The Diggory living room was dimly lit, all amber warmth and creaky floorboards, smelling faintly of firewood and lavender polish. The magical radio had fizzled out ages ago, leaving a low, familiar quiet—broken only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the soft ticking of the enchanted clock in the hallway.

Cedric shifted slightly, blinking away the fog of sleep. His shoulder ached—clearly not meant to be used as a pillow all night—and the weight against his side was gentle but unmistakable.

You.

Pressed against him, breathing soft and even.

Your head had slipped onto his shoulder sometime during the movie, your legs now tangled lazily with his on the old corduroy sofa. You were curled into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world—like you hadn’t just spent the past few years pretending he was still just “your best friend’s older brother,” like something hadn’t changed this summer and neither of you knew what to do about it.

Cedric didn’t dare move.

Because Merlin, it hadn’t always felt like this.

He remembered you as the tiny hurricane from two doors down, the girl who followed him and his broom everywhere when you were little, always wearing lopsided pigtails and determined scowls. You’d cried when he left for his first year at Hogwarts—sworn to never speak to him again—and wrote him six times before Christmas anyway. Every time their families got together, you’d shadow him relentlessly, duel him with sticks in the garden, accuse him of cheating at Exploding Snap, and steal all the chocolate frogs from his bag.

He’d always been the one who looked out for you. Who taught you how to ride a broom. Who chased off older kids that teased you. You were practically family.

But now… you were fifteen.

And that was suddenly not so little anymore.

Your laugh had gotten sharper over the years—more knowing, more wicked when aimed at him. The way you said “shut up, Cedric” lately always came with a grin and a punch to his arm that stayed warm long after. You wore perfume now, something soft and citrusy, and he’d noticed how your hair caught the light differently, how your eyes narrowed with challenge instead of mischief when you sparred in conversation.

Puberty had hit you like a bloody hex, and he was not prepared.

And tonight? You’d sat too close during the film. Your thigh had pressed against his, your elbow brushed his every time you reached for popcorn. You refused to admit you were scared during the jump scares, but clutched his arm anyway. He didn’t tease. He hadn’t even smirked.

Because something about this summer had shifted. He noticed your voice before you entered rooms. He found excuses to ask about your plans. He’d stayed up later just to hang around the kitchen in case you wandered in for a snack.

And now here you were. Asleep on his shoulder.

You stirred, barely. A breath hitched, a yawn, then your eyes fluttered open—confused for a moment as your gaze focused on the crackling fire and then on him.

Your face shifted instantly.

“Oh—” you blinked, shifting slightly, suddenly aware of how close you were. “Did we fall asleep?”

Cedric’s lips curved at the corners. “Seems like it.”

You sat up a little, brushing a strand of hair out of your face, avoiding his gaze. But he watched you—eyes tracing your expression, the flush that rose to your cheeks. The air between you was heavier than it had any right to be.