the responsibility would eventually fall on them. Cedric had been drafted both his fifth and sixth years.
In keeping with Umbridge's new demands, Cedric chose the boys and Violet chose the girls. He'd have liked to pick all his mates, but that wouldn't look fair, so he restricted himself to Scott, who was the most skilled. From Gryffindor, he tapped the twins -- which might be a mistake (Violet had looked at him as if he'd lost his mind). Yet despite their poor marks, Fred and George were among the most creative wizards in that House for their year. In his parchment invitation he added at the bottom: "You set any surprises that you don't clear with me first, and I'll kill you. I'm not kidding. They can lock me up in Azkaban. That said, surprises are not out of the question -- what's Halloween without some scariness? -- just ask me first."
Fred had sent the plane back with, "How could we resist an excuse to skip class? We'll enjoy knowing you're in Azkaban, Diggory" -- which ironically Cedric took to mean they'd comply. He'd have been a lot more worried if they'd appeared meek about it. He also suspected that what they'd come up with would eclipse anything seen at the banquet in all seven years he'd been at Hogwarts. Sometimes Cedric wondered if he and the twins were cheerful enemies or antagonistic friends, and decided it wasn't so easy to draw the line -- probably depended on the day of the week and the weather.
In any case, his other choices were mostly predictable -- until it came to Slytherin. Traditionally, only two fifth years were ever selected from a House. Fifth years simply didn't have the grade of magic required and mostly came to watch to learn how it was done for future reference. From Slytherin's fifth year, Cedric didn't tap Malfoy, but Zabini. He actually had a reason if anybody asked. Zabini was better at Charms, and possessed a more artistic eye. Neither was his real reason.
When Malfoy showed up that night for report, his pale face was flushed with suppressed rage, and he came alone. Till now, he'd made a point of coming in company and Cedric certainly hadn't minded. He no more wanted to talk to Malfoy than Malfoy wanted to talk to him.
Tonight was clearly different. "How dare you not pick me!" Malfoy snapped as soon as he slammed Cedric's office door. "It's my right to decorate!"
Cedric looked up at him, waving a hand over his quill to keep it writing -- a casual-not-casual demonstration of exactly how much difference in skill lay between them. "I thought I was doing you a favor? Don't most people try to get out of decorating?"
And Malfoy was caught. Complaining about the 'chore' of decorating really was traditional -- with a few exceptions, such as Percy Weasley, who'd been too self-important, or Cedric himself, who simply avoided complaining full stop. But being chosen was also an honor and a mark of House prestige.
Not choosing Malfoy had been a very deliberate snub, and both Cedric and Malfoy knew it, but Malfoy couldn't, quite, admit it. "You bastard," Malfoy said instead. "I know you don't like me."
"Gee, I can't imagine why, Draco dear cousin."
"I'm not related to you!"
"Trust me, I'd rather forego that honor as well, but there's the little problem of my mother's maiden name. Besides, last year as I recall, you were quite happy to be related to the Hogwarts Champion."
Slamming both hands down on Cedric's desk, Malfoy bent over it. "I had no idea then who you were."
"What? Dad didn't tell you about the little skeleton in the closet? Or the fact he murdered a man to get the house you grew up in?"
"That's not true!" Malfoy shouted.
"It is true. Your father expected my grandfather to will him the house when my mother married the wrong person. But my grandfather never liked your father, and when despite everything he refused to name an heir and my mother gave him a grandson, your father thought my grandfather might reverse his decision and reinstate my mother. So your father enlisted Death Eaters to murder my mother's father."
The plain fact was Cedric wouldn't have wanted the bloody mansion even if it had been willed to him. He wasn't a Malfoy and hated them for what they'd done to his mother, but Draco couldn't imagine not wanting it, and that served Cedric's purpose.
"It's not yours," Malfoy snarled now, face flushing even redder. "Your mother was the bitch who escaped the house in heat and fucked the first mongrel that came along. You should have been drowned at birth like any mutt."
Slamming down his own hands, Cedric pushed himself to his feet and leaned over to face Malfoy. "Shut your ugly mouth. My mother was worth ten of your father. She's the one with talent. She's the one who's made a name for herself without depending on her family's. She's the one who consistently bested your father at every subject here -- including Potions. Slughorn loved her. He thought your father was a fuck-up, and the only reason you get high marks in that subject now is because you're Snape's pet. What other Os have you got to show, Malfoy? Not a one."
"My marks are quite good enough, and at least I'm not some pretty-faced, crippled swot who wastes time in libraries chasing mudblood arse."
Cedric actually snarled. Unlike the verbal sword-crossing with Zabini, this was no game of wits and stabs in the dark to see what connected with flesh. Getting hold of himself, he sat back down and returned his attention to his essay. The quill had lost force while Cedric's attention had been divided and was now doodling on the paper. He'd have to erase that. "Get out of my office, you pathetic, talentless Squib."
Malfoy straightened. "I'm going to see you brought down, Diggory. I know who has power around here, and it's not Albus Dumbledore. Not anymore. You picked the wrong side of this fight, just like your stupid, fat cow of a mother."
That was the last straw; a boy could take only so much, especially when it came to his mum. Pulling his wand, he held it aimed at Malfoy -- who immediately backed up. "Scared of me, little boy? You should be. The Goblet didn't choose me for no reason. Now, get out." Malfoy obeyed.
When Malfoy was gone, Cedric put his wand away and silently berated himself for losing control, as well as for the arrogance of citing his status as Champion. He struggled so hard not to be vainglorious, but underneath it all, feared he was just a bit. It was part of why the Triwizard Cup still sat in his room three days after his mother had delivered it. He couldn't quite bring himself to the boasting (as he saw it) that putting it on display would entail.
On Halloween afternoon during the decorating process, Zabini approached him casually to say, "I don't know whether I should thank you or curse you. I didn't ask for this."
"You could have turned it down," Cedric pointed out, keeping his attention on the plethora of pumpkins he was levitating overhead. He'd wondered if he'd have to approach Zabini again or if Zabini would break down and approach him.
"You mentioned a favor," Zabini said now. "Before you do any more of them for me -- especially unasked -- I want to know what you want, Diggory."
"Not much," Cedric replied, still careful not to look at the younger boy. "Just show up occasionally in the Hogwarts Common Room.
Zabini shuffled feet, showing nerves for the first time. "Professor Umbridge has made it clear she thinks your Common Room's a bad idea. You're asking me to defy her."
Cedric shrugged and finally glanced at Zabini. "Did she forbid it outright?"
"Well, no."
Cedric shrugged again. "Then you're not exactly defying her, are you? Just not sharing her opinion. Not the same thing. Bigger risks, bigger rewards. Explain it to her any way you like. You show up there -- and more than just once -- and I'll continue to favor you." He didn't add the corollary; it wasn't necessary.
The next morning, when he passed his mother's painting in the Entrance Hall, he saw that it had begun, whatever her story was. There was no sign of the god yet, but the forest glade contained more animals, including the pair of badgers in the tree bole, an eagle on a branch above, the hint of golden lion's pelt behind bushes, and a horned snake -- all four Houses momentarily at peace, or at least at truce.
Hermione dreamed of Cedric.
She didn't, however, know quite what to make of these dreams. They were heated but non-specific, and woke her with tingling breasts and a dampness between her legs. She both understood that, and didn't. She wasn't an ignorant girl, and her liberal, Guardian-reading mother had educated her quite thoroughly in where babies came from and how a girl's body developed. She knew about STDs and precautions and birth control (though she suspected it was quite different in the Wizarding World). Her mother had told her once -- with that kind of solemnity that indicated An Important Point -- that if she ever 'found herself in trouble,' she could come to her mother and they'd get it fixed. No judgments. And she knew she could. But she also knew she never would, even if it happened. She couldn't bear to disappoint her parents that way.
Not that she planned to let it happen. She was far too clever to get herself into such a situation, or to suffer such uncontrollable feelings for a boy.
Except, of course, now she did. She felt as if some part of her had awoken that she hadn't realized had existed. When Cedric kissed her, she wanted things she couldn't articulate, things she might have called 'naughty' once, but which now didn't seem so at all. His kisses weren't naughty. They were tender and sweet and full of need, as if he wanted to taste every inch of her, eat her up like chocolate. And he made her feel the same. Sometimes she was overcome by a desire to split him open and crawl inside. The intensity of that scared her a little.
Before Cedric, sex had never made much sense to her. She'd assumed that yes, she too would one day find the right boy, get married, settle down and produce a baby or two. She'd have sex with her husband because he'd want it -- boys did -- but the whole notion of desiring that up there was just . . . peculiar. Boys' bits were funny looking, and perhaps a little alarming for being so big and red and, well, fleshy.
Not that she thought her own privates any better. Despite being sixteen, she'd never learned to put in a tampon because it involved sticking something in there, which meant she might actually have to look at herself to see what she was doing. Fortunately, she'd had a period while at the Burrow three years back and Mrs. Weasley -- upon learning she didn't know a thing about Magical female sanitation -- had taught her all the appropriate spells, making tampons completely unnecessary.
The notion of exploring herself hadn't appealed. Her studied disinterest arose not from any religious objections, but from simple pride. She'd tried masturbation once or twice but found it faintly ridiculous. Sex and desire distracted a person from important things. Even her crush on Viktor Krum -- and, if she were honest, Ron Weasley -- had been vague and unformed: emotional more than physical. She'd liked kissing Viktor; it had caused a tickle inside her chest and tummy. Yet she'd actively avoided thinking too much beyond that. Seeing Viktor in a tank top during the Second Task and being held by him in the lake . . . feeling slick, wet, bare skin under her hands . . . Well, she'd been glad of an excuse to talk to Harry afterwards. The idea of letting Viktor do more than kiss her had panicked her unduly. To her relief, he hadn't tried anything else, as if realizing she wasn't ready.
Now, however, she found herself thinking quite a lot about Cedric in a far more specific fashion. Kissing his naked chest and seeing that painting by his mother had left her wondering how his bits might look, and even how they might feel to her touch. He caused far more than a tickle in her tummy. With Cedric, that tickle had migrated south, making her knickers damp.
It was all so very physical.
Nighttime was worst. At night, her sleeping mind happily went to places the waking one avoided, and the first time she touched herself, it was early morning, she only half awake. She'd been dreaming, although she couldn't remember quite what about. Her tummy felt tight, her crotch hot and damp and her nipples erect. One hand drifted up to touch them while the other drifted down to rub between her legs -- and the resulting double-electric shock made her gasp and jerk her hands away. She listened to see if the sound had woken her roommates, but apparently not, so her hands drifted back, rubbing and stroking and tugging until her breath caught and her muscles clenched. She thought of Cedric -- his mouth, his throat, the touch of his hands -- as she dove towards something she didn't fully understand. It broke over her like water. Her back arched, her mouth opened and she barely remembered to stop the scream in her throat. The exquisite sensations went on and on for a full minute until finally, exhausted and spent, she dropped back on the sheets, breath heavy, body shuddering.
She was newly sixteen, but had never given herself an orgasm before. It was a revelation. After a moment of simple breathing, she felt her lips curl and tried not to giggle aloud.
So that's what it was all about. Amazing.
The next day, she met Cedric in the library to study like the good students they were. But as per their custom, he'd touch her hand before rising to fetch a book he didn't really need. A few minutes later, she'd follow. There in the privacy of the stacks, they'd steal some hurried kissing before going back to their work. Sometimes this happened several times a night and it was a wonder they got actual studying done -- exactly the sort of distraction she'd sworn she'd never fall prey to. Her sensible side frequently admonished her that she shouldn't study with him if he left her unable to concentrate.
She didn't listen to the sensible side.
After all, they did get their work done -- just perhaps not as much of it as they might have otherwise.
This evening when she caught up to him, he was leaning against a bookshelf and snared her waist with one hand while balancing himself on his other crutch. His mouth was eager on hers and a little sloppy because he felt kisses, didn't choreograph them, and when he pressed the tip of his tongue to hers, it caused the familiar tingle to ignite in her groin. Gripping his jaw in both hands, she kissed back as hard as she could, her teeth knocking against his a bit, and for the first time, wondered what it would feel like to have his hands massaging her breasts. Even the thought of it made her sigh into his mouth. "Wow," he whispered, pulling away slightly.
"What?"
"Nothing," he replied, and kissed her again. She leaned into him carefully so as not to overbalance him, and shifted her weight so that her hip hit his crotch -- curious as to whether she did to him what he did to her. Unfortunately, she wasn't at all sure what she was feeling; was that a bulge or her imagination? And if a bulge, did it come from a zipper or an erection? How did one tell an erection anyway? She felt a strange blend of curiosity, analytical distance, and passion. He pulled away again after a moment to ask, "You all right?"
"Yes, fine," she whispered back. "Why?"
"You seem a bit . . . intense, Granger."
And she felt herself blush. "Sorry."
"No, no -- I like it." He was smiling. "I like it. Focused." He laughed a little, kissed her once, hard, full on the mouth, and straightened. "We should go back to the table and finish working."
She nodded. But as they sat side by side, individually absorbed in their studies, she began to wonder if she'd put him off, whatever he'd said. What if he didn't like forward girls? She didn't want him to think her sluttish. When they packed up finally, she to do evening rounds and he to await reports in his office, he smiled at her. "Can you slip in to see me after reporting to Violet?" he asked.
"I'll try," she replied.
Ever since Umbridge had forced all the female prefects to report to the Head Girl, saying goodnight to Cedric had become difficult. At first, Umbridge had shown up in the prefects' lounge to be sure her orders were being followed and speaking to Cedric was impossible. That had lasted only a few days, however, and by Halloween, Umbridge seemed to have decided she'd made her point. After the banquet, with no Umbridge there, Hermione had snuck into his office. They'd dared only five minutes, but made full use of it, and Violet hadn't given them away. For that, Hermione could forgive the Head Girl's continued disinterest in Cedric's Common Room idea.
Tonight when she sidled in, she let him come to her, lift her chin, his lips on hers. She played the demure maid until, after a minute, he pulled away. "Now what?" he asked.
"Now what, what?"
"In the library, I thought you were going to eat me alive. Now, I'm afraid I might break you if I kiss you too hard. You're a tough one to figure out sometimes, Granger." He sounded mildly frustrated.
Rubbing her nose and feeling equally unsure, she said, "I thought maybe you, um, didn't like the library. I mean, what I was doing."
His expression was pure bafflement. "I said I liked it."
"Well, yes, but, um, you wanted to stop and go back to work. I didn't . . . well, you know . . . I thought you might think badly of me."
And now she couldn't tell if he were more puzzled or more irritated. Moving backwards a few steps, he settled himself on the edge of his desk, pulling off his crutches and leaning them beside him. "What the devil are you on about?"
She blew hair out of her face. "I'm not . . . like that. Easy."
His mouth dropped open. It was rather funny looking. "Whatever made you think I'd think you were?"
Confused, embarrassed and feeling completely out of her depth, she said, "You wanted to go back to the table. I thought maybe I'd . . . offended you. You said I was intense."
"And I said I liked you intense. What part of that did you not understand?"
"You wanted to go back to the table!"
"Because if I didn't stop then, I wouldn't have wanted to stop at all and we were standing in the middle of the library! Well, more or less."
They paused, staring at each other. His words cast his actions in a new light. "Oh," she said. He was blushing, cheeks all pink and ears bright red. "Okay. I'm sorry. I wasn't . . . trying to do that."
"Sometimes you send me right round the bend," he admitted. "I try to control myself. I don't want to push you."
She smiled and moved over to where he was sitting until her knees bumped his. He parted his legs so she could move into the V of them, his arms around her waist, hers around his shoulders. She kissed him, but gently with a closed mouth. "I'm not trying to be a tease," she told him.
"I know you're not."
Moving even closer, she pressed up against him. "Don't worry about pushing me. I'll tell you to stop if I want you to." Leaning in, she kissed him again, still gently. "Maybe I'm not sure where I want to stop. But I don't want to push you, or make you uncomfortable."
Breathless, he laughed. "Push me all you want."
"I don't always know what I'm doing."
"I'd say you guess pretty damn well then."
Giggling at that, she pushed her face into the side of his, nuzzling. "It's how you kiss," she confessed.
"What?"
"Like you're . . . I don't know. Trying to figure it out. Or that's not right. You kiss like it's a question and you're waiting for the answer, or it's a journey, and you're finding the way. I like that. This is all a journey for me. I'm trying to find the way."
He was laughing, as if embarrassed. "I'm glad you like how I kiss. You're not so bad yourself."
She licked the point of his jaw, "So you don't mind backing up on the road a little?"
He'd raised his chin so she could get at the soft skin of his neck. She could feel the bristle of his beard against her lips and tongue. "Roads go two ways, Granger," he whispered, but as if he were starting to lose interest in talking. "It's not like you always have to walk in one direction or you're backing up. I like this, too. I like holding your hand. I like just talking to you sometimes, sitting next to you. It's not a race to some imaginary finish line."
Smiling against his skin, she traced the muscle along one side of his neck with her tongue. He gasped, his hands tightening on her hipbones, pulling her lower body closer. And yes, she did think that just might be the bulge of an erection pressing into the hollow of her hip.
Letting her mouth drift back up to his, she kissed him again -- softly, all lips -- then pulled away to meet his eyes. The pupils were so dilated, the gray made only a slim ring around the outside. "I should go," she said.
"Probably. I'll see you after breakfast." And raising a hand, he brushed the side of it down her nose. "'Night, poppet."
She pretended to nip at the hand, then headed back to her room. That night when she touched herself, she imagined the hands were his even though she knew herself some way from letting them be his. Eventually they'd get that far, but for now, it was enough that the hands were hers -- and she no longer felt embarrassed to use them to discover what felt good.
Cedric's own situation was at once more and less clear. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with Granger. His problem lay in figuring out what she wanted and if she even knew what came next.
He wasn't forward in relationships. He'd never needed to be, and had left it to the girls to tell him how fast to move or how far they'd let him go; they led and he followed. He'd lost his virginity in his fifth year to a Chaser in her seventh -- Zoë Smythe, who he'd quite genuinely liked, but had been a bit in awe of like every other male member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. He'd not have dreamed of pursuing her had she not made it abundantly clear that all the captain had to do was ask, fifth-year or not. The next year, he was seduced by another seventh year who he subsequently discovered was more interested in getting into his trousers than into his head. He didn't like being a notch on a bedpost and broke it off, asking a girl younger than him (for a change) to the Yule Ball. He'd thought he might be less overmatched, but again, Cho had taken the reins and he'd let her.
He felt oddly relieved that he and Hermione had at least talked about the physical side of things -- however vaguely. He'd never talked about it with anybody else. In fact, after only five weeks of seeing Zoë, a session of heavy petting involving hands down track suit bottoms in the Hufflepuff locker room had suddenly turned into something else. She'd ditched her bottoms, shifted her underwear, angled his cock, and settled down on him just like that. He'd found himself suddenly inside without warning, and his body had caught on faster than his brain. He'd finished almost before he'd got started. Afterwards, he'd wondered if he shouldn't feel more excitement and less confusion? But he hadn't been ready. Yet weren't boys always ready? Relationships since had been no better. He'd let himself be enticed or led on. Sex was easier to justify in the heat of the moment, but more disconcerting.
He found he wasn't interested in the heat of the moment anymore, and hadn't been placating Hermione when he'd said roads were for traveling both ways, not for reaching an end-point. Sometimes he worried about her lack of experience, but other times, he was glad of it. He could slow down too.
His body just didn't want to listen, and the problem with 'the heat of the moment' was that it really was. When she kissed him like she had in the library, his ability to think shut down. And it wasn't just lust; with her in his arms, a gut-shaking tenderness took over. Combined with his need, it overwhelmed. He wanted desperately to be inside her as much for psychological as physical reasons. It didn't help that she'd developed a fascination with the bright turmoil she could elicit in his body without quite understanding what a pleasant torture it was -- innocent power, but it still left him at her mercy.
It also made him decide he couldn't sit back anymore and let the girl lead. Unlike his other girlfriends, and despite her recent forays into a charming wantonness, Hermione didn't seem to understand what she was doing. He was going to have to get on the broom and fly, stop watching from the ground. Having her promise to stop him if he pushed too far too fast helped, and he began to ponder now before seeing her in private exactly what he'd permit himself, drawing a line at touching skin that wasn't normally visible. In truth, that was no different than where they'd already been, but it was considered, and as such, he felt less likely to move beyond it by chance. He wasn't sure by what sign he'd know her ready for more, but felt he'd recognize it when it came.
Yet it wasn't just his physical relationship with Hermione that caused him internal disquietude of late.
With the beginning of November, Professor McGonagall once again raised the issue of his becoming an Animagus in their Transfiguration lessons. "I think it's time, Diggory. You've mastered transfigurations of plants and are moving along quite well with animal transubstantiations. It's time for you to get a bit more serious about the Animagus transfiguration."
"Professor, I don't think --"
"I do think." She held his eyes. "Trust me, you need to learn this."
So he tried taking the first steps. Yet the problem with magic was that it was ultimately about will, requiring desire as much as raw talent, and never worked well if one felt only half-arsed about it. He was good at what he did in large part because he knew how to focus, but he didn't want to be an Animagus, so all his attempts at the meditation and centering necessary were largely unsuccessful. "You're afraid," McGonagall accused him on Friday afternoon before the first Quidditch match of the season. She'd been pushing him hard of late, and he'd had three private lessons that week, two after hours. All that in addition to normal class and Harry's DA sessions.
"I don't want to do this!" he exploded back. "Do you want to see me drag myself around your office by my front legs like some pathetic creature?"
She stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Please sit down." Bemused, he did so and she sat at her desk across from him. After perhaps half a minute of just staring at him, she said, "Do you trust me, Diggory?"
Cautiously, he nodded.
"I have some talent not only at performing the Animagus Transfiguration, but at telling who can. Not everyone has this talent buried inside them. As you may or may not know, Albus Dumbledore held my current position before becoming Headmaster. Yet he is no Animagus -- and I don't think either of us would say it's from a lack of raw talent." She smiled and so did he, almost reflexively.
"To become an Animagus requires something . . . not quite tame inside." She smiled at his startled expression. "Something a bit wild that wants to break free. Animagi not uncommonly come from my least behaved students . . . and my best behaved. James Potter -- I'm not at all surprised he managed the spell, nor Sirius. Peter Pettigrew surprised me . . . yet not. By contrast, and while he could give his father a run for his money, talent-wise, Harry is no Animagus. People may compare him to his father, but they forget his mother is in there too, and Harry is too . . . civilized."
She smiled again at his expression. "You, however -- there's something wild in you, something you restrain and wish you didn't have to. You are so like your mother. Yet not. Despite all her gifts at transfiguration, there's nothing intrinsically wild in her. Instead she was fascinated by wildness. Your father, had he shown the raw power . . . he could have been an Animagus."
Now she leaned over the desk. "It's not just knowledge, Diggory. It's letting out that part of you, releasing it. Trust me, will you, when I say you won't regret it? It's something you need to do in order to understand yourself."
He frowned, but nodded and left. It was strange to think of McGonagall as having something 'wild' inside her -- but perhaps not. Wouldn't most of Hufflepuff say the same of him? The odd thing was, he knew -- deep down -- she was right. He just wasn't sure how to get at that part of himself. The very thought of doing so scared him a bit, and not because he was afraid that whatever it was would come out crippled.
Later that evening, while he and Hermione sat in the Common Room by the fire, he asked her, "If I could transfigure into an animal, what do you think I'd be?"
Lifting her head from where it rested against his shoulder, she twisted her neck to study him -- not in surprise but as if she were truly considering the question. They were snuggled on a black couch under a heavy blanket, her back to his front, and if he were normally a bit chary of such public displays, the frigid cold that had gripped the castle following Halloween provided incentive. They were far from the only couple sharing body warmth, and the room was moderately full for a change. It was Friday night and there was a great deal of speculation about the Quidditch match on the morrow. Finally, she admitted, "I have no idea. What do you think you'd become?"
"I've no idea either."
"A raccoon?" she asked, eyes drifting to where Esiban was playing with a toy Cedric had given him. The raccoon had a passion for figuring things out, and loved any toy that he had to open -- especially if it had a Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean in side. Just now, Cedric had provided a small box with a latch and he was turning it over and over in his tiny black paws. It represented a rare burst of activity. As hard winter approached, Esiban grew increasingly sluggish. He might not hibernate outright, but he often slept much of the day and night both.
Cedric laughed at her question. "No, I don't think a raccoon."
"A cat?" she asked next. Crookshanks was curled up on her stomach atop the blanket and would occasionally deign to accept scratches from Cedric, even if he wasn't fond of Cedric's peculiar cat-not-cat familiar.
"Not a cat," he said.
"A horse maybe? You have common sense like a horse." That had made him laugh. "Or a stag, like Harry'd dad?" He just shook his head. "Wait -- I know! A dolphin!"
"A dolphin?"
"You like to swim. Dolphins are sea mammals. It makes sense."
He tilted his head. He'd honestly never considered a dolphin. "Maybe." It still didn't feel right, but before the conversation could go further, Harry showed up with Ron in tow. They were talking Quidditch and plopped down in chairs nearby.
Turning to Cedric, Harry asked, "How quickly do you think I can beat Malfoy to the Snitch?"
Cedric frowned and felt Hermione slip her hand into his beneath the blanket. She'd come to realize that Quidditch constituted a topic he preferred to avoid. "I don't know," he told Harry. "Depends on how long it hides before showing itself, on which side of the field -- not to mention the weather and wind."
"Supposed to be sunny tomorrow -- just still bloody cold," Ron said -- though he appeared utterly terrified and Cedric remembered it was his first match as Keeper. The problem with Ron was that when he was on, he was brilliant, when he wasn't, he was terrible -- no middle ground. Cedric might have chosen a more reliable if less talented Keeper, but it was Angelina's decision.
Hermione responded to Ron's real concerns not his words, sitting up to pat his knee, displacing Crookshanks and dragging the blanket with her. "You'll be spectacular."
Ron didn't reply, just turned paler, if possible. Before Harry could comment, however, a hush spread over the room and all four of them looked around.
Blaise Zabini stood in the doorway together with a half-dozen other Slytherin students dressed in heavy cloaks and prominent green scarves. With a smirk that challenged anybody to stop him, Zabini strutted in, followed by his coterie, and made his way over to the table under the tapestry bearing the Slytherin crest.
Cedric suppressed the grin that threatened to split his face.
He'd won.
The Common Room was finally a common room -- all the Houses represented.
"So now they have to come in here and invade our space?" Ron muttered.
"They're not invading space," Cedric replied softly. "This room is for everybody -- every House. Besides, I prodded Zabini."
"Why?" Ron replied, clearly surprised. "And the night before the game?"
"It's not about the game, Ron. Not everything is."
But Harry appeared equally baffled, glancing over at Zabini's group. "Please tell me you're not going to root for your mother's House?"
Hermione huffed in exasperation and Cedric laughed. "I won't be rooting for Slytherin, Harry. But there are more important things than a Quidditch match."
Harry and Ron stared at him as if scandalized, and Cedric resisted laughing again even as he recognized how much he'd changed from a year ago, or two years, when he might have been tempted to respond in the same way, as team captain.
Half an hour later, Harry and Ron departed. In fact, most of the Common Room had emptied as nine o'clock approached. Cedric and Hermione stayed cuddled under the blanket, just breathing together, her head resting on his chest as his hand cupped hers under the blanket, thumb sliding back and forth against her wrist. Sometimes he liked this best of all. No demands, no pressure to push further, just her body warm all along his. Crookshanks was sleeping on her tummy again while Esiban had curled up near Cedric's head. Even their animals were at truce. "You still haven't brought the Cup," she said after a while, glancing towards the Trophy Room.
"I know." He dug the enchanted galleon that she'd made out of his pocket and studied it -- not for any particular reason, just because he did so sometimes. It still amazed him that she'd managed a Protean Charm. His girl. He grinned to himself.
"What's so amusing?" she asked, brows drawn together in suspicion.
"Nothing."
"Then why are you grinning at my coin?"
He kissed the crown of her head. "Because my girl is bloody brilliant." She blushed -- and forgot about the Cup, thankfully.
Before she left for report, she asked, "Walk down with me to the pitch after breakfast?"
"I'm not going, Hermione."
Twisting, she stared. "Why not?"
"I can't." He looked at her. "Don't tell Harry, all right? Let him think I'm there rooting for him."
She cupped his cheek. "I'll stay with you. I don't care about Quidditch anyway."
But he smiled and shook his head. "No, you need to go for Harry and Ron both." He kissed her nose and confessed, "I'd rather be by myself, poppet."
Understanding, she nodded. "All right." And that was part of why he loved her. She did understand.
Next morning, Cedric slept late and didn't leave his rooms until he was fairly sure the castle had emptied, then only left for the prefects' bath next door where he swam for an hour. Returning to his rooms afterwards, he got out his journal and sat down to write. Once more, his thoughts emerged in poetry rather than prose as he struggled to capture the painfully intense emotions Hermione drew out of him. Then he tried to read for Charms, but the longer he spent alone, the more his thoughts drifted down towards the pitch and what was happening there. Frustration, bitterness and longing all made him a bit sick to his stomach, but he didn't really care about the game.
He just wanted to fly again.
Getting up from the couch, he returned to his desk where he pulled out the journal once more. Opening it and staring at the page a moment, he picked up his quill.
I dream of wind swept, swooping turns, fingers stretched in longing --
Freedom eludes me. My wings are clipped, feet jessed.
I fly no more.
It wasn't long or particularly profound, but all his frustration lay there. Shutting the journal again, he put it away. His legs were aching a bit more than usual even though he hadn't done much that day -- the one didn't always reflect the other -- so he took some Abdoleo and caught a nap on the couch, waking to a frantic pounding on his door. Rolling over and sitting up -- a bit worried -- he called, "Come in."
Hermione burst through, wild hair a mess and pink-cheeked. The frazzled expression on her face made him blurt out, "What happened?" before she could say a word.
"Slytherin made up a song to make fun of Ron who played really badly and then Harry and George attacked Malfoy and Hooch sent them to McGonagall's office and Ernie told Lavender who told me that he saw Umbridge going up there looking all smug."
That had all come out in a single breath. Now she stood wringing her hands and looking at him as if he could do something. "I can't go bursting into McGonagall's office, Granger," he said, exasperated. "Can you back up a bit and go over it again? Slytherin made up what song about Ron? And Harry attacked Malfoy because of a song?"
"Well, no, not exactly --"
Before she could say more, however, half of Hufflepuff -- or at least everyone in Harry's DA -- arrived outside his door. "Hey, Hermione," Ed said as he barged in without invitation, followed by Scott and Peter, and Ernie, Hannah, Justin, Susan and Zach, as well. To Cedric, Ed said, "Word is Umbridge threw Potter and the twins off the Gryffindor team -- permanently."
"What?" Hermione shrieked -- obviously she'd missed that.
"Just heard from Angelina," Ed said. "Lifelong ban. Ange's frantic."
"What the ruddy hell did they do?" Cedric asked, astonished.
"Not that much," Ed said, "just the same thing we've wanted to do every time we play Slytherin, which is beat the living shite out of Malfoy. Well, not exactly -- you know how he whinges. Still, I'd say, given the amount of blood, they at least cracked his nose until Pomfrey got a hold of him."
"About damn time," Scott muttered.
"Are they out of their minds?" Cedric asked. He'd been putting on his braces and now grabbed his crutches, rising to cross and stand in their midst by his open door. Hermione slid her arm around his waist as if she needed to hold herself up rather than him.
"It was awful," Hannah broke in. "It happened almost in front of the Hufflepuff box, so we heard some of it. Malfoy said terrible things about Mrs. Weasley -- called her fat and ugly. Harry was holding George back and Angelina, Katie and Alicia had Fred, but when Malfoy started insulting Lily Potter, too, Harry lost it. He and George jumped on Malfoy and started hitting him."
"Can't believe he had the gall to speak ill of the dead," Justin muttered.
"Malfoy doesn't pay much attention to niceties," Cedric remarked, and while he wanted to blow his top about Harry and George's idiocy, he could remember all too well his own reaction to Malfoy's insults about his mother two weeks before. The best he could say was that he hadn't physically assaulted Malfoy. "So what does a song have to do with it?"
"Oh, that." Ernie rolled his eyes. "Bloody bad rhyming, if you asked me."
"We didn't ask you," Justin retorted, but with a smile. "It was dumb, but Weasley was already nervous and it just set him off his mark, you know?" Justin sang softly, "'Weasley cannot save a thing. He cannot block a single ring. That's why Slytherins all sing: Weasley is our king.' Or something like that. There was more than one verse."
Ernie was right, it was rather bad and Cedric would've been inclined to laugh at the rotten poetry, but if already worked up, the quality of the lyrics wouldn't matter. "Who won?" Cedric asked now, realizing he didn't know.
"We did," Hermione replied. "Harry caught the snitch before Slytherin could rack up enough points."
"Sour grapes, then," Cedric replied and the others nodded. Just as with Hermione earlier, they were all staring at him as if he had some answer and he felt a terrible sense of pressure. "I can't do anything about it," he told them irritably. "Harry and George attacked Malfoy. That's --"
He broke off and stared out the doorway into the hall. Everyone else turned. Umbridge was standing there. "This isn't an unauthorized meeting, is it?" she asked sweetly.
"It's a conversation," Cedric responded, resisting the urge to add, 'I didn't think those were illegal yet.'
Her beady little eyes swept over all of them, as if registering who was present, and her gaze lingered on Hermione still clinging to Cedric. But she said nothing else and simply moved on down the hall. No one spoke until she was out of sight. "She gives me the creeps," Justin muttered.
"Madam Toad," Cedric said, which elicited snorts from the younger Hufflepuffs who hadn't heard him call her that before.
"Maybe you could talk to Dumbledore, mate," Peter suggested, but Cedric just shook his head.
"Dumbledore's hands are tied, same as mine. He's got to pick his battles. Angelina might kill me, but there are more important battles than her Quidditch team."
The castle remained in a kind of subdued uproar for the rest of Saturday, the students retreating to their common rooms and digging in as if for a siege once news of "Educational Decree Number 25" got around. An Umbridge able to override other teachers' authority and hand out harsher punishments pleased no one (except some in Slytherin). Even Cedric and Hermione went to be with their Houses that evening, and Hermione feared Cedric's Common Room, which had been a point of unity only the day before, lay deserted Saturday night. If the return of Hagrid put joy back into her, it was short-lived when she realized Hagrid didn't really grasp the gravity of the current situation at Hogwarts.
Sunday morning found her in the library as soon as it was open, making up lesson plans for Hagrid. Then she went after Cedric for support. She instinctively knew she needed backup to make Hagrid take Umbridge seriously, and doubted Harry or Ron would supply it, even if they hadn't had their own studies to do. She found Cedric in the courtyard with his mates. Scott was bewitching snowballs to sneak up on younger students and drop on their heads, which got startled squeals from the students and laughter from the boys. "Scott Summers!" Hermione said as she stomped through the snow to join them. "Shame on you!" Then she rounded on Cedric. "And you! You let him!"
"He's not hurting anybody, Granger! It's simple fun." All four of them were laughing at her now -- and she understood why a moment later when a snowball landed on her own head.
With an indignant yell, she dropped her bag, grabbed a fistful of snow and flung it at Scott. The snow fell apart and scattered, to her enormous frustration. "You're supposed to pack it, Hermione!" Scott called, ducking around the side of a fountain. "Try again!"
"I know that!" she bellowed back, furious, grabbing another handful and doing just that. But instead of flinging it at Scott -- who could run faster -- she turned and shoved it down the front of Cedric's robe.
He gasped and jerked backwards as the cold wet slid down his front, almost tripping over his own crutches. "You little minx! What'd I do?" He was trying to get the snow out while balanced on one crutch. She felt no pity.
"You didn't defend me."
"You didn't look like you needed it! I was more inclined to defend Scott!"
Peter and Ed, she noticed, were about to suffocate from laughing. She ignored them to face Cedric down, fists on hips. She wasn't really angry, but she was a bit miffed. "You can make it up to me by coming to Hagrid's with me. We need to talk to him about Umbridge."
All laughter died away. "Hagrid's back?" Ed asked, appearing . . . cautious might have been the best description. Scott had come back over and all four exchanged a glance.
"Yes, Hagrid's back," she told them, looking between them with a sinking feeling. None of them seemed thrilled.
"Guess we couldn't stay lucky all year," Peter muttered and Hermione's lips thinned.
"Hagrid's a good person --!" she started.
Cedric laid a hand on her shoulder. "Yes, he is. None of us dislike Hagrid, Granger. The question is whether he's a good teacher."
And Hermione was at a loss how to respond because, deep down, she knew Cedric's question a fair one. Grabbing her bag, she hauled out her notebook and flipped it open. "I've been in the library all morning. I was . . . well, making up lesson plans. With Umbridge here, he has to watch what he tries to show us. I'm not sure he'll really -- but he has to take this seriously, you know? That's why I need your help, Ced." She gave him the expression he called her 'puppy-dog look,' which he rarely seemed able to turn down.
And sure enough, he leaned forward to see what she'd put together as Scott and Peter came around to look past her shoulder. "Could be one of Grubbly-Plank's lessons," Scott muttered. "If he'd teach that, he'd be fine. He's an all right bloke, but when he starts off on hippogriffs and those damn, blast-ended skrewts, we want to run for the hills."
"Last year he brought an augurey into our NEWT class," Peter said. "I thought I was going to faint when it started that cry it's got!"
"All that means is it's going to rain," Cedric said. "And it did -- started pouring."
"Well, yeah, but still. It's not what I've heard all my life. It means death."
"That's probably why he brought it," Hermione told Peter. "To dispel myths about perfectly safe creatures."
"I wouldn't call a blast-ended skrewt 'safe,' Hermione." Cedric was looking at her. "Not everything Hagrid brings to class is a good idea."
"Not you too!"
He shook his head. "Hagrid's not scared of most creatures, and he may know how to handle them -- but that doesn't mean he has any business exposing students to some of them."
"Don't you find them interesting?"
"No! I find a few of them a bit scary!"
She glared around at all four of them. "So -- what? You all want Umbridge to put Hagrid on probation like she's put Trelawney?"
They looked uncomfortable. "Of course not," Peter said. "But you have to admit Trelawney's not the best teacher either, and it's not like Umbridge put Sprout or Flitwick or McGongagall on probation."
"It's just a matter of time!" Hermione retorted.
Cedric was frowning. "I'm inclined to agree. But I don't think she means to get rid of everybody. She can't afford to; somebody has to teach. But yeah, she's after those closest to Dumbledore -- which means McGonagall eventually."
"She can't sack McGonagall!" Scott said. "McGonagall actually knows what she's doing! And she's Deputy Head!"
"That's the problem," Cedric replied. "Umbridge wants Dumbledore's supporters cleared out -- that means Hagrid and McGonagall, and probably Flitwick if she thinks she can get him. She can't possibly go after McGonagall right now, so she'll remove the teachers she has complaints about to make it look as if her judgments are legitimate. Then you wait and see -- she'll find something to trump up about McGonagall."
"Then we can't let her get Hagrid on the way to McGonagall," Hermione said. "Dumbledore needs Hagrid. And . . . well, so does Harry."
Cedric looked up at that, and nodded. "All right. Fine -- I'll go with you to talk to Hagrid, but don't expect him to listen to me. I'm not exactly his favorite student, Hermione."
"Why not?"
Peter and Ed exchanged a glance. "Well, Cedric and Hagrid sort of got into an argument last year."
Hermione stared at Cedric, who wasn't looking at her, and tried to imagine him in an argument with a teacher. "In class?"
"After class. It was over the skrewts," Peter clarified.
"They're not legal," Cedric defended. "He bred them without permission. There's a reason Scamander wrote that Ban on Experimental Breeding, Hermione. It's not just dangerous, it's cruel to animals. Wizards can make animals interbreed where they wouldn't normally be able to. The result isn't always successful -- like the skrewts. Hagrid acts like the ban means nothing." His voice was growing hard. "He thinks dragons can be made into pets, and he has a whole nest of acromantulae in the Forbidden Forest. Those spiders breed exponentially, and they won't stay put much longer -- he's going to have to start killing them before they kill everything else in there."
Hermione squirmed because Cedric had a point. "Hagrid means well --"
"I don't care if he means well! He doesn't always act well. I was angry with him about the skrewts because he bred them from a manticore. Not only are those phenomenally dangerous, but they're intelligent. He doesn't have any business using an intelligent creature as a brood mare. What would you say if he was breeding house-elves to fire crabs?"
Hermione glared. That had been a low blow and he knew it. "Fine, I'll go talk to Hagrid myself."
"I said I'd go with you."
"Given what I've just heard, I don't think that's a good idea," she retorted and stalked off.
"Granger --!"
She ignored him. How did they always wind up in these ideological arguments? She loved Cedric, really she did, but sometimes he made her want to strangle him. It was even worse this time in that she had to agree with his assessment, which conflicted with her sense of loyalty to Hagrid.
They wound up not talking to each other for the rest of the day. "Quarreling with Ced again?" Harry asked at supper when both kept their backs firmly to each other at their different tables and didn't even trade glances.
Given Harry's affection for Hagrid, she didn't want to explain Cedric's disaffection, so she said only, "We had a disagreement." She paused, then added, "I'll probably be ready to talk to him tomorrow. But not tonight."
Indeed, the next morning before breakfast he was awaiting her in the Entrance Hall, his expression cautious. She approached him and slipped an arm around his waist, burying her face in his chest. He kissed the top of her head and, silent truce reached, they went in to breakfast. They avoided discussion of Hagrid just like they'd taken to avoiding discussion of house-elves. Hermione remembered what his mother had said about Cedric and conflict, and wondered when these disagreements swept under the rug were going to explode in their faces?