Nasty shocks weren't over for the evening. When Cedric and Hermione returned to the castle, Cedric couldn't open the door to his suite, and with his rage and frustration still so close to the surface, he slammed a crutch into the wood, swearing violently. Hermione had to throw her arms around him before he either hurt himself or fell over.

"Stay here," she ordered him and raced for the stairs, thumping her way down them to dash for the Great Hall. Harry and Ron were still there at the Gryffindor table, keeping one eye on the doors while Harry guarded a covered plate that he must have saved for her. She had no time for that now. "Cedric can't get into his rooms," she told them.

But Harry and Ron weren't the only ones who'd seen her enter. Umbridge made her way down from the high table to approach them, a simpering smile on her face. "Is there a problem?"

Hermione glared. "You know there is. Why can't Cedric get into his rooms?"

"His rooms? I understood those were the Head Boy's rooms. He's no longer Head Boy."

Hermione would have lost her temper but felt Harry's hand on her back. He'd risen too, and she found it terribly ironic that Harry was calming her down, cautioning her. She took a breath and managed to get out, "They haven't been the Head Boy's rooms in over a century. Dumbledore assigned them to Cedric for his medical condition."

"Nonetheless . . . "

"He can't navigate the Hufflepuff dormitories very well!"

"If he's that handicapped, then perhaps he shouldn't have attempted to return to school in the first place? All these special considerations for one student . . . it doesn't seem fair to the rest. There is a point past which the handicapped must simply admit they have limitations and can't do everything a normal person can."

Hermione wanted to scream, wanted to slap her, wanted to sue her for discrimination . . . but of course, that was a Muggle idea. The Wizarding World could be so advanced in some ways, such as putting women in positions of power long before Muggles had, but so frighteningly backward in others. "We'll see what Madam Pomfrey has to say about this," she warned, spinning on her heel to stalk away.

There were several students in the infirmary, including Pansy Parkinson sporting a pair of deer antlers. It seemed the Inquisitorial Squad still wasn't faring well despite the New Order. A harassed looking Pomfrey halted in front of her. "And what's wrong with you, Miss Granger?"

"Nothing," Hermione replied. "But there's a problem concerning Cedric."

"Cedric?" The nurse might find Hermione mildly exasperating as she, Harry and Ron had a habit of landing in hot water that left at least one of them injured, but Cedric was another matter. Like most of the teachers, Pomfrey doted on him a bit. "Oh heavens, did that woman send him into another attack?" And she turned for her office, but Hermione's hand on her arm stopped her.

"No. At least, not yet. But Professor Umbridge seems to have decided that his suite assignment was a privilege of his Head Boy status, not a medical necessity. She's locked him out. In fact, she said that sometimes handicapped people just have to acknowledge they can't do the same things 'normal' people can do."

Already angry, Pomfrey drew herself up to her full height (which wasn't inconsiderable) and Hermione could almost imagine the steam coming out of her ears. "She said that, did she?" Turning back to the room, she surveyed her array of patients, three from Slytherin (all on the Inquisitorial Squad) and one random Gryffindor third year who seemed to have managed to jinx himself with jelly legs in Charms class. "I want everybody to stay put. I'll be back shortly."

"But Madam Pomfrey -- " Pansy began.

"You won't be worse off for another half hour with antlers, Miss Parkinson."

Hermione concealed her grin as she followed the nurse out.

By the time Pomfrey (with Hermione in tow) arrived outside Cedric's door, it seemed that half the staff of Hogwarts was already there, including Umbridge, who must have tried to steal a march before anyone could arrive -- and been intercepted. Cedric himself sat on his trunk, which Umbridge must have packed up in his absence. He was glaring at everybody. He hated so to have a fuss made about his condition -- it embarrassed him -- but he was also furious with Umbridge. So if he'd been uncertain about getting the rooms in the first place, he was nonetheless enraged over losing them. (And if he lost the suite, he'd no doubt lose his access to the bath, and Hermione knew how much he needed that.) Settling down beside him, she laid a hand on his knee and he laced his fingers through hers. It said enough without speaking.

Umbridge had turned to face Pomfrey and this newest sally. "I believe there's been some confusion," Pomfrey began, "about the purpose behind Mr. Diggory's assignment to these rooms."

Umbridge's wide smile showed teeth. "Oh, I don't believe there has. It's really quite simple. These rooms are the Head Boy's chambers. Mr. Diggory is no long Head Boy . . . by his own choice, in fact."

"He needs these rooms -- "

"Why?" Umbridge asked. "Special consideration has already been given to him in allowing him access to the lift in order to get to his classes. I understand that his wheelchair has a levitation charm on it, and he can navigate stairs on crutches -- and the Hufflepuff dormitories have fewer steps in them than the others in any case. These rooms were a convenience for him, not, in fact, a necessity."

Pomfrey's lips thinned. "I don't believe you have a license for mediwizardry -- "

"It doesn't take a license to recognize the difference between necessity and convenience, Madam Pomfrey. Mr. Diggory has been provided with the necessary handicapped access. He can reach all his classes and he can reach the Hufflepuff dormitories. But if he needs to be coddled in order to attend this school, then perhaps he should reconsider whether or not he belongs here?"

Hermione felt Cedric squeeze her hand but he didn't say a word as McGonagall butted in, "Mr. Diggory never asked for special consideration -- "

"Then what is the problem here?" Umbridge asked. "If he didn't ask for any, why are we standing around in the hallway? There's no medical reason for him to have these rooms. They're merely convenient not necessary. I, at least, have better ways to spend an evening." She turned to leave.

"Will Cedric still have access to the bathroom?"

Hermione hadn't expected to ask that, but found herself on her feet and the voice had been hers.

Umbridge turned back. "The bathroom? You mean the prefects' bathroom?" She gestured to the door. "He's not a prefect, is he?"

"He does need the bath," Hermione said.

"Sit down, Granger," Cedric whispered behind her.

"No, Cedric; this is important. Cedric needs access to that bath, professor; it helps him to relax."

"I concur with Miss Granger," Pomfrey added, annoyed at having been trumped by Umbridge. "The bath keeps the frequency of attacks at bay."

Umbridge's small pig eyes narrowed further. "Mr. Diggory, have you suffered any of these attacks outside school? No? Do you have access to the prefects' bath outside school? No. Well, I believe that settles that." And she turned again.

"That's not true!" Hermione called.

"Hermione, please -- " Cedric hissed.

"He did have an attack, over the Easter holidays."

"Only one? Compared to how many here? I don't believe that makes much of a case -- "

"He's not under the same kind of pressure there!" Hermione replied, furious and stamping her foot. "You're twisting the facts to suit your own agenda!"

"And you're not? I don't believe there is sufficient evidence to support your conclusions that Mr. Diggory needs the prefects' bath any more than he needs the Head Boy's suite." Her eyes shifted from Hermione to Cedric behind her. "He can live like any other student. Or withdraw. That is my final decision and the next person who attempts to argue with it will be fired" -- she glared at Pomfrey -- "or expelled" -- she glared at Hermione.

Then she walked away. The hallway was silent. Furious, eyes hot with tears, Hermione spun to look at Cedric. His head was bowed. "Did you have to tell her about Easter?" was all he said before Professor Sprout was there, along with Flitwick and McGonagall and Pomfrey, all fussing over him. It was verging on curfew by now, so she let the professors take him downstairs and return him to the Sett. She followed as far as the stairway to the Hufflepuff common room where, abruptly, McGonagall halted dead, head turned sideways towards Lucy Diggory's painting.

There in the clearing, a stag lay sprawled on its side, struggling against the hounds attacking it. While they watched, it raised its nose and gave a great bleat, then abruptly surged to its feet, hide torn and bloody, but antlers lowered at the dogs, who kept their distance. "It isn't over yet, Mr. Diggory," McGonagall said, turning to look at him.

In the Sett, everything was different and all Cedric's familiar routines had to be rethought. Small matters became annoying all over again. He had to Stick his mobility equipment to the walls in the dormitory toilets, and no stall was quite big enough for him to maneuver about easily without magical modification to enlarge it -- easy enough to do for Professor Sprout, but yet another reminder. In the showers, he took twice as long as anybody else -- not to mention that everybody now knew how awkward he looked. He had no privacy -- and began to suspect Dumbledore had given him his own rooms for reasons that went beyond mere ease of access. His fellow students tried not to stare, but mostly failed. He could see the pity in their eyes before they looked away.

Fortunately, his first morning there fell on a weekend or he'd never have made it to breakfast and class on time, even though he'd risen early assuming it would take longer. He sat with his House rather than with Hermione. Part of him wanted nothing more than to throw himself into her arms for comfort -- which made the other part too proud to do so. What kind of a weakling was he?

Despite the fact breakfast was almost over, Umbridge must have been waiting for him to arrive before Morning Notices. "A rather important announcement for today," she began, smiling serenely out at the room as if three of the four tables weren't glaring back in sullen if impotent rebellion. "As you all know, we've had a little, hem, change of the guard among our student officers. I'm most pleased to announce that Adrian Pucey has graciously agreed to step forward and conclude the year for us as Head Boy."

Beside Cedric, Ed spat coffee into his cereal bowl. Cedric gave no reaction, though there were low, somewhat ugly mutters around him. "Pucey and not Davies?" Cedric heard Ernie mutter, further down the table.

"Roger counted himself out when he publicly apologized to me after that Prophet article," Cedric replied mildly.

At the head table, Umbridge was clapping for attention. "Students," Umbridge was saying, "I'll expect all of you to give Mr. Pucey the respect he deserves as Head Boy."

"Yeah, we'll be sure to do that," Zacharias muttered. "Right in the same toilet they rescued Montague from. Anybody know where the twins got that Vanishing cabinet?" His comment earned spurts of laughter -- and Umbridge's notice.

She turned her gaze on Hufflepuff. "Mr. . . . Smith, I believe? I think you need a detention to work on your manners. Obviously, your parents didn't teach you not to talk when your elders were speaking."

Umbridge called Pucey up to receive his badge, and Pucey threw Cedric a snide look over his shoulder as he strolled forward, then returned to Slytherin table to whistles and claps -- and dead silence from the rest of the hall. It made a stark contrast to how the student body had reacted to Cedric's acclamation by Hufflepuff at the year's beginning.

Umbridge sat down then and those students finished with breakfast began leaving. "What are you doing today, mate?" Peter asked Cedric.

"Burying myself in the library; we've got barely four weeks till exams."

Cedric felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around. It was Hermione. "Ced?"

"I'm not finished eating my breakfast yet," he told her. He wanted to apologize for not sitting with her, but pride wouldn't let him. He was still smarting a bit from breaking down in front of her the day before.

"I'm going to the library," she said after a moment.

"I'll see you there shortly then."

"Do you want me to wait for you?"

"No need."

She was stroking his arm through the sleeve of his robe, as if she were gentling a horse, and he found it annoying. He pulled his arm out of her grip. "Stop."

"Sorry." A pause, then she whispered, "Are you still angry with me about last night? For mentioning what happened over the holidays?"

"What?" He glanced up at her. "No. Go on. I'll see you in a bit."

Half an hour later they met in the library and he tried to study, but her nervous sadness haunted him. He wanted to say he was sorry, but sorry for what? For being angry? Didn't he have a right to be angry sometimes? Life was shitty at the moment. Why did she have to make it about her? He wasn't angry with her, except of course, now he was because she was making him feel guilty.

After a while, he pulled out his little journal where he kept it in a pocket, opened it and wrote:

Drops of you
fall on me
like the contents of Ceridwen's Cauldron --
soul-opening. But sometimes you cut me
with sharp obsidian eyes
so I flee. Don't follow
or you'll devour me.

He shut the book. She glanced up, saw what he was writing in and returned her attention to her notes. She'd never asked to read his journal, never tried to despite her famous curiosity. She understood there were things he needed to have just as his, and he was grateful. If she ever saw some of what he'd written in there about her, she'd no doubt die of embarrassment. Or yell at him in a rage. It was where he put things he needed to get out of his head, but didn't want -- or couldn't -- say to her. His journal was his literary Pensieve, he supposed.

He watched her study for a while until she looked up at him. "What?" she asked.

"Girls talk. Boys don't." The words startled him as much as they startled her. He hadn't really meant to explain anything.

She lifted an eyebrow. "They might feel better if they did talk."

"They might," he agreed. "But we're silly and stubborn that way. It's a pride thing."

"I know," she said, smirking. "Silly boys and their pride."

"I'm not angry with you," he said, repeating what he'd told her at breakfast.

She just nodded, returning to her book. "I know. I just . . . wish I could make you feel better."

"You do, poppet. Just being with you makes me feel better."

She rolled her eyes. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Diggory."

Grinning suddenly despite everything, he bent over the table. "Even a bit of snogging in the broom cupboard on the third floor?"

She raised her eyes again. "It's rather cramped, isn't it?"

He shrugged with one shoulder. "Whatever works." It wasn't as if they had opportunity for any other privacy now.

She went back to her book and he went back to watching her, then picked up his journal again, opened it, dipped his quill and began to sketch. When he was done, he tilted his head and eyed the sketch critically. Not especially good -- he was out of practice -- but not so bad, either. She was pretending not to pay attention even though he knew she was. He shut his journal, only then noticing Umbridge standing near Pince's desk, watching them. Renewed anger curled in his belly and feeling sulky, he returned his attention to his book.

A bit before dinner, he and Hermione did take that break in the broom cupboard on the third floor, and it was cramped, but there were no cobwebs and little dust. According to gossip, they were hardly the first students to employ it for something besides storage. Although he had to stand up, there was a little stepping stool so Hermione's face was on a level with his and he didn't have to bend, too.

For the next few days, that cupboard offered a bit of relief while tensions rose around them. Pomfrey had contacted his doctors at St. Mungo's and Umbridge was given orders to permit him back into the prefects' bath. But if she were forced to allow it, she didn't have to make it easy for him and assigned certain hours -- unpopular ones so he 'didn't inconvenience the actual prefects,' which usually meant choosing between a bath or dinner. Yet Umbridge hadn't counted on either the loyalty of his denmates or the rather charming intervention of Dobby, who insisted on 'feeding Harry Potter's very good friend' -- which translated to stuffing him silly in the kitchen later.

On one such occasion, Cedric bent over the small table (made for elves, not people, especially not tall people) to ask, "Dobby, tell me -- do you like being free?"

Dobby blinked in surprise, pointed ears sagging. "Dobby is very happy to serve at Hogwarts, Cedric Malfoy. It is a great honor."

Cedric blinked in turn at the name. "I'm not a Malfoy, Dobby. And that wasn't what I asked. I want to know if you like being free -- it's not a trick question. Honestly. You've been very kind to me, which I appreciate." Dobby's ears uncurled again. "But what do you think of Hermione's society to free house-elves?"

Somewhat to Cedric's surprise, Dobby came over to pull out the other chair and seat himself, looking oddly dignified. "I think Harry Potter's friend has a big heart, but not so good an idea. The house-elves . . . they is offended because they is honored to work at Hogwarts."

Cedric nodded. He wasn't terribly surprised, but it still didn't get at his other question. "How about you? Do you like being free? Really -- I want to know."

Dobby appeared thoughtful. "Yes. And no. It is hard to get work as I's wanting paying. But better than what I had." He lowered his eyes as if considering banging his head on the tabletop. "If they was all like you in that Family . . . "

"Don't you dare even think about punishing yourself." Cedric reached over to grip Dobby's shoulder and hold him upright. "But tell me -- could you help Hermione with ideas that really would make the lives of house-elves better without offending everybody?"

Dobby pondered the question, then nodded after a minute. "Yes, I's could. She's never asked, but I's could."

"Good," Cedric replied, grinning. "I may hold you to that in a while."

Later that same night, he met Hermione in the broom cupboard. What had begun as an amusing and gentle diversion on Saturday had become intense and desperate by Tuesday. Cedric found release in the physical, and despite his intellectual bent -- or perhaps because of it -- sex let him disconnect his mind, at least for a little while. So there in the cramped darkness of the little cupboard, he pulled her to him and they got right down to business, mouths hot and hands everywhere. After five minutes, she put up a Silencing spell and he Locked the door.

Turning back to her, he pushed her up against the wall, using his weight to hold her still as he needed his arms to balance. She had one arm around his neck and the other around his torso, moving it up and down his back and sometimes over his arse, pulling him against her. With the part of his mind still able to think, he feared they were going to overbalance and land in a tangled heap on the floor, but she got a leg around his hips beneath his robes and held him. He let go of one crutch to brace his arm against the wall over her head. He could feel her crotch hot against his even through four layers of cloth -- or three. She'd pulled up her school skirt so her knickers pressed directly against him.

"I can't believe we're doing this in a cupboard," she said after a while, her voice thick.

He laughed against the sweet skin of her neck. "You don't find it dangerous and exciting?"

"I find it a bit uncomfortable, actually."

He pulled back to peer at her in the dimness. "My practical Granger. Want to go back to the library?"

"No," she said. "I've missed you -- missed your body."

"She only wants me for my body," he teased. But what she'd just said thrilled him -- made him feel less guilty for wanting hers. She trailed fingers over the front of his trousers to unzip them, pushing them over his arse so they dropped in a tangle around his braces, his underpants following. "If I move a step, I'll fall over."

"Then you'd better not move, had you?" She slipped down to sit on the stool in front of him, gripping his erection and taking it in her mouth. "Oh, shit!" he howled, throwing his head back -- very glad of the Silencing spell. She had one hand on his arse, kneading him as she moved him in and out. She was getting rather good at this; the holidays had offered some opportunity for practice and he wished he could see, but feared lighting a wand. They might be able to muffle sound but he didn't know a spell to conceal a light.

He was panting now and could feel himself twitch inside her mouth. "Hermione, sweetheart -- " He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to buck. She knew what his warning meant and drew away, moving up his body again until she was back between him and the wall, arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "You, ah, seem to have lost your knickers," he said, palm rubbing her now-bare hip.

"And you lost your underpants."

"Think we should do something about that?"

"Depends on what you want to do."

He shifted his weight a bit. "Put your leg around me again for balance." She did so and he released his other crutch, leaning it against the wall so that his arm braced above her and his weight against her body held him up. Slipping his freed hand under her leg, he hitched it higher on his hip, then slid his fingers around beneath to find her wet folds. She hissed and rubbed against him, her hand busy on his erection, using her own fluids for lubrication. He could smell the strong musk scent of her and her breath puffed against his jaw as she panted. After a minute, and with the stool giving her the height, she angled his erection so the tip rubbed her clit, stimulating them both at once, her fingers stroking up and down on the shaft and around the retracted foreskin. He slipped his fingers inside her, moving in and out rapidly until she was whining and grinding against him. He wasn't thinking about anything now except that whine and how good this felt, how much he'd needed this after everything.

So he was a little surprised when he felt her pull his hand back, then move his cock there instead and sink down on him just a little. Just enough to push the head inside her.

He shouted in a mixture of surprise and extreme pleasure, instinct making him surge forward, pushing her arse up against the wall behind them, the back of her robe her only cushion against cold stone. "Oh, God," she muttered, one arm tightening around his neck, the other hand gripping his hip. "You're inside me."

He almost laughed. "I am, aren't I?" And he was. He was inside her -- wet, hot and all around him, gripping tightly, melting him. He was inside her. "All right, Granger?"

"I -- yeah. Yeah." She sounded almost relieved. "Hurts a bit, but not so bad." He could barely think and dropped his forehead against her shoulder, rocking his hips in an undulation that moved him in and out an inch or two. It was the best he could manage with his precarious balance. She was holding him up, arm around neck and waist and her leg clenching his hips. His free hand moved up her body under her shirt and bra, finding her breast to tug and roll the hard nipple. "Oooh," she moaned, but was still wincing too, just a bit, at every thrust.

He didn't know how much longer he could last. She was very tight; he'd forgotten how amazing this felt to be completely engulfed in a woman, and began rocking faster. She hissed. He wanted to ask if he was hurting her worse but simply couldn't make the words come. All he could get out of his mouth where incoherent noises. The hand that had been around his waist had moved up to claw at him under his shirt, short nails scraping the skin of his back and arse. "Shit!" he hissed, pinching her nipple and biting her neck, pushing one last time into her as orgasm hit him hard. His whole body jerked almost convulsively as he ejaculated inside her. "Shit," he shouted again. "Hermione. Oh. Oh. Oh -- "

Then he collapsed against her, knocking her off the stool altogether so that she was pinned between him and the wall. "Oops."

She giggled breathlessly -- probably because he was crushing the air out of her -- and the whole absurdity of the situation struck him. He'd just deflowered his girlfriend in a broom cupboard almost too small for two people to stand up straight. Gently, he lowered her onto her feet, slipping out of her and pushing away to find the crutch he'd propped against the wall. The other seemed to have fallen down and he had to Summon it back.

"Oh, yuck," he heard her say, half laughing. "I'm leaking!" And the mixture of surprise and disgust and amusement made him laugh too. Tension broken, they leaned into each other like two old stones and just giggled helplessly. They'd finally done it. Even if this wasn't what he'd expected, and it wouldn't qualify as great sex by any stretch, they'd done it, and he hadn't hurt her too much and she wasn't crying. Instead, he could feel her smiling against his neck in the dark, her arms around his shoulders. "I love you," he told her. "Very much."

"You're a proper romantic, Cedric Diggory, broom cupboard or no. Now clean me up, okay?"

They put themselves back together as best they could in the limited space and then checked each other's appearance by low wandlight. He slipped the pads of his fingers over the new bruise on her neck and tugged her collar higher. "Er, I bit you."

"I noticed."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not now. But I might have a bit of a problem explaining it to my roommates."

"Sorry about that, poppet." He smiled at her. "I'll have to explain the scratches down my back."

"I didn't scratch you!"

"Yeah -- you did." He was laughing. "A regular little wildcat, aren't you?"

She sniffed at him. "Don't be ridiculous.

Bending, he pressed his forehead to hers. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." She kissed his nose. "I'm fine. Now let's go back to the library. We left all our books there."

So they did. And if she walked a bit carefully, and sat down a bit gingerly, she smiled at him a lot and he smiled back. Besotted. He was completely besotted all over again and rubbed her hand atop the table while they read, flashes of what had just happened in the cupboard invading his brain and making his trousers tight. He had to shift twice to find a more comfortable way to sit. He remembered, too -- abruptly -- that he hadn't ever cast his key spell.

Worried, he tore off a corner of parchment to scribble, "I forgot my spell. Totally lost my head," and pushed it across to her.

She read it, eyebrow flickering, then bent to write back before handing it over: "Bad boy. But don't worry, I cast mine."

He breathed out in relief and Vanished the parchment scrap as Pince stalked past.

Hermione kept sneaking glances at herself in mirrors for the rest of the night -- but she looked exactly the same. Shouldn't she look different? She was a maiden no more. She was a woman; he'd made her a woman. Or that's how she'd heard the other girls talk about it.

"You're being ridiculous," she scolded herself in the shower later as she scrubbed her body all over with soap. Could she really have called herself a virgin before tonight? Technically, yes, but given everything else they'd done, technicalities seemed rather silly. She hadn't gone from naiveté to sudden, secret gnosis; she'd walked this road in stages and the best part of tonight had been holding each other and giggling afterwards. She'd made him happy. After what must have been one of the most hellacious weeks of his life, she'd managed to make him forget it for a bit. When he'd kissed her goodnight outside Gryffindor Tower and told her (again) that he loved her, she'd felt how his joy thrummed all through him.

But she'd waited to shower until she could have the place to herself so she wouldn't have to explain his love bite to anybody. That had hurt, too -- hurt worse than when he'd actually entered her, and her hips were almost as sore from being pushed apart at an odd angle as her vagina was from being stretched to accommodate him. If tonight had been just the culmination of months of challenging boundaries, she still wasn't prepared to talk about it to anyone else -- even her 'sisters' in the Purple Dildo. It was a secret between her and Cedric, and when she went to bed later, she hugged her pillow and dreamed of him.

In the morning, he was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs like he used to do when they'd first started seeing each other. She wasn't sure exactly when he'd stopped that. It had simply faded away as they'd grown more comfortable with each other, more certain there was always a spot at the other's side. Nonetheless, it gave her a little thrill to see him waiting, all smiles. She paused on the final step, their faces almost on a level. "You look happy," she said softly.

"I am happy," he replied, "Had rather lovely dreams," and he kissed her quickly -- which elicited whistles and giggles from students passing, headed to breakfast in the Great Hall. Hermione was more inclined to smile than frown. These days, she and Cedric counted among the 'old, married couples,' definitely not the juicy news.

So when they made their way into the Great Hall only to face a flurry of whispers and stares, she frowned and glanced at him. "Why do I have this feeling I've got egg on my face?"

He was frowning too. "I've no idea."

"They can't -- ?"

"They can't. Trust me, if they did, I'd have heard about it all last night."

They sat together at the Gryffindor table, but the more people who arrived, the more stares they earned. Finally, exasperated, Cedric grabbed the edge of Zacharias Smith's robe as he moved past. "What the bloody hell's going on?"

For once, even Zach appeared uncertain. "Er, well, um -- it's the painting."

Cedric just stared. "The painting? What about it?"

"It's not showing the deer fighting the dogs anymore. It's, er, well, um . . . " His eyes slid past Cedric's face to land on Hermione's. "Maybe you ought to go and look for yourself." And he fled.

"That's not raising my confidence," Cedric muttered, but they did as Zach suggested, and students scattered as they approached.

"Oh my God," Hermione muttered when she saw it. "That's . . . but that can't be me."

Cedric stared too, heavy brows lowered in a thunderous frown. "I don't believe she did this."

The picture showed a forest cave and a bed of skins, and the god and goddess lying with limbs entwined, naked and sweaty and panting, and clearly just finished copulating. A twist of hide and strategically placed rock kept the painting from being completely indecent, but as with all Lucretia's artwork, however explicit, it wasn't obscene. It would have been starkly beautiful, in fact, given the look of pure wonder and dazed enlightenment on their faces -- if that hadn't been her face, and Cedric's.

Oh, of course it wasn't, not exactly. As she'd seen before, the god looked just a bit different; he wasn't Cedric. And the goddess wasn't her. This figure was older -- more woman, less girl -- and the hair was darker, yet just as frizzy. It was her nose too, and her jawline. She'd been the model for the Maiden Goddess just as Cedric had been for the Hunter.

The girl in the picture opened her eyes, and they were the same deep brown as Hermione's, the same brown the doe's had been. And the goddess smiled at her -- as if knowing.

It was bad enough to see herself painted into a story without having given consent, but to appear this way, and after the very night in which she had, in fact, lost her virginity? It was far, far too close to the truth. Invasive.

"What in the name of -- ! Good heavens!" It was a virtual shriek behind them. Umbridge, of course. They turned. Umbridge was gaping at them, then at the painting. Before they could say a word, she'd pulled off her pink cape to fling it over the painting's face as she'd done once before. But this time, Hermione had no desire to remove it. Umbridge stared. "What have you done?"

"It's a painting," Cedric replied. "Just a painting."

"That painting -- we both know your mother did something strange to it!"

"It's a painting," Cedric said again, although he was frowning. "It tells a story. And today -- in case you've forgotten -- is Beltane."

Turning, he headed back to the Great Hall, Hermione following, but Umbridge followed too. "Where were the two of you last night?" she shrieked.

"I was in my bed," Cedric called back. "And Hermione was in hers. Ask our roommates. The painting isn't us. It's a painting."

They had to repeat that refrain frequently throughout the day, and spent all of it in plain sight of everybody else. After supper they sat together, heads bent, in the courtyard. "What is going on with that painting?" Hermione demanded in a whisper. "How did your mother know? How did she paint me into it? We weren't seeing each other yet most of the time she was working on it!"

"Shh," he said, covering her hand with his. "And I don't know. I talked to her over the holidays -- when we were in London at the gallery and you were calling your parents. I asked her about it then. She said it's not like any of her others. I don't know what she's done to it. It's . . . different -- as if it records. Have you noticed how it responds to things? It's symbolic, but it's all there."

"That image this morning wasn't symbolic!" Hermione hissed.

He put fingers over her lips and met her eyes. "I know. I can't believe she did that. I agreed to be her model. You didn't."

"But when could she have done it? And wouldn't she . . . need something from me? For that kind of magic?"

"She visited the castle and spent time with you. She even sketched you. Remember the copies you showed me? I didn't think anything of it at the time, but she must have painted you in when she brought the painting here."

"She could do that?"

He nodded. "A Master Painter can adjust a painting at any time until the painting's story begins to unfold. She painted you in when she knew we were together, and she must have taken some of your hair when you weren't paying attention, to mix into the paints. She may even have come here in person to do that."

"I can't believe it! What gave her the right to do that?"

He shook his head, face deeply troubled. "I won't try to justify it, Granger. My mother is a law unto herself sometimes. I'm sure she's got a reason, whether or not we'd like it."

"What reason? Do you have any idea?"

His frown deepened. "I think she put the painting here to . . . act as a witness. Like I said, it's recording what happens to me -- anything of great significance." He smiled faintly. "Last night was pretty significant. We weren't here to see what it was doing when we were, er, um, when we were at my house."

"Harry didn't say anything to me about funny scenes over break -- nor anyone else. And you'd think they would. It was your mother who put us in the same bedroom too! Did she mean for everybody here to see?"

"Perhaps . . . " he rubbed at his forehead. "Perhaps I have to be here -- physically present -- for the recording part to work. Some magic has distance limitations. I think that must be the case with this; my mother may have funny ideas, I admit, but I can't see her setting us up that way."

"But last night was Beltane Eve -- you said it yourself -- and that's part of the Summer King's legend. Cedric --" A very disturbing idea was wiggling its way into her mind. "Do you think maybe we couldn't have sex before last night? Even if we'd wanted to -- tried to? Could she have, well, put a spell on us along with the painting? So it had to happen last night?"

His gray eyes were very wide and he shook his head. "I don't -- no. No, Granger. I don't think that's possible."

"You would've said this painting wasn't possible. How do you know what your mother can do? She's invented a completely new kind of magical painting, hasn't she? Everyone says she's brilliant -- the most original, most talented painter in 500 years. So she's done something even greater than Ragnarök. I mean, after that, what do you do for an encore? That painting out there is you -- and me. It's recording, you're right. But what if it's also . . . dictating? What if it makes us . . . do things to match the myth? You said she'd intended it to be the story of the Summer King originally, but changed it and brought it here. We tried to have sex before last night and it didn't work. But last night, we didn't intend to have sex and did anyway. And this morning? Beltane morning? The painting shows us."

He was staring at her. "She wouldn't . . . Granger -- Hermione, no. She wouldn't do that."

"Are you so sure? She was in Slytherin."

His face went completely hard. "She's my mother. You're accusing my mother of . . . just -- no."

Hermione had doubts too, but arising more from a failure of logic than a belief that Lucretia Diggory wouldn't offend propriety if it suited her. She had no doubt that Cedric's mother would do whatever it took to protect him -- including invent an entirely new mode of artistic magic in order to watch over him when she couldn't. Yet his mother had apparently assumed they were already having sex, which if she'd known her painting would prevent it, she wouldn't have done.

"Cedric -- if you're inventing new magic, it could . . . get away from you, couldn't it? If it were really powerful?" She watched his face change as he followed her through mental hoops. "What if your mother's painting is doing things she didn't intend?" Fear settled heavy in her gut and she clutched at him. "She has to stop it -- the painting. The Summer King dies on the 21st of June. She said the story would be over on the 24th, but if she painted the High Celtic Holidays into it -- the Summer King dies before that. It has to be stopped!" Hermione started to rise.

Cedric's hands on her wrists pulled her back down. He looked upset too, but was shaking his head. "We can't get a message to her right now. We've got time. It's just the first of May -- we've some weeks more." He raised a hand to stroke his knuckle down her cheek. "It'll be fine."

Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "I almost lost you a year ago, and I didn't even know you yet. I'm not losing you now." Her stomach felt sick. He hugged her back.

"I have no intention of dying, trust me. Now work on your Arithmancy." Frowning, she did as he said.

And whether it was worry over the painting, or the wild gossip, or a combination of all the stress of the past two weeks, Cedric had another attack the very next day. Peter sneaked her into the Hufflepuff dormitories Thursday after curfew. It had meant telling him about Harry's Invisibility cloak, but under the circumstances and after all they'd done for Cedric, she and Harry decided Peter, Ed and Scott could be trusted. So Harry lent it to her, and Peter and Scott got her inside.

Cedric was insensible from Abdoleo and still twitching in pain despite the heavy dose. Climbing into bed beside him, she stroked his sweaty hair. "Two more months," she whispered. "Less than that really. After you take your exams, you can leave this place. I want you to leave before all this kills you." She knew he couldn't hear her, but he seemed to relax with her lying against him.

And because she was there, she was witness to something historic.

"An Extraordinary Assembly." "An Extraordinary Assembly?" "Yeah, that's what I heard. Ed Carpenter called an Extraordinary Assembly." It was whispered up and down the Sett tunnels.

Scott popped his head in the door at one point to say, "Everybody's going to the common room. So, er, if we're not around, well -- we're in the common room." It seemed a rather blindingly obvious comment from sly Scott, which meant it was something else. A sideways invitation. So when the halls emptied, Hermione kissed Cedric's cheek, grabbed Harry's cloak and slung it around her like armor, then snuck out towards the common room herself.

" . . . seen what Umbridge has made of our school -- and what she's done to one of our own -- but it's more than that," Ed was saying. "This isn't about Cedric. It's about asking us to sit back and take it, like we have no say. But we do. I called an Extraordinary Assembly because I want to put forward a motion of no confidence."

What on earth?

The rest of the House must have been just as startled by Ed's proposal, as silence fell in its wake. Hermione settled herself in a corner between a wooden wine rack and the tunnel that led back to Cedric's room, and listened.

"A motion is on the floor," Scott said. He seemed to be acting in some capacity as leader. "Is there a second?"

"I second it," Peter said.

"Discussion?" Scott asked.

A pause, then Rose Zeller, the little curly-haired girl Cedric had befriended, raised her hand. "What's a motion of no confidence?" Several others nodded, apparently glad she'd asked.

Scott actually grinned. "Traditionally, it's a parliamentary action that amounts to a public censure -- a way to embarrass the prime minister. It usually results in his resignation."

"We could do that to Umbridge?" Ernie wanted to know.

To Hermione's surprise, Scott gestured to Justin Finch-Fletchley, who stood. "We looked into it, Scott and I. There have been motions of no confidence brought against Ministers of Magic -- but never against a Head at Hogwarts. There's been no procedure in place for it to happen -- only the Governors can force a Head to resign. But we found what may be a loophole. Hufflepuff has a unique . . . right, I suppose you'd say, called the 'Unanimous Voice.' If we can agree on a position by anonymous vote without any dissent, then we can invoke Unanimous Voice and force the staff -- or now, the Governors -- to listen to us. The more I considered that, the more it seemed that if we combine it with a motion of no confidence, we might be able to force Umbridge to resign. Both have precedents in the Wizarding World . . . they just haven't been used together before."

"This isn't something to do lightly," Scott added, his face uncharacteristically serious. "It requires a completely unanimous vote. But Helga believed her House wouldn't converge on an error." He paused and looked around at the gathered students. "We're on the brink of a war but the Ministry is ignoring it, leaving us unprepared. I heard Rufus Scrimgeour tell Umbridge that he's not sure a single seventh year will pass the NEWT in Dark Arts. Not one. So what the bloody hell are we going to do when we leave here? Sit around and hope He Who Must Not Be Named doesn't come knocking at our doors? Minister Fudge tells us it's all under control, but the plain fact is he hasn't got a damn clue what to do, so he's sticking his head in the sand. And he's trying to silence anybody pointing out that fact. That's what Umbridge is here to do -- silence the opposition. Yes, that means Cedric, and Dumbledore, and Harry Potter . . . and anybody else inclined to object. This administration doesn't want us to think, just do the 'patriotic thing' and support them.

"Well, I don't." Scott stopped and looked out at all of them. "I don't. He Who Must Not Be Named is back, and we need to speak as One right now before it's too late."

He was, Hermione thought, not a bad speech-maker, if not quite in Cedric's league.

"Do you really think we can make the Governors fire her?" Zacharias asked. "We're just students."

"We're Hufflepuff," Justin replied. "This right to speak is our privilege. We're not helpless. If we want the rest of the Wizarding World to know what's really going on here before it's too late, we can tell them -- but only if we stand together. That's what Helga knew. If we stand together, they can't break us. We're badgers. We hold on."

There was a lot of murmuring at this, and Susan Bones raised her hand. "Ed -- I call for a fifteen-minute recess. This is . . . big." She looked at him, her dark eyes serious.

He just nodded at her, and Hermione thought that Ed and Susan -- like she and Cedric -- had their own way of communicating. Ed drew a deep breath and called, "Fifteen minutes granted! Then we reconvene."

Hermione shrunk back against the wall so no one accidentally bumped into her in the sudden flurry of motion and chatter. Everybody seemed to be talking at once, and while it was clear that most of them realized it was anger over Cedric's dismissal that had motivated his friends to stage a coup, it also seemed that most of them agreed with Scott's basic assessment of the situation. Fudge was leading them all down a wide, well-paved path straight to hell. And they were scared.

Susan, Hermione saw, had gone forward to talk to Ed, Scott and Justin, her face earnest. After fifteen minutes (or really, twenty) had passed, Ed blew his Quidditch Captain's whistle and the rest settled down. "As Susan has reminded me," Ed began, "if we do pass the motion by Unanimous Voice, we have to have a former badger return in order to speak for us to the Head. Sprout can't do it. It's considered a conflict of interest. Basically, we don't want her sacked for our choices."

"And you think Umbridge won't blame her?" a fourth year asked.

"It doesn't matter what Umbridge thinks. Procedure's clear. She can't be involved -- and she can't be blamed."

"So who's going to speak for us?" someone called.

"My aunt," Susan replied. "Well -- that's the plan anyway. She knows the law as well as anybody, and she was in Hufflepuff. If we pass this motion, I'll send her an owl."

"And Umbridge will let it through?"

"I won't say what it's about," Susan replied. "I'm not an idiot. She doesn't trust Umbridge either and we arranged something over Christmas. If I send her the right message, she'll be here within twelve hours."

Glances were exchanged. If Amelia Bones had made contingency plans with her niece, apparently that meant something.

"Further discussion?" Scott called.

"If we have a vote of no confidence," Ernie asked, "and Umbridge refuses to resign -- then what?"

"Then, well, we withdraw, mate."

"Just . . . up and leave? What about our exams?"

"We don't take them," Scott replied, holding Ernie's eyes. "But I doubt it'll come to that. Imagine all the attention this'll bring. Can the Ministry afford that sort of bad press? An entire House at Hogwarts is so disgusted by the Ministry-appointed Headmistress, they demand that she leave? Justin tells me that's the real point of a no confidence vote -- to embarrass a Minister. Umbridge thinks we can't do anything -- we're at her mercy. But we aren't. We don't have to play her game."

"But -- "

"It's a risk, Ernie," Zacharias snarled almost in his face, and Hermione was a bit surprised. "You don't win anything if you don't risk." He held up a hand that was wrapped with a blood-stained bandage. Umbridge must have used her Punishment Quill on him, too, and Hermione bit her tongue to keep from squeaking. "I, for one, would be glad to vote against the Toad."

Ernie backed down, but appeared troubled, and Peter -- heretofore silent -- rose. "This will work only if we stick together. Our one strength -- what nobody else in this school really understands -- is that we can do that. We understand what union means. We're striking, Badgers. Unlike any other House, we can make the Governors and the rest of the Wizarding World listen to us, but only if we speak together."

Silence fell for four heartbeats, five, six . . . Hermione heard someone mutter, "Wow, we're not sitting around debating it till midnight."

When a full ten seconds had passed without anybody objecting, Ed stood. "Then I call the vote."

Hermione watched it happen -- anonymous and surprisingly efficient, everybody was provided with two pebbles, one light, one dark. 'Aye' was light, 'nay' was dark. Each member put one pebble in an opaque jar and discarded the other into an equally opaque tin. Even one dark pebble in the jar would defeat the motion. Scott went round with the jar and tin. When everybody had dropped in his or her pebble, he took the jar back to the center of the room near the fireplace and -- carefully -- upended it.

All the pebbles were light.

"White," "white," "white," "white" . . . Hermione heard the decision carried around the room from those closest to the pile. "All white."

"The motion is passed!" Scott declared loudly. "Hufflepuff House has issued a vote of no confidence." He grinned. "Umbridge is about to find out what it means to tangle with badgers." He turned to look at Susan. "Send your aunt that message."

Hermione didn't stay to hear more but hurried back to Cedric's dormitory before the common room emptied, then waited until Peter arrived to help sneak her out again. It was midnight by then. "Did you hear?" he asked. Apparently, he'd known about Scott's inside-out invitation.

"Yeah," she replied. "Ced's going to kill you."

"No he won't. He might not agree, but he won't defy the House."

"I wouldn't be so sure -- "

"Hermione," Peter gripped her upper arm and looked her in the eye. "You're in Gryffindor. No offense, but you don't understand. The House has spoken; he won't defy us."

"You did this when he couldn't speak."

"Of course we did. Ced's too inclined to think it's all about him, even when he's being modest. We love him, but this wasn't about him. He was the catalyst, that's all. We're going to stop Umbridge because we can. Now go back to Gryffindor and wait for tomorrow."

On the way up and out, she paused in front of Lucy Diggory's painting. It was still covered -- formally now with a big, black cloth. But being well past curfew there was no one around to see, so Hermione lifted a corner to peek beneath, almost afraid to find her face still looking back.

But it wasn't, and she yanked the cloth off the painting, let it pool on the stone floor beneath. There were no dogs and deer now, and no god and goddess. Instead, a dead tree had become the focus, and the brown snake the Hunter had shot at a few panels earlier -- the one with the black bow-tie markings -- was twining its way up the trunk towards a hollow in the bole. Something was moving inside the hollow, but she couldn't see exactly what it was.

Notes: Thanks to Joia for helping me figure out a few things in this chapter. On Adrian Pucey's age, although I put him in Ginny's year in Room With a Computer, that was mostly for convenience. He's probably a year or two ahead of Harry. As for 'no confidence,' Hufflepuff and Justin, I was always intrigued by the idea that Justin was tagged for Eton, strongly suggesting an upper, upper crust background for him. His father might very well sit in Parliament. As for how Hufflepuff House runs, we know nothing about them, so it's all invention and I make no bones about that. :-) The dates used in Book 5 are all messed up from the actual 1995/96 calendar. I've mostly followed the Lexicon calendar, but it has days missing, etc., in order to match the book time-line and suit the story. Therefore, I don't feel too badly about returning Beltane to its actual calendar date of a Wednesday. Not that most readers will be following along with the Lexicon calendar at elbow, but just to prevent confusion.