It happened during a Tuesday double Herbology. You weren’t expecting anything remarkable, just another hour of repotting Shrivelfigs while Professor Sprout cheerfully warned people not to faint from the stench.
Cedric Diggory was partnered with someone else, as usual. You’d never spoken to him. He was a year ahead, always with the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, always smiling at the girls who giggled too loudly in the corridor.
But that day, someone knocked over a tray of enchanted nettles. Chaos followed — small burns, flying soil.
And then, Cedric knelt beside you.
“You alright?”
His voice was low. Warm. Unhurried in the middle of all that noise.
You hadn’t realized you’d fallen. A scraped palm. Knees covered in compost.
He reached for your wrist, careful and gentle. His touch was light, like he didn’t want to scare you.
“Let me see—here.” A muttered healing charm under his breath, a flick of his wand. The sting faded.
And then that smiles, not the one he gave his teammates or the girls in the stands. A smaller one. Like you were in on some quiet joke only he understood.
“You’ve got a bit of moss in your hair."
He added, brushing it away without thinking.
You didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Your voice was lost somewhere between the way his thumb grazed your temple and the stupid flutter in your chest that wouldn’t go away for the next two years.
He stood. Gave a nod. Left you there, heart rattling in your ribcage like a cursed snitch.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.
But you knew. Right then.
You had a Cedric Diggory problem.
And there was absolutely no cure.
You’d always known about The Cedric Diggory Problem.
Everyone at Hogwarts did. Even if they didn’t say it out loud.
It was the way people looked at him in the halls—like he was light in a place full of shadows. The way he always had a quill to lend, or a polite nod for younger students, or a hand outstretched before anyone even thought to ask.
And you?
You had a hopeless, absolutely humiliating crush on him.
You sat three rows behind him in Charms. You had memorized the slope of his shoulders before you even realized what you were doing. You told yourself it wasn’t real. It was just… admiration. Scholarly. Detached.
Which is why, on this particular Friday afternoon, when you weren’t watching where you were going.
Your quill was in one hand, ink bottle in the other when it happened—your shoulder collided with someone tall, and the ink went flying.
Right across his pristine white shirt.
Your voice stumbled as you said sorry, tangled with panic as your eyes lifted.
And met his.
Cedric Diggory.
He blinked down at his now-ruined shirt. The ink was a deep blue, soaking fast. His hand came up, fingers brushing the stain. You waited for the sigh. The irritation. Maybe a quick, polite excuse to walk away.
But instead…he laughed.
Like really laughed.
A bright, surprised sound that made your stomach drop straight into your shoes.
“That’s a new look." He said, glancing down. “Bit abstract, don’t you think?”
And then he looked up — actually looked. Eyes catching yours, gold-brown in the sunlight, warm in a way that made you feel like he was seeing you. Not just the ink. Not just the accident. You.
“It’s alright." He said.
“Seriously. Just…maybe don’t take up throwing ink as a sport.”
He smiled again — small, crooked, disarming as Cedric runs a hand through his already-perfect hair, looking sheepish.
“I think we were in the same Herbology section last year. You always knew the weird plant facts.”
He knew that?
He knew you?
Cedric glanced down at his shirt again, then back at you.
“Well. I suppose I should go clean up. But if I come back looking like a Ravenclaw, it’s your fault.”
And with that, he turned, that easy, golden-boy confidence following him across the courtyard. You just stood there, ink bottle still uncapped, heart thudding.
And you had no idea what to do with that.