You didn’t choose to sit next to Cedric.

Professor Flitwick did.

“Partners for this term,” he chirped, assigning desks as if it were a harmless task and not a catastrophic event waiting to unfold. You watched Cedric approach with that annoyingly polite smile—like he wasn’t the reason you almost hexed someone in the corridor last week.

You slid your books to your side of the desk without saying a word. He did the same, equally quiet. Civil. Barely.

Your houses didn’t mix much. He was the golden Hufflepuff—charming, well-liked, practically glowing. You were… not that. You were sharp, opinionated, intense. The two of you clashed from the moment you met. Too many sarcastic remarks. Too many stares that lasted too long to be casual.

Now, forced to share ink, parchment, space—and a grade—it felt like some kind of punishment.

The test came two weeks later. A complicated, infuriating written-spell hybrid that required trust. Timing. Communication. And there you were, practically gritting your teeth every time he leaned closer to whisper a correction, or ask your opinion, like he didn’t drive you mad on purpose.

But something shifted halfway through.

You got stuck on a charm’s structure. Cedric didn’t tease. He didn’t smirk. He just… helped. Gently. Quietly. Like he wasn’t trying to win anything for once.

“You’re smarter than me at this,” he murmured, eyes flicking to yours. “I’m just better at hiding when I panic.”

That surprised you.

The paper finished with both your names at the top. You passed—together. And when your hands brushed as you collected your books, you didn’t pull away.

He didn’t either.

What neither of you said—but both of you felt—was that something was changing. Not fast. Not dramatic. But real. Cedric still got under your skin, still made you roll your eyes.

But lately, you found yourself hoping he’d sit just a little closer. And he always did.