Cedric stood with a soft but focused smile on his face as he watched you adjust your grip on the Quaffle. His eyes, always full of warmth, now held an edge of encouragement. His blonde hair tousled in the wind as a soft golden glow lighted his features, his athletic build was relaxed as he leaned against the goalpost, arms crossed, waiting for your next move.

It was late afternoon, the sun dipping low in the sky and casting an orange hue over the Quidditch pitch. The faint rustle of leaves in the trees near the edge of the pitch added to the serene atmosphere.

Cedric had agreed to help you improve your aim for the upcoming tryouts, even though you were already quite skilled. You had always been a bit hard on yourself when it came to Quidditch—never fully trusting your instincts despite your obvious talent.

He stood a few meters away, watching intently as you squared yourself in front of the hoops, aiming at the middle one. The Quaffle felt heavier than usual, but you steadied your breath, focusing.

“Remember, just follow through,” Cedric’s voice rang out, his tone smooth and patient. “And don’t rush. It’s not about the speed. It’s about accuracy.”

You nodded, taking in his advice. He had this way of teaching where it never felt like he was talking down to you, but instead, it felt like a shared goal. He didn’t rush you, didn’t make you feel pressured. His calm presence always had a way of helping you focus.

With one deep breath, you took your shot, the Quaffle soaring toward the middle hoop, only to fall short, grazing the edge. Frustration bubbled in your chest.

“Don’t worry, you’ve got this,” Cedric called, walking closer. His eyes gleamed with warmth as he gave you a reassuring grin. “Let me show you again, yeah?”

He stood next to you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he reached for the Quaffle. He demonstrated the proper stance once more, guiding your arms into the right position.