#ced

Everyone is buzzing with excitement for the Quidditch World Cup, despite the early hour. The early-morning walk to the Portkey is jovial, noisy, at worst. Laughter, the crunch of grass underfoot; but most of all, one voice carrying above the rest:

“Told you, didn’t I? Caught the Snitch right out from under him! Clean as you like!”

You don’t need to look to know it’s Amos Diggory, and you definitely don’t need to look to know who he’s talking about. Still, your eyes flick sideways to Cedric walking just ahead of you, Hermione, and Ginny: his backpack is slung low and hands shoved deep into his jean pockets; his shoulders are held tightly as he hangs his head downward.

“You played well, of course,” Amos continues, clapping someone, probably Harry, on the back, “but my boy— well, he’s always had the edge, haven’t you, Ced?”

Cedric doesn’t raise his head. “Right,” he says monotonously, pulling one hand out of his pocket to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly as Arthur continues the conversation with his colleague. You can tell Cedric has had enough of his dad's bragging for one morning.

You watch him for the rest of the walk: the way he smiles when expected, nods in the right places, plays the part with as little reluctance as possible. No one else seems to notice anything but his — admittedly — striking good looks and well-mannered demeanour.

The campsite, when you arrive that night, is everything you imagined: right in front of the deep forest, fires crackling, tents glowing gold from within, voices drifting through the warm, summer air; it feels magical — partly because it is, but partly because of everyone's high-spirits.

Except for one person, of course: Cedric.

After helping to set up the tent (a group effort, thanks to Mr Weasley’s lack of camping experience), you watch as Cedric disappears behind the brightly covered canvas toward the woods, excusing himself for a moment. You think nothing of it, so you stay and amuse yourself with Ginny and Hermione, placing bets on the upcoming match.

After an hour, however, you begin to grow concerned with his absence, and take it upon yourself to find him.

“I won’t be a minute,” you excuse yourself, but Hermione is so occupied arguing about Elf rights with the twins that you don’t think she hears you.

Wandering out toward the forest line where you saw him disappear, you spot him sitting at the edge of a campfire’s light, just beyond the shadows. From here, you can still hear everyone else talking, laughing, passing around drinks; Cedric isn’t: he’s just sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, pulled up to his chest, his chin resting on his knees.

For once, he looks tiny: like a seventeen year old boy should, sometimes.

You hesitate, then step forward into the small clearing.

“Escaping your admirers?”

He glances up, eyes glossed over like a doll’s— until they spot you. They turn honey-soft when they land on your gentle smile, as he pats the spot next to him.

“Something like that,” he says.

You sit beside him, pulling your knees in against the chill.

“Cold?” he asks, glancing sideways at you. He doesn’t wait for your answer before peeling off his brown jacket and hanging it over your smaller frame.

“Thanks, Ced.”

He nods. For a moment, neither of you speak. The fire crackles between you and the noise of the others drifts over on the wind.

“You were very gracious earlier,” you say eventually.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Was I?”

“Yeah. Not everyone would’ve been.”

He tilts his head toward you, chewing his lower lip. “Care to elaborate?”

You pause, unsure whether you were prying. “Well, your dad… you seemed a little put-off when he was talking about your win against Gryffindor— how you the beat great Harry Potter.”

You look up and meet his gaze for a moment, breathing in the intoxicating smell of smoke mixed with his cologne, until he turns away and stares back into the fire, eyes glazing over again.

“I didn’t even beat him,” Cedric says monotonously. “It was the Dementors. My dad doesn't believe it, but I know I didn't beat him properly.” There’s no pride in his confession, no false modesty.

“Doesn't mean you failed though, Cedric." You pause, finding the right words. "Does it bother you, having to live up to your dad's idea of you? Not that you aren't all of the things he says— it's just...I think I'd go crazy being the pride and joy all the time.”

Cedric pokes absently at the fire with a stick, sparks lifting into the air.

“He means well,” he says after a moment.

You don't say anything, you just smile gently and put a hand on his back, rubbing slow circles as if to coax him out of his shell.

“He does,” Cedric affirms, but it’s quieter now— less certain.

You watch him, the firelight catching the wonderful angles of his face. For once, you don't see the confident smile, but something more tired around the edges.

“It just—” he stops, jaw tensing and releasing in a way that makes your stomach flip: you immediately turn your gaze to the fire, to prevent further distraction. “It’s easier for him if I’m… all of those things, all of the time.”

“'Those things'?”

“The one who wins. The best. at everything” He lets out a breath. “Even when I’m not.”

“You could correct him.”

“I could have,” he agrees. “But then what? Embarrass him? Make it awkward?” He shakes his head. “Everyone was happy. It’s not worth ruining that.”

“You weren't happy, though, were you? Surely that's worth something."

He looks at you, unblinking, and for a moment, the Golden Boy routine stops. “I am so tired,” he says quietly, “of trying to be the thing people expect me to be...all the time.”

You don’t answer right away, digesting his words and holding his gaze. “I bet you are," you say, "I would be too, Cedric. And I wouldn't be half as nice about it as you are."

His gaze flickers back to the fire, an amused half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You think he looks sweet in this way—in this new, real way. “That’s a very generous way of putting it.”

You continue rubbing circles on his back, worried he's cold without his jacket. "Look, I don't want to pry, Cedric. I don't want to stir the pot, but it hurts to see you this way— all...tucked away and sad," you sigh dramatically. "I'm only here to make myself feel better, really," you nudge him, smiling.

Cedric leans back slightly, resting his weight on his large, outstretched hands. “I didn’t think anyone noticed,” he admits, sheepishly.

“Well, you were wrong.”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “I'm glad you did.”

Something in his tone of voice sends a blush right to your face; you hope that he can't see it in the light of the fire.

A comfortable quiet settles between you as you glance over his shoulder toward the others, his father among them, still animated and no doubt boasting.

Cedric's voice returns your attention to him. “Stay a bit?” he asks.

You smile. “Only if you stop promise to let your guard down a bit, sometimes”