Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

[A/N]: So. This has been sitting on my laptop for about half a year now. I wrote most of it in a sort of fevered rush over seven days (missing one assignment deadline in the process). It's a pretty special fic to me for several reasons, a major one being that this is the first fic (original or fanfiction) EVER that I've finished that is longer than 10,000 words, an accomplishment that I'm exceedingly proud of.

I have also thoroughly enjoyed writing this fic and exploring Hermione and Cedric's relationship. Writing it has been a roller-coaster of emotions, and I can only hope you all love it as much as I do.

Word Count: 38,046

Note: This is pretty spoiler-y, but the fic is canon-compliant.

The Hospital Wing is quiet and dim. The curtains are drawn over the window, and outside, the sun dips below a darkening sky. Her friends just left five minutes ago, and already she is bored. They brought her books but she can't read any of them. Mournfully, she feels the twinge of pain in her hands, resting on either side of her. They're clunky, wrapped in layers of bandages and gauze. Damn Skeeter. Damn Witch Weekly. Damn that letter. Damn Bubotuber Pus.

Someone knocks on the door. She startles. A moment later, Madam Pomfrey hurries out of her office. Someone speaks, low and soft—a boy. He walks in, and she spies his tall profile, his dark blonde hair sweeping over his forehead in tousled curls. Cedric Diggory, she recognises. She wonders what he is doing in here.

Madam Pomfrey disappears into her office after a quiet exchange with him, and his expression twists with relief. He glances around as he waits, and sees her staring at him. Her eyes dart away and a moment later, shift hesitantly back over to him. He's still looking at her and quirks his lips into a polite smile which she returns. His gaze slides over to Madam Pomfrey's office. Hands move restlessly. The quiet is in the room is not uncomfortable, but there is a certain awkwardness that comes from two strangers sharing silence.

The mediwitch emerges soon enough. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr Diggory," she strains to hear her say. "I don't believe I have it in stock—I'll have to retrieve some from Severus. You don't mind waiting here for me?"

He speaks. She catches the soft, husky cadence of his voice, washing over her ears in gentle waves. Specific words escape her.

Madam Pomfrey smiles ruefully. "I think it's better if I go, Mr Diggory. It's very kind of you to offer, but Severus prefers not being disturbed." Left unsaid is that Professor Snape would be quite disinclined to assist a student in anything outside of class. Madam Pomfrey bustles from the room, and Diggory shifts his weight from foot to foot. Eventually, he turns to her and gives her another smile, more inviting this time.

"Potter's friend, right?" he says.

"Hermione Granger," she replies. There is a pause, and the silence stretches between them again. At last, she says, "She's not coming back anytime soon, you know. The dungeons are rather far away. You should sit down."

"Right," Diggory says. He shuffles over to her bedside and takes the seat next to her, shifting several times before he finally settles. "Since we're talking anyway."

She shrugs. She doesn't mind. It's nice to have company when she can't even read. "What were you seeing Madam Pomfrey for, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh," Diggory says, looking oddly embarrassed. "Nothing terrible. A, ah, personal problem."

Hermione accepts this. It's clear he is uncomfortable in saying more, and she bites down on her questions.

"What about you?" he asks.

She holds up her bandage-wrapped hands. "Undiluted Bubotuber Pus."

Diggory winces. "Ah. Sprout's class?"

"Professor Sprout," she says, the correction slipping from her lips. It's almost reflex at this point, and she blushes upon noticing his amused look. "Er, it wasn't Herbology, actually. Hexed letter."

"Who is sending you hexed letters?" he asks, startled.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Didn't you read Witch Weekly?" she says. He frowns. Apparently, he hasn't. "Rita Skeeter wrote an article about me—I'm seducing Viktor Krum and Harry Potter, did you know?"

"Skeeter writes a load of tosh," Diggory says. "What's that got to do with hexed letters?"

"People don't like promiscuous muggleborn witches sinking their hooks into two famous wizards," Hermione says mildly. She does not, however, entirely succeed in smothering her anger. But Diggory doesn't seem to notice.

"You got hate mail because of that?" he said incredulously. "Someone loaded Bubotuber Pus into a letter because they believed Skeeter's rubbish?"

"It's the inconsistency that irks me most," she lies, because it's much easier to say that than admit how much Rita Skeeter's writing actually hurts. "She wrote an article early on calling me 'stunningly pretty'. Yesterday, she said I was ugly and plain. Really, that's just lazy."

Diggory looks at her for a moment, then breaks out in a smile. "You're alright, Granger," he says. "I'm sorry about Skeeter. You don't deserve that."

She blushes a little. She isn't immune to his charms, of which he has in spades. Even if she doesn't really have a crush on him like Lavender and Parvati do, she admits that his smile is quite nice.

"What are you reading?" he says, spotting the pile of books she has.

Hermione sighs. "Nothing," she says morosely, looking pointedly at her hands in explanation.

"Ah, that's tough," he says. He glances at the doors, which remain stubbornly shut. "Pick a book, Granger."

Hermione looks at him, bewildered. His smile widens and he fans out her books on the bedsheets.

"Come on," he coaxes. "Which one?"

"Er," Hermione says, somewhat off-balance. She chews on her lip, considering the titles. "Hitler's Rise: A Wizarding Perspective," she decided.

"Hmm," Diggory says, picking up the book and giving the summary a brief look. It's a fairly sleek tome, only about two hundred pages long, Hermione wagers. But it is undoubtedly the most interesting of the available titles, and one she has been meaning to start for weeks now. "This Hitler bloke sounds interesting."

"You don't know who Hitler is?" Hermione says. She isn't terribly surprised, but it never ceases to strike a chord of horrified amazement whenever she is confronted with the extent of the Wizarding World's ignorance of muggle affairs.

"He's important, I take from your tone?" Diggory says dryly.

"Very. A simplistic explanation would be that he was the muggle version of Grindelwald," Hermione says.

"A longer one?" Diggory prompts.

She blinks, unused to being asked to expand. Gladly, however, she dives into it. "Adolf Hitler was the leader of the Nazi party. At first, he was Chancellor of Germany, but he eventually became Führer in 1934, assuming dictatorship of muggle Germany. His aims were to reunify Germany and expand its territory. This led to war from 1939 to 1945, and it was one of the worst wars ever known in the muggle world, known as World War II. The conflict spanned across the globe, killing millions of people. There were other political nuances to his goals, but he's mostly notorious for the Holocaust, the genocide of the Jewish people, which inflicted horribly inhumane cruelties on them. His name is synonymous with white supremacy nowadays." She pauses. "White supremacy is the belief that someone is better because she or he is white."

Diggory is smiling when she finishes, which she thinks is quite an inappropriate reaction, and she says as much. "Sorry," he says, immediately chastened. "It's just… You sound like McGonagall when she's teaching."

Hermione bites her tongue on the words 'Professor McGonagall'. "I suppose I can only take that as a compliment," she says. "Professor McGonagall is one of my favourite teachers."

"She's one of mine too," Diggory agrees. "Let's get to reading, shall we?"

"You don't have to," Hermione says carefully.

"Please, Granger," he says with a smirk. "You looked bored out of your mind when I first walked in."

That, she concedes, is true, though she did not realise her feelings were quite so obvious. "I suppose if you really don't mind," she says, pursing her lips.

His expression softens and he opens the book to the first page and begins to read. Hermione lies back, listening to his voice. It's unexpectedly nice, she thinks, though she still has to fight the urge to snatch the book from him so she can read it at her own pace. The soothing quality of his voice helps ease that urge. The author of the book starts off with another introduction of Hitler, clearly aware that her wizarding audiences are unlikely to have ever heard of him before. She moves on, then, to detailing the impacts of World War II, and Hermione doesn't miss the way Diggory's voice chokes when he reads aloud the number of casualties. He stops, looking horrified. "70 million?" he whispers.

"50 million were civilians," Hermione says sadly.

"I can't believe… I can't believe no one knows," he says.

Hermione's smile is tight. "I'm always surprised," she admits. "How isolated our worlds are, I mean."

He swallows. There is silence again, this time thick and heavy. He opens his mouth to say something, and the Hospital Wing doors swing open. They both startle.

"—it, Mr Diggory, Severus was being rather—" Madam Pomfrey breaks off, her eyes darting around when she realises Diggory isn't where she left him. When she finds him sitting next to Hermione, a surprised look flits across her face. "There you are," she says. "Here you go, Mr Diggory—apply it five minutes before bed and let it air-dry. That rash will be gone in no time."

Diggory flushes, and Hermione presses her lips together to ward off the smile that threatens to appear. "Er, right. Thanks, Madam Pomfrey."

"If you have any more troubles, don't hesitate to come to see me."

"Of course," he says.

Madam Pomfrey glances between the two of them, and Hermione thinks she might be connecting dots that don't exist. "You can stay for a little while longer if Miss Granger is fine with it," she says with a knowing smile. "But no later than seven."

She sweeps back into her office, and Diggory looks slightly embarrassed, fidgeting and shifting on the spot. Hermione takes pity on him. "You don't have to stay," she says, smothering the dim hope in her chest. "I'm sure you have plenty of things to do, what with the Third Task in three months." She allows a mischievous smile to seep through. "Besides, we wouldn't want Madam Pomfrey to think I'm trying to go for another Triwizard Champion; Skeeter will think I'm going four for four next."

Diggory laughs, a burst of hilarity that seems to take even himself by surprise. Hermione adds a notation to her previous assessment. He certainly has a nice smile, but Diggory's laugh is… rather beautiful, honestly. He laughs freely, without restraint, and it lights up his whole face, bringing a shine to his eyes. "You know what," he says. "I think I'll stay for a bit. I have time and this book is pretty interesting." He pauses, and for a moment, he looks almost shy. "If you don't mind, that is."

"I don't mind," Hermione says, beaming.

His gaze sweeps over her face, as though scanning her for deception. Whatever he finds, he settles back down and reads to her for another hour. When Madam Pomfrey comes to shoo him out, it's half-past seven.

"Skeeter's full of it," he tells her before he leaves. "Don't let her get to you—and anyone who believes what she writes is a damned fool."

She ducks her head, trying to hide the stinging in her eyes. She isn't sure if she quite manages it. He pats her on the shoulder. The gesture is awkward, but also warm and comforting and sweet. And hours after he's gone, when Hermione falls asleep, it's to a soft, tickling feeling in her chest. It's a nice feeling, she thinks, and she knows, in the back of her mind, that she is in trouble. But that part of her mind is buried beneath logic, rationality and the image of Cho and Diggory dancing at the Yule Ball.

—

Hermione hears her name being called from a distance and frowns. She turns, wondering who would be calling her—it's certainly not Ron and Harry; the voice, though familiar, does not belong to either of her two best friends.

To her surprise, Diggory is jogging up to her, a broad smile on his lips. "Granger—finally—I've been looking for you since this morning."

"Since this morning?" Hermione says, frankly baffled. "Whatever for?"

"Well, I stopped by the Hospital Wing before lunch but Madam Pomfrey said she'd let you go," he says. "Didn't look too pleased about it, mind."

"No, she wasn't very," Hermione says sheepishly.

"I'm more impressed that you managed to convince her to let you go at all," Diggory replies. He falls in step next to her, and Hermione pretends she doesn't notice the surrounding students stare. "Listen, I was hoping I could borrow that book."

"Oh," Hermione says. "It's in my bag, actually. You could have a look now." She glances down at her still sore hands. "I'd look for it myself, but…"

"It's fine," Diggory says. She turns so that he can look through her bag, and after a bit of rifling, he manages to find and free the book. "Merlin's beard, Granger, how many books have you got in there?"

"However many books I need," she says primly.

He snorts. "Sure. Here, come on, let me carry it for you."

She gives him an odd look. "It's fine. Don't you have a class to go to?"

"I've got a free," he says easily. "Come on, Granger. It's the least I can do since you're lending me this book. You haven't finished it, have you?"

"No," she admits. "But it doesn't matter; it isn't much good to me now anyway. I still can't turn pages."

"Still," he persists. "You're fresh out of the Hospital Wing, Granger."

"Oh… I suppose it would be easier," she concedes. Her back is aching, and the dull throbbing seems to beat in time with the pain in her hands. "Very well."

Diggory grins, and she lets him slide her book bag off her shoulder and sling it around his. He grunts as he takes on the weight. "How many books did you say were in here again?"

"If it's too heavy…" Hermione says anxiously.

He waves her off. "My friends would take the mickey out of me if they knew you lug this around to classes all day and I couldn't carry it for five minutes."

Hermione snickers. "It wouldn't look very impressive, would it?"

"Where are we off to anyway?"

"Arithmancy," she says. "Do you know where it is?"

He nods. "I'm taking it. Good elective."

"Tell that to Harry and Ron," Hermione grumbles.

"Ron Weasley?"

"You know him?" she says.

"Sure. Our dads are pretty close, and we met at the Quidditch World Cup."

"Oh yes," she says, suddenly remembering that they did, indeed, all meet at the World Cup. Diggory did not really talk to her then though. "I forgot about that."

He glances at her. "You were there?"

"The Weasleys invited me. We took the Portkey together, actually."

"Huh," Diggory says, scratching his jaw. "I can't believe I didn't realise."

"You were overwhelmed by redheads," she says with a small grin.

"Should've made the non-redheads stand out more then." There's something in his tone that sends a smattering of red across Hermione's cheeks. She clears her throat, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Oi, Ced!" a boy hollers from across the courtyard. Hermione looks up in time to see Diggory break into a grin. The boy runs up to them, throwing an arm sideways around Diggory's neck. "Who's the bird?"

"The bird," Hermione says irritably before Diggory can reply, "is Hermione Granger, and she's right here, thank you very much."

Unfazed, the boy grins. "Sorry, Hermione Granger. Didn't mean any offence. John Simmons, Cedric's best mate."

"Nice to meet you," Hermione allows, even if irritation still runs prickly beneath her skin.

"Where are you going?" Simmons turns his attention back to Diggory. "We're meeting in the library for the study group, right?"

"Just dropping Granger off to class," Diggory says.

Simmons's eyebrows rise. "Dropping her off to class?" He narrows his eyes, peering around Diggory's shoulder. "You're carrying her bag?"

Hermione decides to nip it in the bud before Simmons's eyebrows got lost in their hairline. "He was being kind," she says and shows Simmons her hands.

He winces. "Ouch. What happened there?"

"Undiluted Bubotuber Pus," Diggory says. "How long will it take to get better, Granger?"

She shrugs. "Madam Pomfrey says she'll be able to take the bandages off tomorrow, but they'll still be raw."

Simmons snaps his fingers. "Hang on! I remember where I know you from." Hermione suppresses a cringe. "That Witch Weekly article!"

"Yes," she says uncomfortably. "That would be me." From the corner of her eye, she catches Diggory's elbow driving into Simmons's gut. There's a whoosh of air that informs her it found its target with precision.

He isn't deterred, however, and once he recovers his wind, he wheezes, "That's right, you're Potter's friend, aren't you?"

"Harry's my best friend, yes," she says cautiously. There's a stirring of tension in the air, and she feels the edge of hostility creeping in.

"What are you doing hanging around Ced?" Simmons says, his narrow gaze suspicious.

"John," Diggory hisses. The tension snaps like a whip. He's glaring at Simmons, who watches Hermione with undisguised suspicion.

Hermione stops, and the two boys stop in their tracks too. "I can walk the rest of the way myself," she says firmly.

"Granger—"

"My bag please, Diggory," she says. Diggory stares at her and she stares back, her jaw set and a waiting hand outstretched. Reluctantly, he hands it over, even helping her hike it back up on her shoulder. "Thank you for walking me all this way. And if you could please return the book to me by Sunday, that would be much appreciated." Her voice takes on an edge of menace. "Don't bend the spine."

"He was just being a prat, Granger—"

"Hey!"

"You were being a prat—"

"It's fine," Hermione cuts both of them off. "Really. I have to get to class. I'll see you around, Diggory. Simmons."

She strides off. There's a distant, dull thwacking sound that sounds almost like Diggory slapping the back of Simmons's head and a low hissing jumble of words. She rounds a corner and the sounds fade out of earshot.

—

Hermione's bandages are off the next time she sees Diggory, and she's gingerly reading through a book on Transfiguration in the library. He plunks himself down next to her, startling her out of her concentration. "Alright, Granger?" he says. It's almost ridiculous, really, how effortlessly friendly he is.

"Diggory," Hermione says, trying not to appear too confused. "How are you?"

"Good. Your hands look better." He peers down at the still pink skin, where circular scars from broken sores have yet to fade.

"I can read now," she says.

"I see that," he says with an amused smile. "You working on an essay?"

Hermione nods. "Sort of. It's extra research on a Transfiguration paper. Professor McGonagall wants six inches on animate-to-inanimate transfiguration laws."

Diggory cranes his head to get a look at the contents and raises an eyebrow. "You're looking at Animagi for that?"

"One of the laws of animate-to-inanimate transfiguration is that the weight of the transfigured inanimate object is—"

"—twice the weight of the original animate being, yeah," Diggory finishes. He grins at her surprised look. "Sixth-year, remember?"

"Right," Hermione manages, feeling a tingle of embarrassment. "Sorry, my friends don't usually know what I'm talking about."

"Not big on studying, I suppose?"

"Not very, no," Hermione says with a half-exasperated, half-fond smile. "Anyway, given that law, I'd have expected that the theory would be similar for the inverse—inanimate-to-animate—or animate-to-animate, but it isn't quite."

"Animate-to-inanimate and vice versa are rather similar in principle," Diggory says. "But you'll notice with inanimate-to-inanimate or animate-to-animate that the weight of the Transfigured objects tend to reflect the weight you'd expect from an object of that size and material. It's to do with the energy released from different types of transfiguration. Animate-to-inanimate and inanimate-to-animate use up more energy. Andrew Lee's books go into quite a lot of detail on the topic, so you might want to look into those."

Hermione jots down the name on a spare piece of parchment. "Thanks, Diggory," she says with an odd smile.

"What?" he says warily.

"Nothing," she says. But he continues to look at her and she eventually gives in. "I didn't think you'd be as big a swot as I am."

"Not sure if I'm a bigger swot than you are," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't look into Andrew Lee until last year."

"Well, if it's a competition," she says. "I wouldn't really have even known about Andrew Lee until you pointed me in that direction."

"Ah, you've caught me." Diggory leans back and balances himself on the chair's back legs. "I'm sabotaging the competition."

"By helping me?"

"It's to see who's the least swotty."

"In that case, we'd both lose," she says. "Ron studies for exams an hour before it starts."

Diggory's chair wobbles, before coming down on all four legs. "He passes?"

"Most of the time."

"That's impressive."

"It's terrible," she corrects him. "And gives me white hairs at the end of every year."

He snorts, and they fall into silence. Diggory pulls out Hitler's Rise: A Wizarding Perspective as Hermione continues to read through the chapter on Animagi. She glances over occasionally and sees that he's worked his way through three-quarters of the book. When she finishes her chapter, she marks her place neatly and sets it aside.

"Is it good?" she asks.

Diggory glances up. "Hmm?"

"The book. Is it good?"

"It's fascinating," he admits. "Did you know Grindelwald worked with Hitler in the early thirties?"

"No," Hermione says, interested.

"There's a suspicion that Grindelwald placed Hitler under the Imperius Curse, but it's more rumour, really. They shared enough ideologies and goals that Grindelwald wouldn't have really needed to Imperius Hitler."

"That's rather disturbing," Hermione says. She eyes the book, her hands itching more than ever now to snatch it back so that she can read it.

Diggory notices her expression and laughs. "Easy, Granger. I'm almost done. I'll have it back to you by the end of the day."

"Sorry," she says sheepishly, tearing her eyes away.

"I'm confused about some of the terms though."

"Such as?"

"Tanks and, er, missails—"

"Missiles."

"Right. Well, from what I know, they're muggle firearms, right?" Diggory says. "Only they don't sound like the ones I know of."

"They're not really firearms," she says. "Tanks are sort of like… cars." She looks at him and seeing no confusion in his expression, continues. "They're larger though, typically heavily armoured and equipped with muggle weapons. Someone sits inside and operates it through a battlefield. Missiles are…" She flounders, trying to think of a way to explain it to a pureblood who scarcely knows muggle technology. "Er, like a Reducto Curse, I suppose. But much more devastating." A memory sparks. "Wait a moment."

She gets up, walking quickly to one of the bookshelves. If she remembers correctly, it's around here somewhere. After a long minute of searching, she finally spots it, on one of the top shelves, looking dusty and unused, yet clearly newer than most of the other books. She pulls the ladder over and retrieves it—Guns, Tanks and Nuclear Weapons. It's a hardcover book, clearly of muggle origin. When she wipes off the dust, the cover is sleek and plastic, and the pages are unnatural white.

"Pass it down," Diggory says, and Hermione lets out an embarrassing squeak. She hears a snort and flushes.

"I told you to wait," she says as she hands him the book.

He shrugs unrepentantly. "What is this?"

"A muggle reference book. I looked it up for Muggle Studies last year."

Diggory pauses in his perusal. "You took Muggle Studies?" he says incredulously.

"Yes," she says, a defensive note bleeding into her voice.

"You're muggleborn."

"I thought it'd be interesting to see it from a wizarding perspective," she says.

Diggory shakes his head. "Granger, you lose."

She looks down at him, confused.

"You're the bigger swot," he explains. "No doubt about it."

Hermione scowls at him, which he only seems to find funny because he starts chuckling. As she clambers down the ladder, she makes sure to give him a sharp slap on the shoulder for good measure.

"Ow," he complains.

She sniffs. "You deserved it."

When he laughs and slings his arm around her shoulder, she stiffens. He tugs her close, holding her there with her side pressed into his warmth for a moment. Then he releases her, cool as you please, and says, "Thanks for the book, Granger."

Her mouth works silently. She's friends with two boys, but Ron still seems to think girls have cooties and Harry is rarely tactile when expressing affection. The arm that wrapped around her was foreign, strange and… thrilling. It takes a long five seconds before she manages, "You're welcome." Her lips press into a thin, hard line and her eyes are wide. Her ribs, where they'd pressed alongside him, tingle. When they sit back down at the table, she buries herself in her studies and pretends her skin isn't tingling with hyperawareness of Diggory next to her, legs sprawled out, idly flipping through a book.

—

Somehow, as the weeks go by, Hermione finds herself sitting in the library with Diggory at least once a day. They trade-off books, and once Diggory finished Hitler's Rise, she recommends him Norse Mythology and Ancient Runes Theory. He, in turn, checks out Under the Moon for her, which despite its dubious title, turns out to be a fascinating read about the moon phases' effects on rituals.

It's inevitable, then, that one day, Viktor wanders into the library and finds her sitting with Diggory, speaking in low voices. "Herm-own-ninny."

Hermione looks up, a wide smile already blooming on her lips. He seems pleased by her reaction. "Viktor! How have you been? I haven't seen you in the library in a while."

"I haff been good," he says in his careful English. "Karkaroff is keeping me busy."

"He isn't still angry?" Hermione says sympathetically. Viktor's Headmaster has made it no secret that he dislikes Hermione, and ever since Rita Skeeter's article, has been doing his level best to keep both of them apart.

Viktor waves a dismissive hand. "He is, ah… asshole."

Diggory snorts, drawing attention to himself. Viktor sits down opposite Diggory, wearing a polite smile. He extends his hand, which Diggory clasps good-naturedly.

"I did not know you two know each other," Viktor says, curious.

"We only started talking this week," Hermione says. "Diggory has been helping me with classwork."

"I have?" Diggory says.

She bites down a smile. "A little."

"She is very smart, no?" Viktor says. "I offered my help, but she does not need it."

"She's brilliant, yeah." Hermione flushes at the praise, giving Diggory a small, pleased smile. He grins back before turning to Viktor. "Congratulations on the Second Task. You did well."

"Not as good as you," Viktor says, a tinge of surliness seeping into his demeanour. Hermione reaches over and pats his arm consolingly, and Viktor gives her a warm look. "Vat are you doing today, Herm-own-ninny?"

She looks down at her books ruefully. "Studying. You're welcome to join us!"

"Yeah," Diggory says, an off note buried in his smooth voice. But Hermione can't detect anything strange in his expression, which is as welcoming and friendly as ever, if a tad less open. That, though, she puts down to them being rivals in the Tournament. "Join us."

Hermione looks at Viktor, waiting for his response expectantly. His eyes dart toward Diggory then back to her. "I think I vill decline," Viktor eventually says. He glances at Diggory again. "My friends are vaiting for me. Good luck vith Third Task, Diggory."

"Cheers," Diggory says. "You too."

"That's too bad," Hermione says disappointedly. "Maybe next time?"

"Next time," Viktor says with a short nod.

Viktor slouches away with his lopsided walk. Hermione sees a few girls tittering in the library, watching him go.

"Did you want him to stay so badly?"

Hermione blinks. Diggory is looking at her with a rather intent glint in his eye. "It's fine," she says after a moment. "It's a pity because he is quite a good conversationalist. I think you two would get along well actually."

"You think?"

"Oh yes," she says as she finds her page again. "He's quite brilliant at duelling, you know. He tells me he's the top of his Transfiguration and Dark Arts class."

"That doesn't bother you?" Diggory says, and it's easy to hear his shock even when her eyes remain fixed on her book.

"It used to," she admits. "It still does, a bit. But Viktor's really nice—and when he explains it, the Dark Arts don't seem quite so evil. Just… dangerous." She picks out a line for her essay and copies it. "Of course, he isn't allowed to use any advanced dark magic for the Tournament. It's a bit unfair, really, but at the same time, it's understandable."

"You're not… you don't…"

Hermione looks up, her brow furrowed. At the concerned look on Diggory's face, it clicks, and her eyes widen. "No, of course not!" she says—a little too loudly, for the next moment, there's a 'Shh!' from Madam Pince's corner. Hermione offers an apologetic look in the librarian's vague direction and lowers her voice. "It's interesting, of course, and I admit, if I could study it from a purely academic perspective like they do in Beauxbatons, I'd leap at the chance. But advanced dark magic is…" She shudders. "Viktor does well at it and he's strong enough to handle it, but it's not something I want to try. Ever."

Diggory looks a little too relieved at that, and she scowls at him. "Sorry," he says. "But you wouldn't believe the number of stories I've heard about the Dark Arts…"

"Trust me," she says, thinking of all the trouble Harry has gotten into over the years—Voldemort on the back of Quirrell's head, Tom Riddle's diary, Basilisks and Dementors… And now this Tournament. "I've heard more than my fair share of stories, too."

It takes a moment, then there's a glimmer of realisation in his eyes. "I guess not all of the rumours about Potter are fake."

Hermione shrugs and simply ducks her head, neither confirming nor denying.

"The Tournament," he says hesitantly. "He… he really didn't enter himself, did he?"

Hermione's jaw firms. "You think he entered himself?" she asks testily.

"At the beginning, I did, yeah," Diggory says. His words are cautious and his expression shuttered as he watches her. Her irritation spikes. "Afterward, when he helped me with the First Task, I thought… maybe he didn't. But…"

"You didn't believe him," she says flatly.

"Not entirely," he admits, as though the words have been pulled from his throat by a pair of tweezers.

Hermione's anger leaks in cold and sharp. She shuts her book and begins shovelling her things back into her bag. "Harry didn't enter himself into the Tournament—he would never," she says, and though she keeps her voice low, the ferocity snaps like a feral wolf.

"Granger, where are you going?" he says, half-rising from his seat as she does.

"I am leaving because you obviously aren't as smart as I thought you were. Harry didn't ask for any of this—he has never asked for any of this, and it's not fair that everyone looks at him and expects him to be someone he's not," Hermione says. She slings her bag over her shoulder. "You're an idiot if you believe all those rumours and lies people are spouting about Harry—"

"Hey, that's not fair," Diggory says, looking increasingly mutinous. "You can't expect me to immediately believe Harry when I'd never even talked to him before all of this!"

"But you can believe everyone else who has never even bothered to look at Harry and see, I suppose?" Hermione snarls. There's a stinging behind her eyes and she forcibly suppresses it. "Go find your friends, Diggory. Maybe you can wear one of those 'Support Cedric Diggory' badges and start a—start a bloody club or something, I don't know. Don't speak to me again."

"Granger—"

She spins on her heel and stalks out, ignoring Madam Pince's shrieks of inconsiderate students and loudmouths.

—

Diggory does not, in fact, speak to her again, at least in the week following their argument. He has, however, developed a rather inconvenient habit of staring at her during mealtimes with such frequency and intensity that Lavender Brown picks up on it and questions her about on the third day of their non-interaction.

"He's looking at you again," Lavender whispers.

"Who?" Hermione asks, even though she knows perfectly well who.

"Cedric Diggory," Lavender says in a breathy giggle.

"Well, I can't imagine why," Hermione says stiffly. "I'm sure he isn't looking at me. Maybe he's looking at you."

"Oh, I wish," she says. "He's definitely looking at you. I don't think he's blinked once in five minutes!"

Hermione chances a glance up and glimpses a pair of grey eyes pinned directly on her. She looks away again just as quickly. "He's not looking at me," she insists.

"Please," Lavender says. "What I want to know is how you two know each other!"

"We don't."

"And I'm a Blast-Ended Skrewt," Lavender says. Hermione bites down a yes, actually, you are. "He's looking at you like—like—"

"Like you're the sky," Parvati sighs dreamily.

Hermione gives them both incredulous looks. Across the table, Seamus Finnigan snorts. "He might not be looking at you like you're the sky, Granger, but he's definitely looking at you. Didn't know you two were friends."

"We're not," Hermione says flatly.

"Right," he says, clearly disbelieving. His voice turns sly. "You know… I heard he broke up with Cho Chang after the Second Task."

Parvati nearly launches herself across the table with a shriek. "What?" she says. "Why didn't I know about this? How do you know?"

"Merlin's balls, calm down," Seamus says. "Heard it from Sasha in Ravenclaw. She said Chang was crying. Haven't you noticed they don't hang out anymore?"

"I did, but I thought Cedric was just busy with the Tournament and Chang was busy with O. !" Parvati says. "Tell me everything." Hermione is reluctantly impressed by the way Parvati leans across the table and looks up at Seamus from beneath her lashes. She even reaches out to toy with the sleeve of his robe, which Hermione thinks is a little much—nevertheless, Seamus seems to preen beneath her attention, and within seconds, is spilling all.

"Alright, but don't tell anyone, yeah?" Hermione thinks Seamus is clearly delusional if he thinks Parvati will keep to that promise. "So Sasha heard from Darius who heard from Marietta—Cho's best friend—that two days after the Second Task, Diggory calls it quits because he thinks they're better as friends. Cho asks him to give her another shot, but Diggory refuses, so she goes back to her dorms and cries the whole night. Marietta is furious, so she goes to Diggory's mate, Simmons, and tells Simmons to tell her the truth. She thought Diggory was seeing someone else on the side, y'know?" She shouldn't be listening to this. She really shouldn't. She has always hated people gossiping about others, but for some reason, her attention refuses to allow itself to shift away from the topic. "'Course, Simmons says Diggory isn't that kind of bloke, and 'course, Marietta doesn't believe him. Now she ropes Darius into it—they're dating again—and they start investigating. They didn't find anything, but Cho is still crying and Marietta is still pissed, so Marietta somehow manages to slip itching powder into Diggory's underpants—word is, he had to go to Madam Pomfrey for the rash."

"I can't believe she did that to Cedric!" Lavender squeals. "Ooh, his poor bum."

"Lavender!" Parvati shrieks, but it's at least half in laughter.

"It's a great arse," Lavender insists. "It's a crime to give that arse a rash."

"How about we stop talking about Pretty Boy Diggory's arse, yeah?" It's one of the twins—Fred, Hermione wagers. "Some of us are trying to eat here."

"Yeah, we are," Lavender says lecherously, looking over her shoulder at Diggory.

Hermione scrunches up her nose in disgust and stands. "You know, that's a terrible way to talk about someone," she says coolly. She looks at the boys. "Wouldn't any of you be uncomfortable if you knew some girls you haven't even talked to were looking at your arse from afar and talking about it like it's something to eat?"

Seamus exchanges a look with Dean. "Not really," he says with a lopsided grin. "I'd be pretty thrilled, honestly. Point me to those girls, why don't you?"

"No one looks at your arse, Seamus," Lavender says, rolling her eyes.

"Besides," Parvati says, giving Hermione a sly look, "I think Hermione here is just jealous because we're talking about Diggory's arse."

Hermione flushes, the colour rising to her cheeks out of anger but the others gleefully interpret it as embarrassment. "Oh gods, you are jealous!" Lavender laughs.

"You're all arseholes," Hermione informs them. She swings around and is not at all sorry when her bag hits the side of Lavender's head with a thwack.

"Ow!" she cries.

"Oops," Hermione says blandly. Lavender stares at her, a mix of offended, furious and hurt. Parvati fusses while shooting Hermione venomous looks. Guilt twinges but it's dull. "I'll see you in class. I'm going to the library."

"What the hell is her problem?" she hears Seamus mutter.

"I told you, she's jealous," Lavender says.

"She's a nightmare!" Parvati exclaims, loud enough that Hermione thinks she meant for her to hear it. She chomps down on her lip, refusing to let her emotions show, but the phrase hits a little too close to home. She remembers Ron saying it in first-year and with the way he's been acting lately… Both Harry and he have been half-submerged in detentions all week long, and the few times she does see Ron, he borders on spiteful. He never fails to bring up Viktor, each time sneering and spitting the name, and Harry, bless him, just seems so glad to have his best friend back that he only offers Hermione apologetic looks.

"Stupid boys," she mutters, furiously wiping away a tear that dared spill over. "Stupid Ron. Stupid Harry. Stupid Lavender. Stupid Parvati. Stupid Diggory!" She kicks the wall and instantly crumples over as pain shoots up her leg. "Oh—oh, bugger!" She squats, burying her face in her arms and starts to cry. Gods, she feels like an idiot.

"Excuse me." The voice is soft and dreamy and gentle. Hermione keeps her face hidden, too embarrassed to show it. "There's a more private spot behind this painting, if you like. I can show you." A small hand rests on Hermione's arm, and she allows herself to be guided. The girl, whoever she is, murmurs, "Locksmith," and Hermione glimpses the golden edge of a portrait sliding to the side. "Come on." She felt oddly like a soothed animal as she followed. "There now, no one will find you here. Would you like me to stay?"

Hermione swallows. Her throat burns with tears. She thinks to say no, but instead, she finds herself whispering, "Yes, please."

"Okay," the girl says easily, and they both sit down in the cramped space. "It's okay if you cry, you know. I like to cry sometimes too. It always feels nice afterwards. Clean, you know?"

"It feels horrible," Hermione chokes out, a few fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.

"Oh yes," the girl agrees. "But sometimes we need to feel horrible to feel better."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Of course it does," she says. "You just have to understand it, not think it. Try it."

It's more than a little humiliating, but Hermione breaks down and starts to bawl like she hasn't done since she was a child. She lets everything out, her confusion, her sorrow, her anger. At first, it's only about Lavender and Parvati. Then it's about Diggory. Then it's about Ron. Then it drags up all those horrible things that happened in the past three years, and by the end of it, she isn't sure how much time has passed. All through it though, the girl patiently pats Hermione's back, humming quietly under her breath.

When Hermione's sobs die into little hitches in her breath, the girl speaks again. "There we go," she says gently. "Isn't that better?"

Her eyes are swollen, her nose is stuffed so full it hurts, and her tears feel dry and sticky on her cheeks. But, inside, she feels… eased. "Yes," she admits. They sit in silence, and when her breathing is almost even, she looks up. The girl is smiling vaguely off to the side, her long, curly blonde hair spilling onto the floor. She has a wand stuck behind her ear and wears a necklace of what look like Butterbeer corks. She's familiar, a year below Hermione maybe. "What's your name?"

"Luna Lovegood," she says and turns wide, pale eyes onto Hermione. "You're Hermione Granger."

Hermione starts. "You know me?"

"Oh yes, I talk quite a bit with Cedric, you know. He talks about you," she says idly.

Hermione's flush has nothing to do with the exertion from crying this time. "Diggory isn't—he doesn't—we don't talk," she finishes lamely.

"Not now, I suppose," Luna says. "He hasn't told me why, but he has been looking quite miserable." She pauses. "People argue. I don't much like arguing, but I argue with Daddy too. Sometimes I don't speak to him for days, but at the end of it, we always make up."

"I thought Diggory didn't tell you anything," Hermione says, then realises her mistake a moment later. "Not that we talk," she adds hastily.

Luna smiles dreamily. "He didn't say anything. Neither did you. But it's easy to see; most people just don't bother looking, I think, which is really quite sad."

Hermione swallows again. Luna is strange, but something about her also coaxes the truth out. "He told me that he doesn't believe Harry was entered into the Tournament by someone else," she says. Luna simply hums and lets her continue. "And I—I was so angry. I don't know why. It feels almost silly now, but I'm still angry at him. Even when Ron thought Harry had entered himself I wasn't this mad. It's just… Cedric is…" She stares at the opposite wall for a long time, thinking. Crying has helped, she thinks, and everything that's been so muddled and confusing inside her chest is easier to sift through, like water instead of sludge. At last, she says slowly, "I think I was just… disappointed in him." She feels a twisting stab of guilt, as she understands suddenly that her anger is fuelled mostly by that disappointment. She's built him up in her head somehow, thinking that he's good and kind and understanding… flawless. Then he shattered that delusion and she was angry at him for it. Hermione sighs, and buries her face in her hands again. "I'm an idiot."

"Only a little," Luna agrees, and Hermione gives a watery laugh. "What are you going to do now?"

"I suppose I have to talk to him," she says after a moment.

Luna smiles widely. "That does seem like a good idea, doesn't it?" she says. Hermione looks at this Ravenclaw, so odd and so sweet, and finds it in herself to smile back just as widely, if very shakily.

"Thank you, Luna," she says. "For being kind."

"Was I kind?" Luna wonders. "I wanted to make a friend, you see." Something in her voice is painfully lonely, and Hermione has the impression that Luna doesn't have many friends.

"Cedric's your friend, isn't he?"

Luna's face falls slightly, and Hermione berates herself. "I don't know if we're friends," Luna says. "He's very nice to me. I like him."

"Well, we're friends," Hermione tells her.

"Are we?" Luna says, beaming. "I've never had a friend before."

Hermione looks at her and is reminded of herself before Hogwarts. She remembers the flush of warmth when Harry, Ron and she first went down for breakfast together. She remembers the sharp disbelief when they sit next to her in class that she tries to disguise. She remembers the overpowering happiness that shot through her when she realised, at last, that they were friends now. Real friends. "Well, I suppose I'm the first of many," she says.

"You're very nice too, Hermione Granger," Luna decides.

Hermione sits with Luna for a little while longer, not really saying much. The other girl's presence is comforting and light, easing her sorrow just by sitting by her. Eventually, she stands. "We should go," Hermione says. "I think… I'll go see if Diggory is in the library."

"That would be good," Luna says. "Tell him I said hello, won't you?"

"I will," Hermione promises. "Will you go back to your Common Room?"

Luna hums. "Maybe. I think I'll stay here for a bit though. It's a good spot to hide from Nargles."

Hermione tilts her head, looking at her oddly. "Nargles? Like from the Quibbler?"

"Yes," Luna says brightly. "That's my father's magazine."

"Oh," Hermione says. "Er, well, it's very interesting." It's a blatant lie, but Luna accepts it with a guileless smile, and Hermione doesn't have the heart to tell her what she really thinks. "Don't stay out too late," she says instead.

—

Despite what she said to Luna, Hermione procrastinates for three days before she finds it in herself to seek out Cedric. She tries the library first, where they usually sit, but he isn't there. It's funny, she reflects, that she has been avoiding that place so that she doesn't have to see him, and he seems to be trying his hardest to avoid that place too. He is still angry at her, and she understands that, even if something guilty and terrible claws at her insides like knives.

She tries in vain for the rest of the day to corner him alone, but it soon becomes apparent that most of the time, he's joined at the hip to his friends. Eventually, she concedes that she has little other choice, and she approaches him after dinner, when the number of students present in the Great Hall has dwindled down.

"Where are you going?" Ron says through a mouthful of ham.

"Er, I need to talk to someone," Hermione says. She catches Luna's eye, and the Ravenclaw gives her a vacant smile that Hermione decides to interpret as encouraging. She smiles back, faint and nervous.

"Who?" Ron demands.

Hermione shoots him a dirty look. "Don't talk with your mouth full," she says and walks away before he can ask any more questions. Cedric is talking to his friends, laughing. When he sees her, he carries on the conversation but keeps his eyes on hers.

She takes a deep breath. "Diggory," she says, and there is a flash of pride when her voice remains steady. The table falls silent. "Can we talk?"

Cedric doesn't say anything for a long moment, and Hermione can almost feel sweat pouring down her face because the way his eyes pin her is nerve-wracking and terrifying. Most of the Hufflepuffs eye her suspiciously, and Hermione swallows. Simmons rakes a rather cool, calculating look over her. At last, Cedric mutters, "Yeah, sure." He doesn't move.

"Alone, please," she says.

"So you can jinx him?" Justin Finch-Fletchley explodes. "Don't trust her, Cedric, she's Harry Potter's friend—"

Hermione flinches; the insinuation is clear in the way he flexes his tone. Cedric catches her reaction and he scowls. "Leave off, Justin. It's fine."

"You're too trusting," another Hufflepuff says mulishly.

"I said to leave off." Cedric's reply is sharp, and when he looks at her again, she finds it difficult to read his emotions. "Alright, then. Lead the way, Granger."

She nods and takes quick, long strides away from the Hufflepuff table. Her cheeks burn as she feels, all around, students watching and whispering, but she holds her head high. Cedric is only a few steps behind her, and they don't say anything until Hermione comes at last to a stop.

She chews on her lip. The silence grows, and it's all the more difficult to break it now. He leans on the opposite wall, waiting patiently, and she knows he isn't going to give in and speak first, no matter how much she wishes he would. He's deliberately making this harder for her, she realises.

"I'm sorry," Hermione blurts when the silence becomes too painful. She stares down at her shoes. "I overreacted. I should have listened to you first."

Cedric shifts. "You should have, yeah."

"I was an arse."

"You were."

The silence returns, and as it stews between them, Hermione finds her anger returning. She apologised, didn't she? Why was he still trying to make it so bloody difficult? What more did he want from her? Did he want her to grovel, to beg for his forgiveness? "You don't have to forgive me," she says through her teeth, salvaging what little of her pride remained. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. Goodbye, Diggory."

She spins on her heel and walks away, but she doesn't make it two steps before Cedric sighs and says, "You were right too."

She stills.

"About Harry," he says. "I was an idiot. I thought he was probably as big-headed as everyone said he was, even though I'd met him before and even talked to him before. After you stormed out of the library, I tried paying attention. And you were right. It's easy to see, once you really look, that he doesn't like attention."

Hermione wraps her arms around her midriff and looks at Cedric. He stares back, the blinds over his eyes gone, and she can see his remorse shining from within.

"I was an arse too, just then. You apologised and I was… well," he says. She nods jerkily, and he cracks a smile. It fades. "I'm sorry."

"So we're both sorry," she says. For a moment, she thinks of being spiteful and refusing his apology. Then she realises how tired she is, and buried deeper within herself, how much she has missed him. So instead, she giggles.

The air lightens. "Friends?" Cedric says.

Hermione swallows the lump, this time borne not of tears or sadness or anger, but relief and happiness. "Friends," she says. He grins back and though there's still tension in his shoulders and Hermione is fidgeting, it feels like it will be alright.

"You do realise where you brought me to though?" Cedric says.

Hermione blinks. "Of course." They're in a relatively private spot of the castle, a semi-hidden alcove that she knows hardly anyone ever walks by. She can't imagine what he means. Cedric spies her confusion and laughs.

"This, Granger, is one of the deluxe snogging spots in the castle," Cedric says.

Hermione burns bright red. "No, it isn't," she squeaks. Cedric laughs harder, and Hermione tries to hide her face in her hair. "Oh gods," she moans in embarrassment.

"I figured you didn't know," he says once he regains enough of his composure to speak. She is still flushed and awkward and all too red. She can scarcely even look him in the eye. He reaches out and curls a lock of her hair around his finger, an amused, affectionate curve on his lips. "Walk back to dinner with me?"

Hermione hesitates. She thinks of Harry and Ron, who will surely have dozens of questions. Lavender and Parvati were still there too when she spoke to Cedric in front of the whole school, so there's that. "I think I'll go back to my dorms, actually," she says.

Disappointment falls over his face, but it clears so quickly Hermione wonders if she imagined it. "Well, I'll walk you back to the dorms, then."

"Um," she says. Why is she suddenly so flustered? "Okay. I'd like that."

He smiles, and it's tender and soft and her heart stutters.

—

Normalcy returns with such ease that Hermione catches herself thinking that it's a trick sometimes. Hermione fends off interrogation with a firm insistence that she was only thanking Cedric for rounding up the few 'Support Cedric Diggory' buttons still in circulation until the boys reluctantly believe her. She and Cedric meet up in the library, though in a quieter corner now, which few, as far as Hermione knows, are aware exists. They trade books and banter, their familiarity with each other growing. Hermione thinks she hasn't felt so at ease with someone since Harry and Ron became her friends. Most of the time, anyway—there is something always beneath the surface, a strange kind of tension that coils in Hermione's stomach. Sometimes, it fades until she can forget it's there at all; other times, it rises to the forefront and demands to be acknowledged. Those are the times when she catches herself staring at her book but not reading, only listening to the sound of Cedric's breathing and the rustling shifts of his movements; catches Cedric's eye and shares a warm smile that lingers longer than it should; finds herself holding her breath when he leans over her shoulder to point out a line in her books.

There is something else also, dark and dreadful. A growing terror that stirs and thickens every second she spends with Cedric. She's felt it before and knows it intimately—that feeling that they're standing on a precipice, and at any moment, something is about to tip them over into the bottomless chasm below. Already, she is scared for Harry, scared for Viktor, scared for Fleur Delacour, even. Now, she is terrified for Cedric. It keeps her awake at night and if anyone notices the dark circles that sag beneath her eyes, they do not mention it. There is only just over a month left until the Third Task, and it feels like a countdown to some horrible, devastating end she can't even comprehend.

So as it approaches, her studies begin to fall on the wayside, and her reading begins to mostly consist of useful spells. She focuses obsessively on books like 101 Spells for Defense, Using Charms in Duelling or The Aurors' Handbook to DADA. Cedric picks up on this, of course, since she starts giving him recommendations for advanced defence books instead of the usual history or political science titles he favours.

"Are you sure, Granger?" he says one day while they're huddled in their usual corner of the library. "Should you be helping me? I know you're friends with Harry…"

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter," she says, her voice hard and stubborn. "The Tournament doesn't matter—I just want both of you to be safe."

"We'll be fine," he says softly. "Dumbledore—"

"Professor Dumbledore."

"Professor Dumbledore," he says, voice taking on an edge of exasperation, "has all the security measures in place. We might get hurt in the maze but we'll heal."

"It's not the bloody maze I'm worried about, Cedric," she hisses, and the sound echoes. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm the bubbling hysteria in her chest. "Someone wants to hurt Harry by entering him in this Tournament. And I don't think they'll stop for a moment if someone else got in the way." Left unsaid is exactly who she fears will get in the way. Cedric swallows, his face pale. He reaches for her hand and wraps it in his, a reassurance that Hermione draws from greedily, even if she knows, logically, the only true reassurance will come after the Tournament is done and she knows all of them have made it through, safe and sound.

"I have another book recommendation," he says, and Hermione blinks; it's not at all the response she expects from him, but he is gazing at her with steady, solemn eyes as he withdraws a weathered, leathery book from his bag. "Curses for the Desperate. I got it from the Restricted Section last week."

Hermione feels a powerful wave of affection when she realises what he is doing, what he is giving her permission to do. She squeezes his hand tightly. "Thank you," she says, her eyes watery.

"I'll be fine, Hermione," he whispers, and he pulls her close. She buries her face in the front of his robes with a deep, shuddering breath. He smells like the earth after a heavy rain, fresh and clean. His hands are warm on her back. She sighs, content for the moment.

—

"Try this one," she says, pushing the book over to Harry and pointing out a particularly vicious-looking curse. Harry takes a look at the effects and pales.

"Blimey, Hermione," he says. "You could take all three of Fluffy's heads off with this."

Ron looks over Harry's shoulder and blanches too. "It's got pictures!" he says, nauseous. "Where did you get this book, 'Mione?"

"It's from the Restricted Section," Hermione says with a toss of her head, daring them to question her.

"How'd you get it out?" Harry asks, a shrewd look in his eye.

"I borrowed it from someone."

"Hermione," Ron says, staring at her with terrified awe, "did you steal this?"

"Of course not!" Hermione says, scowling fiercely. She opens her mouth to explain about Cedric, but she thinks she can see Ron's reaction already about her 'fraternising with the enemy'. Part of her whispers about how she doesn't want anyone to know about Cedric, really, and she squashes that voice ruthlessly. "I borrowed it."

"Uh-huh," Ron says. "Sure."

She rolls her eyes. "Look, Harry, just try it, okay?"

"In here?" Harry says, looking dubiously at the old stone walls of the abandoned classroom, the flimsy structure of the ceiling above.

"Maybe not," she concedes. "Come on, let's go outside."

They find a clearing some way from the castle that contains a few trees and large boulders, and Hermione sets Harry to the task. The first few times produces little more than a gust of wind, and all three of them are decidedly unimpressed.

"A bit more swish, I think, Harry," Hermione calls. She and Ron are standing quite far away from the potential blast zone, and Harry looks more than a little disgruntled by that.

He tries it again. "Terrium eructo!" There is a low rumbling that vibrates through the earth. Hermione watches with wide eyes, flinching when the dirt beneath her feet seems to shake. For a moment, nothing happens, then—

A massive root spears out of the ground, at least thrice as thick as the Whomping Willow's shrivelled trunk, and pierces straight through the largest boulder in the clearing. It shoots up nearly five feet in the air, its tip a sharpened, deadly spike of viney wood. The trio stares up at it, slack-jawed. Dirt rains down on them, spattering over the grass. "Oh," Hermione eventually squeaks.

Harry collapses to his knees then, looking pale and sweaty. "Merlin's bollocks," he gasps.

"Mate, are you alright?" Ron runs forward and hooks his arm under Harry's shoulders. "Bloody hell, you're cold."

"I'm fine," Harry pants. "Just… tired."

"Well, it's a last resort, I suppose," Hermione says faintly. "Oh no, what are we going to do with it?"

"Hagrid could use it for firewood," Ron suggests.

"I think I need to sleep," Harry says, his words slurring.

"Not yet," Hermione says sharply and helps Ron with him. "You're going to eat something first—and drink water, lots of water."

"Sounds nice," Harry replies vaguely.

"Promise me you won't do it alone," she says when she tells Cedric about what happened the next day. "Harry was completely pale after he cast it successfully, and he's one of the most powerful wizards in our year."

"How tall did you say it was?" Cedric says, wide-eyed.

"Five feet, maybe."

"Shit," he mutters. "I dunno, Hermione. It's not exactly useful for the maze, is it? I can't go sending five-foot-tall spikes out of the ground. It could really hurt someone."

"It's not for the maze," she insists. "Remember?"

Cedric purses his lips, and Hermione realises that he still doesn't quite believe her about how dangerous it is. She fights back her hurt and looks him in the eye. "Please," she says, a quiet, pleading note in her voice. "It can't hurt to learn, right?"

"I suppose not," he sighs. He perks up after a moment, as though he's just had an idea. He glances at his watch. "Do you have time?"

She tilts her head. "I suppose," she allows. It's Sunday and most of her essays have been finished. "What?"

"We'll go practice," Cedric says.

"Right now?"

He shrugs. "Why not?"

"Oh, well," Hermione says, momentarily stunned. "I mean—well, I suppose it's fine—"

"So let's go," he says, flashing her a grin.

"Maybe you should practice with your friends," she frets. "They're more advanced than me, and if you end up hurting yourself—"

"Hermione," he says with a roll of his eyes. "I love my friends, but none of them is as brilliant as you. If I get hurt, I'd rather you were there to help."

She flushes, the praise warm in her veins. "Well—if you say so," she mutters.

"Come on, then," he says.

"Oh, we should stop by the kitchens," Hermione realises as she pushes her books into her bag. "You're going to be starving afterwards, and the elves can give us something to eat." Her nose wrinkles at the thought of asking the elves to help, but just this once, she thinks, she'll do it.

"You know where the kitchens are?" Cedric asks.

"Oh yes," she says. "It's quite close to your Common Room, actually."

"And how do you know where our Common Room is?" Cedric says with an amused look.

"When you're friends with Harry Potter," she says, rolling her eyes, "you learn all sorts of things about where everything is in this school." She gives him a mischievous side-glance. "Besides, you Hufflepuffs are always so terribly obvious."

"Not all the time. I got you to let me walk you to your Common Room," he counters.

Hermione's eyes widen. "I thought you already knew where it was!"

Cedric smirks. "I didn't."

She stares at him. "When did you get so devious?"

"I've always been devious, Granger," he says with a wink, smile broadening when red tinges her cheeks. "Tell me then, what do Harry Potter and his friends get up to? I've heard a lot of rumours, but they all sound too fantastical to be true."

Hermione surveys him with pursed lips, debating whether she should divulge anything. The secrets she has accumulated with Harry are fiercely guarded, and they seem to have had some tacit agreement that they would continue to be kept between them. Cedric spots her hesitation.

"You don't have to tell me," he says, but she can hear his hurt.

"I—" She breaks off. "I can't tell you everything," she says eventually. "Some of them aren't my secrets to tell, even if I do trust you."

"All right," Cedric says readily.

Hermione beams at him. She likes this about Cedric, that he always knows when to push and when to just let go. "Well, I suppose we should start with my first year, about how Harry, Ron and I first became friends…"

She tells him about how she overheard Ron's cruel words, how she was in the bathroom crying all day when the troll came in. His hand spasms at that then reaches out to clasp her hand as though to reassure himself that she's fine. She lets him, counting it as fortunate that there aren't many students in the hallways, and most of them don't take notice of them. By the time they come to a stop in front of the fruit portrait, Hermione has just finished telling him about how Ron clubbed the troll with its own weapon and knocked it out.

"We became close friends after that," she concludes as she tickles the pear.

"Hello, sir and miss," a house-elf squeaks, beaming up at them. "Is sir and miss needing anything from us today?"

Hermione shifts uncomfortably. "I was hoping to get some sandwiches, please," she says politely.

"Missy Grangy!" Hermione looks up and recognises Dobby—though he is more immediately discernible by the layers upon layers of mismatched clothing he wears than any physical feature he bears.

"Dobby," Hermione says, nevertheless pleased to see her little friend. "How have you been?"

"I is being very good, Missy Grangy," Dobby beams.

Next to her, Cedric sniggers at the name, earning him a sharp elbow into his ribs. "Well, Dobby, my friend and I were hoping to pack some snacks for the afternoon," she says. "We're going to be practising some spells."

"I is able to do that!" Dobby says eagerly. He turns his large, luminescent eyes on Cedric. "Who is Missy Grangy's friend, if Dobby may ask?"

Cedric clears his throat. "Cedric Diggory, Dobby," he says. "It's very nice to meet you."

Dobby giggles. "Missy Grangy's friend is very nice," he says. "Dobby will be making Missy Grangy and Mister Diggy sir's sandwiches now."

"Missy Grangy," Cedric repeats when Dobby has run off.

"Like you're one to talk, Mister Diggy," Hermione says.

"So," Cedric says, "first a troll, now a house-elf who likes clothes. How did you get to know Dobby?"

"He rather worships Harry," Hermione says. "There's an entire story behind it, but suffice to say that Dobby's had quite an unfair life. He helped Harry out of a few tight spots." She pauses, thinking of the Bludger. "Got Harry into quite a bit of trouble too, actually."

"You know something, Granger?" he says when she doesn't elaborate. "You're a pretty mysterious kind of girl, aren't you?"

Instantly, though she knows he doesn't mean it that way, Hermione feels a flash of guilt. "I'm sorry," she says. "I know I'm hiding a lot of things from you…"

"It's fine," Cedric says, tugging on one of her stray curls. "You keep your friends' secrets. I can respect that."

It's not entirely okay, she thinks, but when she looks in his eyes, she doesn't see resentment, only understanding. "Thank you," she whispers.

A giggle.

Hermione starts and looks down to see Dobby, who glances between the two of them with a sly look in his eye. "Er," Hermione says, suddenly aware that she's still holding onto Cedric's hand. As though burnt, she lets go. "Dobby. How long have you been standing there?"

"Not very long, Missy Grangy," Dobby promises.

Cedric snickers.

"Did you, er, have our sandwiches?" Hermione fights down a blush. She's losing, she thinks, but she fights on valiantly.

"Yes, Missy Grangy," Dobby says, and with a snap of his fingers, an absolutely massive basket of food appears in thin air. Hermione's eyes widen. Cedric plucks it out of the air, smiling at Dobby as he does so.

"Thanks," he says.

"You is being very welcome, Mister Diggy!" Dobby says.

"Thank you, Dobby," Hermione adds too. "If there's anything I can do in return…"

"Oh no," Dobby says, his eyes so wide they're nearly popping out of his skull. "Dobby cannot possibly ask Missy Grangy for favours!"

"It's quite alright," she insists. "I'll be happier if I can help you too."

"Truly?"

"Of course."

Dobby twists his ears, glancing around shyly. Hermione notices that many of the other elves are now glaring at Dobby. "Well, Miss Grangy… Dobby is hoping that Great Harry Potter sir will be visiting again soon."

"I'll pass it onto him," Hermione says, smiling. "Have a nice day, Dobby."

"Bye, Missy Grangy, Mister Diggy!" Dobby says delightedly.

"He's an odd one, isn't he?" Cedric says as they resume their path out of Hogwarts.

"He's very sweet," Hermione says. "He was the Malfoys' house-elf, you know."

Cedric cocks an eyebrow. "The Malfoys? Really? And how did he end up here?"

"Harry may or may not have tricked Lucius Malfoy into freeing Dobby in Second Year."

"You're joking," he says, an incredulous laugh slipping out.

"I only wish I could have seen his face," Hermione sighs.

"Priceless," Cedric agrees. Their conversation turns to more mundane things from there. Hermione learns that Cedric is struggling with some of his Potions work, and they end up deep in a debate about the differences between the Draught of Living Death and a Dreamless Sleep potion. He also mentions having to visit Madam Pomfrey again two nights ago.

"It wasn't itching powder again, was it?" Hermione asks.

"No, it was—" He breaks off. "Where did you hear about the itching powder?"

"I'm sorry to say, but I think most of the school knows about it by now," Hermione says. "Seamus Finnigan told me, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, and they're all terrible gossips."

"Bollocks," Cedric mutters.

"So it was itching powder in your underpants?"

A dark, splotchy flush rises on Cedric's cheeks, and Hermione realises that this is the first time she's seen him flustered. She giggles. It's nice, she thinks, to see him become embarrassed for once. "I'm glad you find this funny," Cedric complains. "I had to scrub my entire drawer clean, and that rash…" He shudders.

"Your poor bum," Hermione laughs.

"At least Marietta has decided I've suffered enough," Cedric says, sighing.

"It wasn't very nice of her, regardless," Hermione says.

"Yeah, well," Cedric says. He runs his free hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "Breakups are never fun. I feel bad about Cho. Really, I do. But… It just wasn't working."

Hermione pats his arm commiseratingly. "She'll get over it."

The rest of their walk is quiet, with only occasional banter exchanged. It's a nice quiet though, and Hermione finds herself relaxing as they walk past the lake, with only the trees and the breeze around them. Finally, they arrive at the clearing. Cedric stares up in awe at the mark Harry has left for a full minute, only coming back to himself when Hermione places a hand on his arm and starts to walk him through the spell.

He gets it right on the third time. "Terrium eructo," he intones, and Hermione sees the exact moment his energy drains from him and the sweat beads his forehead. He staggers as the ground beneath them rocks and falls to his knees when the root explodes out of the earth, crossing adjacent to Harry's to create a twining cross. Hermione quickly hands him some water, which he gulps down gratefully.

"Bloody hell," he breathes.

"Good job," Hermione says, sitting down next to him.

"I think I'm… dizzy."

"Dizzy?" Hermione says, alarmed.

"Just need to lie down a bit," Cedric mumbles and slumps against her. As quickly as she can, she manoeuvres him so that his head is in her lap. "Shit… I can't believe Potter managed this spell and could still stand."

"He's powerful," Hermione agrees. "You got it more quickly though. Harry's never been the most inclined to learning. Here, drink some more water."

He takes a couple more mouthfuls. "Thanks," Cedric says, closing his eyes. A small smile lifts the corner of his lips. "This is nice."

"You can have something to eat if you're feeling better," Hermione says.

"I don't want to get up yet," he mutters. His words grow more slurred as he speaks. Hermione takes the opportunity to study his face while his eyes are closed. His hair is dark where sweat has soaked into it, clinging to his forehead in short curls. There's a light growth of rough stubble along his jaw, giving him shadows that make him look older than he is. His nose, straight and long, has a slight scar over the bridge that she hasn't noticed before. Without thinking, her thumb traces over it. She pulls away quickly, only to realise he hasn't reacted at all. For a moment, she worries that he's unconscious, but a quick check reveals that he's only fallen asleep.

She smiles, and quietly summons a book from her bag. As she reads, she scarcely even notices when her left hand buries into his ridiculously soft hair and begins to comb through it absently, wrapping it around her finger and letting it bounce back into position. Time fades. She only realises how much time has passed when her stomach growls, and she checks her watch to see that it's nearly two and they've missed lunch.

"Don't stop," Cedric murmurs, and Hermione realises the hand tangled in his hair has stilled.

A smile quirks on her lips. "How long have you been awake?"

"Ten minutes?" he says, eyes slowly flickering open.

"And you pretended to keep on sleeping?" The teasing note in her voice lets him know that she's not really angry.

"I woke up in a beautiful girl's lap with her hand running through my hair," Cedric says with an impish smile. "I wasn't about to ruin it for myself."

Hermione blushes. She has never been called 'beautiful' before—has never thought that anyone would apply the word to her. She isn't ugly, she knows, but 'beautiful' is such a strong, admiring word.

Cedric reaches up and sweeps a lock of her hair behind her ear, brushing her cheek with his thumb as he does so. He slowly pushes himself up into a sitting position, and Hermione finds herself breathless by the intensity in his gaze. He looks nervous, she realises, fidgeting with his cuff. He cups her face with one hand and she leans into his touch. "Can I kiss you?" he asks.

Hermione's mouth feels dry. He is close enough now that she can feel his breath, hot against her lips. She gives a minute nod.

It's sweet.

—

Hermione pulls away, breathless, and proceeds to start giggling.

"What?" Cedric says, looking confused and a little hurt.

"Oh," Hermione says with a grin. She reaches up and tugs at a tuft of his hair that has decided to defy gravity and sticks straight up into the air. "Your hair is a mess."

"So is yours," Cedric says, and Hermione flushes, knowing it's because his fingers have been through it while they were… well, snogging. He grins, wide and boyish, then he's winding his fingers back into her hair to tug her in for another long snog. This time, his tongue licks at her lips, and hesitantly, Hermione parts them. It's quite weird, having someone else's tongue in her mouth, and at first, Hermione is more uncomfortable than anything. It's all tongues and teeth and lips, which if one looks at from an anatomical perspective, is really rather gross. But soon she's cataloguing the taste of his mouth, the heat of him, the way his lips feel when she experiments with a gentle bite. It's nice, she decides eventually. Very nice. Her hands slide down to his neck, and he shivers beneath her touch.

His stomach growls, and they pull away with a breathless laugh. Hermione's eyes widen. "Oh no!" she realises. "You haven't eaten anything, have you? Oh goodness—here—the sandwiches—you must have been starving—" She digs through the basket and quickly shoves two absolutely massive sandwiches into his hands. "Eat—it's past lunchtime, you know—what was I thinking? What if you'd fainted? Do you feel faint?" She squints at him. He doesn't look pale—in fact, his face is tinged red from their activity.

Cedric laughs. "Hermione, I feel fine. You should eat too," he says.

"No, you should have all of it," she says. "You just performed very powerful magic not three hours ago!"

"There are four sandwiches in here, Hermione," Cedric says. "If I try to finish them all, I'll burst. What will my gravestone say then? 'Fed to death by his girlfriend, Hermione Granger'?"

There is a swooping sensation in her gut, and Hermione ducks her head, hiding a smile that threatens to consume her face. She deposits a third sandwich in his lap. "I suppose it'll have to say just that," she says.

She discovers several things as they eat. One is that Cedric has no qualms about kissing with food in his mouth. Second, and much to his disappointment, Hermione discovers that she is rather more repulsed by the idea than him, and after the third food kiss results in a bit of Cedric's tuna sandwich slipping into her mouth, she pulls back with a grimace and puts her foot down.

"You forget," she says when he pouts about it, "that I've been friends with Ronald Weasley for four years. I watch him chew with his mouth open every day for nine out of twelve months."

Cedric winces at the image. "Alright, I'll give you that."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a haze of contentment. At some point, Cedric starts to run his wand through her hair as she reads with his arm around her shoulder. She feels her curls tug and twist gently. "What are you doing?" she asks.

"Braiding your hair," he says lazily.

"Why?" In a flash of insecurity, she wonders if he thinks her hair is too wild, too ugly. She reaches up to smooth it down self-consciously.

"Don't," he says, slapping her hand away.

"Did you just—"

"You'll ruin it," he says. "You've been moving your hair out of your face every time the wind blows. So I'm braiding it."

"Oh," Hermione says. A warm flush suffuses her cheeks. She does that a lot around him, she notices—blushing, that is. He chuckles and she ducks her head, trying to ignore the occasional tugs against her scalp. A thought strikes her, and she nearly slaps his wand out of her hair, before reining in the impulse. Gods, she really does hope she doesn't have dandruff in her hair.

"Done," Cedric says, sounding quite pleased with himself.

She reaches up hesitantly to touch it, and is surprised to find it… flat. And smooth. She conjures a small mirror, and when she looks into her reflection, she can't help but gape. Her fringe is woven back on either side of her head in intricate, crisscrossing patterns. Two tails run down her back, tamed into gleaming braids, with only a few frizzy curls escaping. Her hair looks… tidy. And she can see her face. She didn't even realise she has that beauty spot on her temple. "Are these… French braids?"

Cedric shrugs. "Dunno. I just did what my cousin always used to make me do."

"You're very good at the spell," she murmurs, still gazing at her hair in awe. Her neck feels so cool. And the wind is no longer blowing chunks of her hair in her face, only a few flyaway strands that are as easy to move away as they are to ignore.

"I had a lot of practice," he says, sounding somewhat disgruntled. "Sheila loved making me try about ten different hairstyles every time she visited. This one was one of her favourites though."

"Was?" Hermione notes.

"She's a big girl now," he says sarcastically. "Nine years old and she doesn't need me to do her hair anymore."

Hermione laughs. "She sounds sweet."

"A little devil," Cedric corrects. "I should thank her the next time I see her, I suppose."

"Did she do something?"

"She made me practice," he says, grinning as he tugs on the end of one of her braids.

"You're odd," she tells him.

"Me?" Cedric says in mock-offence.

She gives him a fond look. "Very odd."

—

Hermione feels a hand wind into hers, fingers entangling and a thumb circling the back of her hand. She doesn't look up, only grins as she continues to read. "Look," she murmurs, showing him a page. "What do you think of this one?"

Cedric rests his chin on her shoulder as he reads. "Acne Jinx?" he reads aloud. "S'ppose I could give whatever's in that maze acne, but I'm not sure how effective that's going to be, Granger…"

"Not that one," Hermione laughs. "Drowning Hex."

"You know, I've been meaning to say this for a while," Cedric says. "You're kind of scary."

"Am I?" Her lips twitches.

"Scary as hell," Cedric assures and presses a kiss to her neck. There are about five inches of hair between his lips and bare skin, but she still feels it burn and tingle down her spine. "Mark it down as one to try?"

Hermione taps her wand obligingly. She continues flipping through the book, but Cedric remains where he is. It's horribly distracting, and Hermione suddenly realises why all those couples in the library always end up laughing and giggling instead of doing actual work, a regular occurrence that has never failed to irritate her.

Except it really is bloody hard to concentrate when she can feel his hair tickling her jaw and the warm puffs of his breath on her collarbone.

"You do realise there are only two weeks left until the Final Task?" she says finally.

"I know."

"We should be looking up as many spells as we can and practising," she reminds him.

"Isn't that what we're doing?" Cedric is smirking, and Hermione has a growing suspicion that he knows exactly what he's doing to her.

"It's what I'm trying to do," Hermione grumbles.

Cedric's smile widens. "Trying?"

"Yes, Cedric, trying. Bloody distracting Hufflepuffs," she says, disgruntled.

"Seeing as we've been looking through books without rest for three hours, I think you could use some distraction," he murmurs.

Hermione sniffs. "We can be distracted after the Tournament," she says primly. "Now get back to studying."

Cedric sighs but removes his chin from her shoulder. When he loosens his grip, however, Hermione tightens her hold on his hand, refusing to look at him as she stares steadily down at her book. She hears his amused chuckle, and he lets his hand remain.

—

If Hermione sits five rows from the top on the right side of the Gryffindor table, she has an excellent vantage point of the sixth-year Hufflepuffs. It isn't as though she's carefully calculated this or invested much effort into finding out which spot gives her the best view of the table of yellow and black on the far end of the Great Hall. It's simply something that grew over time, an understanding developed over several years of study at Hogwarts. Yet even as she thinks that, a part of her whispers with an amused, mocking tone that Hermione is sure belongs to Lavender, that really, she knows this because she's been paying attention to someone in particular.

Hermione primly cuts into her cottage pie and ignores this voice with studious determination. Nevertheless, throughout her meal, she finds her eyes wander unconsciously over to Cedric, and she loses the thread of the conversation around her with alarming ease. At the very least, Harry and Ron, seated on either side of her, don't notice her distraction; Ron is preoccupied with his food as he always is, and Harry seems to be staring off into the distance, an uncommonly dreamy expression on his face.

She follows Harry's gaze but is distracted when her eyes catch on Cho Chang at the Ravenclaw table. She's sneaking glances at Cedric, and there's a paleness to her skin that suggests she hasn't been sleeping very well. Hermione feels a twist of something hot and unpleasant in her gut, and it takes a moment to identify the emotion—jealousy.

For the rest of the day, Hermione finds herself, in her spare moments, dwelling on the alien emotion. She's heard before that jealousy is an ugly feeling, but she always thought about it from the outside. Now, feeling it for herself, she likens its heat as acid burns, marring her chest. She can almost imagine it disfiguring her skin, white, crumpling lines and splotches, bubbling. She finds herself not only thinking about Cho Chang's longing looks—the way her hair falls prettily and smoothly, the way her clear, pale skin turns perfectly rosy when Cedric is around. She thinks also about how girls are always talking about how handsome Cedric Diggory is, the way they sigh when he walks by. Old insecurities flare up, and she touches her frizzy hair, the smatter of pimples across her cheeks. She tells herself, firm and severe, that she's being ridiculous, but she is quickly discovering that this isn't something she can use logic to resolve.

Thus, it is a rather subdued Hermione that turns up at their usual spot in the library that afternoon. Cedric smiles when he sees her, wide and so obviously delighted that the knot of tension loosens slightly in her belly. "Hey," he says, pressing a light kiss to her lips.

She smiles back, and perhaps something of her insecurity shows in her face because a tinge of uncertainty creeps into his expression.

"How has your day been?" she asks quickly.

"All right," he says, almost cautious. "McGonagall set a two-foot essay, so I'll have to pull some books from the library. Is everything all right?"

"Of course it is," Hermione says. Her cheeks are hot. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Dunno," Cedric says. "You just… seemed off, I suppose."

"Well, I'm fine," she replies, a touch cool. The conversation stutters there, a thick air of discomfort wedging between them. She hates herself for this, that she cannot rise above her own fears and the way she has created this awkwardness with her own hands. She hates even more that she can feel his lingering gaze on her, weighted with concern. Several times he tries to prompt conversation, and though Hermione replies, she can't quite remember how she usually speaks to him. The levity of it is buried, mired in a sludge of messy, dark, ugly emotions that stew at the back of her throat.

At the end of the hour, Hermione feels more exhausted than anything. She looks at Cedric, who is reading from his book, tension coiled in his shoulders. There is a deep shadow folded between his brow. I'm sorry, she wants to say. This is my fault. I'm sorry.

Instead, she says, "I have to meet Ron and Harry."

"Oh," Cedric says. "Okay." He reaches for her, and Hermione thinks he seems more hesitant, more uncertain. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

She nods. He tugs at a lock of her hair, an odd smile curled at his lips. She isn't sure what emotion stirs within him, but she knows it isn't happiness. She hesitates. Words lodge in her mouth. She's always thought that words were reliable—she frames it in her mind, and when she speaks, she conveys her meaning. It's all very straightforward, and though meaning can be distorted through perception, precision can minimise misinterpretation. Yet now, she can't even fathom what words to use, what she wants to say.

"Hermione?"

She starts, realising she has been staring at him for a solid minute now. "Right," Hermione stammers. "I have to—I should—er…" She trails off. Cedric still looks… melancholy. That's it. She doesn't like seeing him that way, even less as she suspects it's her who has put that expression on his face. She bites her lip.

"Do you want to stay?" Cedric says, without the mischief that would usually lace his voice.

"I can't," Hermione says. She really did promise to meet with Ron and Harry.

He nods. Hermione hesitates. She hates this—hates herself for being so hesitant and petty. She hates that she can't even bring herself to tell Cedric what's wrong. She hates that she's being… being…

A coward.

Hermione blinks.

"You've been strange all day," Cedric observes.

"Yes, I—I just realised something," Hermione says.

"What?"

She licks her lips. "Nothing—I just," she says. "Bollocks."

Cedric chokes, looking at her with wide eyes. "Hermione?"

She stares back at him. Her heartbeat pounds in her head, so loud that she can scarcely hear anything else. It'd be so easy, a voice says in the back of her mind. Just a little further, just a little push… Another screams at her not to do it, but it's the same voice that reminds her of how pretty Cho Chang is and how she can never measure up.

She squashes it ruthlessly and kisses Cedric square on the mouth.

It's messy and graceless and he's so surprised at first that he's simply still against her. Then he's pulling her closer, snogging her back with a ferocity that she had not suspected in him before. It awakens a fire, stirring in her belly and licking up rivers of heat along her arms and down her spine where his hands dance. She's pressing closer and closer into him, revelling in the passion she's evoked, turning giddy and breathless from it, matching fire with fire.

When they part, Hermione's arms are wound around the back of his neck and she's practically crawled into his lap—yet despite her intense mortification, she doesn't feel quite like leaving just yet. Cedric presses a kiss to her jaw, right where it meets her earlobe. She notices that his cheeks are flushed red, and his lips are a little swollen. It gives her a foreign, tingling satisfaction.

"Wow," Cedric says. The huskiness in that one word sends another jolt through her.

Hermione nods mutely, not yet trusting her voice to work. It's not okay—not completely, anyway. But when she notes the way he's looking at her, eyes dark with a greediness that she can feel mirrored in her gut, she thinks that, for now, it's all right.

—

"Sleakeazy's Horntail Hold Silky-Soft Hair Wax?" Hermione reads aloud.

He plucks the tub from her fingers. "Don't go around sneaking looks at other people's things, Granger," Cedric teases.

"Cedric," she says slowly. "Do you style your hair?"

He gives her a strange look. "Yeah?"

"So your hair isn't… you know, naturally like that?" By 'that', she means, of course, perfect. It's soft, fluffy and always so artfully mussed that it makes almost half the girls in school sigh wistfully. Hermione herself admits to more than one moment of envious admiration.

"'Course not," Cedric says, laughing. "Is that what you thought?"

"Well, yes," Hermione says. "What's it really like then?"

He shoots her a look full of amusement. It's hard to see his face in the darkness. It's late and the corridors are deserted, what with it being only five minutes to curfew. "You're awfully interested in my hair," he says.

"I always thought it was natural," Hermione says, reaching up to fluff it. "I was so envious."

"You were envious of my hair?" Cedric says incredulously.

"Of course I was," she says. "Mine is so rough and frizzy and dull."

"I like your hair," he says, tugging at a stray curl. "It's got character."

"Cedric," Hermione says with a sigh. "Hair isn't supposed to have character."

"And yours does," Cedric says, grinning. "Therefore I like it."

She gives a surprised laugh. "You're odd."

"So I've been told."

"Well, whoever told you that must have been quite smart then."

"Brilliant," he assures.

"I want to see what it's really like," she says after a moment.

Cedric scratches his jaw. "I suppose I could go without it tomorrow. You'll owe me one though, Granger—I'm putting my reputation at stake here."

"Your reputation?" Hermione snorts. "As Prettiest Head in Hufflepuff, I suppose?"

"Hogwarts," he corrects.

"I'm sure you'll live," she says drily.

He keeps his promise and turns up at their library spot the next day with a clean head of hair. She runs her fingers through it experimentally and is, perhaps, too gleeful when she discovers that it's rather coarse to touch. "Have you got split ends?" she asks eagerly, standing over him so that she can get a better look.

"Maybe a few," Cedric says.

Hermione makes him dip his chin down so she can check. Eventually, she finds one and nearly squeals with uncharacteristic delight. "You have split ends!" she says. "Do you know what this means, Cedric?"

"What?" he asks.

"You have terrible hair," she informs him happily. It's an exaggeration, really, but Hermione is so delighted to find something imperfect about him that she's giddy with it.

"And you call me odd," Cedric says, pulling back. He's a little red in the face, and she wonders if she might have embarrassed him. Then she catches him glance at the… general area of her torso and it occurs to her that she essentially directed him to stare at her breasts the entire time.

"Er," she says, stepping away with a squeak. "I—well—thank you, I suppose—er—where was I?"

Cedric clears his throat. "I think you were working on an essay for Flitwick."

"Professor Flitwick," they say together, and the awkwardness vanishes when they both start giggling at each other.

—

"Are you scared?" she whispers.

"A little," Cedric says. After a moment, he admits, "Terrified."

Her fingers curl into the front of his robes, tight and almost desperate. "You'll be fine," she says.

"Of course I will," he replies, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "I had you to help me, right? I remember the spells, don't worry."

"Even the Trinity Curse?" Hermione whispers.

"Even the Trinity Curse."

She wants to ask him to promise that he will be safe, but she knows that he can't promise that. She bites down on the urge. It would do no good, only give her false assurance. Her breath hitches again, and Cedric tilts her face up, giving her a soft kiss.

"I'll be okay," he says.

Hermione nods mutely, studying his eyes. In the darkness, they look almost black, but when the clouds shift and the moon peeks out just a little, she sees how his eyes turn grey, glimmering like molten silver.

"Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next week?" Cedric says quietly.

No one really knows about her and Cedric—it's somehow implicitly understood that they won't tell anyone about their relationship yet—but if they go to Hogsmeade, everyone will see. She doesn't miss the gravity of that. She swallows. "I'd love to."

Cedric's smile is soft and joyful. "I'm glad," he says. "Because I think I really like you, Hermione Granger. I'm not sure about love, but… I think one day, maybe…"

"I like you a lot, too," Hermione says. It's not love, she thinks. Surely not, when she has only known him for a handful of months. But it is, a part of her acknowledges, something dangerously, frighteningly close to love. It's a strange, intoxicating feeling she has never known before. It runs deep and true, warm in her veins when she thinks of him, a soft, pleasant thrumming when he smiles at her, catches her hand or steals a kiss. It feels like a dream sometimes, and in it, she is buoyant and weightless, time blurs and the world feels right. It makes her forget all logic and reason, this feeling, quiets the voice in her head that whispers that it's impossible to feel so intensely about someone. And it's both terrifying and so very wonderful.

They steal a few more minutes together before Cedric sighs and pulls away reluctantly. "We should go," he says. "It's almost curfew."

Hermione nods. "Okay."

The walk back is quiet, just enjoying each other's presence. Hermione lets Cedric guide her as she loses herself in committing everything about him to memory. She hopes she's being silly, but that doesn't stop her from trying to memorise how the scar on the bridge of his nose (which he apparently received from falling out of a tree when he was five) is exactly four centimetres long and curves like a crescent moon.

"Here," he says at the portrait door, digging out a rather worn and battered-looking book from his bag.

"What is this?" Hermione says. She flips it open and sees his handwriting scrawled all over the pages.

"My journal," Cedric says, looking slightly embarrassed. "Well, it's a book I use to write down anything that comes to mind. It's rather messy, really, I've got Quidditch and Potions on the same page and…" He's rambling, Hermione notes.

"Why are you giving it to me?"

Cedric shrugs. "Just in case?"

She glares at him. "Don't say that."

"Sorry," he says quietly. "But really, it's a promise. Give it back to me after the Task tomorrow. I'll be fine. You'll see." He drops a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. "Wear my colours tomorrow?"

She manages a smile. "I think I can dig up a yellow scarf somewhere."

That night, Hermione's dreams are full of a man's high, cold laughter, cruelty writhing in his voice like no other.

—

She waits in the stands. They're late. Her fingers feel cold. Numb. Not because of the weather.

A flash of light. Harry's voice, screaming.

He's back.

She looks over the sea of heads, and spies Harry hunched over a still figure. Bile rises in the back of her throat. Why is he so still? She takes a shaky step forward, then another, and breaks into a run.

My son, someone screams. That's my son!

The crowd surges forward. She pushes and shoves and fights, but she can't reach. When she finally breaks through, she sees the Diggorys bent over his still body. Cho Chang stands beside them, looking horrified and stricken. She can see Cedric's hand, limp and pale. She remembers it playing with her hair, cupping her cheek, warm on her back.

Her legs crumple. It feels as though she's broken every rib in her body.

She can't breathe.

—

Luna finds her and wraps her arms around her. Hermione clings to the comfort like a child clinging to her mother. Her eyes are swollen from hours of crying, and now they've run dry but inside… it's raw, throbbing and agonising. "There now," Luna says sadly, smoothing down Hermione's hair. "You're alright."

Hermione gasps and chokes on tears, snot and despair. He's dead, she thinks, but cannot bear to say it. It's a lie. He isn't dead. Cedric is not dead.

Luna shakes her head and holds Hermione closer. "I'm sorry," Luna says quietly. Her voice tremors.

"He's not dead," Hermione manages. "He's not."

"I'm sorry," Luna says again, and Hermione knows.

"I don't understand," she whispers. "I—he was just… he was just…" She thinks of his journal, tucked safely in the drawer of her desk. She thinks of his kisses, fluttering, sweet, passionate, and she can still feel all of them on her lips. She thinks of him, his eyes warm on her, alive.

A wretched, pathetic noise spills out. Within it, she hears the echoes of a silent scream, pain that has filled to the brim and cannot be held in any longer. The disbelief, the numbness that caps it cracks. Her heart does not feel like it is shattering or breaking, so much as it is being ripped and torn apart, strip by strip, devoured by something monstrously ravenous.

—

Conversation comes in snaps around her. She sits quietly by Harry's bedside, but her eyes aren't on his sleeping form. She gazes off instead out the window. She can see the Quidditch Pitch still. Somewhere downstairs, the Diggorys and Cho are huddled around his pale, lifeless body. The thought conjures an image of the scene, and it sends a fresh wave of grief so intense she nearly folds in on herself, as though trying to smother that raking, clawing, tearing agony in her chest.

The grief fades. Numbness returns like a sweet, soothing fog, thankfully enough.

The Weasleys seem to think that her quietness is due to worry for Harry. She feels the ghost of their consoling pats on her shoulder, and hears the occasional whisper of, "He's going to be alright, Hermione, just you wait."

He isn't. He isn't ever going to be alright, and he isn't ever going to look at her with warm, grey eyes or press smiling kisses to her lips. She wishes dearly that she could be by his side now but there are so many reasons not to. His parents are with him, grieving—Cho bloody Chang is there, as though she was still his girlfriend when he went into the maze, as though he hadn't broken up with her months ago. But the reason that holds her in place, paralyses her, is her own fear. Can she bear to look at him, touch him, remember him as a cold corpse? To see the stillness of his chest, his white lips and the blue tinge to his skin? Hermione can imagine it already, and it twists her insides so savagely she can scarcely bear to imagine what the pain would be like if she actually sees him.

She looses a deep, shuddering breath. That's all the grief she allows herself for now. "You're alright," Mrs Weasley says. "He'll be fine, dear."

"Yes, Mrs Weasley," Hermione croaks.

There's shouting in the distance, muffled by the doors of the Hospital Wing. This is where she first met him, she remembers—truly met him and held a conversation with him. She was lying two beds over, and he sat next to her, reading Hitler's Rise: A Wizarding Perspective. It feels like years ago now. She sees, in her mind's eye, all the books they've traded back and forth. She commits each title to memory. They're all the more precious now that—

She cuts that train of thought off ruthlessly before the pain takes root again.

"They're going to wake him if they don't shut up!" she hears Mrs Weasley whisper. She drags her mind back to the present with difficulty. The fog makes it hard to think. The numbness, sweet in the uncertain relief it offers, blurs.

The shouting draws closer. The fog ebbs.

"That's Fudge's voice," Mrs Weasley says.

Hermione hears their warbled voices approaching—Fudge, high and nasal, anxiety and worry strangling his tone. McGonagall's voice too, more furious than she has ever heard it, rising to a shrill, ungodly shriek. The doors swing open. There's an argument again, then Dumbledore joins. She hears through a haze the proceedings, only stiffening when she realises that Barty Crouch Jr. has been kissed.

Good, she thinks fiercely. He deserves it—if it weren't for him, the Cup wouldn't have been a Portkey, and Cedric would be—

The vindictiveness fades, and Hermione is almost frustrated. Emotions feel like water now, sometimes rising to a crescendo, and just as easily, slipping away until she only has the void within herself to grasp at.

"You-Know-Who… returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore…" Fudge murmurs. He's like a fly, she thinks. Constantly buzzing about, with no substance to his words, chased away by the merest puff of turbulence. The more she listens to him speak, the more ridiculous he seems. This man is their Minister of Magic?

"You've been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr Fudge," Harry says, and she realises with a start that he's awake. He looks weary and so terribly haunted, but he's awake. She manages a small smile. Her best friend is safe. He studies Fudge, with a hard expression that is foreign on him. But she recognises the fury simmering in there, just waiting to explode.

And it does. Harry names Death Eaters, and Fudge counters each one with the stubbornness only an idiot can summon.

"You fool!" McGonagall shrieks, finally having enough of the farce. "Cedric Diggory!" The name punches straight into Hermione's gut. "Mr Crouch! These deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!"

"I see no evidence to the contrary," Fudge roars.

What a tosser, she imagines Cedric would say.

"Excuse me?" Fudge is staring at her, his face rapidly purpling. Everyone else is staring at her incredulously too.

"What?" Hermione says.

"You—You just called the Minister a tosser," Ron says weakly.

"Did I?" Hermione wonders. "Well, it's only the truth."

"How dare you—you—listen here, young lady—"

"You're a tosser, a coward and an arrogant, pompous arse," Hermione says. The words almost come from a distance to her; her mouth opens and shuts but she has no control over it. She's speaking, but it doesn't feel like her. "Cedric Diggory," she manages to say without choking, "was not killed by a brainless lunatic." The revulsion in her voice snaps across the room, so potent that Fudge shrinks for a moment.

"You're out of line, girl—"

"Cornelius," Dumbledore intervenes, casting Hermione an inscrutable look. She bites down on her lip and stares at the opposite wall. "Voldemort has returned. You must take steps now, to ensure our survival. You must remove the Dementors from Azkaban—"

Fudge chokes and sputters, and Hermione is tempted to hex him into silence. Something must have given away her intent, for Harry's hand comes down over hers, stilling her. She shuts her eyes, tunes out the argument over their heads. If she has to listen to Fudge's insistence that Cedric's death was caused by some random madman again, she might actually try one of the curses she's learnt helping Cedric and Harry with the Tournament on him. She hates him, and hates the Ministry with every fibre of her being in that moment, for daring to dishonour Cedric in that way.

"Hermione?" Harry says hesitantly, and she comes back to herself. Fudge is gone, she realises, and so are most of the Weasleys. It's only herself, Dumbledore, Harry, Mrs Weasley and Ron remaining. "Are you alright?"

"Where did everyone go?" Hermione says.

"Er." Harry glances at someone else, clearly appealing for support. He looks uncertain, almost afraid of her. "They left. There's a lot to do now… now that Voldemort's back."

"Of course," Hermione murmurs. She stares out the window again. Something crawls along the windowsill, small and yellow. A dim memory returns, somehow working its way through the fog. Something Harry said, something she researched, an epiphany she reached. Her brow furrows, then smoothens.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore says gently. "I must see to the Diggorys for now, but I would like to see you later in my office. Would three o'clock be alright?"

"There's nothing else to do, is there?" Hermione says, which Dumbledore takes as an affirmation.

Harry looks even more concerned now.

"Hermione?" Even Ron is hesitant. How strange. "What you said to Fudge—it was, er, pretty brilliant."

"Ronald!" Mrs Weasley hisses.

"Brilliant," Hermione says faintly. She stands, moving over to the window, her gaze unfocused as she stares out at the Quidditch Pitch. When her hand comes down over the beetle, it's almost gentle. Rita doesn't seem to suspect a thing until it's too late. Hermione almost forgets her intention too, as an echo of Cedric's voice saying, 'She's brilliant,' runs through her mind. "Mrs Weasley, could you conjure me a jar please?"

"A jar?" Mrs Weasley says, confused.

"Just a small one." She gestures at the hand she has enclosed over Rita, who buzzes around angrily within, desperately looking for an escape. "I caught a beetle, see. It's a rather rare and fascinating species, and I should like to study it."

"Oh, well, I suppose—" Mrs Weasley sounds flustered, but she indulges Hermione. "Are you quite alright, dear?" she says as she hands Hermione the jar.

"I'm fine," Hermione says, sweeping Rita safely into the jar and quickly closing the lid before she has a chance to escape. She withdraws her wand and charms it to be Unbreakable and Imperturbable. It wouldn't do to have her escape after all, or to have her listen in on all their conversations while Hermione has her. "Just in case," she adds when she sees Mrs Weasley's look.

Harry yawns suddenly, and Mrs Weasley gives him his potion. Their attention focuses on Harry, who looks so terribly small in the hospital bed. For now, she is forgotten, and Hermione contents herself with wandering over to the chair where Cedric once sat by her and stares out the windows. "I'll feed you," she tells Rita. "Don't worry."

The buzzing does not cease, and it becomes easy to ignore. She loses herself in memory and grief. A part of her still cannot believe it, still refuses to believe it. She almost imagines he's next to her, telling her she worries too much. We'll go to Hogsmeade next week, he whispers, his voice low and husky. Another thing to commit to memory—the sound of his voice.

The fog takes away all sense of time, she realises, when for a second time that day, she has to be brought back to the present by the call of her name. This time, it's Dumbledore.

"Miss Granger," he says quietly. "You missed our appointment."

She looks around. Other than Harry sleeping soundly, they are the only ones in the room. She looks at Dumbledore in question; she does not think Mrs Weasley would have left Harry alone after all that has happened.

"I asked Molly to allow us some time to speak. She's quite worried about you as well," Dumbledore says. "But I thought this topic would be best broached in privacy."

Hermione nods. She isn't entirely sure what topic he's speaking of, but something in his gentle, soothing demeanour and the sad sheen in his eyes informs her that Dumbledore knows more than he should about her current state of mind. "I'm sorry for missing our appointment," she offers after a moment. "What time is it?"

"Three-fifteen," Dumbledore says. "When you still hadn't arrived by five past, I thought perhaps you'd forgotten."

"I lost track of time," she says quietly. "You can see the maze from here."

They lapse into silence, and Dumbledore eventually heaves a sigh. "My dear girl," he says, sounding so terribly sad, understanding and simply weary that Hermione's eyes prick with fresh tears. "How long?"

She doesn't ask what he refers to. "It was new," she admits. "Less than a month. We'd been friends since Skeeter's article came out."

"Ah," Dumbledore says. "I thought Mr Diggory seemed very happy in recent weeks."

Hermione swallows convulsively.

"Does anyone else know?" he asks.

"Luna Lovegood," Hermione manages. "She—she spoke to me. After they came back from the maze."

Dumbledore pats her on the shoulder. "You're using glamours," he notes. "You don't want your friends to know you are grieving?"

She shakes her head jerkily. "Harry has enough on his plate—if he knew—if he knew about me and Cedric, he'd only feel guiltier."

"I cannot tell you what to do, Miss Granger," Dumbledore says. "But I urge you to confide in your friends. Loss is… difficult to bear alone, and you do not need to do so. I think Mr Potter will feel worse should he discover the secret you've kept from him."

"I have Luna," she counters weakly.

"Hiding your grief will do you no good," Dumbledore says. "You need your friends now, more than ever. Dark times are ahead of us, Miss Granger."

"Voldemort," she says. It's the first time she's said his name, and though her voice wobbles and shakes, she injects as much venom into it as possible.

"Indeed." Dumbledore pauses as she begins to shudder, sobbing anew. "I believe the Diggorys intend to bury him near Hogsmeade. Would you like to see him before then?"

"I don't know if I can bear to," Hermione whispers.

"You may invite Miss Lovegood with you, if you wish, to say your goodbyes."

She is silent for a long time. Dumbledore waits patiently for her answer by her side. "Please," she says at last.

"It shall be arranged," Dumbledore says. He leaves her to herself then. A moment later, Mrs Weasley and Ron re-enter. Hermione scrubs away her stray tears, but she knows her eyes are rimmed red.

"Hermione?" Mrs Weasley says. Ron stands behind her, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Would you like to talk about it, dear?"

Hermione shakes her head. "I need some air," she mutters. Mrs Weasley's hand is outstretched toward her, helplessly lost.

—

Luna's presence falls away in the room. It's cold. She sees his body. He is laid out on a bed, black cushions stark against his too-pale skin. Golden embroidery weaves through the pillows. Hufflepuff colours, she observes dimly. He would have loved that.

She isn't sure how long it takes before she dares to place her hand over his. She will remember, though, how cold and stiff he feels. She will remember how, for a moment, there is a breath of an echo, whispering over her fingers, and she can almost—almost—feel his warm hand on hers. Then it fades, and she is alone.

It's so terribly cold.

—

She writes to Luna over the summer religiously, clinging to the letters like they're a lifeline. Luna, she learns, may have strange, bizarre views that sometimes frustrate Hermione beyond belief, but she is also the kindest, and perhaps wisest person Hermione knows. And Luna is also the only one who really knows about her and Cedric.

Her parents know that something is wrong, of course, but all Hermione is willing to tell them is that a boy at school died of an accident. They suggested she try therapy. She refused.

Ron and Harry write more regularly than usual too. She can sense their worry—she acted strange and absent for the remainder of the year, but neither of them even suspected it was because of Cedric. Ron, she thinks, believes that she's afraid since Voldemort is back. His letters are protective and gentle, as though he thinks she may break if he tells her any more bad news.

But she won't. Not now. Not with what's coming. The summer away from Hogwarts and magic gives her time to build herself back up again. Luna's letters help. So she spends her time in her room, putting herself back together piece by piece because she cannot succumb when there is a war coming. Yet even as she rebuilds herself, she is building around the gaping wound Cedric left behind, deep within her. She begins to act more and more like herself, much to her parents' relief, but each word rings hollow, each action vague and tired. She wonders if she'll ever be the same—if she'll ever feel sane—again. Probably not.

Sometimes, on her worse days, Hermione thinks she's being stupid. What she had with Cedric was fleeting—only a month long, with two months before that wasted as friends, probing each other's interest. Yet now she's mourned for twice the length of their courtship and the memory of his body laid on the cushions still brings back pain as fresh as the day he died. The dark thoughts hold more sway then, echoing more loudly in her mind—what right has she to mourn him when she… she…

She barely knew him, really, in comparison to Cho, to Simmons. What right does she have to feel this despair?

When Dumbledore sends the invitation to join the Weasleys at an 'undisclosed location', Hermione jumps at the chance.

—

The first meeting with Harry turns out to be rather disastrous. Hermione notices instantly that he's paler and thinner—angrier too. She sees it in the cold way he surveys both of them, and it's made all the more obvious when he begins to shout. She tries to intervene half-heartedly, but it's obvious that Harry is unwilling to let them get a word in until he's done. Finally, he stops long enough for Hermione to say, "We're sorry, Harry. I'd be furious if it was me too."

He looks at her, and swallows, nodding once. His anger drains away, and he looks almost guilty before that fades too. "What is this place anyway?" he demands.

"Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix," Ron says instantly.

And on the interrogation goes. They share as much of the going-ons that they know about, which isn't much, unfortunately. Then the twins Apparate in, causing a ruckus—but fortunately, cooling Harry down at last. The conversation turns from their Extendable Ears to Percy storming out on the family, and eventually, arrives at one of the topics Hermione is most loathe to broach.

"Haven't you been reading the Prophet, Harry?" she asks tentatively.

"Of course!"

"Thoroughly?" she presses.

He narrows his eyes at her. "Not cover to cover," he says. "If they're going to report anything on Voldemort, it'll be the headlines, wouldn't it?"

"Well, er, they've been talking about you," she says.

Harry shook his head stubbornly. "I'd've seen—"

"Not if you're only reading the headlines," Hermione says. "It's quite nasty; they're building on Rita's stuff, slipping you in like a snide little joke."

"Speaking of which," Harry says. "I haven't seen anything by Rita lately."

"She hasn't been writing," Ginny says. "Dunno why, really. She just stopped. Dad says she quit the Prophet."

"Maybe she grew a conscience," George mutters.

Hermione presses her lips together, and Harry catches it. He's shrewd enough, though, to recognise that now is not the time to mention it.

—

"Go on then, Hermione," Harry says when it's just them. "Tell us."

"Tell us what?" Ron says.

"She knows something about Rita Skeeter," Harry says.

Hermione smiles faintly. "It was something you said, actually, that got me thinking—bugging," she tells Harry. "I realised how Rita was getting all that information she shouldn't have been privy to."

"What, she was bugging Hogwarts?" Harry says incredulously.

"Not quite. She's an unregistered Animagus—a beetle, to be exact."

A moment of stunned silence follows this. Ron swears. "That bint!" he snarls. "That's how she was doing it!"

"I was going to tell you on the train," Hermione says apologetically. "But I forgot, to be honest."

They give her an odd look, but don't question that. Both remember clearly how off she was during the train ride home—Ron even tried to engage her in talking about Transfiguration to draw her out. Suffice to say, the ploy did not work. "When Hagrid and Madam Maxime were talking, there was a beetle," Harry remembers. "We saw it, Ron, remember?"

Ron scrunches up his nose. "I think so, yeah."

"When Viktor invited me to Bulgaria, he pulled a water beetle from my hair," Hermione adds.

"Bloody hell," Harry says. "But how does that—how did you get Rita to stop writing?"

"She's unregistered," Hermione says, shrugging. "That's three months in Azkaban and a hefty fine for a regular person—for Rita, with the number of lives she's ruined, the court would come down a lot harsher."

"You blackmailed her?" Ron says with awe.

Hermione smirks. "She agreed to not write another article for five years, and after that period, any article she writes must be at least eighty per cent concrete truth. Minimal speculation, and absolutely no slander."

"She agreed to that?" Harry says disbelievingly.

"Of course," Hermione says. "There is also this little-known fact that Animagi, if trapped in their animal forms for too long, begin to take on some of their animal counterpart's traits. It's often reversible, but if they stay in their animal forms for more than a month consecutively, the changes become… permanent. I made sure to inform Rita of this, of course."

Harry eyes her warily. "How long did you keep Rita in a jar?"

"Around twenty days," Hermione says idly. "She decided I wasn't making empty threats after that."

Both of them stare.

"I fed her," she defends. "I even read to her so she wouldn't be bored. Of course, it was mostly passages from our textbooks, so she mightn't have been too pleased by the entertainment."

"You're brilliant," Ron breathes. "Brilliant but scary."

Her heart aches, and she forces a smile.

—

He has her nose, she thinks, and her hair. Sometimes, when Lyla Diggory smiles, she thinks she sees Cedric there too.

The applause for Umbridge is significantly weaker. There are two new teachers this year, and Hermione can definitively say she prefers Lyla Diggory over Umbridge though the class hasn't started yet. Professor Diggory is here to—at last—take over History of Magic from Binns. And Umbridge… well, she's here for the Defense against the Dark Arts post. She wears pink, curls her hair into tiny coiffes and works for the Ministry. When she speaks, interrupting Dumbledore's speech, Hermione listens to the saccharine tone of her voice and feels nauseous.

Once, during the Opening Feast, Hermione catches Professor Diggory's eye. The colour is different, she thinks, but the shape… The shape mirrors Cedric's exactly.

—

Being back at Hogwarts is harder than Hermione anticipates. She sees shadows of him everywhere—in John Simmons, who walks around as though he's missing a limb, in the empty spot at the Hufflepuff table that no one fills out of respect, in their corner of the library where she sits alone. His absence aches and the void he left inside her feels colder than ever.

Then there's Professor Diggory, whose class they have on the very first day of term. Hermione trudges on with a mixture of fear and excitement. It toils in her stomach and she wonders whether her breakfast will stay down. Thankfully, they make it to History of Magic without an incident.

"D'you think Diggory will be alright?" Ron says. "She wasn't looking too good at the funeral—"

Hermione nudges him sharply.

"What?" Ron says tactlessly, and she sighs. Harry ignores the interaction, but she can see that his face is pale and that shadow of guilt is back, stronger than ever. "That bloody hurt, 'Mione, you can't just go around elbowing people—"

"Oh, shut up, Ron," Hermione says and stalks ahead. He splutters behind her, and she knows that she's hurt his feelings but she can't bring herself to really care. They file into Professor Diggory's classroom, all of them glancing uncertainly at the new teacher. She wears her grief well, Hermione thinks. Lyla Diggory wore black at the Feast yesterday and she wears black today too. Her pale face looks gaunter for it, a hollowness to her cheeks that Hermione suspects is a recent change. Her hair is tied back into a strict bun, but it's still obvious that it's lost its shine. Nevertheless, Lyla Diggory looks beautiful in a sad, pained way that makes people want to look away even as they are entranced by it.

"Good morning, class," Professor Diggory says. She's one of those teachers who doesn't need to raise her voice to hold her class's attention, though there is a hesitant, almost frightened silence that Hermione thinks is because Professor Diggory's loss weighs so obviously on her, and she stands as a living reminder to the horror that occurred last year. "Welcome to O.W.L-level History of Magic. Now the curriculum has recently been altered by the Ministry of Magic to remove the history of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's rise in the 70s and 80s. This, I believe, is a mistake. Therefore, I will be spending the first two weeks covering He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before delving into our O.W.L material—it's not enough time to give a comprehensive perspective on the topic, but an overview will have to suffice." As she speaks, the look of disdain grows until her face seems to fold in itself with it.

"What's the point of that," Seamus complains, "if it's not going to be on the O. ?"

Professor Diggory fixes cold, pale green eyes on him, and he flinches. "History," she says simply. "Whether or not you believe that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, history has much to teach us about his reign. His tactics, his cruelty, his callousness—his goals, which even today, have remained rooted in our society despite how much we like to pretend otherwise. Furthermore, in N.E.W.T-level History of Magic, should you choose to take it, we will begin with an analysis of modern wizarding politics—the context of which cannot be fully understood without having studied one of the most significant conflicts in recent times. That is why it was in the syllabus before this year, and I consider it the height of foolishness to remove it from our students' education out of fear."

It's a good argument, Hermione thinks, and avoids divulging the most important truth—whether Professor Diggory believes that Voldemort has returned. She deliberately skirts around it, though Hermione is almost certain which side of the argument Professor Diggory stands on.

What follows is without a doubt the most interesting class they've had in History of Magic—though given that they'd only had Binns before, this isn't a high bar. Nevertheless, Professor Diggory holds each student's attention, even reluctant ones like Seamus and chronically inattentive ones like Ron. She starts by explaining how Voldemort rose in the 70s—the dissension and fear he spread, how he infiltrated the Ministry. The propaganda campaigns. This, Hermione realises, is remarkably similar to the current situation. It's the same tactics, employed differently but at the core of it, the same.

"It was brilliant," even Ron agrees after the class.

Harry is somewhat less enthused, mostly, she deduces, because Professor Diggory remained ostensibly on the fence about the issue. "She should have just told them," he insists furiously. "They would have believed her!"

"They wouldn't have, Harry," Hermione says tiredly. Harry spins around and opens his mouth to rant, but she cuts him off. His temper has been growing ever more precarious and it's beginning to wear on her already. "Professor Diggory is in the position of having the retain credibility among students and the Ministry while teaching us about Voldemort—so of course, she isn't going to blurt it all out and sundry that she actually believes Voldemort is back! The Ministry would string her up if she does that and then we'd be stuck with goblin wars and Binns again! Don't you realise, Harry, that this is exactly why Umbridge is here? She's controlling what the teachers are saying and teaching—she's making sure that the teachers fall in line. Haven't you noticed that no one, not even Professor McGonagall, is trying to outright persuade people that Voldemort is back?"

Ron is white by the time she finishes and Harry stares at her in pure astonishment. "You said his name," Harry says.

"What, Voldemort?" Hermione snaps.

Ron nearly drops all of his books. "Blimey, why did you start too, 'Mione?" Ron says. "It was bad enough when it was just Harry saying it…"

"Not saying his name gives him the power of fear and respect," Hermione says stiffly. "I'm not giving that thing any more fear and respect than I need to."

Harry looks oddly proud of her when she says this, and his temper soothes. "That's what Dumbledore has been saying," he says.

"Well, I'm not starting," Ron mutters with a shudder. "Barking, both of you." Harry laughs, and conversation turns to lighter topics, namely what they think Snape will do for their first Potions lesson of the year.

"Dreamless Sleep, maybe," Hermione says.

"Nah," Ron says, looking dubious. "That'd be N.E.W.T-level, wouldn't it?"

"It'd be something difficult," Harry says.

"Well, you don't—"

Ron is cut off by a girl's voice, one which Hermione recognises in an instant. Her skin crawls with irrational dislike. "Hello, Harry," Cho Chang says breathlessly, her cheeks slightly pink.

"Hi," Harry says.

Cho Chang looks good, Hermione observes. Her dark hair falls straight and sleek down her back, and though there are faded bruises beneath her eyes, her smile brightens when she looks at Harry. This only fuels Hermione's dislike, even though she knows it's ridiculous. It has been three months, and Cho and Cedric didn't even date for another three months before that. She's moving on, and it should be okay. It should be a good thing.

So why does Hermione want to sock her in the eye and shout at her for doing the healthy thing?

Ron eventually sticks his foot in it and starts interrogating Cho about her Tornados badge. It's one of the few times Hermione is glad for his utter lack of tact and when Cho stalks off, she simply sighs and pulls them along. Harry scarcely notices, a dreamy expression on his face, and Hermione does not doubt for a moment that he's thinking of Cho. Ron, on the other hand, continues to rant about the Tornados, oblivious to the fact that Harry isn't listening at all and Hermione is only nodding along obligingly.

Seeing Cho rattles something in her. The girl is clearly trying her best to put Cedric's memory to rest, pushing forward with her life. Hermione, however, feels as though her feet have been bound in place. She feels like a rock amidst a roaring river, and she is lodged deep into the soil as the water moves around her.

—

"You idiot," Hermione says coldly.

Harry scowls, dark and fierce. "I wasn't going to let her spout her lies—Voldemort is back! I saw it, it happened!"

"What did you think yelling at her was going to accomplish?" Hermione says. Ron stands between them, looking nervously from side to side. "I told you, Umbridge is here from the Ministry to make sure we shut up—"

"So we play their game?" Harry demands. "We shut up and ignore what's right?"

"Oh, grow up, Harry," Hermione snarls. "This is real—this isn't about right and wrong anymore! Umbridge is here to see anyone who goes against the Ministry gone, and you're just giving her more ammunition to use against you! I know it's hard when she starts going on about her rubbish, but you can't—"

"And what do you know?" Harry says loudly. His green eyes flash with fury.

"Guys," Ron says, eyes darting around.

"I was the one who saw him return!" Harry says. "I was there when Cedric died! I was there in that graveyard, watching all of it happen. NOT YOU! It's easy enough for you to sit down and shut up when she gets going, but you weren't the one who had to live through that! You're not the one who has nightmares every night of Voldemort saying, 'Kill the spare!'"

Hermione feels the blood drain from her face, leaving her lips ice-cold and pale. "How dare you—" She cuts herself off. "You think it's easy for me? It took everything I had not to curse her for saying those things! For saying that—" Her voice chokes. She takes a shaky breath. "You need to be smart about this, Harry. Please."

Harry glares at her for a long moment, then simply turns on his heel and walks away. Hermione sighs. Ron stays by her side, looking torn.

"What are you looking at?" he snaps rudely, and Hermione realises that her argument with Harry attracted a crowd. They scatter when Ron glares, and she and Ron hurry away quickly. "What the bloody hell was that, 'Mione?" he hisses once they're a distance away.

"I know," Hermione mutters. A headache pounds behind her forehead, growing sharper with every pulse. "I was hard on Harry, I know—but he got detention with Umbridge and… I'm just worried about him, Ron."

"So am I, but, Hermione, he hasn't been doing well this year," Ron says lowly. "I mean, you've noticed it, he's mad all the bloody time and he barely eats."

"I know," she says again.

"I think you should apologise to him," Ron says. When she looks mutinously at him, he hastily adds, "Look, I get it. Harry was out of line too, but he's not going to apologise, you know that—not with the way he's been acting lately. And he needs us, Hermione. With You-Know-Who out there, we can't leave Harry by himself."

Hermione bites her lip. Reluctantly, she knows that Ron is right. It's almost a physical pull, though, the revulsion she feels at the thought of apologising to Harry for that argument. Her fist curls and she nods once, a sharp, hard movement that has Ron sagging with relief. "When did you get so wise?" Hermione says with a small smile.

"Always the tone of surprise," Ron says, chuckling.

She apologises at dinner. She even manages to make it sound halfway sincere.

—

Cedric frowns as he dips his quill into his inkwell, only to come up with the nib dry and flakes of dry ink crusting over his fingers. "Granger, have you got ink I could borrow? The Replenishing Charm on mine failed."

She absently digs through her bag and gives him her spare bottle, the scratch of her own quill never stuttering. "You should really keep a spare bottle on you, you know, even with Replenishing Charms."

"I do have another bottle," he says. "But I'm not sure if Snape won't give me a zero for submitting an essay written in gold ink."

"Professor Snape," Hermione corrects. Then she pauses. "You have your ink in Hufflepuff colours?"

"'Course," Cedric says. "Haven't you got yours in Gryffindor colours?"

"Why would I?" Hermione says, baffled.

Cedric tuts at her. "Where's your House pride?"

"Non-existent," she says without missing a beat.

He leans across the table, resting his chin on his hands. She looks up and frowns at him, but her lips twitch despite it all. "So if I ask you to cheer for me? At the Third Task?"

"Of course I'll cheer for you," Hermione says. She can't fathom why he thought she might not. "I'll cheer for Harry too, of course. Not that anyone should be cheering for this ridiculous blood sport."

His head dips and an exasperated chuckle escapes him. "Never change, Hermione," he says, reaching out to tug at her curls as has become his habit.

Her frown breaks into a smile. "Don't be sil—"

His hand grazes her cheeks, and she flinches away from it. It's cold—ice cold. She grasps at it.

"Are you alright?" she says frantically. The hand is pale too, and she can see purple veins running beneath his skin. He does not reply. She looks up at him.

They aren't in the library anymore. She's standing, and below her, spread across the ground, is Cedric's still, mud-streaked form. His grey eyes stare into hers, unseeing. Her mouth opens and closes without a sound. There's something hissing in the background—what is it? Who is it? The sibilance is sinister, raking down her spine like poisoned claws—

"Kill the spare."

Hermione wakes, screaming for Cedric. Her heart is in her throat, her eyes darting around in the darkness frantically. "Where are you?" she cries. Her mind is half-delirious from dreaming, half-alert from the panic and fear that spikes through it. "Cedric, where are you?"

It feels like hours before she remembers that he isn't here, that only his memory ever will be here, and she falls back onto her bed, staring up at the canopy. Her hand reaches mechanically under her pillow, finding a battered book that she keeps there at all times.

"Lumos," she says and opens up the book. Cedric's handwriting scrawls within, neat and cursive. J thinks this is funny, he writes on one page. On another, there's a sketch of a Quidditch formation. Mas here? Abb gd for this. On one of the last filled pages, she catches a title scribbled in the margins—McG rec: Transfig & Artistry Thru the Ages. Rec to Hermione. She stares at the note, her hand tracing over her name. It's special, somehow, for the fact that he writes her name out in full, instead of using shorthand.

Dawn arrives eventually, and she shuts the book with care. Her roommates shift around in the room, shuffling, sleepy steps as they trudge to and from the bathroom. Hermione removes the spells on her curtains and rises with them, feigning grogginess.

—

Professor Diggory is pinched and furious in class, and Hermione knows exactly why—the Educational Decree that instates Umbridge as the Inquisitor of Hogwarts is massive news and has already worked its way through every nook and cranny of the school despite only being released this morning. The professor sweeps into the classroom in her black robes and her every movement is stiff, sharp and controlled, as though if she relaxes even slightly, she might begin to scream.

When she speaks, even her voice is flat and tight. There is fury burning beneath, straining to get free, but Professor Diggory keeps her face scarily blank. "We will begin today by looking at the late 70s in Wizarding Britain, during which the conflict against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at its peak. Specifically, we will be looking at the Defense of the Oxford Gargoyles. Can anyone tell me anything about this?" The class is still and silent. Professor Diggory's pale eyes slide over each student's face, before settling on Hermione. "Miss Granger."

Hermione dips her head, taking a moment to rifle through her mind and formulate her response. "The Defense of the Oxford Gargoyles refers to the battle at Oxford University for Magical Studies, which houses the most comprehensive library in Europe and the most delicate magical artifacts collected over our millennia of history. It is widely believed that Voldemort—" There is a chorus of shrill screams and even Professor Diggory's complexion whitens. Hermione presses on ruthlessly. "That Voldemort was after the knowledge housed at Oxford University—he was successful in acquiring an old Necromancy tome, the title of which was not released to the public, but it is suspected that he was able to extract information on how to create Inferi from that book.

"His victory was at no small cost, and the battle was henceforth known as the Defense of the Oxford Gargoyles due to the university's infamous protections, which activated stone gargoyles on the campus that decimated more than half of Voldemort's raiding force. It is estimated that at least sixty wizards and witches died defending the university and that Voldemort lost thrice as many in the attack." She pauses, thinking. "Given that the magical campus is shared with the muggle campus, the Ministry was required to perform mass Obliviation to cover up the use of magic—around one hundred muggles were killed during the battle, and it became an infamous event known in muggle history as the Oxford Massacre. The muggles believe that ten gunmen from an unknown terrorist organisation were responsible for the deaths."

Professor Diggory gives her an inscrutable look, and Hermione returns her gaze steadily. "Very good, Miss Granger," she says at last. "A very good summary of the events. Now, who can tell me what political ramifications resulted in this attack?"

"Deteriorating relations with the muggle government?" Terry Boot guesses.

"Indeed," Professor Diggory says. "The muggle prime minister of the time threatened to send ground troops into known magical areas to secure the peace. Of course, they cannot find such places without the assistance of a magical, and it was, therefore, a mostly empty threat. What else?"

"Millicent Bagnold was nearly ousted as Minister of Magic," Su Li pipes up, her voice soft but carrying.

And on and on the class goes. Hermione jots down notes as they go along—she has a bit of an advantage in this topic, admittedly. One of the books that Cedric recommended her was entirely about the Defense of Oxford Gargoyles, and she remembers the hours they spent discussing it afterwards. He confided in her, in the midst of their discussion, that he wanted to attend Oxford University for Magical Studies after graduating.

"It's really selective," he says, and she sees the wistful longing in his eyes. "They want six N.E. and Os in Defense, Potions and Transfiguration. Es in everything else."

"What do you want to study there?" she asks.

"I'm not sure yet," he admits. He leans back in his chair, thinking, entangling his legs with hers as he does so. "Warding and Ancient Magic sound interesting, but… really, I think I'd like to study muggle and magical History."

"Really?" Hermione says eagerly. "Why History?"

Cedric looks pleased by her enthusiasm. "Well, I actually enjoy History—when it's not taught by Bi—Professor Binns, at least." She smiles sheepishly. "My mum taught me when I was a child. She loves it, and she got me to love it too. My friends think I'm nutters."

"It's wonderful," Hermione assures. "I think you'd be brilliant at it."

He grins, almost shy. "Thanks."

"I think I'd like to go too," Hermione says after a moment. Her lips lift into a dreamy smile. "It sounds perfect."

Cedric gives her a lopsided grin and her heart turns over twice in her chest. "You'd be brilliant at whatever you chose to do." He hesitates. "Maybe—maybe we'll see each other at Oxford."

Hermione swallows, suddenly shy. University is at least three years away for her, and she knows what he's implying. That maybe, in three years, they'd still be together. It means he's serious—that he wants this to be serious. She glances up at him. He looks nervous, almost as though he can't believe what he just said and dearly wishes he could just take it back. Biting down on a smile, Hermione allows, "Maybe."

Cedric relaxes. It's enough for now—maybe.

"… a paper on the international impact of the Defense of Oxford Gargoyles—eight inches long. You may choose whether to focus on an economic, political or social perspective. That is all," Professor Diggory says. Hermione blinks and hurriedly writes down the assignment. She's missed half the class; she can scarcely believe herself. "Miss Granger, stay for a moment please."

Harry and Ron shoot her a concerned look, and she bites down her anxiety. "Go," she murmurs. "I'll be fine."

"We'll wait outside," Harry says.

"No, it's Potions next," she says. "Go."

"Have a seat, Miss Granger," Professor Diggory says, swishing her wand after Harry and Ron reluctantly leave. The door slams shut. Hermione sits on the other side of Professor Diggory's desk, wringing her hands. "Tea?"

"No, thank you," Hermione says, furrowing her brow.

Professor Diggory shrugs and pours herself a cup. Neither says anything and there is only the sound of the teaspoon tinkling as the professor stirs in a cube of sugar. She takes a sip. "You weren't paying attention in the latter half of my class," Professor Diggory says.

Hermione flushes. "I'm sorry," she says quickly. "I was distracted—it won't happen again."

"I doubt I covered anything you didn't already know," Professor Diggory concedes. Hermione's blush deepens at the praise. "Still, I expect you to pay attention in the future."

"Of course."

"Where did you learn all of that about the Defense of Oxford Gargoyles?"

Hermione blinks. "Well, I read a lot, Professor."

A twitch of her lip. "I'm aware. Your teachers—save Professor Snape and Professor Umbridge—have quite a bit of praise for you," Professor Diggory says. "Top student of your year, no?"

"I—I suppose," Hermione says. "I wouldn't really know." Hogwarts doesn't publish rankings or anything of the sort, after all.

Professor Diggory nods. "They say you're very attentive in class, as well as proactive. One of the few students who actively participate in learning."

Hermione chews on her lip and stays quiet. She isn't sure where this is going.

"But I haven't seen that."

Hermione flinches.

"Is it my class that bores you, Miss Granger?" Professor Diggory looks intently at her. Hermione makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, and her blood runs cold when she realises how similar she and Cedric look. It isn't just the hair and the eyes—it's the nose, the shape of her jaw, the high cheekbones—it's everything, and Hermione tears her eyes away. It's then that she notices the picture on Professor Diggory's desk. A grinning Cedric waves out from the frame, one arm wrapped around Professor Diggory's waist. Blood roars in her ears, and those bits of her that she painstakingly put back together fracture again. The fog—the void seeps out, consuming. There's a soft pressure on her shoulder. Hermione lurches out of her seat, and the room seems to fade back into existence. Professor Diggory is staring at her, wide-eyed, and Hermione realises she's toppled the chair getting up and that Professor Diggory's hand is half-extended toward her.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispers. The next words spill out in a practised stream. "I'll pay attention in class next time. I have Potions next, Professor, and I would hate to be later to Professor Snape's class than I need to be. May I please be excused?"

Professor Diggory barely nods before Hermione grabs her bag and high-tails it out of the classroom. Cedric's photo is burnt in sharp relief in her mind's eye. Her fingers shake. His jaw is softer than she remembered. His hair not quite as dark as she thought it was and his smile toothier than she remembers it being.

He's fading, she realises. She's kept him inside her memory, pressed close to her heart for four months—and yet, he's fading.

—

As the weeks drag by and it becomes increasingly clear the sort of class Umbridge plans to hold—one which will see them all fail—the idea for a Defense Against the Dark Arts study group blooms in Hermione's mind. She pitches it to Ron, who finds it fantastic, then to Harry, who finds is significantly less so. And though it takes some persuading, Hermione eventually manages to convince him to teach it. After that, it's a matter of organising everything, sounding out students who might be interested and double-checking and triple-checking the rules to make sure they won't be expelled for it. The focus and mental effort it requires is almost comforting, for it keeps her mind clear, and offers her a brief, if illusory, glimpse of how she used to see the world before the maze.

Of the Hufflepuffs, she approaches Simmons first; he's easy to corner, always seeming to walk through Hogwarts's halls alone. She's seen him refuse other company, and Hermione thinks he's perhaps saving that empty space next to him for Cedric.

"Simmons," she says evenly.

He looks at her, and his eyes are weary, drained of the hate and distrust they bore last school year. "Granger," he mutters. "What do you want?"

"I'm setting up a study group," she says.

Simmons archs an eyebrow. "And you're inviting me?" he says dubiously.

"It's for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Ah." He scrunches up his nose, as everyone seems to do nowadays when Defense is brought up. "You're running it?"

"I am," she says. Then she hesitates. "Harry will teach."

"Potter?"

"Do you know any other Harrys who might teach Defense?" Hermione says, a touch snide.

She receives a half-hearted glare in response. "I dunno, Granger," Simmons sighs. "Defense from a fifth-year? Really?"

"He can cast a corporeal Patronus," Hermione says. "Can you?"

He stares at her, as though attempting to gauge her truthfulness. "No," he admits eventually.

"Well then," Hermione says primly. "Are you interested?"

"I—I'll have to think about it." He swallows, and Hermione waits. There is something on the tip of his tongue that he seems to desperately want to ask, and Hermione has the feeling she knows what it is. "Do you believe him? Potter?"

Hermione's lips thin. "Yes. Harry wouldn't lie about Voldemort."

Simmons flinches. "And Cedric—was he—was he really—?"

She squeezes her books closer to her chest. "Yes," she says quietly.

"Right," he breathes. His face crumples, and Hermione looks away. "R-Right." He takes a deep breath. Suddenly, Hermione wishes she is anywhere but here. "Granger, you know, he—Cedric, he—you—"

She waits, half in agony, half in torturous anticipation. "He what?" she prompts.

Simmons shakes his head. "Nothing," he exhales.

Hermione rocks back on her heels. She does not expect the disappointment, so intense, so powerful, squeezing around her chest and choking the breath from her. "Anyway," she says after a long silence. "If you're interested, we'll be meeting at Hog's Head the next Hogsmeade visit."

"Hog's Head?" Simmons says incredulously.

"We're trying to keep it quiet. You can invite someone else but—make sure they're trustworthy, alright?" Hermione says, her voice darkening. "I don't think Umbridge will be a big fan of what we're doing."

"No, she wouldn't be," Simmons says. They stand there, awkwardly fidgeting for a moment. "Er, well, I'll see you around, Granger."

She gives a weak wave and decides to search for Luna. It's harder to find the Ravenclaw—unlike Simmons, who usually haunts the usual places, Luna… wanders. It takes, in fact, the whole afternoon to find Luna, who as it turns out, has been walking barefooted in the Forbidden Forest. Hermione glimpsed her like a pale ghost through the trees and nearly shrieked at first, only to realise that it was Luna a minute later.

"Luna!" Hermione hisses. "What are you doing here? Aren't you cold?" She looks down at Luna's mud-caked feet in dismay. "Where are your shoes?"

"Hello, Hermione," Luna says brightly. "I'm feeding the Thestrals."

"The Thestrals?" Hermione says, and her eyes widen. She glances around nervously. "They're here?"

"There's one right in front of me," Luna says, reaching out to pat something invisible. "You can pet her if you like. She's quite gentle."

Hermione extends her hand anxiously, and Luna guides her to the Thestral. She squeaks when she feels something leathery and cool brush against her palm. "Is that her head?" Hermione asks, tentatively stroking the invisible creature with her fingertips.

Luna giggles. "Her eyelid, actually. Maybe a bit higher."

"Here?"

"That's good."

"They're… nicer than I thought they'd be. Aren't they supposed to be bad luck?"

"It's just superstition," Luna says in her vague way. "They're really quite sweet."

Hermione almost asks who it was that Luna saw die, but the question still instantly on the tip of her tongue. She shakes her head, and simply pets the Thestral gently. "You never told me where your shoes are."

"Oh, they're somewhere," Luna says. "The Nargles have been stealing them for dancing."

It takes a moment for Hermione to translate Luna-speak into a comprehensible language. "Your shoes are missing?" she says, frowning.

"They'll turn up," Luna assures.

"Is someone taking your things, Luna?" Hermione says shrewdly.

"Of course." Luna turns her protuberant blue eyes on her. "The Nargles have been taking them for dancing."

Hermione huffs. "You should tell Professor Flitwick," she says. "He can check if it's really Nargles that are taking your things away."

"No, no," Luna says happily. "I don't mind. They always turn up, you know. It's rather like a year-long treasure hunt."

"But Luna," Hermione tries, "if people are taking your things, don't you want them to stop?"

Luna hums as if in thought. "People can be unkind," she says. "But it's the Nargles that are stealing, so I don't think it really matters." There is a stubborn glint in Luna's eye, and Hermione reluctantly lets the subject drop.

"I'll keep an eye out for your things, Luna," Hermione says.

"Would you?" the Ravenclaw beams, and Hermione smiles back faintly. "Thank you, Hermione. Cedric used to do that for me too, you know."

Hermione's smile folds into something more real and sincere, tinged with longing. "That sounds like him. Is that how you got to know him?"

"He found one of my earrings in a cleaning closet and he came to return it to me. He said they were quite distinctive," Luna says. Hermione eyes the swinging radishes on her ears and agrees. "I even made him a pair."

"You did?" Hermione says in surprise.

"I don't think he liked it very much," Luna confides. "But he was very kind about it."

"Yes, he was always kind," Hermione says, smiling.

"You miss him quite a lot, don't you?" Luna observes quietly.

Hermione bites down on her lip and nods.

"It doesn't get easier," Luna says, her voice soft and sad, and Hermione wonders if she's thinking of the person she's seen die. "But you learn to let go of the pain."

"I'm not sure if I can," Hermione confesses.

"You'll learn," Luna says, patting her arm assuringly. "I don't think he'd like seeing you so sad, Hermione. You hardly smile anymore."

"Of course I do!"

"Not really. And when you do smile, you're always thinking of him," Luna says. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"What?" Hermione says, blinking rapidly. Does she really only smile when she's thinking of Cedric?

"You came to speak to me about something," Luna clarifies. "What is it?"

"Oh, erm," Hermione tries clearing her throat. Her mind feels muddled after what Luna said. "Harry, Ron and I are starting a Defense Against the Dark Arts club since Umbridge isn't teaching us anything of note."

"That sounds like fun," Luna says. Her eyes widen. "Are you inviting me?"

"Well, yes," Hermione says.

"Oh, I'd love to join!" Luna bounces on the tip of her toes. "Where is it?"

"Erm, we're gathering anyone interested at Hog's Head next Hogsmeade weekend."

Luna beams. "I'll be there!"

Hermione tries to smile back. It feels foreign on her face, like an alien growth, and it fades quickly. "I think I'll go back into the castle," Hermione says. She pauses to conjure Luna a pair of shoes. "If your feet get cold."

"Thank you, Hermione."

"Bye, Luna," she says, and flees.

—

Harry sits down next to her at breakfast with a very odd expression on his face and Hermione is instantly wary. He doesn't look like he's about to bite her head off for breathing, but she can't be sure with him nowadays. "Say, Hermione," he says slowly. "You know, I was talking to Dobby last night—"

"Why were you were talking to Dobby last night?" Hermione says with a frown.

"Oh yeah," Harry says. "Dobby brought Hedwig back for me."

"Is she alright?"

"Yeah, she's fine," Harry says hastily. "But listen, I was talking to him, and I just started to wonder… what happened to spew?"

Hermione stiffens. "S.P.E.W," she says thinly. "And I didn't think you cared."

"Well, I mean—er—you haven't mentioned it in a while," Harry says.

"Blimey, Harry," Ron complains. "Why'd you go and remind her? I was hoping she'd forgotten about that."

"I haven't forgotten about it," she says sharply. "And close your mouth when you're eating." She looks down at her book. She hasn't forgotten, but with everything that's been going on… She had a plan months ago to knit clothes for the elves, but she never got around to asking her mum to teach her how to knit before returning to Hogwarts. "I've been busy, that's all."

"Dobby's worried," Harry says. "He says you haven't visited the kitchens since April."

Hermione purses her lips. She remembers perfectly the last time she visited the kitchen. "I'll go visit Dobby this afternoon," she says finally.

"Not to talk to the other elves?" Harry presses. There's a look of growing concern in his eye and she scowls fiercely at him for it.

"It's been a busy year, Harry," she snaps and feels guilty in the next moment. "I'm sorry," she manages. "With everything going on with Umbridge, I've been stressed."

Harry seems to bite down a reply and gives a rather forced smile. "It's fine," he says. "I, er, actually have some news about that. I found a place for our Defense meeting."

"Really?" Hermione says, surprised. "That's great, Harry."

"Yeah. Can you get the message to the others? Tonight, eight o'clock, seventh floor opposite that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by those trolls."

"I'll tell them," she promises and passes the message along to Katie and Alicia as soon as she can. After breakfast, she heads off to find Simmons so that he can pass the message among the Hufflepuffs. She feels Harry's worried gaze following her out the Great Hall, and her hand tightens on the strap of her bag.

She only relaxes when she's out of his sight. Once she informs Simmons about the meeting place, she heads down to the kitchens to see Dobby. He beams when he sees her. "Missy Grangy is back!" he says happily.

"Hi, Dobby," she says with a brief smile. She looks around the kitchen and notices more than a few dirty looks being thrown her way. She sighs. "Harry said you've been worried about me."

"Missy Grangy used to visit the kitchens every week," he says hesitantly. "Is Missy Grangy not happy with the elves?"

Work freezes at that, and she finds herself subjected to at least a dozen pairs of eyes, staring at her anxiously. "Is Missy not liking our food?" one house-elf says, looking on the verge of tears.

"No, no," Hermione says hastily. "Your food is fine. Everything is lovely. I've just been busy, Dobby."

Dobby nods droopily. He tugs and twists at his ears before her, giving her a forlorn look.

"What is it, Dobby?" Hermione says gently.

"Dobby is wondering if Missy Grangy is feeling sad," he says, tentative. "Dobby knows Missy Grangy and Mister Diggy was being very good friends."

Hermione looks down at the house-elf, feeling a little stunned. "Oh," she says. "Erm. Yes, we were good friends."

"The Hufflepuff house-elves is liking Mister Diggy as well," Dobby confides. "He used to leave honey out for us, yes he did!"

"You like honey?" Hermione says.

"House-elves is liking thanks with honey," Dobby says with a vigorous series of nodding. Then, as though confessing a great secret, he says, "Dobby is liking it better than being paid."

"But, Dobby, don't you like being free?" she asks.

"Oh yes," Dobby says eagerly. "And Dobby likes being paid as well, but honey is better. Professor Dumbly-dorr is insisting that Dobby is paid a Galleon a month and a spoonful of honey each week."

"Oh," Hermione says, thinking. "So honey is like being paid to house-elves?"

"Not being paid," another house-elf squeaks. "Being thanked!"

"But wouldn't you want to be paid? You could buy your own shoes, your own wands, your own furniture and—" She breaks off, noticing the house-elves (sans Dobby) are all shrinking away from her again. A wave of weariness settles over her and she slumps. "I suppose for now I'll leave some honey out for you all," she decides. "How much honey should I put?"

"Missy is not needing to do so!" a house-elf says anxiously.

"I want to," she says, firm. They may not be ready to think about proper pay and freedom, but for now, she thinks, she'll content herself on giving them honey. She supposes it's simply a different form of currency, in a way.

"A small jar is being enough," Dobby says shyly.

"A jar it is," Hermione says, nodding. She knows that Honeydukes sells a rather nice assortment of honey—she'll have to mail-order some when she returns to her dorms.

The house-elves seem to warm to her considerably after that, and when she leaves, she's laden with a box full of snacks. She gives some out to a few first-years, then takes the rest with her to the clearing.

The roots are still there, towering and massive. Vines and moss have started to grow around its base. The one on the left is Cedric's, and she stares at it for a long moment then sits down at its foot, her back pressing against the damp surface. The basket of food lies forgotten next to her. She can see the tree from here. Its branches sway low, dusting the ground. The grass below is dusted with a layer of dark, dead leaves.

The breeze sings in her ear, sweet and low. Can I kiss you?

—

Hermione tries leaving honey out for Kreacher when she visits Grimmauld Place over the winter break. The olive branch is not well-received, much to her disappointment, though she cannot say she is surprised. She steps out one morning to find the gifted honey smeared across the front of her bedroom door, with ants crawling all over it.

With a sigh, she gets a cloth to clean it up.

"Hermione?" She looks up in surprise; Mrs Weasley stands over her. "What are you doing down there?"

Hermione holds up the sticky cloth. "I gave Kreacher some honey," she explains. "He returned it."

"Oh, that elf," Mrs Weasley grumbles. She brandishes her wand. "I'll get it, dear, don't worry."

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley," she says. With a flick of her wand, she scrubs the honey and ants from the floor, leaving the spot with a shine that is entirely at odds with the rest of the floors, which are a murky, dull brown. Mrs Weasley wrinkles her nose.

"If only that spell worked for the entire house," she mutters with a sigh. "Are you hungry, dear? I was just about to get started on breakfast."

"I'll help," Hermione says, brushing her jeans off as she stands. "I'm not a very good cook though…"

"That's alright," Mrs Weasley says, smiling. "I'll set you to beat the batter. I think we'll have pancakes today, with bacon, eggs and toast on the side."

"Sounds delicious," Hermione says. They make their way down to the kitchen. It's earlier than Hermione expects—the sun is only just rising, spilling through the kitchen windows in an orange glow. She and Mrs Weasley work in companionable silence, and Hermione admires the way Mrs Weasley is able to man four pans of bacon at once.

"It's difficult," Mrs Weasley says when she catches Hermione looking. "Cooking for a house full of growing boys. It's been easier since Charlie left the house, of course—that boy could eat! But Ron seems to be doing a rather good job of picking up after Charlie's slack."

Hermione gives a small grin. "I think most of the girls in Gryffindor are jealous of his inability to gain weight."

Mrs Weasley laughs. "I used to hate cooking, you know," she says after a moment.

"Did you?" Hermione says, her eyebrows nearly rising to her forehead. Mrs Weasley manages the kitchen with expert ease, and she always seems to be humming or smiling when she cooks. "I can't imagine."

"Oh yes," Mrs Weasley says. "My mum used to get me down in the kitchen every morning—a young lady should know how to cook!" Hermione receives the impression that Mrs Weasley's mother was a rather stern, grouchy sort of woman. "I hated it. I only wanted to play Quidditch with my brothers."

"What happened?" Hermione wonders.

"Well, my brothers were killed by Antonin Dolohov," Mrs Weasley says. The smile fades from her eyes. "It was quite a difficult time for me. I was twenty-four and I already had Arthur, Bill and Charlie, of course, but I was always quite close to my brothers. When they died, a piece of me died with them. I worried Arthur a lot then."

"I'm sorry about your brothers," Hermione says quietly.

Mrs Weasley's smile is watery but sincere. "Thank you, dear," she says. "I was pregnant with Percy at the time, which only made it more difficult. I could hardly get out of bed. Then one day, Bill came in crying and asking me if I was dying. I felt so horrible—my babies were going hungry while I lay in bed, sleeping the days away." She purses her lips, and terrible guilt lines her face, though it's clear that none of her family holds that dark time against her.

"You were grieving, Mrs Weasley," Hermione says gently. "It wasn't your fault."

"It felt like it," she confesses. "I got up that morning, went downstairs and cooked breakfast for my children. I learned from scratch how to bake bread, debone a chicken and all sorts of things. It grounded me and pulled me from my grief." She scoops up the bacon from the pans and sends them piling onto the plates with her wand. Then she looks to Hermione's sludgy pancake mix and laughs softly. "But perhaps we'll find something other than cooking for you, dear."

Hermione starts, her heart going to her throat. "What do you mean?"

Mrs Weasley simply smiles and pats Hermione's hand. "Why don't you take the plates out to the dining table? You may charm them to keep warm."

Hermione obliges Mrs Weasley, and when she returns to the kitchen, she chews on her lip consideringly. Finally, hesitantly, she asks, "Can you teach me how to knit?"

Mrs Weasley beams. "Of course. We'll do that after we get back from St. Mungo's this afternoon, shall we?"

"Thank you," Hermione says quietly. Mrs Weasley wraps her in a warm hug and presses a kiss to Hermione's temple. Hermione sighs, her eyes sliding shut.

"You'll be alright, dear."

—

As the winter break draws to a close, Hermione's knitting skills have not seen much improvement. She has, however, moved from being able to knit unidentifiable lumps to being able to knit vaguely misshapen lumps. She isn't sure whether it's progress, unfortunately.

"Keep practising, dear," Mrs Weasley says rather bracingly as Hermione looks down at her handiwork with a glum expression. "You'll get better in no time."

Mrs Weasley even gives her a few books on knitting to take to Hogwarts, which Hermione gives her a fierce hug for. Her friends, however, are not quite as supportive as Mrs Weasley. The first time Hermione takes out her knitting at school, Ron stares across the table at it.

"What is that?" Ron says.

Hermione flushes. "Your mum's been teaching me how to knit."

"That's knitting?"

Harry has somewhat more tact, but even he looks decidedly unimpressed. "Er, is it… gloves?" He asks hopefully.

Hermione glares down at the grey wool. "It's supposed to be a scarf."

"Oh—er, right! Yeah, I see it now," Harry mumbles. "Er, Ron, you didn't happen to catch how long Umbridge's assignment was supposed to be, did you?"

Hermione sighs, flipping back through A Young Witch's Guide to Knitting to re-read the first chapter. She purses her lip and glares at the words, even though she knows it won't help. The last time she got so frustrated with a book, it was a political science text that seemed to be written in the most roundabout ways as possible to twist the reader's mind into knots.

She stares at the instructions. Needle into the loop. Wind the yarn around the needle. Hook underneath. Pull. Into the loop. Wind. Hook. Pull. Loop. Wind. Hook. Pull. Loop… Wind… Hook… Pull… Loop…

"Look at this," she growls. "'Theories are not the 'last word' on phenomena, but analytic lenses that structure our thinking to a particular end. Secondly, however, it must mean that it is at least useful, but also legitimate and necessary, to engage with, discuss and challenge the purposes of work and its context, rather than assume that this stands outside or apart from the endeavour. This does not preclude the possibility of reasonable disagreement about these objectives, but it does preclude the denial of their relevance.'" (Sabaratnam, 2011) She throws up her hands in frustration. "Why?"

"Let me see that," Cedric says. She spies the way he presses his lips together, suppressing a smile.

"It's not funny," she insists.

"Of course not," he says. A grin leaks out.

"Cedric."

"Hermione."

"You're smiling."

He puts the book down and looks at her. His eyes shine with mirth, and Hermione huffily folds her arms over her chest. "It's a little funny," he admits. "You look as though you want to tear that book to pieces. I've never seen you so frustrated."

"It's a frustrating book," Hermione says through gritted teeth.

He leans forward and places the book on the desk in front of her. Gooseflesh dances over her arms where the front of his shirt brushes her skin. He's been developing a habit lately, she notes, where he'll lean in so close she can breathe him in, subsequently sending her pulse through the roof. "Here," he whispers. "Break it down bit by bit."

It's quite possibly the first time Hermione hasn't been able to pay attention to learning something new. She hears Cedric's voice, but she doesn't hear the words, only the lulls in his tone and the way his tongue curls his 'r's and laps at his 'l's. Her mind seems unable to draw its focus away from the head right before her, and though her eyes should be on the pages of her book, they rebelliously dart to admire the way his hair curls on the nape of his neck.

"… do you understand now?"

Hermione blinks as Cedric shifts back. He looks at her questioningly. She clears her throat. "Yes, that was very clear, thank you."

He frowns at her for a moment, then a sly smile slips over his mouth. "Try explaining it to me again."

"I—that is—" Hermione splutters unflatteringly. "You know, I think I'll start on my Potions essay instead."

"Hermione."

She ignores him.

"Hermione."

Where is her quill?

"Hermione, what were you distracted by?"

"I wasn't distracted," she insists.

"Uh-huh."

She flushes bright red, and Cedric laughs so loudly they end up getting kicked out of the library by Madam Pince.

"… asked Cho out yesterday," she hears Harry say.

Hermione looks at him, blinking rapidly. "What?"

Harry's ears tinge red, and he repeats, with a vaguely stunned expression on his face, "I asked Cho out yesterday."

"What did she say?" Ron asks.

"She said yes." The stunned expression remains.

"That's great, Harry," Hermione says.

"Blimey, 'Mione," Ron says. "Way to sound excited, yeah?"

She huffs. "I'm happy for you, Harry," she assures. "Really, I am."

"We're going to Hogsmeade together on Valentine's Day," Harry says, still dazed. Ron snickers at him and even Hermione can't help but crack a smile.

"Better hope it turns out better than that kiss," Ron says, earning him a scowl from Hermione. "What? All I'm saying is, if all a bloke has to say about a kiss is that it's 'wet', it can't have been very good, right?"

"Oh Ron," Hermione sighs. "You'll be fine, Harry. Don't listen to him."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, looking nervous, and the conversation dies in favour of the owl post. Hermione retrieves her Daily Prophet and pays the owl, then flips it open and promptly feels the wind wrench from her lungs.

"What?" Harry and Ron say together.

She swallows and lays down the newspaper. The headlines scream boldly:

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS 'RALLYING POINT' FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

Below, the faces of Voldemort's top Death Eaters stare out from their frames, their eyes sunken into their skulls, giving them an emaciated, hungry look that only adds to their malevolence. Bellatrix Lestrange is easily the most terrifying, laughing in her picture and railing against her bars like a madwoman. But the others are no less frightening for their relative sedateness—Antonin Dolohov looks out with icy, calculating eyes that send shivers down Hermione's spine. This one, she remembers. This is the one who killed Mrs Weasley's brothers…

"There you are, Harry," Ron whispers. "That's why he was so happy last night…"

—

Hermione sits across Rita Skeeter, who looks increasingly twitchy in the crowded pub. It gives her a sense of satisfaction, almost, seeing Rita flinch whenever Hermione smiles a little too widely. "Butterbeer?" she asks.

"No," Rita spits. "Are you going to tell me why I'm here, you nasty little girl?"

Hemione ignores her and raises an eyebrow at Luna. "A Butterbeer sounds quite lovely, thank you," Luna says dreamily. Rita gives the Ravenclaw a look of deep disgust. Hermione signals for two Butterbeers while Rita stares around the pub with beady, resentful eyes. Luna doesn't seem to mind the silence much nor Rita's hateful glares, simply humming as she stares vacantly over the heads of the dozens of students chatting uproariously over drinks.

"How have you been, Luna?" she asks as they wait.

"Oh, very good," Luna says, seeming pleased that Hermione cared enough to ask. "I received a letter from Daddy this morning, and he's arranged for us to go to Sweden this summer."

"That sounds amazing," Hermione says, smiling. "I hear that Sweden has a wonderful magical museum."

"I'm sure," Luna says. "We're not going for the museums though—I'm not sure if Daddy and I will have enough time to visit. We're going to be hiking cross-country to find—"

"Is this why you brought me here?" Rita hisses, rudely cutting Luna off. Hermione offers the latter an apologetic look, which is received with another vague smile. "I have better things to do, little girl, than listen to your inane schoolgirl chatter—"

"You seemed quite eager to listen to schoolgirl chatter last year, Rita," Hermione says coldly. "And besides, what better things have you got to do? Writing fluff pieces for Teen Vogue?" She eyes Rita's dishevelled appearance, the unkempt quality of her clothes and the frazzled strands of hair. "Or have you been totally unable to find a job?"

"When these five years are over, girl," Rita says with eyes narrowed into slits. "I'm going to write stories that will make your little Bubotuber pus incident look like heaven."

Hermione sneers. "You were watching when I opened the letter, I suppose? You're a foul woman, Rita—and I wouldn't count on you getting even when this is all over. I assure you, I have more up my sleeve than a little bit of bugging." Rita practically growls. "Oh, do calm down, Rita. I'm about to give you your big break anyway."

"Big break?" Rita says, her fury transforming into greed in the blink of an eye. "What—"

Hermione spies a head of messy black hair and stands, waving to catch his attention. "Harry," she calls. He's early, she thinks, and alone. Oh dear. Harry spots her, then his eyes widen when he sees who she's with. He walks over warily, as though at any moment Voldemort might spring out and attack him. "What happened to Cho?"

"A girl?" Rita says, eyes gleaming. She reaches for her quill and—

"Touch that again without my permission and I'll burn it," Hermione says.

Rita's hand falls limply to the side.

"What are you up to?" Harry says suspiciously as he sits down next to Luna. He gives Rita a look of extreme distaste while the former reporter eyes him rapturously.

"Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived," Rita says sourly. "I suppose I'm allowed to talk to him, am I?"

"As long as you're not sticking your nose where it does belong," Hermione says.

Rita scowls. "Out with it then. Why have you got me here?"

"I have you here, Rita, to write a story—about how Cedric Diggory really died. How Voldemort has returned and the Ministry is covering it up."

Rita and Harry stare at her. Luna starts to hum Celestina Warbeck's 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love'.

—

The Quibbler is published a week later, and on the same day, Umbridge bans it, much to Hermione's satisfaction. By the end of the day, it seems, the entire school has read it.

"They're starting to believe you," Hermione says, updating them on how she was cornered by a group of fourth-year girls in the bathroom who wanted to know all about the article. Her eyes shine with a moment of rare delight. "It's working."

All around it seems, people are beginning to believe Harry. The looks he receives have lessened in hostility. Many eye him speculatively, instead of with derision. Even the teachers find ways to praise them for doing it—Harry receives twenty points from Sprout for handing her a watering can. Luna receives ten points from Flitwick for telling the class about Blibbering Humdingers. The only sour point of it all is Umbridge's renewed fervour, the ruthlessness (but thankfully, also thoughtlessness) with which she attempts to root out every single copy of The Quibbler circulating the student body. If Hermione suggests a few obscuring spells to students while she's in the library, Umbridge never knows about it.

Hermione reads and re-reads the article in the privacy of her dorm. Lavender even comes up to her and tells her that she believes Harry and that she's sorry for not doing so in the first place.

"I'll forgive you. If," Hermione says, while Lavender's face falls, "if you'll teach me how to use that foundation of yours…"

That garners her incredulous looks from both Parvati and Lavender, but after the initial shock ebbs, Lavender practically pounces on her, chattering a mile a minute about the different types and brands of foundation and did she have oily skin or dry skin or combination skin? Three—rather gruelling—hours later, Hermione is armed with an arsenal of cosmetic spells and Dillis Dyrwick's All-Match Foundation for Witches.

That night, Hermione dreams again of Voldemort's pale, snake-like face, and the surprised look on Cedric's as he falls… falls… falls… She wakes in the middle of the night once more, her throat hoarse and raw. Crookshanks makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, and she sees his luminous eyes in the dark staring at her. She whimpers, reaches for Cedric's journal, and when her hand wraps around the leather spine, she thinks she feels the echo of his memory strengthen.

Crookshanks rises, stretches languidly at the foot of her bed. Then he carefully treads up to her and settles in her lap. He rubs his face against her chin, purring. She feels a wet, rough tongue tickle her cheek. "Thanks, Crooks," she says quietly, and he gives her a look that clearly says, 'Don't be an idiot.' A sob explodes from her, gasping and ugly in the silence, and she buries her fingers in Crookshanks's fur. He lets her, simply purring as though to comfort her, occasionally nudging his damp nose against her.

In the morning, she stares at her reflection in the mirror. There are deepening bruises beneath her eyes, a new hollowness to her cheeks and a waxy, unhealthy pallor to her skin. She runs a hand through her hair. It feels oily. Limp. Her finger snags on a tangle, and she works at it until she's so frustrated she simply hacks the lock off.

She washes it down the drain, watching the black knot swirl in the water until it disappears.

—

"Think of your happiest memory, Hermione," Harry says encouragingly. "What is it? Where are you?"

Hermione swallows, rifling through her mind. She tries memories before Hogwarts first—the first friend she made, Sally Hopkins, who unfortunately moved away only a year later. Her tenth birthday, when her parents took her to Indonesia for holiday. She tries the memory of McGonagall visiting to tell her she's a witch. All of it produces the thinnest smattering of fog.

"Something stronger," Harry says. "Your happiest memory. One that can always make you smile… c'mon, Hermione."

She moves to First Year. Getting up the morning after the troll incident to find Harry and Ron waiting for her in the Common Room. The delight that infused her, the sheer happiness… "Expecto Patronum," she tries. The mist is stronger, but not much.

"You can do it," Harry says.

"My happiest memory," she whispers.

"That's right. Think about it. Hold it there and focus on it. Nothing else matters… just that memory."

Cedric's face drifts into her mind, unwilling to be ignored any longer. He's smiling, laughing, looking at her with soft eyes… She sees that scene again, clear as day. They're leaning against their tree, shoulder-to-shoulder… He's just asked her, in that roundabout way, if she would be his girlfriend… Now he's smiling, and she remembers with a twist of sharp clarity, the way his eyes lit up, the way they crinkled at the corners, the way one side of his lips lifted up more than the other to show pink gums and a slightly crooked tooth. The tree branches sway over them, half-obscuring them from view and enclosing them in a leafy embrace… This is their world, she remembers thinking. No one else exists. She remembers touching him, kissing him between free laughter, all the while leaning into his side and soaking in his warmth… thinking it was all a beautiful, endless dream. The pain of loss drives into her chest, but underneath it, she finds a moment of pure, complete bliss, untouched and preserved within this memory. The pain almost makes it sweeter. Two paradoxical forces course through her, breaking her and putting her back together again all at once…

"Expecto Patronum," Hermione whispers hoarsely. She feels it, knows it, and when she watches her Patronus bloom into a silver, wispy otter, she stares at it in awe. It swims over to her, its little nose snuffling. She reaches out to caress it. It fades at her touch, turning to little more than formless mist.

"A-Are you okay, Hermione?" Harry says. She realises everyone in the vicinity is staring at her, and her next realisation comes when she feels great, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping into her robes.

Her breath hitches, and she manages a nod. "I-I'm fine," she lies. "Just fine."

"Hermione—"

"It's okay, Harry," Luna says, appearing suddenly to his left. He startles, jumping nearly a foot into the air. Luna rests her hand on Hermione's elbow. "I'll take her from here."

"I'll be fine with Luna," she says, managing a nod to Harry. "Go on."

"Are you sure?" Harry says worriedly.

Hermione nods. Luna gently pushes her to a distant corner, away from all the other students and mostly hidden from view. "Thank you," Hermione murmurs.

"That's quite alright," Luna says. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"And I'm extremely lucky to have you as a friend, Luna," she says sincerely.

Luna beams. Hermione manages a watery smile in return. They sit quietly there for most of the DA lesson, Luna's hand soothing on her back, grounding her as Hermione falls through time and memory.

—

kill the sssssspare—granger—avada—no—kill—keda—hermione—kiss you?—sssspare—no—think one day—no—love you—VRA!

Hermione lurches awake, breathing heavily, eyes wide and terrified. The echoing hisses still sound in her ear, latching their hooks into her mind. She is in the Common Room, she realises, and glancing down she sees a smear of foundation on her Transfiguration essay. The room is almost deserted. The fire crackles lowly, and the sky is dark outside. She checks her watch. It's past midnight.

"You all right, Hermione?"

She starts. "George?" she says after a moment, uncertain.

"Probably," probably-George says with a grin. "You got something on your face." He pauses. "Well, a lot of something."

"Bollocks," Hermione mutters. She wipes at her cheek with her hand and comes away with black ink. "I fell asleep on my essay."

"Homework not riveting enough for Hermione Granger?" George teases.

"It was late," she grumbles. "What are you doing up?"

"Er," George says, looking suddenly quite shifty.

She rolls her eyes. "A prank, I suppose? What's next?" She thinks of the fireworks they set off inside the castle just two days ago. They were certainly the most impressive fireworks she had ever seen.

He winks. "Secret. You'll just have to wait and see."

Just then, Fred runs into the Common Room, looking excited. He's holding a box in his hands, which Hermione peers at curiously. "George, I got it—oh, hello, Hermione—what happened to your face?"

"Ink," Hermione says with a scowl.

"Well," Fred says, eyeing her suspiciously. "Go clean yourself up and hurry on to bed like a good little fifth-year, yeah? Georgie and I have stuff to do."

"Yeah," she mutters, getting up. "Try to leave the school intact, won't you? Our new Headmistress"—she spits this out with revulsion—"might be a cow but I rather like having a roof over my head."

Fred barks a laugh. George gives her a half-relieved, half-curious look. "You're not going to try and stop us?"

"Is it going to work?" Hermione says dryly.

Fred beams. "Nope."

"Hence, why I'm not wasting my time and energy on this," she says, packing up her things.

"You must hate Umbridge," George says in awe.

"You know," Fred says, giving her a sly, conspiratorial look. "We could use that brain of yours, Hermione—everyone saw what you did to Marietta's face, that bint—"

Hermione lets out a grimly pleased smile at the memory of Marietta going to breakfast with a scarf wrapped around her head.

"Bloody hell," George says. He glances at Fred. "When did she get so terrifying?"

"No idea," Fred whispers back.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "I'm off to bed, boys."

"You don't want to—"

"I'm sure you two could come up with something brilliant all by yourselves," she says, waving him off. "Give her hell." She trudges up the stairs and distantly, hears one of the twins saying, "You know, she's really changed this year…"

—

Umbridge sits in the corner of McGonagall's office, her pudgy fingers clasped tight in her lap as she smiles, saccharine-sweet. Hermione does her best to ignore her, but it's difficult—the entire room smells of her perfume, so dense that the stench makes her stomach heave. McGonagall sits in her chair, back ramrod straight and only the slightest flare of her nostrils displaying her displeasure.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger," McGonagall says crisply. "As I'm sure you're aware, this meeting is to help you understand what opportunities you might have after Hogwarts and a chance for you to receive advice on what subjects you ought to take in your sixth and seventh years of schooling."

Hermione nods.

McGonagall archs an eyebrow. "Have you any thoughts, then, of what career you would like to pursue?"

"No," Hermione says. "I'm not sure yet."

Umbridge lets out a tinkling giggle and McGonagall's eye twitches. "I must say, Miss Granger, I'm rather surprised by your answer—I would have thought—"

"I was thinking of applying for Oxford University for Magical Studies," she says.

"Ah." McGonagall looks pleased by her answer. "Yes, I think you would do rather well there—of course, you'll have to have exceptional grades to even be considered for entry. I believe Oxford University requires you to have seven N.E. for Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Arithmancy and three other subjects of your choice. You will be required to obtain at least five Os and two Es—"

"Hem, hem."

"—but I think you have quite a substantial chance of achieving that. The workload will be quite demanding, of course, as most students only take five or six N.E. , so you will have to be quite careful about how you budget your time and—"

"Hem, hem."

"—if anyone can do it, I think, it is you, Miss Granger. Cough drop, Dolores?"

"No, thank you," Umbridge says sweetly.

"Perhaps you should go see Madam Pomfrey after this," McGonagall says without giving her so much as a glance. "You've been coughing all day, Dolores."

"I'm fine," Umbridge says, her voice hardening. "I was simply wondering, Minerva, if you make it a habit of yours to give your students false hope?"

"I hardly think I'm giving Granger false hope," McGonagall says with a vicious sneer. "Miss Granger is one of the brightest students this school has ever seen—"

"—certainly not in my class," Umbridge says, giving Hermione a nasty look. "I thought she was rather, well… challenged, if I'm honest. Oxford University is quite selective, and I'm not sure if Granger quite makes the cut…"

"Well, I am quite sure," McGonagall says and returns her attention to Hermione. "I see that your grades have been suffering a little this year, Miss Granger, but perhaps you may be excused for having to work under rather unsavoury environmental influences." Hermione suppresses a snort. "Nevertheless, you will have to get your grades up for Potions this year—Professor Snape accepts only students who have achieved an O in their O.W.L. I think your other subjects are satisfactory for now, but it would never hurt for you to do some extra revising."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione says. McGonagall slides a piece of parchment over her—the flyer for Oxford University. Hermione studies it, noticing the chipped, battered-looking stone gargoyles in the picture.

"Have you any other questions, Miss Granger?"

"I hoped to get a more comprehensive look on the courses Oxford offers," Hermione says.

"They offer a variety of courses that specialise in various branches of magic," McGonagall says. "It is difficult to give you a list now—there are simply too many. But a representative from Oxford University is always at Hogwarts during the O.W.L and N.E.W.T examination weeks to scout for talent. I'll be sure to point them to you, and you may query them of your desired course."

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione says.

"Really, Minerva," Umbridge says with a malevolent glower. "I would not advise you to introduce the representative to Granger—what will he think of our education standards at Hogwarts? Might I suggest Mr Malfoy instead, or Miss Parkinson? Both are very bright—"

"You may go, Miss Granger," McGonagall says, her lips pressed so thinly together that they are but a white slash across her face. Hermione nods and hurries to leave. She wonders if she will get to meet the representative at all, with Umbridge around to run interference.

—

As the O. approach, Hermione spends more and more time in the library, looking feverishly through her textbooks and writing essay after essay. She's been lax with herself for most of the year, if she is being honest, and she has quite a bit of catching up to do. Revisioning consumes her free time, and she scarcely even sees her friends. It's why it's only after the fact that she hears about how Fred and George leave school after causing a diversion to allow Harry a chance to speak with Sirius through Umbridge's Floo, and why she can only give him disapproving looks in rebuke that seem only to irritate him.

It's also why she is surprised when Harry appears in the library one day, letting his bag fall to the ground with a thud. He looks as though he's been searching for her all day. "There you are," he says. "Is this where you've been hiding out all year? I didn't even realise this place existed… had to check the Map to find you."

"Oh," Hermione says, her quill stilling as he sinks down in the chair opposite her. "Yes, I've been studying here." He retrieves his books and lays them out on the table. "What are you doing?"

Harry looks at her in surprise. "Er, studying? You know, I almost forgot that O. were less than a month away—I'd've thought you'd be harping on about it all day since January."

"I got you the homework planner, didn't I?" Hermione mutters. She scrawls out a couple more lines before she puts down her quill. "Harry, what do you want?"

"I don't want anything," Harry says indignantly. "I just want to spend time with one of my best friends, yeah?"

"Ron is at Quidditch practice," Hermione says.

"Yeah, actually, he is," Harry says. "I'm surprised you know that."

Her voice turns irritable. "Of course I know that, Harry."

"Well, I dunno, Hermione, you haven't exactly been around lately," Harry says, his voice forcibly light. "Ron and I had to do all our essays by ourselves this year."

"Good," she says. "Maybe I should be around even less, then both of you might actually learn something." She sighs, rubbing her head. An ache builds behind her skull, throbbing and dull. She looks at Harry again. His books are closed and he's looking at her with that ridiculously concerned look in his eye… and he's sitting here. Here.

"Hermione?"

"Let's go somewhere else," she says abruptly. "There's a place on the fourth floor that's rather cosy—"

"But we're already here," Harry says, confused.

"We could study outside," she suggests.

"It's raining." She falls silent and he eyes her shrewdly. "What's going on, Hermione?"

"What's going on," Hermione says flatly, "is that I need some air. So I will be going elsewhere to study, and you can follow if you like. But we're not studying here."

"Why not?" Harry presses.

"Why?" Hermione says, glaring at him. "How about I ask why you haven't been practising your Occlumency? Or asking Snape to continue your lessons?"

"Hey," Harry says, looking increasingly harassed and uncomfortable by the turning of the tables. "We're talking about you here, not me. You've been acting weird all year, Hermione—"

"And so have you," she snaps. "I'm not asking you why you've been acting as though every word out of someone's mouth is an insult to you, am I?"

"That's because of Voldemort, obviously—"

"Because you can feel his anger, yes, I surmised," Hermione says. "Which makes it all the more reason to keep up with your Occlumency, which you're not doing. So before you go around asking me why I'm studying in a library of all things—"

"I'm not asking you why you're in the library!" Harry says, his temper snapping. "I'm asking you why you're always too busy to be with your friends! I'm asking why Luna Lovegood seems to know loads more about you this year than me and Ron! I'm asking you why you don't want me to be here!"

Hermione presses her lips together, her eyes narrowed to slits. She recognises that look in his eye. Stubborn and defiant. The one that he had when he chased down the Philosopher's Stone, the one he had when he defied Umbridge over and over again this year. The one that says he isn't going to let this go. "I'll tell you if you tell me why you're not practising your Occlumency," she challenges.

He glares at her and for a moment Hermione thinks it's worked, he'll go away, he'll stop asking all these questions—

"I saw some of Snape's memories," Harry says stiffly. "It was in some kind of basin, I dunno what it was but when I touched it, it sort of—sucked me in, I suppose. I saw my dad and Sirius—they were bullying Snape—because they were bored. Hung him up in the air and pulled his pants off. My mum tried to help but Snape got angry and called her a—well. You know." He takes a deep breath. "Snape caught me. He was furious—completely furious. I could probably go on my hands and knees, begging him to take me back and he won't."

"Oh Harry," Hermione sighs. "Was that why you wanted to talk to Sirius?"

"Yeah," Harry mutters. He gives her a cool look. "What about you then? I told you. Now you tell me."

Hermione swallows, and she suddenly feels the blood from her face slowly draining away. It leaves her cheeks cool and her lips numb. She fiddles with her quill, noticing her hands are shaking tremulously, as quick as the beat of her heart. "I—" she starts. "I used to study here. With—with a friend."

Harry's eyebrows knit together. "A friend," he says sceptically.

"Cedric," Hermione whispers.

The breath leaves him in a whoosh. "I didn't know you two were friends," Harry says, staring at her. Shock is written into his features, and Hermione thinks she spies the stirrings of suspicion too. "You said you didn't know him well."

"Well, we didn't want Rita Skeeter reporting about how I was dating three of the Triwizard Champions," Hermione says bitterly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry says, hurt raw in his voice. "This whole year, Hermione, I feel like an arse—"

"You had—have—a lot on your plate, Harry," she sighs. "I didn't want to pile more onto it."

"Well, you should have," Harry says loudly, and they hear an echo of Madam Pince's voice: 'shh!' He continues in a lower voice. "It—Hermione, you should have told me. I would have—I dunno…" He trails off, looking quite lost. "You and he—you weren't—"

Hermione avoids his eye. "Just friends," she says. She'll keep this to herself, she thinks, this precious piece of it. Just for herself. "Nothing more than friends."

Harry's face is an awful mix of guilt, relief and sadness. "Right," he says quietly. "Merlin, Hermione… I'm sorry."

"Whatever for?" Hermione says. "It wasn't your fault. It's no one's fault but Voldemort's—and Wormtail's."

"But if I hadn't convinced him to take the Cup—"

"Voldemort's and Wormtail's," Hermione says, her voice shot with iron. "It's their fault, do you understand me? Don't make his death about you. Because it's not."

Harry stares at her. "Are you sure you and he—"

"Quite," Hermione says coolly.

She isn't sure if Harry believes her, but he doesn't say anything as they move tables. "I won't tell Ron," he does say after a while.

Hermione relaxes and gives a small nod.

—

Her first exam is Theory of Charms, and she spends dinner the day before quizzing Harry and Ron. Harry, thankfully, looks like he'll get at least an Acceptable, if not an Exceeds Expectations. Ron… Well. Hermione sighs. "Try it again, Ron," she says encouragingly. "List the four principles of Wilkins' Productivist Theory of Charms."

"Er—" Ron says, glancing at Harry with a frantic look in his eye. "Rigour?"

"What?" Hermione says. "No. Listen again, Ron…" She delves into her explanation, smacking him five times throughout it to retain his attention. When she finishes, she says, "Recite it to me again."

He gets the first two right, thank Merlin. But halfway through his recital of the third principle, he fumbles.

"Oh gods," Hermione mutters.

"You'll be fine, 'Mione," Ron says, grabbing another chicken wing and biting into it with gusto.

"It's not me I'm worried about," she moans. "It's you!"

Ron shrugs. "I think I've got it down—that Wilma's Production Theory or whatever."

"Wilkins' Productivist Theory of Charms!"

"All right, don't get all in a twist about it," Ron says, alarmed. "I was only joking—'course I know it's actually called Willie's Produce Theory."

"Maybe you should lay off a bit, mate," Harry says, looking deeply amused by Hermione's enraged expression. Her admonishment, however, is stolen from her mind when she catches sight of a windswept group of people arriving just outside the Great Hall, led by Umbridge in a putrid pink, two-piece suit. She gasps.

"What?" Ron says, looking around.

"It's the examiners," Hermione says, gesturing with a tip of her chin. She scans the group, wondering if the Oxford University representative is one of them.

"Wanna get a closer look?" Ron says.

Hermione nods, and they all stand, moving over the Great Hall entrance as casually as they can. She sees Umbridge is on her best behaviour, nodding demurely and in general, acting like a completely different person. There is a small, grey witch who peers up at Umbridge with what looks like dislike, though her face is so lined that Hermione finds it quite difficult to tell. Umbridge spots them and glares.

"Let's get some tea, shall we?" Umbridge says loudly. "I'm sure you'd like some after your journey…"

"Yes, yes," the grey witch shouts back. "That sounds quite lovely."

Hermione memorises each of the guests' faces. She suspects that one of them is the Oxford representative, given how eager Umbridge was to usher them away, though perhaps it might have been to turn them away from Harry as well. "Well," Hermione murmurs when they're gone. "That's them."

Harry and Ron both look a little paler now that they've gotten a good look at the examiners. "Library?" Harry suggests weakly.

"Yeah," Ron says, his nod fervent. Finally, she thinks, he's realising that he ought to be studying. "Merlin, it feels like it's been a while."

"Because Hermione hasn't been making you," Harry says, glancing at her before quickly looking away again.

"Yeah!" Ron looks indignant. "What's that about, 'Mione? You know I need to be nagged into studying…"

"Well, maybe you should have tried being proactive for once," Hermione says tartly. "I'm not your mother, Ron, you should be able to study without me having to nag you into it."

"I know you're not my mother," Ron says, his cheeks brightening. "My mother can knit for one…"

Hermione sniffs. "I'll have you know I can do patterns now. Dobby quite enjoys my knitting."

"You've been giving Dobby your knitting?" Ron says incredulously. He narrows his eyes in suspicion. "You haven't been trying to give them to other elves, have you?"

"No," Hermione says. "I have not." She tried, but the one time she did, she upset Winky so much that the other elves banned her from the kitchens for a week. Afterwards, she decided to limit her gifts to Dobby, who seems more than happy to layer as many woolly socks onto his feet as possible.

"Good," Ron says. "You might put them off cooking."

Hermione sighs and pinches her nose. Harry, perceptive as ever, winds between the two of them and begins to engage Ron in a conversation about Quidditch tactics. This eventually morphs into a retelling of Ron's triumphant win against Ravenclaw last month, which reveals itself to be the most exaggeratedly heroic version yet. Her irritation softens as she listens to her two best friends talk animatedly.

She's missed them.

—

"Harry, are you sure?" Hermione whispers urgently.

"I saw him!" Harry says. He looks wild, desperate and panicked. "He's got Sirius! In the Department of Mysteries! I saw him, Hermione!"

"How?" she asks.

"A—A vision. What's it matter? Voldemort is torturing Sirius right now! We need to go," Harry says, and he begins pacing in the empty classroom, muttering under his breath. "Floo… no, brooms… but my Firebolt… brooms, brooms—we need brooms!"

Hermione flinches at his roar. "Harry," she says shakily. "Something doesn't feel right… Are you sure Voldemort has Sirius? Have you—have you checked?"

"Checked?" Harry looks at her incredulously. "I don't need to check! I know it, exactly the way I knew Mr Weasley was attacked by a snake!"

"Think," she says, trying to pretend that the desperation in his eyes, so raw it seems to border on madness, does not frighten her. "How did Voldemort get into the Ministry? It's five o'clock on a Wednesday, Harry. It'd be crawling with people… Stop for a moment, Harry, and think, please… What if… What if it was just… a dream?" She winces as she says that and from the mutinous look on Harry's face, he does not take it well.

"A dream? Hermione, these aren't dreams!" His voice climbs higher and higher. "Voldemort's got Sirius!"

"In the Department of Mysteries? Why?" Hermione presses. "Isn't it odd? If Voldemort really has Sirius, why take him to the Department of Mysteries? It's so… unnecessary." She swallows. "I think it's bait, Harry."

"WHO CARES IF IT'S BAIT?" Harry roars. "VOLDEMORT HAS MY GODFATHER AND I'M NOT SITTING AROUND AT HOGWARTS WHILE HE GETS TORTURED!"

"Because if it's bait, then you're walking into a trap," Hermione snaps furiously. How can he not see this? How can he be so bloody rash? "And what if it is just a dream? What if he isn't there, and you've risked yourself for nothing? If Umbridge found out, you'd be expelled!"

"I don't care about being expelled," Harry snarls. "McGonagall's gone and Hagrid's gone. There's no one left from the Order to ask."

"But we have to check, Harry—we have to—if it's Voldemort's trick and Sirius is safe at the Headquarters then we're doing exactly what he wants! Don't you see—"

"WE HAVEN'T GOT TIME TO WASTE!" Harry shouts, and Hermione almost wants to wring his neck. "SIRIUS IS BEING TORTURED NOW—THERE'S NO TIME, WE HAVE TO GO, WE HAVE TO—"

Luna wanders in then, looking so serene that she might have walked in by accident. Harry cuts himself off instantly, looking furious. Ginny follows behind her. "Hello," Ginny says, curious. "What's going on? We recognised Harry's voice."

"Never you mind," Harry growls.

Ginny frowns at him. "There's no need to take that tone with me," she says. "I was only wondering if I could help."

"Well, you can't," Harry says.

But, Hermione thinks, maybe they can. They need to check the headquarters to see if Sirius really is in danger. And to do that, they need… Umbridge's Floo. She says as much to Harry, who interrupts several times with his shouting, but eventually, she persuades him to at least try. "Okay," he says finally, and his eyes lose a little of their edge. "Okay, if we can do this quickly, then yeah, I'm with you. But otherwise, I'm going to the Department of Mysteries right now—"

"The Department of Mysteries?" Luna says, looking surprised. "But how will you get there?"

Hermione spares Luna a minute shrug and starts to think. They need a distraction, she thinks. Something that can lure Umbridge away and keep her away. Ron suggests Peeves, but Hermione shakes her head. There's a better way, she realises. She can be the distraction. "No," she says. "I'll distract her. I've got an idea."

"Are you sure?" Ron says, concerned.

Hermione nods, anxiety thrumming in her veins. "I can do it." She takes a breath. "We need lookouts next. To prevent anyone from going toward her office, or a Slytherin might tip her off…"

"Luna and I can stand at either end of the corridor," Ginny says promptly. "We'll warn people not to go down there because someone's let off a load of Garroting Gas." Hermione blinks. "Fred and George were planning to do it before they left."

"Alright," Hermione says, nodding. "Harry, you and Ron will go under the Invisibility Cloak to Floo Sirius—"

"He's not there," Harry insists.

She glares at him. "Check if Sirius is home then. Ron will keep watch in case something goes wrong. Alright? Does everyone know their roles?"

There's a murmur of acquiescence and Hermione squares her shoulders. "I'll go find Umbridge. The rest of you go to her office. Do it quickly. I don't know how long our diversion will last and I don't fancy her reaction if she finds you in her office."

"Good luck, 'Mione," Ron says.

Luna pats her on the arm, and Hermione takes that as reassurance. She takes long, quick strides down to the Defense classroom, where she knows Umbridge is likely about to finish one of her fourth-year classes. She rehearses what she's going to say as she walks, feeling increasingly anxious as she nears the classroom. Will Umbridge know? What if she's wrong and Umbridge hasn't done anything? What if Umbridge catches her out? What if—

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione curses under her breath. She turns. "Professor Diggory," she says. There isn't time for this. "I'm sorry, Professor, I'm quite busy right now—"

"Haven't you just had your last exam?" Professor Diggory says, looking quite puzzled. "What on earth are you off to do so hurriedly?"

"Oh, just… personal things," Hermione says.

"Well, I was hoping to speak to you about something, but if you're in such a hurry…"

"Yes," Hermione says hastily. "I'm terribly sorry, Professor." She steps away before Professor Diggory can say anything more and takes off at a small jog, growing to a sprint once she's out of Professor Diggory's sight. She's out of breath by the time she reaches Umbridge's classroom, but she also manages to catch Umbridge right as she's leaving. "Professor!" she gasps. "Professor Umbridge."

The woman turns around, and a smug, hateful look dances across her expression. "Miss Granger," she simpers. "Have you been running in the corridors? I'm afraid I'll have to take five points off for that."

"Yes, well, er," Hermione says, her mind going momentarily blank. "That is—er—I needed to speak to you."

"Oh?" Umbridge says. "Whatever for?"

"I—well—it's about my interest in attending Oxford University," Hermione says, crossing her fingers.

"Ah," Umbridge says with a nasty smile. "I suppose you've been informed then?"

"Er—yes. Yes, I have," Hermione says.

"Well, I'm afraid to tell you my answer is no," Umbridge says. "Mr Lowe was quite impressed with Mr Malfoy and Miss Greengrass, and of course, Oxford University is such a prestigious school… once he saw your, frankly, quite poor grades in my class, he decided not to entertain your interest, you see, he's ever so busy…"

Hermione bites down her anger. "But I was hoping, Professor Umbridge, if you would—"

"I don't think I'll attempt to persuade him otherwise," Umbridge interrupts with a lizard's smile. "It is quite improper for you to approach me for this—he came to his decision quite by himself, and it's simply unethical to request me to use my position to influence his opinions… Really, Miss Granger, one ought to always know her place."

For a few moments, Hermione can't do anything but simply stare at Umbridge, frozen in place by her fury. How dare she? Unethical? Know her place? Her blood roars in her ears and there's Umbridge with her squashed toad's face, looking vindicated and smug and delighted—

Hermione clenches her fists and bites down on her pride. "Please, Professor Umbridge," she says, so quietly she can hardly even hear herself. Yet the words still taste like acid on her tongue.

"Please?" Umbridge says, her nasty smirk widening.

"Please," Hermione says through stiff, white lips, "recommend me to Mr Lowe."

"Very good, Miss Granger," Umbridge says sweetly. "That's how you respect your betters. It's good to know that even a girl of your breeding can be taugh—" She cuts off, and Hermione stills. Has she noticed something? "Oh, you clever little girl. But not clever enough. Expelliarmus!" Hermione's wand pulls from her pocket before her grasping fingers can hold onto it and clatters to the floor beside Umbridge. Hermione swallows, watching Umbridge with wide eyes. The woman has her at wandpoint, her gaze dark with malevolence. "You thought you could fool me, I suppose? Well, you nearly did… you nearly did…"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione says shakily.

"Of course you do," Umbridge says silkily, and her hand whips out like a snake to grasp Hermione's arm. "Come along then—let's go see what you lot have been up to in my office, hmm?"

She must have set up some sort of security, Hermione realises. Something that tipped her off to the fact that someone is in her office. Hermione tries to wriggle out of Umbridge's grasp, but the woman is surprisingly strong, and it seems that trying to fight free from Umbridge only leaves her arm chafing and bruised. As Umbridge drags her along, she mutters under her breath, looking increasingly excited. "I've got you this time, Potter," she says quietly. "I can have you expelled, you worthless little liar…"

Along the way, they somehow pick up members of the Inquisitorial Squad, and Milicent Bulstrode takes great delight in manhandling her. Malfoy eyes her with an ugly little smile that makes Hermione's skin crawl. When they arrive at Umbridge's office, several more of the Inquisitorial Squad dart forwards, catching Luna and Ginny entirely by surprise. The girls fight back but the Slytherins are big and mean. Somehow, Neville gets dragged into the fray too. Hermione's heart sinks when Umbridge flings the door open triumphantly and Harry's head is still buried in her fireplace.

"I wouldn't move if I were you, Weasley," Malfoy says quietly. He tosses Ron's wand up in the air in an idle movement. "Wouldn't want a repeat of Second Year, would you… broken wand, slugs coming out of your mouth…"

"Shut it, you little ferret," Ron snarls.

Malfoy laughs, and his eyes positively gleam when Umbridge lunges forward and drags Harry from the fire by his hair. Harry writhes in her grasp, gasping and coughing, his face grey with ash. He looks around, eyes widening when he sees Hermione locked in a stranglehold by Bulstrode and Ron at wandpoint. She studies his face and feels her fear triple at the panic she reads there.

Sirius is not home.

—

The arch is old, crumbling stone, and etched into it are runes that Hermione has never seen before. There is a soft veil falling from it, white and shimmering and smooth. Folding like silk. Hermione finds herself entranced by it, feels herself drawing closer. She has this peculiar feeling that there's someone on the other side—someone she desperately wants to see—someone…

"Can you hear it?" Harry asks her.

She can. It's whispering, too inaudible for her to make out the words. But she hears it, and the recognition dawns on her. It's his voice, and it seeps into her. She feels that hole inside her heart filling for the first time since he died.

Cedric…

"I can hear them too," Luna says, entranced.

Ron speaks, his voice sounding as though it's from a distance and through several walls. "Guys, we need to go—there's nothing there… Harry, mate…"

"He's there," Hermione insists. "I can hear him."

She steps closer, and she swears that she hears her name whispered. If she could just reach out—she would be able to touch him—just reach through the veil—through…

"Hermione!" Ron roars in her ear. She turns vacant eyes on him. Why is he stopping her? She can almost feel him on the other side—Cedric is there, she knows with full certainty. He's there, just waiting for her to reach out to him. "We need to find Sirius. Hermione, look at me!"

Luna wraps her hand around Hermione's wrist. Her touch is cold. "Hermione, let's go," she says quietly. Her voice trembles, and Hermione hears in it the quiver of yearning, twined with fear—fear for her. "You can only go through it on one side, Hermione. There's no coming back… there's no coming back."

Hermione feels as though she's been doused in a bucket of ice-cold water, and she resurfaces from the fog that cloaked her mind, gasping for breath. The tendril of warmth from hearing Cedric's voice tears away, leaving her feeling a terrible cold that she's come to associate only with Dementors. She feels the agony reverberate through her body. He's gone—that's right. She looks at the archway again. It's almost sinister now, instead of beautiful.

"We need to go," Harry says, his voice still and rigidly controlled. He looks as desperate as her to stay, to keep on listening to those voices, and maybe, maybe… to reach in and grasp the hands of whoever is on the other side.

Hermione shakes her head violently. "Let's go," she croaks, and they hurry away from it into the next room. Yet she cannot help but feel as though she's leaving yet another piece of herself behind… that she's leaving him behind.

Hermione, Cedric whispers.

The veil flutters behind her.

Hermione.

—

Hermione wakes in the Hospital Wing, feeling emptier and colder than she has been all year. For a moment, she can only sit, still and unmoving, as the tides of grief crash over her and attempts to drown her beneath its waves. Everything within hurts anew, as though all her scabs have been pulled apart and shredded, and the wound beneath bleeds fresh. This time, there is not fog to numb the pain. She isn't even sure where the hurts of her physical injury begin and where the agony of the newly torn wound in her soul ends.

"Hello, Hermione," a voice says. Luna sits at her bedside, looking sorrowful.

"Luna," she manages. "What happened?"

Her friend runs her through the events after she was hit by Dolohov's spell. She tells of Dumbledore's arrival and Ron's incident with the brains. Ginny's broken ankle. The Order arriving—Sirius's death. The knowledge twists inside Hermione, but ultimately is simply another drop of pain into the sea within. "Harry's alright?" she says when Luna finishes her tale.

"He'll be fine," Luna says.

"The archway," Hermione murmurs. "Cedric was there, wasn't he?"

"They all were," Luna says. "Harry's parents, I expect, and my mother, and all those long gone…" She peers carefully at Hermione. "I was very afraid. You looked like you were going to walk straight into the Veil."

"I wanted to," Hermione says. I still want to.

"I wanted to, as well," Luna confesses. "Mum died when I was nine. I always rather wished that I knew her better… but I have Dad. He tells me stories about her."

"Why couldn't the others see it?" Hermione asks.

Luna's pale eyebrows knit together. "They haven't lost someone close to them, I expect. Someone whom—" Luna hesitates.

"Who what?" Hermione prompts.

"… someone whom they miss… everyday."

At that moment, Pomfrey notices that Hermione is awake and bustles over, fussing furiously. She gives Hermione a regiment of potions to take daily, for Dolohov's curse, though weakened by the Silencing spell, 'did quite enough damage already'. Luna pats Hermione's hand and gives her a vague smile before slipping quietly away.

After her tenth potion, Hermione falls asleep, entering a blissful, dreamless void.

—

Neville and Ginny were let out from the Hospital Wing well before Hermione and Ron, whose injuries were more severe than the former two. Their friends still drop in to visit once a day, though Harry is, in his current state, terrible company for Ron. Hermione doesn't mind it so much, because Harry only sits by her bedside and doesn't talk, eyes staring off into the distance as he thinks of Sirius.

"How do you stand it?" he asks one day as Ron dozes in the adjacent bed.

Hermione sets down the book she's been pretending to read. She knows what he is asking. She's expected him to ask for days now, though with each visit that ends in silence she feels the press of warm relief. "I don't think you should be asking me for advice on this, Harry," she says quietly. Her voice is hoarse. She hasn't spoken more than the bare minimum in days.

"You know what it's like though," Harry says. He looks at her, and Hermione flinches, seeing her grief mirrored in his. "Losing someone you love."

Hermione can't bring herself to lie to Harry and tell him that Cedric and she were just friends—nor, she realises, can she lie to herself any longer and pretend that she was not in love with Cedric. Is not still in love with Cedric. "It hurts," she says eventually. "All the time. I don't know if it'll get better, Harry, and I wish—I wish that I could tell you that it does but it hasn't. Not for me, at least."

"You seemed fine most days," Harry says. "Distant, but… fine."

Her smile is bitter and cracked. "I was never fine, Harry. I just got very good at lying to everyone and myself."

Harry does not seem to know what to say to that, and Hermione reflects that she has probably just given him the worst pep talk in history. Still, when he leaves, she thinks he sees the beginnings of acceptance weighing down on him. She hopes Harry is better at grief than she is. She's realising that she's rather terrible at it.

Two days after her talk with Harry, Professor Diggory visits. Hermione looks up in surprise when her curtains part and she sees her History of Magic teacher standing at the entrance. Professor Diggory holding a stack of books in her hands. "Hello, Miss Granger," she says quietly. "May I come in?"

"O-Of course," Hermione says.

The professor lets the curtains fall close and sits herself down by Hermione's side. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Hermione says. The wound in her chest is nearly fully healed, and she no longer needs help to sit up.

Professor Diggory nods, looking relieved. She places the books on the bedside table and hands Hermione the top one. Darius Tommerson's Great Wizarding Adventures: Book One. "That was Cedric's favourite when he was a boy," Professor Diggory says. She gestures at the rest of the stack. "These were all his favourites."

Hermione looks down at it. The book, with its faded lettering and worn cover, is suddenly the most precious thing in the world. But… "I don't understand," Hermione says.

"It's a gift," Professor Diggory says. Hermione stares at her, and the professor gives a small, wistful smile. "My son and I were rather close, Miss Granger. Before he entered the maze, he told me he had met someone. I still remember the exact words he used and how he looked. 'She's brilliant,' he said. 'Two years below me but you wouldn't think it. Funny, too, and passionate. Loyal.'" She laughs. "I don't think I've ever heard Cedric sound so besotted."

Hermione flushes, and a small part of her is stunned, awed at the fact that Cedric told his mum about her. Another part, the most dominant parts of her, takes it as another twist of pain, more yearning for something lost before it really began.

"Part of the reason I took this position was to meet the girl he was in love with," Professor Diggory says.

"He wasn't—" Hermione says jerkily. "He wasn't in love with me. He—"

"He was," Professor Diggory says, her voice gentle. "I don't think he knew it yet. But I saw it; he loved you."

"He can't have," Hermione tries to explain. "We'd only been dating a month. He can't have loved me."

The professor tips her head and gives her a scrutinising look. "Yet he did. And you are in love with him still," she says. "Do you doubt the authenticity of your feelings for him and his for you because of the short time you had together?"

Hermione does not know how to answer that, but Professor Diggory does not seem to expect her to.

"I was glad, selfishly," the professor admits, "when I saw how terribly you looked all year. Perhaps that makes me a bit of a monster, but it was proof to me that you loved him enough to mourn him as you did—and I was just so happy that my son at least had someone who loved him back before he died."

A tear curves down Hermione's cheek.

"Yet I see now that I have been blind," Professor Diggory murmurs. "You have not mourned him at all, have you? Not truly."

"Of course I have," Hermione manages. "He's gone—I know that—"

"I am well-aware that you know that," Professor Diggory says. She lifts Hermione's chin up and Hermione finds herself once again staring at all her features that are also so strikingly Cedric's. She tears her eyes away with a gasp. "You see? You hold onto such pain, Miss Granger. You cling to it as though it is a lifeline, and never let it go. I cannot imagine how it would pain him to know that his memory hurts you so."

Hermione flinches. "I'm not clinging onto it," she says. "I can't… it's just always there."

Professor Diggory sighs. "As it should be. I am not asking you to forget your pain, Miss Granger. Merlin knows I carry mine with me every day. But I am old. Cedric was my child—the only child I have ever had and ever will have. I will never bear another in my womb again." She touches Hermione's cheek, and Hermione is struck by the way she smooths her thumb over her cheekbone, just the way Cedric used to. "But there will be others for you. You are young, intelligent and beautiful. Do not let Cedric's memory steal your life from you—it is not what he would have wanted. He would have wanted you to live passionately… for that was the version of you he loved best."

Words pool from deep within her, forming a truth Hermione never even thought, could not even recognise in herself before this moment, stripped down and bare, facing the sorrowful face of the woman who raised Cedric. They well up to her throat, as painful as tears, clogging and choking. "I don't want anyone else," she says, and she feels small and so very much like a child. "I want him."

"I know," Cedric's mother says, and there is the slightest quiver in her voice. "Darling, I know."

Hermione begins to weep. Quiet tears, full of a terrible, broken sorrow that she thinks will stay with her for the rest of her life. It is not the tidal waves of grief that once tore at her, tossed her into the air and let her come crashing back down again in shattered pieces. It is instead like a lake, its surfaces still, yet its depths bottomless. Lyla Diggory gently wraps her arms around her, and as Hermione buries her face into the professor's robes, she feels something wet and warm soaking into her own shoulder.

—

Lyla, as she insists Hermione calls her, pulls her into her office on the last day of term. "Here," Lyla says, looking as sombre as ever, and gives her a long, flat box. Hermione looks at it curiously. She opens it, and gasps.

It's Cedric's wand.

"Rowan. Twelve and a quarter inches, containing the hair of unicorn," Lyla says. "Try it."

"I can't," Hermione stammers, pushing it away. "Prof—Lyla, please. I can't take this."

"Try it," Lyla insists. "A wand ought to be used, Hermione. Not placed on a mantle to gather dust. If it doesn't work for you, then I'll take it back and keep it. But try it first, dear."

Hermione swallows. It is a truly beautiful wand. The vine carvings twist up the sides and there are delicate petals blooming at its handle. She reaches for the pale wand with hesitation. Lyla waits patiently. It seems like an age before Hermione can steady her wavering strength. She picks up the wand.

Warmth runs through her fingertips, up along her arm and straight to her head. She gasps, nearly dropping the wand in shock. As though watching someone else's hand move, she sees her arm wave through the air, and the wand sings. A gentle shower falls from the stone ceiling, lasting only for a moment, but leaving behind a lingering sense of peace. The air tastes sweeter, cleaner. She gazes down at the wand with tears in her eyes.

"There we go," Lyla says after a long moment. She sounds breathless, her voice squeezed and tight. "It's yours now, dear. Take care of it."

Hermione dips her head and hugs the wand close to her chest. It thrums, as though content over her heart. "Thank you, Lyla," she whispers.

"He would have wanted you to have it," Lyla murmurs and tucks the now empty box away. "Now, I believe it's time for us to go off to the Closing Feast." She rises and smiles at Hermione. It transforms her into a younger woman, lightens the heavy weight of grief that lurks in her eyes. "I'm glad it chose you."

Hermione nods jerkily. "Can I—" she hesitates, and Lyla nods encouragingly. "Can I write to you? Over the summer?"

"Of course," Lyla says. Hermione thinks her eyes mist over for a moment. "I'd like nothing better."

Hermione's smile is watery but true.

—

"Rowan wood has always been much-favoured for wands, because it is reputed to be more protective than any other, and in my experience renders all manner of defensive charms especially strong and difficult to break. It is commonly stated that no dark witch or wizard ever owned a rowan wand, and I cannot recall a single instance where one of my own rowan wands has gone on to do evil in the world. Rowan is most happily placed with the clear-headed and the pure-hearted, but this reputation for virtue ought not to fool anyone - these wands are the equal of any, often the better, and frequently out-perform others in duels." – Garrick Ollivander, 1999.

Fin.

Note: This fic contains several direct quotations obtained from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and Pottermore/Wizarding World. There is also a quote obtained from: Sabaratnam, Meera. 2011. "IR in Dialogue… but Can We Change the Subjects? A Typology of Decolonising Strategies for the Study of World Politics". Millennium: Journal of International Studies 39(3):781-803.

Yes, that is the political thesis Hermione was reading from and also the article I had to read for my university readings. Suffice to say, I was frustrated enough by the article that I decided to include it in here.