Because Hermione wasn't staying at the Burrow, she didn't hear about the Prophecy or Harry's scheduled private lessons with Dumbledore until later in the week. It was the same day that their OWL results arrived. Ever since Cedric had learned his scores, Hermione had been worrying about hers. By the time she'd taken the exams, she'd been so stressed, she was certain she'd not done as well as she might have. And that wasn't just her usual anxiety over marks, whatever Ron and Harry said. She knew the difference.

As usual, she went to the Burrow after Cedric left for work on Monday morning, and Molly Weasley insisted she sit down at the table with the boys and have some breakfast even though she'd already eaten. To keep the woman happy, she accepted a banana and piece of toast when three Ministry owls were spotted in the distance bearing down on the Burrow. Hermione let out a little squeak and jumped to her feet, toast and banana forgotten. "Oh, no! It's - oh, no!"

"Hermione!" Harry said, half laughing even as Mrs. Weasley squeezed past her to open the window so the owls could sail through to land on the old oak table - three handsome, very official-looking owls with equally official-looking letters tied to their legs.

Both the boys rose to untie theirs. "Go on," Mrs. Weasley said softly to Hermione, giving her a gentle push. Hermione crossed to the remaining owl and tried to undo the letter, but her hands were shaking so badly it shivered the whole bird, who cocked its head and glared at her out of yellow eyes. Finally the letter was free and she unfolded it, breath held. She wished Cedric were here even as she was glad he wasn't. What if she didn't pass something?

Behind her, she was aware of the boys chattering, but she tuned them out, looking down to read:

ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS

Passing Grades:

OUTSTANDING (O) POOR (P) EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS (E) ACCEPTABLE (A)

Failing Grades:

POOR (P) Dreadful (D) TROLL (T)

Hermione Jean Granger has achieved:

Ancient Runes: E
Arithmancy: O
Astronomy: O
Care of Magical Creatures: O
Charms: O
Defence Against the Dark Arts: E
Herbology: O
History of Magic: E
Muggle Studies: O
Potions: O
Transfigurations: O

She blinked down at the results. Three Es. She'd got three Es. Well, she'd known she hadn't done that well in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Like Cedric, the subject gave her trouble. And History of Magic . . . she hadn't finished one essay and then had completely skipped the last when Harry had collapsed, so the fact she'd managed even an E should please her. But an E in Ancient Runes? Languages weren't really her forte, but she'd tried so hard. Of course, she'd also taken the test on the day she'd begun to suspect she might be pregnant, so perhaps she could be excused for having a divided attention. She knew she'd translated at least three short passages dead wrong, and there was no telling how many other little mistakes she'd made . . .

Abruptly, someone - Ron - snatched the parchment right out of her hand. "Oi! Harry asked how you did," he said, skimming her results. "Yup, 8 Os and 3 Es . . . hey, at least you didn't fail anything. And not even an A in the lot! You're actually disappointed, aren't you?"

Hermione shook her head, trying to deny it, but Harry and Ron just laughed at her; it wasn't entirely unkind. "You still got more OWLs than Ced did," Harry pointed out. "He told me he only passed 8 but you passed all yours, and you took more than he did. You can still take the Mickey out of him."

Smiling faintly at this attempt to cheer her up, Hermione shook her head again. "I know," she said, folding the parchment and putting it away even as Ron shouted, "Well, we're NEWT students now! Mum, are there any more sausages?"

There were, and Hermione sat with the boys as they finished eating. Ron appeared delighted, but he'd probably done better than he'd expected to. Hermione loved him, and he was brighter than he often let on or even believed of himself, but he just didn't try hard. Harry, however, was looking a bit down in the mouth. "What is it?" she asked him, laying a hand over his when Mrs. Weasley headed outside to do something in the back garden.

"An E in Potions means Snape won't let me in his NEWT-level class."

"Why would you want to be in his class?" Ron asked.

Hermione sighed in frustration even as Harry said, "We need NEWTs in Potions if we want to become Aurors."

"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione added. "How could you forget? You said it was something you were interested in too."

"Oh, yeah. Well - " Blushing, he just shrugged. "But I won't miss Snape, that's for certain."

"Harry, maybe Snape will make an exception for you. He knows how much pressure you were under last year, and he's in the Order and such and - "

"His being in the Order didn't make him any nicer to me last year," Harry interrupted, expression grim. "I'm not really expecting any favors from him. But, well, doesn't it seem like the right sort of career for somebody who has to kill Voldemort?"

"You do have a natural gift for Defence Against the Dark Arts, it's true," Hermione agreed. "But you don't necessarily have to kill Vol-Voldemort yourself, Harry. There are lots . . . " She trailed off as both Harry and Ron stopped eating to stare first at her, then glance at each other.

"Better tell her, mate," Ron said.

"Tell me what?"

"Well, that prophecy? The one in the glass ball that broke?" Harry asked.

"Nobody knows what it said," Hermione answered. "Whatever The Prophet was claiming."

"Actually, The Prophet got it right."

Hermione felt her jaw drop a little and she sat back. "Harry - " she said weakly.

He glanced at the back door but Mrs. Weasley hadn't returned yet, so he went on, "The glass ball that smashed wasn't the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore's office; he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me. From what it said" - Harry took a deep breath - "it looks like I'm the one who's got to finish off Voldemort . . . At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives." And he related the rest of it to Hermione, who clutched his hand, half to steady herself, half to reassure him. Ron was listening with a solemn face, but as he'd already heard it, he didn't look surprised.

"Oh, Harry," she said. "Cedric and I . . . we were worried about this. We talked about it a little, when I was in hospital. After what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy, how it was about you and Voldemort, well, we feared it might be something like this." She leaned over the table a little more. "Are you scared?"

"Not as much as I was when I first heard it," Harry admitted. "Now, it seems as though I always knew I'd have to face him in the end. Ced knew about it." Harry shot Ron an apologetic glance. "I told him after he and Hermione got back from St. Mungo's. At first, I wasn't up to telling anybody, but then . . . well, it just popped out in a conversation with him."

"So he rated higher than me or Hermione?" Ron's jaw was clenched. "Oh, yeah, he's your blood brother now, isn't he?"

"Stop being an idiot," Harry replied, which Hermione could see only hurt Ron further. "I told you, it just popped out. We were talking about Sirius dying, he told me something sort of, er, private, and it popped out. I wasn't hiding it from you or Hermione. I told you the night I arrived here, didn't I?"

Ron was shoving sausages into his mouth, perhaps to keep from saying something unforgivable, and Hermione had some idea what Cedric might have told Harry that had made Harry share the Prophecy with him, but she wasn't ready yet for Ron to know she'd been pregnant. Instead, she reached across to poke Ron with her spoon. "Harry didn't tell me until just now and I'm not upset about it. It's not some sort of contest, Ron. Harry has to fight Voldemort! He needs us." She turned back to Harry. "When I heard Dumbledore had collected you in person, I suspected he might be telling or showing you something about the Prophecy."

"Sort of," Harry replied. "He told me that he's going to be giving me private lessons next year."

"That's wonderful!" Hermione said.

Ron sighed, as if reluctant to give over, then added, "I told him it must mean Dumbledore doesn't think he's a goner, that he's got a chance."

"That's true," Hermione said. "I wonder what he'll teach you? Really advanced defensive magic, probably . . . powerful counter-curses . . . anti-jinxes - "

She cut off abruptly as the door opened and Mrs. Weasley came back inside carrying several carrots, spring onions, celery, potatoes, and some runner beans from the garden patch. Hermione changed the subject and they talked instead about the classes they wanted to take for the coming year, then went out to play two-aside Quidditch with Ginny, although Hermione really didn't like the sport. Yet it seemed to keep Harry's mind off that awful Prophecy, so she was willing.

She and Ginny were helping Mrs. Weasley with dinner when Mrs. Weasley received a message that Mr. Weasley would be late as he was taking Cedric to Diagon Alley. "Wonder what that's about?" Ginny whispered to Hermione.

And indeed, almost two hours passed before the two men returned to the Burrow. Mr. Weasley looked tired, but Cedric looked angry. "What happened?" Hermione asked, meeting Cedric at the back door.

"She's still working there."

"Who?"

"Umbridge." He spit out the name like something sour.

Harry had overheard and approached. "Umbridge is still working at the Ministry?"

"Yes. I ran into her on the way out of Scrimgeour's office. The bitch is still there."

"Cedric," Mrs. Weasley scolded, turning.

"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley." But Hermione didn't think he looked apologetic.

"What are you going to do about her?" Harry asked.

Lips pursed, Cedric shrugged. "Apparently, nothing. I've been warned that however much people hate and fear her, she's too well-ensconced with those in power to be touched."

"You should put a Niffler in her office, mate," Harry said, lips twitching. "Remind her of the good old days at Hogwarts."

"Harry," Hermione scolded, but Cedric was struggling not to laugh and looking . . . impish. "Don't you dare," Hermione warned him. "Don't you even think about it; she'll know it was you."

"She'd have to prove it, though."

"No, Cedric, she wouldn't." Hermione glared at him, trying to will him to see sense. "She'd just make your life hell at work. You're not at school anymore."

"Yeah," Cedric replied. "Believe it or not, I sort of noticed that."

By Friday of that same week, Cedric finally had a chance to earn his pay. The home of a middle-aged couple in Shalford, Surrey, burned to the ground, killing the couple in the blaze. Neighbors claimed they had been letting off fireworks and had accidentally blown up their own house. That was possibly true - Cedric knew better than to underestimate human stupidity - but neighbors also described them as, "strange and stand-offish, kept to themselves." Nobody seemed to know much about either of them, and the fireworks were described as red and green explosions. All together, it sent up a red flag. Tearing the story out of the paper, Cedric duplicated it and sent it off immediately to the Minister's office by enchanted plane.

Within three hours, news was all over the Ministry that the unfortunate murder victims were none other than Wilhelm Wigworthy, author of Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles - a textbook Cedric had read in Muggle Studies - and his Muggle wife. The fact Wigworthy had lived as a Muggle meant Muggles had found him first, but spotting the news story within 24 hours of the incident, Cedric had given the Aurors a chance to get in and clean up the mess before the Muggle police got too far with too many dangerous questions. The less memory modification needed, the better. Cedric even received a personal (if brief) visit from the Minister. "Sharp eyes, Diggory," Scrimgeour said. "If there was ever a Dark Mark cast over the house, it must have been disturbed and dispersed by the Muggle police."

"But you're certain he did it?"

"A Muggle-sympathizer murdered at night, Dark Magic residue all over the house - I dare say it was him or some of his followers. We knew He Who Must Not Be Named was targeting those like Madam Bones who'd blocked his influence at the Ministry, or those like Harry Potter who he held a personal grudge against. But this murder suggests he's actively seeking out anybody who promotes Muggle interests and ideas among wizards."

Cedric was left wondering if he might fall into that category himself. He decided not to say anything to anybody else. He didn't want them worrying. And he liked his job.

Since being taken on at the Ministry, he, Bill and Fleur had begun meeting in Diagon Alley for lunch to look through papers - magical and Muggle both - for rentals. They'd determined it was going to be more difficult than they'd first thought to rent Muggle as neither Bill nor Fleur technically existed in the Muggle world, and Cedric only partially. A local council tax was levied on properties, which meant registering their existence, but there appeared to be an option that might get them around it if they took a flat in an HMO, a house in multiple occupation. They'd have to be careful of their Muggle neighbors, but it wasn't as small as a bedsitter and they could pay their portion of the tax to the landlord or managing agent, not the council. "I'm not sure what I'll do with Esiban, however," Cedric said. Over and over in the rentals, "no pets" was part of the policy, and the fact he had to have a place with disabled access only made things more complicated yet. He was starting to despair of finding one place that would meet all their needs.

Sometimes the twins joined them at a café, or Scott Summers, who'd moved to London to attend the Auror academy. Even more occasionally, Tonks came along with Scott, and Cedric did his best not to laugh at the courting dance Scott performed when Tonks was present. "I think you're in love," he told his friend on the Tuesday following Wigworthy's death. He'd eaten quickly in order to do a bit of shopping for Harry's birthday the next day. Scott had offered to help.

"Fuck off," Scott said now, almost cheerfully.

"I heard she was the Auror assigned to take you to Manchester to look into that bombing."

"Which tip turned out to be total rubbish - thank you for wasting my time. The Death Eaters had nothing to do with it."

"I didn't honestly think they had, but I needed to give the Minister something; he was getting a bit pushy. At least you got an afternoon with Tonks out of it."

Scott eyed him as they reached the Apparition point and he handed over the package he'd been carrying for Cedric. "Are you sure this Muggle press shtick is the best use of your talent?"

The question took Cedric aback. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, mate, think, would you!" Scott appeared torn between anger and worry. "Your new-fangled position as 'Advisor to the Minister on Muggle Affairs,' and all that Muggle shite in your office? It makes you a target. Consider who he just killed. If any of this actually served a purpose, I could understand, but I don't even know why you wanted it!"

Blindsided by Scott's upset, Cedric stared. Today he was on crutches, so they were eye-to-eye. "I didn't think you were biased against Muggles."

"Bloody hell - this isn't about Muggles! It's about you wasting your time on a job with no damn point that's likely to get you killed."

Cedric stared down at the cobblestones beneath his feet, confused and hurt. People passed to and fro, although not nearly as many as there might once have been. Was this how others saw his job? As a waste of time? "How much impact do you think Muggle politics have on your life?"

Scott answered promptly and without pause. "None."

Cedric looked up. "I'd have said the same thing a month or two ago. Now, let me ask a different question. What would it mean if Voldemort won? Worst-case scenario."

Scott winced at the name, but studied Cedric a moment, as if trying to figure out where all this was going. "He'd probably overhaul our government, might even try to impose legal segregation by blood purity. We've been debating it in the academy, actually - what his ultimate goals are."

"How far would it stretch? Outside the U.K.?"

"Probably not far unless by influence; Grindelwald still has supporters on the Continent. But You Know Who simply doesn't have the manpower to launch a war anywhere else. Give him ten years, though."

"Do you think he could kill every Muggle?"

Scott blinked. "What? Nobody could do that."

"Yes, they could. What would you think if I told you the Muggles have weapons that could wipe out life on the entire planet - Muggle, Wizard, plant and animal . . . turn it all into a wasteland."

Scott was gaping. "I'd say you were out of your mind."

"I'm not. We've been separate from them too long, living in our own isolated world. They've come a long way past witch burnings. Come to my office after classes today. I'll show you."

Cedric cut short his afternoon's work to prepare for Scott's arrival with print-outs and material bookmarked on his computer. He wasn't sure why convincing Scott mattered so much, but it did. Practice, perhaps. He'd to have to justify his continued position after Voldemort was defeated, and Scott was a good place to start - neither hostile to Muggles nor especially interested, either.

As it turned out, he faced both Scott and Tonks. "I wanted to come and see what grandpa set up for you," she said, poking around his office, flipping on the telly and surfing channels with the remote like an old pro.

"You know Muggle things," Cedric observed.

"Well, of course," she replied. "It's not as if we ever spent holidays with mum's family. So I know a fair bit about Muggles." She turned off the telly and plopped down in a spare chair, putting her feet up on his desk and looking relaxed. "But I never heard they could destroy the whole planet." She thumbed at Scott. "He said you said they could."

"They can," Cedric replied, turning his laptop on the desk so they could see the screen, then handing Scott the printouts he'd made earlier. "And in more ways than one - nuclear weapons, pollution, destruction of the environment . . . We need to start paying attention." He found one of the webpages he'd bookmarked and rolled his chair back to let Tonks come over and take a look whilst Scott flipped through printouts, his brows drawn together thoughtfully.

"Fucking hell," Tonks said after a moment when she reached a picture of what had been left of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. "Muggles did that?"

"Muggles did that - fifty years ago. Imagine what they could do now. What's the total number of people Voldemort's killed at once? Does it even hit triple digits? Or Grindelwald before him? But 120,000 died in those bombings you're looking at - and that's only those killed in the initial blast. They've estimated that twice that died in total, including those from wounds later. Is there a wizard alive who could equal it? What the hell are we thinking?" Scott was listening to him now as well. "We've let this happen right under our noses and didn't even notice - or discounted it because they're just Muggles. We need to pull our heads out of our collective arses and start paying attention to what's going on in their world - because like it or not, it affects ours."

Scott was chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully as he listened. "What does this have to do with You Know Who?"

"Not a damn thing, directly," Cedric replied.

"Then couldn't it wait?"

Cedric resisted throwing up his hands. "Don't you think that's part of the problem? We've been saying, 'Couldn't it wait?' for how long now? When are we going to start paying attention? You asked me earlier if I were wasting my time." Cedric gestured to the printouts in Scott's hand. "Is that wasting my time?"

Scott tossed down the papers on Cedric's desk. "Be realistic. Somebody at the Ministry's aware of all this already, I'm sure."

"Who?" Cedric practically shouted. "Who, Scott? Name the Ministry department or employee who handles these things. You can't . . . because it doesn't exist. We worry about Obliviating them, or somebody misusing their technology, or keeping our world separate from theirs - but nobody's looking beyond that. We think that as long as we remain hidden from them, nothing they do matters. But Merlin's beard! When are we going to wake up?"

Scott glanced at the images on the computer screen. "You said it yourself - that happened fifty years ago in one of their world wars." Before Cedric could explode, he held up a hand. "Peace. Let me finish. I'm not saying these things are unimportant, and maybe you're right. We should be paying attention. But we've got a megalomaniac to deal with at the moment. I think that's a bit more pressing, don't you?"

"I never said fighting Voldemort wasn't important! But this matters too."

"You told Scrimgeour you could help find him by reading Muggle newspapers!"

"No, I said I might find out something he's up to that we wouldn't automatically know about - and I did, with the Wigworthy case. But that's not why this really matters - "

"TIME OUT!" Tonks interrupted. "Do you two always argue like this? It's entertaining, I admit, but really. Scott, we still need a Floo Regulation Department, rampaging dark lords or not. Life goes on. It's not as if Cedric's job is interfering with the war. But Cedric, Scott's not putting you down, he's worried about you." The humor disappeared from her face. "The Aurors have assembled a list of every wizard who has Muggle ties, but especially those who seem to promote Muggle interests. Not only is your name on that list, it's near the top."

This news gave Cedric momentary pause, but he wasn't that surprised. He'd wondered himself if his new job might not be putting himself in a dangerous position, but - "There are plenty of reasons for Voldemort to target me, you know, whatever my position at the Ministry."

"Would you stop saying the name?" Scott snapped.

"I think I've earned the right - "

"SHUT UP!" Tonks interrupted again. "Good grief. Cedric, you know very well the power of a name, and Scott, stop antagonizing him."

Cedric took a deep breath, struggling for calm. Part of him was touched that they were worried, but another part was simply annoyed. "Like I said, You Know Who has plenty of reasons already to target me. This new job is the least of them. So while I appreciate your worry . . . really, I do" - he looked point blank at Scott - "I don't think being the Minister's advisor on Muggle matters has put me any more in danger than I already was."

Sighing, Scott sank into one of the other chairs and rubbed at his eyes. "Why do you have to be so damn stubborn? Yes, you were already a target, but now you're both a target and a potential example. Don't you get it, Ced? You're sitting in the Ministry of Magic with an office full of Muggle equipment!"

Leaning over, Tonks laid a hand on Cedric's arm. "Scott's right, you know. It's not just that you're Harry's friend or sided with Dumbledore. You and I, a Malfoy and a Black - even if we don't wear those names, our mothers did and we represent a special category of offense to them because of it. I'm a mongrel and you're close enough to being a pureblood to be considered a blood traitor. You Know Who would love to get his hands on either of us."

"And you think he's more likely to get his hands on me because I'm in this chair, right? I need special protection." It exploded out of him with a vicious bitterness like pus from a wound.

For a moment, all three of them went completely silent, then Scott said, "Don't be an idiot," even as Tonks said, "Believe it or not, the chair had nothing to do with our concern."

"It didn't?" Cedric asked, reluctant to back down. "I'm a cripple. I can't run."

"You can still Apparate fine, last I saw," Scott snapped. "What's wrong with you? I didn't pity you at Hogwarts, and I'm not going to start now. I'm trying to talk some sense into you, and I'd be saying the same bloody thing if you still had two good legs."

That shut up Cedric. He rubbed at his forehead, unsure how to explain the degree of helpless frustration he felt at being handicapped. "I want to do something that matters."

"Fine! Do something that matters! But maybe you could find something that doesn't paint a gigantic target across your back, yeah?"

"Like what? I'm utterly useless now. I can't fight - "

"You did pretty well in the Department of Mysteries."

Cedric looked away. "I endangered people trying to cover for me. My mother was rather emphatic about that."

"Aunt Lucy means well," Tonks broke in, "but sometimes she's a little brutal. You were no more of a risk than any of the other students, and if the whole thing was a fuck-up, well, that wasn't your fault. You, Scott and the others went there to stop Harry. You're a long way from helpless, all right? We just . . . don't want you to turn reckless trying to prove you're not helpless."

"You think that's what this job is? Me being reckless?" Cedric looked from one to the other, beginning to realize Tonks hadn't come along idly. They were staging what they considered an intervention. Neither of them seemed to realize how important Cedric believed his work to be. "What do you think? That I . . . made up my position just to yank Voldemort's chain?"

"Stop saying the name!" Scott practically shouted. "And well, perhaps you've got a point about the Muggles - but did you really need to create this job right now?"

Cedric hesitated only a moment before saying, "Yes, I did." Both Scott and Tonks appeared baffled. "Perhaps it does put me at risk, but Scrimgeour wants me here, in his office, and he's willing to give me what I want in return. This is what I want - this job. If I wait until You Know Who is defeated, do you think he'd even give me the time of day? Absolutely not. He's humoring me; I know it. Let him. I'm going to prove the Ministry needs this position."

Scott sighed audibly and Tonks trapped her tongue tip between her teeth. "You are stubborn," she said.

"I'm also right."

"Maybe," she allowed, as Scott said, "You're gambling on Scrimgeour letting you keep this job when the war's over."

"True enough."

"It's one hell of a gamble. Your safety for a position he'll likely revoke."

Cedric shrugged. "It's worth it. To me, it's worth it. Crisis creates opportunity."

"Crisis also creates dead people if they don't watch their backs," Scott replied.

She heard soft grunts even before she opened the door, and her body responded with a flush, tingling. What was he doing in there? He wasn't . . . he wasn't wanking, was he? She suspected he still did, regular sex with her notwithstanding. He was a boy. As quietly as she could, she opened the inside door to the carriage house, muscles tense, shy but driven by curiosity.

He wasn't wanking. He was working out. Cable pulleys rasped softly in a steady pull, pause, and release as he reclined against the bench, back to her. She must have made some sound because he turned his head to look over his shoulder, smiled briefly, then went back to his set.

Without the prefects' bath, he'd been forced to find new ways to keep his muscle tone, and when he'd gone for his yearly checkup at St. Mungo's, he'd scheduled a visit with his old medi-wizard, Michael Dyer. They'd talked exercises. But his new regimen required new equipment, and if magic made things easier, it still wasn't cheap. He'd used the last of his Triwizard winnings to buy a magically modified cable machine and accessories. Hermione knew he'd been reluctant to take all the prize money - or any of the prize money - but she wished now he hadn't been quite so noble. He needed equipment that fully mobile people didn't. She felt petty for worrying about such things, but she worried about such things.

"Hi," he said now, letting go of the cable rings and taking a moment to Summon his water bottle and drink. She watched his Adam's apple bob. His hair dripped from sweat and his skin was slick. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just shorts. The last of the evening sunlight poured in the high windows of the old carriage house, turning him to bronze and scattering gold on the rough floor and bare stone walls. With a flick of his hand, he sent the bottle back, then grabbed the pull bar above his head and shifted his weight, gripping it and pulling it down to his chest.

He'd leaned forward on the slanted bench so she could see the sculpted poetry of his back. Muscles slid under fair skin in a complicated dance of anatomic harmony. Down, hold, release, down, hold, release. His arms and shoulders rippled. He was beautiful, and her mouth went dry, cheeks and neck flushing.

She should say something, shouldn't she? He'd greeted her and she should say something, not just stand rooted to the spot, staring. But she couldn't find her voice. She felt as warm as he looked, and grew aware she'd gone embarrassingly slick between the legs. What was wrong with her? She slept with him every night, watched him dress in the morning, was even privy to his less attractive bodily functions like the use of a urinal in bed, or the fact his weaker sphincter muscles gave him occasional problems with flatulence (which embarrassed him no end). She knew his body, was comfortable with it now and could look at it without an automatic thrill. She liked that, liked the easy intimacy.

She didn't like this feeling of being on edge with spontaneous arousal. Hot and bothered and discombobulated. This was lust. Not love. Lust. The sound of his heavy breath and the sight of the muscles in his arms and shoulders pulling hard made her want to crawl atop him on that bench and lick all the sweat off, rub herself against him until she was electric with sensation.

Desire pulled her forward until she stood behind him, one hand going out to trail the pads of her fingers over his shoulder. He felt hot, and this close, she could smell him. He smelled good. Strong and sharp. Her touch made him start and almost release the bar. His head turned again so he could look up at her, eyes full of a wordless question. Whatever he saw in her own eyes must have given him an answer because he let the bar go as her palms moved mindlessly over his flesh - the arch of his shoulders sloping into the smooth flatness of shoulder blades and the valley of his spine between, twisted as he turned to look at her. She ran a thumb down bone, making him shiver a little.

Then he was pulling her around in front of him. "Want something, Granger?" he whispered.

You, she almost whispered, but couldn't. It wasn't arousal that closed her lips. It was prudery and propriety. Good girls didn't straddle boys on benches and initiate sex. They waited for their boys to come to them, then gave in from love. Not lust. And if love transformed into lust in the act, well, bodies responded to proper stimulation. That was just evolution. But good girls didn't want. Good girls weren't dirty that way, and what would he think of her if she wanted him? Wanted to feel his body heavy on hers, his prick grinding into her fanny, his mouth hot on her breast? She wanted him to fuck her. Not make love to her, fuck her.

He was pulling her down sideways onto his lap, eyes still holding hers. "Want something?" he asked again.

She blushed and dropped her gaze, fingers going out to play with the seatbelt that held him on the bench. "Just got back from the Burrow," she said. "Sorry I was running late. Our booklists came today and Mrs. Weasley plans to take us to Diagon Alley next week."

His face shifted from playfully sly to something more rigid. Disappointment? He reached for one of the cable rings. "Hand me the other?" he asked, pointing to it. Rising from his lap, she did. She wished she could interpret his expression.

He pulled the rings up to shoulder height and lowered them again. "What is that you're doing?" she asked. "The exercise, I mean."

"Cable fly," he replied between pants.

"What muscles does it work?"

"Shoulder deltoids."

Fresh sweat had broken out on his upper lip, brow and neck, and the lift and fall of his shoulders mesmerized. He wasn't looking at her, but past her at the old carriage-house doors. His breath sounded loud in the enclosed space, along with the pneumatic hiss of the cable machine. "You're getting bigger," she said abruptly, then rubbed her nose. "I mean the muscles in your chest are."

"I'm a bit pumped right now, Granger. Muscles do that when you exercise. They'll go down to normal again in an hour."

"Really?" She was intrigued. "But I meant in general. You're bigger now - your chest."

He stopped and just breathed for a moment. "You've been looking, have you?" That amused slyness was back, as if her looking might please him.

"You'd like that, you peacock."

He blushed a little. "Perhaps I'd like to think my girl doesn't find me hard on the eye."

Lips twitching, she crossed her arms. "You know you're not. Don't even pretend to doubt that. You're beautiful."

He looked up at her again and didn't reply immediately, then said, "My legs aren't what they were. The muscles are withering, physical therapy or not. Trousers conceal it a bit, but when we're in bed . . . well, I know how it looks."

Insight struck, although really, she shouldn't be so dense. "When we're in bed, I'm not thinking about your legs," she told him.

He was eying her, as if he didn't entirely believe her. "A minute ago, you were, erm - well. Then you weren't . . . " He trailed off, not finishing, nor clarifying the muddled words.

Confused, she frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He glanced back at the door. "When you came in. I thought you were looking at me like, well, that . . . then you weren't." He frowned in turn himself and stared down into his lap. He still gripped one of the cable rings, arm raised, and played with it absently, twisting it back and forth, back and forth

If she'd begun to twig the problem, it was one thing to understand intellectually, quite another to get past her own hang-ups long enough to help him past his. "Do you want me to look at you like that?"

He glanced at her as if she were thick. "Don't you like me to look at you like that?"

Did she? She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, hugging herself as she struggled with how to reply. The silence stretched. Snapped. "Yes," she admitted finally. "But it's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it for me."

"I don't want a boy who only wants me for my cleavage. Not that I've got any, but I've more respect for myself than that . . . " She trailed off, hesitated, then blurted, "I like being pretty to you, but I've never been the pretty girl. I'm the swot with the frizzy hair."

Cedric was staring at her as if she'd picked up his free weights and brained him with them. "I thought we had this conversation last Christmas on the Hogwarts Express?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I want to want you. I'm just . . . afraid." At his quizzical head tilt, she went on, "I'm afraid you'll think I'm some slag."

He looked, if possible, even more confused. "You're just a bundle of neuroses, aren't you?"

Lips pursed a moment, she snapped back, "And you're not?"

"I don't think I'm quite that bad, no." But it was said gently, and he reached out to snag her elbow, using the cable ring for balance, drawing her closer. She let him, stopping beside the bench. He let her elbow go and pushed up the bottom of her blouse, kissing her tummy. It was an oddly affectionate gesture. Then he dropped the blouse hem and looked up at her. "Sex and love - sometimes they're different, but sometimes they're not. If I think you have pretty breasts, it doesn't mean I don't think you have a pretty mind too."

"The breasts will sag, Cedric. Eventually."

He moved his hand up to cup one, thumb crossing the nipple, back and forth, dragging a little gasp from her as it puckered. "My legs are going to atrophy further, no matter what I do - and it'll happen sooner than your breasts will sag."

"I'm not in love with your legs."

"And I'm not in love with your breasts - nice as they are. Do me a favor and don't treat me as if I'm a shallow prat, all right?"

That stung, and she could feel her cheeks flush. "Sorry." She slid her hands into his sweat-damp hair. "I just . . . I worry I'm not enough. You asked if I want you to look at me like that - I do. But then I worry that someday you'll stop."

"I worry about the same thing." He pushed his head against her hand like a cat begging to be petted. "I have these useless legs and drag myself around on crutches. I don't want to be vain, but I can't seem to stop letting it bother me. I want you to want me anyway. I need you to want me anyway, Hermione."

"I don't want you anyway. I just want you," she whispered, his pain enough to finally grant her permission. Straddling the bench and his legs, she situated her body so she could settle down on his lap facing him, her hands smoothing over the still-damp skin of his shoulders. He welcomed her, nuzzling at her neck. "You like my breasts," she said. "I like your shoulders. And I think you are as neurotic as I am, whatever you claim."

He spit laughter, releasing the cable ring so he could slide both arms around her waist and pull her against him. "Perhaps so."

Bending, she did what she'd wanted to do since opening the door. She licked the sweat from his throat and jaw and neck. He let her, lying passive against the angled back of the bench, hands bunched in her shirt. "Love me," he whispered. She wondered what that meant. Was he asking for her adoration? That, he had already. Completely. Consumingly. Or was it just a polite euphemism requesting sex, evidence of his habitual reticence?

Lifting her head, she spoke against his cheek as she dragged short nails down his back on either side of the narrow bench. "I do love you. I'll love you till the stars go out." She shifted forward a little, bringing her crotch up against his, teasing through their clothing. She could feel him hard beneath her. "But is that all you wanted?"

He laughed; she could feel it vibrate his throat and chest. "I could be persuaded to more."

"I thought that was my line."

"It is your line; you're usually the coy one. My turn. You seduce me this evening."

Irritation bubbled, but she pushed it aside. He was usually the one to initiate things. She left it to him to ask her, persuade her. She wasn't reluctant nor did she play hard to get, but she'd insisted he be the pursuer. It all circled around again to nice girls. Nice girls didn't proposition their boyfriends. Yet she'd just seen how insecure he felt. 'I need you to want me,' he'd said.

So she arched her hips forward as she returned to licking his neck and shoulder. He tasted salty and the musk of his sweat sent a giddy shiver all through her, racing along her nerves. His hands were bunched against her back again, fisted in her shirt. She bit him at the juncture of neck and shoulder, then felt him gasp when she sucked hard at the skin between her teeth. Pulling away to inspect, she felt inordinately pleased with herself at the hot red bruise that would turn dark by morning. He watched her from the corners of his eyes. "You gave me a love bite."

"Yes, I think I did." She shifted her gaze from the bruise to his face. "Marked," she said, leaning in to whisper against his ear. "Just in case any of those pretty young things in the Minister's office think you're on the market, you know."

He laughed, slightly breathless. "Jealous, poppet?"

"Not jealous," she replied, tongue sliding out to lick his earlobe. "Possessive." His gasp at the touch tightened her tummy and she pushed her crotch harder against his.

The hands bunched at the back of her blouse began pulling it up over her head. "You have on too many clothes, Miss Granger."

"So do you, Mr. Diggory."

"I barely have on any."

"Barely any is still too many," she replied, letting him get her blouse off, then smirking as she slid off the bench onto her knees beside it. Watching her, his lips had parted and his eyes were dilated. If she were going to seduce him, she'd do it right . . . even if she had no real clue how to be 'sexy' like that. Reaching up, she got her hands in the waistband of his track shorts and began tugging them down; he reached for the bar above his head to lift up so she could ease them over his arse. Then leaning in, she licked his hipbone like she'd licked his neck and shoulders earlier. It wasn't because she couldn't keep her mouth off of him; it was to distract him whilst she raised the near-dead weight of his right leg over the bench until both were on one side in order to drop his shorts to his ankles. The bench belt kept him from sliding off. Getting Cedric dressed and undressed was just awkward, and there was no way to make it not awkward. When they made love at night, he usually took off his clothes ahead of time or they pushed down his pyjama bottoms to his thighs and left them. The best she could do was to keep his mind off of it.

Shorts and shoes gone finally, she lifted his right leg back over the bench so that he straddled it once more, buck naked. "That's quite a sight," she said as she rose up, unhooking the back of her bra and tossing it aside without fanfare. Perhaps she should have done a strip tease, but she'd have felt ridiculous.

He didn't seem to care, was staring at her bared tits. "So's that," he replied, reaching up to touch one but she flinched back.

"Ah-ah. I'm the seducer here. I'll tell you when you get to play with the toys."

He snorted. "I don't seem to recall forbidding you to touch my toys before."

"Your choice. But I say no touchy yet."

She probably sounded more like a nanny than a tart, and he appeared close to laughter. "Bossy, aren't you? I think you need a dominatrix outfit."

She made a face as she unzipped her shorts and shimmied out of them - the shimmy more for his benefit than because they were tight. "I'd look a right slapper in leather, fishnet stockings, and a whip, wouldn't I?"

He burst out laughing, which rather killed the mood, but she found herself grinning too. And perhaps they'd needed that. Tension drained, leaving her lighter hearted. "I'm not very good at this seduction business, am I?" she asked as he locked arms around her waist to pull her closer.

"You're just not that sort," he told her, smiling and pushing her hair away from her face. "You're sexiest when you're not trying."

"You're the one who wanted me to try."

"I didn't mean literally. I just . . . do you want to have sex?"

She blinked at him. "Well, I'd rather thought that the point of getting naked even if Little Cedric down there seems not to have caught on yet." At the moment, his prick was limp beneath her, perhaps from all the laughing.

"No, I mean, do you want to have sex?" His face was deadly serious now.

Bemused, she blinked back. "Yes."

"You're not just doing it for me?"

Now she got it. "No, I'm not." Frowning thoughtfully, she ran palms across his shoulders and down his arms a little, squeezing gently. "You're . . . sexy when you work out." A bit shyly, she reached over to snare one of the cable rings and hand it to him, then the other.

He took them both. "You want me to do cable flies . . . naked?"

She nodded, certain the blood was staining her face, but he didn't argue, just began as she leaned away to watch, running fingertips over his chest and belly. Then standing, she walked around the cable machine so she stood behind him, fingers still trailing over his skin. He'd slowed down and after a minute or two, stopped, breathing heavily. He didn't speak. Neither did she. She just slid her hands over his shoulders and down his chest from behind, kissing the nape of his neck. He let go of the rings; they clanged against the steel bars of the cable machine. "Come back around front," he said softly. She did. He wasn't flaccid anymore, and she straddled him again, rubbing her slickness against him, coating him. His hands had gone up to her tits, and she didn't stop him this time, arched her back instead to grant him easier access.

"If this is my reward," he whispered, "I'll do cable flies naked more often."

She giggled, then protested, "Don't make me giggle."

He bent to catch her nipple in his mouth, which elicited a whine instead. One hand went to the other breast and his free hand snaked down between their bodies to rub her clit. She rocked against him, keening and squirming, then pushed his hands and mouth away. "I'm seducing you, I thought," she said, breath heavy, hands slipping down to grip his erection and pump it. She wanted him inside her right now, and raised up to angle him, then sink down. It was wet and stretched her, and made him gasp. This probably wasn't very studied or elegant, but he wasn't complaining. She held still for a moment, then began to move. At first, intercourse had been raw and painful - painful enough that she'd preferred the preliminaries - but that had passed. Now she liked having him inside her, liked the way it felt. There was a friction tickle when she got the angle just right, and if she moved fast enough, it built, curling up through her belly. Straddling the bench like this was awkward, but she could control the rhythm.

She opened her eyes to focus on him. Teeth gritted, lips drawn back, he breathed through his mouth, his hips rocking, trying to match her speed. Long fingers clutched at the small of her back or her hips, pulling her close so he could feel all her skin along his, chest and belly to chest and belly. "Oh, God," she was saying, over and over, not really thinking about what came out of her mouth. "Faster."

"Faster," he answered, or agreed, or echoed, she wasn't sure which. He was urging her on like a jockey might the horse although she rode him, and he bit his lip, as if trying not to come.

"Don't come," she gasped. "Don't come." She was so close; she tried to focus on the building friction between her legs, swelling like magma before the eruption. "Don't come. Oh, don't come yet."

"Come for me," he told her, mouth so close to hers she could feel his breath on her lips. She opened her own mouth and licked at his, then his tongue was there to meet it but neither of them was focused on what their tongues were doing. Up and down, up and down - the swelling was rising as she went up and down on him, tits bouncing. His hands cupped them, pinching nipples and rolling them as she slammed down into his lap. He was starting to whine, which she knew meant he couldn't hold back any longer.

But she didn't need him to. She was there, climax peaking inside her as her whole body clenched, fingers gripping his shoulders, thighs gripping his hips, cunt gripping his cock. Her toes curled and she let out a sound between a groan and a wail. He was bucking up against her, holding on tight enough to bruise and biting at her collarbone, but she wasn't really paying attention. She just rode out the flow, her skin hot, eyes squeezed shut.

It went on for a full minute, counting aftershocks, both of them jerking a little against the other, flesh hypersensitive until she slumped bonelessly against him, pushing him back into the bench again, his arms loose around her waist. Her throat felt raw, and her vagina too, her hips sore from being spread at an awkward angle. But they'd done it finally; they'd managed to come together. And if she knew it was hardly necessary and certainly not the status quo, it still felt as if they'd passed some important milestone. "Did we set a Muffling Spell?" she finally asked.

"I didn't. Did you?"

"Oh, no," she moaned, face flaming and buried against his shoulder. "The whole house probably heard us."

"We're in the carriage house, poppet, not my bedroom. It's a bit detached."

Giggles shook her but she didn't lift her face. "Doesn't matter. The whole house heard us."

He was giggling too. "Probably." After a moment, they both subsided and she sat up. He stroked her cheek. "Sex is more fun when we're laughing. And when I know you want it."

Laying her palm in the centre of his chest, she said, "I want it. I'm just . . . not always very good at telling you." She made a face. "As you pointed out - I fail at seduction."

He just grinned. "You do. But you give orders well. Next time, my little dominatrix, just tell me, 'We're going to bed so I can shag you silly.'"

Eyes rolling, she said, "That was pathetic even for an after-sex joke, Cedric."

"Who said I was joking?"

Notes:Yes, that's right - Hermione didn't do as well on her OWLs in this version of things. She had a lot more on her mind, I think, and it wouldn't have been realistic for her to pass with 10 /O/s and only 1 /E/, so I reduced two of her /O/s to /E/s.