You were still catching your breath when they lifted you on someone’s shoulders.

The Common Room was loud — louder than usual, even by Hufflepuff standards — and someone had conjured yellow and black confetti that stuck to your hair and robes. Arms wrapped around you. Everyone was cheering your name.

You’d caught the Snitch. You’d won the match. You were the star of the day.

And Cedric had been watching the whole thing — the dive, the bruised landing, the golden glint between your fingers.

The second your feet hit the ground again, your body aching and your fingers sore from gripping your broom so hard, you saw him across the crowd. Laughing, smiling, pride glowing in his chest like sunlight. And even though he was swarmed with people — team, friends, admirers — he looked right at you.

And smirked.

You swore your heart skipped.

Later, when most of the House was either dancing or half-asleep by the fire, you’d slipped away to a quiet corner, your legs curled under you on the worn armchair, your hand still faintly throbbing from the fall. You were blinking up at the ceiling, the high from the match slowly softening into something warm and sleepy.

That’s when he came over.

Cedric.

Captain Diggory.

Still in his practice jumper, hair slightly damp, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with something that wasn’t just adrenaline. He didn’t say anything — just sat beside you on the armrest, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

You both sat like that for a while. Watching the fire. Letting the world around you buzz and blur.

Then, quietly, like he didn’t want to break the moment:

“You were incredible today.”

You smiled, cheeks burning more from his tone than the compliment. “Thank you, Captain.”

He scoffed softly. “You can drop the ‘Captain’ bit now. I think we’re past that.”

You looked up at him, brows raised. “Are we?”

He smiled. And there it was again — that look. That soft, private smirk he only ever gave you. Like he was seeing something no one else saw.

“I think we might be,” he murmured.

You didn’t know what to say. Your heart was thudding too hard in your chest for words. So instead, you looked down at your hand, the bruised one, your knuckles scraped from the dive. You flexed your fingers. Winced a little.

He noticed.

“Let me see,” he said, gently taking your hand in his.

You let him.

His fingers were warm. Callused, but gentle. He turned your palm, traced over the reddened skin with his thumb. His brows furrowed slightly, lips pressing into a line of concern.

Then he kissed your knuckles.

Soft. Careful. Barely there.

And then another, a little longer. Right where the bruise was.