The World Cup had always been a tradition.

Your dad and Cedric’s dad had been best mates since Hogwarts — the kind of friendship built on broomsticks, bad jokes, and decades of loyalty. So, naturally, when the Quidditch World Cup rolled around, the Diggorys and your family always went together.

Same old routines: setting up enchanted tents that looked far too small from the outside, roasting sausages over magical flames, your dads cheering like teenagers while you and Cedric pretended not to know them.

It had always been fun. Familiar. Safe.

And maybe that was why it felt so strange this year — how different it was.

Maybe it was because Cedric had gotten taller. His voice deeper. The kind of confidence he wore without realizing it. His hair was still windswept from that morning’s match he’d helped referee, and he looked like someone out of a storybook when the firelight hit his cheekbones.

You’d shared a tent before. Loads of times. You’d bickered over sleeping bags, dared each other to eat weird camp snacks, fallen asleep to the sound of fireworks shaking the sky.

But this time… this time felt different.

That evening, your dads had long since gone to sleep in their tent, snores echoing through the magical fabric walls. The crowd outside had mostly died down — just a few soft bursts of celebratory sparks from distant camps.

You and Cedric were alone.

Again.

You were sitting on the tent floor, legs stretched out, passing a packet of Bertie Bott’s between you, trying to guess the flavors before chewing.

He leaned on one elbow, facing you, eyes a little too curious for comfort.

“Still hate the earwax ones?” he asked, smirking as he offered you a suspiciously green bean.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re just trying to kill me.”

Cedric laughed — really laughed — and leaned in like he was going to feed it to you, holding it just in front of your lips.

You rolled your eyes but took it. On purpose. Your fingers brushed.

Neither of you commented on it.

“Still tastes like poison,” you mumbled through a grimace, making him laugh again.

There was a beat of silence. Comfortable. Close.

Then his voice came quieter.

“You’ve changed, you know.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sat up fully now, knees brushing yours, tone soft but certain. “Dunno. You’re just… not a kid anymore.”

You tried to laugh it off. “Neither are you.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at you for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. The kind of look that made your stomach twist.

“I don’t know when that happened,” he said, almost like he was talking to himself.

You were very aware of the closeness now. The quiet tent. The way his knee rested right next to yours — not touching, but barely.

You could still smell the smoke from outside on his jumper. Still see the way the lantern-light made golden shadows on his jaw.

This was Cedric. Your friend. Your almost-brother. And yet…

Your voice came out softer than expected. “What are you thinking?”

He didn’t smile this time.

“I’m thinking we’ve shared this tent a dozen times, and I’ve never once had to remind myself not to look at your mouth.”

You froze.

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t push.

Just waited.

And you?

You didn’t pull away.

You just handed him another jelly bean — and whispered, “Try this one. Might be worse than earwax.”

He laughed. Took it. Brushed your hand again.

And didn’t stop looking at you.