"Cedric."
Halting in the hallway outside Flitwick's classroom, Cedric turned to find Luna Lovegood approaching, smiling her vague smile. "Hullo, Luna."
"I didn't have a chance to speak to you last week," she said, "with that awful woman locking you up again. But I wanted you to know that issue of The Quibbler with your and Harry's interview sold out in just two days. We had to go back to print. Twice."
Cedric couldn't help grinning at that. "I'm glad."
"Dad said to tell you 'thanks,' and that you and Harry can have a lifelong subscription."
Cedric's grin widened, albeit more in amusement than gratitude at the prospect of getting The Quibbler for the rest of his life. At least it would be entertaining. "Please thank him for me, both for the subscription and for having the courage to run that piece in the first place. It meant a lot."
She tilted her head almost quizzically. "But of course. My dad believes in publishing articles that make a difference to people." And she drifted off like a bit of summer fluff on the wind, leaving Cedric still grinning behind her. Such an odd bird, but sharper than many people credited her. After the nasty article in The Daily Prophet the day before, her words cheered him a bit.
Ever since yesterday, students had been eyeing him oddly, as if expecting him to collapse again at any moment. A few even ran to open doors for him. The first time it happened, he swallowed his irritation and thanked the person, and the second time, too. But the third time, he made an imperious gesture that knocked the door out of the girl's grip, slamming it back against the wall. The girl -- a third year from Ravenclaw -- stared at him, shocked, and he felt immediately badly. "Not quite dead yet," he told her, trying for humor, but wasn't sure she understood.
After that, people stopped opening doors for him.
They didn't, however, stop staring or whispering behind hands. And for three days after the editorial had been published, he received post from strangers offering him sympathy or advice, or even an occasional one that berated him. He let his mates sort it for him because he couldn't bear to, and wondered if he should reply to the kind letters at least. Finally, after a lengthy discussion with Hermione, Harry and Peter, he drafted what Hermione called a 'form letter' reply:
Thank you for your concern. I'm deeply touched by the expressions of kindness from strangers worried for my health. But quite honestly, The Daily Prophet has exaggerated my condition. I'm not nearly as ill as that editorial led people to believe, and fully capable of carrying out my duties as Head Boy. There are students at Hogwarts who had the flu this winter and missed more classes than I have. My injury is not incapacitating, and I am dis-ABLED, not crippled.
That last was supplied by Hermione, a Muggle term that Harry grinned over and called -- to Hermione's annoyance -- "PC." (Cedric had thought "PC" was a computer, not a turn of phrase.)
The editorial in The Prophet was aimed at presenting me as weak in order to cast doubt on my credibility as a witness -- mud-slinging, rather than a reasoned response to my account of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return. Yet I assure you, my wits are not addled by either my injury or the medication for it. I invite you to think about current events and what The Prophet is NOT reporting, then read the interview that Harry Potter and I gave to The Quibbler. It was published by The Quibbler because The Daily Prophet fears printing the truth. Yet after reading what Harry and I experienced last June, I think -- frightening as it may be -- you'll see that our account provides answers to what The Prophet isn't telling the Wizarding World at large.
Again, my sincere gratitude for your letter and well-wishes. They mean a great deal.
He duplicated it fifty-one times, but still signed every one of them. "You're so polite," Harry observed reading over Cedric's shoulder, then added, "and barking mad to think those'll make any difference."
"But they might," Cedric replied, shaking his hand as it was getting the cramps and glancing up at Harry. "Just like our interview might -- which is why it was worth doing. People need to be reached out to. It's not just telling the truth that matters, it's hearing the truth from somebody you believe you can trust. And trust isn't built anonymously. These people took time to write to me, so I'm doing the same -- even if it's duplicating the same letter. They deserve a reply, and if they get this back, they might feel that they know me just a little bit. And if they feel they know me, they might be more inclined to believe what I say, you see?"
Harry just blinked and rubbed his scar. "I suppose. You're really good as sussing people out, aren't you?" And rising, he wandered off, leaving Cedric still at the Hufflepuff table in the Great Hall, long after lunch on Sunday, signing letters. Peter and Scott were with him, folding the duplicated notes and passing them to Hermione, who addressed each.
They were almost finished when Professor Sprout glanced into the hall and spotted them. Coming over to see what they were up to, she scanned one of the letters. "I'm sending them to everyone who wrote to me after The Prophet editorial," Cedric explained. "Well, to everyone who wrote and was polite. I reckon it can't hurt -- assuming any of these make it out of the castle."
Sprout lowered the letter and grinned at him. "A reasonable worry. Of course, in accordance with Educational Decree Number 26, I'm not allowed to offer any comment on your letter, since it doesn't have anything to do with Herbology" -- her grin turned wicked -- "but I will say I'm headed into Hogsmeade shortly and could drop by the post office."
Cedric glanced at Hermione, then dug in the pockets of his robes, looking for coins to pay postage, but came up with only a galleon and a few sickles. Sprout put her hand over his and closed his fist. "Keep it. This is the least I can do, Cedric."
Over the next week, Cedric kept a low profile. Other excitement occupied the student body in any case, as Umbridge had a new victim -- Professor Trelawney. On Monday evening towards the end of dinner, the sudden sound of distraught wailing stirred the castle like an anthill. Students and teachers came running to see who was being murdered (given the volume of the shrieks), and Cedric exited the Great Hall along with most of his House, but was slow to arrive. Trelawney stood in the main entrance hallway, looking quite spectacularly pissed, Cedric thought, with her clothes all in disarray and a bottle of sherry in one hand, while Professor Umbridge smiled predatorily from the stair landing above. "You c-can't sack me!" Trelawney was screeching. "I've b-been here sixteen years! H-Hogwarts is m-my h-home!"
If Cedric had never much liked Trelawney as a teacher, seeing her humiliated was almost physically painful to him, and Umbridge's glee at her misery was palpable. "That sick bitch," he muttered to Peter beside him. Having no way to intervene, he turned quietly and headed down to the Hufflepuff common room because he simply couldn't watch any longer. Thus he missed the arrival of a centaur in the castle and only heard about it later -- and was perhaps less impressed than he should have been. Other things occupied his attention.
First, there was the matter of his father being out of a job. Cedric knew himself fortunate for having grown up without financial worries. If the Diggorys weren't Malfoys or Blacks or Crouches, they'd been comfortably well-off and Cedric didn't know what it meant to go hungry, or wear hand-me-downs, or lack for entertainment and opportunity. As an only child, if he'd needed something, he'd got it, and while he'd been properly grateful -- sometimes even a bit guilty for his fortune -- he'd also taken these things for granted. As a result, his father's sacking panicked him because he had no context for what to expect, and no experience dealing with want. His mother had a career, but it was far from steady or predictable. So as soon as he was free of his gating, he wrote home, asking concerned questions and offering various personal items that his parents could sell if they needed to, including his (very expensive) broom. Whatever Dumbledore had said, he continued to see the whole situation as fundamentally his fault, and would do what was needed to help out. Both parents wrote him reassuring letters, but Cedric worried nonetheless. Finding work after he finished school to help with bills now became a priority. His parents had given him everything. It was time to repay the debt.
Second, in the absence of a school-wide common room, the students finally seemed to appreciate having had one, and more than once, he overheard, "We could meet in the Common Room . . . oh, no, we can't, can we? Bugger Umbridge." Ironic that it would be closed on the eve of its success -- but Umbridge had been willing to overlook its existence only as long as he hadn't been able to make it work. Once all the Houses began using it, it became a threat, and he was strangely cheered by this backhanded evidence of his triumph.
Yet with the Common Room gone, seeing Hermione grew more difficult. They spent most of their time in the library -- or the Room of Requirement. He'd found baths weren't the only way to reduce his stress. If getting off with Hermione meant more to him than just the physical release, it was that nonetheless. She'd become the only bright thing in his days.
They grew easy with each other on the big bed with the red sheets, fingers tracing skin and tangling in hair. He studied her as thoroughly as he studied Charms or Transfigurations, assembling the clues of her of sighs and giggles and indrawn breaths to discover how to please her. He was a clever detective, discerning that too direct a touch at the outset turned her off rather than the reverse. Handling a woman required finesse and small motions -- not to mention finding the right spot. He was delighted when she screwed up the nerve to take his hand and guide his fingers to the little nub of flesh at the top of her slit, whispering, "There. Right there." In his ignorance, he'd been focusing on the wrong place, and why had nobody shown him that before? Too bashful to verbalize his gratitude, he thanked her by applying his complete attention to her suggestion, discovering how many different ways he could massage her and what her reaction was to each variation.
By contrast, he needed her to be more firm, and at one point, took hold of her hand to demonstrate how to grip him tighter. "I won't break," he whispered. She was a clever detective too, and as experimental as he, discovering sensitive places he hadn't even known he had like the thin line of raised flesh running from his scrotal sac to the pucker of his anus. If she stroked him there and rubbed just the head of his prick, the exquisite dual sensation sent him wild. She seemed to take a perverse pleasure in winding him up quite thoroughly before pushing him over the edge.
Even so, there were things he didn't dare ask of her, afraid that what went through his head was too perverse and would disgust her. He didn't even have words for what he wanted, or not words he'd use. His mates teased him that he was a prude, but in truth, he was just put off by the vulgar. "Suck me" or "go down on me" repelled him, twisting the tender and vulnerable into the crass, and it was crassness that bothered Cedric most of all. He turned to his little black journal to find new words.
There is a rhythm in the hitch of
your breath that marks time in the
percussive beat of arousal.
My
tongue flutters against slick skin, tasting the sharp, splintering
bite of woman spice
and your hips arch against my mouth, kissing
me with intimate lips.
Not that he'd done any such thing. But he dreamed of doing it, even as he feared she'd be revolted if he tried.
Yet more than just his possibly deviant fantasies worried him. His previous experience at intercourse had involved girls with more experience than he, and he'd never made love to a virgin. How badly would it hurt her? And what if he turned out to be so terrible she never let him touch her again? He didn't think he'd been especially good with Zoë -- too ignorant, too shy, and too much of a two-push Charlie. But he'd learned a few things since, and some of it, he'd learned from Hermione. That was what he liked best about taking their time. He was finally figuring out how to please a girl -- at least this girl. But he wanted their first sex to be perfect for her; he just didn't know how to make it so.
He wound up getting advice from an unexpected source.
"So, it's been six months and the two of you disappear somewhere on a pretty regular basis. You got your leg over yet?" The question was more curious than outright prurient, nonetheless Cedric's back straightened and he glared at the questioner. Preoccupied shelling sunflower seeds, Scott ignored him. "Well?"
Cedric started to say it was none of Scott's business, but if he did, Scott would assume they had done it. "No," he said instead.
"No?" Scott's head came up in surprise. "Six months and 'no'?"
"First, she's sixteen. Second, we're taking it a bit slow, if that's all right with you."
Popping a seed in his mouth, Scott snorted at Cedric's sarcasm. "It's your blue balls."
Annoyed, Cedric replied, "I don't have blue balls," before he realized what he'd just admitted to.
Scott was grinning. "Well, it's good to know you're not that restrained."
Cedric gave him the two-fingered salute, and he laughed. They were sitting outside between classes, and for once Hermione wasn't hovering. Neither were Ed or Peter. Otherwise, Cedric might never have found the courage to ask, "You ever been with a virgin?" Although almost as soon as he asked it, he wanted to bite his tongue. Nonetheless, if any of his mates might have the experience he lacked, it'd be Scott.
Scott's expression was a bit surprised. "Maybe. Once or twice." His face turned thoughtful. "Not a very good experience -- which is why I've got a policy now of not doing it with virgins."
"Yeah, well, good for you that you can pick and choose."
Scott shrugged. "You're the one who insists on wrapping himself around the same bird for months on end."
"I'm going to laugh my head off on the day you meet the right girl, Summers. You won't know what hit you."
"Nope," Scott replied. "I was born to be a bachelor, me."
Chuckling, Cedric shoved at his friend, who shoved back. Then Scott returned to his sunflower seeds and Cedric to people watching. After several minutes had passed, Scott said, "Virgins are a bit tough. You got to take your time, yeah?" Cedric didn't reply, just turned his head to look at Scott, whose face was surprisingly serious. "Be sure she's ready for you, all right? Good and wet and relaxed. Get her a little tipsy, if you can manage it -- not drunk, just tipsy. It'll stop her from being too nervous. An ale or two's not a bad idea for you, either -- just be sure you're not too pissed to poke, you know? But if it slows you down a bit, well, that's good.
"It'll hurt her," he went on conversationally, not looking at Cedric, who was too shocked to react. "So after you get inside, stop, you know? Let her get adjusted to you. That's why you don't want to come too fast. In and out before you know it doesn't give her any time before it's all over. Wank beforehand if you have to. And use your fingers to stretch her out a bit. There's a spot inside if you can find it -- you rub that and she'll go nuts. Put your thumb on her clit and two fingers inside, near the entrance -- about an inch in. Feels sort of rough and swells up. Rub that. Can't do it too soon -- have to get her all worked up first -- then she'll love it. Make her come before you go inside her because she won't come once you are -- not the first time, and maybe not the second or third, either. Just, you know, be prepared for that. It gets better. Oh, and put her on top -- probably make it all easier. Don't forget her tits; girls like having their tits sucked when you're doing it."
Sure his face was now scarlet, Cedric was at once enormously embarrassed, quite surprised, and extremely grateful. He'd never had anyone be so straight with him; it wasn't something most people talked about, not even Scott normally. Cedric's father's attempts to explain the facts of life had been an awkward exercise in allusion. He suspected his mother would have been more straightforward, but she'd thought that discussion in his father's purview. Yet he'd just learned more in five minutes from Scott than from anyone else ever.
"Thanks," Cedric said now.
"Any time," Scott replied, grin impish once more.
"Give me some of your bird food," Cedric said, holding out a palm. Scott poured seeds into it.
"Happy half year."
A small, wrapped present sailed over her shoulder to settle down in front of Hermione at the breakfast table. Grinning, she twisted her neck to look up at Cedric. "Softie," she told him fondly and leaned in to peck him on the lips as he sat down beside her. Across the table, Seamus and Dean both made gagging noises. In reply, Cedric sent Seamus' spoon sailing three feet down the long table with a wave of his hand.
"Hey!" Seamus protested, pulling his wand to Summon back the spoon. "Prat."
"Get your own girl and you might be less jealous, Finnegan."
"Who said I was jealous, Diggory?"
Cedric just laughed and collapsed his crutches so he could wrap an arm around Hermione, who leaned back into him for a moment then straightened and picked up the present. "You didn't have to --" she said softly for a measure of privacy from the boys across the table.
"I wanted to. It's nothing big."
She was glad of that, as it hadn't even occurred to her to get anything for him. For that matter, she'd have had a hard time deciding on a date to mark the beginning of their relationship. Cedric had apparently decided to count from her birthday and their first kiss, which was probably safe.
Now she untied the bow on the little box and opened it, only to have a dozen fairies come streaking out in a rainbow of lights and neon-brilliant wings, tumbling around in front of her face for a few moments before winking out in a fall of gold dust. It made her laugh and remember the treasure hunt he'd set her six months before. He had more sophisticated charms now, but she was glad a Charm was all it had been. It let her enjoy it without feeling too guilty. Across the table, Seamus and Dean were gaping.
"I dunno if that's more impressive, Diggory, or more poncy," Seamus said.
"And that," Hermione told him primly, "is why you don't have a girlfriend. You wouldn't know a romantic gesture if it bit you."
"Might depend on where it bit me," he replied, which made Hermione tsk and Cedric snort.
Still mildly guilty, Hermione had a flash of inspiration as they walked to class after breakfast. "You get your present later," she told him.
Face suddenly alight, his eyebrows went up. "Oh? You have something for me too?" He sounded so pleasantly surprised that she kicked herself inwardly. She really needed to remember how much such small, simple gestures pleased him. She'd always felt a bit ridiculous about making them, but Cedric's joy in holding hands where everyone could see or a chaste, public kiss was teaching her to enjoy it too. There was something ironic, she supposed, in the pragmatic girl winding up with the romantic boy who all the other girls wanted.
"Yes," she said, "after a manner of speaking. I have plans. Let's leave it at that."
But of course he didn't, and proceeded to pester her for the rest of the day like a child on Christmas Eve. She told him nothing and disappeared after dinner, cornering Harry in the common room. "I need your map and cloak tonight, if I may."
Sighing, Harry just glared at her from behind his glasses. "I might as well leave the map with you and come to get it when I need it."
Hermione avoided replying, 'That would probably make sense,' as Harry was clearly perturbed, not just being practical. "I'll have both back to you by tomorrow morning," she said instead, adding, "It's six months," in explanation.
"Six months what?"
She rolled her eyes. "Cedric and I have been together for six months. Well, publicly together. We've actually been together a bit more than that but . . . " She trailed off, seeing Harry's eyes go out of focus in that way which said he'd stopped listening. "Anyway, I wanted to do something special."
"Do I want to know what it is?"
"We're going for a swim in the prefects' bath."
"Together?" He eyed her a moment, then flushed and said, "Hermione, he hasn't . . . you know, I mean, he's not, well, um, 'special' doesn't mean -- er . . . he's not pushing you, is he? He's older, and . . . " Helpless to be more specific, Harry trailed off and she wasn't sure whether to burst out laughing or blush.
"He's not pushing me, no. He's always been very considerate, never asked me for anything I wasn't ready to do."
A month ago, she'd have been reluctant to admit how much she was ready to do, but had changed her mind since then. She needed someone to know, and while Ginny might have been the logical choice, Ginny would want details and Hermione wasn't ready to give them. Ron . . . just -- no. Ron would do something stupid like challenge Cedric to a duel and wind up in hospital (or Cedric would, trying not to hurt Ron). But Harry . . . Harry would be too embarrassed to ask for details, and he'd learned to trust her, not try to protect her when she didn't need to be protected.
Now, he stared at her, attempting not to gape. "Er -- I don't know how to take that. He hasn't . . . well, I mean -- erm, have you? It's a bath."
"And I have a swimsuit." She raised her eyebrows. "Besides, I love him, he loves me, and it's hardly a casual fling for either of us."
Harry still looked a bit taken aback. "As long as he treats you well . . . just, you know -- if he doesn't, he'll have to deal with you and me both."
She hugged his neck. "Absolutely. And thank you."
Being a Friday, students stayed up later than usual, but Hermione pretended to turn in early, taking time alone in her dormitory to prepare everything she'd need. By midnight, her roommates were all in bed but she waited another half hour to be certain they were fast asleep. Creeping out from under the covers, she stuffed clothes beneath to make it look as if she were still there, took the cloak, map and her bag, and slipped out of her room. Down the stairs and through the common room, she escaped Gryffindor Tower altogether.
She encountered no difficulties getting to Cedric's room, and let herself in as silently as she could, glad he hadn't spelled his door locked. But the candles in the chandelier overhead were still lit and Cedric sat at his desk, dressed in pyjamas. He looked up when the door opened, unsurprised, and smiled as she pulled off the cloak. "You're awake!" she said.
"You told me you had something planned; I was just waiting, Granger."
She should have known better than to think she'd catch him by surprise. He was eyeing the dressing gown she wore and she turned her back to him, undoing the belt and then shrugging it off before turning back. His lips curled. "Very sexy, Granger. Do I get to take that bikini off you now?"
She rolled eyes, huffing. "You have a one-track mind, Cedric. We're going swimming."
"Yeah, seeing the bikini, I sort of gathered that. Still, do I get to take it off you?"
Mildly annoyed but mostly amused, she headed into his bedroom to dig through his clothes shelves in the wardrobe. After a moment, she heard the clunk of his step. "Did you bring swimming trunks this time?" she asked.
"No. Why would I? I expected last autumn to be a one-shot."
"You'd make a terrible Boy Scout, Cedric. Not the least prepared, are you?"
"A terrible . . . what?"
"Never mind." She raised up to glare at him, hands on hips.
He was leaning into his crutches, watching her with a devilish grin on his face. "I don't think I need swimming trunks. Not any more than you need that suit. You could just remove it now and spare me the trouble." He waggled his eyebrows, looking entirely too comical.
It made her laugh. "And deprive you of the challenge of getting it off me?" She headed into his toilet. "Come on. It's late enough as it is."
She heard him call, "Wait, Granger." And she peeked back out. He had her dressing gown and the cloak in hand. "We need to put these in my bed, same as last time -- be safe."
She did as he suggested, adding her bag with its change of clothes too. It all went under his covers, then they made their way into the bath together. He'd pulled his shirt off but left his pyjama bottoms while she turned the taps on. Coming back to join him by the stairs, she smiled up into his face and accepted his kiss while her fingers slipped under the waistband of his bottoms and underpants, pulling them both down over his hips and legs and helping him get them over his braces. She reached for the braces too, but he said, "No."
Sighing, she replied, "Cedric, don't be absurd. Just let me do it."
"I don't --"
"You've let me touch every inch of you except the metal on your legs." She looked up from where she knelt on the marble in front of him. From this angle, he looked very tall, and she was rather uncomfortably conscious of his groin at level with her head. He was half erect, but appeared to be deflating rather than the reverse.
After a long pause, he croaked out, "All right. Fine."
She had no idea why he was so touchy about this, but he needed to get over it. She tapped the braces as she'd seen him do, releasing the Conform spell so they ungripped his legs, becoming simple metal and leather again. Then he lowered himself to the marble and let her take them off. Then she crawled up his body to kiss him, an act of reassurance as much as gratitude for his trust. He got hold of her and undid the back of her bikini so it fell away from her body, held up only by the tie about her neck. He undid that too while kissing her, and tossed it aside, a bit of purple cloth on white stone. His hands cupped her breasts and she moaned, wondering if they'd make it into the bath, which was only half full. "This marble is cold," he told her.
She nodded, and got off of him, standing up, still in her bikini bottoms, and headed for the water. He scooted over until he reached the stairs, lowering himself onto the top step while he watched her descend into the bath. She wondered why she was still wearing the bottoms. It seemed a bit silly as she'd already lost her top and he didn't have a stitch on him. His grin widened and he launched himself out into the water after her, half-full bath or not.
She wasn't the swimmer he was, even with two good legs, and he caught her halfway across, pulling her close. The water was high enough now for them to float there together. He got her bottoms off, tossing them up on the marble beside her top, and they kissed while the bath filled, then hurried to turn off the taps before it overflowed. The air was rich with bubble-bath perfume and he sank under the surface while she squealed in mock fright, pushing off a wall to flee his inevitable underwater attack . . . didn't make it. He pulled her beneath and had her wrapped up in his arms before she could squirm free, pushing her to the bath floor. Then she realized she could breathe.
He'd cast a Bubblehead Charm big enough for two, at least for a little while. They lay on the bottom underwater, kissing and running hands all over each other. If their previous swim had been full of innocent play, this one was far more intentionally erotic. She'd come here tonight not sure exactly how far she'd let him go, but toying with the idea of just getting it over with so she could stop worrying about losing her virginity. After all, they both knew it was going to happen; it was simply a matter of when.
So now, she shifted up a little to wrap her legs around his hips under the water so that his erection was pressed into her crotch, and felt more than heard his gasp.
Then he was letting her go and twisting away from her, pushing up for the surface. Deprived of the bubble, perforce she had to follow. Head breaking the surface, she gasped for air. He'd moved off towards one edge of the bath and she joined him. His expression was a little desperate. "Don't do that," he said. "It's . . . I'm trying to control myself, Hermione."
Smiling, she moved closer, arms going around his shoulders so their bodies were pressed together again. "Maybe you don't need to," she whispered, reminding herself of Christmas Eve when she'd first given him permission to go further.
One arm on the edge of the bath, he caught her around the waist with the other. "Not tonight," he whispered, "not yet," making her face, ears, and neck flush. She suddenly felt like a cheap whore for having offered only to be put off. Yet he was smiling at her with an expression full of anything but disgust: wonder, anticipation -- love. She stopped worrying. "I want it to be more special than this," he told her. "Do you trust me?" Bemused, she nodded. "Then come over to the steps." And he let her go, heading for the steps himself in a breaststroke.
She followed, letting him settle her on his lap when she got there. His stiff cock rubbed against her naked bottom and he shifted her until it settled between her cheeks, which felt a bit peculiar but she suspected it felt good to him so she rubbed back against him, making him moan. "Stop," he whispered, arms snaking around her to hold her still against him. "This is about you, not me."
"What if I want it to be about you?" she replied and felt him smile against her neck.
"Later." He kissed her nape. "Trust me?" he asked again. She nodded once more. "Relax against me then. Close your eyes."
She did as he ordered while his hands moved across her body, over her shoulders, down her arms and up her sides to curve over her breasts. He spiraled fingers inward, round and round, not quite touching her nipples although she unconsciously arched her chest up. Even in the warm water, her skin tingled, and when he finally let fingertips cross puckered nubs, she gasped, arching more.
He played with both for a while, kissing her neck and ear as she ran short nails up and down his thighs, spreading her own legs a little. She wanted him to touch her between them, but he resisted, still concentrating on her breasts until she thought she might come just from that. Reading her expression of impending climax, he took his hands away. Completely. "Oh!" she hissed, "you tease." He laughed against her neck. After perhaps a minute, his hands came back, one gripping her hip and the other sliding across her vulva, making circling motions. She arched up and he took the hand away. "Cedric!" She opened her eyes to glare over her shoulder at him.
"Ah-ah," he said. "Eyes shut."
She shut them again, and he went back to massaging her with his palm, letting it go on for several minutes before slipping fingers between her lips. "Oh," she gasped. "Oh, God."
"Like that?"
"Please . . . keep . . . oh, yes." Not very coherent, but he obeyed her wishes, his fingers moving slowly, hand still gripping her hip although she really wanted him to move it to her breast. Unable to ask for that -- embarrassment always sealed her lips -- she reached for his wrist, but he resisted her tugs. "Guh!" she said in frustration and felt him laugh again as his fingers increased their pressure. She began rocking her hips so that it rubbed him, and he grunted, twitching against her bottom. "Serves you right," she muttered, dragging nails over his thighs again.
The hand on her hip moved down to hook under her knee, pulling it upward a little. "Trust me," he whispered, so she relaxed and let him hold her leg up. His other hand moved to slide along the whole slick length of her, back and forth, back and forth, until just the tip of a finger entered her. She resisted tensing and the finger was gone almost before she realized it had been there, moving back to her clit and rubbing. She went back to rocking. But now every few minutes, he let the fingers slide down, dipping into her a little deeper each time. She lifted her leg further to grant him access. He was humming against the back of her neck, hand releasing her knee finally to find her breast. He stroked her nipple while the fingers of his other hand alternated between her clit and her vagina, never entering far until, abruptly, the finger slid all the way in and as excited as she was, it surprised her more than hurt. She clenched around him. "Relax," he whispered.
His thumb was against her clit, his other hand gently pinching her left nipple, and she relaxed almost involuntarily, bucking against him. He moved his finger in and out a few times, then abruptly there were two. And that . . . wasn't entirely comfortable. "No more," she whispered.
"That's enough for now," he agreed, not moving the hand in-and-out, but still working his thumb and the other hand at her breast until she stopped clenching. He was rubbing against her inside too, and it felt good enough to make her whine, but two fingers left her feeling stretched as well, so after a bit, she tugged on his wrist and he withdrew his fingers.
Before he could do anything else, she twisted in his grip so that she straddled him as she had earlier, feeling him hard all along her hypersensitive groin. As she rubbed on him, she watched his head fall back, mouth open. The water was as warm as their blood and she was very slick from his fingers inside her; his stiff cock was almost as good as those fingers, driving her up towards orgasm. But she'd underestimated how excited he was, and how bare groin to groin would set him off. He was suddenly spasming against her and this way, she could feel it as he ejaculated. Teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut, he muttered, "Sorry, sorry," when he was done.
"It's all right," she said softly, kissing his jaw and neck and rubbing against him, but he'd softened quickly and that was no good. Instead, he moved his hand down between their bodies, finding her clit and massaging. Unfortunately, the up-down, up-down of her arousal had put her past a plateau, and she was having a hard time getting back to her previous excitement. He kept at it, patient, but when ten minutes, then fifteen had passed and she still couldn't climax, she grew increasingly self-conscious and frustrated. "You can stop," she whispered.
"No, I don't mind. Not terribly strenuous, you know."
-- which made her laugh . . . and that was worse. She felt herself falling down the slope of excitement until she'd reached a valley, and gripped his arm to halt his motion. "Stop," she whispered. "Just stop. I think it's, well . . . sort of like overripe fruit."
"Not a flattering image, Granger. And sorry. Maybe I should have let you earlier -- "
"It's all right."
She laid her head on his shoulder, moving her hips clear. She felt very slick down there with her own fluid and his too, and scrubbed herself clean without a spell, worrying about semen in the bath but trying to resist overthinking it. She knew she got anal about such things. After all, people apparently swallowed it without ill effect, although it struck her as unsanitary even as she wondered how it might taste . . . and that had her thinking about velvet-soft skin against her lips and the pulse of his heart in his groin. To kiss him all over -- even there . . . ?
But nice girls didn't do that. Did they?
Without really thinking, she reached out to grip his hips, moving a hand in to his now-soft penis, rubbing it a little. He grunted and she felt it twitch and swell slightly. "What are you doing, Granger?" he muttered. "Thought you wanted to stop?"
"Maybe," she replied, still rubbing him. He grew hard slowly, like a tired runner flexing, and his hands were moving all over her back and sides while his hips bucked against her hands. Then abruptly he had hold of her by the waist, lifting her out of the tub. His arms were strong and, sitting on the stairs, he had leverage. She found herself deposited on the edge of the bath. Confused, she looked down at him still in the water. The bubbles were fading and his pale skin could be seen fuzzy and magnified through the surface. Goose pimples appeared all over her. "Lie down," he instructed.
"What?"
"Lie down." And he moved away from the steps along the edge of the bath, tugging her legs towards him. Completely confused, she scooted forward, legs dangling in the water so that it lapped her calves. He stood between and that . . . he could see her from there, and seeing her was different from just feeling her. Blushing as hot as she'd been chilled a moment before, she covered her pubic hair with a hand. "What's that about?" he asked, laughing and reaching out to move her hand. "Lie back."
"Cedric --"
"Lie back. I want to see you."
"Why would you want that? I look funny." Her hand was still over her curls despite his grip on the wrist, trying to pull it away.
"You look funny?" he asked, exasperated. "You don't stick right out there like a tent pole, bobbing up and down with every step!"
And that made her laugh because it was true -- he did bob, but she found it endearing, and quite interesting really. Boys were interesting, how their bodies worked -- not funny at all. 'You're not funny looking," she told him. "Not to me."
"Well, you're not to me, either."
And . . . maybe she wasn't. Maybe he saw her the same way she saw him. As interesting. So this time when he tried to move her hand, she let him, feeling a bit slutty but also excited as he set hands on her knees to push them apart. His fingers were gentle against her, parting her lips, just the tip of his thumb entering her while the fore- and middle fingers rubbed her clit in a circular motion. She whined -- quite against her will, but she whined. Then he was pulling her forward until her hips were level with the edge of the bath, knees bent, thighs spread, and the soles of her feet propped on slick marble. Before she quite realized what was about to happen, something hot, soft and wet pressed against her clit . . . and it was the most exquisite thing she'd ever felt in her life.
It was a tongue.
She shrieked. It was very unladylike. She shrieked and her head came up, looking down the length of her body to make sure what she thought was happening was really happening, and yes, he had his head between her legs, and she'd never felt anything like that. Amazingly intense and too-too much. Her thighs were trembling and her hips arched up involuntarily even as she cried, "God, God, God, God! Cedric, God! Ah! Aiii, don'tpleasestopnow -- Ican'ttakethat!"
She felt him pull away and almost whined in both relief and disappointment. "You don't like it?" he asked, breath puffing against her. He sounded a bit worried, which gave her pause. She tried to imagine what he must be feeling and thinking.
"I like it a little too much," she answered now, hands drifting down until she could reach his damp hair, fingers running through it gently. "It's . . . really intense. Almost too much so."
"You want me to stop?"
"I . . . I don't know. I don't know what I want! You don't have to do that, you know. You don't have to. I wouldn't ask it -- "
"Maybe I want to."
It was said almost defiantly, and the words made her whole tummy clench. He wanted to do it? He really wanted to? Well, they were in the bath and she couldn't get much cleaner. Perhaps it wasn't so unsanitary here . . . After a moment of internal struggle, she let herself whisper, "I like it."
His mouth went back almost before she was ready, and she squealed again, hips lifting against him. She felt him laugh, and it was the most incredible sensation. His tongue was working against her, soft, soft . . . too soft, but sharp like electric current. She was shivering all over, biting her lips, and making the most embarrassing noises until she was begging him to stop again. "Can't . . . " she whined. "Too much and not enough. Use your hand, please." Her own frankness shocked her, but he didn't seem to mind, complying quickly as she surged against his hand where she lay on the marble. When two fingers entered her again, she barely noticed, she was so lost to sensation.
But she needed a hand on her breast as well, and her own drifted up -- then down. She was still conscious enough to be ashamed. After the second time it happened, he whispered, "Do it," a little breathless. "I want to see how you touch yourself. Show me how you touch yourself." Eyes shut firmly, she complied, rolling and tugging, pinching and rubbing her nipples while he worked her between her legs until she came screaming. Then she just lay there, a bit shell-shocked, until he pulled her back into the bath and held her. When she kissed him, she could taste her own salty musk on his tongue, and he smelled a bit fishy. She didn't much like it really, and wondered if he did.
Certainly, he was very, very hard under the water, and she rubbed him while he panted into her mouth. Driven by gratitude for what he'd done, and curiosity, and stripped for the moment of her usual prudery, she sank beneath the surface, climbing down his body until she reached his groin where she kissed and licked his prick, a little unsure what to do with it. For one thing, she was trying to hold her breath, and for another, it was, well, rather large. That whole thing couldn't possibly fit in her mouth, could it? Even through the dampening water, she could hear him groaning from her tongue running along the underside of it.
Then she was being pulled up, and she gasped for air when her head broke the surface. He pulled her against his chest. "You don't have to do that either . . . "
"Maybe I want to," she replied in the same tone he'd used. "I mean, if you want me to . . . "
That just got a laugh. "I . . . yeah -- just yeah. No bloke in his right mind would turn that down."
Feeling bold, she rubbed her cheek and nose against his chest and tummy. "Boys like that, do they?"
"Yeah, poppet. Boys like that. A lot. Wasn't sure you'd want to do it . . . didn't want to ask."
In reply, she took another breath and went back under the water, gripping the base of his cock and taking the head in her mouth, moving down on it as much as she could. His reaction was . . . instructive, and pleased her. If she hadn't pulled back a little, the force of his body jerk might have choked her. He did, indeed, seem to like that, and she ran the flat of her tongue over the swollen head. He jerked less this time -- more of a thrust. She put him back in her mouth and tried going up and down a little, but was running out of air and wasn't really sure she was doing this right. Coming up, she looked at his face. He was watching her, gray eyes very, very dark, hands in her wet hair. "Watch your teeth," he said softly.
She submerged a third time, and tried not to drag her teeth against him, but when she came up again, he pulled her to him and spread her thighs with a hand, sliding his cock between. "Press your legs together." She did so and he pumped in and out a bit until he came. It was something they'd not tried before because, outside the water, it would've been difficult for him. The bath, she thought, had distinct advantages over even the big bed in the Room of Requirement.
"You all right?" he whispered in her ear when he had his breath back. His arms were tight around her and she loved being held like this.
"I'm fine. You?"
"Brilliant," he replied, almost giggling, and she should probably feel shocked at what they'd done, what she'd done, but she felt amazingly close to him instead -- not dirty or ashamed, just . . . close to him. She wondered if he felt the same.
"Love you," she whispered.
He kissed her temple. "Love you too, poppet. Very much."
And it was at that point, as if on cue, everything went to hell.
Dazed and sleepy, Cedric's eyes kept falling closed. Thus, when he first spotted the oddly dressed house-elf streaking across the marble floor towards them, arms windmilling, he thought he was having a very peculiar dream. "Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger!" the elf cried, "She is coming! Quickly! You must run!"
It was Hermione's shocked jerk away from him that made him realize he wasn't dreaming. Her arms came up over her bare breasts, her little mouth open. "Dobby! What on earth -- ?" But then what he'd just said seemed to register with her and she let out a terrified squeak.
There was only one 'she' around Hogwarts these days.
"Shit!" Cedric hissed, gripping the marble edge of the bath for balance and practically launching Hermione one-armed out of the water. Later he'd ponder how Harry's house-elf had known they were in the bath, and how Umbridge could possibly have found out. Right now, he had to get her out of there.
She landed awkwardly on her side, but wasted no time in scrambling to her feet -- and no modesty trying to cover herself. Snagging her discarded bikini with one hand and the towel Dobby held out to her with the other, she frantically dried off even as Cedric said, "Get back to my room and under the cloak, and for heaven's sake, don't hide in a corner or the wardrobe or anything else she's likely to search by feel. Stand in the middle of the room where you can move out of her way. Don't open the door to the hall either in case she's set a guard. They'll wonder why a door is opening on nothing. Wait for someone to open the door, then get back to your bed as fast as you can."
She nodded, white-faced with panic, and dashed for the door. He turned back to the house-elf, but Dobby had disappeared into whatever hidden access he'd sprung from. Cedric wondered what to do next even as the bathroom door shuddered, then swung open with a crash into the wall. Squat Umbridge stood there, the even shorter Flitwick behind her. "Ah-ha!" she crowed in triumph and bustled in, prowling around the room and shoving open further the (already open) toilet doors.
Flitwick appeared both dubious and confused, but Cedric supposed Umbridge had wanted a male chaperone when breaking in on a male student in the bath -- and also wanted a witness from a House neither his nor Hermione's. "Where is she? Where are you hiding her? I know she's here! Filius, check the boy's bedroom. She must be in there."
Panicked because he doubted Hermione had had enough time yet to hide herself properly, Cedric blurted, "What are you talking about? There's nobody here but me." And in his desperation, he recalled what his mother had told him about Umbridge and young men. Moving towards the bath steps, he sat down on one high enough to expose his entire torso to his hips, glistening with water in the torchlight.
Umbridge stared -- open mouthed and thoroughly distracted as her eyes traveled all over him, or as much of him as she could see. Cedric felt unclean, but Hermione needed time and he'd do whatever it took to give it to her.
Half a minute passed while Umbridge continued to stare until Flitwick cleared his throat in a fair mockery of Umbridge's own affectation. The little man's confusion was giving way to disgust, and he stood with fists on hips in his nightshirt and cap. "This is most irregular, Professor Umbridge," he said. "I don't see any girl, but I do see a student -- a male student -- trying to take a bath."
Umbridge swung on him, pasty face even whiter with two bright spots of color high on her cheeks. "Well, of course you don't see a girl, you fool. He's hidden her! You're the Charms teacher. Cast a Revealing Spell!"
Calling Flitwick a fool was no way to get on his good side, Cedric knew. Mouth twisting in annoyance, Flitwick did as Umbridge ordered, pointing his wand all around the room and muttering "Reveal," over and over. Of course nothing was revealed and Umbridge grew angrier, but it was taking several minutes and that was all Cedric cared about.
She spun on him. "I know you and Hermione Granger were in here together. Where is she? Filius, the boy's room, please. Mr. Filch is watching the doors so I know she can't sneak away."
Flitwick's face was still a mask of reluctance, and Cedric took advantage of it. "I don't know why you thought I had a girl here with me, professor, but if my legs are bothering me too much to sleep, I sometimes take a bath. So if Mr. Filch saw a light under the door, I assure you, it was just me --"
"It wasn't Filch!" Umbridge thundered.
"Then I don't know who it could have been, as I haven't seen a soul since I came in here."
Keep her talking . . . he needed to keep her talking as long as he could.
Umbridge's eyes had narrowed while she struggled with something, then she blurted, "I was told about it by that young ghost who lives in the plumbing. She's been most helpful this year!"
"Moaning Myrtle?" Cedric asked, completely taken aback. "How could she know what's happening in the prefects' bathroom? She stays in the girls' toilet on the first floor!"
"Apparently not," Umbridge replied, looking triumphant. "She saw you and Hermione Granger in here tonight, engaged in highly improper acts!"
Flitwick's expression had shifted again from sympathy back to suspicion and he glanced around the room once more, as if looking for evidence he'd missed. Ghosts were a fact of castle life and if they mostly didn't speak of what they saw, everyone knew they saw quite a lot. Yet Cedric had one final defense -- "Why would Professor Dumbledore let a girl's ghost into a bathroom used by boys?" He was quite perturbed by that despite the dire nature of his situation.
"I don't think he knew about it!" Umbridge replied, still looking pleased with herself. "And I notice you didn't deny the ghost's claim."
"Because it's absurd!" he told her. "There's nobody in here but me! You can see that for yourself."
"Filius," Umbridge said. "Check his room."
Hermione had to be hidden by now. "Fine," Cedric snapped, "check my room then!"
Flitwick's eyes moved between Cedric and Umbridge, then he crossed his arms. "Actually, Dolores, I think it more appropriate if you check his room and I stay with Mr. Diggory while he makes himself decent."
Put that way, Umbridge had little choice. She glared at them both but spun on her heel, stalking towards the entrance to his suite. Meanwhile, Flitwick Summoned a towel, which he offered to Cedric as he squatted down next to him and helped him out of the bath. "I noticed some wet footprints leading back towards your access door -- too small to be yours and without any foot drag."
He said this almost conversationally, but Cedric's face blanched. Flitwick was head of Ravenclaw House for a reason. Yet the other man continued, "I don't want to know what went on in here earlier. The two of you would hardly be the first students to break rules in the name of romance. Most of us are willing to turn a blind eye to certain things with certain, more mature students -- as long as we're not forced to take notice . . . "
Cedric's heart started to descend from his throat as he recalled that Flitwick had a reputation as a duelist . . . and a bit of a lady killer.
"That being said," Flitwick went on, "Professor Umbridge is determined to have your hide nailed to her office wall." His expression grew grave. "This was sloppy, Cedric. You're more clever than that. Now please tell me Professor Umbridge isn't going to find Miss Granger in your bedroom?"
It was clear Flitwick wouldn't turn him in, but it was also clear the Charms professor was annoyed . . . and worried. "She won't find her," Cedric said -- hoping against hope it was true.
Flitwick nodded. "Good. Now get dressed," and he stood to head into Cedric's bedroom himself. Hands shaking, Cedric gathered his leg braces to do as ordered.
If they hadn't been convicted yet, they were far from out of the woods, and his thoughts were dashing in several different directions at once like a brace of hares caught in a net. It was one thing if he were expelled. In fact, since the Quidditch incident, he'd feared it would be just a matter of time. He'd already taken his OWLs; he'd survive. But if Hermione didn't pass a minimum number of OWLs, she'd be forbidden to use magic ever again -- banished back to the Muggle world and ill-equipped for it after spending five critical years in his world.
Braces and underpants back on, he bowed his forehead to his knees. "This can't be happening."
To be sure, Hermione had been in tight spots before, and she'd been sorted into Gryffindor because her courage was even greater than her intelligence. She knew she had to keep her head, keep her cool, and remain on the lookout for an opportunity to escape. But if being expelled was less calamitous than dying, she and Cedric hadn't broken the rules for some greater good. They'd broken them for personal gratification, plain and simple. Even Dumbledore couldn't -- and probably wouldn't -- save them if they were caught.
What sort of idiots had they been? She felt so guilty she was tempted to turn herself in, except it would destroy Cedric's life, not just her own. Besides, if she considered herself ready to be sexually active with her boyfriend of half a year, whose right was it to tell her she couldn't be? It was her body, and she was six months away from being counted an adult in the Wizarding World. Yet, the two of them had abused their positions -- positions they'd been given for being responsible and trustworthy -- and they'd done it without any thought for the rightness or wrongness of it.
Thus, back-and-forth flashes of remorse and anger plagued her as she hurried into Cedric's bedroom, drying herself as she ran and tossing the damp towel into a corner of his wardrobe where it might be overlooked, then grabbed her bag and robe and cloak from under his blankets. Throwing the cloak on, she dashed out into the sitting room where she huddled near the door so she could slip out if she got a chance. There, she dug in her bag for her knickers and pyjamas, although her hands were shaking so badly she had trouble dressing. How much time had passed? What was happening next door? She wondered these things as she climbed into her clothing as best she could under the cloak.
Dressed at last, she waited. She could hear Esiban whining and scratching in his cage in the other room. He'd been unhappy when Cedric had locked him up there instead of taking him into the bathroom with them.
The muffled crack of a door opening told her that someone had entered Cedric's toilet, then there was the sound of shuffling feet. Placed as she was, Hermione could see only part of the bedroom through the open doorway. The short figure of Umbridge crossed and re-crossed her line of sight, muttering to herself, "Where are you, you treacherous creature? You can't hide from me. I know you were in there and we didn't see you fleeing down the hallway, so you must be in here."
Hermione held absolutely still and tried to breathe as softly as she could. Fortunately, Esiban began scratching and chittering again. "Merlin's beard!" Umbridge exclaimed and Hermione could hear her stumble into something. "What on earth? Shut up, you horrid little beast!"
Umbridge emerged from the bedroom and glanced all around the sitting room, but there were fewer places here to hide, so her circuit of the room was cursory. She paused beside Cedric's desk and dug through it, inspecting books, pieces of parchment and even opening drawers to paw through them. Spotting his little black journal, she snatched it up and tried to open it -- and failed. "Well, isn't this interesting?" Drawing her wand, she tapped the cover, but it still stayed closed. "There's obviously something in here you don't want anyone to see, isn't there?"
She started to pocket the journal but the bathroom door opened again and another set of footsteps entered the suite -- not Cedric's, as they were quick and precise. Umbridge dropped the journal back on the desk and spun around as Professor Flitwick entered the sitting room. "Unless Miss Granger has learned a Reduction Spell, I doubt you'll find her hiding in Mr. Diggory's desk."
"Well, of course not!" Umbridge replied. "I was -- never mind. Where's Mr. Diggory?"
"Getting dressed. I take it you didn't find Miss Granger?"
"No, I didn't. But I'm quite sure -- "
"I'm not sure at all, professor. It looks to me like this is a ghost's notion of a joke -- Myrtle is well known for doing things to get attention, although usually it amounts to bawling over the smallest perceived insult." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm ready to go to bed and leave Mr. Diggory to get some sleep himself."
Clearly frustrated but also unable to argue with a lack of evidence, Umbridge crossed to the door and flung it open. Hermione tensed, prepared to run for it. "Mr. Filch? Has anyone left this room since we arrived?"
Filch appeared in the doorway. "No, professor. No one's come or gone since you and Professor Flitwick entered the bathroom."
She turned back to the room, hands on hips and lips thin while Filch had moved back into the hallway. Three feet separated them, three feet for Hermione to slide between and escape. She began to inch forward when Umbridge threw up her hands and turned again. Hermione froze. "Very well. She's not here, but I'm not convinced yet. Mr. Filch, let's go to Gryffindor Tower and check her bed. Professor Flitwick, tell Mr. Diggory he may return to his room, but he's not to leave it until morning -- then Seal him in."
And she exited without closing the door. "Follow me, Argus." They headed off down the hallway.
Flitwick snorted delicately. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, casting a glance around the room . . . and pausing on her. Hermione stayed completely still. He couldn't spot an invisibility cloak like Dumbledore, could he? Hermione hadn't thought anyone else at the castle was that powerful, but Flitwick dealt with Charms specifically. He chuckled but turned on his heel, heading back into the bedroom. He didn't close the front door either.
Hermione fled.