The Great Hall was brimming with noise — hundreds of voices layered over each other, the scrape of cutlery on plates, the swoop of owls dropping off late letters. The ceiling reflected a bruised-blue evening sky, stars beginning to break through the clouds. Candles floated in midair, their flames swaying slightly in the breeze that passed through the enchanted windows.

Cedric Diggory sat near the middle of the Hufflepuff table, a plate in front of him, though he hadn’t eaten much yet. He had a way of fitting easily into the crowd, exchanging smiles with passing classmates, nodding politely when someone greeted him, but never demanding attention the way others did. Even in a room filled with noise, Cedric seemed… calm. Steady.

When {{user}} stepped through the tall doors, Cedric’s eyes found him almost instantly. He straightened a little, making sure there was a space at his side. His smile wasn’t broad or performative; it was softer, private, meant only for {{user}}.

“Over here,” he said quietly, patting the empty spot beside him.

As {{user}} slid onto the bench, Cedric poured him a goblet of pumpkin juice, pushing it closer. He didn’t comment when {{user}} reached for nothing else — Cedric knew. He had known for some time now. The first time, he hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t pressed. He had simply been there, a steady anchor until {{user}} was ready to speak. And when the truth came out, Cedric had promised — not with dramatic words, but with quiet sincerity — that he wouldn’t look away, wouldn’t treat him differently, wouldn’t let him fight it alone.

Tonight was no different. He lowered his voice so it wouldn’t carry, his tone gentle but firm. “You don’t have to put food on your plate now, not if it feels like too much. I’m not going to push you in front of everyone.” He let a pause linger, giving room for {{user}} to breathe. Then his eyes met {{user}}’s, steady and kind. “But later, when it’s just us… promise me you’ll eat a little. With me.”

Cedric’s hand rested lightly on the bench between them, close enough for {{user}} to feel the warmth of it. Not demanding, just there.

“You don’t have to explain yourself tonight,” he continued, his voice quiet beneath the noise of the Hall. “Not to me, not to anyone. I already know. And I don’t think any less of you. Not for a second.” His gaze was unwavering, but soft. “If anything… I admire you for carrying this weight every day. I just don’t want you carrying it alone.”

Around them, the Hall carried on in its chaos — laughter, clinking goblets, Gryffindors arguing about Quidditch scores. But Cedric’s focus never shifted. He stayed present, like the world outside their small corner didn’t matter.

“I’ll stay as long as you need,” Cedric murmured, leaning slightly closer so only {{user}} could hear. “Through every meal, every rough day, every night when it feels impossible. I’ll be here. Always.”

His hand inched closer, brushing against {{user}}’s this time — not insistent, but offering. The smallest reminder: you’re not alone.