When they came out to tell Cedric what had happened to Hermione to cause all the bleeding, he didn't know quite what to say. "She miscarried" simply didn't compute.

"But she wasn't pregnant," he replied, bewildered. "She couldn't have miscarried. She wasn't pregnant."

The healer -- a woman -- settled down in a wooden-backed chair across from his wheelchair. Her face was very solemn, her back as stiff as the wood. "I'm afraid she was, Mr. Diggory. About seven weeks along, in fact."

Speechless and struggling to sort through the morass of what he felt, Cedric ran a hand into his hair, tugging at it as the woman droned on: "She'll be all right in a few days. The miscarriage was clean -- we didn't need to Scourgify her womb, and she didn't lose significant amounts of blood. That curse turned out to be of greater concern. It caused internal bleeding, but that's all repaired now too. She'll likely be unconscious for another day or so while her body mends, but I expect her to make a full recovery. That said, she shouldn't be allowed to do anything terribly strenuous for two weeks and" -- she eyed him over the top of her spectacles -- "no sexual intercourse during that time either. Other sexual activity is fine, but no sexual intercourse."

Cedric blushed. Yet her voice was straightforward and cautionary, not censorious; if she found anything scandalous in their behavior, he couldn't tell. Finally, he asked, "You're quite sure it was a miscarriage? It couldn't have . . . well, you said there was internal bleeding . . . "

She shook her head. "It was a miscarriage." She was peering at him. "I don't wish to pry, but is there a particular reason you find that unlikely? You're her boyfriend; I'd assumed . . . well -- "

"The baby would have been mine," Cedric snapped.

"I meant no insult, Mr. Diggory, but you seemed surprised."

"It's just that we were careful. We were very careful, both of us . . . " He trailed off. There had been that one time in the broom cupboard. He'd forgotten his spell -- but Hermione hadn't.

Perhaps guessing somewhat the direction of his thoughts, she said, "It only takes once -- one badly cast spell. If you're excited . . . it can happen. The two of you would hardly be the first young couple to have an accident."

"Hermione is very precise," he said, but offered no excuse for himself. Seven weeks . . . that would have been about right. Beltane. It had happened on Beltane. He wanted to laugh.

The Summer King, indeed.

If he'd died tonight, he'd have left a child -- a son, no doubt. But he hadn't died. His baby had instead, and almost his baby's mother.

"Could I be alone for a bit?" he asked. "And can I go in to sit with her now?"

She nodded. "Yes. We have her resting comfortably in the Bonham Ward for Spell Damage. I'll show you the way."

"I know the way," he said, resisting a snort of laughter. "I spent almost six weeks in that very ward last summer." And he wheeled rapidly away, leaving her behind. He didn't thank her. At the moment, he wasn't feeling gracious.

He was alive but his baby -- a baby he'd neither expected nor wanted but was still his -- was dead. He didn't at all know how he felt about that.

Wheeling into the ward, he found Hermione's bed near the back; it would've been too great an irony if she'd occupied the same one he had. The place still smelled of old camphor and sharp sweat beneath a false floral odor, and the sheets that covered her small form were such a bright bleach white they hurt the eyes. Her pale skin looked like vanilla cream beside them, the bushy brown hair a bottlebrush on the pillow. He wheeled in next to the bed as close as he could get, and slipped his hand into hers. The fingers were warm, not clammy like they'd been in the Department of Mysteries. He couldn't maneuver close enough to lift them to his mouth and it frustrated him.

He could find no sign of consciousness in her face, no flicker of awareness that he was there, and he wondered how he would tell her they'd made a baby together, then lost it. Perhaps that was a blessing, sparing them the decision of whether or not to keep it. He wondered if she'd known -- but by seven weeks, she must have had some suspicion, mustn't she?

He heard feet behind him and turned his head as a hand came down on his shoulder. His mother. She handed him a cup of steaming tea -- "Drink something" -- and pulled up a chair beside his.

"Did you talk to the healer?"

"No, one of the medi-witches told me you'd come in here. I'm not Hermione's mother, Cedric. They wouldn't tell me her condition."

"They told me." At his mother's sharp glance, he shrugged. "I suppose they thought I had a right to know." He hesitated, unsure whether he should tell her -- but it had been her painting that had caused this, and a flush of bitterness soured the back of his throat. "She was pregnant."

If his mother were surprised by this, he couldn't tell and he studied her face, but when she said nothing, he went on. "Seven weeks. Beltane -- it must have happened on Beltane." He fell silent again, but she still said nothing. "Hermione was right. That painting did something, something it wasn't supposed to do?" He made it a question rather than a statement.

She shook her head. "It wasn't intended to do that, no."

"She miscarried," he said, looking back at Hermione and dragging a thumb back and forth across her hand as he sipped his tea.

"I gathered that from the 'was pregnant' part."

"You knew that's what was happening in the Department of Mysteries, didn't you?" He couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice. She merely nodded. Of course she'd known; it had happened to her. "Why am I alive and our baby dead?"

"You're alive because I burned the painting. The baby is dead because Hermione was hit by a vicious curse."

He jerked his head around when she said -- so matter-of-factly -- that she'd burned the painting, and with it, her evidence against Umbridge. Without the painting, it was his word against Umbridge's regarding the incident with the charmed Snitch, or Esiban, or even her behavior in the Prefect's Bath. She was going to get away with it. Those at Hogwarts might know the truth, but the larger Wizarding World didn't necessarily. "When?" he asked.

"Tonight, after you left the Three Broomsticks, dashing off like a fool with those roommates of yours. When that girl -- Amelia Bones' niece -- came to tell me you'd gone to London, I knew Voldemort had succeeded in luring Harry Potter to the Hall of Prophecy, and if there was even the slightest chance you'd be in harm's way, I couldn't run the risk that the painting might do more than I'd meant." She sighed. "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you, Cedric?"

He pressed his lips together. "I had to stop Harry, mum. I knew he'd listen to me -- like I told you in the Ministry. And he would have listened."

"Yes, and Lucius Malfoy was watching all of you from the moment you arrived too. What you should have done was come directly to me as soon as you suspected what Harry was up to -- or did you think the adults couldn't have stopped him just as effectively?"

"It wasn't that -- "

"Then what was it?"

"I didn't think about -- "

"That's right! You didn't think, Cedric. You didn't think! And you didn't stay put in the atrium like you were told, either. As a result, you nearly got yourself killed." Her voice was as sharp as splintered glass, cutting him.

"I couldn't just sit there while the rest of you -- "

"Yes, you could have," she interrupted for a third time. "But instead you had to throw yourself into the middle of a battle when you can't even hold your wand and walk at the same time, never mind run, forcing everybody else to keep an eye out to protect you."

"So, what, I'm just a useless cripple?"

"Merlin spare me! Yes, Cedric, you are crippled! There are things you can do and things you cannot, and if you expect me to sugarcoat the truth to spare your feelings, you're sadly mistaken. Maturity means recognizing our limitations, not endangering others because we don't want to face them. You do not belong in the middle of a wizards' battle, not even in eagle form."

And Cedric was so angry, he wanted to spit. "If I hadn't been there, Lucius Malfoy might have got that prophecy from Harry. I helped tonight, mother. I helped more than I hindered anybody."

"Perhaps you did, but the plain fact is that you threw yourself in the path of danger for the sake of your male vanity. You couldn't be left behind, just like you couldn't swallow your pride earlier and tell Cornelius Fudge the poems in that journal weren't yours. You had to be noble and accept expulsion instead of be sensible and lie a little."

Cedric knew she had a point, but right now wasn't the time to press it. Glaring at her, he said, "I don't want to talk about this just at the moment. Do you know what happened after we left the Ministry?"

"Not really. I spoke briefly with Tonks when she brought in your friend, Scott. Apparently, the Dark Lord himself showed up and fought Dumbledore briefly, but fled with Bellatrix when he found out the prophecy was destroyed. The rest of the Death Eaters were arrested."

"What prophecy?"

"The one in the glass orb that Harry accidentally broke, the one the Dark Lord wanted to acquire."

"Why did he want it?"

"Because it involves him, and Harry Potter. Nobody can take an orb from the Hall of Prophecy if it doesn't concern him. That meant only the Dark Lord or Harry could fetch it, and the Dark Lord wasn't about to show up at the Ministry himself. Fudge and his government have been too conveniently pretending he hasn't returned, and walking into the Ministry would rather belie that."

"So he lured Harry there to do it instead?"

"Exactly."

"How?"

"For some reason, Harry and the Dark Lord are linked. At times, Harry can see and feel what the Dark Lord does. Likewise, the Dark Lord could place ideas and false visions in Harry's mind, which is why Severus was to have taught him Occlumency -- which I discovered Severus gave up on some weeks back. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know until recently either. Harry didn't tell me. He said the dreams had stopped."

"He lied."

Cedric just nodded. "Is this prophecy what all of you've been guarding? What Arthur Weasley was attacked for?"

"Yes."

"And now it's lost."

She shrugged. "The Dark Lord doesn't have it -- and that's what matters most. Harry isn't dead and the Dark Lord doesn't have the prophecy. And now that he's tipped his hand, Fudge can no longer deny that he's back." A shadow crossed her face. "But it cost us."

Sirius Black.

"How about the rest? Did anybody else . . . die?"

"No." She turned her head to look at Hermione in the bed. "We should contact her parents."

"She won't want that," Cedric protested. "She hasn't told her parents anything about the war, mum. She's afraid they'd make her return to the Muggle world if she did."

"She might be safer there, as a Muggle-born . . . "

"But she doesn't belong there, not anymore."

"They're her parents, Cedric; they have a right to know she's at risk."

"It's not our place to tell them. When she wakes up, I'll see if she wants me to contact them."

Cedric could tell that she didn't agree and was annoyed, but it was with him in general, not about this. He knew she blamed him for getting caught at sex, and thought he'd been rash to go after Harry, and even more reckless to rush down into the Department of Mysteries after the rest of them. Perhaps she was right on all counts, but he hadn't died.

Your baby died in your place.

The words whispered through his mind. Yet there shouldn't have been a baby at all. His mother's magic had brought the child into existence, and if he'd known Hermione was pregnant, he wouldn't have let her go with Harry. He shouldn't have let her go anyway.

And why is that?

His male vanity again, as his mother had termed it.

He spent all the following day by Hermione's bedside, leaving only now and then to eat or visit the loo. His father replaced his mother, coming by around mid-morning to see how he was. If his father knew about the miscarriage, he said nothing. Cedric thought he probably didn't know.

It was in the early evening one day after the Ministry attack when he (and Hermione) received another visitor: Dumbledore. Cedric hadn't spoken to the Headmaster since the night Cedric had arrived at The Three Broomsticks. Now, he appeared without ceremony in the ward doorway and crossed to take the seat beside Cedric's wheelchair. "How is she?" he asked, his voice gentle, his face concerned.

"She'll recover, but she's still unconscious." Cedric frowned. "They didn't tell me what the curse was -- something nasty. It caused internal bleeding but she's stable now. They think she might wake by tomorrow morning."

Dumbledore just nodded, his eyes on Cedric, not Hermione. "And how are you?"

"I'm fine. I wasn't hurt at all."

"I didn't mean physically, Cedric."

And Dumbledore's use of his first name got his attention; he wondered how much Dumbledore knew. The lamplight in the ward flashed off the Headmaster's half-moon spectacles, and there was an aura of weariness about him that left Cedric wondering if he'd slept any since the fight with Voldemort. Almost, he turned Dumbledore's question around to ask how the Headmaster was, but feared it might sound cheeky rather than concerned. "I was worried," he admitted. "I'm better now. How's Harry? And Sirius? Is he really -- ?"

"Yes," Dumbledore's voice almost dragged. "He's gone. Harry is . . . as well as can be expected, considering."

"And that prophecy my mother mentioned? It broke -- the orb broke."

"That doesn't matter -- may in fact be for the best. What matters is that the full extent of it was kept from Voldemort. We can discuss the prophecy later, or Harry can tell you if he wishes." He tipped his chin. "I want to know how you feel about Hermione's miscarriage?"

The question made Cedric start, but also answered how much Dumbledore knew. Face tomato red, he lowered his eyes. "It was an accident. My mother's painting -- "

"I know; I've spoken to your mother. But that doesn't answer my question, Cedric. How do you feel about it?"

"Relieved," he replied, honestly. "But sad -- which I shouldn't be."

"Why not?"

"We didn't want it, we didn't intend it. We weren't -- aren't -- ready. I'd never have wished it on her . . . "

"Of course not," Dumbledore said softly. "Yet our feelings rarely follow logic." That was true, and something seemed to be crushing Cedric's chest. He crossed his arms tightly. "There are times," Dumbledore went on, "when we feel more than one thing at once -- even contradictory things: love and anger, relief and sorrow."

After a moment, Cedric nodded, and Dumbledore grew even more grave. "We need to discuss what brought you here."

Cedric was genuinely puzzled for a moment, not sure what Dumbledore meant. "Sir? You mean following Harry to London?"

"No. I mean the matter of Miss Granger and her pregnancy."

Cedric's whole face flushed hot again and he looked away, too humiliated to meet Dumbledore's eyes. "I know what we did was wrong." He paused. "I'm sorry, sir. I deserved to be expelled."

"Cedric -- look at me, please." After a moment of internal struggle, Cedric did so. Dumbledore's face was serious, but not angry. "Do you understand why what you did was wrong?"

Confused, Cedric just tilted his head. "Well, we, er, um . . . " He almost couldn't get the words out. "We . . . got to know each other a bit too well -- in the Biblical sense."

Dumbledore actually smiled. "No, Mr. Diggory. That isn't what you did wrong. That was simply being young, and in love." He held Cedric's eyes and Cedric felt almost as if Dumbledore knew everything, saw everything. "I don't want you to go away from this experience with the mistaken impression sexual intercourse itself is wrong or perverse. The rightness or wrongness of such an act involves appropriate vulnerability -- the willingness to match such physical openness with emotional openness. There are married couples who don't understand that, and no ceremony legitimizes their failure at intimacy."

Puzzled and surprised, Cedric's brows drew together. "All that said" -- Dumbledore went on -- "what the two of you did was, indeed, wrong -- and I would be much remiss in my responsibility as a teacher and guide if I failed to point that out. It was wrong because you took advantage of your positions in order to break the rules, and not for a greater good, but for your own satisfaction."

Abruptly, the old man sighed. "The unfortunate fact is that rules are often made for the lowest common denominator, and however mature you and Miss Granger may be, there are students at Hogwarts -- even those your age -- who aren't emotionally ready for a physical relationship, but may think they are. How many younger students may, in the future, use what you and Hermione have done to justify behavior they're not ready to pursue? Do you understand?"

Cedric wasn't sure, but thought perhaps so. "You're saying that we made bad role models."

Dumbledore smiled. "More or less. In some ways, you have been the very best of Head Boys, Cedric. But yes, in this one thing, I'm afraid the two of you made poor choices." Abruptly he sighed again. "Although to be fair, I somewhat blame myself for it."

Bewildered, Cedric frowned. "How were you guilty?"

"I laid on your shoulders more than any Headmaster should expect of a student -- even his Head Boy. Do you remember when I asked if you would be willing to take the position? I told you I wasn't doing you a favor? I think now you understand why. Although none of us can know the future, I had a fair inkling of what this year might have brought, and could think of no one better suited to hold the student body together in the face of Dolores Umbridge. You were like a gift from Fortune, Cedric. I haven't had a Head Boy capable of doing what you did -- acting with the same wisdom, maturity and restraint -- in years. I expected things of you that many adults couldn't have delivered.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised, then, if you sought an equally adult form of stress relief." He winked. Cedric dropped his eyes, but couldn't help grinning. Just a little. "I cannot expect you to behave and function as an adult, then treat you like a child," Dumbledore added.

"So while I want to be clear that I do not -- and cannot -- approve of what you and Miss Granger did, at least while you were at Hogwarts, I do . . . understand it. And I hope that you now understand where the true problem lay. I am and always have been more interested in correction than punishment. We all err; it's the nature of being human. A good man isn't one who's perfect, but one who learns from his errors, and has compassion for the shortcomings of others.

"In any case, I came here for three reasons. First, to see how you and Miss Granger are. Second, to tell you that you may return to Hogwarts for the last few days of this term."

"I can? But Professor Umbridge -- "

"Is no longer either a professor or headmistress."

"They reinstated you!" Cedric's relief was palpable but Dumbledore's smile was faint.

"Yes, indeed they did. And as Headmaster, it is my right to revoke a decision of the previous Headmistress. You may return to school. I am not, however, re-instating you as Head Boy."

Dropping his eyes, Cedric nodded. "That's only fair -- "

"It's not for the reasons you may think. It's true that I don't want to give student couples the impression they may sneak into the prefects' bath or broom cupboards" -- Cedric's ears and neck burned again -- "but I'm not re-instating you as Head Boy because you're no longer a boy. You're a man, and I'm prepared to treat you as one. Not as a reward, but because you've shown yourself capable of adult responsibility this past year." He bent his head forward to regard Cedric over the top of his spectacles. "And that brings me to my third reason for coming. If you still wish to be involved, I think we can accept you as a full member of the Order of the Phoenix."

Cedric took a deep breath and held it a moment, then said, "Yes, I still want to be involved."

"Be aware that in agreeing to this, it may mean there are matters you cannot discuss with Miss Granger."

Cedric hesitated, but nodded a second time. "I understand that."

"Very well. I'll assign you as Remus' research assistant. He's quite fond of you."

Cedric nodded. "I'd like that. I think rather highly of him too." Nonetheless, he noticed that Dumbledore had said 'research.' Clearly he wouldn't be fighting Death Eaters again. At the moment, however, he was too happy to be fully included to rock the boat -- at least not about the job he was given. "Professor," he began, "I don't know how such things are done in the Order, but I'd like to suggest three other potential members."

Head tilted, curious, Dumbledore leaned forward. "Who did you have in mind?"

"My denmates -- Peter Adamson, Ed Carpenter, and Scott Summers. They've stood by me all year despite everything, and both Scott and Peter were at the Ministry. Ed would have been there too if he was better at apparating. Hufflepuff House may not be Gryffindor, but -- "

"Far be it from me to underestimate the fortitude of Hufflepuff, Cedric. Especially after this year. By remembering their ancient responsibility as Hogwarts' conscience, Hufflepuff achieved what none of the other houses could manage. They may be slow to act, but when they move, it has the force of an earthquake." He grinned, a bit mischievous. "And I should add that Miss Tonks and Mr. Shacklebolt have both complemented the skill and bravery of Mr. Summers. As for including them -- I will certainly consider it, and talk with each of them when the school year is over. The Order needs members, it's true. But I'm also mindful of the fact it's a dangerous choice to make. As someone drawn into this against your will by circumstance -- "

"It may have been by circumstance, but -- as I said last summer -- it's not against my will. Not anymore. We all have to make choices about where to stand, and I've made mine. I know they've made theirs. They'd want to fight the same as I do, if given a chance."

Dumbledore was smiling gently. "Your advocacy for your friends is impressive, Cedric, and I would hardly turn them away if they do truly wish to join our cause. I simply want to make quite certain they're aware of the full danger." He stood. "And now, I fear I must be going, but as soon as Miss Granger is recovered, I'll expect to see you both back at Hogwarts."

"Yes, sir," Cedric replied.

Hermione passed from deep unconsciousness into sleep, then into a doze so that when she finally woke, she startled herself from a dream -- or a nightmare -- with the sensation of falling. "Ah!" Her eyes snapped open and she gripped the sheets for balance.

"Hermione?" came a sleepy voice -- Cedric's -- and it was dark.

"Where's Harry? Where am I?" What had happened in the Department of Mysteries? The last thing she remembered was running back into the rotating room with Harry, and seeing Cedric in eagle form.

"It's all right," Cedric told her now in a soft voice. "You're at St. Mungo's. Harry's fine, and I understand Ron will be too."

She let out a sigh, pausing a moment, then tried to sit up but her head hurt and so did her chest and abdomen. Cedric held her down with a hand on her shoulder; it didn't take much effort from him as she felt terribly weak. "Lie still," he ordered. "You lost a lot of blood, and even with a replacement spell, the healers say you should take it easy. Besides, it's the middle of the night."

She stopped trying to rise and just breathed instead, taking stock of her body, which felt hollow and full of light. She suspected she'd been given some sort of pain potion. Cedric's hand was still on her shoulder, stroking it, and she reached up to grip it. "Are you all right? I was so scared when I saw you there -- "

"I'm just fine."

"You idiot. You shouldn't have -- "

"My girl was down there."

"I can take care of myself, Cedric Diggory."

Even in the blue-dim glow of a gas lamp, she could see he was smiling. "You sound like my mother. You're also the one in the hospital bed." The smile disappeared. "I'm not helpless, poppet. I don't like being treated as if I am."

Hermione wanted to argue with him, point out that there was a difference between treating him as if he were helpless and recognizing his very real limitations, but they could fight about it later. For now, it was enough they'd all survived --

Or had they? "What about the rest?" she asked.

"Neville, Ginny, Luna, Peter and Scott are all fine." Yet there was something tense about his eyes.

"There's something you're not telling me."

He opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. "Sirius. Some members of the Order showed up to rescue us and Sirius . . . He felt through some kind of . . . magical veil hanging in an archway -- the veil between this world and the next, I suppose."

At first, what he was saying didn't quite register. A veil? Sirius had just fallen through a piece of cloth? "Sirius is . . . dead?"

"Yes."

Horrified, both her hands went up to cover her mouth. "No!"

"Shhh," he whispered, rolling his chair as close as he could to lean over and stroke her brow. "I'm sorry, poppet. You knew him longer and better than I did."

"What must Harry -- ?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen more than a handful of people since the fight. I've been here with you."

"How long?"

"Two days."

"Shit," she muttered, which made both his eyebrows rise. "Oh please, of course I know that word -- don't give me such an astonished expression" -- which only made him grin at her.

She looked around, seeking a clock, irritated that it was, as he'd said, the middle of the night. She needed to return to Hogwarts right now if Harry were there. "How close to morning is it? When can I leave? Is Harry back at Hogwarts? What happened to the prophecy? To the Death Eaters -- ?"

"Slow down," he said, voice lowered again. "It's" -- he pulled out his pocket watch -- "a bit after two, and yes, Harry's at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was here just this past evening and said we could return as soon as you were free to go, but I don't think they'll let us leave at this hour. Your healers will need to see you again at least once. As for the Death Eaters -- well, all of them were arrested except Bellatrix Lestrange. Voldemort showed up at the end and fought with Dumbledore, and Bellatrix escaped with Voldemort. I didn't see it; it happened upstairs in the Atrium. But Fudge can't deny Voldemort's return anymore; it was all over the papers this morning. The Ministry is taking fire from all directions at once."

She stared at him. "All of the rest of his followers were captured?"

"All of the rest."

"Lucius Malfoy?"

His smile was uncharacteristically vicious. "-- has been sent to Azkaban."

She let out a breath. "Will they be tried?"

"They were caught red-handed, so to speak."

"Cedric, they still deserve a trial."

He made a face. "I'm sure they'll have one, but for now they're in custody."

He'd leaned away again but was still holding her hand, his thumb moving compulsively back and forth across the top of it. He looked as if he wanted to tell her something, but didn't know where to start. "What else happened?" she asked, inviting.

"Well, the capture of the Death Eaters and the public acknowledgment that Voldemort is back is most of it," he said. "Harry and I -- and Dumbledore -- are looking a bit less foolish these days."

She nodded against the pillows and squeezed his hand. "That's good."

"Fudge formally apologized to Dumbledore and reinstated him as Headmaster. I don't know what happened to Umbridge."

"The centaurs carried her off."

"What?" His face looked . . . shocked.

"I took her into the forest, to the centaurs. I'd thought they might scare her off, make her leave, and Harry and I could get away. It was all I could think of . . . "

"I thought you were going to the giant?"

"No, I didn't think of that. But he came and, well, sort of rescued us." And she related to Cedric everything that had happened from Harry's collapse during their History of Magic exam right through to when she'd been struck by the purple-flamed curse.

He listened quietly, but she knew him well enough to read by his expression that he wasn't happy. Now, here and out of danger, she began to feel guilty for what she'd done to Umbridge -- but only a little bit. "She was going to torture Harry, Cedric. She was going to use Cruciatus. It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment. I didn't know they'd really, well, carry her off, but she wouldn't shut up, just kept insulting them." A new thought occurred to her. "You don't think they'd actually" -- her voice dropped -- "kill her, do you?" She'd been so desperate that honestly, it hadn't occurred to her at the time.

Sighing, he ran a hand over his face. "I don't know, Hermione. I don't think she's dead or Dumbledore would have said something about it when he came by. But you can't . . . " He trailed off and she knew he was upset with her. Then abruptly he shook his head. "I can't judge you; I'm not sure I'd have been able to come up with anything so quickly -- not that would have worked. That toad was just waiting for an excuse to hurt one of us."

She nodded. "She was. And I think she was, well, um -- " She felt herself blushing, wondering if she'd just imagined what she thought she'd seen in Umbridge's expression. "I think she was a bit excited by the prospect of using Cruciatus on Harry. Excited that way, I mean -- um . . . sexually," she whispered.

Cedric leaned forward abruptly, his hold on her fingers tightening. "Are you serious?" But he didn't sound as if he doubted her.

"Yes. It was, well, a bit disturbing."

"Did she do or say anything openly?"

"No, no, and I may have misread it, but," she blushed again, "she looked eager."

He was nodding. "She's a sick one, all right." He frowned. "I remember how she looked at me in the bath."

Hermione pulled a face. "And I remember what you and Flitwick told Fudge."

"It was true. There was another time too, later, after she took over as Head. She called Violet and me into her office, then made me stay after. She wanted to talk me into breaking up with you, and it wasn't quite flirting, but . . . it wasn't right. If you just describe what she was doing, it sounds harmless, you know? But you can tell there's this whole other level to it, like the way she looked at me half the time. She made my skin crawl."

"Why didn't you tell me about that?" Hermione asked, but he shook his head.

"I was too angry over what she said about you. And I was . . . well, I was really bothered, too." His face in the low light appeared torn between anger and shame. "I was afraid if I said anything about it, I'd sound crazy."

"Not crazy at all," she said, squeezing his hand. "After what I saw in her face when she planned to torture Harry, it wouldn't surprise me, either. You're right, she's a sick one."

She pushed away thoughts of Umbridge. "So you really weren't hurt? I was just sure when you showed up that the painting would come true -- that you'd die."

He shook his head. "My mother burned it -- the painting. When she found out I'd gone to London after you, she burned it, just in case."

Hermione sucked in a little breath. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Relief -- she didn't want anyone ever again to see that panel of her and Cedric on May Day morning -- but sad, as well. Cedric had looked so beautiful as the god. And more to the point, that painting might have been their proof against Umbridge. Now, they didn't have it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I think you made a brilliant Summer King. As long as it wasn't literal." Rolling onto her side, she reached out to run fingers over the back of his hand and wrist and arm, wondering how to tell him what she'd come to suspect just before. With everything else that had happened, she'd never had a chance to confirm it, and she'd almost forgotten it till he mentioned the painting. "Cedric -- "

"We need to talk," he said abruptly, eyes dropping to their interlaced fingers. "Something's . . . happened."

Her breath caught and her insides twisted. Did he know? Had he found out somehow? "What?"

Abruptly he bowed his head as if somebody had punched him in the stomach, his forehead touching the edge of her bed. Frightened, she laid a hand on the back of his neck in comfort. "You miscarried," he said, almost too softly for her to make out. "You were pregnant and you miscarried."

As with his announcement about Sirius, this washed over her without making sense. Then it did.

She had been pregnant. And now she wasn't. "The painting . . . "

He looked up, face stark. "Yes. You were right about it."

"It really might have killed you then . . . " she said, horrified.

"It might. Hermione, I'm sorry about the baby -- "

"It's all right." Reaching down to her abdomen, she set a hand there. Her first thought was that they'd been spared a difficult choice, and she felt less upset than she might have expected. "I didn't intend for you to find out that way."

"You knew?"

"Suspected. I was trying to make sure before I said anything."

He nodded, his thumb back to stroking her hand. "The healer will talk to you about it. I just . . . I wanted to be the one to tell you."

She studied his face as best she could in the low light. His hair was greasy from running his hands through it too much, and the corners of his mouth were slightly turned down. He looked sad, more sad than relieved. She'd been afraid he'd be upset, perhaps even angry when he found out. She hadn't expected that he might actually want a baby at their age. "Cedric, it was for the best."

He nodded again. "I know. I know it was. I just feel . . . odd. I don't even know how to explain that really. If you were still pregnant, I'd probably be terrified, but you're not, so . . . it's like I have the luxury to feel sad. Sounds barmy, doesn't it?"

"Not barmy," she whispered. "When I started to suspect I was . . . well, I didn't want the baby. But it was yours. Ours. That complicated it." She looked down at their still-joined hands, glad of the darkness that made speaking such tender things easier. "I wasn't sure what you'd want, how you'd feel . . . if you'd be angry."

"Not angry," he said. "Scared, worried, not sure what to do -- never angry." He clenched her hand tightly enough to hurt and she twisted it in his grasp; their fingers were sweaty. "I know this time, it was the painting, but I worry. You need to finish school. Maybe we shouldn't -- "

"Cedric," she interrupted. "It was the painting. We're careful, we're not pretending we're not going to do it and ignoring the proper spells, and those spells are pretty effective. It makes the chances low."

He nodded. "Low, but not absent. Maybe it's one in a thousand, but there is that one, you know? This made me realize it really could happen. I'd stand by you; you never have to doubt that. But we could go back to other things -- safer things."

Lips thin, she stared at him. He was trying to be noble, do what others expected, act responsible. "Cedric," she said, "you know it wouldn't work. It'd be the broom cupboard all over again."

"No, it wouldn't -- "

"Cedric, stop. It would. We'd have sex, then feel guilty or resent each other, or both, and it'd all start to fall apart. It's better if we just admit it's going to happen and be prepared; that's the mature thing to do." She let her gaze drop to their hands all twisted together on the sheets. "I like it that you want me that badly. And I want you. Is that so terrible?" She looked up at him again.

His eyes were soft, and in this light, they looked black, not gray. "Not terrible," he said, smiling slightly. "I love you, you know."

"I know," she said seriously. "I don't want a martyr; I don't want the Golden Boy of Hufflepuff. I want you. A brilliant, brave, slightly arrogant, sometimes vain and short-tempered, but gentle-hearted man." She could tell he was blushing even in the near-dark. "We'll be careful, we'll take precautions, and if it does happen again, however unlikely, we'll face it together, right?"

"Right." He nodded, then tipped his head. "I'm not really vain, am I? I try not to be."

"I'm afraid you are, sweetheart." She grinned, impish. "But we all know you try not to be, which is why we forgive you for it. And you care about people -- that's real. You have this . . . amazing compassion."

"So do you."

"I'm bossy, I lack tact, and I worry too much about the rules."

He leaned in to stroke her hair back from her forehead. "You are bossy -- but I like bossy women. And I'd say that this year, you haven't paid a whole lot of attention to the rules, Miss Granger. Shocking in a prefect."

"Cheeky prat."

"I'm awful."

She almost laughed. "I like you awful."

"It's a good thing."

"We're terribly soppy, you know."

He grinned. "I know. Go back to sleep, poppet."

She did. When she woke again, it was late morning and Cedric was there to tell her the healer would be by at ten and if all were well, she'd be discharged.

Their return to Hogwarts came without fanfare, which suited her and Cedric too, she thought. They had only six days until the end of the year. For seventh years, classes were over and their last week was given to fooling around and preparing for the Seventh Year Leaving Ball, organized by the Head Girl and Boy.

-- which wasn't Cedric. The left breast of his school robes remained blank, and when she asked him about it, he shook his head, smiling faintly. "There's no point in removing Adrian for only six days; it'd be petty."

"It's the principle of the thing!" she argued.

"No, poppet. Being Head Boy doesn't matter to me after everything that's happened. I was Head Boy when it mattered. Let Adrian organize the party with Violet. To be honest, I'd rather not."

He did, however, get his old rooms back. It was simple convenience and nearness to the bath, and with no classes, Ed, Peter and Scott all but moved in there too. After exams, professors turned a blind eye to a lot of what the seventh years did. It was the time of their final hurrah.

Hermione spent her first evening back in the infirmary, sitting with Ron, who was still there. Harry, Ginny and Neville, and even Luna Lovegood had come too. Madam Pomfrey hovered protectively, having insisted on checking Hermione herself as if she didn't entirely trust the healers at St. Mungo's. Hermione didn't mind, as it got her a bit of pain potion herself. Dolohov's curse still ached in her ribcage and her abdomen was sore. She moved slowly. But she suspected some of the soreness came from the miscarriage. Madam Pomfrey didn't know about that.

She and Cedric had agreed they weren't telling anybody who didn't already know. Not his mates, and not Harry and Ron. When she'd seen Alicia Spinnet as she'd dropped by her room to change clothes, the other girl had asked in a soft voice if she still needed that potion. She'd said no, it was a false alarm. Now, she perched beside Ginny on the end of Ron's bed, grateful for the moratorium with her friends, leaving behind grown-up things like the fact she'd been 33 weeks from becoming a mother, and her boyfriend would be leaving school forever in 6 days. Time waited for no one, but sometimes he slowed his march a bit. And she was grateful.

"So what did happen to Umbridge?" she asked.

"Dumbledore marched into the forest alone to rescue her from the centaurs the day after we got back," Ginny reported. "Nobody knows how he did it, and she didn't say a word. She was sent off to St. Mungo's -- in shock, Madam Pomfrey said. But I think she was just sulking."

Hermione was told the rest of the news then -- that Trelawney was back, and Hagrid, but Firenze would be staying as well. He was no longer welcome among the centaurs. Flitwick had rid the fifth floor of the twins' swamp, but had left a little roped-off section in tribute, and Filch was mourning the passing of Umbridge's reign. Nobody else was. Things were blessedly back to normal. Through all the gossip, Hermione watched Harry; he appeared distant, and she worried how he was taking Sirius' death. Yet when he got up to leave and she made to follow, Ron gripped her forearm to hold her back, shaking his head softly. "Let him go, Hermione. He's got enough to be going on with."

Once, Hermione might have protested, but thought she understood now. And she didn't stay much longer herself. She wanted to be alone too -- no Harry or Ron, not even Cedric. Just herself, Hermione Granger.

She wandered the halls somewhat idly. This near the year's end, after exams and the removal of Umbridge, a sort of festive air hung about the long, dank castle halls. Even the portraits and ghosts seemed to celebrate, and she could hear the sound of students chattering gaily or laughing in the distance. Yet when they passed her, they quieted to stare. No one spoke to her, which suited her mood.

In the entrance hall, she found herself arrested not by a person or portrait, but by the absence of one. The wall where Lucretia Diggory's Cernunnos had hung by the stairwell seemed oddly blank, even though an old portrait had been fetched from storage to replace it. Hermione stared at the oil-and-canvas interloper as if it would magically transform into what had been.

"It was burned," said a voice behind her, and she turned, finding -- once again -- Zacharias Smith sitting on the stairs, staring at the spot the painting should have been. She was starting to wonder if he did anything else.

"So I heard," she said.

"Why?" he demanded in his usual belligerent tone. "Nobody else is telling, even Cedric."

"I don't know," she lied. If Cedric wasn't telling, she wouldn't either.

Smith appeared deeply annoyed and unfolded himself from his sitting position, then ran a hand through his dark blond hair. "You'd think the least they could do was leave it, after everything Ced's been through." Hermione wished she could tell him that burning it had saved Cedric. "I bet it was Umbridge," Smith went on. "A parting shot before the centaurs got her."

His gaze shifted abruptly from the wall to her. "I heard you did that -- took her to the centaurs. Utterly brilliant, Hermione."

"She could have died."

"Yeah, so? She'd have deserved it."

His callousness tore at her, left her bloody with guilt. Yet it hadn't been Zacharias Smith who'd led Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest.

"I need to go," she said, and turning on her heel, exited the castle altogether.

Standing on the front steps outside, she took long, deep breaths of the midsummer night's air, then sat down on the lowest step and stared out across the dark grass in the direction of Hagrid's hut. Cheery yellow lights glowed in the windows, and somewhere above her an owl hooted on the hunt. She drew up her knees, wrapping arms around them, and rested her chin there.

She'd never really been much for introspection. In fact, her early love of books had developed out of a need to avoid it. As soon as she started to think too much -- to wallow and waffle and whinge, as she liked to put it -- her mind shifted to something else: a book, a list, homework that needed to be finished . . . anything to keep herself busy, keep her mind busy and escape self analysis. After all, what was the point? She didn't like to dwell on things.

But she didn't like to dwell on them because it was sometimes painful; it involved facing guilt, or sorrow, or disappointment. She'd never considered herself to have a bad life. She'd had enough to eat, a place to sleep, clothes on her back, more toys and books than she knew what to do with, and parents who cared about her. Yet she also couldn't honestly say she'd had a happy life. Before coming to Hogwarts, she hadn't had friends, and even since -- despite Harry and Ron -- she'd still felt on the outside. Not until Cedric had she known what it was to be ridiculously, blissfully happy, and that had been marred by the persecution of Umbridge.

Umbridge. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

Zacharias had said the woman would've deserved it if she'd died, and Ron thought Hermione's centaur ploy had been brilliant too -- he'd said so. Even Harry and Ginny, Neville and Luna had offered nothing critical. Yet she understood now that she could have got a woman killed.

The Wizarding World was a harsh place compared to the Muggle one. Wizards didn't sue their opponents, they challenged them to a duel. Justice was rough and ready, and she had no doubt that Umbridge would have tortured Harry until he'd either given in or died. Or gone mad. And placed in the same situation with the same choices a second time, Hermione knew she'd do it all over again exactly as she had done.

Yet she still felt unclean, and remembered the look of unease in Cedric's eyes when she'd told him about it. He hadn't approved. He'd said he couldn't judge her -- didn't have the right -- but he hadn't approved, and it was his approval she wanted more than the others'. She knew he loved her, but she wanted to be somebody he was proud of rather than somebody he needed to make excuses for, like his father. That brought to mind again the accusations of the centaurs -- that she'd used them to do her dirty work. She honestly hadn't thought of it that way, but that was only how she'd seen it. To the centaurs, it had looked very different.

Not everybody in the world saw things the same way she did, and Cedric had been right about her all those months ago. She was arrogant sometimes -- about the house-elves, and about the centaurs. She might have meant well, or at least meant no harm, but that didn't make it acceptable. At least Cedric hadn't threatened her with bows and arrows, yet after her run-in with the centaurs, she finally understood what he'd tried to tell her in September.

Centaurs weren't like humans -- nor did they want to be. And neither were house-elves.

She still didn't think Cedric saw everything clearly, but he made her think in a way Harry and Ron didn't, and she'd like to believe she did the same for him. She was a better person for having him in her life. As she'd recognized before in the matter of Rita Skeeter and Marietta Edgecomb, Cedric was her moral compass.

In fact, after this year, she felt altogether different. She was no longer so obsessed with marks -- the pompous, insufferable know-it-all people had judged her to be in the past. There would always be echoes of that girl inside her, and it was a good thing Cedric didn't mind her being bossy. But she'd fallen in love with a boy and broken rules just to be with him. She'd carried his baby, however briefly. She'd also organized an illegal, clandestine rebel group, and had realized those in power didn't always deserve their office. She'd almost died -- and she'd almost killed. Nobody came back to the person they'd been after experiences like that.

Her innocence was gone. She'd drunk from Ceridwen's cauldron.

ONE more and we're at the end ...