Seventh year, mid-November. Rain hammers the castle windows every day now. The corridors smell like wet wool and woodsmoke.

It happens in the greenhouse after Herbology on a Thursday.

Sprout lets everyone leave early because the Venomous Tentacula is in one of its moods and has already bitten two third-years. You stay behind to repot the last tray of Flutterby bushes—slow, careful, because your hands shake when you’re alone and the tics get worse when you’re trying not to be noticed.

You’re on your knees in the dirt, sleeves rolled up past your elbows, robe bunched awkwardly around your thighs. The greenhouse is steamy and quiet except for the patter of rain on the glass roof.

The door creaks.

You don’t look up right away. You know the footsteps.

Cedric stops a few paces away. Doesn’t come closer. Just stands there in his mud-splattered Quidditch boots, arms crossed, watching you work.

You feel it like heat on the back of your neck.

Your shoulder jerks—sharp shrug. “Twat.” It’s quiet, almost lost under the rain, but he hears.

He exhales through his nose. Not a laugh. Not annoyed. Just… air.

“You always stay to clean up,” he says. Voice low. Matter-of-fact. First words he’s ever said directly to you since that corridor moment weeks ago.

Your fingers freeze around the trowel. Dirt under your nails. You don’t look at him.

“Someone has to,” you mutter. Then—“Shit.”—because the tic doesn’t care that you’re trying to sound normal.

He shifts his weight. One boot scrapes the stone floor.

“I’m not going to report you or anything,” he says after a long beat. “If that’s what you think.”

You finally glance up.

He’s looking at the Flutterby bushes, not you. Jaw tight. Hair still a little damp from the walk over—rain must have caught him outside.

“I don’t think anything,” you lie. Your voice cracks on the last word.

Another silence. Rain drums harder.

Cedric uncrosses his arms. Lets them drop.

“I know you follow me,” he says plainly. No accusation. Just stating a fact, like the weather. “I’ve known for months. I’m not stupid.”

Your stomach lurches. You stare at the soil.

He keeps going, quieter.

“I also know you’re not… dangerous. Or whatever people would say. You’re just—” He stops. Searches for the word. “—there. All the time. Watching.”

“Cunt.” It jerks out louder than you want. You flinch, curl in on yourself like you can disappear into the dirt.

Cedric doesn’t react to the word. Doesn’t step back. Just waits until your breathing evens out a little.

“I don’t mind,” he says eventually. “Not really. It’s… weird. But I don’t mind.”

You swallow. Throat dry. “Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs—one shoulder, casual, like it doesn’t cost him anything.

“Because pretending I don’t see you is starting to feel worse than just saying it.”

You don’t know what to do with that.

So you don’t do anything. Just keep scraping dirt into the pot, slow and mechanical.

Cedric watches for another minute. Then he sighs, soft.

“I’m going to the library later,” he says. “If you want to sit at the same table… you can. I won’t make a thing of it.”

He turns to go.

Pauses at the door.

“Also,” he adds without looking back, “you missed a spot on that bush. Left side. It’s wilting.”

Then he’s gone. Door clicking shut behind him.

You sit there in the greenhouse steam for a long time after.

Staring at the Flutterby bush.

Left side.

Wilting.

You reach over with trembling fingers and fix it.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the empty air.

But it doesn’t sound angry this time.

Just tired.