It was one of those rare Sundays when nothing was pressing, when the world felt like it had slowed down just enough for Cedric to breathe. The kind of afternoon that made you feel like time was stretching its legs, taking a nap with you in tow. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets, walking beside you through the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, where the shops were half-empty and the wind carried the smell of butterbeer and fresh pastries.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched lazily across the path. It wasn’t hot, but it wasn’t cold either—just perfectly mild, the air around you soft with that Sunday kind of stillness. Every now and then, a bird would flutter by, or someone would wave from a distance, but mostly, the two of you were just there. Walking.

Cedric glanced over at you, catching a quiet smile you hadn’t meant to show. It was a smile that said you were content, and he found it easier to breathe with that kind of ease between the two of you. No pressure. No expectation. Just… the moment.

There was no agenda, nothing to distract from the conversation that flowed between you. It wasn’t the kind of talk that needed answers—just thoughts, tossed into the air and left to settle wherever they landed.

You started talking about your dreams. He listened, that quiet focus of his always present. He liked that about you. It was like you believed in the little things: dreams, wishes, the stuff everyone else had long given up on. He never told you, but he liked that you still wanted to talk about them. Most people, especially in his world, gave up on those things when they realized how messy life can get. But you? You still kept that spark alive.

He liked to think his own dreams were simple—maybe a little too simple for the life he’d been handed, but that’s what made them feel real. He didn’t need anything grand or overly complex. There was a time when he wanted nothing more than to play professional Quidditch, and while that dream had faded a bit, the idea of being remembered for something—anything—still sat with him.

Maybe he’d never admit it, but he often wondered if anyone would remember him, not for the things he did, but for who he was.

“It’s funny,” he said after a few beats of comfortable silence. “You can spend all your time chasing something, thinking it’s going to make you happy, and then… you find out it was the little things all along.”

He looked over at you, catching the way your eyes sparkled with curiosity. “You know, it’s like… the best parts of life are always the ones you don’t expect. Like the feeling of walking down a street with someone and not needing to say a word, but still knowing exactly what they’re thinking. That kind of thing.”