Past Present
Minisinoo

1. Where Do We Go From Here?

Sirius double-checked the Muggle address to be certain he had the right house, even though Remus had led him virtually to the doorstep, afraid he'd get lost --

-- which was patently ridiculous.  Sirius had grown up in London.  He could read a map and find his way around just fine, but he'd let Remus coddle him because Remus enjoyed taking care of people.  Sometimes it was easier just to go with the flow, and he suspected he'd be facing enough of a challenge inside the neat little semi-detached.

He made his way up the short path through the front garden with its shaggy-green winter lawn, then rang the bell and waited.  A hound of some sort howled in the distance and there was a delay; he wondered if perhaps they were out, but a few minutes later, he heard a Muggle lock click over, then the door opened a fraction.  It was a man's face on the other side -- not rude, but not friendly.  He took in Sirius's attire and his eyebrow went up.  "Who are you?"

"Sirius Black, Mr. Granger.  Harry Potter's godfather.  May I come in?"  There was another pause and Sirius could see the other man weigh the wisdom of letting a wizard into his home -- what Sirius might do, and to what lengths he might go to steal away Hermione.  "Mr. Granger, please, I come as one worried parent to another.  I fully respect both your wish and your right to protect your child.  I'm here to talk to you -- nothing else."

Of course, he could have been lying, but either Charles Granger had decided to take him at his word, or didn't realise the full extent of memory-altering spells.  Or both.  He opened the door.

Sirius entered.  The home was neat and well-appointed, cosy, but not too small for a family of only three.  The predominant colours were cool pine greens and creams and browns.  There were a lot of books but not a lot of trinkets, and what they had of the latter bespoke an interest in world cultures.  Sirius spotted two African masks and antique Indian ivory-carved accent pieces, Tao paintings and woven tapestries that looked South American.  He smiled.  This was exactly like the sort of home he'd have expected to produce Hermione.

Dressed in Muggle clothing, she stood on the stairs, probably having heard his voice.  Her face was a study in hope and resentment.  Her father's face was dubious bordering on hostile, and her mother occupied the archway between the living room and dining area, wringing her hands and looking distressed.  Sirius held out his hand to Mr. Granger, who shook it, albeit reluctantly.  "Would you like tea?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you."  He smiled.  The tension was thick.

Hermione came the rest of the way down the stairs, glaring at her father.  "How's Harry?" she asked.

"Harry's fine.  He asked me to give this to you."  He held out a letter.

For a moment, Sirius feared Mr. Granger would snatch and confiscate it, but he didn't.  Hermione snatched it instead and actually shoved it down the front of her jumper for safe-keeping.

Not a good situation.

"If you've come to try to talk us into letting Hermione return to that school, you've wasted a trip," Mr. Granger said.  It was blunt, a laying of cards on the table.  Sirius could appreciate that.

"Actually," Sirius replied, "I came to explain the situation to both you and your wife, since it appears nobody else has had the courtesy to do so."  Sirius didn't approve of the decision to keep Hermione's parents in the dark about Voldemort.  For that matter, he hadn't even realised they had been kept so -- or he might have had something to say about it.

Mr. Granger appeared to be as surprised by that as Hermione . . . who eyed him as if he'd turned on and bit her.  When her father looked away momentarily, gesturing for him to have a seat, he shot Hermione a wink.  He wasn't sure he could do much about the Grangers' decisions, but he could try.  Taking the spot on the couch offered, he settled back.

Mrs. Granger had come into the room now as well.  Her husband seated himself in a plush brown armchair and she took the matching chair to the green-and-cream couch.  Hermione hovered in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, lower lip thrust out in a stubborn not-quite-pout.  A beagle trotted in past her legs and hopped up on the couch beside Sirius as if she owned the place.  "Chilli!" Mrs. Granger said, but Sirius grinned and reached out to rub the dog's head.

"Hullo there," he said.  "Aren't you a pretty thing?  How do you get along with Crookshanks?"

"Badly," Hermione admitted.

Sirius laughed.  "Remus and I should get a dog.  Harry never had a pet growing up.  Every boy needs a dog, don't you think?"  He turned his head and grinned at Hermione's parents.  It was honest but calculated.  They knew he was playing them, but seemed to consent to being played.  Mrs. Granger had smiled, and Mr. Granger's face softened slightly.  Hermione was struggling not to laugh.  Considering.

"Beagles are lovely," Mr. Granger said, "if you can put up with them chewing on everything, and that howl.  At least she's past the chewing stage.  Mostly."

Sirius continued to stroke the beagle's head, but turned his attention to Hermione's parents.  The pleasantries were over for the moment.  "I'm not sure what you know about the current situation in the Wizarding World, but I'm here to answer whatever questions you might have."

The Grangers seemed both surprised and a bit taken aback by the open-ended offer.  "Hermione explained several things when we got home after that awful murder at King's Cross," Mrs. Granger said.

"We didn't give her much choice," Mr. Granger added, shooting his daughter an angry glance that concealed worry, although Sirius doubted Hermione could see the latter.  "What I want to know is why Dumbledore or the school staff didn't send out letters to parents when all of this started?  When Dumbledore died last June, all we were told was that he'd been killed in a freak accident, not that he was murdered!"

Sirius puzzled over how best to reply without angering them further.  "I suspect you weren't told because the Wizarding World itself has been very divided over the exact nature of the threat, and the danger involved.  As you may know" -- his voice turned wry -- "I was blamed for some of the rising threat myself."

Mr. Granger frowned.  "Hermione mentioned that -- said you were framed for a murder you didn't commit."

"That's right.  New evidence came to light just this past August that allowed me a pardon, but I fear that's axiomatic of the problem.  Wizarding justice isn't the same as yours, and since June, matters have moved rather quickly.  Before June, the threat wasn't clear; Voldemort hadn't yet returned in the flesh, so it wasn't in The Daily Prophet headlines.  Dumbledore was killed on the same evening as Voldemort's resurrection, so I can't say what Dumbledore's response would have been in terms of alerting parents to the danger.  I do fear the parents of Muggleborn students are sometimes left out of the loop.  Harry's own mother -- Lily Evans -- was Muggleborn, you see, and Lily used to say that going home in the summer was like moving to another country.

"I fear what's common knowledge in our world isn't in yours and even someone like Dumbledore -- who's keener than most -- doesn't always remember that.  Again, I apologize for the oversight, but I suspect it resulted from a combination of not thinking, and general public resistance to the idea that Voldemort hadn't been killed the first time like everyone had thought -- and hoped."

He could see the Grangers weren't entirely satisfied with this.  "While what you say may be true," Hermione's father replied, "it doesn't excuse that 'oversight'.  It's a rather large one, from our point of view."

Sirius merely inclined his head in agreement.  "It is," he agreed, which seemed to mollify them a bit.  "That's why I'm here, as I said.  I had no idea you hadn't been informed.  And to be honest, until this past November, I wasn't at liberty to move about freely, in any case."

"You'd think Molly or Arthur would have said something," Mrs. Granger muttered, twisting her fingers.  The kettle whistled in the kitchen and she hopped up to go and make tea.

"I suspect they didn't think to," Sirius said, not adding that, well-meaning though they were and despite Arthur's interest in Muggles, they could be astonishingly blinkered.  He also wondered how much Hermione had been deliberately concealing, perhaps fearing her parents would react precisely as they were reacting.  The irony lay in the fact they were likely reacting so badly now because she hadn't told them more earlier.

Charles Granger sat forward in his chair, forearms resting on his knees and hands clasped in front of him.  He stared hard at Sirius.  "What exactly does this lunatic want?  And why did he target a little girl in the non-magical part of the railway station?  Hermione says she was Muggleborn too."

"She was," Sirius replied as Mrs. Granger returned and handed him a cup of tea, shaking his head at her silent offer of sugar or milk.  "The Ministry of Magic suspects she was targeted there because it was easier for Death Eaters to get to her once she'd left the protection of the magical platform."  His eyes flicked to Hermione.  "Muggleborn students are actually safer at the school, due to the large number of protective spells Hogwarts has acquired down the centuries."

"Yet it seems that this Voldemort has managed to infiltrate the place and attack Hermione's friend Harry several times," Hermione's father countered.

Sirius could only nod.  "No place in Britain is completely safe, I'm afraid, and Harry is a special target for him."  He took a sip of the tea, then set the cup on the coffee table in front of him.  "That doesn't discount the fact the school is safer for Muggleborn students than unwarded Muggle space -- "

"Like our house?" Hermione's mother asked.

Sirius's instinct was to reassure them, but he'd come here to tell the truth, so he answered, "Yes, I'm afraid so."  Hermione's parents exchanged worried glances, so he added, "I'd be happy to add wards to your home before I leave today."  Seeing their confusion, he explained, "Wards are the magical equivalent of locks.  They wouldn't affect your own coming or going, nor that of any Muggle who visits you, but they would make it difficult for one of Voldemort's followers to break into your home."  He didn't add that for Voldemort himself, nothing short of a Fidelius Charm would keep him out.  But Sirius also didn't think Voldemort inclined to bother with Hermione personally.  As a Muggle, she'd be an assignment for flunkies, at least for a first attack.

"Furthermore," he went on, "Hermione is more than welcome to stay at my house over the holidays; it's extremely well-guarded, even more so than the school.  That's why Harry's staying there, in fact.  Voldemort can't get to him."

The Grangers shared another look and Hermione frowned even more fiercely from her spot in the doorway.  "Some of these 'wards' couldn't hurt, I reckon," her father said, even as her mother asked, "How much does Voldemort know about our daughter?  As close as she is to Harry, I assume he knows quite a bit?"

"It's hard to say," Sirius replied.

"But if he targeted Harry in particular, he must have information about Harry's friends?"

"No doubt.  But how much he knows about them is unclear."  Sirius paused a moment, thinking, then explained, "Voldemort is known for distrusting others -- he doesn't have friends or confidants.  Therefore, he has a tendency to discount the friendships and loyalties of others."

This didn't seem to make much impact on the Grangers.  They nodded, but moved on to ask about Voldemort's ultimate goals, his history, the first war -- all of which Sirius did his best to answer.  Apparently Hermione had already explained a good deal, but they wanted to verify her story given what they hadn't been told in the past.  Sirius couldn't blame them.  Finally Mr. Granger returned to their chief concern: how much Voldemort might know about Hermione.  "He's aware she's 'Muggleborn' -- right?"

"Yes, I dare say he knows that much.  But I doubt he knows where she lives."

"But he could find out if he wanted to.  And we've no way to fight him -- "

"As I said, I'm more than happy to have Hermione stay with me in order to keep her safe."

Mr. Granger was shaking his head.  "It doesn't sound to me like there is a certain way of keeping her safe here in England.  You just said yourself that no place here is completely safe."

"Dad," Hermione interrupted, "nowhere in the world is 'safe'.  Life isn't safe.  I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.  Don't be overprotective!"

"There's a difference, Hermione Jean, between the normal danger of living and a danger you can guard against," Mr. Granger snapped, head half-turned towards her.  "It's our job as your parents to do that guarding.  That's not being overprotective."

"It's a war, dad!  Nobody's safe in a war!"

It was clear this was not a new argument.

"It's not a war you need to be a part of -- not until you're an adult anyway."  He turned back to Sirius.  "Our daughter is still a student, and learning.  We don't send children to war in this country -- not if we can help it."

Sirius had sworn to himself ahead of time that whatever happened, he wasn't going to lose his temper.  The problem was that he had a temper, and could feel the beginning burn of it.  "Nor do we, Charles.  Nor do we."

"Good.  I'm glad you see it that way.  You'll understand then when I say we're looking into relocating immediately -- outside England."

"And I refuse to leave," Hermione butted in, giving a little nod of her head.

Mr. Granger ignored her, but Sirius felt his own eyebrows rise.  "Hermione needs to continue her magical education -- "

"We understand that -- and she will.  But not in England; there are other schools on the continent."

"Dad!" Hermione half-shouted.  "I already told you, I'm not going.  I can't just leave Harry and Viktor, and Ron and Ginny and Neville and Cedric -- "

"Hermione, be quiet.  And forgive me, Sirius, I know Harry's your godson, but it's also clear he's a magnet for this Voldemort who might try to get to him through our daughter.  Or just decide to kill her because she was born in our world.  I'm not really sure we can trust your government to keep us informed, given that they haven't to date, and while I'd like to believe what you say about Hermione's safety at school and at your house, she's our only child.  She's all we have."

He glanced at his wife again, who gave a little nod.  Hermione had fallen silent, but her face was mutinous and she looked ready to cry.  "We'll be leaving as soon as we can arrange things, set up a practice in France, perhaps.  Hermione can go to school there.  Her French is good."

"I don't want to go to Beauxbatons!  You can't make me!"

Her father finally turned to her, his expression more tired than angry.  "You sound like you're six, not sixteen."

"Well, you're being completely unreasonable!  I told you -- I can't leave Harry!  I'm his friend!  He needs me."

"If he's your friend, he'll want you safe.  As for needing you, your mother and I know you're talented and we're proud of you, Hermione, even if we don't necessarily understand magic.  But you're not an adult.  I dare say, Mr. Black here knows a good deal more magic than you do and can help Harry just as well if not better.  There's a difference between confidence and arrogance."

Father and daughter glared for several long moments before Hermione spun on her heel and stalked back to the stairwell.  "I hate you!" she snapped before running upstairs.

Her mother flinched but her father remained resolute.  "And we love you.  That's why we're doing this," he called after her.

"You don't understand!" she shouted back before a door slammed somewhere above.

That was, Sirius recognized, the classic objection of youth to the decisions of adults.  He'd made it himself on more than one occasion.  Now -- as an adult -- he recognized that while sometimes the accusations were true, more often, they weren't.  Adults understood perfectly well, they just didn't agree, and children, even teens, were too subjective to realise that 'understanding' didn't automatically equate to agreement.  Sirius thought Charles and Helen Granger understood exactly -- they understood they were ill-equipped as Muggles to stand against Voldemort, that Hermione was a special target as a Muggleborn, and that her best friend just happened to be Voldemort's great enemy, putting her only slightly left of a madman's bull's-eye.

So they were going to remove her from the target area

Mr. Granger turned back to Sirius.  "She may hate us, but she'll be alive to hate us," he said, then sighed.  "Thank you for coming here to speak with us, even if it only cemented our decision.  As things stand now, we think the best choice for Hermione is to continue her education elsewhere.  We won't try to make her leave your world altogether, but we will make her leave England while she's in danger."

Both Hermione's parents wore closed expressions.  They were being polite, but Sirius suspected they'd become rapidly less so if he pushed.  Mr. Granger had stood, an indication that the conversation was at an end.  Sirius stood as well, but he hadn't given up quite yet.  "If that's your decision, I'll respect it -- but I do feel the need to point out that simply crossing the Channel won't deter Voldemort."  Taking a deep breath, he played what he hoped would be his trump card.  "You'd need to put an entire ocean between you and England.  It still might not stop him if he were determined, but I doubt he'd think it worth the effort for one Muggleborn."

Both the Grangers eyed him strangely.  "You're actually advising that we take her further away?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Granger -- Charles and Helen -- I promised I would be honest.  Simply moving to the continent won't stop him if he decides to come after you.  Voldemort is extremely dangerous, extremely powerful, and extremely resourceful.  He obeys no laws except his own, and fears very little.  It would take only a moment's Apparition for him -- the blink of an eye -- to cross the Channel into France.  So if it is your decision to leave the country, I must advise you to go as far away as you can.  But honestly, we can protect Hermione ourselves.  She'd be safer in my own house less than half this city away from you than away at Beauxbatons."

This news about Voldemort seemed to alarm them both further, and he was sorry, but he was also telling them the promised truth, if for an ulterior motive.  Nonetheless, they weren't so easily swayed.  "Perhaps we're missing something," Mrs. Granger said, "but if a wizarding house can be made safe from this Voldemort, why have so many of you been murdered by him?"

It was a good question, if a somewhat uninformed one.  "Just as all locks on your houses aren't the same, so with us.  I've promised to ward your own home today, and will as I leave, but my father was beyond paranoid.  He made our house safer than the Bank of England, and some very talented witches and wizards have added to that since.  I wasn't exaggerating when I said Voldemort couldn't get to Hermione there.  She'd be perfectly safe until it was time for her to return to Hogwarts."

"Until," Mr. Granger said.  "That's the problem, isn't it?  People have to leave houses eventually.  I want her safe, Sirius -- but I'd like to avoid locking her away in a cage to do it."  Hands on hips, the other man sighed.  "Thank you for warning us about how far we might have to go, but I think we'll look into that.  I want my daughter to see the sun and be able to walk around freely without fearing for her life.  If we change our minds, we'll . . . get in touch with you."

This time, as they were already standing, Mr. Granger actually walked to the door and opened it -- which came about as close to, 'We've heard you out, now go away,' as he could get without actually saying it.  Sirius felt his lips thin; he didn't like to lose.  He'd thought he could talk them around by pointing out just how far they'd have to go to achieve the safety he could offer much closer to home, but he honestly hadn't expected them to choose to move.  Viktor was probably going to kill him.  More to the point, he didn't like the notion that Harry would now be missing one of his chief pillars of emotional support at school.

And yet . . . he did understand.  It was one thing to be reckless with one's own safety, quite another to risk one's child's.  So he nodded to both the Grangers and stepped out the door, albeit adding, "When she turns 17, she'll be an adult."  That was only a year off.

"In your world," Mr. Granger said.  "Not in ours.  We're her legal guardians until she's 18.  At that point, she can make her own choices.  Until then, we'll do what we have to, to protect her."

Sirius paused and looked both of them in the eye.  "I understand.  I truly do.  But I have to say -- when she turns 17, she'll be able to do magic on her own.  You won't be able to keep her from leaving home if she wants to.  And if you don't want to lose her permanently, don't try."

"Is that a threat?" Mr. Granger asked, somewhere between astonished and defensive.

"No," Sirius said.  "Not from me, anyway.  I told you when I came here that I respected your right to protect your daughter.  I'm speaking now as someone who left home himself because his parents tried to make him into something he wasn't.  I'm sure they thought they were doing what was best for me too."  Well, he didn't really believe that, but he did believe it of the Grangers, and that was the connection he was trying to make here.

"But it wasn't best for me.  The hardest part of parenting a teenager, I'm finding, is deciding how much they can decide for themselves, and where you really do need to step in for their own good.  They're not quite adults, but they're not kids.  Maybe I'll err on the side of letting Harry decide too much, but I'd rather that than the reverse and see him leave in order to be free like I left my parents."

And that . . . had probably gone too far.  Both Grangers looked angry and insulted.  Sirius was glad he was already outside or they'd likely have thrown him out, regardless of his promise to put up wards.  Mr. Granger simply turned away and went back into the house, but Mrs. Granger glared at him a moment before saying, "Thank you for telling us how to raise our child based on your vast years of experience raising Harry."  And she slammed the door in his face.

He'd probably earned that, but he hoped they'd also consider carefully what he'd said.

Compartmentalizing had been a necessary life skill for Cedric.  He'd learned how not to think about certain things or risk giving himself away, and thus, had grown adept at concealing his feelings -- a master actor.  Lately, however, the hidden parts of his life kept colliding with the rest.  He and Harry weren't just friends any more, and Cedric had spent the final week before the holidays counting minutes in class or at meals until he could pass Harry in the hallway, or meet him in the library for a while.  Where once he'd partitioned off those feelings from his normal thoughts, now not only did they insist on intruding, they'd taken over.  He'd waste hours mooning over pictures of Harry behind the privacy of his bed curtains.

He was in love.  Honest to God, head-over-heels in love, and it leaked into everything.  Before, a set of tried-and-true methods had kept his nasty little desires to a minimum, but none of that worked anymore, and he'd begun to wonder if he were . . . well, normal.  He grew hard and frantic at inconvenient times, physically distressed, and ducked into a toilet stall to wank in the middle of the day because his mind couldn't stay away from Harry.  He should've been ashamed, or at least embarrassed, but it didn't feel nasty.  It didn't.  And what they'd shared the previous summer in his office -- that hadn't felt nasty either.  Even if that Harry wasn't his Harry, it hardly mattered for fantasies.  Sometimes he'd wank as much as four times a day and wasn't sure if that made him some sort of freak.  He'd never discussed such things with other boys, even his roommates.  Prudery was only part of it; the rest was fear of being asked questions he didn't want to answer.  So he had no idea what anybody else did, or how often they did it, but he seemed to have a one-track mind in a way he'd never suffered before.  And at home over the holidays, with no classes or homework to distract him, he seemed to do nothing but daydream, recalling that first experience with Older Harry in his office.

He was going to have to find a new way to distinguish between the two Harrys soon, because in six months, Older Harry wouldn't be older anymore.  Perhaps he should call him Other Harry, or -- more appropriately -- Out-of-Time Harry.  That's how their one-night encounter seemed now: outside of time.  The further it receded into the past, the more surreal it became, like something he'd made up in his head.  Wild sex with Harry Potter on the floor of his Captain's office?  Things like that didn't happen in real life.  Yet when he considered it objectively, he understood the whole situation had been extreme -- a desperate bid on Harry's part to save his life, coupled with his own fear of possible, immanent demise . . . When uncertain one would still be breathing in 24 hours, one didn't turn down the chance at a go with a longtime crush.  Yet that made Cedric's memory of the whole encounter not quite real, something glimpsed in the distance through a heat haze off pavement.

With his Harry, now, things weren't so rushed.  Neither of them was dying tomorrow, or at least, that didn't seem likely.  And that was why he'd invited Harry to his Captain's office before the holidays -- he'd wanted to replace the old memory with a new one, replace out-of-time Harry with real Harry, his Harry.  It had only partly worked.  He'd kept getting worked up that afternoon and had needed to pull back several times, finally halting their snogging altogether -- although snogging Harry anywhere would likely be enough to get him worked up.

He was definitely worked up now just lying on his bed and thinking about it, hands tucked safely behind his head and eyes on the ceiling, not staring at any of the photographs of Harry he'd nicked from old copies of The Daily Prophet, or at the Muggle photos of pretty men from the magazines Sirius had given him.  He liked looking at those pictures -- fit men with bare chests and tight jeans -- a little too well.  Was it wrong to fantasize about the bodies of strangers when his heart belonged to somebody in particular?  For that matter, was it wrong to fantasize about the body of that particular somebody when the owner of it didn't know anything had happened?

You're over-thinking it, Cedric told himself, although he sure as hell didn't plan to tell Harry about last summer any time soon.  What his Harry didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and knowing would likely only upset him.  Older Harry was never coming back, and he wasn't the one Cedric was in love with anyway.  If Cedric knew that, technically, his two Harrys were the same person, they also manifestly weren't.  Older Harry was . . . well, older.  And not just in chronological age.  There had been a jaded edge to that Harry; his innocence had been gone.  Yet despite the loss of Dumbledore, Cedric's Harry wasn't so sad and beaten down.  He remained naive in ways Cedric didn't think the other had been, and it had nothing to do with sex.

Oh, bugger, Cedric thought, pulling one hand out from behind his head and reaching down to undo his zip.  This was getting absurd.  He wasn't sure if he wanted to go fast or slow, caught between a pressured need and the exquisite privacy of his own room and a closed door (and the certainty that his parents wouldn't just barge in without knocking first).

He finally settled on taking his time, fingers sliding up and down the rigid shaft, loose skin moving with them.  With his other hand, and despite the chilly air, he pushed up his jumper so he wouldn't mess it up with spunk, then ran a palm all over his belly, making himself shiver.  Blood had pooled in his groin and if he knew his prick wasn't really hot -- or no more so than a human body part could be, even engorged -- it felt as if it burned, and so-so sensitive.

He imagined it was Harry's hand folded around him, doing these things, stroking the big vein on the underside, teasing the head and making slow circles on his sweet spot until he bit his lower lip, stifling sounds in the (admittedly unlikely) event one of his parents walked past his door.  Being in the attic had advantages.  After a while, he began pumping fast into his hand, making little gasps.  His brain had been pushed past coherent fantasy to random images -- a twitching cock in his mouth, hands cupping and stroking his balls, fingers pinching his nipples, his own cock buried to the hilt in a smooth, round arse -- then he was coming in short bursts all over his hand and stomach.  That was the third time today.  He should stop letting himself count; it was making him crazy.

Vanishing the sticky mess, he tucked himself back inside, zipping up and still breathing heavily.  He felt languid now, relaxed, but knew it wouldn't last.  He'd be wanking again before sleep and that would be four, or maybe even five if he couldn't keep his hands off himself that evening.

A part of him wondered why he should keep his hands off himself at all?  If it were soft breasts and hot, wet fannies he was imagining, would he be so fussed about it?  Boys fantasized such things all the time -- straight boys.  It was normal.  Ergo, it must be normal for a gay boy to fantasize about cocks and arses, shouldn't it?

Yet that was the problem.  He didn't quite believe that it was normal.  Despite everything he'd read -- and all right, perhaps it hadn't been so much and it hadn't been so long -- but he still couldn't accept, deep down inside, that it was normal.  So if it wasn't normal, he shouldn't want to do it, and he certainly shouldn't want to do it so many times a day.  He must be abnormal in the degree of his sex drive just like he was in the direction of it.

He just didn't know what to think anymore.

But he knew somebody he could ask -- somebody who'd tell him, if he could suck it up and let himself be laughed at for the inquiry.

Determined (and feeling a little desperate), he rose from his bed, locked his door with a tap of his wand, then crossed to his desk, digging in the drawer with the false bottom to fetch out the diary.  He also pulled free one of the pictures he kept there of Harry, cut from The Daily Prophet.  This, he laid on his desktop at his elbow, unable to keep from smiling at the moving figure in it.  Then he sat down, pricked his finger to open the diary, and wrote.

You're going to laugh at me, I know it, but how much wanking is too much.  In one day, I mean?

There was a long, long pause as there sometimes was, and Cedric wondered if the spirit in a diary could sleep?  But after almost a full minute, it responded:

Well, I'd laugh if I had a mouth.  How much is too much?  I suppose if your prick gets sore, that's too much, otherwise . . . What the fuck sort of question is that, Cedric?  I mean really, how can you wank too much?  As long as you're not hurting yourself . . . 

Trust Regulus to be practical about it.  I don't know what's normal, Cedric admitted.

I don't think there's any such thing, the diary replied.  However much you wank is normal for you.  I reckon it depends on a lot of things.  I mean, sometimes I wanked a lot, sometimes just once a day.

Cedric blinked at 'just' once a day.  What was a lot?  he wrote after a minute.  I mean, what did do you consider a lot?

I don't know, the diary replied.  Five, six times a day?  Didn't do it that much very often, but yeah, I suppose six is the most I ever did in one day.  But I remember once managing to edge for over an hour, then cumming.  It almost hurt, but boy, did it feel good.

Feeling even more stupid, Cedric wrote, Edge?   Although he thought he could probably guess.

Keeping yourself on the edge for as long as you can.  There was a pause before it continued, I think you need lessons.

I don't need lessons, Cedric replied, a little indignant.  I just don't always know the terms.  I thought that might be what you meant.

What's the longest you've edged?

You're a pervert, Cedric replied.  But he'd become a bit, well, fond of Regulus's blunt nature.  Now, he added, I haven't exactly timed it with a pocket watch.  Half an hour maybe?  Longer?  I don't know.

Well, at least you're not a one-minute miracle.   And that made Cedric laugh, because there were times he could be.  How much have you wanked in a day -- since you were asking me?

Four times, Cedric replied.  Usually not that much, but four was the most.   He wasn't about to tell Regulus there had been a time in his past when he'd not let himself wank at all, wet dreams being his only relief, and then he'd beat himself up for those lapses.

You're worried four times is too much -- at eighteen?  the diary asked.  With a new boyfriend?  I'd say you're pretty much the same as anybody else.

The same as anybody else?  I'm not sure I'd go that far, he wrote.  I doubt any of my roommates are thinking about pricks and arses while they're doing it.

He felt delightfully dirty writing that, and wondered at himself.  Regulus was corrupting him.

Oh, the diary replied, I dare say more blokes are thinking about pricks -- at least occasionally -- than want to admit as much to themselves.  De-Nile isn't just a river in Egypt.

That made Cedric smile.  I don't think about girl bits, so I'm sure there are those who don't think about boy bits.

No doubt, but I'd say being so firmly to one side or the other is atypical, Cedric.  Notice I didn't say abnormal.  You worry about that too much.  They aren't the same thing.

Sometimes, Cedric reflected, Regulus could make very astute points.

Thanks, Cedric wrote.  For being honest.

No problem.  Now don't put me away -- I want to hear about this party of my brother's that you mentioned . . .

Home.

It was, in so many ways, a foreign concept for Harry.  He'd grown up in a house, not a home, and without parents who he could remember -- the unwanted hanger-on.  Hogwarts had become a home of sorts, but it was still a school, and as clichéd as it seemed, it was that most basic of claims to humanity that he'd longed for most.  Home and family.

And now, miraculously, he had them, although perhaps not typical by any means.  The Dursleys had counted themselves the epitome of typical -- blessedly boring -- and Harry couldn't imagine anything he'd want less than to be like the Dursleys.  So if he had two fathers and lived in an enchanted townhouse with moving portraits, talking mirrors, and a cauldron that stirred itself, hidden from the sight of ever-so-normal Muggles like the Dursleys, that suited him just fine.

At least there were no longer doxies in the draperies, mummified elf heads on the hallway walls, and a murderous ghoul in the upstairs toilet.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place wore a pleasanter countenance these days, at least inside.  The exterior continued to look like a haunted house with dirty glass, cobwebbed window casing, and peeling paint.  "Not much point in cleaning that up," Sirius had said, "so long as it's under a Fidelius Charm and the only people who can get here are in the Order of the Phoenix.

But inside . . . oh, the inside had undergone the most amazing of transformations.  Harry wasn't even sure he'd entered the right door when he first arrived back from the railway station with Sirius, although Sirius had been so distracted by the murdered girl that he'd missed Harry's initial gasp of surprise and it was only after a double-take that a small smile stole onto his face -- one that grew even wider when a pop announced a new arrival.  "Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby cried, hands clasped together in front of him and great eyes wide with adoration.  "Dobby is so pleased to see you home!  I have been cooking all afternoon and we has shepherd's pie and fresh bread with butter and peas and carrots, and treacle tart for dessert!"

Harry stood for half a minute, jaw dropped, too astonished to speak.  "Dobby?" he asked finally, eyes shifting from the elf to Sirius, who shrugged.

"He needed a job," Sirius explained, as if it were no more than that, although his smug little grin gave away his pleasure at having been able to surprise Harry.

And Harry grinned back so widely he thought his face would split right in two.  He didn't know what to say; joy robbed him of speech and he looked past Sirius down the short stairwell to where Remus leaned against the doorjamb leading into the basement kitchen.  He appeared well fed for a change, and relatively healthy.  And he was smiling.

Glancing around the little hallway then, Harry took it all in.  The wallpaper had been cleaned to show cream beneath, not aged yellow, with a tasteful pattern of twisted, wine-coloured vines and tiny green leaves.  A hat-and-coat rack of old teak occupied one side, brass accents gleaming, and the matching teak stair rail was polished, too, the heads of Kreacher's ancestors gone from the walls.  The black curtain still covered the portrait of Mrs. Black, but she wasn't shrieking, and poinsettias filled a vase on a little side table just inside the door.  Even the overhead candle chandelier had been cleaned of its former cobwebbed glory.

"What happened to this place?" Harry had asked.

"The Black fortune happened to it," Remus replied with a grin.

Sirius shot him a fond glare, correcting, "Actually, we owe Dobby quite a debt."  The elf blushed at that.  "He did most of the work."

"Mr. Black was most generous in hiring Dobby," Dobby replied before Disapparating abruptly, as if unable to handle the open praise.

"You're back sooner than I expected," Remus said, climbing the short bank of stairs to join them in the hall.

Sirius's pleased expression disappeared.  "There was an incident . . . " And the rest of Harry's first evening at home passed in discussion of the murder and what repercussions it might bring.

Three days later, Harry was still marvelling at the changes in the house.  If the cleaning job and make-over weren't complete yet, the kitchen, pantry and drawing room showed enormous change -- especially the drawing room.  Decorated now in rich burgundy and browns with brass accents and bright lamps, it vaguely echoed the Gryffindor common room.  Or perhaps that was just the colours.  There was an old writing table and a teak secretary, sofas and chairs and an antique phonograph (apparently Remus's), plus a chess set.  Of the old furniture, only the secretary and tall teak shelving remained lining the walls, and the Black family tapestry.  Apparently, Sirius still couldn't get it down, but where once names had been blasted from its surface, the fabric had been repaired and names returned, including Sirius's own.

"Look here," Sirius had said that first night after Dobby's dinner fit for an army.  He'd taken Harry over to the tapestry to show him the repairs . . . and new additions.  Connected to Sirius's name now was Remus Lupin.  "So, it's not legally recognized," Sirius had said.  "I don't much care.  Spending twelve years in Azkaban is enough to teach a man to stop playing games."  But dropping down from the connector between Sirius and Remus was another line, stitched in broken dashes.  It led to Harry Potter.  Sirius had laid a hand on Harry's shoulder.  "You're my heir now, Harry -- all the paperwork's been taken care of.  No changing of names, of course, or formal adoption.  For your own safety, you have to remain a ward of the Dursleys, if only technically, until you're seventeen.  But for all intents and purposes, mi casa es su casa."  He'd winked.  "You even have your own bedroom.  Would you like to see it?"

Harry didn't cry often, but that evening, he'd stood there, trying to blink back tears even while nodding.

And now, three days later, he was lying on his bed in his room, staring up at the red canopy above him.  It was, actually, Sirius's old bedroom on the top landing, but Harry had never been in there.  Sirius had told him, as he'd ushered him in, that he'd taken down all his old personal items.  "I left the decor for now.  It's all Gryffindor colours, of course -- mostly done to annoy my parents.  But you can redecorate however you'd like.  It's your room now, Harry."

"Red and gold is fine," Harry had said, gaping around at the great bed with its carved wooden headboard, desk, chair, tall bookshelves, and wardrobe.  The walls had looked oddly blank, but Harry had been able to make out faint unfaded squares on the silvery wallpaper that even Dobby's cleaning couldn't fix where pictures must once have hung.  Only one picture still hung there.  Harry had walked over to see it -- all four of the Marauders in their school robes: his dad, Remus, Sirius . . . and Peter Pettigrew.

"I left it," Sirius had said.  "But we can take it down.  Peter's in it."

Harry had shaken his head.  "No.  No, leave it.  That was before.  He was your friend, then."

It was still the only picture on the walls.  And Harry lay in his bed thinking about his room and what he wanted to do with it.  He'd never been allowed to make such choices before, and it had taken him three whole days before it really sunk in that he could do whatever he wanted here.

He was thinking about blue.  He liked blue.  He liked red, too, but with everything at school in red, he got tired of it.  So blue it would be -- blue was a good colour and would go well with the silvery walls.  Blue also reminded him of Cedric for some reason.

Cedric, who'd be here tomorrow.

With everything else going on, Harry found himself occasionally forgetting about Cedric's visit.  Then he'd remember again and it would startle him, put a silly grin on his face.  Harry wondered what Cedric would think of Sirius's remodelled house.  He also wondered where Cedric would sleep.  Not with Harry.  There was just the one bed in this room and even if there wasn't, well . . . boys or not, Harry doubted Sirius would let Cedric share with Harry like Ron had last summer.

And the reasons behind that were rather odd to think about.

Yet Cedric couldn't have the old room Harry had shared with Ron, either.  Viktor was staying there while in England.  Sirius had the space and saw no reason for Viktor to rent, although in the last three days, Harry hadn't seen much of Viktor, who was out doing work for the Order . . . or seeing as much of Hermione as her parents would allow.

And wasn't that situation a mess?  Sirius had gone to visit the Grangers that evening to try to talk them into changing their minds about withdrawing Hermione from Hogwarts.  That's why Harry was up here lying on his bed -- awaiting news.  What would he and Ron do without Hermione?  They'd all been friends almost since the beginning and the prospect of having their trio ripped asunder left him aching.  Hermione had to be returning to Hogwarts, she had to.  Anything else was simply beyond his ability to conceptualize.

Further musings about colours or Cedric or Hermione were tabled by the sound of the front door opening.  Harry was off the bed like a shot, hurrying down the stairs.  "Sirius?" he called, feet thudding on the steps.  He could be louder now.  If the portrait of Sirius's mother hadn't been removed, Dobby had managed to do something to it so the curtains remained shut.  As long as they weren't too loud, she stayed quiescent.  Elf magic.  Kreacher could probably have done the same, but would hardly have been willing.

And speaking of Kreacher, Harry thought he caught a glimpse of lambent eyes in the dark of a room on the third floor as he hurried past.  The third floor remained mostly untouched.  Sirius had been unwilling to take his parents' old bedroom there.  Instead, he and Remus had enlarged a room on the first floor to become the master bedroom, and Kreacher -- who regarded Dobby as an interloper (unsurprisingly) -- kept to the third floor, the attic, or, Harry suspected, Regulus's old room on the same landing as his own.

"Sirius," he said again as he reached the foyer, but could tell just from his godfather's expression that his mission to the Grangers' hadn't been successful.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Sirius said with a heavy sigh, hanging up his cloak.  "They're planning to take her out of the country."

"Out of the country!" Harry nearly shouted . . . and that was too loud.

The curtains to Mrs. Black's portrait ripped open and she began shrieking, "What have you done to my house, you ungrateful brat?   Shame and woe to the Noble House of Black!"

"Shut up, you old bat," Sirius told her dully even as Dobby appeared on the spot, rushing to close the curtains.

"So sorry!" he cried.  "So sorry!"

"Don't worry about it, Dobby," Harry said.  "It was my fault."

He followed Sirius down the short flight of stairs into the kitchen, his head lowered, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.  Viktor waited at the table, his expression resigned as if he'd not really expected a better outcome.  Remus apparently wasn't home yet from his late afternoon tutoring gig.  "So what did they say?" Harry asked.

Plopping down in his usual seat at the head of the table, Sirius related the gist of his conversation with the Grangers while Dobby puttered about making tea and setting out freshly baked biscuits.  Scottish shortbread today.  Harry took a handful, but nearly spat crumbs all over the tabletop when Sirius told them just how far away the Grangers planned to take Hermione.

"Overseas!" he squeaked.  Viktor wasn't speaking, but his face had turned even grimmer if possible.

Sirius shrugged and didn't quite look at them.  "I felt I had to warn them that just going to France wouldn't be far enough.  I never . . . well, I didn't actually expect them to go that far.  I reckoned they'd decide it would be too difficult to arrange and let Hermione stay here."

"She is all they have," Viktor broke in.  "They love her.  They would go to the ends of earth for her."

"Obviously," Sirius returned, and Harry wondered if he were imagining the slight edge of bitterness in his godfather's tone.  "I seem to have underestimated them."

"Did they say where they will choose to go?" Viktor asked.

"No.  I surprised them with it; they've not had time to consider.  I'm not even sure when they plan to leave.

"By end of year," Krum said.  "Hermione told it to me earlier when I visit.  They will rent out their house and re-, ah, re- -- they will move business appointments with peoples to the other dentists.  Their excuse is family emergency."

Harry and Sirius just nodded, then all three of them sat in glum silence for several long minutes, digesting the magnitude of the Granger's decision.  Finally, Sirius looked up at Viktor and said, "You came all this way, left your team and Bulgaria -- "

Viktor was shaking his head.  "I would do so again.  I am needed here, and Hermione, she will be seventeen next September."  He didn't add that, as an adult, she could then return to Britain.  Viktor rubbed at his eyes.  "I will spend as much time with her as the parents will allow, and there are portkeys for visiting.  She will be away, and safe."

Harry nodded, and so did Sirius, if more slowly.  Harry felt almost guilty for having been thinking, earlier, that Cedric would be here tomorrow.  Yet he hadn't -- really -- expected something this drastic.  Lately, it seemed as if for every good thing in his life, something bad followed.

2. Colours

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