That first night, they wasted no time in ditching clothes and making up for lost opportunity. If they tried nothing new, they also didn't need to worry about interruptions, and fell asleep afterwards curled around each other. But Cedric shifted a lot in his sleep, perhaps in response to pain. If they'd slept together before, it had been only for a few hours, not a whole night. How was she supposed to get any rest with somebody who wiggled as much as he did? And he snored, too. "Roll over," she told him at one point, hoping that being on his stomach would halt that. It did, at least until he rolled onto his back again.

Somewhere in the wee small hours of morning when it was still dark, she felt the bed moving and raised her head to see him sitting up to put on his braces. "What time is it?" she asked, baffled.

"About five-thirty."

"Why are you getting up now?" Cedric wasn't especially a morning person.

"Going to the toilet."

"Don't you have a urinal?"

He glanced over at her. "Well, yes, but --"

"Use the urinal, Cedric." And she flopped back down.

There was a pause of almost half a minute while he struggled with the suggestion, then she felt him ease back down and turn on his side away from her, reaching for the white plastic on the bedside cupboard. He opened the urinal and she heard the quiet hiss of liquid hitting a container wall. She pretended to be asleep again. Having him pee in the same room with her felt as oddly intimate as sex; it was one of those necessary bodily functions, but not at all romantic.

They both slept quite late. It was almost noon before she woke, and he was still sleeping. He'd been exhausted from stress, even after sex the night before. She spooned up behind him, waking him with kisses down his spine and across his shoulders. Turning, he grinned at her and the frustrations of the night melted away, until she realized 'morning breath' really was awful. Unlike her, he couldn't hop out of bed to go and brush his teeth then hurry back.

The day was spent studying at the big oak table in the dining room and helping his father in the barn. That night and the one after, they made love again -- or whatever one would call everything but intercourse. They hadn't tried that yet, but she thought they probably would before they returned to Hogwarts. By the fourth night, however, it took him a bit to get off. "All right, Cedric?" she whispered afterwards, wondering if she should worry.

"I'm fine," he said, although his voice sounded a little tight.

On the fifth night, Tuesday, they kissed a while but he didn't get hard. "Can we just cuddle?" he asked finally. Nodding because she didn't know what to say, she snuggled up next to him and for the first time, they simply slept together.

The next morning after breakfast, they went for a walk down the lane running in front of his house. Not being at school, he had to keep up his exercise. Esiban scampered ahead of them on the gravel but Cedric moved slowly, as if he were in pain or unhappy. "Are you all right?" she asked him.

"I'm fine," he said.

"I mean -- last night. You weren't . . . upset with me?"

Glancing over at her, he said quietly, "No."

They fell silent and several tense moments passed, then she asked, "I haven't done something wrong, have I? In bed. I haven't done something to upset you?"

"No!" He was blushing. "I was just -- it didn't have anything to do with you, Hermione, just with me. I'm sorry."

She was blushing furiously too, but was more scared and not sure how to pursue the topic -- wondering what to say that wouldn't leave him feeling as if he'd failed. Thinking furiously, she finally tried, "We've not, well, had a chance to do it every night before. Maybe it's normal not to want to? Every night? Even if you love somebody?"

The look on his face was pure relief, as if he hadn't thought of that. "Yeah. Maybe not." They walked a little further, then he added, "My lower body's been bothering me for the past few weeks -- not like it does when I can't get out of bed, but . . . well, I know it's the stress . . . " he trailed off. "I've been taking a bit more Abdoleo than usual."

She hadn't even considered how his medication might complicate things, and nodded. Reaching out, she tangled fingers in his robes -- plain ones for home wear. Outside school, he still dressed like a wizard but even after five years, she didn't. She found robes awkward. They'd reached the big oak on the north edge of the Diggory land; it was their turn-around point. Cedric had to balance pushing himself a little versus pushing himself too much. "I could give you a massage," she offered.

Turning his head, he grinned. "Won't help my legs, Granger. But thanks."

"Who said it had to help your legs?" Or not directly. "I just wondered if you might like one?"

He eyed her, expression amused -- which was better than embarrassed and upset. "All right."

So late that afternoon when they were finished studying for the day, she made him stretch out on the bed on his stomach, then put the lotion she'd borrowed on her hands and rubbed him down. She kept her touch firm and almost clinical, and her clothes on, although she'd made him strip off everything but his underpants. Even if she was hoping this turned into more than a simple massage, she didn't want to start there and put him under pressure. That he was tense came as no surprise, even after five days at home. They would be going back on Sunday, and exams began in a little over seven weeks. Both those things weighed on him.

After twenty minutes, he'd relaxed enough that his muscles moved easily under his skin and she paused to bend down and kiss the nape of his neck, felt him shiver. "Roll over and let's do the front," she whispered in his ear, running her hands over his shoulders and down his arms to his hands.

"The front?" he murmured, one eye opening where his head was turned to the side. He was smiling. "Exactly what do you plan to massage?"

She rolled her eyes at him and helped him turn. "I still need to do your chest and shoulders and thighs, you berk. Although if you want me to massage other parts of your anatomy, I might be convinced if you ask nicely."

He laughed but lay passive under her hands. "You've pretty much turned me into a useless puddle," he told her after a while, his head back and chin up.

Bending, she kissed his mouth. "That's good." But when she tried to pull away again, he didn't let her. The massage was forgotten, and he had no trouble at all getting hard. He'd been halfway there when she'd turned him over, and now she let him get her out of her clothes as she stripped him free of his pants.

Lying side by side, it didn't take long at all until they both hung trembling on the edge, hands busy as they kissed, his tongue sliding against hers. She had one leg twisted sideways, knee raised so he could get fingers inside her while his thumb pressed against her clit. Two fingers felt all right now as he moved them rapidly in and out; there was a spot in there that created a different sort of tension, less sharp but more profound. Her body strained for it, back arching as she whispered, "Faster." She'd forgotten about stroking him and he raised himself up on one elbow, watching her face and bending to kiss her breasts. Her whole body was undulating in time with his hand.

"Come on," he whispered, speeding up until her orgasm broke over her in successive waves, intense and shuddering and lasting longer than usual. It curled her onto her side, his hand pinned between her thighs. He was kissing her neck and shoulder. "Good?" he asked after a bit, freeing his hand, and she nodded, eyes shut, sleepy and sated. Then she heard an indrawn breath. "Hermione?" She opened her eyes to look at the hand he held aloft. The fore- and middle fingers were streaked with red. "What --?"

For just a moment, she thought her period had started, but it wasn't that time of the month. Then it dawned on her. "You broke my hymen."

"What?"

"You do know what a hymen is?"

"Well, yes! But I didn't . . . I mean we didn't . . . "

She grinned at him. "Hymens get broken lots of ways, including things that have nothing to do with sex -- although in this case, I don't suppose we should be too surprised. We got a bit . . . vigorous."

He blushed and laughed both. "Are you all right? It didn't seem like I really hurt you."

"No, I didn't even feel it, or rather, I didn't notice." She grinned back. "Other things sort of overwhelmed it."

"Good." He Conjured a tissue to wipe his hand, then tossed it aside as she pushed him over onto his back and climbed atop him, straddling his hips. She was very wet on him and he hissed, eyes falling closed. Bending so that her breasts touched his chest, she moved back and forth, coating the whole underside of his cock while he rocked up against her. She knew he liked to feel all her skin on his. This was as close as they could get to sex without actually having it and sometimes she wondered what was stopping them. But she already knew the answer. Fear of pain on her part -- and reluctance to hurt her on his.

She could feel his motion starting to get jerky and he'd gone from silence to hissing softly, "Yes," and "So good." Then he buried his face against her shoulder and she heard him mutter, "Want to be inside." He hadn't said that in a long time, and she wasn't sure if it were an actual request or just something said in the throes of passion. Or maybe it was a request but he was hoping she'd take it for the throes of passion if she didn't want to do it. Cedric could say things in round-about ways.

And perhaps it was time. He'd been waiting patiently for her, and these half-obscure appeals dragged out of him in extremity were about as close as he'd get to pushing. She'd cast the necessary spell earlier, as their messing about these days had passed a point of safety.

Lifting herself up on her knees, she reached down, getting a hold of his cock and positioning it at her entrance. Her hand was shaking a bit with a sudden attack of nerves now that she'd made up her mind. This was the last frontier and she really didn't know what to expect, even while she knew the mechanics perfectly well. That still didn't tell her what it would be like. His eyes flew open and he gripped her hips in surprise, his sex-fogged brain apparently struggling to catch up. "You're . . . uh, you're sure? I mean, you're ready?"

"Yes," she replied, and thought her voice sounded a bit tense but either he didn't notice, or he did but was too far gone to pull back now. His face looked almost transported.

She lowered herself on him . . . but he just fell sideways with a plop instead of going in. She had to reach down and raise him again, but the second time was the same, and it clearly didn't just slide in. Nor was he helping. His eyes were squeezed shut and he held onto her, his body straining upwards but he didn't have enough strength in his legs to thrust. Lifting herself a third time, she got a hold of him more firmly and held on as she lowered herself. Her legs were shaking and she wasn't sure if that were due to strain or from nerves.

She felt just the head enter and he hissed, eyes screwed up tighter. "Am I hurting you?" she asked.

"No!" He was practically panting. "How about you? All right, Granger?"

She wasn't sure. It wasn't comfortable, but it didn't quite hurt. Maybe this would be okay. She tried moving down on him a little more --

And that hurt.

She froze up, her muscles tightening automatically. "Ow! Don't clench!" he begged.

"I can't help it! It hurts!"

"I thought we already broke your hymen?" He blew out and seemed to be trying to focus. "Okay, relax. You've got to relax, Hermione." He raised his hands to her breasts and rubbed the nipples.

But she wasn't aroused and it just felt odd. Pushing his hands away, she bit her lip and tried again, sliding down on him another millimeter. But anticipating pain now, she clenched worse and it burned. She pulled back instinctively so that he fell out yet again. He grunted in sheer frustration and she wanted to swear. Raising herself one more time, she let him grip his own cock, holding it still while she parted the lips of her vagina with shaking fingers, hoping that would help. Then she could just . . . push herself down on him. It'd be over in an instant.

Except her body had other ideas and she couldn't even get him inside now, she was so tight, her legs weak from adrenaline and her belly sick. "Relax!" he kept saying, trying not to sound as irritated as she suspected he felt, and he stroked her hip and thigh with his free hand. "Relax."

She was pushing down on the head of his penis, trying to force him in when it happened -- the orgasm he'd been struggling to contain got away from him and he ejaculated all over her. "Bloody hell!" he snarled. "Sorry, sorry -- "

"It's okay," she said, looking down between them involuntarily. Her pubic hair and his hand were coated in white semen.

She climbed off of him and the bed altogether, standing there on the spring-cold floor, arms wrapped around herself, his fluids and hers trickling down the inside of her thighs. He sat up, face concerned. "Hermione?" Abruptly -- feeling completely humiliated -- she burst into angry tears and panic took over his expression. Scooting towards the bed edge, he slid his legs over the side. "Hermione!" She was too far away for him to grab. "Hermione . . . please -- come here. Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head. "You didn't hurt me." Well, he had, but no more than necessary, she supposed. "Not . . . " She trailed off, unsure what to say. She wasn't used to failing at things. She was the one who got spells on a first try, or at least before anybody else in class. She made Os on her tests and excelled at lessons. But she'd flunked sex? The one thing even the stupidest human beings seemed able to manage with ease?

How could she fail at this? She wanted him, she loved him -- what was wrong with her?

She glanced around a little helplessly, feeling wooly-headed, and wondered if she were in shock. "Hermione," he said again, "please come here. You're scaring me, you're so white."

She did as he asked and felt his free arm go around her waist, then he was settling her in his lap despite the mess on her legs. "Poppet? I'm really sorry -- it's not supposed to be like that. Honestly. I'm sorry I came so fast, and I didn't really prepare you. I got overexcited and -- "

"It's not your fault," she said, wiping her eyes; the foggy surprise inside her was breaking up to expose something raw and angry beneath. "I'm the one who tensed up so you couldn't even get inside -- " She climbed off his lap, pulling away from his arm. "I need to clean up."

"Hermione -- don't go yet."

But the one advantage of having a crippled boyfriend -- he couldn't chase her. Grabbing his yellow robe, she threw it on and fled out the door.

"Hermione!" She ignored him and hid in the main bathroom, hoping his parents didn't come to see what he was shouting about. Then she sat down on the toilet before she collapsed, and spread her legs to inspect the damage, probing carefully with her fingers.

However much it had hurt in the process, she didn't seem that sore now. After all, he hadn't actually got inside. But she found herself suddenly wanting a bath, as if she could clean up her shameful inadequacy along with her body. Leaning over, she turned on the tap in the bathtub and waited for it to get warm while hunting for a flannel to wash with.

Cedric wasn't about to let her get away with walking out on him. He was angry, he was scared and he was confused. He hadn't really expected first-time intercourse to happen without a hitch, but he'd never heard of anything like this. She'd closed up like a drawbridge, and if he might have forced his way in, that would have hurt them both. Besides, forcing her felt too close to rape even if she'd agreed.

He slipped on underpants and expanded his chair, refusing to take precious time to put on the braces, then locking the chair wheels, he levered himself off the bed and into it. Opening the door, he wheeled out into the hall. Fortunately, his parents didn't seem to be anywhere in sight. At this time of day, his father was probably with the animals and his mother in her studio. He stopped outside the bathroom door and listened. He could hear water running and it almost hid the snuffling, but not quite, and that he'd made her cry went right through him.

Maybe he should have put her off again as he had in the bath a month ago, but he'd been planning to suggest they try intercourse while they were here anyway, he just hadn't planned on it being today. He'd been relieved to get it up at all, and earlier, had taken as little Abdoleo as he could bear, so he hadn't been holding back and was too close to climax when she'd raised up to put him inside. Instead of paying her proper attention, he'd been trying not to come.

He started to knock, but then didn't. She'd probably tell him to go away, and the chair was quiet enough he didn't think she knew he was out here. He opened the door and let it swing inward to reveal a naked Hermione bent over the tub to test the water. She let out a little squeak and -- rather amusingly -- moved hands to cover herself. He rolled in and shut the door, and she let her hands fall, face shifting from surprise to resentful anger. He was glad the house was old and the bathroom large enough to accommodate a free-standing tub in addition to the toilet and basin -- plus two people, one in a chair. "I said I was coming to clean up," she admonished.

"No, you were running out on me and that was your excuse." He couldn't quite look at her. "Did I hurt you?"

"I told you no. Or not, you know, like you mean. I knew it would hurt, I'm just too much of a frigid prude to do what every other girl can manage!"

Her words were so bitter, they made him look up at her. "Hermione, don't be ridiculous -- you're neither frigid nor a prude -- or at least, not any more of one than I am. What the problem is, I'm not sure. Maybe just bad timing. I was a little too ready; you weren't ready enough." He rubbed at his eyes even as she seemed to remember the filling tub and turned to shut off the tap. "Between my drugs and this, sharing a room hasn't been all that successful, has it?"

She glared back at him. "You had a legitimate reason. My little problem, on the other hand, is all in my head." She looked back at the tub, as if considering whether or not to get in.

"Go ahead," he told her. "I'll wash your back." That made her smile, but it was bitter. "What's so funny?"

"Pansy Parkinson said I'd gone from fetching your snacks on the train to washing your back -- and she didn't mean back."

"Well, I do. Get in." She did as he ordered and sat down while he picked up the flannel and leaned over the edge of the white tub to soak the cloth then draw it over her shoulders and back. He needed to touch her because he felt uncertain and worried and touching her calmed him as much as it might calm her. He didn't really know what more to say, and didn't think she did, either. She sat with her head hanging, chin against her chest. He dropped the flannel and leaned over a little more so he could rub her shoulders as she'd rubbed his earlier that evening. It was an awkward angle, and the wheels on his chair kept him from getting right up next to the tub, but he wanted to give back to her. "That feels nice," she said.

"Good."

Silence fell again. There was just the sound of the water lapping the bath edges, her breath and his, and the occasional squeak of his skin against the tub's edge. Lamplight turned the water gold and caught in her hair. She'd pinned it up. Pausing, he pulled out the hair slips so that it all fell down and he could get his hands in it. He knew he was making it wet, but didn't care. This was about contact.

She caught one of his hands and brought it up to her mouth, setting a kiss in the middle of his palm and closing his fingers around it. "I'm really sorry about earlier," she whispered.

"Shh," he said, running the back of that hand over her cheek. "I bet we'll be laughing about it in a month."

He heard her breath hitch and for a moment, thought she was laughing now, then realized exactly the opposite -- she was crying again. "Hermione . . . "

"I'm a complete and total failure at sex!" she said, voice furious. "A hundred other girls could make you happy! You've been so patient with me and all I did was frustrate you!"

And like an epiphany, he understood. He should probably have figured it out before, but he'd been more concerned with his own premature ejaculation and the puzzle of why she'd clenched up on him so badly. Hermione wasn't normally one for drama, but she also took things so very seriously -- even more than he -- and had so little tolerance for anything she considered a failure in herself. It was the Gryffindor in her, that need to excel and her impatience with failure. "Keep your hair on, Granger," he told her fondly. "It's not an exam or a final match. There are other chances, you know."

"I can't believe you're making fun of me!" She sounded both hurt and indignant.

"I can't believe you're getting so upset about it!" He bent so he could look her in the eye, less than a foot between their noses. "Poppet, you know I don't want any other girl -- much less a hundred." He couldn't help grinning. "Wouldn't know what to do with a hundred. Even Hercules could manage only 49 in one night and he was half god."

Her jaw dropped in offended surprise, but then she suddenly burst out laughing, as if finally seeing the humor in her own exaggerations. "You're awful."

"So you've told me." Still grinning, he picked up the flannel and rubbed it over her skin once more. "We'll try again, do a few things differently next time. It'll be fine."

"Tonight?" she sounded slightly alarmed.

"No, not tonight." He started to say tomorrow after they got back from London but didn't. If he set a specific time, she'd worry it to death and be that much more tense. This sort of thing was probably better for him to plan in advance and take her by surprise, instead of the reverse.

She was giving him a come-hither look from the corner of her eye. "You going to get in the bath with me? We'll be clean for supper."

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is for me to get in that bath? I have to lift myself over the side, then sort of . . . fall in -- before I fill it. If I tried that with you and the water in there, we'd have a tsunami."

She bent forward to pull the plug. "All right. We'll start over. Let this water out and put more in. At least we won't have to worry about Madam Toad interrupting."

"Where are we going in London?" Hermione asked Mrs. Diggory the next morning over breakfast. Cedric had refused to tell her, said simply, 'It's a surprise.'

His mother shook her head, answering only, "You'll see."

This day was their vacation from study, or work in the barn. She, Cedric and Mrs. Diggory were going into the city, although Mr. Diggory had too much to do, and Mrs. Weasley had shown up with stacks of parchment. The vet (or animal healer, Hermione supposed) would be in later too.

Wherever it was they were going, Cedric and his mother had both dressed up a bit. Hermione had started to put on normal (for her) clothes until she'd seen Cedric don his blue robes, if not the fancy waistcoat he'd worn to her house for New Year's Eve. Taking her cue from him, she'd put on her school robes instead of jeans and a pullover. Now, Mrs. Diggory looked her up and down. "Don't you have normal robes?" she asked.

Hermione had glanced at Cedric, who was blushing. "Mum, those are her robes. She wasn't raised in our world."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." And Mrs. Diggory rose from the table, snagging Hermione by the sleeve and marching her into Cedric's parents' bedroom. There she dragged out an old trunk. "These may be a bit long for you, but it's time I stopped hanging onto them. They were my favorites, but I think the day is past when I can wear them and not look as if I'm pretending to be twenty instead of forty three." She pushed aside some clothes and lifted out two beautiful robes, one in crushed wine velvet and the other dark green, matching hats with them. She handed them both to Hermione. "The wine one might be a bit dressy for today," she advised.

Hermione stared down at them, then up at Cedric's mother. "Thank you," she said sincerely. It seemed a strange time for the Diggorys to be giving away clothes, and she hadn't really been that aware of age differences in robe cuts, but that only showed how much she still didn't know about her adopted world. Certainly her mother wouldn't shop at New Look.

Going back into Cedric's room, she stored the wine robes in her trunk but unfolded the green ones and put them on. They were cut tightly in the waist and bust despite the flowing drape of the outer cloak, and if they were also a bit long, she couldn't help but admire herself in Cedric's mirror. She thought she looked rather fit. The mirror agreed: "Very pretty."

"Thank you," she replied, putting on the hat. It had a wide brim and was decorated with a glittering fall of green and silver beads. Slytherin colors, Hermione realized belatedly, but not Slytherin robes. If green wasn't her favorite color, it still looked good on her.

She went back into the kitchen, and caught Cedric's choked laugh. "What?"

"It's a bit . . . retro, with that hat."

His mother sniffed. "She's not going to a fashion show, Cedric."

Hermione yanked the hat off. "I don't need it."

"No, put it back on," Cedric said. "People will think you're doing it on purpose. Wide-brimmed hats are coming back in, I think. Or that's what the girls in my House keep saying."

Hermione put the hat back on, struck again by what she didn't know about Wizarding clothing. There were fashion trends? It had all seemed so . . . highly individual to her. But there were fashions in the Muggle world, why not in the Wizarding World?"

It turned out they were going to Diagon Alley, and she made a point of noticing hats. Cedric was right. Most had narrower brims but she saw a few billowing wide ones on women who -- given the way they moved and the expensive cut of their clothing -- were clearly up on style.

Imagine that. For once in her life, she was ahead of the fashion curve.

Mrs. Diggory had business in Gringott's that Cedric was a bit evasive about and Hermione wouldn't embarrass him by asking. Instead, they browsed the bookstore while they waited for her and coming out, ran into Luna Lovegood, of all people. "Cedric! Hermione!" Luna called hurrying across the street to join them. "You aren't at Hogwarts studying?"

"We needed a break," Cedric told her.

"Are you taking Hermione to the gallery?"

"Ah --" Cedric appeared caught out. "It was, er, sort of a surprise for Hermione."

So that's what they'd been so secretive about.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Luna exclaimed as Mrs. Diggory crossed the street to rejoin them. "You're going to the gallery?" Luna asked hopefully.

Mrs. Diggory's eyebrow hiked, but she smiled. "That was next on the list, yes. Would you like to come along?"

"Oh, yes, if you don't mind!" Luna had actually clapped her hands together and appeared as happy as a child at Christmas.

As they moved up the street, Mrs. Diggory in the lead, Hermione bent to whisper to Cedric, who was in the chair today, "Why is she so excited about going to the gallery?"

"Luna loves the place," he whispered back, "but there's an entrance fee so she can't go as often as she likes. If she comes with us, we go in the staff entrance and she doesn't have to pay. My mother enjoys taking her because she loves art."

"Luna?"

He nodded. "Her eye's not bad, either."

The things one learned, although Hermione supposed she shouldn't be so surprised. They walked down past Gringott's and even beyond Olivander's into an area of Diagon Alley Hermione hadn't seen before. These weren't stores so much as office buildings. She spotted what she supposed from the name was a law office, and another that advertized real estate, a financial advisor, and a big building that Cedric told her housed a branch of The Daily Prophet. But they stopped in front of a Neo-Classical building made of black marble with a copper rotunda roof. THE LONDON GALLERY OF WIZARDING ART was inscribed above the colonnaded porch. "Wow," was all she could think to say. Cedric grinned up at her.

Mrs. Diggory wasn't headed for the porch, however. She made her way down a short alley access to a side door. There, she removed her wand and tapped certain spots on the lintel, muttering an incantation beneath her breath. With a clank of inner wheels, the door unlocked and swung open. Mrs. Diggory gestured. "After you."

The building that had appeared impressive on the outside was even more so inside, with clean lines and gold-flecked black marble accented by a fine crystalline white. It reminded Hermione of Muggle art galleries, but she was surprised to see it didn't just house paintings and sculpture. "It's part art museum, part history museum," Cedric said and pointed down a long corridor to their left. "That goes to the Egyptian hall and the Assyrio-Babylonian collection. That's sort of the crown jewel of the gallery." He pointed to another corridor, "That goes to the North and South American rooms and a bit of Western Africa, but the French got there first when it came to exhibits. You have to visit Paris to see anything much worth seeing. And to Florence if you want Roman or Italian art, but we have a little Greek that came back from the Acropolis with the Elgin Marbles. That's over there." He pointed to yet a third corridor. "Along with continental Europe and Russia. You have to see the magical Fabergé Eggs. They hatch, and the surprise inside is animated. Carl Fabergé was a wizard as well as a goldsmith."

"Really?" Hermione was charmed, and spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon following Cedric and his mother from hall to hall. Luna had long disappeared. "She's communing with the Bast statuettes," Mrs. Diggory said with complete seriousness and Hermione wasn't sure if she should laugh or not. Cedric had turned away to conceal his grin, pointing to a display that held ancient bronze disks drilled with two small holes in the middle and silver cords drawn through.

"Used by the ancient witches of Thessaly to call down Selene, goddess of the moon. Unfortunately, the art's long lost and nobody now knows the incantation or what it did."

It wasn't until late afternoon that Hermione was finally ushered into the modern British section, and she was sure it had been saved for last. When they appeared in the antechamber, one of the staff who'd been sitting at a desk in a corner leapt to her feet and hurried over. "Lucretia!" she said, gripping Mrs. Diggory's hands. "Always such an honor. Is there anything in particular --"

"No, thank you, Margaret. I've just come to show my son's girlfriend the paintings."

The staff person, Margaret, turned to Hermione and Cedric. Upon seeing him in the chair, she let out a quiet, "Oh," but recovered quickly. "It's so good to see you again, Cedric. You're turning into quite the young man. I remember you playing hide-and-seek in the sculpture garden." Then she winced, as if realizing she'd just reminded him of more mobile times.

But Cedric was nothing if not gracious. He took her hands. "And I remember you sneaking me sweets so I'd be on a sugar high and drive my mother mad." Margaret laughed, obviously relieved, and Cedric gestured to Hermione. "This is my girlfriend, Hermione Granger."

"Miss Granger," the woman said. "So very pleased to meet you. I hope you enjoy the paintings. Lucretia is -- in my opinion -- the finest painter England's produced in 500 years."

Cedric's mother glanced around, her smile tolerantly amused. "Better than Alfred Berrisford?"

"Absolutely. Berrisford never had your control of scene shift. His transitions are clunky."

Mrs. Diggory turned away, and Hermione thought her at once flattered and dubious as she headed into the main gallery. Hermione and Cedric followed.

On permanent display, Mrs. Diggory's paintings occupied about half the hall. Hermione recognized the style even after seeing just one painting and some sketches. Lucretia combined ultra-realism with saturated, heightened color, particularly golds and greens and reds, and sharp contrasts of light and shadow. The other unifying characteristic was a fascination with myth, although what mythic tradition varied.

Oddly withdrawn now that they'd arrived, she drifted off into a corner while her son showed Hermione about. And it was only now that it fully struck HermioneCedric's mother was famous. Abstractly, she'd known that, just as she knew Harry was, but here, it hung staring her in the face. "It must be peculiar," she said as they stood in front of a painting that told the story of the founding of Rome and the rape of the Sabine women, "walking into a museum and seeing your mother's name on the paintings."

He shrugged. "I sort of grew up with it."

Hermione nodded, but wondered if having a famous mother had been a contributing factor in his decision to enter the Triwizard Tournament? The better she knew him, the less explicable that act seemed. He wasn't the type to seek out eternal glory. Yet if he'd grown up constantly aware that he was the son of Lucretia Malfoy, Wizarding Britain's Master Painter, how would that affect him? "Can you draw?" she asked, realizing abruptly that she had no idea.

"Me? I can sketch, but I'm not my mother, Hermione."

"I didn't assume you were, I just wondered."

"Cedric," said a voice behind them, "is a better artist than he's leading you to believe."

He spun the chair around, glaring. "I am not. I don't have your eye."

"Of course you don't. You have your own. Heaven forbid you should draw what I do. How boring." Mrs. Diggory turned to Hermione. "I dislike it when he sells himself short. He can draw, and draw very well."

Hermione said nothing, aware she'd stumbled into an old argument and too wise to get involved. But it did make her wonder. "Show it to her," Mrs. Diggory said now, and for a moment, Hermione thought she meant for Cedric to draw something, but he seemed to understand and was wheeling away towards a central wall they hadn't yet passed. She followed.

On the wall hung a giant canvas, larger than anything she'd seen in the room. And there -- frozen -- was an epic scene of fierce battle with figures Hermione half recognized from childhood tales her father had read to her -- Thor with his Hammer, Odin with his ravens, One-handed Tyr, the Midgard Serpent and Yggdrasil the World Tree . . .

"Ragnarök," Cedric said simply, then passed his wand over the painting's surface. The canvas blanked and 'reset,' as Mrs. Diggory had explained to Hermione last autumn. What began to unfold was a tale of violent combat and titanic struggle between the Nordic gods of Asgard and the heros of Valhalla against Loki and the Frost Giants and the shamed dead of Hel. Here, the colors were still rich in golds and greens and bloody reds, but shadows hid everywhere. The precision of the art, the complexity of it, and the multitude of scenes unfolding before Hermione astonished.

Master work. Masterpiece. Hermione had read that this painting was Lucy Diggory's magnum opus, painted in Paris in a half-mad frenzy that had lasted over year, not long after the fall of Voldemort. (She'd done her homework on Cedric's mother.) Some had called it a work of grief after her estranged father's murder by Death Eaters, others had said she'd just painted Voldemort's downfall, but no one had really understood it even as they'd dubbed it unparalleled in recent history. Looking at it now, it suddenly struck Hermione what it was about, or at least what she thought it was about. "Your mother never believed You Know Who really died, did she? This painting . . . " She stared at a twisted, agonized figure of Odin being devoured by Fenrir the wolf. "This wasn't about his fall last time. It's about his return."

"I'd thought you might understand."

Hermione spun around. Lucy Diggory -- Lucretia -- stood behind her, a hand on her son's shoulder. "Does prophecy run in your family?" Hermione asked, startled. She didn't really believe in it, but--

"No. This wasn't a vision, or not of that sort." Her pale eyes moved from the painting to Hermione. "Do you know the real definition of prophecy -- the old definition? It isn't future-telling. It's the ability to read the writing on the wall -- to see what is, and discern what may come as a result. True prophecy means to give warning."

"So you knew then that he wasn't dead?"

"Some of us suspected it."

Hermione turned back to look at the painting. The Downfall of the Powers -- Ragnarök. The end of time and the death of the gods. And was it her imagination or did Lucretia's Odin look a bit like Dumbledore with his long, flowing white beard? Yet Odin was to die at Ragnarök, wasn't he? "Do you think the second war will be that devastating? At Ragnarök, the world is destroyed and all the gods die."

"Not all of them," Mrs. Diggory said. "Some survive. The children of Odin and Thor. And Baldr will return. Lif and Lifthrasir will hide in Hodmimir's Forest and live to repopulate the earth, which will then have a time of peace."

Sure enough, the passage of panels was coming to an end and the last showed the only human survivors emerging hand-in-hand from among the trees to behold the devastation, their faces stark with horror. But the sun was rising over a field of barley in the distance. "So this isn't . . . telling who'll survive and who won't?"

"How could I know that, Hermione? I'm a painter, not a sibyl."

Yet something in the way she said it made Hermione wonder, even while she didn't believe in fortune-tellers, so how could Mrs. Diggory be one? "Could I see it again?" she asked. Cedric reached up and restarted the painting.

"I don't suppose we could stop by my parents' house, could we?" Hermione asked as they were leaving the gallery. "I wasn't sure what we were doing, so I didn't say anything about it earlier, but since we're in town . . . "

Cedric glanced up at her. In fact, he'd been looking forward to getting her home, feeding her a glass or two of wine, then trying sex again. Yet he could hardly blame her for wanting to see her parents. "I don't see why not; we can Apparate there but shouldn't we let them know first?"

"I'll call them." Hermione dug in her pocket, extracting a little coin purse that, Cedric knew, held her Muggle money. "But we need to go out to Charing Cross Road so I can find a pay phone."

Cedric looked down at himself. "In robes?"

"Cedric, it's London. Nobody looks at you twice in London, no matter how weirdly you're dressed." That made him grin; from what he'd seen, he was inclined to agree.

And so it was decided they'd drop by the Grangers on their way home, although he elected to wait in The Leaky Cauldron and have a bitter with his mother rather than follow Hermione out into the street. Besides, he had something he wanted to ask her. "Why did you never tell me you painted Ragnarök about this war, not the first one?" he asked her.

"Would you have believed me? Even your father didn't believe that the Dark Lord wasn't dead."

"You could have told me last summer after the graveyard, why wait till now?"

She took a sip and appeared thoughtful. "I was curious. I wondered whether you'd recognize it."

He leaned over the table. "Will it really be the end of things?"

"It was a metaphor, Cedric."

"You See things, mother. I know you do."

She frowned. "Then why didn't I foresee what happened to you?" She turned her face sideways. "I'm not always sure what I imagine and what I See and what I'm just good at guessing."

"How much of that painting you hung at Hogwarts is imagination, how much metaphor, and how much foretelling?"

Her smile turned secretive. "That one isn't like Ragnarök."

He sat back and finished half his bitter at once. The painting at Hogwarts wasn't acting like her other paintings. Sometimes it seemed to show virtually nothing, but his mother didn't waste canvas on empty scenes. It was poor storytelling. "It's like it records, instead of tells," he said.

Her eyes slid back to him but she didn't answer and Hermione had returned in any case. "Mum and dad are holding back dinner for us," she said, then glanced at his mother. "Would you like to come? They invited you."

His mother smiled and shook her head. "No dear, Amos will be waiting for me at home. But thank your parents for me."

In fact, Hermione's parents had 'practically begged' (Hermione's description) that she and Cedric stay overnight, so when they went out into the small yard behind The Leaky Cauldron that led to Diagon Alley, his mother Disapparated back to the house and returned a few minutes later with Cedric's overnight bag. He got out his crutches and put away the chair as the latter wasn't feasible at the Grangers, even if his lower body was achy. He didn't want Hermione to know he'd skimped on Abdoleo for a second day in an effort to avoid a repeat of Tuesday night's impotence.

They landed in the Granger's back garden and someone must have been watching because the rear door opened immediately. But Mrs Granger's face was startled and Cedric wondered if she'd ever seen anybody Apparate before. Then he realized it was Hermione's robes she was staring at. "You look lovely, dear, very -- ah -- like a witch! And welcome back, Cedric. It's good to see you again."

Hermione rolled her eyes but Cedric grinned, whispering in her ear as he followed her inside. "She's trying, Granger."

Dinner was quite pleasant, the Grangers delighted to see their daughter, and they lingered at the table afterwards while they finished the wine along with spring fruit and sorbet, then After Eights. Yet in the middle of the conversation before they'd got to coffee, Cedric's right leg began to twitch and spasm. He tried rubbing it beneath the tablecloth although he knew it wouldn't help. Excusing himself, he went to the toilet. There, he lowered himself onto the seat where he got out his flask of Abdoleo and took a healthy swallow. It wouldn't matter now as he and Hermione wouldn't be sleeping in the same room tonight. Then he bent over, right leg stretched out, and rubbed at it compulsively to take his mind off the pain. After about ten minutes, he could feel the ache receding and there was a knock on the door. "Cedric? Are you all right?"

Getting to his feet, he opened it. "Fine. Although . . . I hate to be rude, but I think maybe I should go and lie down."

Frowning, she reached up to stroke his cheek. "Let me walk you up, then I'll explain to mum and dad." She shadowed him up the narrow stairs, but didn't rush him. "You've been frowning a lot today. Is it hurting more than usual?"

"A bit. You know -- days go up and down." He didn't want to tell her how bad it was -- or why. She'd probably scold him, then worry and feel guilty.

She showed him to the guest room he'd stayed in before and would've helped him get undressed but he sent her out. "Go and talk to your parents, poppet. That's why we're here. It's important for you to spend time with them." Smiling crookedly, she kissed his cheek and departed.

He got undressed, then into striped pyjama bottoms and lay down, his morning medicine and the urinal on the night table beside the bed. (The bad thing about the Grangers' house was that there was only one toilet with a shower -- on the main floor.) But as he wasn't particularly tired despite the pain medicine, he couldn't sleep. He just lay there, going over recent events in his head ranging from Umbridge now in charge at Hogwarts without the mitigating factor of Dumbledore, to screwed-up sex with Hermione, to his coming exams, to what his mother had said about the painting. How much had she Seen, and how much just predicted?

It was after eleven and closing on midnight when the pain grew especially bad. He'd taken a second dose of Abdoleo but may as well have drunk water. His right leg was cramping so badly it brought tears to his eyes. He couldn't believe this was happening here. What would the Grangers make of this? Their daughter's boyfriend wasn't just a cripple, but had chronic pain issues?

Before long, he heard feet on the stairs then in the hallway, and started to call out to Hermione but before he could, she knocked on the door and pushed it open. "Ced? Are you still awake?"

"Yeah." He swallowed, paused a beat, then said the word he hated more than any other. "Help."

She was almost instantly at his side, hand stroking his forehead. "Oh, no -- you're having an attack, aren't you?"

"Yeah, poppet, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry -- bloody awful timing. I know you can't Apparate, but can you send my mum an owl? I think she has a vial of the stronger Abdoleo."

"We don't have an owl, Cedric." Then she was on her feet, face scared. "Wait. Just wait here" -- as if he could go anywhere in this state -- "I'll be right back." And she hurried out.

"Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes.

Panicked, Hermione dashed out of the guest room. How could she get hold of Cedric's mother in the middle of the night? The Diggorys had no phone and her family had no owls. When they sent her letters at Hogwarts, her mother made a special trip to the London Owl Post -- which certainly wasn't open at this hour. Nor did she have floo powder to floo from Diagon Alley . . .

"Mum, dad!" she said, pounding on their bedroom door. "I'm sorry but I need --"

The door opened and her father stood there in his ratty old dressing gown, looking concerned. "What is it?"

"Cedric -- he's having an attack."

"An attack? What sort of attack?" But her father was already moving down the hall to the guest room, pushing the door open and turning on the overhead light. "Cedric?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know where you are? What day it is?"

He appeared puzzled by the questions in addition to being in serious pain. "I'm at your house and it's Thursday -- well, Friday, by now, I suppose."

Her father sat down on the edge of the bed to check Cedric's pupils "Hermione, get my bag, please." Her mother practiced general dentistry, but her father was an oral and maxillofacial surgeon, which meant he handled a bit more than teeth cleaning.

She hurried out even as her mother emerged, wrapped in a dressing gown, her father's medical bag in hand along with her mobile phone. "We'll call an ambulance."

"No, mum -- you mustn't! You can't send him to a Muggle hospital. He doesn't exist in our world."

"What do you mean -- ?"

"There is no 'Cedric Diggory' in Muggle records. If we take him to hospital, it has to be to St. Mungo's." She took her father's bag and dashed back to the room, her mother following.

Her father seemed to have figured out that Cedric wasn't critical by the time she'd returned, as he'd lost his 'deeply concerned' expression, although he took his bag and removed the stethoscope he didn't often use, checking Cedric's heart and lungs just in case, then his temperature. Despite the pain, when Hermione suggested they drive him to St. Mungo's, Cedric shook his head almost violently. "No. It's the usual thing. I just need the stronger Abdoleo."

"What's 'Abdoleo'?" her mother asked.

"His pain medication. Most of the time, he's on a low dose, but when he has one of these attacks, he needs something stronger."

Her father had turned to listen. "What's causing the attack?"

"The curse," Cedric replied from the bed, making them all look around at him. Hermione had forgotten that while he might be in pain, he was perfectly lucid -- more lucid than he wanted to be, in fact. "It attacks the nerves. Most of the time, it's just an annoying ache, but if something . . . irritates it, it can make things worse. Then I need a stronger level of Abdoleo."

Her father humphed out softly. "If we were at the office, we could give you nitrous oxide, but that's not an option. I'll send Helen and Hermione in to get something else. Do you have any medical allergies?"

"I . . . dunno."

"Right. Stupid question, of course you wouldn't know. Do you have allergies of any kind? Do you know what an allergy is?"

"Yes, and no. I mean, yes, I know, and no, I don't have any. I've been pretty healthy, really -- curse aside."

"Good. Hermione, I need you to help me translate for him; I need to take a quick medical history -- be sure I don't kill him trying to stop the pain. So -- any family history of heart disease or diabetes, Cedric?"

Despite some confused queries at definitions, it took less than five minutes before her father pulled out his pad to scribble on it, tore that off and handed it over to her mother. "Go by the office and pick up this."

Her mother dressed and they drove down to the medical building that housed her parents' practices, plus an orthodontist and an orthopedic specialist. 'The Calcium Building,' her father called it. 'Bones and teeth.'

"How often does this happen?" her mother asked in the car, voice tight.

"Not much, mum," Hermione lied.

"But often enough that he seemed to know exactly what was going on."

"It only takes a few times," she pointed out, frowning at her hands. "We've got major exams this year. It's a lot of stress and Cedric takes his studies as seriously as I do. The curse is neurological, so stress sets it off."

"But why is he under stress during holidays?" She turned to look at Hermione.

"The tests are seven weeks away," Hermione said, not wanting to explain Umbridge and Dumbledore's flight and the D.A.. Her parents didn't even know about Voldemort.

"Hermione . . . " but her mother trailed off, sighing. "There's something you're not telling me."

"No, mum. Cedric's just really stressed out about his exams and finishing school."

"So you came home for the holidays, if he's so worried?"

"That's why we came home, although we've been studying every day until today. But he was trying to avoid an attack like this. It aggravates the curse."

"I'd expect so! We didn't have him hooked up to an ECG, but the way that boy was panting, he was hurting badly." She rubbed her eyes. "We've got to get him to Brenda, see if she can figure out -- "

"Mum!"

"No, Hermione. I'll accept magic, I'll accept that you can do . . . things that make no scientific sense because it's obviously true. But that boy is suffering, and however wonderful your Wizarding World, I can't help but think we could do more for him. There has to be a reason his body is reacting like that -- some measurable damage to his nervous system or spinal column. Maybe we'd see something his other doctors didn't because they're not looking in the right place or using the same equipment. Call it a second opinion. People get them all the time."

Hermione frowned, torn between her new world and her old. "I said I'd talk to him, mum. I just haven't had a chance. We've had other things on our minds."

They'd reached the office, parked, then hurried inside. Hermione waited while her mother went after whatever it was her father had asked for, but she was a bit surprised to see her emerge with a bag that contained a vial of something clear and a syringe, in addition to a few packets of drug samples. "What's that?" she asked on the way back to the car. "In the bottle?"

"It's morphine if we need it. I'm not sure your father was sure the Solpadol would work. We're flying in the dark here, Hermione. We don't know what this 'Abdoleo' really is -- chemically speaking -- and you're guessing, based on apparent results."

By the time they returned, Hermione could hear Cedric crying out all the way down in the living room. Snatching the bag right out of her mother's hands, she ran up the stairs and down the hall.

Cedric was thrashing on the bed as her father held him down. "It got a lot worse very rapidly. If you two had been ten minutes more, I'd have called an ambulance and be damned. Hold him still."

Her mother had hurried in too, and helped Hermione hold him while her father bypassed the pills altogether and went straight for the morphine. "We'll get the pain under control, then see if the Solpadol can maintain it."

Cedric was strong and Hermione practically had to lie on him while her mother held his arm for her father to make the injection. With his heart pumping so, it didn't take long before the morphine took effect and his lids drooped. He wasn't completely out, but he wasn't really aware either.

Her father was breathing heavily and looked at her. "We need to get hold of his parents. Now."

"I'll go to Grimmauld Place."

"Hermione, that's not in the best part of town."

"Mum, I can take care of myself. I don't have time to argue."

With a last glance at Cedric -- calm now but soaking wet from sweat -- she ran out the door, pulling her robes more closely around her and grabbing change for the train from the stash over the fireplace. It didn't take long to get to Sirius', but it was now past midnight and Sirius hadn't known she was coming. She had to ring the doorbell and winced at the howling of Mrs. Black. Within minutes, she heard the locks drawn back and the door opened. Sirius's mouth opened at the sight of her. "Hermione? What are you doing here? Is Harry all right?"

"Harry's fine. Well, I assume he is. He's at Hogwarts." She pushed past him inside, speaking loudly over his mother's screaming. "Cedric, however, is not fine. He had a bad attack and we're at my parents'. We've sort of got it under control, but I need to contact his mum and dad."

Sirius was frowning in concern. "You can use my fireplace."

She followed him down the hall to the kitchen. "This is an enormous help," she said. "I didn't have any floo powder and can't Apparate. We don't have an owl at home and Cedric's family doesn't have a phone. I didn't know what to do."

They'd reached the kitchen and he fetched the floo powder from the mantel. "Have you talked by floo before?"

She winced. "Er, no."

"Then let me do it, make sure there's no problem." But Hermione thought he just wanted to be involved, so she watched as he got down on hands and knees by the hearth, kindled the fire, tossed in floo powder, then stuck his head into green flames. As if at a distance, she could hear him roaring, "LUCRETIA! AMOS! THERE'S AN EMERGENCY!"

It took a few more yells, then he seemed to be talking normally, and after a moment, pulled his head out of the fire. "They'll be here in a few minutes."

And indeed, a few minutes later, the doorbell rang again, causing Mrs. Black to start screeching once more. When Sirius opened the door, a white-faced Mrs. Diggory hurried in, followed by her husband. Turning her head towards the painting, she yanked out her wand and shouted, "STUPIFY, you old bat!" The painting went silent in mid-yell, Mrs. Black's eyes bugging out as if she were being choked. "Take us to him," Mrs. Diggory said.

Sirius gestured to Hermione, who hurried forward. She gave Sirius a crushing hug and whispered, "Thank you so much. I don't know what I'd have done without you."

Then she led the Diggorys out and down the road to the Underground, giving them exact change each. "I'll show you where to put it. Have you ever been on the Underground?"

"Once," Mrs. Diggory said, but her husband just shook his head. Between their worry and their unfamiliarity, Hermione had to lead them through practically by hand.

Getting off at the station near her house, it was a five-minute walk back that they made in under four. The door opened before they'd even set foot in the front garden. "You're Cedric's parents?" her mother asked. "He's upstairs. We've got him sedated so he's not in pain."

Mrs Diggory took Hermione's mother's hands. "Thank you," she said sincerely. Then hurried for the stairs, Mr. Diggory behind her.

Her mother put an arm around her. "He'll be all right," she said.

"I know he will. It's not the first time -- just scary and inconvenient. We weren't prepared."

"He should keep some of his stronger pain medicine with him at all times," her mother said, "the same as somebody with severe allergies has epinephrine ready in case of anaphylactic shock." Her mother looked at her and squeezed her forearm. "Go on upstairs; I know that's where you want to be. I'll make some tea."

With the crisis past, Cedric was as well as could be expected, although it was agreed he shouldn't be moved until the worst of the episode was over. Hermione's parents and his had tea around the kitchen table in the early hours of the morning, and it was, Hermione thought, a strange way for them to meet -- but perhaps advantageous. A cup of tea was a cup of tea, whether brewed by magic or the stove, and parents understood worried parents. Gratitude on the part of Cedric's together with sympathy on the part of hers worked to overcome any gap between worlds, and by the time Mr. Diggory left, he shook her father's hand warmly, his eyes a bit wet. "Thanks for helping my boy, Charles."

"You'd have done the same for Hermione."

"Of course we would." Then he turned to his wife. "Lucy, love, I'll be back at noon -- see how he is." She nodded and they embraced. It was, Hermione thought, the first time she'd ever seen them do so, but it wasn't awkward or insincere. Mrs. Diggory clung to her husband for a moment and he to her. Then he went out into the back garden to Disapparate.

Cedric wasn't ready to go home until Saturday morning, although he was well enough by Friday evening to come downstairs for dinner. His mother had stayed the whole time, and Hermione's mother asked her while they were making dinner in the kitchen, "Is his mother noble born? I thought he had a touch of upper-class manners when he was here before, but I see she's really got them. I feel like I'm entertaining a lady."

Hermione tilted her head. "The Wizarding World doesn't really have nobility like we do, but yeah, I think it's probably fair to say she was noble born." Her mother nodded.

Hermione and Cedric returned to Devon on their last day of vacation, and between the attack and their imminent return, Cedric's mood was very dark. They spent their last night wrapped around each other. He wasn't up for sex (quite literally) and apologized until she shut him up with fervent kisses. "It doesn't matter. It'll happen when it happens, Cedric. Like you told me, there are other chances."


Notes: It's been a long time since I read The Prose Edda., but I did look things up. As for whether the last/first humans hide in Yggdrasil itself (the world tree) or just in Hodmimir's Forest, versions vary. In ancient Greece, Thessalian witches were (in)famous and they did indeed use spinning disks like that described to 'draw down the moon.' We have absolutely no real idea what this was about. Thanks to Kayla and Brittany for help on dentist (and medical) things. Regarding Grimmauld Place, unplottable locations, and the floo network ... I think the books contradict themselves. Perhaps one can only floo out of an unplottable locale, but if so, how does Harry speak to Kreacher from Umbridge's fireplace? It seems to be internally inconsistent.