"You don't have to come, poppet," Cedric told Hermione on Thursday morning as he and his mother prepared to Apparate into London for Cedric's 6-month check-up at St. Mungo's. "It's going to be rather dull. They're running a whole lot of tests, which could take all day and the only reason they're not keeping me overnight is because it's the holidays. You may as well stay here or go to Grimmauld Place."

"I'll bring a book," she'd said. "Or visit Mr. Weasley. I haven't been to see him yet."

"It's going to be dull."

She shrugged. "I can keep myself occupied, Cedric. I want to be there."

But he didn't want her there. What the healers would say, what the tests would show . . . a part of him didn't want to know. The ostrich syndrome. It was foolish -- he needed to know -- but he didn't want to hear how fast the curse was crippling him. School, the D.A., Hermione, Umbridge, Voldemort being back -- all those things had occupied the forefront of his brain and he'd been able to forget that the damage to his body was progressive.

Yet he couldn't verbalize his fears, and she was adamant, so she came along. When he arrived back on the ward where he'd spent almost a month, the staff all came to greet him, to ask how he'd been. Even Dyer, the Welsh medi-wizard who'd taught him how to live with the crutches and chair, made a point of dropping in, and when Cedric introduced Hermione, he said, "So this is the girlfriend? I thought you said she was foreign?" -- which caused a moment of embarrassment.

"Er, that was an old girlfriend."

"Oh!" And he laughed, completely unperturbed, shaking Hermione's hand and motioning to Cedric with the other. "I reckon pretty boy here gets a lot of girl attention, doesn't he?"

Hermione was blushing and Cedric opened his mouth to reply, but it was his mother who said, "Hermione is the one who visited my son in hospital last summer. He doesn't keep them on a string, Michael. She's been staying with us for the holidays."

"Ah," Dyer said, still grinning and perhaps the only man alive able to be unfazed by Lucy Diggory's irritation. "So it's a bit serious, is it?"

Not at all sure how to answer that, Cedric glanced at Hermione. He didn't want to scare her, but he also didn't want to lie. "Yeah," he said. "It's . . . serious enough, I suppose." She reached up and touched the pearls at her throat. It was serious enough for pearls, serious enough that she'd slept in his bed one night -- serious enough for her to be here today. He smiled at her; she smiled back.

Healers Groat and Grant arrived then, both dressed in medical green. Grant was blond, tall and young, Groat was stouter, black and older, and head of neuromancy. They weren't the whole team who'd worked on Cedric's case over the summer but once an initial diagnosis had been made, they were able to handle it with only occasional overseas consults. This was the second time Cedric had been back to St. Mungo's since his discharge. The first had been just before school had begun. They'd wanted to see how things were progressing. Now, at six months, they were evaluating him more extensively.

The tests took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, and by the time they were done, the sun was going down. Cedric, his mother and Hermione met with Healers Groat and Grant in Groat's corner office -- a tastefully decorated room full of books and occupationally themed gift decor, and not where Groat spent most of his time.

"By keeping track of his condition," Groat said as he parked himself on the corner of his desk, "and how it's progressing, we can begin to develop some sort of timetable for what we can expect. We'll know more at the year marker, but today's tests gave us our first glimpse at how he's holding up."

Cedric sat in his chair, head down, elbows on knees and hands clasped in front of him -- tired and in pain after everything they'd put him through. They'd offered him a higher dosage of Abdoleo, but he'd refused it. He needed his mind to be fully functional. Hermione reached over to lay a hand on his and he tried to smile at her, but feared it looked more like a grimace.

"The good news," Groat went on, "is that the Restituo Potion appears to be as effective as we'd hoped at counteracting the effects of the Nervoccido Curse. The progression of nerve damage is minimal."

"But nerve damage is still occurring?" his mother asked.

"Yes. That's inevitable, I'm afraid. What we weren't sure of was the rate at which it would occur, and whether that might change over time. There was no appreciable change between his discharge in July and his checkup last August. There's been some between August and today, but it's so small, I doubt he's noticed. That suggests a very slow progression, which is exactly what we were hoping for. We'll know more in July, when we can see if it's continuing at the same pace, speeding up, or possibly even slowing down."

"And if he performs the Animagus Transformation, it won't make it worse?" his mother asked, and Cedric's brows rose. He hadn't even thought to ask that.

"No," Groat replied, "it doesn't affect the curse at all -- as long as he doesn't stay in the form so long he skips his medication. For now, I see no need to change his treatment. Same dose of Restituo, same concentration of Abdoleo, though I'll leave it to Madam Pomfrey to dispense a higher concentration of the latter on occasion. This" -- he handed Cedric's mother a small blue bottle -- "is for him to take tonight. He said he didn't want it before this meeting. I understand, but Cedric" -- Cedric looked up -- "I want you to take it when you get home. We put you through the wringer today and you're going to be in pain tonight. No sense in gritting your teeth just to prove you can. Take that and go to bed."

"Also," Grant said, speaking up for the first time, "we want you to put yourself under less pressure at school. The more flare-ups you have, the more it hastens the curse's progression."

Cedric wanted to laugh, and not in amusement. "Tell the Ministry to fire Dolores Umbridge. That might put me under less pressure at school."

Grant snorted and Groat scratched his chin. "Yes, we've been hearing a bit about that. Madam Pomfrey told me Under-Secretary Umbridge actually confiscated your medication. I sent a letter to the school after hearing that -- didn't get a reply from her. But she's been informed of exactly what's involved in your condition. I can't control whether or not she listens, but if she doesn't, you may want to consider withdrawing."

"Consider withd- . . . what? You mean . . . drop out? Of Hogwarts?"

"Withdraw, not drop out," Groat corrected. "There's a difference."

Cedric's sat up in shock, and felt Hermione squeeze his arm. "I've got NEWTs!"

"NEWTs are given by the Ministry," Grant pointed out, pushing a hand through his blond hair. "Not by Hogwarts. You can schedule to take them outside school. Doesn't happen often, but there have been cases of other arrangements made for OWLs or NEWTs. If Healer Groat and I write a formal letter advising your withdrawal due to medical complications, the Ministry can't deny you the right to take those exams. It'll be up to you to prepare for them of course, but you can take them."

Cedric hadn't realized NEWTs could be scheduled outside school, and he glanced at his mother and Hermione. Both were looking at him with expressions that -- if he read them right -- said they thought it worth considering.

And he was tempted. He was sorely, sorely tempted. To be free of Umbridge? Not to face returning for another six months of that woman's tyranny, and still be permitted to take his tests?

But if he did that, he'd be letting down Dumbledore, who'd asked him to be Head Boy. And he'd be abandoning Hermione, Harry, and the rest of the D.A. There were too many people who depended on him. Doing what was easy wasn't necessarily doing what was right. "I can't withdraw," he said.

Groat frowned and Grant shrugged. "It's your decision," Grant said in a tone of voice that implied it might be Cedric's decision, but he didn't agree with it. "We'll draft a letter in case you change your mind." Now he frowned too. "And we do want you to think about it seriously. Every time you have another of those attacks, the nerves die a little faster. It's not something to lose sleep over if it happens occasionally because it's going to happen. It's inevitable. But that doesn't mean you have to court it by putting yourself under unnecessary stress. The fact you had three attacks in the last month before the holidays is a bit alarming from our perspective."

"I'm not exactly chuffed about it myself," Cedric pointed out. "Rather difficult to study when I'm higher than the moon. But I need to be there. I won't be ready for NEWTs if I drop out now. There's only so much I can learn from reading on my own. As you said, it's my decision."

"Yes," Grant agreed and exchanged a glance with Groat, who added, "We'll want to see you again when the school year is finished for another set of tests."

"Do you have enough information now to make a prognosis?" his mother asked, and Cedric wished she hadn't. He'd rather not hear.

Grant gestured to Groat, who looked down at his clipboard, although Cedric doubted the answer was laid out there so neatly. "It's still very preliminary, but given the slowness of the progression, I'd say you've got a good 15 years, maybe as much as 20 before you're wheelchair bound permanently."

And Cedric felt as if they'd just punched him in the gut, although they'd never given him more than 20 years. In fact, the concern had always been that it might be notably less. 15-20 years was good news. But that didn't change the fact he'd likely be paralyzed before he was 40, and maybe before he was 35.

"Obviously, as the curse progresses, you'll lose mobility in a gradual fashion, not a sudden one," Groat went on, "and when we see you again in early July, we'll be able to confirm that time frame, but for now, I think you can relax. You'll be able to use the crutches for quite a few years yet."

Leaving the office, they were all silent until Cedric said he wanted to see Arthur Weasley before departing, and although Hermione had already shared a rather nice visit with Mr. Weasley earlier that day, she and Cedric's mother went along.

Mr. Weasley sat up in his bed when Cedric wheeled in. "Cedric! Hermione said you were here today seeing your doctors. Hermione, good to see you again. And Lucy! I wanted to thank you for bringing Christmas dinner."

"Not a problem, Arthur. We were happy to do so."

They chatted for a bit, and although seeing Mr. Weasley had been Cedric's idea, Hermione thought it mostly for politeness. He spoke little, clearly in pain or upset. Mr. Weasley must have guessed as much, as he confessed to being tired before too long, and they took their leave. Outside, they found the 'apparating alley,' as it had become known -- a shoddy, dank space between two buildings where no one would be looking. Cedric's mother instructed him to Apparate directly to his room. She Apparated with Hermione into the kitchen, where she called for Strawberry. "Dinner for Master Cedric," she told the elf. "Straightaway, and be sure it's something he likes. I want to be certain he eats it, then I'm putting him to bed."

Hermione bit her tongue at Mrs. Diggory's tone with the elf. It might be condescending, but at least it was better than anything Hermione had heard Lucius Malfoy use with Dobby. "Cedric had a long day," Hermione explained to Berry, who was scuttling about in haste. "The tests were hard on him, so he's tired and in some pain."

Mrs. Diggory was looking at her oddly, as if she couldn't fathom why Hermione would explain these things to a house-elf, but didn't comment. Instead, she removed her outer cloak and soft kid gloves. Her jaw, prominent and strong like her son's, was clenched. Hermione hesitated, then asked the question she'd been wondering about ever since the hospital. "When his doctors -- I mean his medi-wizards -- said he'd be wheelchair bound permanently . . . "

"They meant he'll be paralyzed," Mrs. Diggory finished for her, pale blue eyes lifting. "How much do you know?"

"I understand about the curse, and that the Restituo only slows it -- it can't stop it. I know the curse causes pain in the nerves, which is why he needs the Abdoleo. I know it won't get better," she added, in case Mrs. Diggory thought she didn't realize that part, and might now be tempted to leave Cedric.

Slapping the gloves down on a counter, her back to Hermione, Mrs. Diggory, said, "A Nervoccido Curse should have killed him. That it didn't . . . that wasn't a kindness. There was some debate among the healers -- still is -- as to exactly what curse was cast. But I know my cousin. If he'd meant to kill Cedric, he'd have used the Killing Curse. It would hardly be his first time. No, Lucius was experimenting. This is something new, a variation. He meant to torture my son -- and me with him."

"Then why not use the Torture curse . . . ?"

"Because Cruciatus works directly on the pain and pleasure centers in the brain. The caster has to will it to continue. If he withdraws his attention, it stops. But this? Lucius took a very old spell, altered it, and created a new one that's arguably worse than Cruciatus. Once cast, he doesn't have to be present for it to continue inflicting excruciating pain on the target." She pressed her lips together. "His master should be pleased.

"In any case," she turned back to Hermione, "this curse, whatever he calls it, kills the nerves in Cedric's body, but unlike a full Nervoccido Curse, only the part of the body targeted is affected. Nervoccido kills the one struck within a matter of hours. This curse isn't so kind, unless the victim dies from heart failure due to pain." Her eyes were cold as she studied Hermione. "Lucius meant Cedric to live -- and suffer. They can slow it down, but it will require increasing concentrations of Restituo and of Abdoleo as more and more of the nerves die. It's expensive, and at best, a delaying tactic. He will reach a point he'll be paralyzed as a result of the curse damage, or they'll have to paralyze him themselves in order to end his suffering. Since it's new, they're not entirely sure. That's why all these tests." Bitterness froze the edges of her consonants as hard as the December air. "Either way, what my son can look forward to is steadily decreasing mobility in inverse proportion to increasing pain."

Hermione was horrified. Cedric had not told her all this -- no doubt from pride. Seeing her face, Cedric's mother said, "At your age, I hardly expect you to think in the long term, but if you do stay with my son, you need to be fully aware of just what 'it won't get better' means. It not only won't get better, it'll get steadily worse. Think about that. If it's more than you can bear, get out now while he's not yet so attached to you that you'll break his heart completely."

Annoyed, Hermione's chin came up. "I'm not that fickle. It's true I didn't know the full extent of things, but I knew it was permanent. On the crutches or in a chair, he's still Cedric, and paraplegics live full and happy lives. It's not a death sentence."

For the first time since they'd arrived home, Lucy Diggory smiled. It was grim, but it was real. "You're not put off easily. I like that. Go and see if he went to bed like he was supposed to. He's stubborn." She turned to see how close Strawberry was to having Cedric's dinner ready, and Hermione slipped out.

Cedric's bedroom door was closed, so she knocked. "Are you decent?"

"Yeah," he said and she opened it to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands. He looked up at her. "Mum sent you to check on me?"

"Yes." There didn't seem to be much point in denying it. "You're supposed to be in bed."

"I'd rather like dinner first."

"Berry is making it. She's bringing a tray. Lie down, Cedric."

He glared at her a moment, then unfastened the braces and dumped them on the floor. "Are you planning to watch me change?" It was sharp, not a flirtation.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, stepping out and shutting the door. She waited there, arms crossed. There was a cold, hard, sick feeling in her stomach.

It wasn't going away. She'd told Cedric she knew that, back at Hogwarts, and she'd told his mother the same thing just a few minutes ago, but the enormity of it . . . it wasn't going away. Her strong and handsome one was going to be paralyzed. Not tomorrow. Not next week, or next year, but eventually. And she'd have to watch, knowing she couldn't do a thing about it. She put a hand over her mouth to hold back a sob.

"You can come back in," he said from the other side of the door and she wiped her eyes, took a breath, then opened the door and entered to find him obediently in bed.

Strawberry arrived shortly after with his dinner, and when he'd eaten as much as he could manage, his mother brought the potion Healer Groat had given her, the stronger Abdoleo in the blue bottle. They made sure he drank it, then Mrs. Diggory said, "Why don't you stay with him?" and left her there.

"The bed's big enough for two, Granger," Cedric reminded her once his mother was gone. So she took off her shoes and crawled up beside him atop the sheets. They snuggled together there, but the potion took effect quickly and he fell asleep while she rubbed his back. This, she thought as she lay watching him, was going to be part of her life from now on the same as it was part of his. There would be good days and there would be bad days -- hopefully more of the former than the latter. Love happened when one wasn't looking for it sometimes, and not always with someone convenient or easy.

Emotionally drained, she dozed off herself and woke sometime in the middle of the night to find he'd curled up behind her, arm over her waist, face buried in the back of her neck, fast asleep. She laced her fingers through his and thought that moments like this were worth a lot of inconvenience.

Hermione in the Muggle world was different.

Cedric had noticed that when they'd arrived at the station before Christmas, but the transition had been brief. Now, he saw it again as she motioned him to stay by their luggage, then walked right out between parked cars to hail a taxi. This Hermione was at once harder, more brusque, and more sure of herself. She was back on what was, to her, native ground. She might have spent her last five years as a witch, but she'd spent far more as a Muggle.

They'd Apparated onto the pavement outside The Leaky Cauldron. As he'd never been to her parents' house, he couldn't Apparate directly there, so they had to catch a cab again. (A bus simply wasn't feasible for him.) Hermione hadn't thought of that when she'd told her parents not to pick her up and it was through such small things he was reminded she hadn't been born to his world. Every wizard child knew these constraints, and so did Hermione when she wasn't caught off guard. It was always translation for her, not natural instinct. He was still amazed she did as well as she did.

The taxi wasn't one of the big black ones, but they had rather less luggage this time. She made the driver retrieve her trunk as she carried Cedric's bag, then helped Cedric into the back seat. The driver stared at him, and not due to his handicap. It was his clothing. If Hermione made simple errors in his world, he was far worse in hers. This evening, he'd thought only of making himself presentable for her parents and had dressed in his best blue velvet robes and a nice waistcoat, then had received a startled double-take from her when he'd emerged to leave. She'd been wearing Muggle clothes. A nice skirt, but Muggle clothes. When -- shame-faced -- he'd asked if he should change, she'd replied, "No. No, you absolutely shouldn't."

So here they sat dressed for their different realities, and he was reminded that the culture gap was no less real than if she were Mandarin or Ojibway or something else entirely. It was why he'd wanted so badly to do this, to stay at her house for a few days. It wasn't just that he worried about her out unprotected among the Muggles, although he did. Yet with the Dark Lord still lying low half a year after his rebirth, Hermione was watched somewhat less closely than she had been over the summer when it had seemed like anything might happen.

No, he'd wanted to come to visit because he needed to see Hermione as a Muggle. It was too easy to think "Muggle-born witch" and forget the "Muggle" part, even for him. So he needed to see her in her own home and understand her there. She was making the transition to his world, and as adept as she might be, if he understood better where she'd come from, he could help make it easier for her. She looked like him, talked like him, ate the same type of foods, but being born a Muggle involved more than simply her ability to work Muggle technology and explain to him the Muggle theory of Evolution.

"What's with the outfit?" the taxi driver asked, breaking into Cedric's musings.

"I beg your pardon?" he replied, leaning forward a little.

"Them clothes." The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and made a gesture to his throat, indicating Cedric's ascot.

Cedric had no idea how to answer but Hermione came to his rescue. "We're going to a costume party, but I have to go home to change."

"Oh! Oh, all right, yeah. So who're you going as?"

"Heathcliff and Catherine."

"Good choice, good choice." And he stopped talking to pay attention again to traffic.

Cedric leaned close to whisper, "Heathcliff and Catherine are ... ?"

"From Wuthering Heights? The book?"

He just shook his head. Sometimes they knew the same literature, and sometimes they didn't at all. When they reached her house and pulled into the drive, she got out to pay while he struggled with his door. It was rather different from the Ministry cars he'd ridden in a time or two. Hermione had to come around to his side to let him out, and he wished his fair skin didn't flush so easily.

Finally free of the car, Cedric studied the front of the Grangers' semi-detached. It was a nice little house and neatly kept, although unlike the neighbors', there were no Christmas lights out, perhaps because the Grangers had been away. He could see the lights of a tree through the front window, and wooden wind-chimes clunked with an odd music on the porch. The whole front garden seemed to be landscaped with a vaguely Eastern theme, although in the dark of early evening, it was a bit difficult to tell.

The door opened, spilling yellow electric light onto the porch, and Hermione, who'd been dragging her trunk and his bag, dropped both to run forward and engulf the lanky man framed by it. "Dad!"

"Hullo, baby girl."

Kisses were enthusiastic, then she repeated it all with her mother, who looked like an aged carbon copy of Hermione with blonde hair. Cedric stood on the path watching while Crookshanks (free of the bag) wove around his ankles. Anxiety flooded through him again. Both Grangers turned finally from their daughter to him, and he could see the surprise in their faces as they took in his robes. Yet Hermione's father came forward to offer a hand and a smile. "You must be Cedric." Then he seemed to realize that shaking hands would be a bit difficult. "Oh, um, ah . . . "

And Cedric absolutely didn't want to begin that way, so he shifted his weight onto his left crutch and offered his own hand. "Yes, I'm Cedric. I'm extremely pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," the man said, pumping his hand while behind him, Hermione's mother stood arm-in-arm with her daughter.

"Get their luggage, Charles. Come in, kids. Dinner's on the way."

Cedric opened his mouth to say he could handle the luggage -- except he couldn't without magic and he shouldn't be seen Levitating things in Hermione's front garden even after dark. So he had to watch Mr. Granger carry in what he could easily have managed before 24th June. Hermione reappeared beside him to lay a hand on his arm. "Come on," she said. "My turn to show you my house." Her excitement was contagious so he followed, although he felt uncomfortably conscious of his lurching gait as he hadn't been for months.

The interior had been better decorated for the holidays than the exterior, and smelled delightful from the cooking. It wasn't a terribly large place but he rather liked that -- better for three people than the big old country house he'd grown up in. Almost immediately, he found himself the object of interest for a white-and-caramel beagle, who sniffed his shoes, the hem of his robes, and his crutches.

"Leave poor Cedric alone," Mrs. Granger was saying to the dog. "Let him at least get in the door before you insist on introducing yourself. Come in, Cedric. Just ignore Chilli. She'll calm down in a minute."

He did as instructed, getting out of Mr. Granger's way. "Hullo," he told the dog, who'd turned to jump on Hermione, lick her hands, then come back to Cedric, obviously fascinated by his crutches, and probably the smell of raccoon. "You've never seen a human with four legs, have you?" he asked the dog, and to Hermione, "I think she smells Esiban."

"Oh, yes, probably. I didn't even think of that."

"Is Esiban your dog?" Mrs. Granger asked, obviously trying to keep the conversation going.

"Actually, no --"

"He's got a raccoon, mum."

"A raccoon!"

"He brought Esiban back from Canada and raised him."

"Oh, my -- a raccoon? Really? How interesting." Although Cedric could tell Mrs. Granger wasn't entirely sure it was. "Are you allowed to have a raccoon? I mean, wouldn't that be considered an exotic pet and require a license?"

"Mum," Hermione said, "the Diggorys live in the country. And the Wizarding world doesn't have the same laws we do, anyway."

Cedric didn't miss the fact she'd unconsciously put herself in the Muggle world with the use of 'we.'

"Oh, ah -- yes, I -- well, I suppose not." Mrs. Granger was looking at Cedric's robes again. "Do you want me to take your cloak, or -- "

"They're robes, mum. And they're not like a coat, more like a suit jacket, I suppose."

Embarrassed because Hermione's mother was embarrassed, Cedric said, "Actually, I could take the robes off inside. The sleeves might be in the way at the table." They wouldn't of course, but he sought a compromise. "Just let me sit down --" And he settled into the chair Crookshanks had hidden behind, unhooking the front of his robes to slide his arms free. It was, he thought, just as well he'd opted for the crutches as he wasn't sure his chair would maneuver amid the Granger's furniture. Hermione handed the robes to her mother, who in turn handed them to Mr. Granger who'd just returned. He seemed confused as to what to do with them.

Perhaps exasperated, Hermione took them again and said, "I'll put them upstairs," as her mother disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Cedric with Mr. Granger.

Feeling rude, Cedric started to stand again but Mr. Granger held out both hands, "No, no, please, you don't have to get up. Just relax until dinner." He sat down himself in a wing chair and it occurred to Cedric that he'd probably taken the man's seat. He hadn't thought about it, just looked for the closest place to sit, and this entire first meeting felt like one misstep after the other. At least the dog had decided he was acceptable. She leapt up into his lap to nudge him with her nose, a clear request for attention. "Chilli!" Hermione's father began but Cedric raised the hand that wasn't stroking the dog.

"It's quite all right. I like dogs."

"Do you have one at home?"

"Well, sort of. I grew up with crups -- that's a kind of dog, I suppose you'd call it. My father works in the Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry. He deals with crups and kneazels and puffskiens, and other magical pets."

"There are magical pets?" Mr. Granger seemed bemused.

"Oh, yes. There are all manner of magical creatures, although I don't suppose you'd see them about. They mostly stay hidden from Muggles."

"I see. Or perhaps I don't see." He laughed, a bit uncertain in his attempt at a joke.

Cedric smiled back even as Hermione returned -- to Cedric's relief -- coming to sit on the footstool in front of his armchair. "So Chilli found a new dupe who'll pet her until his arm falls off," she said.

Cedric's smile deepened. "She seems like a sweet dog. How old is she?"

"Ten or eleven." She turned to look at her father.

"Eleven," he confirmed. "She's an old lady now. She likes her food and a soft cushion by the fire."

"Hermione?" Mrs. Granger called from around the separator that divided the living room from the dining area. "I need you in the kitchen." Hermione ducked out again, leaving Cedric to her father.

"Could I get you something to drink?" Mr. Granger asked.

"No, no thank you. I'm fine." Cedric was grateful for the dog, which gave him something to focus on. He hadn't felt this awkward with Cho's parents. Then again, he hadn't been as invested in attaining their approval either, and he'd wanted to ask them about magic in China. He had no idea what to ask Mr. Granger. "How was skiing?"

"Oh, fine, fine. The weather was excellent, although the snow was mostly artificial this year."

Artificial snow? How did Muggles make artificial snow? But Cedric didn't ask; Mr. Granger had gone on to discuss slopes and tourists at the lodge and the pound-to-francs exchange rate. Most of it washed over Cedric but it gave the other man something to talk about and Cedric made a good listener. The dog had settled down with her long nose on Cedric's leg and the room was warm from the fire, music and women's voice drifting in from the kitchen. When the music suddenly cranked up quite a bit, Mr. Granger turned his head in surprise, raised a finger at Cedric, rose from his chair to peer around the divider, then motioned for Cedric to join him.

Confused, Cedric did so, peeking around too, only to be greeted by a very peculiar sight. Hermione and her mother were doing a funny little dance to the music on the radio while Mrs. Granger pretended to sing (even though it was a man's voice) and Hermione pretended to play the guitar.

Well, my baby, she's all right,
Well, my baby, she's clean out-of-sight.
Don't you know that she's . . . she's some kind of wonderful.
She's some kind of wonderful . . . yes she is, she's,
She's some kind of wonderful, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeahhh . . .

Unable to help it, Cedric burst out laughing and the two looked up. Mrs. Granger made a face at her husband but continued to pretend to sing; Hermione, however, turned bright pink and stopped. Cedric motioned her to continue, but she just shook her head and went back to slicing bread. After a moment, Mrs. Granger gave up too and returned to checking whatever was in the oven. Cedric was disappointed, but also unaccountably pleased to have seen it in the first place. "They do that," Mr. Granger said conversationally, and the tension between them seemed to have broken finally.

Mrs. Granger put her hands on her hips. "All right, you two can stop making fun of us; go and sit down. Dinner's ready."

"We're not making fun of you," Mr. Granger protested, waving Cedric into the dining room, such as it was -- more an open area off the kitchen. Cedric took a chair on one side of the oval table covered by a green cloth and laid with nice plates that had holly around the edges.

Dinner was served shortly after, although it wasn't anything he was used to. "That's potato, panir and pea curry, and that's Indian eggplant salad. We've got wheat-bread rolls and cantaloupe. And there's plenty of it, Cedric, so don't be shy about taking as much as you want."

The food wasn't bad, although he found a meal with absolutely no meat a bit peculiar. Hermione had warned him that her parents were vegetarian. "You're not?" he'd asked.

"Well, they weren't entirely converted yet when I still lived at home. But I can't say I'm all that fond of Hogwart's cooking -- too heavy for me."

Unfortunately her mother's food wasn't heavy enough for him, and he didn't feel full even after three helpings of the main course. "You're too addicted to carbohydrates," she'd told him before, but as much as he liked the food (and it was tasty), he'd be glad to return to something more solid. Manners prevented him from saying as much.

At first, conversation passed back and forth among the Grangers and Cedric listened, but then they turned to quizzing him -- what his father did for a living, his mother, what subjects did he like best? He wondered how much they understood of what he said just as he'd understood only a fraction of what Mr. Granger had said earlier. Mrs. Granger, however, seemed especially interested in his mother's painting. "So the paintings all tell stories?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Could I . . . could I see one?"

Cedric smiled. "I'd be happy to show you sometime. There's a gallery in Diagon Alley."

"I'd like that," Mrs. Granger said. And it struck Cedric that Hermione's parents were both trying very hard to understand their daughter's new world. They might not be able to enter it, not entirely, but they wanted to understand. Cedric wondered if his own parents would've been so tolerant if he'd been born a Squib. The Grangers asked him other questions, some of which had Hermione rolling her eyes. He answered patiently, touched that they cared enough to wonder these things.

After the meal, Hermione drew him off for a moment. "I'm sorry they asked so much that was so silly and basic. They don't understand --"

"They're trying, Granger; it's more than some would. And I don't mind. Really." He grinned. "I like your parents."

She smiled back. "Thanks. I just . . . " she trailed off, frowning. "I feel like there's this great big chasm between us sometimes."

He nudged her with his elbow. "Then we'll just have to build a bridge, yeah?" She nodded.

After the pudding, they all retired to the living room for conversation and after-dinner coffee, then went to bed somewhat early. "You'll be up late tomorrow night, kids," Mr. Granger said.

Cedric slept well and woke late on the last day of the year, lay there thinking about 1995 and all that had happened. He'd be glad to see it end, but wondered if the next year would prove any better.

New Year's Eve was spent quietly. Over breakfast, Cedric listened to Muggle news on the television, most of which he didn't have enough context to understand but found fascinating all the same, and in the afternoon, he discovered computers. "Have you ever heard of the Internet, Ced?" Mr. Granger asked at lunch, eliciting a groan from both his wife and Hermione. Cedric admitted he hadn't and Mr. Granger took him into his den to introduce him to Mosaic and the World-Wide Web.

Cedric was captivated. He and Hermione's father spent the next three hours squirreled away, exploring via AltaVista. Cedric learned about email ("Imagine instant mail without post or owls?") and how to "surf" the internet without images so pages loaded faster. The terminology amused him. It wasn't just the internet, either. Computers themselves fascinated. Why didn't the Wizarding world make use of these? Printers and word-processors were a revelation, even if he were reduced to two-fingered typing ("hunt-and-peck" Mr. Granger called it). Cedric, who'd never been all that fond of writing by hand, wanted a printer. Badly.

"There are things the Muggle world could teach us," he said at one point.

"I have a disciple," Mr. Granger told Hermione, who'd just stuck her head in the den doorway.

"Why am I not surprised?" she said. "It's the Y-chromosome. Boys and their toys. Ced, there's something on the telly I think would amuse you."

He looked up. "What?"

"Bewitched. It's an old American show about a witch married to a Muggle."

He stared. "A witch? But I thought --"

"It's not serious," she explained. "Not real, I mean -- just a show. But funny."

He glanced at Mr. Granger, who waved him off, so he rose to follow Hermione out into the living room. She was right. It was completely fictional but he nearly asphyxiated from laughing. "Wiggle your nose, Granger! Go ahead -- I dare you!" he gasped at one point. She just glared. Despite having called him to watch it, she wasn't so amused by his amusement. "This is absolutely ridiculous," he said, "but brilliant!" Rolling onto his stomach from where he'd been lying on the carpet in front of the box, he grinned up at her. "I like your world, I think."

Cedric, Hermione decided, was less at a loss in a Muggle house than Ron might have been -- less bemused by things he hadn't seen before, and he really did know what to do with a microwave, and a light switch. She didn't need to show him any of that. If anything, her parents were more startled at his casual use of magic, although they'd seen magic aplenty in Diagon Alley. It was his use of it in their own kitchen that surprised. Underage, Hermione couldn't use spells at home but Cedric suffered no such restrictions, and had no qualms at Levitating or Summoning whatever he needed. He'd caused her mother to shriek that morning when he'd done it to the coffee pot, which had in turn caused him to lose concentration and drop the pot with a crash. Hermione had come running while Cedric had apologized profusely and repaired the shattered glass. Hand on her chest, Mrs. Granger had said only, "I suppose I'll get used to it." Yet Cedric hadn't, Hermione noticed, performed any spells since.

Besides micowaves, coffee pots and television, he understood more complex Muggle technology too, including VCRs and CD players, although Hermione was a bit surprised when he came down late that afternoon with some CDs of his own. "Jeff sends me these now and then," he told her, "but I've never been able to do anything with them." He handed them over. "May I listen to them here?" They were still in the plastic wrappers, which she tore off while he watched. Susan Aglukark, Keith Secola, Chester Knight -- names she'd never heard of. "It's all part of Jeff's attempt to 'educate' me."

"Jeff is one of your Canadian friends?"

"Yes. He's my age, more or less -- a year older. Daniel's son."

Hermione had begun to piece together the Whitecalf clan, but she wasn't sure what she thought of a people who kept their magic in their heads, not writing it down anywhere. "It might fall into the wrong hands," Cedric had explained. "Knowledge is given only to those who've earned it. Imagine if that kind of restriction had been in force in England? We might not have Voldemort."

Yet Tom Riddle had been adept at deception, and Hermione wondered if he mightn't have tricked what he wanted to know out of others anyway? She'd also heard Cedric admit to 'sorcerers' (dark wizards) among native people, so not writing things down obviously wasn't a failsafe. "No system is perfect, Granger," he'd said, "but they could teach us things." It was part of his conviction that every culture had something positive to offer. "It's the sacred hoop," he told her now as he put in one of his CDs. "We're all relatives."

So they listened to his music, then to some of hers. "I should probably play Oasis or Blur for you," she said, "but I don't have any. Pop isn't really my thing so much; I'd rather listen to The Who."

"The what?"

She burst out laughing. "It's the name of a band -- The Who."

"Oh."

"I do have the Lightning Seeds." She flipped through her CD rack for that, wanting him to hear "Life of Riley." She thought it might appeal to him:

So here's your life, we'll find our way,
We're sailing blind, but it's certain nothing's certain . . .
Although this World is a crazy ride,
You just take your seat and hold on tight.
For the first time, I don't mind,
I get the feeling, you'll be fine . . .

They were so involved with the music, they didn't realize eight o'clock had come until Hermione's mother knocked on the jamb of her open bedroom door. "We're off," she said. She was all dressed up and Hermione rose from the floor to kiss her cheek. "You kids be good and we'll be back probably around one, give or take. I'd like to stay at home, but you know your dad. When Phil throws a party, Charles thinks he has to be there." Looking past Hermione, she explained to Cedric, "An old university crony of Hermione's father. The wives sit around listening to the boys wax lyrical about their wild days at university, which weren't as wild or exciting at they seem when they re-hash it all, you know."

Cedric smiled politely, and Hermione suspected that one day, he, Peter, Ed and Scott would be guilty of a similar nostalgia. For now, it meant that she and Cedric had the house to themselves for the rest of the evening -- something she'd been looking forward to ever since her mother had told her about the party. They returned to the music until she heard the car leave, then she waited another half hour to be certain her parents hadn't forgotten anything before ditching the music to pounce on Cedric. It made him laugh, but not protest at her kisses as she straddled his lap and he leaned back against the side of her bed for support.

They'd grown so used to this sort of release in just the last week, Hermione wondered how they'd manage back at school. After fifteen minutes of working themselves into a frenzied state and feeling daring and a bit desperate, she moved her fingers from his hair down to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt to drag short nails over the skin of his now-bare chest. "Granger," he growled, "you're not playing fair. I can't do that to you."

"Maybe if you ask nicely, you'd be surprised."

He pulled away to look at her, his gray eyes dilated and dark. She just looked back until he let his hands slip down to the hem of her sweater. She raised her arms so he could pull it over her head, leaving her bare except for a white satin bra. He unhooked that too, and she let him slide the straps down her arms. But even if she'd wanted this, been the one to initiate it, she felt exposed and crossed her arms over her chest much as she had in the bath. This time, he gripped her wrists gently, moving her arms. "I want to see you," he muttered, voice cracking, his expression transported. "So lovely." His long fingers slipped up her arms and over her shoulders, then down the pale, freckled skin of her chest. He didn't touch the cold-puckered nipples, just cupped the curve of her shallow breasts. His skin was warm and she leaned into his touch, watching him look at her. To her surprise, she didn't feel embarrassed now. She felt beautiful, precious, and no longer desperate or daring. She inched closer until she could press her bare skin to his, arms sliding around him.

"I'm cold," she whispered. "Hold me."

So he did. Eventually, they made their way into her bed where they could pull up the covers and he kissed her all over beneath, tongue sliding fire across goose-pimpled skin. This time, instead of straddling him, she rubbed hands on the front of his trousers. She wanted to feel the hard length of him, even indistinct through two layers of cloth. Dropping back against the mattress, he raised his chin and moaned, bucking up into her palm. "Faster," he muttered, and she complied, watching his face as he approached orgasm. Afterwards, he rested a minute, then returned the favor, one hand between her legs, mouth at her nipple, tongue busy until she hissed and groaned and thrashed, feeling wanton and vulnerable. Appropriately -- and amusingly -- fireworks began somewhere outside at that moment, set off by impatient kids; they both laughed as he laid his head in the valley of her breasts, soft hair tickling her skin. She wasn't cold now, and after a while, he scooted up until they lay nose-to-nose, talking about nothing in particular, still half naked. His hands moved idly over her and hers over him. It was almost ten. "We should put on clothes and go downstairs," she said, so they did.

He lay on the sofa with his head in her lap and they wasted time flipping channels, then watched Jools Holland's Hootenanny, waiting for Big Ben to chime midnight and initiate fireworks down on the river. "We could go outside and try to see them," she told him, "but the elms along the alleyway block the view of all but the highest. Doesn't much matter though, as half our road lets them off. We can just sit on the front steps and enjoy the show."

That was where her parents found them when they pulled up into the drive a little before one. Hermione and Cedric had warm cider (now cold) and a shared blanket around their shoulders. The fireworks were long over but they'd stayed out under the stars, trading gentle kisses to the music of the wooden wind chimes. She was feeling sated and content and a bit romantically goofy, though she suspected she should enjoy it while it lasted as it wouldn't last long once school began again.

The next day, she absconded with him to Waterstones on Piccadilly, then grinned at his awe when he saw the sheer size of the place, the largest book shop in Europe. They arrived a little before lunch and she couldn't pry him out again until half past four, and only then with far too many books. He truly was her alter-ego if he found book shops a good place to waste the whole afternoon. But he insisted on eating before they returned to her home. "I need meat," he confessed. "I like your mum's cooking, Granger -- I honestly do -- but I'm starving."

So they had pepperoni-and-sausage pizza, and she thought he might like pizza only slightly less than he liked Waterstones or her father's computer. "You'd make a good Muggle," she whispered to him in the cab on the way back.

"As long as I didn't wear robes and a cravat to dinner," he replied equally softly.

"No," she said. "No, I didn't want you to change clothes. It's who you are."

He was silent for a time, staring out the cab window, then said, "And this is who you are -- all of this. I'm glad you invited me; I'm glad you showed me this."

"You don't mind? That I wasn't born a witch?"

"No, poppet. I think we're stronger for the fact we're not the same."

She laid her head on his shoulder, deeply touched. With Cedric, she could be her whole self, both who she'd been born and what she'd grown into.

It was hard to say goodbye to him the next morning. "You could come back to visit now that you know where the house is, like you did at Grimmauld Place."

But he shook his head. "You need to spend time with your family without me popping in and out." They were standing in the back garden where he could Disapparate without being spotted. "I'll see you again in a week. Less, now." He kissed her goodbye chastely, slipped his bag over his shoulder and set his crutches, then was gone with a crack. She hugged herself before going back inside alone.

She thought she might get away without comment from her parents until the next evening when she was working in the kitchen with her mother, peeling potatoes. "He's very pleasant, your Cedric," her mother began, which signaled she was probably going to say something next that she didn't think Hermione would want to hear. "Polite and well-spoken."

"But -- ?"

Her mother turned. "What makes you think there's a 'but'?"

"Because I can hear it coming, mum."

Her mother studied her face for a moment. "You're far too cynical for sixteen. There really isn't one. I like him. I suppose I'm just a bit concerned --"

"Ah, ah -- see?"

"I'm a bit concerned about his handicap. That's not a 'but,' dear, it's a concern."

"You like him but he's handicapped," Hermione said, struggling not to let her bubbling anger make her uncareful with the potato peeler.

Sighing, her mother said, "No, Hermione. I like him and I'd like to know more about this curse that crippled him." She frowned at her daughter. "I wondered if, well, perhaps there's not something we could do. Modern medicine, I mean. All these potions and spells -- it seems a bit barbaric actually."

That sounded so close to what Mrs. Weasley thought of Muggle medicine that Hermione bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

"He's such a charming young man, I hate to see him in pain, or struggling on those crutches. And I hate to see you struggle with the things he can't carry or do."

"And there's the 'but.' You like him but he's crippled and can't do everything a normal person could do."

"Hermione, you're just spoiling for a quarrel -- "

"Well, you don't like my friends!" she snarled, throwing the potato peeler into the metal sink. "There's always something wrong with them! Harry's uncle and aunt are pretentious snobs --"

"They are. I never said Harry was. He's a lovely boy, and they treat him just horribly."

"And the Weasleys are poor and uneducated."

"I've never said anything about the Weasleys' socioeconomic class! Your father simply remarked once that Mr. Weasley is a bit . . . odd, going on like he does about screwdrivers. And they have all those children when they struggle to make ends meet. I understand wanting children, but there are responsible limits."

"And now Cedric! I thought you'd approve of Cedric, at least! But no, he's crippled."

"Hermione Jean! I said I liked Cedric. A lot. I'm just worried about him."

"You think I should find somebody better."

"I said no such thing -- !"

"But you thought it! And you wonder why I never want to come home anymore!"

She fled the kitchen upstairs to her room, slamming the door shut. She knew she was being unfair and histrionic, but her mother had raised questions that troubled Hermione even if she didn't want to let them. Ever since the trip to St. Mungo's, she'd been thinking about Cedric's condition. He'd never get better, and she worried more and more that she wouldn't be strong enough to bear it. What if she failed him? Face buried in her pillow, she sobbed while Crookshanks nosed her cheek.

A knock on her door made her sit up. "Hermione?" Her father opened the door and peered around the edge. "Can I come in?"

She wiped her eyes and nodded as he entered, shutting the door and coming to sit beside her on the bed, an arm around her shoulders. She buried her face in his shoulder and he patted her back while she cried. "He's not going to get better, dad," she said. "Never."

He didn't say anything, just kept patting her back. Her mother pushed things, but her father knew when not to, and she'd always felt able to talk to him when her mother just drove her crazy -- mostly because she and her mum were too much alike.

Now her father asked, "What's involved with his condition?"

"It's a progressive curse -- acts a bit like M.S., actually." She pulled away to wipe her eyes again.

His kind face was concerned. "It's not terminal, is it?"

"No, no -- but it is chronic, and he'll be paralyzed eventually." She didn't say how soon. "And I can't do anything about it." She looked up at him. "I know you and mum are worried, but I love him, dad. I do. Don't tell me I'm too young or it's too soon. I love him."

Smiling a bit sadly, her father ran a hand over her bushy hair. "He's a good lad, clever too -- and quite taken with you, I think. He certainly did his best to make a good impression on us."

"So you like him?"

"Yes, we do, your mum and I. We worry, too. But all parents worry about their children. It's part of the job description, you know." He winked at her, and it struck her that Cedric was a bit like her father; they both had the same quiet patience and dry sense of humor. "We can worry without that meaning we don't like him. Now go back downstairs and apologize to your mum. She just wanted to talk to you about whether you thought Cedric might be willing to go to a doctor. We spoke with Aunt Brenda at the party the other night. She said she'd be willing to take a look at him in her surgery, see if there's anything that could be done for him, or at least for the pain. She might be able to refer him somewhere."

"Oh." And Hermione blushed. "I wish mum'd just started there." Brenda was her father's friend's wife and Hermione's pediatrician all through childhood. As her godparents, Phil and Brenda were among the few who knew the truth about where she'd been going to school for the past five years.

"Your mother didn't want to insult wizarding medicine, but you know me. Fools rush in . . . "

She laughed and flung her arms around his neck. "I'll talk to him, dad. I don't know if he'll be open to it, but he might. Although Aunt Brenda might regret it when he starts asking questions."

"Yes, he's a rather curious fellow, isn't he? There are worse things."

Notes: Although Hermione is doing 'air guitar,' I don't call it that as I'm not sure Cedric would know the term. Bren gave me the title for this chapter. I blame Hilly and Sarah (and indirectly, Rossi) for the '90s British pop and introducing me to the Lightning Seeds. Thanks also go to Cynjen for information on British New Year's Eve TV, and to Bren, as well, for a general crash course in New Year's Eve traditions. For trivia mavens, the current site of Waterstones on Piccadilly is the former site of Simpson's, which was the inspiration behind the screamingly funny British comedy, "Are You Being Served?" Technically, it didn't open as a bookstore until 1999, but I'm being creative with time. Same with mention of Chester Knight, who didn't release his first album Freedom until June of 1996. Susan Aglukark and Keith Secola have, of course, been around a lot longer.

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