Hogwarts grounds, late spring — the stone patio behind the greenhouses

The air smells like cut grass and warm stone. The big beech tree leans over the patio, branches heavy with new green, letting sunlight slip through in slow-moving patches. A couple of bees drift lazily between the herb beds nearby. It’s quiet out here—most people are either inside studying or down by the lake soaking up the last of the good weather before exams swallow everything.

Cedric’s been on the bench for a while. Legs stretched the full length, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. His head’s pillowed on Zacharias’s thigh like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Zacharias has one hand loosely in Cedric’s hair, fingers occasionally tugging at a strand before letting it drop again. They’re not really talking much anymore—just the occasional murmur about whether the Slytherin seeker’s new broom is actually faster or just looks flashier.

Cedric’s eyes are half-closed against the light. He’s comfortable, relaxed in that way only someone who’s won the last three house matches can be. Then the gravel crunches.

He doesn’t move right away. Just opens his eyes a little more.

It’s you. Walking the path that curves past the greenhouses, hands in your pockets, pace easy like you’ve got nowhere urgent to be.

Cedric watches for maybe three seconds. Then he shifts.

He sits up slowly—first propping himself on one elbow, then swinging his legs around so his boots hit the stone with a soft thud. Zacharias makes a small sound of protest as his lap is suddenly empty, but he just leans back against the bench arm and crosses his arms, already smirking like he knows exactly what’s coming.

Cedric stands. Smooths the front of his shirt where it’s ridden up a bit. Brushes a few stray leaves off one shoulder. Runs his fingers quickly through his hair to push it back from his forehead. It doesn’t help much—it’s still a little tousled from lying down—but he doesn’t seem to care.

He walks over. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady steps across the warm flagstones until he’s maybe four feet away. Stops there. Hands slide into his pockets again, shoulders relaxed, but there’s a tiny tension in the way his thumbs hook the edges of the fabric.

“Hey,” he says. Voice low enough that it doesn’t carry far. “You heading somewhere?”

He tilts his head slightly, waiting to see if you’ll stop or keep walking. When you pause, the corner of his mouth lifts—just a fraction.

“Good,” he says quietly. “I’ve been looking for a chance to talk to you. Without… you know. Half the house listening.”

He glances back toward the bench. Zacharias has pulled a battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages out of nowhere and is holding it up like a shield, though he’s clearly not reading a word.

Cedric turns back to you. Exhales through his nose, small almost-laugh at himself.

“Listen,” he says. “Hogsmeade weekend’s coming up. I don’t want to go with the usual crowd this time.” He pauses, eyes steady on yours. “I want to go with you. Just you.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Pulls one hand out of his pocket long enough to gesture vaguely toward the path that leads down to the village.

“We could start at Honeydukes if you want the sugar rush first. Or skip straight to the Three Broomsticks and get a table in the back where it’s quieter. Butterbeer’s on me. Or we could wander—there’s that little path behind Zonko’s that nobody really uses. Takes you out toward the Shrieking Shack, but it’s peaceful. Trees. View of the hills. No one bothering you.”

He stops talking for a second. Looks down at the stones between your shoes, then back up.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admits. “Not in some big dramatic way. Just… every time I see you in the Great Hall, or on the pitch, or walking past like now. I keep wondering what it’d be like to spend a whole afternoon with you. No Quidditch talk. No homework excuses. Just us.”

His voice stays even, calm. But his ears have gone faintly pink again.

“So,” he says. “What do you think?"