Chronicles
Part 1
Minisinoo

1. The Diary

There it was.

For a moment, Cedric thought he'd imagined it, but no --

There was a spot in the tapestry that wasn't solid.

He'd found it quite by accident earlier that day whilst cleaning the drawing room under the direction of Mrs. Weasley.  The room itself was like an overgrown copse with its impressions of dust and rot, shadows and mossy green fabric.  There was wealth here, to be certain, but it was overripe, stalked by death and madness.  He'd been looking at the Black family tree stitched in gold on the faded wall tapestry when the house's owner had joined him.

Sirius Black.

Not a murderer at all.  Cedric was still getting used to that fact.  He thought most of the others were as well, except Remus Lupin, Ron and Hermione, who'd known all along.  And Harry, of course.  But Harry wasn't here, still living in the home of his awful relatives for another week by the order of Professor McGonagall.  Together with Alastor Moody -- the real Alastor Moody -- she now led their little resistance.  The Order of the Phoenix.  That's what the adults were calling it.  The original Order had been Dumbledore's brainchild in the previous war, revived here, now, in the wake of his death and Voldemort's resurrection.  Most of its members (like Cedric and his parents) were new, as less than half of the original group had survived the first war.

Sometimes Cedric wondered how many would live to see the end of this one.

In any case, Sirius Black -- still a wanted man as far as the Ministry was concerned -- had offered up his family home as a sort of 'headquarters.'  Sirius's father had made it Unplottable and fenced it in with wards, rendering it especially valuable for the Order . . . providing they could Scourgify the place of Doxies, Boggarts, dangerous dark items and other random dead things.

That was how Cedric, the Weasley kids, and Hermione Granger now spent their days:  detoxing everything.  Even Cedric and the twins, despite being seventh years and of age, weren't allowed into actual Order meetings.  McGonagall had been firm on that point, backed up by Molly Weasley and Cedric's mum -- although Cedric had the impression not all the adults agreed.  For now, however, nobody was arguing as Number 12 Grimmauld Place needed a small army to make it habitable, and impressing the kids into house-elf service was convenient.

That morning three days after Harry's birthday, Mrs. Weasley had declared the upstairs clean and had herded them all into the cavernous drawing room after breakfast to exterminate the Doxies in the curtains.  Having had his fill of the little black-haired pests, Cedric had dawdled over the tapestry, then had turned to talk to Sirius, leaning his hand against the cloth all unthinking.  Yet it hadn't been Sirius who'd protested.  Instead a wizened, ugly old house-elf called Kreacher had streaked across the drawing room floor to tackle Cedric, knocking him away from the wall.  "No hand of a Blood Traitor shall touch the lineage of Black!"

"Kreacher, let the lad go!" Sirius had snapped, and the elf had immediately obeyed, albeit snarling under his breath.

It had all happened so quickly, Cedric hadn't been certain he'd really felt the emptiness beneath his fingers or just thought he had.  So he'd come back after dinner to investigate when Kreacher wasn't likely to interfere.  That nobody else was around either, he didn't examine too closely.  The rest of the residents were still in the dining room having afters.

With a furtive glance over his shoulder, Cedric tried to remember where his hand had been resting earlier.  It required feeling around a bit, but there it was -- a hollow like a hidden compartment directly behind a particular name:  Regulus Black.  Reaching right through the fabric as if it weren't there, he touched something flat.  A book?

"What are you doing?"

Startled, Cedric jumped and spun . . . and found himself holding the book he'd felt in the hidden spot.  "Er, just . . . collecting this.  I left it here earlier."

The girl -- the youngest Weasley named Ginny -- appeared sceptical.  "A book?"

"Yeah."  He held it up, only now seeing it for himself.  It bore no title, the cover just plain brown leather with gilded parchment edges.  At least being hidden by magic, it showed no dust to give him away.

Ginny's eyes narrowed.  "Is that a diary?"

"Er, yes.  Mine," he lied.

"I thought you were headed to the loo?"

Nervous, he jiggled on his feet.  "I was -- am.  I remembered I'd left this in here."

Her expression was extremely dubious.  "Why are you lying?  That's not yours."  And before he could do anything, she'd swooped forward to snag it right out of his grip.  "That's the Black family crest embossed on the cover; I've cleaned enough things around here, I'd recognize it in my sleep."

And she was right.  Impressed lightly into the leather was a crest with two stars above, a chevron between, and an upright sword below.  "What is this really?" she demanded, voice rising.  "Where did you get it and why are you lying about it?"  Pulling her wand, she held it levelled at him.

He raised both empty hands.  "Ginny, put that down -- "

"Are you in league with them?  The Death Eaters?  You let Voldemort have Harry, and Dumbledore was found dead in your office!"

Her voice was getting louder, and Cedric no longer felt guilty and mildly annoyed; he was downright worried.  "Shhh!  Lower your voice."  He kept his hands raised.  "And stop leaping to ridiculous conclusions.  Or don't you believe Moody's own report?  And Harry's?  I didn't let Voldemort have Harry and I didn't kill Dumbledore!"

The tip of her wand wavered.  "Well -- but maybe you're in league with them -- the Death Eaters."

He resisted rolling his eyes, but understood scepticism.  Ginny wasn't the only one who harboured doubts about him.  Several in the Order gave him suspicious glances; it wasn't a time just now when trust was given easily.  "Fudge and his Aurors interrogated me; they know exactly what I did, and didn't do."  Well, to a point.  No matter how many times he'd been asked, or who'd demanded to know, he'd never told anybody who it was had come back from the future to save him -- except the person who'd come back to save him.

Now, Ginny lowered the wand and sighed.  "Sorry, I just -- "

"It's all right.  I understand."  Then reaching out, he snatched back the diary before she could think to secrete or grip it harder.

"Hey!  That's -- "

"It was hidden in the wall; I want to know why whoever put it there went to such trouble to conceal it."

Her eyes narrowed.  "Diaries can be dangerous; you should burn it."

He was aghast.  "Absolutely not!  We don't know what's in it -- it could be critical."

"It could possess you!"

"I doubt it."  He started to make light of it, then saw how her chin trembled and the amusement fell off his face.  "Ginny, it'll be fine.  I'm not going to be reckless about it."

"Then why don't you just go right now and give it to one of the adults?"

He opened his mouth, but realized he had no good answer, or none he was willing to confess to.  "I'm curious, all right?"  Looking down at the diary, he turned it in his hands.  "It might be nothing at all, just personal observations, but I'm afraid if I give it to Sirius, he'll throw it out along with the other family rubbish.  And if I give it to your mum, she'll give it to Professor McGonagall, and then we'll never find out what's in it."

"But the adults would know," Ginny pointed out.  "And that's who really needs to, yeah?"

He glanced up at her, unsure how to explain his interest beyond, "I like figuring out things."

"Fooling around with unknown books you found in a house full of dark magic is a really stupid thing to do, Diggory."

With arms folded and pointed chin raised, she reminded him of her mother.  He resisted smiling.  "Your caution is noted.  But aren't you just, well, a little bit curious about everything they're not telling us?"

She sighed and Cedric recognized it for a concession.  Turning, she headed out.  "I ought to tell Professor McGonagall right now."

"But you won't," he called after her.

"Fine, I won't."

Cedric shoved the diary in a pocket of his robes, then glanced back again at the tapestry and the name it had been hidden behind.  Regulus Black.  He hadn't told Ginny his real reason for not wanting to give it up.  He suspected it had belonged to Sirius' younger brother -- a Death Eater who'd turned on Voldemort.  The diary might contain secrets they needed to know, secrets Harry needed to know.  And ever since the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric no longer trusted the adults to see to Harry's safety.  That was now Cedric's personal mission.  

2. "Gay & Lesbian Interest"

In just the week since Harry's birthday, Cedric had been to Number 4 Privet Drive four times to visit, and to have a friend from one world come to see him whilst he lived in the other was a new experience for Harry, a very welcome release from his nightmares about Dumbledore's death and his worry over Voldemort's return.  Always before, he'd lived isolated in his uncle's house (letters aside) until he could escape once more to the Wizarding world.  The reasons for that were simple:  Harry's aunt and uncle weren't about to give him money to travel to see friends, and his friends hadn't come to see him either, perhaps assuming (correctly) that the Dursleys wouldn't allow it.

But the Dursleys couldn't stop Cedric.  After that first time, Cedric hadn't returned to the house.  Instead, he met Harry in Little Whinging and Harry counted on the Dursleys' malevolent neglect to get away.  Keeping up with his every move was too much work, and at the root of it, Vernon Dursley couldn't be bothered.

Of course, Harry had no doubt that if his uncle had known he was meeting a friend in town, he'd have bestirred himself to prevent it.  Certainly after that first day out with Cedric, there had been a monstrous row when Harry had returned, so now, Harry simply didn't tell Uncle Vernon.  And for the most part, the Dursleys were too busy with each other to care where Harry went in the afternoons -- as long as it was away from them.

Harry always met Cedric at the coffee shop they'd visited that first day, and Cedric always dressed in the same Muggle clothes until Harry bluntly asked him if those were the only ones he owned, at which he blushed and admitted they were, more or less.  "I've got a few pullovers, and jeans, of course, but I'm not sure if they'd, well, look right?"

So Harry took him to a Muggle department store and pointed out types of clothing, explaining what went with what.  Cedric listened with great interest, as he did whenever Harry explained Muggle things, whether espresso machines, mobile phones, pizza or video games.  He found it all as interesting as Harry found the magical world.  "Don't you like magic?" Harry asked him once softly.  "Prefer it?"

Cedric -- who'd been flipping through a copy of Empire because he was curious about Muggle cinema -- glanced over in surprise.  "Prefer it?  I don't know, it's just . . . what I grew up with."  Then equally softly, he went on, "This world is all new to me.  It's interesting."  And he shot Harry a grin.  "It's not that I don't like magic, I just reckon I'm a bit bored with it."

And that was, Harry thought, very different from Ron's view of Muggles, which amounted to benign apathy, or even Mr. Weasley's obsessions, which Harry found almost comical.  And maybe that was Harry's fault for not trying to explain things better so Mr. Weasley could ask more logical questions, but Cedric asked different sorts of questions altogether, and Harry enjoyed explaining things to Cedric whereas he found it tedious with Mr. Weasley.

On this, their fourth time out and about, Harry had brought Cedric to a bookstore, a big one where they could be safely anonymous.  "Come on," he said as they entered.  "There's a section over here I want to show you."  Bemused but obedient, Cedric followed as Harry led him to a section with  --Gay & Lesbian Interest--  on a small placard near the top.  Stopping there, Harry gestured to the tall shelf.  "I, er, thought you might find these interesting.  And, well, um, useful."

It took Cedric about six or seven breaths to realize what the books were about, then his fair skin turned a frightening shade of red.  "Harry!" he hissed, glancing frantically up and down the aisle and moving away several sections to something less incriminating.  "How dare you do that!"  He looked as much hurt as embarrassed -- and angry.  And Harry hadn't counted on that.

After that first exchange at the beginning of Cedric's first visit, they hadn't discussed Cedric's sexual preference any more than they discussed Harry's.  There were other things to talk about, a lot of other things.  Harry knew Cedric was gay, but it didn't come up.

Yet Harry had given it some thought.  He hadn't forgotten -- not at all -- how much self-hatred had laced Cedric's voice when he'd first told Harry he was 'queer.'  They'd talked about it then at length, and Harry had been appalled at how little Cedric knew.  It had been Cedric's dirty little secret, something he'd barely been able to verbalize, much less seek out information about.

So Harry had done it for him.  He hadn't, himself, realized there was a whole section on it in the bookstore -- he'd found that out quite by accident -- although he had been looking for books on the topic.  (Hermione must be rubbing off on him if his solution to a burning question was to run to a book.)  Embarrassed or not, Harry had stood there for perhaps half an hour, flipping through the texts, astonished by the amount of information contained therein.  Anything Cedric might need to know about being gay, he'd find there.

Except Cedric looked ready to faint and said again, voice pinched, "How dare you?"

Blinking and pushing his glasses up his nose, Harry replied, "Look, nobody in this store knows you from Adam.  Moreover, they probably wouldn't care."

But Cedric was still glancing all around as if he expected his father to leap out from behind a bookshelf.  "I'm not so sure -- "

"Oh, come on!  Stop being paranoid.  You can find out everything you need in those books -- and I know you trust books."  Cedric was almost as bad as Hermione on that score.  "You might not understand it all, especially the Muggle references, but in general?  I'm trying to help you feel better about coming out."

The phrasing seemed only to confuse Cedric.  "Coming out of what?"

"The closet."

He frowned.  "The closet?"

Harry snickered.  "It's just a Muggle phrase -- American, to boot.  'Coming out' means admitting you're gay."

Head lowered like a tired runner, Cedric sighed.  "I'm not ready to 'come out,' Harry.  I'm just . . . I can't seem to change how I am.  I've tried.  So I'm learning to accept that I'm stuck with it, but some days all I want is for it to go away, you know?"

Harry nodded.  He did know, if not about that in particular.  "There are a lot of days I feel the same about Voldemort.  And Dumbledore dying, and -- "

"I'm sorry," Cedric interrupted, glancing down and running a hand into his hair, mussing it.  "You've got a lot more on your mind, a lot more to deal with.  I sometimes forget that.  Nobody's been trying to kill me since I was an infant."

"No, Cedric, it's not . . . well, yeah, sometimes I feel angry.  Like I'm being asked too much, but the funny thing is, it's sort of . . . nice, I suppose?  It's sort of nice to know I'm not the only one out there trying to deal with something.  Perhaps I can't do much right now about Voldemort -- I'm not even sure what to do -- but I can help you with what you're going through.  Well, not entirely, I'm not in your shoes, but --"

"You do help, Harry."  Cedric was smiling.  "You help just by knowing and still being my friend."

Cedric, Harry reflected, was more willing to verbalize such things than Ron.  Not that Harry minded Ron's approach; it was good just to know and not talk it to death.  Ron was sturdy and dependable, like the earth.  One never had to dig far to know what Ron was thinking or feeling.  Cedric, though, was a well with water reflecting back, concealing the depths.  But the bucket went down and down.  Sometimes what it struck surprised Harry.

And now, Cedric's confession embarrassed him a bit; he glanced down at his feet.  "Yeah, well," he said, "I reckon we, er, well, um.  There aren't many other people I can talk to about fighting a dragon, you know?"

Laughing, Cedric said, "No, I reckon not."

"You should go and look at the books, Ced.  Nobody here knows you.  Nobody will care.  And like I said, I may not know what to do about Voldemort, but I can help you sort this out."

Cedric's expression grew . . . almost sly, except 'sly' wouldn't normally seem like a good word to describe Cedric.  "Well, as for You-Know-Who, there are people willing to help you with that, Harry."  And a bit hesitantly, he went back to look through the books, leaving Harry to wonder what he was on about with that last comment.

3. Xanadu

Cedric didn't buy any books that Saturday out with Harry.  He was too nervous and self-conscious.  But he didn't forget there were such books -- whole shelves of them -- and the sight of them had opened possibilities he'd barely conceived of.  If there were all those books, then there must be people -- others like him -- to read them, mustn't there?  How many others?

He'd once heard Harry mention a 'gay London' in passing, and if he hadn't asked at the time, the reference had lodged in his head.  Now, thinking of those shelves full of books and their hypothetical readers, he felt compelled to seek out the place where he might find others like him.  Yet when he managed to get a hold of a London map, there was no area marked 'gay London,' and in retrospect, he realized how utterly ridiculous such an expectation had been.  But as a result, he had no clue how to find it.  So he asked Hermione Granger -- albeit not directly.

"If you wanted to locate an area of London, but you didn't know where it was -- no street names -- how would you do it?"

She gave him an odd expression.  They were standing in the hallway leading from the room she shared with Ginny to the drawing room.  "What are you looking for?  I grew up here, you know."

And he remembered then that she had . . . and was momentarily terrified.  He couldn't just ask her.  He might have finally admitted to himself what he was, and he might have told Harry, but he wasn't ready to 'come out' to anybody else.  So he blurted, "It's just a bookstore," because he'd been thinking about books.

"Oh, not Waterstone's, is it?"

"Water-what?  No."

"Oh.  Well, what's the name?  I could help you find it in the phone book."

"The -- ?  Never mind, Granger.  It's not important."  And he stepped past her to duck into the loo, leaving her staring after him in confusion.

It wouldn't have taken a genius to suss out that he was uncomfortable discussing the matter, so before dinner that evening, she passed behind his chair to say softly, "If I were looking for someplace in London and didn't know where it was, as long as I had a name, I'd just flag down a Black Cab and ask the driver to take me there.  Those drivers know virtually the whole town.  But they're not cheap, you know?"

"Thank you," he replied equally softly.

Expense wasn't an issue for this.  He needed to know, needed to find his Xanadu.  He might not have a lot of money, nor did his parents, but he rarely asked for much so his father gave him 10 galleons without question.  As he exchanged it for Muggle pounds and pence in Gringotts, he hoped it would be enough.

The next afternoon, he begged off cleaning duty, put on his Muggle clothes -- a new set that Harry had assured him didn't look odd, and left the house.  When he was safely away, he began to look for a 'Black Cab,' but wasn't sure how to find one -- or even what a 'cab' might look like.  Walking into a Muggle chemist's shop, he asked the fellow behind the counter, "How do I flag down a Black Cab?"

The shop assistant stared at him as if he were daft and Cedric feared he'd committed a huge faux-pas.  "Well," the man said, "you walk back out of the door you came in, cross the road, and get in the one sitting over there.  Assuming nobody else gets to it first."

Turning, Cedric looked out of the glass shop door and sure enough there was a big (big!) black car parked at the kerb across the road.  "Oh, sorry.  Thank you.  I didn't see it there when I came in."

"Yeah, whatever.  Maybe you need glasses, mate."

Cedric didn't reply to that.  He'd gathered that people in London weren't polite.  Instead, he hurried out, almost forgetting to look both ways before crossing the road.  It had taken only a few times of being honked at by furious drivers (and near leaping out of his skin) before he'd learned that lesson.  Reaching the car, he tapped on the driver's window and the man rolled it down.  "You need a car?"

"Er, yes."

"All right then" -- leaning forward, he punched a button on some device on the dashboard -- "Get in, lad."

Cedric stared helplessly.  He'd never got into a car in his life.  "Um -- how?"

The driver jerked his head around.  "Open the door?"

Well, obviously.  But how was he supposed to do that?  Presumably with a handle, but he wasn't sure what to do with it.  Pull on it?  Apparently that worked as the handle gave and the door popped open.  He climbed inside.  "Where to?" the driver asked.

"Um" -- he could feel the skin on his face turning red -- "Do you, well . . . do you know how to get to 'gay London'?"

The driver smirked.  "Ah -- I see.  Yeah, lad, I think I can do that.  You got a specific destination in mind?"

"Er, no."

The driver paused and studied Cedric in the rearview mirror.  "How old are you?"

And that made Cedric defensive.  "Old enough," he snapped, frowning and blushing at once.

"Mmm," the driver replied.  "Maybe not Soho -- how about Earl's Court or Old Compton Street?"

Cedric frowned.  "There's more than one place?"

"Yeah, about four or five.  Soho's closer, but I think Earl's Court would suit you better."

"Right," Cedric replied, "That's fine," eager to stop talking about it and just get there.  The driver returned his attention to the road, pulling out.

The sudden lurch into traffic made Cedric grab for the big door handle.  He'd never ridden in a Muggle automobile and feared being tossed about like the Knight Bus, so he looked around, spotting what appeared to be belts or straps lying on the seat.  Picking up two, confused as to what to do with them, he settled for tying them across his lap, then returned his attention to the roads and shops and other buildings passing outside the window.  Now and then he glanced nervously at the box atop the dashboard.  He'd gathered it was a fare box and Hermione hadn't been joking about the expense.

But it would be worth it.  If 'gay London' existed and he could find it, spend just one day there, he thought he might finally feel . . . not 'normal,' but at least less alien.  Was there really such a place?  Would they dress differently like in Wizarding London?  Would they have their own stores?  Would they use the same money?  He had no idea, and his insides twisted in a combination of excitement and terror.  He wasn't naturally brave, like a Gryffindor . . . but he was desperate.  He needed answers.

The cab turned onto a street that didn't look so different from any other, and the driver pulled up at the kerb.  "Here you go.  Old Brompton Road, Earl's Court.  You're right in the middle of it."  He turned and looked at Cedric, who was getting out his Muggle money for the fare.  "Be careful, all right?  Pretty face like yours . . . and obviously new to town."

Confused but not wanting to say so, Cedric untied his belt -- to a rather astonished snort from the driver -- and paid the man.  "You really aren't from around here, are you?"

"Er, no," Cedric replied, accepting his change and then he stared at the door again.  He'd got it open once before . . .

"You grab the metal handle there and pull."

"Oh."  He did as instructed and the door obediently popped open.  "Thank you."

The man shook his head and turned away as Cedric got out, hands thrust into his pockets, and looked around himself at the people and the brick shop fronts, bulb-lamped streetlights and pavement rails.  Across the street was a white building called "Earls Court Tavern."  This was all it was?  The neighbourhood had character, certainly, but then all of London had character of one type or another.  How was this any different -- ?

He interrupted his own thoughts as he spotted a pair of women exiting the tavern, one casually laying an arm over the shoulders of the other just like any couple.  Like any normal couple.  Nobody around looked twice, except him.

He turned his head right and left, watching the crowd.  Most of them didn't appear different any more than the neighbourhood itself did -- or well, in London, there were always someone who looked odd, but not in any significant way.  Yet he saw quite a few same-sex pairs walking or standing close to each other as if they might not just be together, but together.  Not all of them, by any means, but more than a few.  Yet nothing was made of it; it just was.

It just was.  Could there be a place in the world where he just was, too?  A place he could be all of himself without hiding?

He must have stood in the same spot, his back against a stone wall, for ten minutes.  Finally, he muttered, "Stop staring," under his breath.  People might notice.  So he began walking, looking in shop windows and watching people.  The longer he was there, the more the subtle differences came into sharper focus.  Adverts showed men together, or women, although again, not all of them.  There was a clothing shop called The Clone Zone that had pictures of fit male models in such suggestive poses with each other that Cedric gaped in surprise.  And one travel agency had a poster in the window, bold as you please, promising bookings at 'gay friendly' resorts right next to one about discount flights to Sydney.  He walked on, hands still in pockets because they were shaking just a little.

He finally spotted what he'd been hoping for -- a bookshop nestled in a corner between a clothes shop and a florist.  He crossed the road and went in.  It wasn't large, which made him nervous but the fellow behind the counter just glanced up from whatever he was reading, nodded, then went back to his book.  "Ask if you have any questions," he said without even looking at Cedric again.

Grateful for the apathy, Cedric turned to the shelves, but kept an eye on the shop assistant.  He was young, probably in his early twenties, and more eccentric than most of the people Cedric had seen on the pavement.  He sported very short hair, a tattoo on the side of his neck and another on his bicep, lots of rings including one through his eyebrow (hadn't that hurt?), pierced ears, several leather bracelets, and black nail polish.  (Why on earth would anybody wear black nail polish?)  He sat like a girl, too, with his legs crossed at the thigh, not ankle over knee.  Otherwise, he was quite definitely male, not trying to look like a woman.  He just . . . mixed and matched as it suited him.  That both confused and relieved Cedric at once.  There were times he felt like that bloke looked -- not a woman, but not stereotypically male either.  A bit of both.

He returned his attention to the books.  This was clearly a specialist's shop, as he'd hoped it might be.  Wizarding London had magical books.  Gay London had books about being gay.  Lots and lots of books, on subjects he'd never even imagined people would write about, and he had no idea where to begin.  Well, the shop assistant had said to ask, and his very unconcern tabled Cedric's habitual hesitation.

Approaching the counter, he cleared his throat and the man looked up.  "Yes?"

"Um, I'm not really sure what I'm looking for?"  The man's eyebrow lifted but he didn't otherwise respond.  Embarrassed, Cedric went on, "I'm just . . . um, starting out.  Just . . . coming out."  That was what Harry had called it, right?

The man's whole demeanour altered and he smiled.  "Ah.  I thought you looked a bit nervous there, mate.  Relax.  And follow me."  Setting down his book, he exited the counter area and walked quickly to a central table.  "Here you go," he said, pointing to a little display sign with dark purple letters on white:  Coming Out?   "We set this up with some of the more useful books -- things we wished we'd known.  Here," he picked up one with a blue-and-white cover, handing it to Cedric, "this is a good place to start."  Then he picked up another, and yet another, stacking them atop the first in Cedric's hands.  "Those tell you legal things, this is on gay men's health, and this is on gay sex."  Cedric started at the last, and looked down helplessly at the little pile he held.  The shop assistant's tone was matter-of-fact, as if Cedric had asked nothing strange, and for here, perhaps he hadn't.  They had a table display about it, after all.

"Anyway," the man was saying, "browse through these and see what's useful, right?  I'll be back in a minute," and he headed off again.  Feeling overwhelmed, Cedric was glad to see the back of him and immediately returned the book on gay sex.  He might need it, but he couldn't even bring himself to look at it too closely despite the fact another part of him was hot with curiosity.  He also returned the books on Muggle law.  They didn't apply.  The one on health went back too, leaving him with the first the shop assistant had handed over:  Outing Yourself.  He opened it to glance at the table of contents then flipped a few pages, scanning, until several sentences arrested him:

The vast majority of people who have recurring homosexual thoughts or experiences, however, are truly homosexual, although they often don't want to face the fact.  Society has placed such a terrible stigma on homosexuality that even thinking about sex with someone of the same gender can be frightening . . .

He blinked, breathless, and his eyes slid further down to an inset quote where another man described his own recognition:

. . . every time I saw him in class my heart would start pounding and I'd turn red.  I would then get this queasy feeling in my stomach, like I was sick, because this feeling of liking the guy made me ill, because I thought homosexuality was disgusting . . .

Cedric slammed the book shut, shocked, but full of such a rush of relief that he felt giddy.  The speaker knew.  He knew what it was like, how Cedric could hardly bear to think about it, even as he couldn't stop thinking about it.  It had him so twisted up inside he didn't know if he were coming or going.

The shop assistant had returned, interrupting Cedric's thoughts, and before Cedric could think better of it, he blurted, "There's not something wrong with me, is there?"

Confused, the other man blinked, but then -- rather than ask what the hell Cedric was talking about -- he grinned and shook his head.  "Was that a statement or a question?"

"A . . . statement, I think.  And it probably didn't make any sense, did it?"

The shop assistant was still grinning.  "It made more than you know, trust me."  Then he handed over a small pamphlet and a pair of square . . . things.  Packets of some kind.  "Here are two free condoms and a handout on AIDS.  It's not that I don't think you can get condoms, mate, but the boss has a policy about giving these to anybody who might, well, seem to be new to things.  Don't laugh too much, all right?  Better safe than sorry -- education and all that.  I'll leave you alone now, let you browse.  Come on up when you're ready."

Cedric kept his mouth shut to avoid looking like a complete idiot as he had no idea what either 'condoms' or 'AIDS' were, and it was clear the man just assumed he would.  Muggle things, apparently.  Cedric returned his attention to the table, relieved to be left alone because he feared giving away how alien he was through some accidental omission.  Slips he could avoid, but what if he didn't say or do something a Muggle would?

Yet he was also reluctant to stop talking to the shop assistant.  Even Harry-from-the-future hadn't been gay, sex on Cedric's office floor not withstanding.  Older Harry had been blunt about liking girls as well as liking boys -- or at least liking Cedric -- but the shop assistant . . . he was gay, and apparently made no secret of it.  Cedric wondered how it might feel to be that free.

He poked around the table a little more, but wasn't sure what else he might need besides the book he still carried, pamphlet and little foil packages shoved inside, and he had limited funds in any case.  So after a general circuit of the store, he approached the till.  "That's it?" the shop assistant asked, sounding a bit surprised.

"Yeah," Cedric replied, handing over a ten-pound note.  "I, er, it's about all I can afford right now."

"Oh.  All right."  The man rang it up and Cedric warred with himself.  He wanted to talk, to ask things, but the shop assistant was a stranger, and at work anyway.  Yet he'd been reading on the job, so perhaps he had time?

When the shop assistant handed him his change, Cedric hesitated, then just blurted out, "Can I ask you some questions?"

Once again, an expression of surprise transformed to amusement on the fellow's face.  "Yeah, sure.  We're not exactly overrun at the moment.  Fire away."

Yet Cedric had no idea where to begin because there was so much he wanted to know.  So he asked the most obvious first.  "You are gay, right?  I mean, I'm not trying to insult you if you're not, and I shouldn't assume, but -- "

"One," the man interrupted, "it's not an insult, mate -- that's the first thing to learn.  Don't fucking apologize for who you are, yeah?  I know that's part of the whole Coming Out thing, but it's something you've really, really got to get past.  Two, yes I am.  It's a pretty safe assumption around here, especially if you're talking to a bloke wearing a rainbow triangle."  He grinned and pointed to the little badge stuck in his lapel . . . along with a lot of other badges, so of course Cedric had had no idea it meant anything.

"That's . . . a clue?  A code?"

The other shook his head.  "You really are a babe in the woods."  Suddenly sticking his hand forward, he said, "I'm Michael, by the way.  And how old are you?"

At such a familiar and friendly action, Cedric found himself smiling as he clasped the hand offered.  "I'm Cedric.  And I'm 17."

"Fuck.  Jailbait.  Too bad, with such a pretty face.  But 'Cedric' like in Ivanhoe?"

And Cedric felt himself blushing hot.  It wasn't that he'd never before heard he had a pretty face, but he'd never heard it offered so casually by a stranger of the gender and orientation he might actually care to have noticed.  "Yes, like in Ivanhoe.  I'm a bit surprised you recognized it."

"I work in a bookshop for a reason, mate.  I like to read."

Still blushing, Cedric said, "Yeah, I reckon so.  All right, so, um, yeah.  You said not to apologize for being gay.  I expect I'm still not used to that."  Although he recalled what Harry had told him that being gay wasn't quite as negatively viewed in the Muggle world.  He'd have to be careful or he'd make the other fellow too curious about his oddities.  "How long have you been gay?"

"All my life."

-- which made Cedric laugh and scratch the back of his head, remembering what he'd told Older Harry.  It'd been much the same, and he should have expected that.  "Sorry -- I phrased that all wrong.  I just meant, um, how long have you known?  Or really, how long have you . . . well, admitted it to yourself?  How many people know about you?"

Grinning, Michael ran the palm of his hand over the very short hair on his skull.  "All right, I get what you're trying to ask.  For me, I've known forever, I think.  When I was little, I wanted to put on my sisters' dresses.  Didn't want to be a girl, I just liked dresses.  They were pretty and I didn't get to wear frilly stuff.  Didn't seem fair, you know?  That's one thing I really like about who I am.  I don't play the butch or queen game.  I like being able to wear anything I want and not worry if it's properly 'masculine.'  That's . . . really free, you know?"

Cedric found himself nodding as the other man tried to articulate something he'd never completely understood about himself -- the frustration of needing to be extra manly in order to avoid anybody asking questions, and of wanting to like what he liked without worrying if it made him effeminate.  "I like bubble baths," he found himself admitting, then blushing and laughing and running a hand through his own hair.  "That was a stupid thing to say."

"No, it wasn't," Michael replied.  "I told you to stop apologizing.  I like them too, just tend to be a bit too tall for most baths."

"Yeah.  So'm I.  But we've got, well, a big one."  And that was the understatement of his week.

"So you like bubble baths.  What else do you like that you're not allowed to like?"

"Um, I don't know."  He actually had to think about it, having never paused to consider; he'd just shoved away any inappropriate feelings.  "Shiny things?  I used to love to look at my mum's jewellery.  Didn't want to wear it, just wanted to look at it.  Wearing jewellery gets in my way.  I catch it on things."

"All right.  That's a start."  Michael was grinning.  "I bet you'll think of more later.  That's the beauty of being gay, Cedric.  You get to make it up as you go along.  It's not always comfortable, but once you get used to it, you'll never want to go back to playing roles.  Probably be better on everybody, gay or straight, if we all made it up as we went."

Cedric nodded, and Michael continued, "So anyway, yeah, I knew I was gay for as long as I can remember -- but not everybody does.  I came out early, too -- but again, not everybody does.  I was lucky.  Me mum's a bit of a 60s flower child.  She didn't give a flying fuck if I was queer.  I think she sort of . . . likes it, which actually made me reluctant to tell her, but I reckon it's better than having her faint or something.  So yeah, I had it relatively easy.  I've known I was gay forever, and I came out back in comprehensives, dated blokes.  Not really an issue."

"So how many people know you're gay?"

"Everybody."

"Everybody?"  Cedric couldn't even imagine that, reaching a place where he wouldn't care if 'everybody' knew.

"Pretty much.  I don't go around wearing a placard, but I don't exactly keep it a secret -- and I do wear a badge."  He pointed to the triangle.  "And, well, I'm not hard to spot.  I prefer it that way.  Other people aren't able to be that open.  I wish they could, but I realize it's not always easy."

"Yeah," Cedric said.  "It's not always easy."

"So what about you?" Michael asked, tilting his head.  "What's your story?"

Cedric reckoned that was only fair, but he'd have to be very careful when answering.  Then again, the essentials of being gay weren't likely to give away his other secret.  "I've known all my life too, I think, or as far back as I can remember.  I just didn't know what it meant.  I didn't even know the word 'gay' till recently.  Didn't have a word to call myself besides queer."

And as soon as he said that, he realized he'd made a mistake.  Michael's expression was . . . flabbergasted.  "You didn't know the word gay?  Bloody fucking hell!  What rock have you been living under, mate?"

"I, er, live in the country," Cedric said, hoping that would be sufficient cover.

"Out in the West Country, I'm guessing?  Accent," he explained.

"Yeah.  Devon."

"They must really be backwards.  Don't you read the papers?  Or get anything about it in school?"

Cedric smiled.  "Not really.  It's all new."

"It's like you walked out of a time capsule!  Weird.  Anyway, go on."

"Yeah, so . . . there's not much else to tell.  That's pretty much it.  I've known all along, just didn't have words, or really understand."

"Just having casual sex with the farm boys, eh?"  Michael laughed at Cedric's blush.

"I've . . . not.  I --" Cedric's throat closed up and Michael stopped laughing.

"Sorry -- I wasn't trying to embarrass, just tease a little.  Relax, all right?  You ever had sex at all?"

"Um . . . " For a full ten seconds, Cedric couldn't speak but the other man took no pity, just waited him out.  "Yeah.  Once."

"You use protection?"

"What?"

"A condom?  You use a condom?"

"Uh . . . no."

"You read that pamphlet, all right?  First thing when you get home or to your hotel or wherever tonight -- you read it.  I was kidding around earlier, but maybe I shouldn't have.  Unprotected sex is dangerous, mate.  I bug everybody about it, not just you.  Don't take any chances.  You're not just fucking the fellow you're fucking; you're fucking everybody he did before you.  Got it?"

Cedric's eyes had grown large at the bluntness.  "Um, yeah.  And, well, it was his first time too."

"All right, but the caution remains.  And you be careful, too.  I don't want to patronize, but you really are like a blast from the past.  You've got this gorgeous face and blokes will line up for new meat.  But you're 17 -- that means you're not legal.  Fuck the stupid breeder laws, but it's true.  Stick to lads your age, all right?  Don't let any older men have you, and don't let anybody ever convince you to suck or fuck them without a condom.  And don't necessarily believe them if they say it's their first time.  They're probably bullshitting you.  There are a lot of sick bastards out there, right?"

Cedric simply stared, overwhelmed by too much information to take in, much less sort out, but a few things stuck, and he was oddly grateful for the shop assistant's frankness.  "All right," he said.

"Stay away from the clubs and pubs till you've got your head on straight.  I'm glad you came in here.  It's a bloody bookshop, not a meat locker.  Now, who've you told?  That you're gay?"

"Just one person.  A friend."

"You're just getting started then.  That big reveal go okay?"

"Yeah -- it did.  He was . . . really helpful."

"Well, now you've got two people."  At Cedric's confused look, he explained, "I'm the second."

"Oh.  Yeah, I reckon so.  I reckon you are."

Michael grinned.  "Earl's Court is a good place to get used to the idea that people know because a lot of them will assume.  And you can feel pretty safe about telling."  He paused, then asked, "Any other questions?"

"Loads.  But, um, I think I need to sort out what I've already heard and . . . stuff . . . first."

"Good."  Nodding, Michael waved towards the door.  "Then shoo.  Go walk around and be gay for a while before you have to go back to your closet.  Eventually you'll hit a place where you can't bear to have the door shut ever again.  But it's all a process, you know?  Coming out.  Just be a little shrewd and clever, and keep your chin up.  If anybody tries to make you feel guilty for being gay, tell them to go fuck themselves, all right?"

And that, more than anything else the shop assistant had said, made Cedric laugh just trying to imagine saying any such thing to friends and enemies at Hogwarts.

"Take care, Cedric."

"You too -- and thank you."

Outside the shop, he shoved the book in its bag under his arm and started walking, not just looking anymore, but content to be looked at . . . and to know those looking might assume he was queer too.  Not just queer -- but queer too.

4. Death Eaters

"I found gay London."

"You found . . . what?" Harry asked, running his palm back and forth over his messy hair.

"Gay London.  It's Earl's Court."

"Er, yeah, I know.  Earl's Court, Soho, Old Compton Street . . . "

"You knew?"  Cedric appeared surprised. 

"Yeah, pretty much everybody does."

"I had to hire a Black Cab to find it."

"I wish you'd just asked me."

And Cedric breathed out, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw clenched as he looked down at the dirt of the little playground near Harry's uncle's house.  Harry felt guilty.  He'd had no idea Cedric would go looking for it.  "Yeah, I should have asked you," Cedric said after a minute, "I just . . . didn't."  He appeared to have deflated visibly from the near-electric excitement he'd shown a moment ago.

"Cedric . . . " Harry trailed off, not sure what to say.  He'd been sitting at his desk, writing a letter to Ron when he'd been startled by pebbles pecking at his bedroom window.  At first, he'd thought one of Dudley's friends was harassing him (Dudley himself would just have barged into his room), but then he'd seen that the pebbles were glowing and dancing outside the glass, darting in to strike it then back out like demented fireflies in the dim of twilight.  Startled and excited both, he'd thrown open the window to find Cedric hiding in the bushes below.  "What are you doing?" Harry had hissed.

Cedric had raised a finger to his lips, then Levitated a scrawled note:  I have something important to tell you.  Can you meet me in the playground near your house?  I can wait until an hour after sunset.  A bit worried that Cedric might be caught skulking in the bushes, Harry had nodded and waved Cedric off.  Then he'd sneaked out into the streetlamp glow of twilight whilst his aunt and uncle had been watching the telly.

But all Cedric had wanted to tell him was that he'd found Earl's Court?  Cedric still wore Muggle clothes and Harry suspected he'd come here directly, having Apparated to Little Whinging from London.  That gave Harry pause and he tried to view it anew from Cedric's point of view.  "I reckon it was, er, sort of exciting."

"Yeah," Cedric replied, but without regaining the excited spark.  In fact, his whole face was slowly reddening.  "Look, I'm sorry to bother you, Harry.  It was stupid of me; you could get in trouble with your aunt and uncle and it's not really news and -- "

"Shut up, Cedric."  It gave the other boy pause.  "Yeah, maybe it's sort of silly to drag me out of the house just to tell me you found Earl's Court, but, er -- I understand."  Harry tilted his head.  "I reckon it felt for you like it felt for me when Hagrid showed me Diagon Alley for the first time."  And as Cedric's face cleared of embarrassment, Harry knew he'd found the right thing to say.  "What was it like?  I've never been there.  Well, I mean, I knew about it, of course, but I've never been there."

"Not as different as Diagon Alley," Cedric confessed, but had no opportunity to say anything else, as quite suddenly all around them in the playground shadows, hooded figures Apparated into existence.  It took Harry three breaths to realize they were surrounded and the figures wore the same masked garb as the Death Eaters at the World Cup a year ago.

It must have taken Cedric even less time.  Before anything could happen, Cedric tackled Harry, knocking him to the ground even as Harry felt the distinct squeeze and pop of Disapparation.  They came out lying on dirty, wet pavement in an alley Harry didn't recognize.  "Where are -- "

But Cedric was already getting to his feet, wand drawn and in hand, but turned so it lay against his arm, not immediately obvious to passing Muggles.  Grabbing Harry by the wrist, he yanked him after.  "No time to talk!  Just follow me."

Still in shock, Harry followed obediently as they hurried down the pavement of a busy street; it was drizzling lightly, which it hadn't been in Little Whinging, the streets and pavements, shop windows and cars slick with it, and a passing cab told Harry where they were.  "London?  Why are we in London?"

Cedric stopped abruptly and turned to face Harry, his expression a bit desperate.  "I'm taking you . . . " but he trailed off, a funny expression on his face.  "Never mind.  And to bloody hell with waiting.  That wasn't supposed to happen.  They told me that couldn't happen!"

"Who's 'they'?  And could the Death Eaters figure out where we went to?"

"I doubt it," Cedric replied as they started walking again, crossing into an area of town Harry recognized.

"We're near King's Cross Station."

"Yes."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"It might help if I knew."

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?  Don't you want to?"

"It's not a matter of wanting.  I can't tell you -- physically can't.  You'll understand when we get there."

Cedric wasn't making sense, but Harry didn't think this the time to demand a clearer explanation so he followed the taller boy through the evening crowds, the reality of what had just happened finally settling in.  Those had been Death Eaters.  In Little Whinging.  Where Harry had been ambling about in the open all summer.  And despite what Cedric had just claimed he'd been told, it seemed that Voldemort's followers -- or Voldemort himself -- could have struck at any time.  Why had McGonagall sent him back there if she'd known as much?  She'd said it was part of Dumbledore's plan, but Dumbledore had got himself killed and Harry wasn't sure if "Dumbledore's plan" was a recommendation.

"Cedric?" he asked now, having pulled his own wand, "You said that shouldn't have been able to happen -- being attacked like that.  Why not?"

They'd reached a street in one of the low-income areas around the station, the houses shabby with age and poorly kept up.  Harry began to worry more about street thugs than Death Eaters, boys like Dudley and his gang.  'Grimmauld Place' the street sign read.  "You've, er, been guarded," Cedric told him.

"Guarded?  By whom?"

"I can't say.  I just -- Harry, please.  You'll understand in a few minutes."

Frustrated, Harry fell silent and rubbed at his scar, which was prickling.  What was wrong with Cedric and all this nonsense about not being able to tell?  But he stayed with the older boy as Cedric headed towards the middle of a row of houses.  Abruptly, Cedric stopped, muttering to himself, "I don't want to leave you out here alone, but you can't see it and I couldn't have left you there."

"Can't see what?"

"Just wait."  Before Harry could protest at the vagueness, Cedric turned and said with white-faced seriousness, "This is probably stupid, but I don't think they could possibly have followed us.  Harry, I've got to leave you.  Just for a moment.  I'll be right back.  Trust me."

He took a step backwards and . . . disappeared to Harry's sight.  It wasn't even Disapparation -- he just disappeared.  That wasn't quite what Harry had expected, but he was too twitchy to give it much thought.  Cedric had said he'd be right back -- and since the Tournament, Harry trusted Cedric implicitly -- but he didn't trust the neighbourhood and wasn't sure Cedric understood where they were in Muggle terms.  Gripping his wand tightly in case he had to use it -- underage or not -- he only then noticed the blood on his wrist . . . the same wrist Cedric had been holding.  Was Cedric hurt?

In less than a minute, Cedric reappeared -- with Ron at his heels.  Thoroughly confused, Harry didn't even have the wit to speak as Ron reached out to embrace him -- aborting the gesture when he realized what he was doing and settling for a solid slap on the back instead.  "You're all right, mate.  Mum's sent word to McGonagall.  She'll be here soon."

"McGonagall?"  But Harry didn't inquire further, turning to Cedric instead.  "You're bleeding."  He held up his blood-smeared wrist.  "That's not mine."

Opening and closing his left hand, Cedric shrugged.  "I landed on some broken glass in the alley.  I'll be all right."

Before Harry could reply, McGonagall herself Apparated right onto the pavement dressed in full robes and hat as if she didn't care that Muggles were passing by.  And that more than anything else told Harry how dire the situation was, or had been.  "Number 12 Grimmauld Place," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place.  Repeat it, Potter."

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place," Harry said, and coalescing in front of him between two houses was a dank, dim third that looked like every stereotype of a Muggle haunted house:  peeling paint, hanging shutters, cobwebs, dirty windows and a look of long disuse.

"Now hurry inside," McGonagall ordered, "all three of you."  She glanced up and down the street, then followed up the path to the front door, which was flung open by Sirius, his face a study in anxious concern.

Harry dashed forward to fling himself at his godfather.  "Merlin's beard," Sirius whispered, hugging Harry tightly, then reaching past to clap Cedric's shoulder.  "Thank you.  If you hadn't been there -- " His voice closed off, and he shook his head.  "Just thank you."

Cedric only nodded, his own face still pale, but McGonagall was shooing them inside.  "Hurry."

"Can somebody tell me what's going on?" Harry demanded.  "And I expect my aunt and uncle will have realized by now that I'm gone."

"Shhh," said several voices at once even as an elderly witch in a portrait woke up and began shrieking madly:  "Halfblood filth and Blood traitors!  Be gone!  Be gone from here!"

Sirius spun to shout back, "Shut up, you old bat!" moving to pull a curtain across the painting as Hermione came hurrying down the hall to embrace Harry, curly hair flying, Ginny at her heels.

"You're safe!" she said.  "And don't worry about your things; Professor Lupin went to fetch them.  Everything's here, including Hedwig."

"Where's 'here'?" Harry asked, growing exasperated.

"My family home," Sirius said turning back from the now-muted painting.  "Welcome to the Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, Harry -- our little guerrilla group in the fight against You-Know-Who."
 

Part 2

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