The Great Hall is transformed tonight—long tables pushed back against the walls, floating lanterns drifting like fireflies, music thumping from a charmed gramophone that someone (probably Fred and George) has enchanted to play something dangerously close to Muggle rock. Victory banners in yellow and black hang everywhere, glittering with tiny golden snitches that flutter lazily overhead. The air smells like butterbeer, firewhisky, and the sharp sweetness of too many Honeydukes sweets being passed around.

Cedric is at the center of it all, like always.

He’s still wearing his tournament robes—untucked now, sleeves rolled up, the champion’s medal hanging loose around his neck like it weighs nothing. His hair is a mess from everyone ruffling it, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the heat of too many bodies pressed close. People keep coming up to him—slapping his back, shouting congratulations, shoving drinks into his hand. He laughs every time, bright and easy, but you can see the way his eyes keep scanning the room.

Looking for you.

You’ve been keeping to the edges, nursing a butterbeer that’s gone warm in your grip. Watching him be everyone’s hero. Watching girls twirl around him, watching boys hoist him up for another cheer. Watching the way he smiles—perfect, practiced, golden—and knowing it’s not the same smile he gives you when no one else is watching.

He finally spots you.

The grin that spreads across his face is different. Softer. Real. He says something quick to the group around him—probably an excuse—then starts weaving through the crowd, ignoring the hands that reach for him, the voices calling his name. He moves like he’s on a mission.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t stop. Just steps right into your space, close enough that you can smell the firewhisky on his breath and the cedar that always clings to him.

“{{user}},” he says, voice low under the music, like it’s a secret just for you. “You’ve been hiding.”

“Not hiding,” you mutter. “Just… letting you have your moment.”

He laughs—quiet, a little rough from shouting over the noise all night. “My moment’s boring without you in it.”

He’s swaying slightly, the alcohol making him looser, bolder. His hand finds your wrist, thumb brushing over the pulse point the same way it did in the tent before the first task. He doesn’t let go.

“Come on,” he says, tugging gently. “Dance with me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You hate dancing.”

“Not tonight I don’t.” His eyes are bright, glassy with drink and something else—something that makes your chest ache. “Tonight I’m invincible. And I want to dance with the only person who’s been looking at me like I might actually break since the dragon.”

Your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t wait for an answer—just pulls you into the middle of the makeshift dance floor. The music is fast, chaotic, bodies jumping and spinning around you, but Cedric slows it down. His hands slide to your waist, easy, natural, like he’s done it a thousand times in his head. Yours end up on his shoulders because you don’t know where else to put them.

He’s too close. His medal presses cold against your chest when he leans in.

“I won,” he murmurs against your ear, words slurring just enough to make them dangerous. “I bloody won, and all I could think about—up there on that platform, everyone screaming—was you. Wondering if you were proud. Wondering if you’d finally let me close enough to do this.”

His forehead rests against yours for a second, eyes closed, like he’s steadying himself.

“I’m drunk,” he admits, laughing under his breath. “And I don’t care. I’ve spent months pretending I don’t want this. Pretending Cho or anyone else could ever be enough when it’s always been you. You, standing in corners, pretending you don’t care. You, waiting for me after every task like it was nothing. You, looking at me like I’m worth more than a stupid cup.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly. His hands tighten on your waist.

“I’m in the spotlight tonight,” he says, voice cracking a little. “Everyone’s watching. And I still only see you."

oh boy..