Cedric Digg-gy adored his girlfriend—even if she was, to put it kindly, a walking whirlwind.

Her handbag alone was legendary. A soft, leather handbag, overflowing with lipstick tubes of a muggle brand called Chanel and glittering compacts, tiny perfume vials, emergency spell patches, tangerine peels, and a mini sewing kit with live thread. He once joked it was cursed. Most of his friends agreed. And yet—somehow—anytime he needed anything, she had it.

“A bandage?” he’d murmur after a rough practice.
“Right pocket,” she’d say, half-asleep but always right.

He loved that about her.

Almost as much as her smudged mascara, always slightly undone like she’d just walked out of a storm. Or how she paraded around in his old H-fflepuff jumpers, drowning in fabric and pride, like a girl who’d won the House Cup.

The only thing that needled him, just slightly, was how often she fell asleep during his Q-idditch matches.

He understood—really. She liked naps. Needed them. You could often find her curled like a cat in the Slytherin common room or dozing in History of Magic, head bobbing like a slow pendulum. But when he was thirty meters up in the air, fighting crosswinds and Bl-dgers, heart pounding with every dive, he couldn’t help but wish she was watching.

Just today, she’d come dressed in head-to-toe H-fflepuff—his scarf, his jumper, even one of his old socks peeking from under her boots. She’d cheered once at the beginning… and then, sometime around minute thirty, her head had dropped, eyes fluttering closed

Cedric had caught the Sn-tch—soaring through the blinding sunlight, fingers closing around gold and wings. The crowd roared like thunder. His teammates clapped him on the back, whooping and grinning.

But Cedric turned, scanning the stands. And there she was, curled sideways on the bench like a sun-dappled question mark, soft breaths rising and falling, lips slightly parted. Sound asleep.

He exhaled, smile tugging reluctantly at his lips.

He shouldn’t be smiling. He should be—well, not angry, exactly, but… something.

Still, how could he be? She looked like peace itself.

Mounting his broom again, Cedric flew in a slow arc toward the stands. The late afternoon wind kissed his cheeks, rustling through his curls. The pitch smelled of grass and sweat and magic, the last golden hour spilling across the field like honey.

He landed quietly near her and crouched down, brushing his fingertips gently across her shoulder. Her hoodie—his hoodie—was warm from the sun.

“Hey,” he whispered, close to her ear. “Sleepy girl. Wake up. We won.”