Old ghosts came back to haunt Cedric in early December. He'd had his third and final of the inaugural IVIg treatments at the end of October, and if he'd experienced no further strides towards improvement, he'd been feeling better overall. Perhaps the Muggles could do what wizards couldn't - if not heal him, then at least keep him from getting worse.

Then he suffered a relapse, one of those incapacitating episodes that left him flat on his back in terrific pain. He hadn't endured one since the school year before, and couldn't imagine what had set it off. Work had been no more stressful than usual, which meant Scrimgeour poked and prodded him periodically. But he'd been doing that since Cedric's hiring, and where once Cedric had been frantic over it, fearing he wasn't measuring up, he'd come to understand that it was just Scrimgeour's way. If it were going to bother him, it should have bothered him months ago.

Yet a week into December, he found himself unable to get out of bed for two days, and if the pain wasn't as bad as it could sometimes get, the attack had seemed to stretch. He'd apologized over and over to Fleur and Bill, who'd had to take care of him, until Fleur had threatened to hex his vocal chords if he said, "Sorry," one more time. When he returned to work on Friday, peaked and weak and worried what the Minister would say, nobody said anything at all.

As it was very nearly time for his half-yearly check-up in any case, Cedric made an appointment with his Wizarding healers, Grant and Groat. He didn't tell his mother. He didn't tell Dr. Guest, either. He didn't tell anybody at all except Bill and Fleur, in case they had to come and pick him up, and his secretary, because he had to be out of the office for the afternoon.

Grant and Groat put him through the same battery of tests as twice before, then met with him in Groat's office. "Well?" he asked.

Their faces told him the answer even before they did. "There appears to have been no change," Groat said quietly. "Or rather, no slow-down in the curse's advance, as we'd hoped we might see from these Muggle treatments. It's still progressing. Slowly, as predicted, but progressing."

"And the change I did experience?"

"That, we expect you'll get to keep," Groat said. "It's not an area affected by the actual curse, and seems to have recovered from whatever damage it suffered collaterally."

"But the rest - "

Groat shook his head and Grant ran a hand through his blond hair. "Everything looks exactly the way we'd expect it to, after monitoring you for a year and a half. The change is fairly glacial - which is a good thing - but it's still there, and the time frames we worked out before still appear to apply."

"So I should stop the treatments," Cedric said, trying not to let his face show his disappointment. He hadn't - honestly - expected this to work, not at the beginning. It was just that when he did regain control of his hips, he'd hoped . . .

"I wouldn't yet," Groat said now, a bit unexpectedly. "I admit, if these treatments were going to work, they probably would've already - but that said, they aren't hurting, either, and the Muggle NHS is paying for it. I'd say let them continue at least through the end of June. Then we'll check again. The nervous system can be a strange animal, and yours may take longer to respond."

Grant made a small gesture with his hand. "He's right; it's not hurting you, not aggravating the curse - may even have helped put off the attacks a bit."

"But I had one," Cedric said. "And I wasn't even under any stress."

"Well, yes - they will occur. As we told you last year, stress may set them off, but it's not the only thing causing them. A certain amount of aggravation occurs from the nature of the curse itself, building up, and sets off a physical reaction. I'm actually a bit surprised it's been so long since your last attack. That was, what, last April?"

"May. It was the first week of May." Not long after Hermione had finally lost her virginity, and he wouldn't soon forget that date: Beltane's Eve.

"That's over six months," Grant pointed out.

"So they'd normally happen more often?"

Lips pursed, Grant shrugged. "That's the hell of it - I'm not sure. I'm basing my predictions on other curses." Grant was a curse specialist, after all. "The trouble here is that the situation at Hogwarts last year aggravated your condition, and now, these Muggle treatments may be easing it. I'd like to see you go for a year without stress beyond the norm and without the treatments either, just to get a baseline, but there's no sense in that for experimental purposes if these treatments really are helping. Not to mention, with the current state of the Wizarding world, 'normal' stress isn't likely."

Cedric could only snort at that, then asked, "But you just said the treatments aren't helping me?"

"They're not curing you," Groat corrected. "But what Jesse described is precisely why we'd like to have you continue them. These nerve attacks do make your condition deteriorate faster, so even if the treatments aren't making you better, they may at least be keeping you from getting worse as rapidly as you might otherwise. It's just hard to tell without that baseline - but I agree, it's not worth having you stop the treatments to get it, at least not yet."

"So what did set off this attack?" Cedric asked.

Both men shrugged. "May not have been any one thing, just a gradual build-up of stress," Groat said.

"Or even a change in the weather," Grant added.

"Not having your girlfriend around . . . " Groat trailed off as Cedric blushed hard and coughed - which made Groat chuckle and Grant smile. "Ho-ho!" Groat crowed. "Well, I didn't mean that, specifically, but that certainly could be a contributing factor. Endorphins are natural analgesics and oxytocin facilitates bonding and fear reduction."

Grant just stared at his colleague. "Mind putting that in Wizarding English?"

"Brain chemicals," Groat explained with a grin. "The body releases them at orgasm and they make us feel better - reduce pain and stress."

"You read too many Muggle articles," Grant said, but somewhat fondly. "He is correct, though - sexual activity and orgasm are quite good for the body however one wants to explain it. Wizards and Muggles alike recognize that, and while personal stimulation might not be as much fun, it does offer some of the same benefits." He winked.

Cedric snorted. "Did my healers just prescribe masturbation as a treatment option?"

Grant was grinning broadly now. "This one did, at least. I hadn't really thought about it before, but it's actually a rather sound idea, in this situation."

Laughing, Cedric rubbed at his eyes, one elbow on the arm of his chair. "I'll take that under advisement." He didn't add that he and Hermione had guessed already that sexual activity helped, although they hadn't had an explanation. Dropping his hand, he looked up. "So - the consensus seems to be that these treatments aren't actually affecting the curse itself?"

All humour vanished from the other men's faces. "No, it's not. It's treating the symptoms, not the cause, much like the Restituo. That's not to say there are no benefits, but at some point, we'll have to decide if the benefits are worth your time and inconvenience every six to eight weeks. For now, let's track these attacks, see how often they do come, and try to determine what, if anything, might be a trigger. To that end, when you get home tonight, I want you to make a list of everything you ate or did physically - even routine things - this past week, plus anything you might not have done that you usually do . . . if you skipped exercises when you normally do them - anything that could matter. We'll do this every time an attack occurs and look for any patterns that might emerge."

Cedric nodded and the three of them talked a bit more, then he left, a prescription for higher doses of Abdoleo in hand in case he needed them. In general, Dr. Guest's pain cocktail worked better, but it came only at a lower dose and wasn't enough in a crisis, he'd discovered.

He went to bed early that evening, anticipating a bad night, and knocked himself out with the Abdoleo. Fortunately, the next day was a Saturday. When he finally rose, it was almost noon and he told Bill and Fleur what the healers had said - although he edited out the bit about sex. Fleur reached out to squeeze his hand where it lay atop the table. "I am so sorry the treatments are not healing you."

He shrugged and slid his hands free to pick up his coffee mug. "I'm not really surprised. I didn't expect them to. But at least it may be keeping the attacks at bay for longer."

"The new pain medication seems to help more, too," Bill pointed out. "So neither is a miracle cure, but they work together so that you're better off with both than with only one."

Cedric nodded, suddenly thoughtful. It was, he thought, symbolic of what he'd someday like to see - a unification of Muggle and Magical technologies. It was also the opposite of what Voldemort would institute, if he could.

Occasionally, Cedric's beauty hit Hermione over the head with the force of a hammer. She'd grown used to him, his face familiar and beloved, especially when lit by that fierce grin that looked as if it must hurt his cheeks. She loved him, so he was lovely to her. But he was also a striking man, and every now and then, that fact could still stop her breath in her throat.

It also made her self-conscious because she wasn't a striking woman - well, girl. This assertion wasn't false modesty; she'd never been the sort to bring whistles from the boys. By contrast, Cedric did elicit giggles from the girls for the sort of chiselled good looks that could have graced a Muggle magazine ad. This disparity in their relative appearances worried her, and she knew at least some people who saw them wondered what he was doing with her. If she knew he didn't want a mere arm ornament, what would happen on the day he finally met a girl with both beauty and brains?

She never told him these fears because it just made him angry, as if she were dismissing his sincerity or the depth of his feelings. She wasn't, not really. After everything they'd been through, she didn't doubt that he loved her, but she wasn't a romantic, and it was realism, she thought, not low self-esteem that made her dubious of their future. He might love her now, but people fell out of love as often as they fell into it, and he was bound to meet a woman eventually as intelligent, vibrant and beautiful as he was, somebody truly his equal. She tried to respect herself, believe in her own self-worth, and she did . . . mostly. She was a good feminist's daughter. But she didn't know if her ego could survive if she were dumped for some tall, lithe, brainy beauty. Deep down, she believed Cedric out of her league, and what McLaggen had said to her earlier that term only exacerbated that fear.

Yet when she saw him again, and he smiled down at her in that way he had, she had to pinch herself to remember she wasn't in a fairytale with Prince Charming. Besides, Prince Charming didn't usually arrive on crutches, with his mother in tow and ash in his hair.

Hermione was in Professor McGonagall's study when the Diggorys arrived by Floo, Lucy Diggory first, then Cedric. She was aware of McGonagall telling Mrs. Diggory something as Mrs. Diggory helped Cedric to his feet, but her attention was completely captured by him, her heart beating fast and her knees just a little weak. "Hi," he said softly as he approached to bend and kiss her cheek. "Missed you."

"Missed you too," she whispered back, out of breath as if she'd run all the way up to the professor's rooms. She laid a hand on the breast of his robes, just to touch him, feel him warm and solid under her palm. "The party starts in three hours. Will that be enough time for you?"

He grinned, impish. "It won't take me but fifteen minutes to get dressed, Granger. I thought girls were the ones who had to primp and preen for an hour beforehand?"

She pursed her lips. "I was wondering if you needed to eat or shower, silly. And I'm not the primping and preening sort."

"Thank goodness," he replied, bending to rub the end of his nose against hers in an Eskimo kiss. "And I ate earlier; besides, I reckon there'll be plenty of food tonight. I might take a shower, if there's time - "

"Or a bath," Professor McGonagall said, stepping up beside them to smile into Cedric's face. "We thought it would be simplest if you took the old Head Boy's rooms that you had last year, rather than put you in one of the usual castle guestrooms."

His eyes lit up. "The prefect's bath . . . "

". . . is right next door," she finished, patting his arm. She paused then, eyes flicking from his to Hermione's. "I trust there won't be cause to check the bath later?"

Both of them turned red. "Of course not, professor," Hermione muttered, mortified and resentful that her Head of House had felt the need to ask. Last year had been an extraordinary situation. But she also had to admit the minute McGonagall had mentioned the bath, speculative thoughts had skittered through her head. She wouldn't have gone so far as to spend the night in his room, but she had been thinking about meeting him in the bath.

Cedric's expression was . . . peculiar. "There won't be any need at all," he told McGonagall, yet the way he said it sounded more like a warning off than a promise of anything. "We're both adults here," he added.

McGonagall eyed him, but didn't say anything else, and Mrs. Diggory was stepping past in any case to grip Hermione above the elbow, propelling her out gently behind two small, Levitated trunks. To Cedric, she said, "I trust that you can find your old rooms alone? I have business with Hermione."

She did? Hermione suppressed a little squeak of concern. Although she got on rather well with Cedric's mother, Mrs. Diggory could still intimidate, especially when using words like "business" in that tone of voice. But she went meekly up two floors to a section of the castle she'd first seen only last year when Mrs. Diggory had brought the Cernunnos painting. Tonight, most of the guest rooms seemed to be occupied, no doubt with others come for Slughorn's Christmas bash. Mrs. Diggory tapped her wand on one of the doors, then sent her trunks inside and gestured for Hermione to precede her. The room wasn't large, but had a private shower, toilet, and large bed as well as a sizable wardrobe. "What did you want to talk about?" she asked Cedric's mother.

"Talk about?" Mrs. Diggory appeared surprised, then chuckled and shook her head, no longer looking frightful at all. "I wasn't dragging you off to have a chat, Hermione - or not like you feared, apparently." Opening one of the two trunks, she pulled out a brown-wrapped parcel and offered it up. "I just have an early Christmas present for you. I think you might find use for these tonight, but even more so over the holidays. Rufus Scrimgeour will be hosting a New Year's Eve party. The Minister always does - it's quite the event of the season, with everybody who's anybody in the British Wizarding world in attendance. His staff is always invited - and that means Cedric will be going. He'll be expected to bring a date."

"Oh," Hermione said, and a flutter of anxiety settled in her stomach as she unwrapped the box. Inside lay a set of crimson dress robes. Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Oh," she said again, stroking soft crushed-velvet. "These are . . . gorgeous." And no doubt very expensive, which she wasn't at all certain the Diggorys could afford these days. "You didn't - you gave me two sets of new robes last year," she said. "Not that I'm not grateful for these, but - "

"I didn't give you new robes, Hermione, I gave you robes that were fifteen years out of fashion. They'd do in a pinch, or for something like tonight - but they won't be suitable for the Minister's New Year's Eve party." She lifted the outfit free and handed it to Hermione. "Try them on."

"What if they don't fit?"

"That's what alteration charms are for," Mrs. Diggory replied. "They'll have to be hemmed for certain, but your mother helped me shop, so between us, I think we managed to get something that should fit you otherwise. Shoo." She gestured Hermione towards the bathroom.

Inside, Hermione shook out the robes to look at them under the brighter lights, realizing that what she held wasn't a girl's debutante dress, but a young woman's evening gown. Mrs. Diggory and her mother had picked these? Stripping out of her school robes, she stepped into the floor-length, flounced skirt and pulled it up. The simple, fitted front covered her snugly from a darted waist to the collar circling her neck, which flared upward like something from the 1600s. But the rest of the gown confounded her. Sleeve cuffs attached to rather a lot of shimmering gold gauze, some of which was sewn to the front where sleeves should go - but the gown was missing shoulders and a back, and she couldn't figure out what to do with the beaded strings attached to the sleeves and other trailing fabric.

Giving up finally, she opened the door and tentatively emerged, the long skirt sweeping the floor. It would definitely need to be hemmed. "Ah . . . I'm not sure how to get the rest of it on."

Mrs. Diggory laughed, but gently. "It is rather confusing, and you'd need some help with the back in any case. Come here." Hermione obeyed and let Mrs. Diggory snap the cuffs around her wrists, button a few buttons on the sleeves, then clip something to the collar. "There," she said, tweaking fabric. Then she drew Hermione over to the long mirror on the wall and half turned her so she could see her back. "What do you think?"

Hermione blinked. It was unexpectedly . . . sexy. But elegant. The beaded strings had turned out to be straps. One rose from the underside of each armpit, buttoning to the collar and creating the sleeve rear; the sleeves were split on top with only a set of buttons above her elbows and at mid-upper arm holding them, making delicate gold drapes in contrast to the rich crushed velvet of the skirt and bodice. Another glittering pair of straps went directly up her spine to attach to the back of the collar. They held a drifting cape that fell from her hips to the floor, but left her back bare from the tops of her shoulders to the curve of her waist. "Wow," she said. "I look . . . like a grown-up." A movie star, even - or high-priced call girl. Or Vampirella. She'd have snickered, except the gown was really too pretty to be compared to bad Hollywood horror costumes.

Mrs. Diggory was smiling. "Perfect. Now - " and she went back to the trunk, removing a pair of strappy gold shoes with clear heels. "These might require an enlarging charm. Your mother remembered your size, but even in the right size, not every shoe works."

Hermione blinked. "I feel like Cinderella." Sitting down on the bed, she took the shoes to put them on, but was startled by the weight. "They're real glass!" Not polyurethane plastic.

"Of course, dear."

"But . . . what if I crack them or something?"

Mrs. Diggory appeared surprised. "They have a breakage protection charm, of course."

"Oh, er - right." She could still forget about magic, six years later.

Once the shoes were on, she stood - carefully. These were possibly the highest heels she'd ever worn in her life. Looking at herself in the mirror, she couldn't help the little grin that tugged at her lips. Even without her hair done or makeup, she looked . . . almost beautiful. At least she thought so until Mrs. Diggory stepped up behind her, then the smile faded.

"What is it?" Mrs. Diggory asked. Hermione wished the older woman was a bit less observant.

"Nothing," she lied.

"You were smiling like the cat who'd caught the canary one moment, then looking crushed the next - hardly nothing, Hermione."

Hermione shook her head, uncertain how even to explain. Mrs. Diggory just waited her out. "I feel like an impostor in these robes," she said finally.

"Why?"

"They're fit for a princess."

Mrs. Diggory's eyebrow hiked and her lips pursed. "Are you worried that people will look down on you as a Muggle-born?"

Her own eyebrows lifted. "Not . . . not exactly. I mean, no, that wasn't really it."

"Then what was it?"

"I, er . . . I'm not precisely princess material. And I don't mean in terms of blood purity, or class." She looked down, but again, Mrs. Diggory didn't reply, just waited for her to explain herself. "I'm not pretty - not like you, not naturally. Not like Cedric, either."

Sudden understanding washed over Lucy Diggory's face. She pulled around a chair from the dressing table and sat down, studying Hermione where she still stood, back to the mirror. "You think I'm pretty?"

"Well, yes - of course. You're . . . you're poised, and graceful, and you have such nice hair - "

"And I'm too tall for a woman, mannish in feature, have no curve to my figure, and my hair is spell-blond, Hermione. Look again." Mrs. Diggory stood and held out her arms, inviting critical inspection.

Hermione blinked and - after a moment - could see exactly what Mrs. Diggory meant. The older woman was exceptionally tall, almost as tall as her son, which meant she could look most men in the eye and actually topped her husband by a few inches. She didn't have a figure either, her chest nearly flat and her waist dropping straight to narrow hips. It would have been a good figure for a model, perhaps, but it didn't look feminine. And her features - they were just a little mannish, with a square jaw and strong cleft chin. And there was something slightly . . . coarse . . . about her large-boned hands. Hermione had never before noticed these things because Mrs. Diggory always moved with such grace. Yet like a Rubin vase-profile, now that a new shape had been pointed out to her, she couldn't help but see it.

"When I was your age, Hermione, the running joke in my house was that I performed sex-change spells every morning in the loo. The fact I had more balls than most of the boys in my year probably didn't help." Her smile was slightly vicious.

It made Hermione laugh, even while she also felt quietly horrified. "They called me - well, call me - the frizzy-haired, buck-toothed bookworm," she offered to even the scales.

"We all see our own flaws most clearly, don't we? You think I'm pretty, but that's not what I see when I look in the mirror. As for the poised part - that can be learned. I had etiquette and decorum beaten into my head almost before I could walk. Perhaps that's why I rebelled and insisted on coming to dinner with paint still beneath my nails." She raised her hand and, indeed, there was paint beneath her short nails.

"But Cedric - " Hermione began.

"What about him?"

"He's . . . he's . . . well, there's not a lot of comparison between us."

Mrs. Diggory shook her head. "You see him through rose-colored glasses. My son is quite handsome, to be sure. My features do look better on a man than a woman, and he inherited them. But if you take time to notice, he's also just a bit . . . odd looking. His face is unusually flat, his teeth aren't even, his eyebrows are too heavy, and his nose is crooked."

Hermione blinked yet again. She'd noticed those things of course, but found them endearing idiosyncrasies, not flaws. "He's got a few peculiarities, but he's still striking. And I like his eyebrows," she added defensively.

Mrs. Diggory chuckled at that. "He is striking, even beautiful, but he's no insipid Adonis without character to his face. Character arises from flaws, Hermione - in our personality, and in our looks. It's these 'flaws' that we learn to live with, and which make us unique. As an artist, it's the flaws I've come to cherish reproducing. Every wrinkle, every mole, every freckle, every oddly shaped ear or weak chin - these are what make us individuals. You love my son so you don't see his flaws as problems, do you? You see them as 'peculiarities.' Yet you worry there isn't any comparison between you and him? Hermione, you're a lovely young lady. You call your hair 'frizzy,' but I call it curly. You say you have buck teeth, but I don't see that - "

"Well, er, I sort of fixed my teeth. A few years ago. A shrinking spell."

That made Mrs. Diggory smile. "Just so. Like I fixed my hair."

"It's not blond normally? I just, well, assumed maybe you touched up the grey."

"It's Cedric's colour naturally - not quite brown, not quite blond. I heightened the highlights." She sat back down. "Spells are wonderful things. Don't be afraid to use them." She let her eyes drift critically over Hermione. "What I see when I look at you is a young woman of normal height with curves in the right places to make the boys' eyes drift down. You have a sweet face, lovely dark eyes and hair that, styled well, some women spend far too much money to recreate with curling charms."

Hermione looked down at herself. "I feel plain."

"You're not. You're normal - which means you have a face made up of good features and bad. But it's your face, and unique, and those who care for you - such as my son - find it dear." She tilted her head. "Cedric thinks you beautiful, Hermione. Trust me on that. More to the point, he adores you. That's why he finds you beautiful."

"But one day, he'll stop," she blurted, her earlier fears bubbling back to the surface. "One day, that'll wear off. And okay, I know that he likes clever girls. He's said so and, well, there's plenty of evidence he does. But one day, he's going to meet a clever girl who's as beautiful as he is."

Mrs. Diggory just stared at Hermione for a long moment until Hermione dropped her eyes, recalling abruptly that she was talking to Cedric's mother, voicing doubts about his constancy. "Do you really think that's how the story goes?" Mrs. Diggory asked.

Unable to lift her eyes, Hermione felt frozen, unable either to nod or shake her head. The pause stretched - broke. "All the stories are about beautiful women falling for the monster or the geek or the ugly man," she blurted. "King Kong gets the girl, or the Hunchback of Notre Dame does, or the Phantom of the Opera. Muggle movies make oodles of money off that stuff - the hairy, overweight, not-very-handsome man wins the pretty, willowy woman. The only times a swot girl gets the boy, she turns out to be Cinderella in disguise. Women know how to look past appearances . . . " She didn't finish that sentence. The corollary was apparent.

Abruptly, Mrs. Diggory rose and walked over to her, reaching out to tilt up her chin. "First, you must be certain you have the correct story. You are not Cinderella. Nor are you the ugly girl. I just pointed out that you're a lovely - if normal-looking - young woman. You aren't perfect, no. But you're far from horrid. And you have been blessed with more than your share of intellectual brilliance - "

"Like the boys ever want that - "

"My son does. Was there another boy you were worried about?"

Hermione had the good grace to blush.

"Now listen to me, Hermione." Mrs. Diggory released her chin. "The story that I see here is far better than any fairytale. We have a talented, sometimes aloof young man struck by a terrible tragedy, and a brilliant young woman who was more lonely than even she realized, and so recognized loneliness in another - reaching out. That's a lovely story . . . but it has nothing to do with Cinderella. It's far more real. Cinderella and her prince may have lived happily ever after, but we really don't know, do we? Who tells that part of the story? But that's the interesting part - or it would be if Cinderella and her prince had any personality to speak of.

"My son needs a girl with a brain and some ambition of her own - somebody who won't be churned up beneath his ambition, because he has it. He's only beginning to realize just how much. He doesn't need somebody of the ordinary sort, but someone extraordinary who can match him intellectually but doesn't feel a need to compete with him. He loses badly. It's not necessary to compete to hold your own. He wants a companion to walk beside him. That, Hermione, is a love story, not a romance. Cinderella is just a romance."

Hermione listened to all this with great astonishment, and swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Mrs. Diggory seemed genuinely curious.

"I . . . don't know." And she realized she didn't know, not exactly.

"Women learn to say those words too readily - we're 'sorry' for everything. It's always our fault, even when it's not. Stop it. If you've anything to apologize for, it's for paying too much attention to the fairytale and looking for Prince Charming. But that's not entirely your fault. I lay that at the feet of our foolish society - both magical and Muggle. Now listen to me. There are no Prince Charmings, and there are no Princesses. Sometimes it's entertaining to play dress up and look our best, but beneath the fancy fabrics beat real hearts. Young men resent being asked to be Prince Charming just as much as young women resent the men who want only a Princess - and even princes and princesses shit and belch and pick their noses when people aren't looking."

Hermione burst out laughing at that; she couldn't help it.

Smile wry but eyes serious, Mrs. Diggory went on, "Cedric's a good boy, and a born romantic - but he's still a man. He'll forget to tell you he loves you, just assume you know. He'll forget your anniversary, and your birthday. Sometimes he'll just want sex, not romance, and sometimes he'll take you for granted. Ironically, that's when you'll know he truly loves you - because he's certain of you. And whilst it's not true of all men, it is true of Cedric that his heart is constant and he's happiest when he knows he can get a kiss without working for it. He may like the challenge, but ultimately, he likes comfort better. He'll take care of you till the day you die, and he'll let you take care of him. And that's love."

Hermione wasn't sure how to respond, so she just dropped her eyes. After a moment, Mrs. Diggory patted her shoulder. "Now, let's do up that hem." And wand out, she knelt in front of Hermione, turning up the unfinished bottom of the robes.

Cedric did take a bath, a rather long one, revelling in the steamy heat and freedom of movement in the water. He'd nearly forgotten how lovely it was to swim. Finally dragging himself out and feeling like an eagle jessed, he made his way back into the bathroom where he shaved and used a smoothing spell before applying a bit of gel to his hair so it maintained a casual disarray. His mother had warned him to look his best tonight or he'd be completely upstaged by his date. In truth, he didn't mind a bit of upstaging; let her knockout her schoolmates and he'd enjoy their envious glances because she'd be on his arm - well, figuratively. He knew that possessiveness was rather Neanderthal, but sometimes he felt insecure enough to flaunt his success. He might be on crutches, but he was seeing the cleverest witch at Hogwarts - and sleeping with her too.

Despite his mother's warning, he wasn't prepared for just how upstaged he might be. A knock came on the door a little before the party was to begin, but of course, one didn't want to arrive precisely on time. He called for whoever it was to come in, and his mother - dressed in her signature violet - opened the door, but more like the handmaiden before the lady.

A scarlet vision entered behind. Hermione was exquisite. Utterly exquisite. He thought perhaps he could be forgiven hyperbole when he was so completely gobsmacked. His heart stuttered and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He stood frozen in place on the crutches. His mother's art had taken on life, moving and breathing and shimmering from her spell-glittered hair and smoky dark eyes to her rich velvet hem. She was wearing his pearls.

So he did what any gentleman would do. He gave her a deep bow, or as good a one as he could approximate. It made her giggle, and she looked adorably embarrassed . . . and far more like his Hermione, which gave him back to himself. He remembered how to breathe normally and even managed a wide smile instead of just a gape-mouthed stare. "You're beautiful," he told her as she moved over to him. The adjective seemed inadequate.

"Thank you," she said. "You're none too shabby yourself."

"Turn around," his mother told her, and after a glance sideways, Hermione did so . . . showing an unexpected expanse of pale flesh highlighted by glittering ruby straps and faint gold dust. His mouth went dry again but it wasn't just aesthetic appreciation. Her lovely bare back elicited rigid attention below his belt too. All he could think was that he wanted to get his hands on her skin, and his mother was watching him, apparently amused. "I think it will be a success," she said, mostly to herself.

That was when he noticed she was carrying a camera. "You're taking pictures?"

"Indeed," she said. "But because I plan to paint you."

"Paint us?" Hermione asked, half spinning, face alarmed. She hadn't forgotten last year.

His mother rolled her eyes. "Not like that, Hermione. A simple portrait, nothing unusual."

"Oh." Hermione appeared mollified, and blushed.

"Although," his mother added, "I know exactly the pose I want." Of course she did; she always did. Setting aside the camera, she came forward to Cedric and he let her position him in front of and slightly to the side of the fireplace, his feet planted well apart, his crutches extended so that he could stand as close to straight as he could manage these days.

"Can't we, er, paint out the crutches?" he asked her - pleaded really.

"Absolutely not, Cedric. This will be a portrait, and like Lysippos, I will show you as you truly are, not just as you seem - or want to seem. Your ethos and your aretê - your character and your courage. Naturally the crutches will be in the portrait." She turned and held out a hand. "Now Hermione."

Hermione approached and started to take a position beside him, her arm around his waist, but his mother stopped her. "Oh, heavens no - none of that standard stiff rigidity. Here." She turned Hermione so she was facing Cedric and pushed her closer. "Put your right hand on his shoulder" - she placed it where she wanted it - "and slip your left arm around his torso - oh, for heaven sake, Hermione, he's your lover! Hold onto him like he is! I don't want to see firelight between your bodies."

Hermione was blushing, but obediently adjusted her stance until he could feel her soft breasts pushed up against his chest. "This feels silly," she muttered.

"It won't look silly. Trust me. Now, Cedric, let Hermione help balance you. Put your weight on your left arm and slip your right arm around her so your hand is at the small of her back, under the cape straps."

His mother was trying to kill him, and not by asking him to balance on one crutch. The heat of Hermione pressed to his front and her soft skin beneath his palm was sending him straight into cardiac arrest. His mother removed the dangling crutch as he looked down into Hermione's face, the dark-dark eyes outlined by kohl and fudge browns. Her lips were berry red. "You're beautiful," he whispered again.

"That's right," he heard his mother mutter. "That's it. The power of passion - show it to me."

The flash of light bulbs would have blinded him if he'd been looking up, but he wasn't. He might have been self-conscious - probably should have been - but a lifetime of being her model had inured him and he was able to pull Hermione into his private bubble. She gazed up in something he'd have called adoration if he'd been less fearful of hubris. Her eyes were liquid, shimmering in the light of the candelabra chandelier and the hearth. He bent his head, caught in that gaze like a fly in the spider's web, but willing, willing. He could feel the blood rushing all through him, hot and making him sweat. More flashes said his mother had taken more pictures. He knew her posing of them would work brilliantly, showing the gorgeous back of Hermione's dress rather than the demure front, and even though portraits tended to move around, they still had a basic default pose. Nonetheless, Cedric found it amusing that his mother wanted to paint them this way, not in something more characteristic. They wouldn't be remembered as the Triwizard Champion and his brilliant girlfriend, or even as the former Head Boy and a Gryffindor prefect, despite the setting of the Head Boy suite. They'd be remembered as young lovers - the Summer King and his Ceridwyn still.

He rather liked that.

Finally, she released them. "Run along," she told them. "I need to put these things away first. Tell Horace that I'll be there shortly."

"Yes, mum," Cedric said, kissing her cheek.

Slughorn's study wasn't that far away, relatively, but they still had to pass several students in the hallway. Hermione garnered more second-glances than Cedric, who was rather enjoying the attention - because it wasn't aimed at him. Hermione seemed flustered. "I assume Harry couldn't wiggle out of this one?" Cedric asked her.

"Nope," she said, half-grinning. "He's quite looking forward to seeing you, you know."

"Likewise," Cedric replied.

"He's escorting Luna Lovegood - as friends," Hermione added.

Cedric stopped dead in the hallway. "Luna? He's taking Luna? That's - " He halted at her glare. "I didn't mean it like that!" he defended, although actually he had, just a bit.

He suspected she knew it too, given her slit-eyed, dubious expression, but she didn't call him on it. "He asked her yesterday; Peeves overheard so everybody else heard, too, within the hour. Ginny says that Luna's terribly excited."

Cedric found himself smiling. "I'm glad she's getting to go. I was just . . . surprised."

"Mmm," Hermione replied noncommittally.

"What? I like Luna." They'd almost arrived at Slughorn's door. Music, laughter, and loud conversation could be heard on the other side, even in the hallway.

One brow arched, Hermione turned to face him. "I know you do. But there's a bit of patronizing about it."

"She's four years younger than me, Hermione. I think I'm allowed to be a little patronizing. It's not of a bad sort. Besides, you can't tell me you don't sometimes think she's off her rocker too."

Hermione's shoulders slumped slightly. "I admit it. It's just . . . the way boys . . . " She sighed in an explosive gust and gave a little hopeless lift of her hands. "Never mind. It doesn't make any sense."

Frowning, he stepped closer, ignoring a pair of party-goers who'd arrived just after them - and who were staring at Hermione in her finery, then at him in his dress robes. "I think we're overdressed," Hermione muttered.

He jerked his head to the side, over towards a crenellation in the wall where they could speak more privately. She followed. "We are overdressed, but it's all right. And" - he made an intentional glance over her shoulder at her back - "I'm enjoying the view. Some of the other adults will dress up, you'll see. But what's bothering you?" He frowned down again, gently.

"It's nothing - "

"It's not nothing."

"You sound like your mum. I'm just . . . on edge. It's been a hard term given everything, and with people talking . . . " People 'talking'? Yet she didn't give him a chance to ask before she continued, "I worry about you out there. And what happened to Katie - " She stopped abruptly and took a deep breath, looking up at him. Her damp eyes were close to spilling over, and he bent to kiss her, lightly, so he wouldn't smudge her lipstick (or get it on him). She gave him a smile. "Tonight, I just . . . I want to go to a party and not think about everything else going on."

He nodded. "Then we will. Let's go, so I can show off my lovely date."

She laughed and shook her head, but moved with him towards Slughorn's door again, her hand fisted in the back of his robes like she used to do.

Once inside, the noise rolled over them both, and Slughorn must have used Enlarging Charms on his study, or had asked Flitwick to. Even with them, the place was packed and stuffy, which the colourful jewel-tone draperies on the walls didn't help. A Fairy Chandelier hung from the ceiling centre, casting bright red-and-gold light over greenery and baubles, while lute music drifted from one corner. A blue haze of pipe smoke hung just below the ceiling like ominous rain clouds.

Slughorn spotted them immediately, and a loud "Oh, ho!" cut across the buzz of conversation and music as he sailed towards them like the QE2. "Mr. Diggory and the lovely Miss Granger - well, aren't you a sight to behold tonight!" Taking her hand, he kissed the knuckles, making Hermione laugh, which in turn made Cedric smile. Then he pulled them deeper into the crowd, saying softly in her ear, "That is a Dorothy Dimble Original, or my name isn't Horace Slughorn. I heard dear Lucy had agreed to do a series of fashion sketches for Dimble's spring show and could scarcely imagine why, but all is now revealed. I expect I know what you'll be wearing to the Minister's New Year's Party, eh?" He winked at Hermione, as if to say he was in on the secret.

Cedric just wanted to sink into the floor as the look on Hermione's face boded ill. "I . . . er, urm - I suppose?" she said.

Grinning, Slughorn just patted her hand. "You look absolutely gorgeous, and I'm sure Dorothy won't mind a set of her dress robes shown off at such a prestigious event on such a lovely lady. Where is Lucy, by-the-by?" He looked from Cedric to Hermione. "I thought she was coming?"

"She is," Cedric said quickly. "She just had a few things to wrap up. She'll be along presently."

"Yes, yes - there was never any rushing Lucretia. She'll be sure to make an entrance." And spotting somebody else, he waved airily and waddled away.

Cedric was only half relieved, as Hermione turned to him and hissed, "What is he talking about? He made it sound like I'm wearing an Armani gown!"

Cedric bent to whisper, "Not sure what an Armani gown is, but Dimble robes . . . er, let's just say the likes of Narcissa Malfoy patronizes her for eveningwear."

Hermione's face was bright red now. "Oh, my goodness. I knew . . . well, I suspected they were, ah, expensive, but I never - Cedric! I can't take these as a Christmas present! I can't let your mother sell her talent for such a petty cause. I suppose that's what Professor Slughorn meant - "

"Yes, you can and you will," he ordered in a whisper. "It would be . . . you'd humiliate her if you tried to give them back!"

"I didn't mean that!"

"I know, but Granger . . . Hermione - it was obviously important to her. She's been talking about the Minister's party for weeks." He squeezed his eyes shut. His mother knew how much his job at the Ministry mattered to him, but he didn't want to tell Hermione she'd been set up as his bragging rights. He wasn't even certain she had been. "The Minister's party will be full of purebloods; she's determined to dress you up to match any of them."

"Like Eliza Doolittle," Hermione muttered, sounding furious. "And she told me she took my mother shopping for these, not that they were . . . were . . . an original anything!"

"They may not be," he said. "That's just Slughorn. He likes to pretend he knows more than he does." He let his puzzlement take over then. "Who's Eliza Doolittle?"

Hermione's sigh was prim and long-suffering. "She's a character in a play by George Bernard Shaw - 'Pygmalion' - about this professor who, on a bet with a friend, takes a Cockney girl and trains her up to pass for a society lady. It's rather . . . insulting, really. Although in the end, she tells him to take a flying leap and marries somebody who respects her."

And that took Cedric momentarily aback. Did Hermione somehow fear he didn't respect her? Or that his family didn't? "Mum's not insulting you, Granger. She just wants to make a point."

"What? That pigs can be taught to waltz?"

"Don't insult my mother either!" Cedric snapped. Hermione had the good grace to blush. "And don't insult yourself. You're hardly a dressed up pig. Her point is that you're not lesser than anybody else who'll be at the Minister's party."

She nodded, reaching out with tentative fingers to tangle in the sleeve of his dress robes. "Sorry. I just . . . I feel . . . "

"I know." He repositioned his weight to free one arm so he could slide his hand up her back, trying to offer comfort. It distressed him how anxious she got about the blood-purity thing, and sometimes he wasn't sure what to say. If he tried to dismiss it, he sounded equally dismissive of her insecurities, but if he told her it didn't matter to him, he feared she'd think him insincere. But it didn't matter to him; it never had. He just wished it didn't matter to her. "Look at it this way, poppet - Umbridge will be there. Wait till she sees you in that." He nodded at her to indicate her robes. "She might suffer apoplexy."

Hermione laughed, and the tension broke. They went out then to mingle appropriately, taking some time to nibble on the excellent appetizers (Slughorn had spared no expense on food). But eating required a Hover Spell to carry his plate, as he couldn't stand on the crutches and hold crockery too. Harry found them quickly, dragging Luna in his wake. She wore dress robes of silver with iridescent spangles - more flashy than elegant - but somehow they suited her thanks to her pale-pale hair and skin and eyes. "You look lovely," Cedric told her, which brought a luminescent smile to her lips.

"I made them myself! Not for the party, of course. I didn't know I'd be going to the party until yesterday. I just liked the idea."

"You sewed your own robes?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Oh, yes. I like to design things."

"Luna has a creative streak," Cedric said - which could be taken a variety of ways, but at least some of them were complimentary. Harry appeared as if he were struggling not to laugh.

"There's a vampire here," he said instead, which immediately got Hermione's attention. "We met him a little while ago. He came with one of Slughorn's old students who was blathering on about wanting to write my biography!" Harry rolled his eyes. "The student, Somebody Worple, not the vampire, I mean."

"Eldred Worple," Cedric said. "He wrote Blood Brothers, about living among the vampires. Rather interesting, really - better than I expected - although it's still rather depressingly, 'See how the barbaric Other lives!' Like putting them in a zoo." He took a sip of wine.

"Well, they are vampires, aren't they?" Harry asked. "They eat people."

"So do werewolves. And most vampires didn't ask to be vampires anymore than werewolves asked to be werewolves."

Hermione got a sudden speculative look in her eye and craned her neck to see. "I wonder what he thinks of Umbridge's new legislation? It's not just werewolves it discriminates against."

Harry was eying them both as if he feared they were about to stage a demonstration of some sort when Luna piped up with, "The vampire isn't Minister Scrimgeour. He was introduced as Sanguine. He looked rather bored, poor man."

Cedric choked on his wine. "Scrimgeour? What makes you think Scrimgeour is -"

"Oh, Father wrote an article all about it when Scrimgeour first took office but was prevented from publishing by the Ministry. They don't want it to get out, you know."

Handing Hermione his glass, Cedric reached up to rub between his brows, his crutch dangling. Sometimes it was easier to ignore Luna's theories - or rather Xenophilus Lovegood's theories as parroted by Luna - but this went too far. "Luna, I work for the Minister. I see him on a daily basis, or nearly. He's not a vampire."

"Well, they want to cover it up - "

"No, Luna. He's not. I know enough to tell." She frowned, clearly disturbed by the fact he was contradicting her beloved father, and both Harry and Hermione squirmed, uncomfortable. Cedric reached out to lay his free hand on her shoulder. "He's not, okay? I wouldn't lie to you, and I wouldn't cover it up. Now stop repeating that before it gets you into real trouble, all right? I don't want anything to backfire on you. Maybe your father was . . . told incorrect information."

He could feel Luna tense under his hand, struggling with it, then she relaxed and smiled up at him. "I know you believe what you say, Cedric. And you're worried for me. I'll be careful who I tell about it."

Resisting a frustrated sigh, he let it go. Sometimes, that sort of answer was the best he could hope for, but he feared that someday, it would get her or her father into serious hot water.

His mother arrived half an hour after he and Hermione, and he suspected she'd waited in part to give the two of them time to make their own entrance before she stole their thunder . . . because of course she did. Lucretia Diggory, Master Painter, appearing at Slughorn's Christmas party was quite the social coup - if not on a par with 'The Boy Who Lived.' Yet while it might have looked like an 'everybody who's anybody' affair here tonight, Cedric recognized that the non-Hogwarts guests belonged to the entertainment community - Worple the biographer, two members of the Weird Sisters, Gwennog Jones the Seeker, master lutist Benjamin O'Dell, his own mother . . . The more liberal fringe. Cedric found it telling. Aside from himself and a trio of warlocks in the corner who he thought worked for the Transportation Division, there wasn't another Ministry employee to be seen. Slughorn might be pretending to his old connections, but clearly his status was slipping. Cedric whispered to his mother at one point, "You notice there's not really anybody all that influential here?"

"I did notice that, yes. Not a terribly good sign for Dumbledore's faction."

"No," he agreed. "Are Hermione's robes really Dimble?"

His mother's smile showed her dimples as she sipped wine. "They are."

"What did you promise Madam Dimble? Those are too - "

"Nothing much, Cedric. I hardly sold my soul. She wanted sketches for some hanging tapestries for her spring show. She's got a new 'Mythic' collection coming out." Of course, his mother's connection to mythic subjects was well known. "I wasn't terribly interested, but she offered a fair price." And he knew, these days, their family couldn't afford to be too choosey. "I asked her to throw in a set of robes and explained it was for your date to the Minister's New Year's Eve party. She decided the Triwizard Champion's companion dressed in her stock was sufficient publicity to add them to the contract. So Helen and I went down to her workshop and picked them out."

Cedric was savvy enough to recognize all this as mutual back scratching in which everybody came out a winner, but, "Slughorn blurted it out to her - what they are - and Hermione didn't take it well."

"Whyever not?"

"She thinks . . . well, she thinks the present's too much, but also that she's being patronized."

"Oh, for pity's sake . . . "

"Mum, she doesn't really understand how these sorts of things work, at least not in our world. You might let it slip at some point that having her dressed in Dimble's robes at the Minister's party helps Madam Dimble, too."

"Oh, very well, I'll find some opportunity to point it out to her."

"Don't make her feel foolish - "

"Of course not."

They were interrupted from anything further by the sudden arrival of none other than Argus Filch hauling a furious (and frightened) looking Draco Malfoy. He stopped in front of Slughorn, who'd been talking to Harry and - amusingly - Snape. "Professor Slughorn!" Filch half-whined, half-crowed. "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party but was delayed in setting out. Did you issue him an invitation?"

Draco jerked free. "All right, I wasn't invited!"

"Certainly not," Cedric's mother murmured beside Cedric. "Because I was."

"I was trying to gate-crash, happy?" Draco finished.

"No, I'm not !" Filch bellowed - although the glint in his eye certainly had him looking happy. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the Headmaster say that nighttime prowling's out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"

Slughorn - who was slightly pissed by this point - waved a hand dismissively. "That's all right, Argus, that's all right. It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco."

Filch didn't look happy . . . but interestingly, neither did Draco - or Snape. Nonetheless, Draco began thanking Slughorn as Filch shuffled off. Cedric watched and listened with interest whilst Draco tried to suck-up to Slughorn . . . until he caught sight of Cedric standing with his mother several feet away. The words died in Draco's throat momentarily, then he resumed as if he hadn't spotted the other half of the Malfoy clan. But Snape stepped in to demand a word with Draco, and despite Slughorn's attempt to dismiss it all, insisted Draco leave with him. Within a few minutes of Draco and Snape's departure, Harry was excusing himself from Luna and Hermione, in order to head out too.

Cedric made his way over to them. "Where's Harry going?" he asked.

"He said he had to go to the loo," Luna replied almost cheerfully, returning to her previous conversation with Professor Trelawney about some 'Rotfang Conspiracy' at the Ministry . . . and Cedric didn't even want to know.

Hermione seemed worried too, as Cedric's mother joined them. "I fear he's gone to, well, spy." She dropped her eyes. "He still thinks Draco was somehow responsible for what happened to Katie Bell."

Cedric's mother frowned. "Why on earth would Draco want to cause harm to Katie? The Malfoys and Bells are friends. After a fashion."

Hermione visibly squirmed. "Er, um, well, uh - he thinks Draco's a Death Eater who's got some sort of . . . mission . . . from Vol-Voldemort."

Interestingly, his mother didn't express immediate doubt. "Possible. Unlikely, however."

"That's what I told him - Ron and I," Hermione said. "Draco's too young to be a Death Eater - "

"Oh, no, he's not too young," his mother said. "It would be atypical, but not unheard of. But that You Know Who would have given him some special assignment that involved harming Jordan Bell's daughter? That, I sincerely doubt."

Hermione seemed surprised. "You really think he could be a Death Eater?"

"Certainly. With Lucius in Azkaban, the Dark Lord is very likely to turn to Draco, or Narcissa, in order to get funding. His little mission of conquest doesn't run on wishes, after all. Many of the old Death Eater families had their funds seized, or have otherwise fallen on hard times - the Lestranges aside. But Bellatrix can hardly waltz into Gringotts to make a withdrawal from her vault. The Dark Lord needs the Malfoy galleons. And if Narcissa might be less forthcoming, Draco's young enough to be flattered into cooperation, especially if he thought he were being taken into the Dark Lord's inner circle."

Hermione appeared thoughtful, and Cedric realized this wasn't something he'd considered before - how Voldemort paid for things - but his mother was, as usual, more shrewd. "I'll suggest that to Harry later," Hermione said. "It's more reasonable than the barmy story he's brewed up in his head. Or you can tell him, Cedric. He might actually listen to you."

"He might," Cedric said. "Or he might not. For now, let's enjoy the rest of the party until Harry comes back."

Unfortunately, Harry didn't come back that night. Cedric's discussion with him would have to wait.

Note: As some may realize "ethos" and "aretê" - which I translated here as "character" and "courage" - are tricky Greek words that can have multiple meanings, depending on context. Andreia is the more usual word for courage, but aretê implies an overall excellence of person.