Cedric was up by Sunday morning for breakfast, albeit moving slowly. Despite liberal infusions of caffeine, he was discovering that bad headaches were the pitfall of spinal taps. His pain potion had doubled as headache medicine over the past 36 hours. Mrs. Granger fed him a tofu omelette - tasty if odd - and he'd been at the Grangers only four days but was already craving meat in the worst way. In the middle of breakfast, an owl arrived with The Sunday Prophet, headlines blaring:

FUDGE OUT
SCRIMGEOUR IN
Wizengamot Selects New Minister

"Oh, my God!" Hermione squeaked, dropping the paper onto her plate and getting omelette on it. Reaching over, Cedric snatched it and cast a cleaning spell before the ink smudged. "What do you know about Scrimgeour?" she asked him.

"He was head of the Auror division," Cedric replied, straightening the paper so he could skim the article even as Mrs. Granger emerged from the kitchen.

"Something interesting happen?" she asked.

"You could say that," Cedric replied, still distracted by the paper and not really thinking about the implication. Hermione's eyes went wide and she started to reach for the paper, but too late. Her mother had approached to read over Cedric's shoulder.

"Oh, my, your old Minister of Magic was sacked? Did his party lose favor? There hasn't been a general election, has there?"

"It doesn't work like that," Cedric replied, mind still on the article. It seemed that Fudge had been forced out over the embarrassment of Voldemort actually invading the Ministry. Cedric wasn't sure what influence Dumbledore might have had, but as Chief Warlock, no doubt quite a lot. "We have a council called the Wizengamot who appoints each Minister. If he - or she - loses the council's support, they're replaced. We don't have general elections." Cedric looked up. "Unfortunately, it's not that modern - more like your House of Lords, if not exactly. It's the highest court as well as a legislative branch, but there's no Commons, there's no sovereign above it, and they're not Peers - quite. It's not necessarily hereditary . . . although in practice, it often works out that way. I don't think there's been a Muggle-born appointed to sit on the Wizengamot in over a hundred years, which is rather sad, really."

Mrs. Granger took a third seat at the table, glancing over at her daughter. "I think that's the first time I've had an explanation of your government that actually made sense. Charles asked Arthur Weasley about it once, and wound up with a confusing flowchart of your Ministry departments and a list of trivia about the last five Ministers." She smiled. "Arthur's a dear, but I gather he's easily distracted by details."

Cedric smiled too and refolded the paper, handing it back to Hermione so she could read it, but instead she stashed it out of sight under the table. He resisted sighing. It seemed to him that this was the ideal time to talk to her parents about Voldemort being back.

"I take it," Mrs. Granger went on, "the Malfoys and Blacks would both sit on this Wizengamot?"

"Yes, my mother's father had a seat and Lucius Malfoy has one now, but there are no Blacks left."

This seemed to take Mrs. Granger by surprise. "But what about Harry's godfather?" She looked towards Hermione. "Isn't his godfather a Black?"

Cedric let Hermione reply to that, not at all sure what she'd told her mother. Hermione sighed and folded her hands on the table. "Sirius was still considered a wanted man, mum. Remember I told you that he'd been thought responsible for selling out Harry's parents to, er, He Who Must Not Be Named?"

"Voldemort, yes." Her mother seemed to be resisting rolling her eyes at the name-dodging. "And yes, I remember, but I thought you said it was a different fellow who did that - "

"Peter Pettigrew, except Pettigrew got away before that could be proved. So Sirius had to stay on the run. He could hardly take a seat on the Wizengamot when they were after his neck."

"They're looking for this Pettigrew?"

"They didn't know to." Hermione glanced at Cedric. "And, well, it's a bit moot now. Sirius, um - he died, mum. Just a few weeks ago. It was sort of an accident. He fell through a magic veil."

Mrs. Granger seemed both shocked and confused. "A piece of cloth killed him?"

"It was magic."

Cedric just eyed Hermione, and perhaps if she'd been by herself, she'd have been able to bluff her way through it, but with him there, she felt uncertain enough over the half-truth that her mother picked up on it easily. "What's the rest of the story, kids?" She looked from Cedric to Hermione.

Hermione sighed again. "There was a battle in the Ministry itself - that's why the old Minister is being ousted. Remember how I told you that there were people who tried to kill Harry when he was a baby?" Mrs. Granger nodded. "Well - they're back."

Mrs. Granger sat up in her seat. "They are? What's being done to catch them? I assume you mean this Voldemort's followers?"

"Yes. Death Eaters. They . . . they wanted to capture Harry, but Sirius, some Aurors, and Professor Dumbledore caught them at it in the Ministry."

That was, Cedric thought, a creative revision if ever he'd heard one, although still essentially true.

"There was a fight," Hermione continued, "and Sirius was pushed through a veil. Or really, he fell through it. And died. So Harry's been . . . pretty upset."

"I should say so! But Harry's all right?"

"Yes, Harry's fine. Well, physically fine."

Head still turned so Mrs. Granger couldn't see, Cedric pressed his lips together and continued to eye Hermione. She was going to have to tell more than that - if not perhaps the entire disastrous flight to the Ministry including her own wounding.

"What happened to these people?" Mrs. Granger asked. "Were they caught?"

"Oh, yes. Dumbledore was there, like I said, so they were mostly rounded up and sent to Azkaban."

Relieved, Mrs. Granger sighed. "So Harry's no longer in danger." Cedric thought what she really meant was that Hermione was no longer in danger, by extension.

Hermione nodded. "Not at the moment, he isn't."

Cedric felt his lips get thinner; Hermione shot him a glance that fell between quelling and alarmed.

"Of course," she added, "with the Death Eaters back, even if some of them were arrested at the Ministry, there's a certain amount of threat. That's apparently why Fudge was thrown out of office; he wasn't handling it well. The new Minister . . . well, he was the former head of the Auror Department." She nodded to Cedric. "That's what Ced told me."

And now Mrs. Granger's attention shifted to Cedric. "What do you know about the new Minister?"

Cedric frowned down at the table. "He was a good Auror and ran the department well, if a bit tightly. I don't really know much more than that, I'm afraid."

"Do you think he'll be able to handle these 'Death Eater' people? They sound a bit like terrorists. Or Neo-Nazis."

Cedric wasn't sure what a Neo-Nazi was but assumed it had something to do with that Hitler person. "I suppose you could say they're terrorists. They believe that purebloods should run things and would exclude Muggle-borns - like Hermione - not just from positions of authority, but even from learning magic at Hogwarts." He bent forward a little, raising his eyes to meet Mrs. Granger's, which were dark like her daughter's. "Please believe me - that is not how most of us think, even those who are purebloods ourselves, or as close as makes no difference."

"Oh, I believe you, Cedric. It's very obvious you don't think that way, or your parents, or Professor Dumbledore." She gazed out of the sliding glass door into the back garden. "It seems that racism in some form is common to all human communities, unfortunately. It's a bit funny" - she glanced back - "to think that Hermione is part of a minority in your world because in ours, we're not minorities, although we've always supported minority rights."

"It's all about where people draw their circles," Cedric agreed. "Who falls inside and who falls out."

Mrs. Granger reached over to pat his hand. "That reminds me of a poem I read years ago now. I don't remember it precisely, but it went something like, 'They drew a circle to shut us out, rebels, heretics, things to flout. But love and I had the wit to win; we made a circle that drew them in.'"

"I like that," Cedric said, grinning. "I've never heard it before, but I like it."

"I thought you might," she said, rising from the table. "I'd best go and wake your father, Hermione. I don't think he quite wants to sleep until noon." And she headed for the stairs.

"Well," Hermione said, "that went rather better than I'd feared."

Cedric returned to his now-cold omelette. "No, poppet, that was a good start. A certain snake-eyed fellow didn't even enter into the conversation. At least not in the present tense." He considered a moment, adding, "Although it was a good start. Probably better not to dump it all on them at once."

There was more discussion of Wizarding politics over dinner. Vegetarians, the Grangers didn't have the usual Sunday joint and potatoes, but it was still the main meal of the week, with quite a spread ranging from summer greens to cheesed potatoes to one of Mrs. Granger's funny meatless but well-seasoned casseroles. For afters, there was fruit with whipped cream. "Helen said you have a new Minister of Magic? The former head of your police?"

Cedric nodded. "We call them Aurors. Well, we have what you'd call police, but also Aurors. Hermione said they're a bit like your Scottish Yard. Anyway, he was head of that department, and now he's been made Minister."

"Scotland Yard," Dr. Granger corrected absently. "And he's Minister because of a growing threat from these . . . death-eating people?"

Ah, Cedric thought - there it was. Hermione's face had gone slightly white, but really, Cedric was glad it had come back up, although he suspected the Grangers were about to engage in a bit of Quaffle passing in order to get to the root of the matter. "They call themselves Death Eaters," he said. "I was explaining to Mrs. Granger - "

"Helen, please, Cedric," Hermione's mother interrupted.

"You don't have to be so formal with us, lad," Dr. Granger - Charles - said with a smile, putting him at ease, or trying to. Cedric recognized the tactic for what it was, even whilst he understood they weren't the enemy. They were just worried parents.

"All right," he said, glancing over at Hermione, who had her head down over her plate. "They're Wizard supremacists, but like I said, they don't represent what most of us think - whatever they may think."

"They're back on the rise?"

"Looks like it." Cedric tried not to sound as worried as he was; the goal was to let them know, not panic them. "Fudge wasn't proving very competent, so he was replaced."

"Is Hermione in danger?" Mrs. Granger - Helen - blurted out, getting a quick look from her husband. Hermione's father had probably been trying to get to the critical part without sounding overly protective.

"Everybody's in danger," Cedric said honestly, meeting Charles Granger's eyes. "But these people are the lunatic fringe."

"Fanatics," Hermione added. "They're just uneducated fanatics, dad. Like skinheads and BNPs."

Cedric didn't know what either of those things were, but could guess. The problem was that while some Death Eaters were drawn from the disgruntled dregs of Wizarding society, others weren't. "Some of them aren't uneducated," he said, voice hard and angry. "They're just bigoted, conservative snobs. They make me furious because they ought to have more sense than that."

That won a smile from Charles and he looked at his wife, thumbing at Cedric. "Remind you of anybody?"

"You at that age, you old Guardianista," she replied, then to Cedric, "I'm afraid Hermione's father was a bit of a bleeding-heart liberal."

"And you weren't?" Charles asked.

"Your hair was longer than mine, love. And you had it all over your face, too."

"What's wrong with long hair and a beard?" Cedric asked, confused, which made all the Grangers laugh.

"My parents were hippies," Hermione explained - which didn't really explain anything - and before he could ask, she added, "They participated in anti-Vietnam and CND marches, protested Apartheid. Er, Vietnam was a war and CND means 'campaign for nuclear disarmament.' Getting rid of nuclear weapons - the atomic bomb and such. Mom took me to Greenham Common - the big women's protest there at the U.S. Air Force base. She didn't stay at the camp long, of course, but she made the march with me in a pushchair." She said this proudly with a glance at her mother, who was smiling. "I was only two."

Cedric shook his head, although he was smiling too. "Still lost, poppet, sorry. But I'm starting to see where the House-Elf Liberation Front comes from."

"That's my daughter," Charles Granger said, proudly. "But to return to these Death Eaters" - Cedric could almost see Hermione wince; she must have thought she was distracting her father - "if they're causing enough of a ruckus to force a change in Minister, that's a bit more than the lunatic fringe."

"They are a serious threat," Cedric allowed, opting for honesty. "But there are things one can do to protect against them until they're back under control - not go out alone at night, not go into Knockturn Alley, ward one's house . . . common-sense things."

Charles was nodding. "Warding a house is like . . . locking a door?"

"Sort of," Cedric replied. "They're spells that keep hostiles from entering your property."

"More like a burglar alarm, dad," Hermione supplied.

"So locks on doors wouldn't help much?" He was looking at his wife, face worried. "Would there be a reason for these . . . Death Eaters . . . to attack us here? Since they don't like non-wizard-born witches?"

The Grangers weren't foolish, and Hermione appeared nearly panicked, both hands going out. "Dr. Granger," Cedric said before Hermione could speak, "your house has already been warded. It was warded by no less than Albus Dumbledore himself, done some time back." The Grangers (even Hermione) appeared gobstruck by that and he set down his fork, dinner mostly forgotten. "We understand that Muggles can't protect themselves against magic any more than I'd know how to protect myself against, er, Muggle things. We wouldn't leave you with the magical equivalent of unlocked doors, so your house is warded, as is your surgery. It doesn't mean nothing could happen, but you're certainly not abandoned and unprotected."

Hermione's parents exchanged unreadable expressions. "Why have these Death Eaters suddenly turned aggressive?" Dr. Granger asked. "Or is it sudden? Racial tensions of this sort - well wizard-non-wizard tensions here, I suppose - may erupt all of a sudden, but they've usually been building for a while."

Cedric glanced at Hermione. She didn't appear inclined to take over the conversation; perhaps she thought her parents would panic less if Cedric told them since he wasn't their child. "Well," Cedric said now, "these aren't new tensions, but after Lord Voldemort was killed - or we thought he was killed - in the last war, it went underground. But it never really went away."

"Thought he was killed?" Dr. Granger asked, quick to pick up on that. "I understood he was killed - by Harry in fact, with that rebounding curse?" Hermione was looking worried again, but Cedric had phrased it that way on purpose.

"That was the popular belief," he said now. "The Death Eaters are claiming he's back. He could be. There was never a body found. But it may be like Christian claims of Jesus' resurrection."

He felt awful for lying, implying that it was invention; Voldemort was back, and Cedric had stood with Harry to insist on it in the face of opposition, threats and accusations that he was drug-addled. Nonetheless, Hermione was looking relieved again and the Grangers - who Cedric knew to be cheerful atheists - were nodding in understanding of how followers might be so desperate for a miracle, they invented a legend. "So you don't think he is back?" Dr. Granger asked.

Cedric shrugged. "He could be. As I said, no body was ever found. But in our world as well as yours, people don't come back from the dead, so if he's back, it's because he never actually died, but if so, where's he been for 14 years? They think he's back. Maybe that's all that matters."

Yet Charles wasn't willing to let it go. "What do you think?" Cedric had to resist squirming. "Lad, I get the feeling you're trying to make me less nervous, but you're actually making me more so. Just tell us - what's going on? What sort of danger are we in? Is Hermione in?"

"Dad - " Hermione started, but her father held up a hand and didn't even look at her, just kept his eyes on Cedric. They were light eyes like Cedric's own, neither blue nor green but something of both, and Cedric was reminded that just because the Grangers were Muggles didn't mean they were idiots. And they loved their daughter.

Lifting his own eyes, he met Charles Granger's again. "There's danger to all of us. But if I didn't think Hermione safe enough here, I'd be trying to move her somewhere else. This turn-over at the Ministry should help, and as long as Albus Dumbledore is out there, the Death Eaters and Voldemort will be cautious."

"So you do think he's back, this Voldemort?"

Cedric frowned. He could almost feel Hermione holding her breath. "Yes, I think he may be, but sir, if he is alive, and out there, he wants people to run in fear. It would make a victory for his sort so very much easier. I won't run from him, I won't give in to his bigotry. He's evil, and not in some religious 'devil' sense. He's evil because he promotes hate."

Charles Granger held Cedric's eyes a moment longer before saying, "All that's necessary for evil to triumph is for men of conscience to do nothing."

"Yes," Cedric said, nodding. "Although to be honest, right now, there's not much to do except help the Ministry track them down - if one can - and be careful, of course."

The Grangers exchanged a look that lasted several heartbeats, then finally Charles Granger said, "All right - so is there anything more we can do? To be safe? To keep Hermione safe?"

Hermione appeared ready to faint with relief.

"Not really," Cedric replied, equally relieved. "Like I said, your house and surgery were warded and the Death Eaters are mostly purebloods or raised in the Wizarding World. They don't understand Muggle things - and don't take them seriously, either. That actually gives you an advantage. They won't venture much into Muggle life unless they have to. Although it sounds a bit insulting, they may never take notice of you at all."

"What about Hermione's friendship with Harry?" Helen Granger asked. "You said earlier that Harry's godfather was killed whilst fighting these . . . Death Eater people, who were planning to attack Harry."

"Harry's their target, mum, not me," Hermione broke in. "They don't even know who I am."

"So Hermione's beneath their radar?" Charles asked - but of Cedric, not Hermione.

"Radar?" Cedric asked, confused, even as Hermione finally spoke up, "Yes, dad. This really isn't something to worry about. And there's nothing to do beyond the obvious precautions."

"Hermione," her father said, turning to her. "I asked Cedric. I know you don't want us to worry, but Cedric . . . he cares about you too. I want him to answer this." Dr. Granger shot Cedric a look that seemed to say, 'Don't endanger my daughter.'

Cedric felt caught, reminded of what his own parents had said to him about putting Hermione at risk. He picked up his fork and played with it, frowning down at his plate and not answering immediately. "Cedric," Hermione said, clearly annoyed at what she assumed was his capitulation and betrayal.

Cedric looked up again, glancing from Helen to Charles. "Hermione's not in no danger. She's Muggle-born. But I don't believe she's in exceptional danger, either. If I did, I'd be trying to whisk her away to somewhere more protected - I wasn't kidding about that." He frowned and couldn't quite look at either of them, as he said, "I love your daughter." He could feel himself blushing. "Maybe you think we're too young, but I love her - I do. I wouldn't let anything happen to her if I could prevent it, and right now, the best protection for Hermione is wherever Professor Dumbledore is. There was ever only one wizard Voldemort feared, and if he's back, that won't have changed. Dumbledore is that wizard. It's . . . difficult to express exactly how powerful he is. I know you've met him, and he's very unassuming in person. But really" - he lifted his eyes again - "Charles, Helen . . . Albus Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard Britain has seen in centuries. A prodigy. There will be parents who'll think they can protect their children better, who'll panic and not let them return to Hogwarts. They're fools, honestly. There is no safer place than Hogwarts while Dumbledore is Headmaster. The school itself has a thousand years of natural defenses, and also the most powerful wizard alive sleeping in the Headmaster's tower. If you want Hermione to be safe, that's where she'll be safe."

Neither of the Grangers had spoken, listening to Cedric with honest interest. Now, Helen asked, "And until then? Until she goes back to school? Should we . . . " she trailed off, then drew breath and asked, "should we send her to your parents? To other wizards?"

Cedric smiled, understanding what that must have cost. They were willing to give her up to see her safe. "I think she's fine for now. The Death Eaters are on the move again, but Hermione's not a target, or not a particular target. Right now, their attention seems directed elsewhere, and this change in the Ministry will give them pause. We were planning to go to my house next weekend anyway, then come back here for a bit, then to mine again until school starts. I see no reason to change that. If I do think there's a reason, I'll let you know."

The Grangers seemed to accept that and there was certainly no talk of moving anywhere out of the country; dinner concluded with conversation about other things. In fact, Charles and Helen got out old Muggle photograph albums, showing Cedric pictures from their college days - Charles Granger's hair really had been longer than his wife's. There were photos of various protests and demonstrations and even some from a music festival they called Glastonbury and another called the Cambridge Folk Festival. There was a picture of a very young (and skinny) Charles with bags of bottles stacked as high as his head. "That was 1971," he said. "Friends of the Earth staged a demo here in London where we dumped thousands of non-recyclable bottles at Schweppes' corporate headquarters." The mental image of mountains of drink bottles on some business's front doorstep amused Cedric. There was even a picture of toddler Hermione with dark blond, ringlet curls carrying a sign that read: "LET ME GROW UP - NO MORE NUKES." Cedric had to have 'nukes' explained to him, then was appalled. Muggles had weapons that could vaporize millions in an instant? What was magic compared to that? And what manner of idiots were they to manufacture enough of those to destroy the entire planet a hundred times over?

"Didn't they care," he asked, "that most of the people living never elected them or gave them power to make those decisions for everybody in the first place?"

"No," Charles Granger said, "they didn't care. They considered themselves either protectors of freedom or champions of the exploited masses. But really, it was all about preserving their own power. That's why we marched, Helen and I. But oddly, I think their self-serving saved us all. They weren't willing to push the button. It's the powers rising now that I worry about - religious fanatics: Christian, Muslim . . . it doesn't matter. They don't care about this life, just the one they believe will come after. Those are the sort we really need to worry about."

Cedric went to bed oddly troubled. He'd never been all that aware of Muggle wars and conflict - hadn't considered them to be a threat. Yet they were. Wizarding self-involvement seemed absurd when one considered that as little as 15 or even 10 years ago, two "superpowers" had kept fingers above buttons that could have destroyed everything - the entire planet - and Cedric really doubted Wizardkind could have halted a thousand ICBMs. He'd lived in the shadow of that threat and hadn't even known how tenuous his own continued existence was.

Perhaps Voldemort's fears about Muggles weren't unfounded, but rather than make him more sympathetic to separatist beliefs, he found himself even angrier. How could Voldemort waste their time with his petty little quest for power? Why weren't wizards out there trying to interact with Muggles to halt these idiotic war-games, these new crusades and inquisitions? Did the Wizarding world really believe that withdrawal was still viable in a world where destruction wasn't a few fires and nooses, but global? His people had stuck their collective heads in the sand so long, they had no clue what was happening on the Muggle world stage. "Idiots," Cedric muttered, pulling off his shirt and tossing it on a chair.

A knock came on the door and he turned his head towards it. "Come in?" He was still without a shirt, but it was just Charles Granger, his face serious. And perhaps Cedric should have expected this visit, but he'd been distracted with other thoughts.

"She's my little girl," Dr. Granger said, his expression torn between threat and pleading. "She's all I have. You say you love her - you take care of her, Cedric. I don't know how, in your world - I don't know how. But she's my little girl. Don't let anything happen to her."

Uncomfortable but oddly sympathetic, Cedric ran a hand into his hair, recognizing himself 20 years hence: the father of a daughter who was still his little girl, if not a little girl anymore in the eyes of the world. Something was being passed here, an archaic responsibility that would probably annoy the women in their lives but was still powerfully real to them. Cedric looked at the Shrunk wheelchair and crutches in the bowl on the bedside table, as small as toys. But not toys. They chained him. He hated them. "I'd give my life to save hers," he said simply. Then he looked back at her father. "She'd hate it if she knew we were discussing her this way."

"Of course she would. I raised her to." His lips twisted; it was an ironic expression, not a smile. "But it doesn't change how I feel."

"I know," Cedric said. "Doesn't change how I feel either."

Charles Granger nodded once and left, closing the door softly behind him. They understood each other, Cedric thought: 'enlightened' men who couldn't quite escape an outmoded chivalry. Cedric loved his clever and capable girl, admired her, and would defend her independence - even as he'd die to protect her.

Hermione hadbeen expecting the knock on her bedroom door, so when it came, she wasn't surprised. "What is it, mum?" she called before even seeing who'd knocked.

Her mother opened the door, smiling almost guiltily. "It could have been your father, or Cedric."

"I'd have heard Cedric coming, and I knew it would be you, not dad." Hands on hips, she faced her mother down. "If you're coming to try to talk to me about this 'danger,' you heard it all at dinner."

Her mother shut the door and leaned against Hermione's old desk, a simple flat-topped affair with four drawers, painted white with gold edging. She could still remember when her parents had bought it for her, how she'd felt like a 'grown up girl' with her very own desk. Now, her mother wore a faint smile. 'What I heard - and saw - at dinner was a young man trying to reassure us without falling out of your good graces." Hermione opened her mouth to object, but her mother hushed her with a gesture. "Actually, I didn't come here to talk about that."

"You didn't?"

"Your father and I are perfectly well aware you two were underselling the danger, but neither of you seem to be out chasing it down either, and Cedric looked sincere when he said you'd be safest at Hogwarts. Life is full of dangers and there's a point at which you put yourself in greater danger by panicking about it. We raised you to be sensible, take precautions, and not engage in silly risks. You've never failed us in that, and Cedric is a mature and reasonable young man, so we're inclined to trust you now. We have to let you grow up sometime."

This left Hermione feeling both guilty and reassured. She had engaged in risks before, if not silly ones, and her mother was right - she and Cedric had been underselling the danger. Yet as her mother had said, they also weren't going out and seeking it, and were being as cautious and sensible as they could be. The fact her parents were, in turn, being sensible and fair simply underscored Cedric's earlier assertion that they wouldn't force some impossible choice on her. "So what did you come to talk about?" Hermione asked, curious.

"Well, Cedric, actually."

Puzzled but immediately defensive again, Hermione asked, "What about him?"

Her mother sighed and rubbed at her eyes. "Hermione, really. When will you stop assuming we don't like him? I just remarked on the fact that we do. The poor love was very emphatic tonight about how he feels; it was darling. He'd turn himself inside out for you. I suppose I just wanted to know if there's anything you need to ask for? If you might need any birth control? Your father and I . . . well, we realize neither of you are children, and we'd rather you were honest than try to hide things and get yourselves into trouble."

It was more or less what Hermione had assumed, that her parents suspected what she and Cedric did in private - and were tolerant of it - but the question still made her blush. Leaning down to fold her covers back simply to give herself something to do, she said, "There are spells and such for birth control. We're careful."

She didn't want to talk to her mother about the painting, or being pregnant, or losing the baby, even as she also wanted to. She feared her mother wouldn't understand.

"And is he . . . well, is there anything you want to know?" her mother pressed. "After years of being told you're the one who has to remain in control, it can be . . . difficult . . . to let go - even lead to frustration."

Hermione found herself smiling almost against her will. "It's okay, mum. We're okay. You educated me pretty thoroughly when I was younger. And he . . . He's good to me. Very patient. Very attentive." She felt her skin flush again. "We're okay."

"All right," her mother said, clearly no more comfortable with this conversation than Hermione.

"I suppose," Hermione added, "if there's anything I wanted to ask, it would be, er, well - if you want us to be honest and not hide things . . . perhaps we could, urm, sleep in the guestroom bed? Together?"

That took her very middle-class mother a bit aback, former flower child or not. "Well . . . well, I . . . I'll discuss it with your father. But yes - yes, we did say to be honest, didn't we? And that would be being honest. He's, what, almost nineteen? And you're almost seventeen. It's just . . . my mother would never have allowed . . . but then she never told me a damn thing, either, about men or sex. I swore I wouldn't make that mistake with you."

"And you didn't, mum." If anything, her mother had been embarrassingly detailed in what she'd told Hermione, as long as it was academic and hypothetical. Neither Hermione nor her mother were good at personalizing such things, which was why her request fell out awkwardly now. It wasn't hypothetical sex that Hermione would engage in someday. It was real sex with a real boy right now in the Grangers' own house.

So her mother hesitated a moment, then gave a decisive nod. "I'll talk to your father."

"Thanks, mum."

With Monday-morning breakfast, the usual owl appeared bearing The Daily Prophet; but shortly thereafter came a second, handsome eagle owl with a heavy cream envelope addressed to Mr. Cedric Diggory. It virtually screamed official correspondence, but this was early yet for NEWT results. And Paolo Sweeney, head of the London Transfiguration College, had said he wouldn't contact Cedric until after seeing his NEWTs. So curious, Cedric gave the owl a bit of bacon and sent it off, flipping over the letter. The official seal of the Ministry of Magic stared back at him.

Suddenly hot with anxiety, Cedric swallowed. What was this about? Grabbing a penknife from his pocket, he slipped it under the envelope flap and slit it open, pulling out the parchment inside, his eyes dropping down to the signature: Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.

Cedric blinked. He was holding a letter written to him personally by the new Minister?

"What is it?" Hermione asked, "What's happened? Cedric, are you all right? You look as white as a sheet."

"I have a letter from the Minister."

"What?"

"I have a letter from the Minister. He wrote me a personal letter."

"What?" She half rose from her seat. "You're not in trouble, are you?"

Smiling sardonically, Cedric looked up at her. "Funny, isn't it, how that's the first thing we ask now?" He looked back down to read even as Hermione came around to read over his shoulder.

Dear Mr. Diggory,

It has come to my attention that despite trying and unfortunate circumstances, you were instrumental in maintaining student morale during your final year at Hogwarts. It has also come to my attention that you worked to promote house unity regardless of attempts to divide and conquer. Most of all, however, you continued to insist that He Who Must Not Be Named had returned even in the face of attacks on your character and sanity - displaying the honesty and integrity for which your house is famous. All together, this points to an unusual degree of maturity and self-possession.

I'm not one for wasting time on flowery speeches, so I'll be frank. In this time of turmoil and threat, we need men like you in the Ministry. I understand that you've applied for admission to the Transfiguration College and tested for a license in Advanced Transfiguration, no doubt intending a career in business or manufacture - a lucrative option for a talented young man. But I hope that you'll entertain the possibility of serving your government as your father did before you. (Incidentally, your father has been offered his position back, given the trumped-up charges Fudge concocted to have him ousted. We hope he accepts, as his long-time service has been sterling and his experience is needed.)

In - forgive me - hopeful anticipation of a positive reception to this letter, I've taken the liberty of arranging an interview at the Ministry tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp. You may report directly to my own office. If you are unable or, Merlin forbid, unwilling to grant us an interview, then please return an answer to my office before 5 p.m. today. Otherwise, we shall look forward to seeing you on the morrow.

Sincerely,
Rufus Scrimgeour
Minister of Magic

"Well," said Hermione from behind him, "that was certainly buttering you up."

Mouth open a little in shock, Cedric turned to look at her. Her expression was singularly unimpressed, the corners of her mouth tucked down and her brows furrowed. And he suddenly felt both irritated and foolish because he hadn't seen flattery in the letter, or at least not unadulterated flattery. "You think so?"

She either didn't hear or ignored the sarcasm in his tone. "Of course. He wants you on his side, Cedric. He just took over from Fudge and needs to distance himself from Fudge's regime, so symbols are what he's looking for. You're Harry's friend, were a Triwizard champion and Head Boy, and opposed Umbridge on the side of Dumbledore. Most of all, you and Harry turned out to be right about Voldemort. He has every reason in the world to want you in his office, and now he's rushing this interview so you don't have time to think about it."

Cedric's irritation turned to full-blown annoyance - at Scrimgeour for the possibility he really was just using him, and at Hermione for pointing it out. "You don't think it's sincere? You don't think he might, I don't know, actually believe I'm competent? He only wants me for a show, not because I could do my job?" He'd wanted to work for the Ministry since he'd been a boy, but had given up that dream because of Fudge. Now it was back on the table and within his grasp. They were coming to him.

"What job?" Hermione asked. "They didn't even name the job they're interviewing you for, did they? This interview isn't for a position in International Relations, Cedric. Scrimgeour wants you to lend legitimacy to his tenure. He's not interested in what you can do, just in who you are."

She looked . . . angry. As angry as Cedric now felt himself - in large part because she had a point. He wanted to think Scrimgeour really had meant those complimentary things he'd said, and itchy with irritation, he threw the letter on the table, unlocked his chair wheels, and rolled backwards to put a few feet between them. He was glad her parents had left several hours ago for their office; he didn't want this witnessed. "Lovely. Wonderful vote of confidence there, Granger."

"Cedric, stop being ridiculous and touchy. You're brilliant. But Scrimgeour doesn't care - and that makes me furious. He just wants you for his poster boy. Don't go to this stupid interview. Wait for your NEWTs and the results of your application to the Transfiguration College."

"The Transfiguration College isn't what I want! Don't you get it? I thought you understood. I've wanted to work for the Ministry for years - I just assumed I couldn't. Now they're asking me. And so the fuck what if Scrimgeour thinks he can use me for his image? I just want a job there - I want my foot in the door."

"So you'd let them use you to get what you want? I thought you had principles!"

"Of course I have principles! But how can I change anything from the outside?"

They were yelling at each other, she red in the face and close to tears, he hot with disappointment, shame and offended righteousness. He took a breath, trying to be calm, "I'm going to the interview tomorrow. I owe the Minister the courtesy of hearing what he has in mind, at least."

She looked away. "If you take this job, Cedric, you'll be buying into the establishment."

"This from the girl who always worries about breaking the rules?"

"Maybe I've learned the rules aren't necessarily about justice!"

"You're being reactionary. I'm going to the interview and I'll hear out the Minister. Having an interview isn't taking a job. But I will need proper robes" - which he didn't have at her house. "I'll . . . I'll need to go home."

Truth was, he could have Transfigured something but felt a bit wounded and bloody, off balance from her cynical reading of the Minister's offer - even as he recognized she had a point. No doubt his mother would say the same thing, but he wanted . . . he wanted to believe the Minister's offer, wanted to think somebody believed in and wanted him. Even now, a year later, he still felt hyper-conscious of his disability and feared that was all anybody saw when looking at him. 'The poor bloke in the wheelchair,' not a capable young man.

She still wasn't looking at him. "Will you come back?"

"After, yes, of course."

"After the interview you mean."

"Yes."

"You shouldn't take this job without talking to the Order."

"Hermione, it's my life!"

"This isn't just about you!"

They were shouting again, and this was getting them nowhere. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his crutches. "I'm going upstairs to pack."

"Fine. I'll clean up from breakfast."

"I can do the dishes for you."

"No, never mind. I can handle it." She stalked off. The air between them was frigid.

After Cedric left, Hermione lost no time in sitting down at the kitchen table to pen a letter to Dumbledore. She had no idea where he was and so addressed it to him at Hogwarts, wishing she had Harry's clever Hedwig to get it to the right place. She'd have to depend on the owls at the Diagon Alley post. She knew Cedric would be angry that she was venturing out alone that very afternoon, but she didn't care at the moment what Cedric thought.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Please forgive me for trespassing on your time during the summer, but Cedric received a letter today from the new Minister Scrimgeour, inviting him to an interview. I think the letter was falsely flattering and that the Minister simply wants to use Cedric's good name, but Cedric wants to believe it's genuine and is planning to attend the interview.

Perhaps this seems a petty and personal quarrel, but I fear if he takes this job, it could have larger, negative ramifications. I doubt he intends to bother you with the news, but I'd prefer to be too cautious than to leave you uninformed.

The interview is scheduled for 9 a.m. tomorrow. I hope this letter reaches you before that time.

Sincerely,
Hermione Granger

When Hermione's parents came home that evening, they were surprised to find Cedric absent. "What's up?" her mother asked, sensitive to Hermione's foul mood.

"Cedric got an interview for a job. He needed to go home to fetch proper clothing. He said he'd be back tomorrow."

Both her parents eyed her, but let it pass. And quite late that same evening, she received a letter addressed to her in spidery writing and green ink, delivered by none other than the Headmaster's phoenix. She could feel some sort of protection spell tingling over her fingers as she opened it.

Dear Miss Granger,

Thank you for your conscientious concern. I was informed about the invitation extended to Mr. Diggory earlier today. I fear that your worries may be well-taken, but by the same token, to have another member of the Order working at the Ministry, and perhaps even working in the Minister's own office, could be to our advantage. Certainly, it never hurts to be polite and hear out such offers. I have spoken with Mr. Diggory myself, and I think him aware of the potential pitfalls as well as the opportunities. I trust in Cedric's common sense and integrity, as I'm sure you do, as well.

For the safety of the Order, please burn this letter at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore

P.S. As I'm sure you know, finishing school and finding a job is a trying time for any student. Given Cedric's handicap, those normal worries must be greatly magnified. If he reacts badly to your concern for his well-being, perhaps he saw it as doubt about his abilities, even if we both know that's not the case?

Hermione blinked at the letter. It was respectful, reassuring and . . . had the Headmaster just offered her relationship advice? Or perhaps it was a gentle rebuke. Whatever the case, and with Cedric's popularity and abilities, she did tend to forget he could have the same anxieties as anybody else. She didn't want to pity him; he wouldn't like it and didn't need it. But pity wasn't the same as being conscious of the additional concerns he suffered. His disability did complicate things. And . . . perhaps she'd lost sight of that in her anger at Scrimgeour. The problem lay in the fact Scrimgeour's flattery was largely true. She just doubted the sincerity of his motives and wanted somebody to hire Cedric for his abilities, not political brownie points. Yet she'd cast doubt on Scrimgeour's motives, assuming Cedric already knew she believed him exceptional.

Perhaps he needed to be reminded. "Fawkes," she said, glancing up at the phoenix still perched on the edge of her desk. "I'm very sorry, but could I trouble you to make one more delivery tonight? We don't have an owl of our own." Fawkes turned his head slightly, but then lifted the foot with the temporary letter clamp. "Thank you," Hermione said fervently, and began writing.

Notes: The poem Helen Granger quotes is by Edwin Markham, and misremembering, Helen Granger quotes it slightly off. It originally ran: "He drew a circle that shut me out. Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout. But love and I had the wit to win; We drew a circle that took him in."