(Un)Reciprocated | Cedric Diggory
Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader Summary: You and Cedric were childhood best friends – growing up side by side, close as can be. When 5th year came around and Cedric began dating, you watched but never picked up the same habits, preferring a more independent life. When you begin developing feelings for your best and closest friend, after he goes back on an important promise, its nothing short of complicated.
Your childhood was amazing.
It was full of candy, toys, love and affection. It was full of luck, good marks in class, and playing tag until you were utterly breathless. And mostly, it was full of Cedric.
You did everything together – you had the same classes, the same goals, played the same sports, even had the same bloody wand when you got into Hogwarts. You were inseparable. You were never seen without the other, and every sentence where one was mentioned, the other was too.
"Yeah, Ced and Y/N.."
"Well, Y/N and Cedric were.."
You were certain it would last forever. You were certain that the two of you would never separate, even into adulthood.
When you got into your 5th year, you accepted peacefully that your thoughts were simply based on comfort, not reality. Cedric began to take a different path – girls, parties, popularity. You were very different, though you never resented him.
You were quiet, kept to yourself, and stuck to Quidditch and your studies. You had no use for the company of boys or the consumption of Firewhisky. You preferred a quiet life, wrapped up in a blanket by the Hufflepuff hearth and reading a book.
The first time you noticed the shift, it was a Tuesday.
Cedric had always been the type to linger after Quidditch practice —helping to stow brooms, chatting with teammates, tossing an arm around your shoulders as you both trudged back to the castle, still buzzing with adrenaline. But that evening, he’d disappeared before you could even unbuckle your knee pads.
You found him in the courtyard, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling fourth-years, his head thrown back in laughter at something you hadn’t heard. His hair was still damp from the showers, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. He looked happy.
You turned on your heel and left before he could spot you.
Not because you were bothered by it, but because you had no interest in interrupting.. whatever that was. You blew your hair out of your face, walking to your dorm.
The common room was quiet when you arrived, the fire crackling low in the hearth. A few first-years huddled near the warmth, whispering over a game of Exploding Snap, but they paid you no mind as you trudged up the stairs to your dorm.
You told yourself you weren’t bothered.
So what if Cedric had ditched you after practice? So what if he’d rather entertain a flock of admirers than walk back with you like he always had? It didn’t matter. You weren’t the clingy type. You had better things to do than stand around waiting for him to remember you existed.
(Except you had waited. Just for a minute. Just long enough to realize he wasn’t coming back.)
You shoved open the door to your room harder than necessary, startling your roommate, who glanced up from her Potions essay.
“Rough practice?” she asked, eyeing the dirt smudged on your knees.
“The usual,” you muttered, tossing your gear onto your trunk.
You could still hear the echo of his laughter in your head — bright, carefree, so different from the way he laughed with you. With you, it was softer, quieter, like he was letting you in on a secret.
The jealousy you felt (you were very emotionally aware) confused you. So what if Cedric was entertaining girls? You didn't have to be into the same exact things anymore. It wasn't your scene. Doesn't mean it wasn't Cedric's, you rationalized.
Biting your lip, you gathered your toiletries and clothes and went to shower. The hot water ran over your sore muscles, but you couldn't even acknowledge the pleasurable feeling.
You couldn't ignore the burning feeling in your chest.
Groaning, you just washed up and got out.
—
Dinner in the Great Hall was a subdued affair.
You sat at the Hufflepuff table, picking at your shepherd’s pie, half-listening to the chatter around you. The seat beside you — his seat — remained conspicuously empty.
“Diggory’s late,” someone remarked.
You didn’t look up. “Not my problem.”
But then the doors swung open, and there he was, striding in with that effortless confidence that made half the Hall turn to look. His hair was still slightly damp, his cheeks pink from the cold, and he was grinning at something one of his teammates had said.
You tried to keep it down, you really did. You knew it wasn't right to be irritated. You didn't even know why you bloody felt this way.
He spotted you almost immediately, his smile flickering for just a second before he made his way over.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat beside you like nothing had happened.
You didn’t answer.
He nudged your shoulder. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” you said flatly.
A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “You left before I could find you after practice.”
You finally turned to look at him, arching a brow. “Oh? I figured you were busy. I wasn't going to sit there and look stupid while you giggled to your posse.”
His expression faltered. “It wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
“Relax, Ced,” you said, forcing a smirk. “I’m not your keeper. Do what you want.”
His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, a group of fourth-years called his name from further down the table, waving him over.
He hesitated, glancing at you.
“Go on,” you said, shoveling a bite of pie into your mouth. “Wouldn’t want to keep your fans waiting.”
For a second, you thought he might argue. But then he sighed, pushing back from the table.
“We’ll talk later,” he murmured.
You didn’t watch him walk away.
Your fork clattered against your plate, the sound sharp in the hum of the Great Hall. You stood abruptly, ignoring the curious glances from nearby Hufflepuffs as you carried your half-eaten dinner toward the enchanted trash bins at the end of the table.
You knew you were being ugly.
The thought gnawed at you as you dumped your food, the remnants of your shepherd’s pie vanishing with a soft poof. That wasn’t you —snapping at Cedric, tossing out petty jabs like you were trying to wound him. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t.
(So why did it feel like your chest was full of broken glass every time he laughed with someone else?)
You exhaled sharply through your nose, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes.
“You’re being ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.
With that, you left the Great Hall and headed straight for your dorm. Without a word to anyone, you changed your clothes and headed straight to bed, throwing the covers over your head frustratedly.
Maybe some sleep would curve whatever the hell was wrong with you. Jealousy? Over Cedric?
You scoffed to yourself under the covers.
It wasn't like you loved him or something. Well, you did, but not like that.
Did you?
A pang of anxiety hit your stomach.
You rolled over and forced yourself to sleep before you could throw up.
—
You woke to the sound of hushed whispers and the rustling of robes. Sunlight streamed through the windows, far too cheerful for the storm brewing in your head.
Your roommate peeked over at you as you sat up, her eyebrows raised.
“You look like hell,” she said bluntly.
You groaned, rubbing your face. “Feel like it too.”
She tossed a piece of toast at you, which you caught on reflex. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”
You doubted it.
The Great Hall was already buzzing when you arrived, students clustered together in excited chatter. You hesitated in the doorway, scanning the Hufflepuff table for a familiar head of tousled dark hair—
No.
You weren’t doing this. You weren’t looking for him.
You squared your shoulders and marched to the opposite end of the table, as far from Cedric’s usual spot as possible.
“Have you heard?”
A third-year leaned across the table, eyes wide with gossip. “They’re announcing the Triwizard Tournament today!”
You blinked. “What?”
“It’s true!” another student chimed in. “Dumbledore’s making the announcement after breakfast. They’re bringing back the tournament!”
A murmur of excitement rippled through the Hall. You barely registered it.
Your gaze flickered, against your will, toward the other end of the table — where Cedric sat, surrounded by friends, his face alight with the same eager curiosity as everyone else.
Of course he’d want to compete.
Your stomach twisted.
The entire school had gathered, students packed shoulder-to-shoulder as Dumbledore stood at the top of the marble staircase, his arms raised for silence.
“This year,” he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the crowd, “Hogwarts will play host to a event not seen in over a century…”
You barely heard the rest.
Your attention was fixed on the back of Cedric’s head, just a few rows ahead of you. He stood tall, his posture straight with anticipation, his fingers tapping absently against his thigh.
You knew that tell. He was already planning his entry.
“—the Triwizard Tournament!”
The crowd erupted into cheers. Cedric turned slightly, scanning the sea of faces behind him — searching.
Your breath caught.
Then his eyes found yours.
For a heartbeat, the noise around you faded.
He grinned — bright, boyish, yours — and your traitorous heart stuttered in response.
You looked away first.
After the festivities, you almost floated out of the castle, moving too quick for anyone to notice. Or so you thought.
You needed air.
The pitch was empty, the stands silent, the only sound the wind whistling through the goalposts. You sat on the grass, your knees pulled to your chest, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky.
“Knew I’d find you here.”
You didn’t turn. “Go away, Cedric.”
He ignored you, dropping onto the grass beside you with a huff. “Not until you tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit.” He plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. And don’t say you haven’t,” he added when you opened your mouth to argue. “I know you too well.”
You swallowed.
Tell him.
Just say it.
But the words stuck in your throat.
Instead, you nodded toward the castle. “You’re going to enter, aren’t you? The tournament.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah. I think so.”
Of course.
The tournament was unsafe. In some cases, it could be fatal. You and Cedric had both agreed that if you were presented the chance, you wouldn't enter. You'd stay safe, side by side.
You forced a smile. “You’ll win.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you said softly. “Because you’re you.”
Cedric studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly: “Would you hate me if I did?”
The question caught you off guard.
“What?”
“If I entered.” His voice was careful, like he was treading on thin ice. “Would you hate me?”
Never, you wanted to say. I could never hate you.
But what came out was: “I don’t know.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then Cedric stood, brushing the grass from his robes.
“Right,” he said stiffly. “Guess I’ll find out.”
And just like that, he walked away.
You wanted to slap yourself. Why were you being such an asshole? You didn't know.
Yes you did.
You loved Cedric. The thought made you want to jump into the black lagoon and be eaten by mermaids. Or admit it right away to Cedric, like one of the secrets you'd never been able to keep from him. Or hide it forever and live in misery.
You chose to hide it.
The days blurred together after that.
You threw yourself into classes, into Quidditch, into anything that would keep your mind off the growing chasm between you and Cedric. It was easier this way—safer. If you didn’t think about him, you wouldn’t have to face the truth.
(But you always thought about him.)
The night of the selection came quickly.
The Great Hall was packed, buzzing with anticipation as the Goblet of Fire flickered in the center of the room. You sat with your housemates, your fingers drumming restlessly against the table, your gaze fixed stubbornly on your lap.
You hadn’t spoken to Cedric since the pitch.
“Champions will be chosen momentarily,” Dumbledore announced, his voice echoing through the hall. “Once selected, please proceed to the adjoining chamber for further instructions.”
A hush fell over the crowd.
The Goblet’s flames flared—once, twice—then spat out the first name.
“The Durmstrang champion is Viktor Krum!”
Applause erupted as Krum stood, his expression unreadable, and disappeared through the side door.
Another burst of fire.
“The Beauxbatons champion is Fleur Delacour!”
More cheers. Fleur rose gracefully, her silver-blonde hair shimmering under the candlelight as she followed Krum out.
Then — silence.
The Goblet flickered, the flames licking higher, twisting violently as if struggling with its final decision.
Your chest tightened.
Not him. Please, not him.
The fire roared, and a third slip of parchment shot into Dumbledore’s waiting hand.
“The Hogwarts champion…”
A beat.
“Cedric Diggory!”
The Hufflepuff table exploded. Whistles, shouts, the thunder of hands pounding against wood — all of it faded into white noise as you watched Cedric stand, his face a mix of shock and dawning pride.
He didn’t look at you as he passed.
You weren’t sure why you’d expected him to.
The rest of the day was a blur, until the party.
The party had been going all afternoon, but later into the night, it became alcoholic.
Only 16 and older were allowed — you came with your roommate. You don't know why you allowed her to convince you. Maybe you wanted to torture yourself with seeing Cedric. Maybe you just wanted to drink the pain away. Both probably.
When you got there, uncharacteristically of you, you immediately dove into a shot of Firewhisky.
"Damn! L/N is finally loosening up?" One of your classmates whooped. You managed a halfhearted smirk as cheers erupted.
Another shot. Another. After another. You were encouraged, cheered on by your roommate and your friends. They'd never seen you like this — but they couldn't detect the inner turmoil. Only Ced could. And he was nowhere to be found.
You were probably just too drunk to see him, to be honest.
The world had taken on a hazy, golden glow — the kind that made everything feel slightly unreal, like you were floating outside your own body. The firewhisky burned its way down your throat, settling warm and heavy in your stomach, but it did nothing to dull the ache in your chest.
“Another!” your roommate crowed, slamming a fresh shot in front of you.
The crowd around you erupted in cheers as you threw it back without hesitation. The taste was sharp, bitter, but you welcomed it. Maybe if you drank enough, you could forget the way Cedric’s face had looked when he walked away from you at the lake. Maybe you could forget the way your heart had splintered when he didn’t even glance at you after being named champion.
Pathetic.
You reached for another shot, but someone snatched it away before your fingers could close around the glass.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
The voice was low, familiar, and it sent a jolt through you despite the alcohol clouding your senses.
You turned your head — slowly, too slowly — and there he was.
Cedric.
His grey eyes were dark in the flickering candlelight, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked unfairly good, even now — his hair slightly mussed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the faintest flush high on his cheeks from whatever he’d been drinking.
You scowled. “Since when do you care?”
His expression tightened. “Since you’re about two seconds away from passing out.”
“I’m fine,” you slurred, waving a hand dismissively. “Go back to your adoring fans, Champion. And give me my fucking shot back.”
The word came out sharper than you’d intended, laced with a bitterness you hadn’t meant to let slip.
Cedric’s gaze flickered over your face, searching for something. Whatever he saw made his shoulders tense.
“We need to talk,” he said quietly.
“No, we don’t.” You pushed yourself up from the table, swaying slightly as the room tilted around you. “I’m going to bed.”
You didn’t make it two steps before his hand closed around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.
“Y/N.” His voice was rough, urgent. “Please.”
Something in his tone made your breath catch.
You turned.
For a long moment, you just stared at each other — the noise of the party fading into the background, the world narrowing to just the two of you.
Then, without a word, Cedric tugged you toward the door.
The cold night air hit you like a slap, sobering you just enough to realize what a terrible idea this was.
You yanked your arm free. “What the hell, Cedric?”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re ruining my buzz.”
“Because you won’t talk to me!” His voice cracked, raw with frustration. “Merlin’s beard, Y/N, what do you want from me? You’ve been pushing me away for weeks, and I don’t even know why!”
The words hung between you, heavy and suffocating.
You opened your mouth — to snap, to deflect, to lie — but the alcohol had stripped away your defenses, leaving nothing but the truth.
"Something's changed. With me, with you, I don't fucking know." You cracked, eyes welling up with frustrated tears. You fought the slur in your words. "I can't stop being an asshole."
Cedric stared at you, stunned into silence.
The kind of silence that wasn’t angry or judgmental — just broken. Hurt.
“You think I care about that?” he finally said, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You think I haven’t noticed something’s been eating you alive? You think I’d ever walk away from you just because you’ve been… distant, or angry, or—”
“Cold?” you cut in bitterly. “Sharp-tongued? Emotionally stunted?”
“Human,” he said firmly. “And scared.”
You laughed — a bitter, ugly sound. “Don’t flatter me.”
“I’m not.” He took a step closer, voice cracking just slightly. “You’ve been different, yeah. But I stuck around because I know you. And I care about you. And it’s driving me mad that you won’t just tell me what’s wrong.”
You could feel it bubbling up — all the confusion and pain and fear — the thing you hadn’t dared to admit even to yourself.
"Look," you said, squeezing and loosening your fists, "I'm drunk. I'm tired. I'm going back to the dorm."
With that, you tried to march away.
But you didn’t get far.
Cedric caught your wrist again — not hard, not forceful, just enough to stop you, just enough to make your breath catch.
"Please. Don't walk away from me. Not again. You're my best friend and you're treating me like a stranger."
You froze.
The words hit harder than they should have — best friend — and yet, they cracked something deep inside you. Not because they were untrue, but because they used to be everything. Because somewhere along the way, being his best friend had stopped being enough, and you’d hated yourself for it.
You didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. Not yet.
"Maybe that's the problem." You almost sobbed out, looking up at the sky. "I don't want to be your best friend, Cedric. Not anymore. I fucking love you, okay?!"
The confession tore out of you like a storm — raw, unfiltered, soaked in every ache you’d tried to drink away.
Silence fell.
The kind of silence that made your ears ring, that made the world feel like it had stopped turning.
A tear fell from your eye. You sniffled.
"I'm so stupid. And so drunk. Goodnight, Cedric."
You marched away. You didn't hear him ask you back. You didn't hear a response at all. Just pure, blank silence.
When your reached the dorm, you cried yourself to sleep.
The weeks that followed were hollow.
You avoided him at all costs — skipping meals if he was in the Great Hall, changing routes between classes, ducking into alcoves or behind statues just to avoid seeing his face.
And the worst part?
He let you.
Not once did Cedric chase after you. Not once did he corner you in the hallway or try to pull you aside after class. No notes. No explanations. No apologies.
It was like you’d ceased to exist.
Your friends didn’t understand. Hell, you didn’t understand. You’d confessed your feelings, humiliated yourself — handed your heart to him — and he hadn’t even had the decency to break it properly. Just silence. A gaping, agonizing silence.
You buried yourself in schoolwork, tried to find distractions, but nothing stuck. Nothing made the ache fade. You’d never felt so invisible.
Not even Firewhisky could touch it now.
You'd even tried. You were drunk at every party, desperately trying to forget how embarrassed you felt and how much you missed Cedric.
And then came the day of the final task. The Maze.
The air was electric, thick with nerves and anticipation. Everyone buzzed about Cedric and Harry, Fleur and Krum — four champions entering the unknown. You stood on the edge of the crowd with your arms crossed, shoulders tight with dread. You hadn’t spoken to Cedric in weeks, hadn’t even looked at him if you could help it… but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t terrified.
He might not care about you anymore — if he ever did — but that didn’t stop you from caring about him.
The Maze loomed like a breathing thing, its hedges impossibly tall, its rustling leaves whispering secrets. You watched him walk toward it, flanked by cheers and camera flashes, and for a moment, just a moment, he looked back over his shoulder.
At you.
Your breath caught.
Then he was gone.
The chaos came later.
Screams. Shouting. Rumors flying like hexes. Harry was back, clutching the Triwizard Cup and Cedric’s arm — but something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Cedric wasn’t moving.
You pushed through the crowd, frantic, not caring who you elbowed or stepped on. Harry was screaming something about Voldemort, about portkeys, about Death Eaters — and all you could see was Cedric lying in the grass like a discarded doll.
But then — then — he moved.
A shallow breath. A twitch of his hand. A groan.
You fell to your knees beside him as Madam Pomfrey and the professors swarmed, your shaking fingers brushing over his cold one before they ushered you back.
He lived.
Barely, but he lived.
You didn’t sleep for two nights.
You hovered outside the Hospital Wing, waited for word, snapped at anyone who told you to rest. You weren’t sure why — he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks — but some part of you needed to know he was okay. Even if you’d never speak again.
It was late when Madam Pomfrey finally relented and let you in.
He looked pale, drawn, but awake. Eyes open, hazy with potions and pain, but still that same warm, stormy gray.
You stood in the doorway, frozen.
He blinked. “Y/N?”
You hated that his voice still made something deep in your chest crack.
“I… shouldn’t be here,” you said. “I just wanted to see if you were—if you—” You turned, heart hammering, already retreating.
“Don’t,” he rasped. “Please. Don’t go.” His voice cracked. Tears glossed his eyes over — not quite gathering, but still there.
You hesitated, back still to him.
"I'm begging you. I just want to hold your hand. To touch you. Just for a second, yeah? Please, Y/N."
The rawness in his voice undid you.
Not the words — those you could have ignored. But the way he said them. Cracked and trembling, like a boy clinging to a ledge by his fingertips. Like saying your name was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
You turned, slowly.
Cedric looked so unlike himself it hurt — his golden skin washed out, the sharp cut of his cheekbone shadowed and sunken, that usual quiet confidence gone. But those eyes…
They were still his. Still stormy. Still yours.
You came back slowly. His pale hand outstretched — you placed yours into it, like he'd asked. The entire room flooded with the aura of relief. Cedric squeezed his eyes shut, an exhale leaving him.
He didn’t say anything right away.
He just held your hand like it anchored him. Like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment, to the world, to you. His fingers were cold — not deathly, just lacking the usual heat you remembered so well. But they wrapped around yours with the same gentleness you’d missed more than you could bear.
When he opened his eyes again, they shimmered.
“I thought I’d dreamed you,” he said, voice low, rough. “That night. After the maze. I thought… maybe I’d imagined the sound of your voice.”
Your throat tightened. “I was there.”
“I know that now,” he said, giving your hand a light tug, just enough to pull you closer to the bed. “You were always there. Even when you weren’t.”
You were silent again. Then you spoke.
"What the hell happened?"
Cedric’s jaw tensed. For a moment, he didn’t speak. His thumb kept brushing over your knuckles — a grounding motion, or maybe just something to do with his hands so he wouldn’t fall apart.
“I don’t remember all of it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not clearly. The maze — it was dark, and twisted. Everything felt wrong. Like it was watching me.”
You moved closer without thinking, perching on the edge of the bed now, still clutching his hand.
He swallowed hard, gaze distant. “There were enchantments, creatures, traps… things meant to disorient us. I was doing okay. Then—” He paused, breath catching. “Then the Portkey. I didn’t know what it was, just that it wasn’t part of the maze.”
You nodded slowly. “We were all watching. Then you vanished.”
“I landed in a graveyard.” His voice went flat. “I wasn’t alone.”
You felt your heart stutter in your chest.
Cedric looked at you now. Not through you. Not around you. At you. “There was someone there. Someone powerful. Masked. I—I couldn’t fight him. He cursed me. Said it was a warning, not a killing. Said I was just the ‘first stone in the avalanche.’ Then he left. Just like that. Like I was… insignificant.”
Your breath shook. “Cedric…”
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “I wasn’t brave. I just got lucky.”
You touched his cheek before you could stop yourself. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Downplay what you survived. You weren’t lucky, you were strong. You’re here, aren’t you? You made it back.”
“Barely,” he murmured.
“But you did.” Your voice cracked now. “And I’m so—so glad. I was terrified. Every day you didn’t wake up, I thought…” You blinked rapidly, unable to finish.
His hand covered yours now, anchoring it to his cheek. He leaned into your touch.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” he whispered. “Alone.”
“You’re not alone now.”
He nodded. “Neither are you.”
You sat in that fragile stillness for a long time. No longer strangers to the silence, but companions to it. Letting it speak where words couldn’t.
Finally, Cedric shifted slightly. “Stay?”
You looked at him — pale, trembling, but alive — and nodded. “Of course.”
You curled into the chair beside his bed, still holding his hand.
He didn’t let go.
Hours later, Madam Pomfrey returned. Surprisingly, she went into a soft smile when she saw you sleeping silently in the chair — arm still outstretched to Cedric, who was sleeping soundly finally — his hand clutching yours tightly.
She didn’t wake you.
Madam Pomfrey, for all her grumbles and strict rules, had been at Hogwarts long enough to recognize the kind of sleep born from exhaustion and heartbreak. The kind of sleep that stitched two fractured souls back together, thread by trembling thread.
With a gentle flick of her wand, she dimmed the lights and conjured a blanket, draping it over your shoulders. She didn’t touch Cedric — just checked the potions levels, made a quiet note on her chart, and slipped out of the room.
When you stirred hours later, it was still quiet. The world hadn’t ended, though it had come close. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the gray morning light streaming through the hospital wing’s tall windows.
You were still holding his hand.
More importantly — he was still holding yours.
You turned your head, just slightly, and saw Cedric watching you. His eyes were clearer now. Tired, yes — but calm. Solid. Real.
“Morning,” he whispered.
Your voice came out hoarse. “Hey.”
“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“I said I would be,” you replied quietly. “You really think I’d leave again?”
“No,” he said, his thumb brushing over your hand again. “But part of me’s still scared I’ll wake up and this will be gone.”
You sat up straighter, brushing the sleep from your eyes. “It’s not.”
A long pause.
“I thought about you,” Cedric said. “When I was stuck in that maze. When I was hurt. When I woke up alone in here. I kept thinking—‘I didn’t tell her.’ Not really.”
“Didn’t tell me what?” you asked gently.
“That I love you.”
Your breath caught.
“I love you,” he repeated, firmer this time. “And I’m sorry it took almost dying to say it. I should’ve said it that night. When you did. But I panicked. I—I couldn’t believe you’d actually—”
“I did,” you whispered. “I do.”
Cedric’s expression broke into something fragile and luminous, something that made you feel like you could finally breathe after weeks underwater.
He squeezed your hand again.
“I think we’ve wasted enough time, don’t you?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Soft sunlight broke through the clouds beyond the windows, casting a pale gold glow across the room. And as Cedric smiled up at you, tired but whole, you realized this wasn’t the end of your story.
"You said you'd never date. Now look at you.. Loser." Cedric snorted weakly.
It was true. You'd said that at the beginning of 5th year.
Rolling your eyes, you smirked.
"I wouldn't call it dating. I'd call it unlabeled, pure devotion."
Cedric laughed, a low, broken sound that still somehow managed to sound like music. His thumb brushed yours as he held your hand a little tighter.
“Oh, that’s what we’re calling it?” he murmured, smile lazy, eyes gleaming just a bit. “Unlabeled, pure devotion?”
You shrugged, that smirk playing on your lips again. “It’s more romantic that way. Tragic. Poetic.”
“Right,” he said with mock-seriousness. “So when people ask, I’ll just say I’m in a deeply emotional, undefined entanglement with a sarcastic cynic who pretends she doesn’t love me stupid.”
You shot him a glare, but your heart fluttered.
“And I’ll say I’m spiritually tethered to a bleeding-heart Hufflepuff who almost died just to make me realize I’m in love with him.”
Cedric’s eyes locked with yours then — no teasing now, just a quiet, overwhelming sort of tenderness. Like everything had shifted and finally, finally landed right where it was meant to.
“Then I guess we deserve each other,” he whispered.
You nodded. “Unfortunately for you.”
He thought for a moment.
"C'mere." He muttered, opening his arms.
You raised an eyebrow. "But Madam Pomf—"
"She'll be fine. She loves me."
You huffed a laugh, trying to hide the fact that your chest had just caved in a little.
“She loves everyone,” you said, but you were already rising from the chair.
Cedric gave a weak but triumphant grin as you carefully slipped into the narrow hospital bed beside him, minding the bandages and bruises. His arms wrapped around you the second you were close enough — warm, shaky, and maybe a little too tight, like he still didn’t quite believe this was real.
You melted into him anyway.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t comfortable. The mattress was stiff, your knees bumped, and his shoulder was still sore — but somehow, it was perfect.
“You smell like antiseptic,” you muttered into his collarbone.
“You smell like regret and firewhisky,” he murmured back.
You snorted. “Fair.”
For a while, you both just lay there, tangled in silence. His hand moved slowly across your back, your cheek pressed against the beat of his heart. There were a hundred conversations left to have — about the maze, about what came next, about the weeks of silence and the confession you still weren’t sure he’d heard properly.
But for now, this was enough.
Safe. Warm. Alive.
“I’m not letting you go again,” Cedric whispered suddenly, so quietly you almost missed it.
You lifted your head. “Then don’t.”
He looked at you like you’d just given him the answer to every riddle he’d ever been asked.
It happened without fanfare.
No dramatic music. No roaring winds or trembling ground.
Just the two of you, breathing in the same space, your foreheads touching as the late-afternoon sun traced gold across the white sheets and Cedric’s bruised knuckles.
He looked at you like he had all the time in the world — like he was memorizing every curve of your face, every flicker of doubt behind your eyes. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek, reverent. Almost disbelieving.
“I'd like to seal our 'unlabeled, pure devotion'' with a kiss, yeah?” he murmured.
You swallowed, heart thudding. “Then do it.”
His lips found yours gently — not rushed, not hungry, just soft. Certain. A question and an answer, all in one breath.
It was warm and a little shaky, a kiss you could feel in your ribs, in your fingertips, in every inch of skin that remembered what it meant to be close to him.
When he pulled back, barely an inch, his eyes were still closed.
“I'm an absolute fool for you,” he whispered, voice a little hoarse. “But it was definitely worth almost dying for.”
You laughed, and then you kissed him again.
