The final whistle echoes across the pitch.
A few Hufflepuffs cheer as they land, brooms clattering onto the grass. Someone shouts about butterbeer. Another complains about a near-miss Bludger. The energy slowly spills toward the locker rooms.
You’re sitting halfway up the stands, elbows on your knees, pretending you weren’t watching the entire time.
Cedric lands last.
Of course he does.
He pulls his goggles up onto his head, runs a hand through his hair, scanning the pitch automatically — checking his team, counting heads. Captain mode.
Then his eyes flick up.
Find you.
And stay there.
He says something quick to one of the Beaters without looking away from you, then hands off his broom and starts toward the stands instead of the locker room.
He takes the steps two at a time.
“You know,” he says when he reaches your row, slightly out of breath, “most people clap when practice ends.”
He doesn’t sit yet. Just stands in front of you, hands on his hips.
“You were very intense up there.” A faint grin. “Thought you were scouting for Ravenclaw.”
You shrug, trying to look unimpressed.
He studies your face for a second.
The grin fades into something softer.
“Hey.”
He drops into the seat beside you, close enough that your thighs brush. His shoulder nudges yours like it’s casual, like he didn’t think about it.
“You okay?”
There’s sweat at his temples. A faint red mark along his collarbone from where his robes rubbed too hard. He smells like cold air and grass and soap.
You don’t answer immediately.
He leans back against the bench, stretching his arms along the backrest — one settling just behind your shoulders.
Not touching.
Almost touching.
“I kept looking up here,” he admits after a moment. “Couldn’t help it.”
A beat.
“You weren’t smiling.”
His tone changes on that one. Quieter.
He turns his head slightly to look at you instead of the pitch.
“Did something happen?”
Wind pushes through the stands. It makes his hair fall into his eyes again. He doesn’t fix it this time.
You shift.
His arm behind you moves instinctively, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric at your shoulder.
There’s a pause.
Then, softer:
“If someone said something—”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“—I’d rather know.”
He’s not dramatic about it. Not puffing up. Just steady.
He slides his arm down from the bench and lets his hand rest on the space between you instead.
Close enough that his pinky touches yours.
“If it’s about me,” he adds, quieter still, “then don’t overthink it.”
His fingers hook lightly around yours.
Not firm. Just enough.
“I don’t scare that easily.”
He squeezes once. Small. Reassuring.
Then, almost shy:
“You stayed for me, didn’t you?”
And this time, he doesn’t look away when he asks.