She shattered like dropped crockery, contents spilling in shrieks and heaving shudders, toes and fingers curled as if to hang on to the sensations. For a full minute, she didn't know where she was, or the hour, or even her own name. She was mind-blank with ecstasy.

Awareness floated back in pieces like pot sherds. She reassembled them as her eyes opened and she stared up at the bathroom rafters, her chest heaving. "Oh, God," she said.

"Nineteen," he replied, pulling his mouth away.

She twisted her head to look down the left side of her body at him. Face lowered, he was wiping his mouth off, using still-sudsy bath water. He wasn't looking at her and she closed her legs, still shy enough not to want to lie there, knees akimbo, past the passion-rush. "Nineteen what?"

"'Oh, Gods'," he clarified, eyes sliding sideways to grin at her. Cheeky bastard.

"You counted? I can't believe you counted!"

He just reached up to tug on one of her legs. "Come back in."

"Give me a minute. I feel like a puddle of goo." The cheeky grin was back. "Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself, Cedric. It's unbecoming."

His whoop of laughter was cut off when he dove backwards in a smooth arc, disappearing under the water. She pushed herself up to a sitting position, leaning into her hands to watch him move, a pale streak of bare skin beneath islands of fading bubbles. He looked so powerful and confident here.

They had, of course, wound up in the prefects' bath. "All I promised, McGonagall," he'd said when he'd lured her in here, "was that she didn't need to check on us. I didn't promise we wouldn't be in the bath."

"Semantics. You knew that was what she meant, Cedric."

"Of course. But I was careful how I answered her, and I'm pretty sure she realized I as good as told her we would be in here - not to check. But we're both adults now, the term officially ended at midnight - we weren't in here before then - and I'm not even a student anyway."

She'd rolled her eyes, but he was right on all counts, and she was pretty sure McGonagall had understood his intentions perfectly. She and Cedric wouldn't be doing this at all - they'd be on their own tomorrow and could afford to wait - except for the fact it was the bath, and in the bath, Cedric was free. No pesky gravity limited their options, and this was only the second time he'd used his mouth on her. The first had been in this same bath. He couldn't kneel on a bed to bend down, and couldn't (easily) kneel beside it either. He'd tried. But in the bath, water held him up where his knees couldn't. She supposed there was another way to do it, but they were still too shy to experiment much. He hadn't (quite) admitted it, but given how quickly he'd maneouvred her onto the pool edge so he could spread her legs and reach her with his tongue, she suspected he'd been fantasizing about it all evening. Part of her was a bit scandalized that he wanted to, even while another part (a less prim and proper part) understood. She liked using her mouth on him as well. (She refused to call it 'sucking' because that sounded absurd and disgusting.) It no longer seemed unsanitary to her, or perverse. Lips and tongue could better feel how soft the skin was on his prick, and how warm, and if she still didn't like the taste of semen, or wiry pubic hair in her mouth, the sounds she could drag out of him made it worth it. So as she'd come to treasure these things, she'd been willing to let him ease her out of the bath onto the marble edge, spread her knees and lower his head between her thighs - however exposed it left her feeling.

Now, he'd resurfaced out in the pool middle, floating, legs and arms spread, head back and penis curled soft against his abdomen. (Funny how, whenever he was naked, she couldn't help but notice what that little bit of flesh was doing. Curiosity, not lust. She didn't have one of those.) He spit a stream of bath water into the air, like a fountain. She laughed. Turning his head, he grinned at her and made a 'join me' gesture, then disappeared beneath the surface once more. Feeling back in her skin finally, she did so, sliding down from the edge into the water. It was cooling but still warm enough to heat up her shoulder blades and bottom where she'd been lying on cold marble. Abruptly, a hand gripped her ankle and pulled her under. She barely had time to close her mouth. She twisted and kicked and punched blindly under water, but struck nothing. Cedric, the fish, was well clear of her. Her head broke the surface again and she gasped for air. "Cedric!"

His own head appeared about ten feet away. He was laughing. "You're too easy, Granger."

"I wasn't trying to run from you - swim from you . . . whatever."

Dog-paddling a little closer, he kept out of grabbing reach, but blew bubbles at her.

Rolling her eyes, she splashed him back. "Behave or no nookie for you, Mr. Diggory."

"Maybe I don't want nookie for me; maybe I just wanted to give nookie to you."

A snort illustrated her opinion of that. "When pigs fly."

"I could charm one."

"You're ridiculous, you know that?"

He'd been moving closer, inch by inch, while she hadn't been paying attention, and now darted forward to grab onto her with his arms while his weakened legs kicked, holding his head above the deep end. "Gotcha!"

She gave a little shove at his chest. "Like that counts? I wasn't even trying to get away."

Pulling her closer, he kissed her wet skin. "Better not. Try to get away, I mean." She thought he might have meant more than just in the bath. "Need you to hold me up."

Before leaving Hogwarts the next morning, Cedric finally learned what Hermione had meant the night before about "talk" around Hogwarts. He'd assumed it came from Malfoy and Slytherin but it wasn't anybody in Slytherin, much less Draco, who enlightened him.

"Diggory!" a voice shouted behind him as he made his way across the grand entrance towards the Great Hall - and the breakfast being served to departing students before they left for the train. Some of Slughorn's guests from the party would be eating there too. Despite frolicking with Hermione in the Prefects' Bath the previous night, she hadn't slept in his bed. He was alone as the voice called out again, "Oi, Diggory!"

Turning, he waited as Cormac McLaggen pushed his way through the light crowd. "McLaggen," he said, wondering what the Gryffindor wanted. They'd never been more than acquaintances.

"Saw you with Granger at the party last night. That was some dress she had on."

"Yes. Yes, it was." Cedric frowned, puzzled.

"Bet it was fun to take off later." And McLaggen was . . . leering. Cedric had always considered that adjective ridiculous, a description for an expression nobody actually made . . . except here it was right in front of him. A wide, toothy grin and sly, slitted eyes.

And he was grossly offended. "I beg your pardon?"

"The dress - it looked like a bit of a puzzle to get off, you know." McLaggen actually winked. "Reckon it keeps what's underneath interesting even if you've been sipping out of that cup a while, yeah?"

Part of Cedric couldn't believe he was actually having this conversation. "Er, ah - look, Cormac, I'm not really sure what business it is of yours - ?" The words might have been belligerent but shock rendered them almost a question. "As for what Hermione looks like beneath her dress, and whether or not I'd know - "

"Oh, honestly, Diggory! Everybody knows you know!"

Blinking at that, Cedric wanted to say, 'Yes, well, manners would normally keep people from saying so', but once again, a mixture of bemusement and cornered politeness kept him mum. McLaggen stepped closer, assuming a familiarity that made Cedric pull his chin in and lean away. "Are you taking her to the Minister's New Year's Eve party?"

"Of course."

McLaggen's shoulders visibly slumped. "I was afraid of that when I saw you with her last night. I was hoping you were seeing someone else now, but I reckon you're still eyeing up the ones at the Ministry before you put the old one out to pasture."

"What?" Cedric asked, unable to quite believe what he was hearing.

"Well" - at least McLaggen had the good grace to look down, but Cedric didn't think it from embarrassment - "you don't usually keep them this long, and I'm just saying, you know, when you're done with her, I'd like a shot. You're out of school now. But Potter had her, Krum had her, then you, so I expect she's a piece of arse worth queuing up for. If you'd give me a bit of a tip-off, I could be there to, sort of, er, pick up the pieces."

For three breaths, and despite the fact he was on crutches, Cedric considered belting McLaggen. Hexing might have been more effective, but Cedric wanted the good, old-fashioned satisfaction of hauling back and punching the obnoxious plonker. He didn't. And not for fear of getting into trouble; he was past the point of detentions with Filch.

McLaggen just wasn't worth it, and Hermione deserved better than to find him in a brawl with a swaggering idiot in the castle's main entrance. Instead, he tilted his chin down and just stared at McLaggen, who began to fidget. "You have all the manners of a troll and less intelligence than a firecrab - and if you think you'd have any chance with a witch like Hermione, you're not just mistaken, you're demented. Furthermore, if you're waiting for me to give her up, you'll still be waiting when your hair's white and your beard longer than Dumbledore's. Piss off, McLaggen." Turning, he stalked (as much as anybody could "stalk" on crutches) towards the Great Hall.

He remained in a sour mood all morning, refusing to discuss it with Hermione or his mother when they Flooed back to his parents', and if he coaxed her into bed not long after they arrived (even before lunch), he supposed he could be excused for it. He felt a need to mark her, as primitive as that sounded. She belonged to him. He belonged to her, too, of course, but just at the moment, he wasn't thinking in egalitarian terms. He still had McLaggen's ugly leer in his mind and it had triggered an instinctual 'protect my woman' response that would probably have annoyed her if she'd known about it - so he didn't tell her, even when she poked him in the side afterwards and tried to tease the cause of his bad mood out of him. He lay with his head on her abdomen, eyes closed, one hand stroking her thigh beneath the winter blanket.

Later that Saturday afternoon, Hermione and Cedric went down to the Burrow to visit Harry who was staying with the Weasleys for the holidays. They both wanted to know where he'd got to the night before, but Hermione hadn't expected the story he related while helping Ron to peel brussel sprouts at the kitchen sink. The four of them were, for the moment, alone, and halfway through, when Ron sliced his thumb for the second time, Hermione made a small disgusted noise, pulling her wand to perform a Peeling Charm. "Thanks, Hermione," Ron said, sucking on the bleeding digit. "But next time, maybe you could do that a little sooner?"

"Be glad I'm doing it at all," she replied, returning her attention to Harry. "So Snape was offering to help him? Are you quite certain of that? He was definitely offering to help him?"

"If you ask that one more time, I'm going to feed you an uncooked sprout. Yes, Snape was offering to help him. He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother to protect him, that he'd made an Unbreakable Oath or something."

"Unbreakable Vow," Cedric corrected, speaking for the first time. He'd sat through the whole story, frowning slightly while staring at his hands, gripped together in front of him atop the Weasleys' dining table. "And are you certain that's what he said?"

"Yeah, I am," Harry replied. "Why, what does it mean?"

"Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow - " Ron began.

"I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough," Harry retorted. "What happens if you do break it, then?"

"You die," Ron said simply. "Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when dad found us. He went mental." Ron had an almost wicked gleam in his eye, as if remembering something he found to be choice. "Only time I've ever seen dad as angry as mum. Fred reckons his left buttock has never been the same since."

"Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock - " Harry started.

"I beg your pardon?" Fred asked as both twins galumphed down the stairs into the kitchen.

"Aaaa, George, look - they must have got either Hermione or Cedric to take pity on them and help with the sprouts, the lazy gits."

"Hermione offered," Ron snapped back. "And I'll be seventeen myself in two-and-a-bit month's time, then I'll be able to do it myself."

"I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected mad magical skills," Fred replied, yawning and plopping down beside Cedric.

"Speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald," George said, taking another empty chair, "what is this we heard from Ginny about you and a young lady called - unless our information is faulty - Lavender Brown?"

Hermione watched Ron turn bright pink and shoot a glance her way. She wasn't sure why; it wasn't as if she hadn't seen him glued at the lips to Lavender every night in the Gryffindor common room. At least she and Cedric had never acted like that. "Mind your own business," Ron said now.

"What a snappy retort," Fred replied. "I really don't know how you come up with them. No, what we wanted to know was . . . how did it happen?"

"What d'you mean?" Ron asked, clearly suspicious but too curious not to ask.

"Did she have an accident or something?"

"What?"

"Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage -? Careful now!"

Ron had snatched up one of the charmed knives to fling it at Fred even as Mrs. Weasley entered the room and gasped. Fred just pulled his wand and turned the knife into a parchment plane with an almost lazy flick. Hermione was impressed as much as horrified, Cedric was smirking, and Mrs. Weasley bellowed, "Ron! Don't you ever let me see you throwing knives again!"

"I won't," Ron replied, almost meekly, but muttered something under his breath that sounded like 'let you see me' as he turned back to the brussel sprouts. Having interrupted Hermione's charm, he had to go back to doing it by hand.

Mrs. Weasley had turned to Cedric. "Cedric, dear, are you quite certain that you and Bill want to stay in that drafty Muggle place all through the holidays? The twins are home, and Remus is coming, but Charlie isn't going to make it this year. I could slip Bill into the twins' room, Harry and Ron have the attic, and if Bill insisted, well, we could put up Fleur too, in Ginny's room. She might prefer to be with family rather than all alone in London - "

That got a snort from Fred and George . . . who were well aware of the truth of things. George covered the snort by saying, "That'll make Ginny's holiday."

Mrs. Weasley ignored him. "Christmas should be a time for family, even if we might have to squeeze in a bit."

"No, it's all right, Mrs. Weasley," Cedric was saying after shooting the twins a warning glare. "Bill thought it would be easier if he stayed in London until Christmas Eve. We both have to work before and after Christmas, and the flat's closer."

"Well, I suppose that's true, although with Apparating it doesn't really matter . . . " Mrs. Weasley appeared torn between disappointment and relief. Hermione knew that she loved her children around her, but it was also quite a juggling trick to find room for them all at the Burrow, and Harry, and now Fleur, as well.

"So Percy definitely isn't showing his ugly face, then?" Fred asked.

Mrs. Weasley looked away. "No, he's busy, I expect, at the Ministry."

"Or he's the world's biggest prat," Fred said, rising as Mrs. Weasley left the kitchen to go back upstairs, probably readying Remus's room. "Let's get going, then, George."

"What are you two up to?" Ron asked, clearly suspicious.

"We're off to the village, there's a very pretty girl working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks are something marvellous . . . almost like real magic." He winked, then bent down to say to Cedric, "And I'd be careful, mate. Mum's going to figure it out eventually, that Fleur's not living in her own flat."

"Bill's problem," Cedric replied with a grin.

"Yeah, well, she'll consider you to have 'aided and abetted'. She trusts you . . . right now." And the twins ambled out.

"Gits," Ron muttered. "Hermione, do that spell again so we can finish here and go with them."

She sighed, but did as requested although Harry reminded them, "I can't go. I promised Dumbledore I wouldn't wander off while I was staying here."

"Oh, yeah. Are you going to tell Dumbledore what you overheard Snape and Malfoy saying?"

"Yup," Harry said, leaning into the counter and watching the knives peel the sprouts. "I'm going to tell anybody who can put a stop to it, and Dumbledore's top of my list." Hermione was glad to hear that Harry wasn't being uncooperative and suspicious like last year. But then, Dumbledore wasn't avoiding him, either. "I might have another word with your dad too."

"Pity you didn't hear what Malfoy's actually up to, though," Ron said.

"Well, as he was refusing to tell Snape, I couldn't have done, could I?"

"Harry," Hermione said, feeling tentative. "Have you considered that Snape might just be trying to find out what Malfoy's planning?"

"You didn't hear him, Hermione." Harry's tone was turning belligerent. "No one's that good an actor, even Snape."

"You know Dumbledore's going to say the same thing she did," Ron pointed out.

"But you think I'm right, don't you?" Harry asked Ron. Hermione thought she heard an undercurrent of neediness in it. He turned those green eyes on her next. "You too?"

"Yeah, 'course I do!' Ron replied. "We both do." Hermione wished he hadn't included her, but was glad enough not to have to answer. Cedric was staying quiet, and Hermione noticed that Harry hadn't asked him. Ron glanced at Cedric. "But they're all convinced Snape's in the Order. They won't believe it."

"They have to admit Malfoy's up to something, at least!" Harry snapped, turning away. "That much is obvious."

Hermione shot Cedric a look as well, willing him to be the voice of reason. He sighed but sat back, unlacing his hands finally. "Harry, I think you're right that Malfoy is up to something." Hermione bit her tongue to hold in a squeak of protest. Not Cedric too . . . "I'm even prepared to accept he could be a Death Eater." Harry had twisted to look at the table, his expression caught between hopeful and cautious. He could hear the 'but' coming as clearly as Hermione. "But my mother pointed out something that I hadn't thought of - and it's worth considering."

"You told your mother?" Harry asked, expression betrayed.

"Well, I told her that you - we - thought Draco might be a Death Eater. I could hardly tell her about this latest theory since you just told me."

"Oh, yeah." Harry tilted his head. "What'd she say?"

"She said he might be - a Death Eater, that is."

"See!"

"Wait." Cedric held up a hand. "She said Voldemort needs money, whatever he's up to, and most of the Death Eaters left have either lost their wealth after the first war, or they're wanted men - and women - and can't go marching into Gringotts' to make withdrawals. The Malfoys still have their fortune, but with Lucius in Azkaban, how can Voldemort get it without Narcissa or Draco's cooperation? She thinks he made Draco a Death Eater because the son is easier to flatter than the mother. Harry, don't glare, you have to admit there's logic in it."

And Harry was glaring. "Why would Snape make this Unbreakable Vow then? And wouldn't Snape know about it if all Draco is up to is bank-rolling Voldemort?"

Harry did have a point, Hermione had to admit, but Cedric shrugged with one shoulder. "I'd reckon Narcissa knows exactly what Voldemort wants Draco for, and she's asked Snape to keep him out of trouble."

"With an Unbreakable Vow? That you can die from? Isn't that a bit much?"

Cedric squirmed. "It is. Unless Narcissa doesn't trust Snape - which she might not. Voldemort does, but that doesn't mean all his followers do. In fact, from what you said, Snape told Draco he swore the oath to protect him. I don't think there's any mystery here."

Harry was clearly sceptical. "Maybe. But that still doesn't explain whatever it is Malfoy's up to that Snape was trying to get out of him."

"It may not be anything Voldemort told him to do, Harry - "

"Malfoy said it was an assignment from Voldemort. And you didn't hear them talking, Ced. You wouldn't be doubtful if you had!"

Cedric frowned, clearly torn. Hermione was too. "Well," she said now, "It does sound as if Malfoy is up to something, but are you really certain it's something Vol-Voldemort told him to do? Neither Malfoy nor Professor Snape named him, did they?"

"Snape said 'your master' and who else could that be?"

"His father?" Hermione suggested, but she was reaching and knew it.

"Do you call your dad 'master'?" Harry retorted.

"Well, no, but he's not Lucius Malfoy, either. Maybe they have some . . . weird relationship?"

Harry just rolled his eyes. "Don't believe me then," he muttered.

"We believe you," Cedric broke in. "We're just not sure we completely agree with your interpretation of what you heard." Trust Cedric not to let Harry turn it into either-or. "I do agree that's it's quite possible Draco is now a Death Eater. I'll even concede that he thinks he's got some mission to accomplish, whether or not Voldemort himself gave it to him. Remember that the ranks of the Death Eaters are hierarchical, and I seriously doubt Draco is very high. This might be an assignment from one of the others - still his 'master'."

"But he's up to something!"

"Yes, he probably is! He's a sneaky little ferret." Cedric's words made Harry smirk. "But what I'm not convinced of is that Snape is truly trying to help him. Protect him yes, but help him is something else."

"He said he wanted to help him!"

"He also scolded him for the incident with Katie - assuming Draco did have anything to do with that and he wasn't telling Snape the truth that he wasn't involved - "

"He was involved."

Cedric raised a hand again. "He may have been. We all know Draco lies, and he'd probably even lie to Snape when he doesn't want his help. But my point still stands. I don't think Snape really wants to help; I think Snape wants to know what Draco is up to so he can tell Dumbledore. It sounds like he agreed to protect Draco, is all." Harry was looking sulky, so Cedric changed the subject. "Now fill me in on these lessons with Dumbledore. I haven't had a chance to talk to you directly, just heard about it from Hermione."

Still annoyed, Harry hesitated a moment as if he'd refuse, then gave in and came over to sit at the table, followed by Ron. He related the memories he'd seen in Dumbledore's pensieve. "What do you think of it all?" he asked when finished. "I mean, it's interesting, but I don't really see the point - why's he showing me all this stuff?"

Cedric was running a hand through his hair like he did when puzzling over something. "I think at least some of it is trying to understand how Riddle became Voldemort."

"But why?"

"Know your enemy - know what he might try next . . . or not try next. What are his weak spots? I guarantee you that he's figured out yours."

Harry dropped his eyes. "Yeah. He proved that last June."

Leaning forward, Hermione gripped Harry's arm in sympathy and shot Cedric a glare, but Cedric didn't seem repentant. "What I find interesting," he said, voice speculative, "is how early he started trying to control people. And Dumbledore's right - he doesn't want to need anybody, so he won't let anybody close. But you - you have what he doesn't, Harry." He pointed to Ron then Hermione. "A right hand and a left. He doesn't think he needs that, but he's a fool."

Smiling, Hermione watched Harry's face turn thoughtful. She didn't miss Ron's evident pleasure either. Cedric had named them but hadn't included himself, and Hermione thought Ron might need that affirmation these days.

On their way back to his parents' place later, Hermione said, "You know it's entirely possible that Mrs. Weasley will find out you're not actually staying in London, whatever you told her - and that might make her start asking questions about Bill. He really needs to tell her the truth."

"Maybe," Cedric allowed. "I can always say I changed my mind and decided to come home for the holidays a little early. Oh, and speaking of 'home for the holidays' - guess who is staying at whose house before the holidays?"

"I have no idea, Cedric." Hermione sniffed. "Stop being cryptic and just tell me."

"Tonks took Scott home with her."

Hermione stopped dead. "So they're finally admitting that they're seeing each other?"

"That's just it." Cedric had paused too. "All they're saying is that it's 'just as friends'."

Hermione threw up her hands. "I don't understand those two!"

"None of us do, trust me." They started walking again, and he asked, "So Ron has a girlfriend?"

"More like a snogging partner; I'm not sure they've ever had an actual conversation." Cedric smirked. "But, yes. She's in my dormitory, actually - well, one of them."

"I thought the name sounded familiar."

After a moment, she went on, "It was a bit odd, how embarrassed he got about it with Fred and George. It's not as if he's shy with her at school. You'd think they were a pair of leeches, the way they go at it in our common room, or the Great Hall, or even the hallways between classes. It seems like every time I turn around, he's trying to eat her face."

Cedric actually laughed. "I think he's trying to make you jealous."

"What! Why?"

Stopping, Cedric turned to her and adjusted his posture so he could reach out to tuck some of her wild hair behind her ear. It was bitterly cold, and his cheeks were flushed from the exertion of walking on the crutches. "Granger, people don't just get over crushes at the drop of a hat - well, not if they genuinely care for the person. Ron . . . he cares for you. I think he might even love you, in his own way."

She just blinked up at him, not quite believing what she was hearing. "But he knows how I feel about you - "

"Yes, I think he does. That's the problem. He actually cares about you enough not to push it, but even the best of us can't be completely gracious. I suspect . . . well, if I were Ron, I wouldn't be above a little 'See, somebody can like me too' one-upmanship. Ron needs somebody who thinks he's the bee's knees. Besides just Harry."

Hermione frowned. "I think he's special too, you know. But I can't" - she shook her head - "I can't feel that about him anymore. Maybe once, but not now."

Setting off again, Cedric smirked. "Well, that's good to know. I don't do well with competition." Hermione was abruptly reminded of what his mother had said before Slughorn's party.

Cedric might have been lying to Mrs. Weasley about staying in London with Bill, but he hadn't been lying about working after Christmas. In fact, he was back in the office bright and early the day after Boxing Day. So was the Minister, who stopped in Cedric's doorway mid-morning.

"You're in, Diggory. Good boy." Cedric resisted raising an eyebrow even if the Minister's tone made him feel like a dog who'd performed his trick properly. He didn't expect Scrimgeour to do more than say hello, but to his surprise, the older man entered to settle himself in the spare office chair, hands folded across the front of his robes.

"Yes, sir?" Cedric asked, pausing in his perusal of his morning papers.

"I assume you're coming to the New Year's Eve party?" It was more statement than question.

"Yes, sir."

"And you'll be bringing the lovely Miss Granger?"

"I'd planned on it." Cedric wondered where this was leading.

"Miss Granger is a particularly good friend of Harry Potter, isn't she? And after the Tournament, you and Mr. Potter became close as well. Why don't you invite him to come along with you?"

Cedric sat back in his chair. "I can certainly ask him, sir - but couldn't you just owl him an invitation yourself? He might be more inclined to accept if you invited him personally."

Scrimgeour stood and brushed his robes straight. "Oh, no, no. Mr. Potter is on the modest side, I understand. He might feel . . . overwhelmed. But if the invitation came from his friends, that would be different. You bring him along, Cedric. Make it a double-date if he's seeing anybody. I'll be certain to have extra room at dinner. It's fitting for me to honour both the Triwizard Champions. That didn't happen last year - for reasons we both know - and should have. Better late than never, don't you think?" And the Minister headed out, leaving a puzzled Cedric behind. Whatever Scrimgeour had said, Cedric was fairly certain he wouldn't have tapped Cedric to bring Harry if there weren't a reason for not asking him directly. He found out that reason when he headed to the Burrow to relay the Minister's invitation that evening. He was alone, Hermione still with her parents in London. They'd agreed that they should each spend a little time with their families individually that holiday.

"Like hell I'm going to his party!" Harry practically shouted, earning a, "Language!" from Mrs. Weasley where she was working on dinner in the kitchen with Ginny. But she didn't seem otherwise upset at Harry's refusal.

"Why not?" Cedric asked, surprised by Harry's vehemence.

So Harry related how Scrimgeour had used Percy to arrange to 'drop by' the Burrow on Christmas Day just so he could try to talk Harry into popping in at the Ministry to play poster boy. Harry - never one to be herded - had refused spectacularly. "I wasn't going to act like I approve of a Ministry who chucks innocent people into prison just so they can make some arrest quota. And it's not like they were all that quick to want my help last year, were they? But now all of a sudden, I'm the Chosen One and Scrimgeour doesn't really care if I am or not - that much, he told me honestly - but he wants to use me to buck up his administration. I told him I wasn't keen to be used. I'm Dumbledore's man, not Scrimgeour's pawn!"

Well, that gave Cedric the missing part of the puzzle, yet something about Harry's self-righteous tone rubbed him up the wrong way. "So I'm a pawn?"

It was clear from Harry's startled expression that he hadn't meant it that way, but Fred - who was playing Exploding Snap at the table with George and Ron - said, "If the shoe fits, Diggory . . . "

"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Cedric's just doing what Dumbledore asked him to do. Do you think your father's Scrimgeour's pawn just because he works for the Ministry?"

"Dad doesn't work for Scrimgeour personally, now does he?" Fred replied. "Cedric, Percy . . . "

Cedric could feel his jaw working and he reached for his crutches. He didn't have to sit here and be insulted. But Harry leaned over to snatch them away. "I didn't mean it like you took it."

"Then how did you mean it?"

"I wasn't insulting you," Harry insisted, stubborn, Cedric's crutches held hostage in his hands. "I was just explaining why I won't do anything to help Scrimgeour - including go to his rotten party." He sighed. "But Dumbledore did tell you to take that job and I know it's important for you to be there. It's just not important for me to be there. It's more important for me not to be."

"So what am I supposed to say to him when he asks why you're not with us?"

"Tell him the truth. I refused to come. It's not like you can make me, is it? You filled your end of the deal - you asked. I refused."

Sighing, Cedric slumped back against his chair, his eyes on Fred rather than Harry. "Yeah, but I'm sure he expects me to convince you. I may be working for him now, but we'll see how long that lasts after the party."

Mr. Weasley, who'd been reading a book in his chair by the fire, looked up. "He's not going to sack you, Cedric. You may not be the Chosen One, but you're a Triwizard Champion; he'll be keeping you around." He returned his eyes to the book and turned a page. "But you might expect to do a bit of penance for a month or two."

"Great," Cedric muttered under his breath. At least Harry looked slightly apologetic as he gave Cedric back his crutches.

"What do you mean he refused?" Minister Scrimgeour hissed. He'd spotted Hermione and Cedric within moments of their arrival at his party, and had also noticed they'd come alone. Slipping through the crowd gathered in the Ministry ballroom, he pulled Cedric aside to ask where Harry was.

Hermione knew the Minister's irritable reaction was exactly what Cedric had feared. Unlike Harry, Cedric had a deep-seated aversion to disappointing people - even when he knew a request wasn't on in the first place. It was part of Cedric's general dislike of conflict, and Hermione wondered sometimes how he expected to be an ambassador if he couldn't stand having people upset with him. Diplomats often had the unenviable task of letting each side know they weren't getting everything they'd wanted.

Now, Cedric glanced down with a frown, a lock of his hair falling into his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir. I did ask him to come with us - urged him, even - but he, er, well, he said he couldn't."

Scrimgeour was eyeing Cedric with suspicion. He'd scarcely acknowledged Hermione, just started having a go at Cedric as soon as it was clear that Harry wasn't with him. "I dare say 'couldn't' wasn't quite how he put it, Diggory. Let's cut the word mincing."

Cedric finally glanced up and there was a slight . . . edge . . . to the look in his eyes. "Well, er - yes. What he said was, 'Like hell I'm going to his party.'" Hermione wanted to put a hand over her eyes. Oh, Harry, she thought, followed by, Oh, Cedric. She doubted the Minister had meant Cedric to be quite that blunt. "Of course," Cedric went on, "after you spoke with him at Christmas, I'm sure you know how he can get."

The expression on Cedric's face was sly, and where once Hermione wouldn't have thought 'sly' ever fit Cedric, she'd learned better since. He was his mother's son. And indeed, Scrimgeour lifted an eyebrow, then chuckled. "Indeed," was all he said, clapping Cedric on the shoulder, careful not to shove him over. He turned to Hermione then and held out a hand. She started to shake it, but he raised it to his lips to kiss the back. His whiskers tickled. "Miss Granger, I'm pleased to meet you finally. I've heard - and seen - a great deal of you, what with the number of pictures Diggory here has of you in his office." Cedric blushed at that. "None of those pictures do the reality justice. I hope you enjoy your evening." He let her hand go and moved on.

"Well," she said. "Well. He's a flatterer, isn't he?"

"Mmm."

"At least he didn't fire you. But I can't believe you told him exactly what Harry said."

"Mum suggested I let him know that I know why he'd asked me to invite Harry in the first place - but without accusing him directly or getting angry about it. The Minister likes to pretend he wants straight talk, but it's only on his terms. I wouldn't have told him what Harry said if he hadn't asked, but he did, so . . . " He shrugged; it was intentionally artless. "It worked."

Hermione snorted.

Shortly afterwards, the Minister called them all to dinner. It was a sit-down affair in the hall beside the ballroom, with linen-covered round tables seating eight each and cut-ice vases in the centre, charmed to stay frozen, holding glittering arrangements of poinsettias and ivy. The large central table (seating twelve for the Minister and his special guests) bore an ice sculpture of a swan, lit within by fairy lights. At a table off to one side, Hermione found her name and Cedric's hovering in festive gold above china place-settings. She didn't miss the fact that "Harry Potter and guest" hovered above two places beside theirs, and would, perforce, remain empty. At least they weren't seated with anybody Hermione couldn't tolerate. In fact, they weren't seated with anybody she even knew; their table-mates were slightly older, but still within their same age range - other attachés from Scrimgeour's office apparently, as they knew Cedric. Well, three did. The boyfriend of one had to be introduced just like Hermione.

Dinner commenced with cream of vegetable soup, then sliced roast beef in wild mushroom sauce and parsleyed potatoes. If normally Hermione never knew what to say or how to fit in at these parties, it was easier with Cedric to carry the conversation. If his dislike of making people upset might render a diplomatic career difficult, this was the flip side: why he'd be so very, very good at it. He liked people and it showed - and they responded, opening to him like sunflowers to the sun. Unfortunately, she didn't share his gift but supposed she'd best get used to it if she stayed with him, envisioning endless Ministry parties like this one, marching into the future. When the dessert arrived, she surreptitiously checked her watch under the table. Only half past nine; they'd not been here two hours and already she was bored, but with two glasses of heavy red wine in him and sitting so he didn't feel awkward on crutches, Cedric was clearly having a wonderful time, his voice louder and his gestures expansive, his laugh easy. But if he didn't stop running his hands through his hair like that, he was going to look as if he'd just got out of bed.

Once the apple-and-lemon or hazelnut-and-raspberry tarts had been served to all, Minister Scrimgeour rose and clinked his fork against the edge of his wineglass. He didn't bother with a Sonorous spell. For this hall, his own deep voice carried perfectly well. "I'd like to thank each of you for coming tonight. You gentlemen look most debonair and our ladies are like winter diamonds." Hermione resisted rolling her eyes. "We have a brilliant evening of entertainment planned: music, masques, and ballet." Hermione blinked. This was a good deal fancier than she'd expected - black-tie affair or not. "And of course, time for all of you to mingle and dance in the ballroom later before midnight. Now, if I may direct your attention to the hall stage, we'll begin with a series of scenes presented by the Ministry's Theatre Troupe, for your delight and amusement."

And with a sudden blast of orchestral music that abruptly decrescendoed, the hall chandeliers extinguished, leaving only fairy lights inside the ice swan and little glowing balls above each table, just enough light to see to eat. Stage lights flashed on at the end of the hall furthest from them, alas, showing their relative lack of importance that evening. Dancers were illumined against a winter backdrop and the orchestra began. Given the aahs and whispered comments that were passed, Hermione thought this must be as familiar to them as The Nutcracker would be to her. Leaning forward to speak in Cedric's ear (his table seat placed him slightly in front of her), she asked, "What is this?"

Twisting, he glanced back, replying, "A famous ballet called Avalon, about the rise and fall of Arthur. They won't perform the whole thing - it's three-and-a-half hours long - but they'll do select dances. Mum says they always include 'Excalibur from the Lake', but the others vary."

Hermione just nodded, eyes on the stage. Wizarding ballet wasn't like Muggle, it seemed. The grand jeté really did fly, not just leap, legs extended. But it wasn't lacking in athleticism, either, charms or no; much of the magic was expended in scenery. When Arthur approached the "lake" and the Lady lifted her sword, Hermione found herself gasping in delight as glittering silver elevated itself far above the stage and flashed, casting prisms of colour all over the room before cartwheeling through the air into Arthur's hand. "Wow," she whispered.

In front of her, Cedric twisted slightly again, eyebrow raised, grinning. "Now you see why they always do at least this one."

She nodded, wordless, but it struck her abruptly how much she still didn't know about her adopted world. She hadn't realized that Wizards performed ballet, just as she hadn't realized that magical painting was different from portraits. For all she'd read and learned, there was still so much of the culture she remained ignorant of, and she found herself deflated by that recognition. In her fury to learn spells and history, she'd missed things.

After "Excalibur from the Lake," the dances turned darker, as if chosen to reflect the mood of the times. They showed the seduction of Arthur by Morganna, the presentation of Mordred - and then the final battle, which ended with the mutual deaths of Arthur and his bastard son. The allusions to Voldemort and Harry were, she thought, rather obvious, but her blood ran cold as Arthur and Mordred circled each other in a whirling frenzy of movement, only to strike and fall simultaneously. She must have made some sound because Cedric reached behind to seek her hand. She gave it and he squeezed. As the stage curtain fell and applause rolled out, he leaned back to whisper, "Bloody poor choice if they really thought Harry would be here tonight."

"Or that was the point," she returned.

He only nodded as a vocal ensemble took over the stage, belting out Renaissance carols and ballads, and she could let her mind drift. She wasn't much of a musician, and knew Cedric wasn't either. A troop of pantomimes replaced the singers for a Dumbshow, most of which seemed to consist of slightly ribald humour, turning the serious edge to laughter. At quarter to eleven, the entertainers disappeared and the east doors swept open, back into the ballroom where a chamber orchestra had begun country dance music for the evening. Guests rose from their tables but she waited with Cedric as the room cleared so he could get out too. During the performances, he'd had more wine - probably a full bottle's worth, total - making him relaxed and cheery. In fact, he nearly tripped himself trying to rise, and laughing, sat back down to pull his wheelchair out of his pocket and expand it. "Maybe I should use this."

"Maybe you should," she agreed, somewhere between amused and scandalized. Should he be getting tight at the Minister's party? But he wasn't alone. Quite a number of the guests were unsteady on their feet - including, she noted, Percy Weasley. Well wasn't that something? But Ministry house-elves had kept wine glasses topped all evening and it would have been easy to drink more than one realized. She'd been careful to stick to water . . . fortunately, as she wound up having to push Cedric's chair from the hall herself because he kept crashing into chair legs. "You are off your face, Mr. Diggory," she whispered in his ear, albeit fondly. "For shame, for shame."

He turned his head to look up at her over his shoulder. "Good food, good wine, a beautiful woman . . . " His eyes, she noticed, weren't on her face but on her chest where the cold of the rooms had made her nipples pucker and poke against the velvet of her gown. This wasn't the sort of dress for a bra, although some sort of magical adhesive cups must exist that she could've used, if she were actually big enough to worry about it.

Cedric wasn't alone in taking a less-than-proper notice of her dress. More than a few men in the ballroom gave her the once over, and more than a few women shot poisonous glances her way. To her relief, Kingsley Shacklebolt - properly sober - joined the two of them, bringing a stately, full-figured woman almost as tall as he was, but pale alabaster to his dark berry. "Hermione, Cedric," he said, grinning. "This is my wife, Katta Nortje."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Katta said, shaking their hands. She had a low, throaty voice and the remnants of some Germanic accent. The four chatted briefly until Kingsley said, "We have to leave soon. We promised our kids we'd be home to see in the new year with them." He and his wife drifted away then to make their excuses to Minister Scrimgeour.

Hermione squatted down beside Cedric's chair, one hand on the arm for balance. "It's funny, you know? I saw Kingsley all summer and it never occurred to me to wonder whether he had a family. I just assumed he didn't. I suppose I do the same with the professors. Are any of them married, do you know? Or do they stay single like Oxford dons?"

"McGonagall's single," Cedric said, "and Snape, and Dumbledore. Flitwick is married - or at least he was; I've heard him mention his kids. I don't know a lot about the others, but Sprout shares a house with Grubbly-Plank and has for decades now."

Hermione glanced sideways at him. "Share a house as in . . . not just as housemates?"

"That's right." He eyed her. "Scandalized?"

"No, of course not. The Muggle world is ahead of yours in that, actually. I don't see any same-sex couples here tonight, but at a Muggle government affair, you'd spot at least a few these days. I'm not sure why it's less accepted here - it's not as if Wizards keep Christian morals."

"There's a lot of pressure in our world to marry and produce properly magical children," Cedric explained. "The more, the better. Being, er, that sort rather interferes."

"Well, not necessarily," Hermione said, but decided this wasn't the time to get into a debate about alternative lifestyles. "After sitting through all those performances, I need to go to the loo."

"All right," he replied.

Naturally she wound up in the ladies toilets at the same time as Dolores Umbridge and some of her clique. They were powdering their noses (literally), and Hermione - who really did have to go - tried to sneak past to the back stalls, then took her time, hoping they'd all be gone before she re-emerged. No such luck. She was certain Umbridge had been waiting. The woman gave her a sickening smile that was mirrored by the other two - one a skinny, horsey-faced woman who reminded Hermione a bit of Harry's horrid aunt, and the other as stout as Umbridge if taller, but a good deal more attractive. "Miss Granger," Umbridge said in her high, girly voice. "What a surprise it was to see you here tonight."

Hermione decided not to play along with the fake politeness and pushed past them to wash her hands at a sink and check her appearance. Her hair still looked all right, but her lipstick was gone. Pulling out a tube, she reapplied it, the colourless cream turning deep wine red as it touched her lips. The three watched her and the stout-but-pretty one said, "How incredibly rude, Dolores. She can't even be bothered to speak. You're quite right; Muggle girls clearly learn no manners."

"Yes, it's unfortunate," Umbridge agreed. "But breeding always shows, you know - in behaviour and in dress. No self-respecting witch would wear that sort of get-up to a formal banquet."

And Hermione just couldn't keep her mouth shut. Twisting the lipstick back in, she snapped the lid on, dropped it into her little beaded bag and turned to face all three of them. "It's a Dimble."

"A . . . I beg your pardon?" Umbridge's eyes had widened almost comically.

"It's a Dorothy Dimble Original," she said more clearly, repeating what Slughorn had told her and hoping to hell he'd been right. It did, in fact, shut them up, all three, and she silently heaped thanks on Lucy Diggory's head, however reluctant she'd initially been. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I left my date in the ballroom and he'll be wondering where I am."

She made to move past, but a steely hand gripped her upper arm and stopped her. She tried to jerk free, without success. Umbridge stared up into her face, grin wide. "Oh, no, my dear. You won't get away back to your cheating boyfriend that easily. Aren't you ashamed to be seen with him? After he admitted that he had sexual relations with somebody at Hogwarts who apparently wasn't yourself?"

Eyes glittering, Umbridge watched - waiting for Hermione either to blurt out the truth and incriminate herself, or to swallow objections and suffer the humiliation of the public story Cedric had used to save her from expulsion the year before. She chose to glare in silence. Umbridge's grin widened further. "Boys like that - they never change, Miss Granger. Especially those in public office. They might marry the clever girl, but they seek their pleasure elsewhere. I hear that Mr. Diggory is sharing a flat with the eldest of the Weasley boys, who's engaged to a Veela. That must be terribly nerve-wracking for you, to know she's over there frequently while you're far, far away in Scotland. Not to mention there are all those young ladies at the Ministry who he sees daily - Claudia Ransome, for instance. She was seated at your dinner table, I do believe. The two of them appeared to be quite . . . friendly." She let Hermione's arm go. "Have a good evening, Miss Granger."

Hermione stormed past, practically exploding from the toilets to hurry down the hallway, but not back into the ballroom. She found a nook that she could press into and just breathe.

That horrible, horrible woman. One minute, she was practically accusing Hermione of being a tramp, and the next, implying that Cedric would use her to look respectable while keeping other girls on the side - all based on the completely false notion that he'd cheated on her last year. But of course, he hadn't - and Umbridge knew that. She knew Cedric had split legal hairs in order to save Hermione's reputation and education, but she'd still managed to make it sound true, twisting it until Hermione felt insecure over an infidelity Cedric had never committed. "How does she do that?" Hermione muttered to herself.

Because, indeed, she was suddenly thinking about the way Cedric had laughed with the young woman Claudia at dinner, and about the fact that even in her current gown, she remained a plain-Jane next to Fleur Delacour - never mind that both Claudia and Fleur were apparently promised elsewhere. These sudden insecurities really were quite absurd; she had to get a hold of herself.

Breathing finally under control, she peeked around the corner to be certain Umbridge wasn't lying in wait, but the hallway was empty so she hurried back into the ballroom, hoping Cedric wasn't upset over her long absence.

In fact, she wasn't certain he'd even noticed. He was by the punch table, chatting to some of their dinner companions including, annoyingly, Claudia Ransome. "Stop it!" she muttered to herself. "You will not turn into a ridiculous, whirling, jealous hag." But part of her remained shirty that he could manage without her so readily, and she turned her attention to the rest of the ballroom. Dancers twirled on the floor beneath crystal-and-candle chandeliers making passes and swings, draw poussettes and chassés to something by Purcell that she vaguely recognized. But most stood on the fringes, watching. Among them, she spotted Percy Weasley again - apparently at the party alone. She made her way over to him. "Percy," she said, stepping up beside him from behind. He started and spun, his eyes falling down the front of her dress. They still looked glassy from alcohol. "Could I have a word with you?"

"Er, ah - of course?" He sounded more uncertain than haughty as he followed her over to stand beneath a tapestry on the wall. "I haven't seen you in a long time, Hermione. You look lovely tonight."

One eyebrow went up as she studied him. Yes, he was definitely drunk. "Thank you," she said. There was no cause to be ungracious. "I want to talk to you, Percy. I know that you and your family . . . " she trailed off as his face hardened. "I know there are points of disagreement - and I don't, actually, want to talk about those. I took you aside because I want to ask you to write to your mother, maybe even see her now and then. She worries about you." Reaching out, she took his hands in hers. "She can't say your name without tearing up."

He pulled his hands free, face progressing from irritation to anger. "If she wants me to talk to her, then she and my father should stop doing things that embarrass me at the Ministry!"

"Percy, she's your mum. There can't be anything so - " She cut off, frustrated. "I don't care what your politics are, or hers, there can't be anything more important than the fact she's your mum, and she loves and misses you." She reached for his hands again but he evaded her.

At least he looked shamefaced for a moment, but viciousness quickly overtook it. "She's the only one who misses me. The rest of them, they reckon they're well-rid of me. And that's how I feel about them too! The lot of you, actually. You're just like them - you and Harry Potter - getting them all mixed up with that barmy Dumbledore!"

Her own face hardened; she could feel it. "Well, 'barmy Dumbledore' and Harry turned out to be right - Vol-, He Who Must Not Be Named is back. You can't deny that now!"

"It's not a matter of denying it! It's how they conduct themselves! They refuse to cooperate with the Ministry! The Minister was highly dissatisfied with Harry after their Christmas chat - "

"That went both ways! All the Minister wanted was for Harry to endorse his policies, but he doesn't care about Harry. He just wants to use him!"

"Harry should feel honoured to be used! It's his duty!"

"If the Ministry hadn't been so horrible to him last year, he'd be more willing to help now."

Percy's lips thinned and he leaned away from her. He still looked pissed, but angry too, and like the rest of his family, he had a temper when stirred. "I should've known you'd defend him. You've changed, Hermione. You're not the polite, studious girl you were when I knew you in school. You've become insolent like my brothers, and Harry, and your boyfriend. Or should I say your lover? Oh, yes, I've heard all the stories. It's positively shameful."

"You're one to talk, given what Ginny's told me about catching you and Penelope Clearwater snogging in empty classrooms!"

"That's all we did! I'm a gentleman! I respected Penelope's virtue!"

" - which clearly paid off, didn't it? Where is she tonight, Percy?" Hermione pretended to look all around him. "Don't see her on your arm. Don't see anybody on your arm, in fact." She was being vicious herself now, but wouldn't stand here and be treated like a common scrubber.

Percy was practically purple with rage. "I've had other girls since Penelope!" Then, as if just realizing how what he'd said could be interpreted, his jaw dropped. "I don't mean like that!"

"Of course not," Hermione said, tone icy.

"At least I don't date women who misplace half their dress!"

Hermione opened her mouth to retort but a new voice spoke at her elbow, "Stop insulting my girlfriend, Percy." Startled, she looked around and down. Cedric sat in his chair, face hard. "And being a gentleman means more than respecting Hermione's virtue - it means respecting Hermione. She's a human being, not a trophy."

"That's funny coming from you, mate, since according to the papers you obviously didn't respect her enough to keep it in your trousers with other girls at school. How many did you have on the side before you got caught, Diggory? You boys with pretty faces - you're all the same."

Turning, he made to stalk away, but Hermione called after, "Write to your mother, Percy Ignatius!"

"That went brill," Cedric muttered. "He's full of shit, you know. Well, of course you know."

She sighed. "But apparently it's what some are thinking even if they're not saying it. I don't know which is worse - having everybody know we were breaking rules to do that, or having them think you were unfaithful."

Reaching up, he snagged her hand and pulled her down into his lap, pressing his forehead to hers. It was probably a little intimate for a ballroom, but they were still off in a corner. "Do you want me to make it clear I lied?" he asked softly. "I could, you know; I could let it 'slip'. The Ministry loves juicy gossip; everybody would've heard by the end of the week. Last year, I just . . . I didn't want you to be expelled too. I didn't think people would still be talking about it half a year later!"

She shook her head slightly, forehead still braced against his. "No, Cedric; doing that would just raise it all again. Better to let it stay dormant until it's so far in the past, nobody cares. I'm afraid it'd be worse for you right now if people realize you lied to cover it up than if they think you were unfaithful. Society is funny that way, isn't it? It's like we expect men to cheat and forgive them in advance. Even their wives expect it."

He leaned away so his eyes could meet hers. "I won't," he told her, voice low and earnest. "I promise you - I won't. Not ever. You'll never have reason to doubt me, poppet."

Smiling a bit sadly, she reached up to cup his face. She wanted to believe him, and he obviously believed it himself, yet she remained sceptical, poisoned by Percy's and Umbridge's speculation. Even if Cedric's 'past infidelity' were untrue - and at least Umbridge knew it - that didn't mean it would be untrue in the future. Maybe Percy had a point about boys with pretty faces. She immediately felt horrible for thinking so, but couldn't banish the doubts.