Warning: Adult material. Please remember the story is rated M.

The two bottles of pumpkin juice and four pasties she'd purchased from the Hogwarts' Express trolley gave Hermione full hands, and as she was looking at what she was carrying, not at where she was going, she bumped into the solid bulk of Millicent Bulstrode before she realized the other girl was there. Stepping backwards in surprise, she bumped into Pansy Parkinson behind her. Recognizing it for an ambush not an accident, she glared. "What do you want?"

"Playing waitress now, mudblood?" Millicent asked, eying the food. "They send you with their orders, the boys? What other orders do you take? Are you their bike? Do you do the other three after Diggory? Does he like to watch?"

"You're disgusting. Get out of my way," Hermione warned in a low voice.

"Or what? Going to jinx us with your hands full? Maybe we should take those from you so you can get to your wand. A little favor." Millicent reached for the pasties and juice but Hermione clutched them tighter against her chest.

"These aren't yours. Go and get your own."

"Greedy girl, aren't you?" Pansy purred in Hermione's ear. "Going to get fat. He won't like that, will he? Oh, but then he's not with you for your looks. Hair like a nightmare and that frightful voice, no tits to speak of. At least you fixed your buck teeth, didn't you? But we all know what a pretty boy like Diggory sees in you, Hermione -- same angle Krum saw. Flat on your back with legs spread."

"Get away from me!" Hermione said more loudly, trying to push past Millicent, who refused to budge for a moment, then both girls drew away laughing as Hermione stormed past, down the train aisle towards the carriage where Cedric waited with Peter and Scott. Ed was in the carriage across from them, sitting with Susan, Zach Smith and Justin Finch-Fletchly. Hannah and Ernie had elected to stay behind to study (and not simply pretend to do so like Hermione).

Angry and hands full, Hermione shoved fruitlessly at the door latch until Scott rose inside and opened it for her. "You could have waited," she snapped at him. If he'd waited at the trolley, Pansy and Millicent wouldn't have bothered her.

His eyebrows went up. "I seem to remember you telling me to go on," he replied.

Hermione glared harder because it was true and she hated to be reminded that she was acting unreasonably when she was acting unreasonably. "Whatever," she said, thrusting the armload of food at Cedric, who was both frowning in confusion and smiling at once.

"Thanks," he said, taking three of the pasties and his bottle of juice. For some reason, she was struck by the odd detail that his hands were so big, he could hold all three pasties in one of them. Long legs and long, graceful surgeon's hands, a beautiful face and flawless skin -- what did he see in her?

Did he really expect her to be flat on her back with her legs spread?

You're letting them get to you, she scolded herself. But they'd known just where to strike, of course -- the inequality between her appearance and Cedric's, between her popularity and what had been Cedric's, at least before.

She watched him take a huge bite from his meat pasty, then break the pumpkin one in half to feed part to Esiban. Long legs and hands -- and a big mouth too. She was relieved that he acted like a normal boy, not Apollo in the flesh. "You're going to choke one of these days," she told him, taking much more dainty bites from her own. The Cornish meat pasties were virtually the only thing one could get from the trolley that wasn't sweet, and Hermione wasn't terribly fond of sweet things.

"You eat like a lady," he said. "I eat -- "

"You eat like a pig, mate," said Scott -- who really was no better. He'd already finished the first two he'd bought and was started in on his third, speaking with his mouth full. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Is there a rule that says boys can't show some table manners?"

"Show me the table and I'll show you my manners," Cedric told her, which made Peter and Scott laugh.

"You're awful."

"You tell me that frequently. You must like awful men."

"The same as you like ugly girls with terrible hair and a flat chest."

And that had come out completely unintended. She turned a brilliant scarlet and all three boys gaped at her. "Never mind," she muttered, taking a gulp of pumpkin juice to wash down her food and then making a pillow of her school robe. She didn't know what to say and it was clear they didn't either. Closing her juice bottle and curling up on the compartment bench, she pretended to sleep.

A minute later, she heard the door open and Scott say, "I'm going to take a piss."

"I'm going to talk to Ed," Peter added. The door shut.

"You told them to leave, didn't you?" Hermione muttered without looking around.

"Well, yes. What did you expect?" She felt him slip an arm under her shoulders to pull her upright. "Now talk to me. Where did that come from? I thought we already had this conversation, poppet? I like your hair. And you don't have a flat chest -- which I got a good look at in the bath."

She felt her cheeks and ears flush.

"And you're definitely not ugly." This last was said very close to her left ear, which he then kissed.

She squirmed away, feeling insecure and thus unwilling to be wooed. "People wonder why you even look at me twice."

He pulled back to study her; she could feel his eyes but wouldn't meet them. "Somebody said something to you, didn't they? Out there? You were fine when you left. Now you're not."

"So what if someone did? People talk! I know they do! And I know what they say!" She felt entirely too close to tears or a fit of rage.

His eyes were narrow. "I can imagine," he replied, and he probably could. Cedric -- unlike Harry or Ron -- was far from naïve. "Who was it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, yes, it rather does."

"Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson," she muttered, arms crossed like a petulant child.

"Those two?" He was practically laughing. "Good heavens, the hag and the pug -- they're not exactly beauty queens, are they? Well, to be fair, Pansy's not so bad, but anything they're accusing you of is because that's how their world works. Did that not occur to you?" Hermione looked around at him. It honestly hadn't. He looked . . . angry. "I don't gossip. But other people do and my ears work perfectly. Pansy Parkinson has no bloody business criticizing you for anything. And if she implied what I assume she implied, she sure as hell has no room to talk. Understand?"

He held out his arm to her. "Come here." She hesitated, then practically flung herself against him. "Now, for the love of all that's holy, will you please stop worrying about whether you're pretty? You put me in a spot, you know? If I say you are, you don't believe me. If I say you're not, I'd be lying. You are pretty. But it's not why I'm with you, and the only people who'd think it was don't know us, do they? I'd like to think you're a little more attracted to my razor-sharp wit than my dashing good looks."

And she burst out laughing, rising up on her knees, hands on his shoulders to look into his face. He was smiling at her. She smiled back. "Definitely the wit. I knew I was in serious trouble with you the day I realized you not only were clever, you weren't afraid to be."

"What day was that?"

"The day you took me up to the gardens at St. Mungo's."

"It took you that long, did it?"

"Vain creature."

He leaned his head back slightly, eyes narrow as if considering. "I think I knew I was in trouble with you the day you came back."

"Came back from where?"

"The day you came back to see me in hospital when you didn't have to." He smiled faintly. "It meant a lot, Granger. You didn't even know me -- or barely. But you came back anyway."

She snuggled down against him again, running a hand over the front of his blue sweater. "That early?" She was astonished. "You knew that early? Really?"

She felt him kiss the top of her head. "Pretty much, yeah, looking back." The kiss turned to a smile. "Did my best to ignore it. But yeah, that early."

It was later as the train arrived at King's Cross and they were wishing friends a happy Christmas that what he'd said struck her. He'd fallen for her because she'd shown him a kindness, not because she was clever. Everyone knew she was clever, and no one called her pretty, or not often, but even Harry and Ron took what she did for granted. Cedric hadn't. And for her, it hadn't been his face that she'd been drawn to; she'd been skeptical of attractive men since Professor Lockhart. Nor had it been his kindness. She admired that, to be sure, but among the first things one ever heard about Cedric Diggory was, "He's so nice." Yet he was also clever, and it was his intelligence that had enchanted her -- something the rest of his friends took for granted. Wit wasn't an adjective most people used to define anybody from Hufflepuff. So he wasn't the 'nice boy' to her, and she wasn't the 'clever girl' to him. They saw each other beyond the easy clichés.

When she spotted Millicent and Pansy on the platform, she smiled at them, her arm around the waist of her clever boy. He noticed and looked around too, saw who she was watching and frowned. "Ignore them, Granger."

"They're not bothering me. Not now." And they weren't.

"Good." He pulled his chair out of his pocket and expanded it, then shrank their trunks to the size of normal suitcases and Levitated them onto a cart while she stacked Esiban's cage on top and forced a struggling Crookshanks into her bag. Professor McGonagall had managed to inform them before they'd left Hogwarts that Harry and the Weasleys had gone to Grimmauld Place, not the Burrow.

"I'm sorry," she told the cat, "But no taxi driver will let you run wild inside the cab."

"All right, Granger. I'm at your disposal. Now what?"

"Follow me," she said.

Cedric had seen cabs on the street, but had never ridden in one, much less one of the fancy black ones, but it was the only kind big enough for their luggage, pets and his chair, which he couldn't collapse fully in front of Muggles.

Grimmauld Place was less than a mile from the station, but even so short a walk was impossible for him with luggage -- just another example of how much extra trouble he caused now. Hermione didn't blink at arranging transportation for them, nor did the cabbie protest about such a short trip that it was hardly worth the fare. But that was the other side of being handicapped. People pitied him. He hated it even more than he hated that he genuinely needed help.

At the front door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Sirius let them in to the howls of Mrs. Black (obviously Cedric's mother hadn't been there recently), and both Ginny and Mrs. Weasley came hurrying out of the dining room.

"Maybe you can talk some sense into him," Ginny greeted Hermione.

"Who? Harry?"

"Yes, he's in another of his moods and won't talk to me or Ron or even Sirius ever since he got back from St. Mungo's. He's been hiding up in the room with Buckbeak."

"I don't expect either of you ate anything decent on the train," Mrs. Weasley said as Cedric got out of his chair and back onto the crutches, relieved to be able to shrink and expand things normally. "Ginny, take some sandwiches up to Harry and Ron's room. Hermione, see if you can lure Harry out. Cedric, go ahead and Apparate upstairs; it'll be easier for you. I'll let your parents know you're here but you may as well stay the night. You can bunk with the twins; I'll find an extra mattress."

Cedric wasn't sure if he managed to keep the dismayed look off his face, but didn't think so as Ginny, at least, appeared amused. Before she followed her mother back into the kitchen, she whispered, "Banish your trunk to Harry and Ron's room. I'll tell mum to put you in there."

"Thank you," he said. Hermione had already disappeared up the stairs and he followed, apparating to the landing and then the second floor -- all line of sight as he'd prefer not to wind up in a cupboard or, worse, a wall. Ron was alone in the room when Cedric arrived, his face wearing that indistinct anxious expression of someone who'd been worried for days. "How's your dad?" he asked as Ron looked up.

"They still haven't found an antidote. There was something bloody nasty in that snake venom -- won't let the wound clot. He keeps bleeding." Ron's face was white. "Dad's trying to put a good face on it, but you know . . . " he trailed off, eyes dropping to Cedric's crutches. He didn't need to say that the Healers couldn't solve everything.

"I'm sorry, Ron. What really happened, do you know? McGonagall wouldn't tell us."

"Mum won't tell us, either -- it was some Order business, guarding something." Ron peered at Cedric. "I thought you were in the Order?"

"On roughly the same terms as the twins. I don't know a lot more than you, and maybe less just now."

The door opened and Ginny entered with a tray of sandwiches and pitcher of pumpkin juice. She looked ready to fumble it all and Cedric Levitated it out of her hands. "Thanks," she said as he made a table walk closer to the bed to set down the tray and pitcher on it. Ron helped himself to the food and Cedric followed suit. He really was starving; the pasties had been several hours ago.

"Anyway," Ron said around a mouthful of egg salad, "we overheard some things when we were in St. Mungo's. Fred and George have these Extendable Ears -- let you hear in other rooms." Cedric's eyebrows shot up. "Pretty useful, but, well, Moody said something about Harry being possessed by You Know Who --"

"Possessed!"

"He's not possessed," Ginny said, impatient.

"Harry had this dream about dad being attacked, and he was inside the snake. Seeing from inside the snake. Mum said that Dumbledore's worried about Harry."

Cedric would be too, but there was no more time to talk; Hermione had arrived with Harry. "We just got here," Hermione was saying. "McGonagall tried to tell us what happened the next day, but Umbridge was livid about the whole thing and wouldn't let her talk to us alone."

Harry appeared surprised to see Cedric, who asked him, "How are you?"

"Fine," Harry said sullenly as he sat by Ron and immediately grabbed a sandwich to shove in his mouth, as if that could prevent him from having to talk.

Hermione sat between Cedric and Ginny. "Oh, don't lie, Harry," Hermione was saying. "Ginny said you've been hiding from everybody since you got back from St. Mungo's."

"She has, has she?" Harry asked, glaring at Ginny, who appeared not the least concerned.

"Well, you have! And you won't look at any of us!"

"It's you lot who won't look at me!"

"Maybe you're taking it in turns to look and keep missing each other?" Hermione asked in her best attempt at deadpan.

"Very funny," Harry snarled.

"Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood -- " Hermione began but Cedric interrupted.

"Ron told me what you overheard from Moody the other night."

That only seemed to anger Harry more. "Yeah? All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it . . . "

Cedric made a disgusted noise, not inclined at the moment to feel much pity. "Cut it out, Potter."

"We wanted to talk to you, Harry," Ginny added, "but as you've been hiding ever since we got back --"

"I didn't want anybody to talk to me," Harry snapped.

"And then you complain because no one talks to you?" Hermione said even as Ginny bent forward to snap, "Well, that was a bit stupid of you, seeing as you don't know anybody but me who's been possessed by You Know Who, and I can tell you how it feels."

That rebuke seemed finally to shock Harry out of his adolescent agonizing. "I forgot," he admitted.

"Lucky you," Ginny returned, voice chilly.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, sounding sincere. "So . . . so, do you think I'm being possessed then?"

"Well, can you remember everything you've been doing? Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?" She sounded remarkably self-possessed, Cedric thought, for fourteen -- not unlike when she'd scolded him about Hermione earlier that year.

"No," Harry admitted now.

"Then You Know Who hasn't ever possessed you," Ginny told him. "When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there."

Cedric frowned -- there was more than one kind of possession -- but didn't point that out. At the moment, it seemed more important to get Harry past his paranoia. Cedric would talk to Harry later, or perhaps to Remus or his mother, to see if either of them would tell him more as he didn't think it quite so simple as Ginny had claimed. Neither, apparently, did Harry, who was saying, "That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though --"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted, "you've had these dreams before. You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year."

"You did?" Cedric asked, surprised.

They all looked at him and Harry shrugged. "Remember when we got to the graveyard? I said I'd been there before?" Cedric nodded. "I recognized it from a dream."

And Cedric remembered. Before Wormtail and Voldemort had shown up, Harry had told Cedric that he'd been there before in a dream. "You dreamed the graveyard?"

"Well, sort of -- not what happened, but the graveyard itself, yeah. That's how I knew it was a trap. But this the other night was different. I was inside the snake. It was like I was the snake . . . What if Voldemort somehow transported me to London --"

Cedric was shaking his head even as Hermione said, "One day, you'll read Hogwarts, A History, and perhaps that will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparate inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly out of your dormitory, Harry."

"You didn't leave your bed, mate," Ron was saying. "I saw you thrashing around in your sleep about a minute before we could wake you up . . . "

"So it's not me, "Harry muttered, mostly to himself.

"It's not you what?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. "I was afraid maybe I was Voldemort's weapon."

Hermione smiled. "It's not you, Harry."

"But the dreams are serious," Cedric told him. "Maybe you're not being possessed in the way Ginny was, but that doesn't mean they're not serious." The other three glared at him, but he ignored them to focus on Harry. "A person's ghost can walk in dreams," Cedric told him. "See things far away. But that can go both ways."

"You mean Voldemort could use me?" Harry was fingering his scar.

"Not like you're thinking. But you're obviously tied to him somehow. I'm not going to kid you -- that could be dangerous. If you have any more dreams -- anything at all that you think might come from Voldemort -- you've got to tell one of us. It's critical."

Harry just nodded. Later, before leaving for the room she would share with Ginny, Hermione pulled Cedric aside to demand, "Did you have to go and scare him again, Ced?"

"He needs to be scared a bit. There's such a thing as protecting him too much, poppet."

And later yet, somewhere in the middle of the night, he felt somebody shaking his shoulder and turned over to find Harry sitting on the edge of the bed. As Ginny had promised, Mrs. Weasley had sent the mattress to Harry and Ron's room instead of to the twins', but Harry had insisted on taking it so Cedric could have the bed. "You're taller," was his excuse, but Cedric knew it was because getting in and out of the bed was easier for him. Now, Harry bent over to whisper, "Are you sure Voldemort couldn't possess me?"

Cedric sat up a little and glanced towards Ron, who was fast asleep and snoring. "Not like Ginny described, no, I don't think so. Or not without you knowing it. But Hermione told me later that you've sometimes felt what the Dark Lord feels?" Harry nodded. "Like I said, that could go both ways."

"You mean he could . . . read my mind? Like telepathy?"

"What's telepathy?"

Harry rubbed his scar again. "Never mind. You'd have to know science fiction."

Cedric grinned. "That's a Muggle thing, right? Space ships and ray guns?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "space ships and ray guns. Anyway, reading thoughts. He could do that?"

Cedric frowned. "It's not so simple. Usually, you have to be looking at somebody -- meeting their eyes. That's why this is so . . . odd -- if you can really know what Voldemort is feeling, or thinking, or even seeing at that distance? That's not usually how it works. And it's not like . . . reading a book. A Legilimens can only pick up what you're feeling or thinking right then."

"A Legilimens?"

"Someone who can look into minds -- Dumbledore is one. It's a special skill, like my ability to transform, or Sirius'. In fact, it's rather rare and very restricted. Not just anyone is permitted to learn Legilimency, even if he could."

"But Voldemort? He's one?"

"It's hard to know what he can still do, Harry. He's not what he was before, even now. You shouldn't over-worry it. Caution isn't the same thing as being paranoid, yeah?"

"Okay, yeah, I guess so. But if he could, you know, find out what I'm thinking -- how do I stop him?"

"I don't know. I'll see what I can find out. For now, I'd suggest trying to think of happy things before bed that'll just annoy Voldemort." He grinned and winked. "Cho, maybe?" Harry blushed furiously.

After that first night, Cedric came and went at Grimmauld Place. Able to Apparate, he slept at home, but showed up daily to visit. He brought things from his mother for Mrs. Weasley, who seemed to spend as much of her time at St. Mungo's as she could, and it reminded Hermione of Mrs. Weasley's concern over Mrs. Diggory the previous summer.

Even if Mrs. Weasley wasn't there to play chaperone, Hermione and Cedric were rarely alone. If they found a room empty for ten minutes, there was no guarantee it would stay that way and not necessarily by design. It was just the effect of a house full of people. But with the games and food and Sirius' good humor, Hermione didn't really mind. She didn't think Cedric did, either. Once or twice, he and Remus went into London somewhere by themselves and when she asked Cedric about it later, he said only, "There are . . . well, I can talk to Remus about some things."

"Order business?"

He shook his head. "No, not that. I'll tell you later." But he never did -- which, of course, made Hermione worry what exactly they were talking about.

When she cornered Remus to ask him, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "It's not about you, Hermione, or not for the most part. Cedric's just trying to sort out some things about his future."

"He could talk to me," she said.

"He could," Remus agreed. "Maybe he will eventually. Have patience." And smiling at her, he walked away. At first she was hurt that Cedric would talk to Remus rather than to her, but then she recognized that he needed to talk to somebody older who understood what it felt like to know one would never be 'normal' again.

A few days after they arrived, Tonks took off with Hermione when Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys were at St. Mungo's, Cedric was helping his dad at home, and Harry was spending the afternoon chatting with Sirius over tea in the kitchen. Tonks and Hermione went shopping, and Hermione used the opportunity to buy some more little presents for Cedric. She had a bag with quills and stationary, a small pillow to put behind his lower back because if he had to sit too long in a chair it hurt, and a cheap solar calculator that she'd found at the drugstore she'd made Tonks stop in on the way to Diagon Alley. "Why are you getting him that? What is it?" Tonks had asked.

"A calculator. He's terrible at numbers, and it's easier than a slide rule or abacus."

"It won't work at Hogwarts, will it?"

"Probably not, but he won't be there after this year and he needs it. Cedric and addition are passing acquaintances at best." That had made Tonks laugh.

Now, they were in Madam Malkin's because Tonks wanted new holly-green robes. "Are you nervous?" she asked.

"About what?"

Turning to her, Tonks grinned. "Staying at his house, silly. I heard you'll be there for Christmas."

Hermione shrugged. "A bit nervous, I suppose. I'll be 'the Girlfriend.' On my best behavior." Tonks was nodding as she inspected a pile of velveteen robes. "It won't be very relaxing."

Tonks grinned. "Lucy's already decided she likes you. Amos likes everyone -- well, unless you're competing against Cedric." That made Hermione giggle and study a table full of nice men's outer robes. Cedric had two sets of school robes and at least one plain black set. Around Grimmauld Place, he wore trousers and shirts and sometimes a pullover, and once even a blue waistcoat and old-fashioned cravat -- though she'd never seen him wear a hat when he didn't have to. He just wore raccoons and paper crowns and other silly things. Now her fingers paused over a robe of coffee twill with rich amber-brown velvet accents. It reminded her of his eagle feathers but when she looked at the price-tag she sighed and turned away. She supposed there was a reason wizards had only a few sets of full robes the same as Muggles kept only a few jackets. Tonks noticed what she was looking at. "They'd suit him," she agreed.

"I can't afford them."

"Maybe next year." She winked at Hermione.

"Do you think I might be with him next Christmas?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"Sometimes I can't imagine not being. But then I consider how long that is from now, and he'll be out of school . . . If we were, I suppose it'd be pretty serious."

Tonks was nodding and asked without looking at her, "Is it serious?"

Hermione wasn't sure how to answer. Tonks' easy manner invited confidences, but she was still one of the adults. "I know we're young, and even if he'll be out of school soon, I have to finish myself. So we're not talking about eloping if that's what you're wondering."

Laughing, Tonks slipped an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Oh, heavens, I didn't mean that! I just meant serious in a . . . physical way." Hermione blushed and Tonks gave her a knowing smile. "Should I teach you the proper spells?"

"No!" Hermione blurted. "I mean, it's not like that. Just kisses and . . . stuff. Cedric's very polite."

Tonks grew unexpectedly solemn and looked Hermione in the eye. "He's also eighteen, healthy, and not made of ice. Neither are you. When you need to know the spells, come to me. Molly's a dear but she's a bit old fashioned and seems to think not knowing the spells is some kind of deterrent. It's just likely to get you into trouble. I'm sure Cedric knows his, but better safe than sorry."

Too embarrassed to speak, Hermione just nodded.

It required the whole rest of the evening before her natural curiosity overcame her discomfort. After dinner, she pulled Tonks aside to ask, "Er, those spells? I don't . . . well, I don't need them now, but information is always a good thing, right?"

Grinning, Tonks took her off to the room she shared with Ginny and taught her what she needed to know.

On Christmas Eve morning, Cedric arrived with Mr. Diggory to take her to Devon. Mr. Diggory seemed as excited to have her visit as his son, who rolled his eyes at his father with a kind of long-suffering good humor. Hermione was starting to think Cedric spent a lot of his life apologizing for Amos. "We'll be apparating," Mr. Diggory told her, patting her arm. "Ced's going to take you; I'm just along to see to the luggage." He grinned. "You've Apparated before, have you?"

"Once, with Dumbledore."

"Good, good. Ced's been apparating a while. What with the Tournament and all, Dumbledore got him special dispensation to take his test early. Passed it on the first try, didn't you son?"

"Dad --"

Hermione resisted laughing and said goodbye to her friends. "We'll bring the turkey and pudding tomorrow, Molly," Mr. Diggory told Mrs. Weasley. "Don't you worry about a thing."

"Thank you, Amos, but you don't need to."

"Of course we need to. No trouble at all, so don't argue, my dear. You just relax and spend the time with Arthur -- no cooking -- and we'll see you tomorrow afternoon." He kissed her cheek.

And that, Hermione thought, was why people apologized for Amos Diggory when he acted ridiculous. Like his son, he had a big heart.

Outside on the walk, Cedric positioned his crutches and looked at her. "Put your arms around my waist and hold on tight." He glanced at his father, who nodded solemnly. Hermione suspected that Mr. Diggory was there to do more than just see to the luggage -- he was there in case something went wrong.

Moving in to embrace him, she shut her eyes, felt him step, twist and . . .

. . . she was being squeezed so hard she couldn't breathe or even think. Then with a pop, she was whole again. Letting him go, she ran hands over herself reflexively, and he laughed as another popping noise announced Mr. Diggory's arrival beside them, her trunk and cat in hand. "You know your cat's part kneazel?" Mr. Diggory asked, which made her smile.

"Yes, Cedric told me." She took Crookshanks from Mr. Diggory as he gestured behind her and turning, she saw, for the first time, the house Cedric had grown up in. It was . . . big. No mansion by any means, nor even a manor, but a two-storey, stone country house with an attic, a slate roof, and an adjacent building that must have been a carriage house once. As with the Burrow, no other houses were even visible in the distance and she wondered how much adjacent land the Diggorys owned -- she suspected quite a bit.

Cedric was grinning. "Come on," he told her and led her up the passage past winter dormant plants to the front door. There were steps there, but only three, and he managed them without too much trouble, gesturing the door open for her. She entered a gallery, long and narrow and full of windows that let in the winter sunlight. The house seemed very old.

Suddenly realizing Mr. Diggory wasn't behind them, she turned. "Where's your dad?"

"He sent your trunk up to a guest room, then probably went to check the crups in the barn. I'll show you later." He seemed suddenly a bit tongue-tied, as if not entirely sure what to say, but also silly-happy to have her there, grinning like a fool. "Wanna see my house?" Smiling back and feeling just as excited, she nodded.

They spent the rest of the morning walking about not just inside but out, as it was much warmer here than in Scotland, and no snow. He showed her his father's barn with the stalls converted into kennels, clean and well-kept. Mr. Diggory came back from walking some of the pups and explained to Hermione what he did there, taking abandoned crups, training them, and finding them homes. "It's like a Wizarding animal shelter," Hermione said.

"Perhaps." He smiled. "There was nothing like this when I started at the Ministry. Abandoned crups were just passed off to anybody who'd take them, or put down. So I started with just puppies, then I converted the barn and now I take as many as I can. Some still have to be put down -- I won't send a crup to a home if it doesn't pass tests for food aggressiveness and the like. Don't want my crups biting anyone. But I try to make sure the family taking them is responsible and clean, and I offer Ministry-sponsored training classes and the like."

Mr. Diggory went on talking for a while then. It was clear he knew animals, and cared about them passionately -- as passionately as Mrs. Diggory cared about her painting. When it came to his area of expertise, he didn't seem ridiculous at all, and reminded her of Hagrid, or Charlie and his dragons. "Your parents are quite something," she said to Cedric as they headed out of the barn. "Your mum and her art, your dad and his rescue program."

He shrugged. "Yeah, they are. Makes me feel a bit inadequate, actually."

"What? Why?"

"I don't have any passions like that, Granger. Well, not counting you." That made her blush. "But otherwise? My mother's wanted to be a painter all her life. It's why she rebelled against her family in the first place. And dad . . . he's got this rapport with animals. He loves them and they love him. I think, in a weird way, that's why I took Esiban. I just . . . I thought maybe I could be like my dad, that I had some kind of . . . connection with Esiban that made him choose my bed to sleep on."

Hermione stopped walking. They stood on a paved stone pathway through what, in greener seasons, would be a garden. "You do have a connection with him, Cedric. He adores you."

"Maybe." He looked away. "But at first, he was just a wild raccoon. I stole him. It was wrong."

"I thought you said he was the last of his litter?" Cedric nodded absently. "Then he might have died without you."

"Still didn't give me the right to take a wild animal and turn him into a pet. My dad was pretty angry with me. He's the one who helped me research how to take care of him, and helped me train him."

"Well, he follows you around now, not your dad. He loves you. As for passions -- I thought you wanted to be an ambassador?"

He blushed. "I did -- do. But a person doesn't start out there, you know ." He looked at her from under lashes. "And after this year, I've been rethinking things." He frowned. "Can I work for the Ministry after all they've done? Assuming they'd even consider hiring me while Fudge is in charge." His expression was troubled. "I used to think I knew what I'd do when I finished Hogwarts, but I don't know anymore. I just don't know. Remus says I'm hardly the first seventh year to feel completely up in the air about the future."

"There's no reason you have to make up your mind immediately."

"I realize that, I just . . . it's unsettling. And with Voldemort back, everything's uncertain. He's not going to stay in hiding forever, then we'll be in the middle of another war. It makes thinking about my career seem a bit, I don't know, petty."

"Not petty." She slipped her fingers into the belt loop of his trousers. "And I don't see any reason not to think about the future. Even if you don't know what you're going to do in six months, what about in six years? Or sixteen? Ever since I've known you, you've talked about being a bridge between people, Cedric. There's no reason to give that up just because Fudge is in office right now."

He snorted. "You sound like Remus."

"Then maybe you should listen to us."

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, if in less serious conversation. Hermione kept hoping to get a glimpse of the Diggory house-elf, but she stayed frustratingly out of sight, and Hermione didn't want to ask about her on the first day. There would be time. Towards evening, he Apparated with her up to the attic room that had once been his. "I miss it," he told her, staring out one of the dormer windows that overlooked the backyard. Esiban was awake now and riding on his shoulder.

"Why couldn't you stay up here?" Hermione asked. "God knows, the twins Apparate all over the house rather than just walk."

"I suppose I could, but keeping this room wouldn't be very convenient. There are just some things I can't do anymore. I have to face that."

She wondered how much was facing what he couldn't do and how much was some bizarre and bitter self-punishment. Moving up behind him, she wrapped arms around his chest. He turned, and they were kissing -- heated too, not gentle, as if he wanted to burn out his frustrations. The raccoon had leapt down with a scolding chitter that made them laugh briefly. Then Cedric was maneuvering her over to an old-fashioned couch along one slanted wall even while still kissing her. It was quite awkward with her walking backwards and him on crutches, but at the moment, she wasn't really thinking about how it looked. The sun was sinking outside and the room was growing dim, and he had her on the couch with no one around and no real danger of them being walked in on. She wasn't sure how far she wanted this to go; she'd been thinking a lot lately about that, but the weight of him on her as they half-sat, half-lay there was making it difficult to be rational.

He dropped his crutches to the floor with a solid thunk, freeing both his hands, one to support himself and the other to run through her hair spread out on the throw beneath her. She had one leg drawn up against the couch back while the other dangled off the edge and he sat between, pushing her down. The edge of his hip was pressing into her crotch and it felt entirely too good. She wanted to rub against him like a cat in heat and could feel her knickers growing damp. He moved his mouth to lick along her jaw and she made an embarrassing noise that sounded like a whimper, her hands busy bunching up his sweater and untucking his shirt to get to the bare skin of his back beneath. When she succeeded, he hissed in breath. "Your hands are cold!"

"Sorry." But she couldn't help laughing a little. "You look uncomfortable, twisted like that."

"Not really. Am I crushing you?"

"Not really," she echoed, although he was, and she suspected he was uncomfortable, whatever he'd said. "How soon until dinner?"

"We eat late." His mouth was back on her neck and jaw and she raised her chin, but wondered if she shouldn't stop him. She didn't really want to. They'd been so good, so proper. Yet Tonks was right; they weren't made of ice. Right now, she felt hot and bothered despite the chill December day, and she wanted to haul him up on top of her, cradle him between her legs. His rubbing against her felt splendid even if he was heavy, and she moved hands from his shirt to his hips, tugging. "What?" he whispered.

"Get up here."

"What?"

"Get up here." And she shifted a little, trying to nudge his legs with the one of hers not trapped against the back of the couch. It seemed to dawn on him then what she was suggesting as he lifted his head to look at her. She just looked back steadily. The room was almost entirely dark now and Esiban had disappeared back down the stairs. With a lift of his hand he shut the door and shifted his weight. It wasn't, she realized, so easy for him. He had to haul his legs up physically, but she shifted her own hips, raising her knees to cradle him as he lowered himself on top of her, his crotch pressed into hers until she could feel his erection.

"Are you sure about this?" he whispered.

"Yes," she replied softly, stroking his hair in the dark. It was awkward, the couch almost too narrow, and he was heavy lying on her but she wanted this. Pulling his head down, she kissed him with soft lips, not so hard and hungry, and stroked her tongue against his. She could feel him practically shuddering and arched her hips up. He pressed back.

"Hermione --" he said softly.

"Yes," she said again, unsure if she were answering her name or restating her previous answer. "Yes." Almost without thinking, the movement of their hips had turned into a steady rocking and she shifted a little so his erection pushed the seam of her jeans against her crotch. So good . . . She rocked harder and whispered for a third time, "Yes."

He'd raised himself on both elbows and dropped his forehead against hers, breathing heavily through his mouth in little pants that kept rhythm with the rocking. Her hands went from his hips back to his skin beneath the half-untucked shirt, stroking. He didn't complain now that they were cold. Her whole body burned and she lifted her legs, wrapping them around the back of his. He grunted and rocked harder. The pressure between her legs was increasing but still felt generalized. He kissed her again, licking at her mouth, her teeth, sucking her lips, pressing the tip of his tongue to hers. She liked that -- a lot -- and did it back until he was moaning into her mouth. The cushion squeaked beneath them and it suddenly occurred to her that this must be what they called 'frottage.' Such a silly name, it made her giggle.

"What?" he asked, voice husky and cracking.

"Nothing," she whispered back. "Stupid stray thought."

But speech had brought him back to himself a little and his rocking had slowed. "We should stop," he said. "We should stop right now."

He wasn't stopping though, and she smiled against his neck. "Do you want to stop? I don't want to stop."

"Granger -- Hermione. I've got to stop or I'm not going to be able to."

"Then don't." Her legs clutched his hips tighter.

"You don't understand," he groaned. She was sucking at his neck. "If I don't stop --"

He didn't finish but she could guess what he was trying to say. "It's okay," she told him. "Can we keep doing this? Just this?"

"I'm going to come in my pants," he finally managed to get out, sounding as embarrassed as he was aroused.

"Then you'll have to clean up afterwards won't you?" she replied. "My knickers are a mess as well."

He spit laughter, but it still sounded breathless. "You're sure?"

"I already said 'yes.'"

He went back to rocking, not so aimlessly this time but with more force -- less like rocking and more like thrusts. She made hissing noises and he was panting. She'd pulled all of his shirt out of his trousers now and her hands moved around from his back to what of his chest she could reach as he held himself above her. She kept her eyes closed, trying to hang onto the burst of pleasure every time his erection hit her crotch just right. She was spiraling up, up, straining for something. Was this what a Seeker felt, reaching for the Snitch? Then he let out a guttural moan and she snapped her eyes open. His chin was raised, showing the whole expanse of white throat, his teeth gritted, his own eyes squeezed shut. His movements had become jerky, not rhythmic, and he looked in pain. She wondered if she were hurting him, only recognizing that he'd climaxed when he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, sagging down atop her and trapping her hands between them. She pulled them free to wrap them around his body.

He was breathing heavily and seemed utterly relaxed, clearly finished. She was . . . well, frustrated. She hadn't been ready for it to be over and when she wiggled against him, it still shot electric pleasure all through her lap. She didn't want to ask him to do anything else -- wasn't sure she was ready to be so forward -- but all her nerves felt stretched, humming. She twitched up against him again. Even that little bit of pressure felt good.

He was kissing her neck -- but gently, and he seemed very cuddly now, nuzzling and humming softly in the back of his throat. Shifting so his weight was off her, he slid one arm beneath her neck, the other around her waist, tucking her against his chest where they lay side by side. She wanted to grit her teeth because she really hadn't wanted him to move yet and she wondered if she could press her thighs together to get the sweet pressure in the right place again.

He seemed to be surfacing from his sex fog and leaned on his elbow to look down at her. His hair was a complete mess, or what of it she could see. With the sun set, the whole room was dark, only a little light from the moon falling in the dormer windows. He stroked her hair and kissed her brow but didn't speak. She pressed her own face into his chest, clutching at him and sliding down a little so her crotch was against his leg. It felt a bit slutty, but she just wanted some relief. He must have figured out she wasn't done because he rolled her onto her back, bent to kiss her mouth and moved his hand across her tummy, then -- slowly so she could stop him -- down between her legs atop her jeans. He pressed the heel of it right where she wanted pressure most.

With a cry, she arched up against his palm. She probably shouldn't be letting him do this, probably should move the hand -- it felt more intimate -- but she hung too close to the edge. He kept kissing her and rubbing with his palm in a circular motion. She was practically mewling, and he moved his mouth down over her chin to her neck and then her collarbone, across her upper chest atop her pullover until he'd reached her breast. Taking the nipple in his mouth, he gave her stars even through three layers of cloth. It was what she'd needed and she squealed, legs crossing to trap his hand between them, chest pressing up against his mouth. The pleasure shivered over and through her, then she pushed his head away because her breast was suddenly ticklish and too sensitive, and unwrapped her legs to free his hand. Burying her face in his chest, she felt mortified as much as relieved.

Chuckling and unaware, he stroked her hair and back. "That better, Granger?"

Unsure what to say, she said nothing, just curled one arm around him. The other was trapped beneath her. She seemed all of a sudden to have too many limbs and couldn't bring herself to look at him. Now that the blood-rush was past, she couldn't believe what they'd just done. Clothes on or not, hadn't that amounted to sex? What would he think of her now?

She felt his fingers against her chin. "Look at me, Hermione."

She raised her face. His was concerned. He didn't need to ask any questions -- they were obvious -- and she didn't know how to reply. So she asked a question of her own -- "Do you love me?" -- and felt stupid and desperate in the asking.

"Yes," he hissed, pushing her onto her back again to kiss her almost frantically on mouth and cheeks and chin and eyelids. "Yes, I love you. Do you love me?" He sounded perhaps as uncertain as she was, and maybe boys could wonder too, after that manner of intimacy.

"Oh, yes," she answered, arms wrapping around his shoulders. "Yes, I love you. Pretty hopelessly, you know." She felt him smile against her cheek, then his urgency disappeared and he sagged against her for a second time, face buried in her neck. "Can you breathe like that?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," she felt-heard him mutter against her skin. "Barely." It made her laugh at the honesty. "We went too far," he said then.

"Maybe we did," she replied, threading fingers through his hair. It was soft and fine. "But, well, it's done."

"I should have stopped. I knew I should have stopped."

"I told you not to. And I didn't want you to. I didn't, but . . . " She trailed off again. He didn't speak as if waiting to see if she'd say more. Finally she screwed up her courage to mutter, "I'm sorry. Please don't think badly of me."

His head came up so fast it startled her. Even in the dark she could see he was frowning. "Why on earth would I think badly of you? I'm a little more inclined to think badly of me."

Unable to meet his eyes, she frowned at his chin instead. She didn't know how to explain; the words lay trapped behind her teeth. He waited her out. He had the annoying habit of being able to do that -- let the weight of his silence make her speak. "I wanted you," she said finally. "I love you and I wanted you -- I wanted to do what we did. I want to do more too, but maybe not just yet. I'm confused, I'm sorry." She felt close to crying all of a sudden. "I'm a good girl, Cedric. I don't want you to think badly of me." And why did she keep saying that? Hadn't her mother told her that between two people who really loved each other, sex was all right -- was good? It had certainly felt good -- felt even better with him than it did when she was by herself. But then why feel so guilty?

"Hermione," he whispered, "Hermione . . . I wouldn't ever think badly of you. Honestly. Ah!" He suddenly sagged against the couch's low back and slapped a hand over his face. "Did it not occur to you that I might like to be wanted? That it's a relief not to think I'm . . . shoving all this on you? Why are girls so -- !" He cut off and made the same frustrated noise in his throat. "Ah!"

She almost laughed because he sounded just like she did sometimes about Harry and Ron. And of course he had a point; this was hardly a first date. "I'm sorry for being so silly."

"Stop apologizing." But then he cut off as if unsure what to say next.

She didn't know either, and her knickers were sticky, her hair messy, and she was tired -- thoroughly uncomfortable and soured by shame. He seemed just as rumpled and confused, and it wasn't quite the ending their first time should have had. She didn't know how to fix it. "I love you," she said because it was all she could think of to say.

He dropped his hand from his face and leaned in to look at her, ran the knuckles of his free hand down her cheek. "Where do you want to go from here?" he asked her.

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean do you want to back up? Do you want to do this again? What do you want to do? I don't know anymore, Granger."

She stroked his cheek as well, touched by the honesty of his own uncertainty. "It seems silly to back up. I think I was ready, just, well, not sure I was ready to be ready?" And she giggled. "That made absolutely no sense, did it?"

He smiled. "Maybe more than you think. I've wanted you and been afraid to want you, afraid you'd think I was some sex-crazed idiot . . . You've had me so wound up, I didn't know if I was coming or going."

The knots inside her came undone and she moved her hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, understanding now what he'd meant when he'd said it was a relief to be wanted in return. It wasn't just her. He loved her and he wanted her; she made him as crazy as he made her. Pulling his head down, she spoke against his mouth. "I want to do this again." She kissed him softly. "Next time, I'll try to avoid going spare afterwards."

It made him laugh against her mouth.


Note: The timing here is slightly different from that in Book 5 where Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place only a day or two after the Weasleys; here, it's three. And I realize I've introduced the idea of Legilimency earlier than it was introduced in the book, but throwing Cedric into the mix changes dynamics a bit.

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