#cedoliver

Oliver looks at Cedric then, his gray eyes filled with fear and anticipation and hope.

They seemed to say: you could make your home in these stars.

Cedric grabs Oliver’s hand, crumples the letter with the action. Cedric is the first one to move forward, bridge the gap between them.

And as always, Oliver is the first one to move back. Cringes. He doesn’t dare to look Cedric in the eyes again, terrified of what he might find: disappointment, resignation, anger. A supernova of all the emotions they were not allowed to say.

Still, Cedric doesn’t let go of his hand, whispers, “I’m not afraid.”

Oliver looks at their intertwined fingers, feels the way Cedric’s hand just fits.

“Bravery has nothing to do with it,” he chokes out, because it doesn’t. It shouldn’t.

Cedric shakes his head, grips Oliver’s hand tighter the way one would clasp a snitch, as if he were scared Oliver too would fly away and disappear any second now.

He uses his free hand to cup Oliver’s cheek, but does not move forward this time. “It does. You know it does.”

Cedric gently forces Oliver’s gaze from their hands and back to his face, gaze imploring. “It’s everything.”

Oliver tentatively raises his hand to meet Cedric’s, wishing this chaste embrace could last lifetimes.

*

They hadn't lost by a large margin, but Cedric couldn't help but feel as if that would have been the better option.

It would have been embarrassing, sure, but it crushed him whenever they got so close, whenever they got so hopeful--only to fail.

And Cedric hated to fail. But he hated failing people even more.

His first year as Captain, and he was already floundering.

He couldn't even look Oliver in the eye when they exchanged handshakes, didn’t even respond to the usual “Good game, Diggory.”  His head was already filled with plays they should have seen, moves they could have done. Because Cedric Diggory did not want to be ‘good.’ He needed to be excellent.

So he did the only thing he could think of doing: grabbed his broom and sneaked onto the pitch, prefect status be damned. He would fly until he was completely winded, until his muscles gave out, until he could physically feel the disappointment and guilt and shame begin to ebb away. Retreat even just for a day, just for a moment. Then, and only then, could he afford to tell himself it was enough. (Until, of course, it wasn’t).

Only it turned out he hadn’t been the only one hoping to fly tonight.

"What the bloody hell are you on the pitch for, Wood? Gryffindor won!"

Oliver raised an eyebrow, but otherwise chose not to comment. He stayed hovering, waiting for Cedric to approach. He gave no indication he was surprised to see Cedric here at all.

“It’s true, you really are insane, you know that? You should be in bed. Resting. You’ve earned it.”

Cedric winced. He should have phrased that better. He expected Oliver to prickle at the comment, mouth forming into a hard line the same way he did whenever Cedric had the pleasure of watching his shouting matches with Marcus Flint. Or perhaps he’d roll his eyes the same way an annoyed sibling would whenever he was being chastised, like he did whenever Percy Weasley harped at him about quidditch.  

But Oliver just shook his head, still only at a hover, but flying to meet Cedric just as he stepped onto the pitch. The wind was gentle tonight, and under the faint moonlight, Cedric could have sworn Oliver was smiling.

“I could say the same to you. Whenever I say it’s a good game, I mean it.”

“Even to Marcus Flint?” Cedric quipped. He made no move to get on his broom as much as Oliver didn’t bother to get off his.

Oliver shrugged. “Even to Marcus Flint.”

Cedric didn’t know why this particularly shocked him. He always knew Oliver to be fair, and appreciated him for it, but even Cedric had to admit it was hard to call any game with Marcus Flint a ‘good’ one.

“Either way, could have been better.”

Another shrug. “Every game could be, if you think about it. It’s why you’re here tonight, why I’m here tonight. Why we’re both here, I’m presuming, every night we can be. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t good. Doesn’t mean you weren’t good.”

‘Good’ got you put on Reserves, got you second best on a platform or exam. Cedric knew he was ‘good,’ but imagine people like Harry Potter who were already there. Who were great on bad days, and near phenomenal on any other. Not that people like Harry didn’t work hard, but it frustrated Cedric to know that every day of his life, he would have to work harder.

So if Cedric heard the word ‘good’ one more time, he’d explode--he wasn’t looking for roundabout validation from Oliver Wood of all people, who Cedric considered to have about as much natural talent as Harry anyway.

He’d half a mind to say goodnight right then and there, but to simply excuse himself and go back to the dorms did not only feel somewhat rude, but to come all this way to end up not practicing was a waste. He at least owed the extra hours to his team.

He fidgeted with his broom, tightening and loosening his grip as he thought about the best way to approach this.  

Oliver, ever the Gryffindor, seemed just fine on settling it for him.

He motioned to Cedric’s broom. “You going to fly, or what?”

The tone was nonchalant enough, but there were traces of amusement in Oliver’s eyes, as if he were sharing a joke Cedric was supposed to be aware of.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Well, I’m certainly not landing to help you on your broom, if that’s what you mean.”

“Would have been polite,” Cedric murmured.

“That’s more your thing, isn’t it?” Oliver joked. “Besides, you know I don’t like the ground much.”

Oliver shot up into the air, and Cedric hurried to follow, previous qualms momentarily forgotten. This was a challenge, and he was not going to lose.

*

“I’m going to miss you.”

Cedric says it so quietly that Oliver thinks he’s mistaken the admission for the wind.

They stay there in mid-air, silent and unmoving even when the snitch whizzes past them both.  

Slowly, Oliver replies, “We’ve got more than half the year left, Diggory.”

Cedric hums, as usual not missing Oliver’s deflection. “You’re off to Tutshill, then?”  

Oliver’s grip becomes white-knuckled. “You care that much?”

Cedric shrugs, but he doesn’t break eye contact even at the sudden shift in tone. “You know I do.”

“There’s time until then.”

“Result’s the same isn’t it? You leave, I stay. I’ll still miss you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Think we both said that around last year too, didn’t we?”

The snitch whizzes past again, and Oliver moves to catch it. He doesn’t bother with the conversation any longer, too afraid of where it was headed.

*

“Bit clandestine, don't you think? Meeting like this all the time.”

It was Oliver’s turn to run into Cedric on the pitch, with Gryffindor having taken a particularly brutal loss from Ravenclaw that afternoon. Roger had been euphoric, an absolute beaming mess until they parted ways. Even Cho, who usually tried to take both their wins and losses gracefully, couldn’t suppress her almost surprised satisfaction.

Oliver, as expected, was quite the opposite. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not in the mood, Diggory.”

“Are you ever?”

“Yes,” Oliver snapped, “so long as Gryffindor stands a chance at the Cup this year, I’ll be absolutely fucking ecstatic.”

Cedric stopped himself mid-jibe, studied the way Oliver was seething.

Cedric had lost count of how many times the two have met on nights like these, after wins and losses alike. It had become routine: sneak out, race to the pitch--Cedric was winning by two, by the way--discuss, fly, rest, sneak in, repeat. They never talked much outside of that, though their friends have asked at times about their sudden camaraderie with one another. Considering their first time flying together was a little rocky on Cedric’s end, he was glad for the tentative friendship they’ve formed.

They understood one another on a level even Cedric was reluctant to reveal to his friends. Though they never spoke about it, they could feel each other’s desperation, the need to win and persevere and improve. Disappointment crushed them, ‘enough’ was a foreign term. It was a more ruthless side to himself that he was ashamed of, and very rarely let show, but it was a part of him all the same.

Oliver never judged though, just watched and flew and let Cedric be. He was the same with Oliver, who expressed his own fair share of aggravation on particularly rough days.

Still, even with Oliver’s mood swings and rigorous training regimen, and impossibly high standards (though Cedric did suppose he had no right to judge anyone else about high standards), he was never quite like this.

The wind was as harsh as Oliver’s expression, and the moon’s usual glare seemed to soften in comparison. His hand was clenched around his broom, his jaw set so tightly it would have put Severus Snape to shame. The outburst was not uncommon, and Cedric was not so sensitive to think the anger and frustration was for him. But it was the first time it was directed at him. This caused him to frown.

“You’ve still a chance, you know. There’s always a chance.”

Oliver glared. “I’ll listen to your advice once you actually take it yourself.”

Cedric’s eyes narrowed, but he refused to rise to the bait. He flew the rest of the way to the ground, getting off his broom to stand right in front of Oliver. They were the same height, now, a far cry from the bumbling pre-teen he was the first time they had faced each other. The way Oliver squared his shoulders to match Cedric’s own stubbornness indicated he knew this to be true, too.

“This isn’t about me, Oliver.”

They stared at each other for a long time, Cedric willing to wait the whole night if he had to. But to look away first would be to allow Oliver to be left alone to his thoughts, and Cedric knew how dangerous that could be. When flying became too much of an escapist tactic, the easier it was to spiral. He was intimate with the notion.

After what felt like hours, Oliver dropped his gaze to the ground.

“That match cost me a recruitment.”

His voice was the softest Cedric’s ever heard it.

Everything about Oliver screamed ‘defeat:’ the way his shoulders slumped, his arms limp at his sides, expression downcast. Even when he finally looked up towards the sky, his eyes did not hold the same intensity or fervor of a boy who dreamed, but the anguish of a man who had woken up and accepted reality.      

“Which team?” Cedric asked quietly.

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.”

Silence.

“Well,” Cedric started, “it’s their loss, isn’t it? Oliver, you’re phenomenal. You’ll have another--”

“My whole life,” Oliver whispered, “is built on chances and opportunities. But chances are taken away as easily as opportunities are wasted.”

“Oliver-”

“I’m running out of time. We need to break the losing streak, now or never. Gryffindor needs this Cup. I need this Cup.”

A pause. A shaky intake of breath.

“I may be good, but I have no connections unlike Davies, no money unlike Flint. No other options, unlike you,” Oliver looked to his broom as if he had let down a friend. “Quidditch is all I have.”

At that moment, Oliver Wood had completely abandoned his Captain persona, didn’t care to don the usual intimidating exterior or hide behind snappy retorts. But even his vulnerability had a way of commanding a room, in the way it was so genuine, so raw, and so honest that Cedric did the only thing he could think of doing--he embraced him.

He put everything into that one action, all the things they never said aloud. Everything he wished could have been said to him. I’m proud of you, I believe in you. You will succeed. You are great as you are.

Cedric Diggory was holding a man who was all too ready to break, and it reminded him so much of himself that he had to fight to keep his voice from trembling.

“That’s not true. Not anymore.”

*

Cedric wins their Seeking game this time, but just barely, and Oliver doesn’t miss the way he cradles his shoulder when they land.

“Merlin, Diggory, didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on that?”

Cedric rolls his eyes. “Got me the snitch, didn’t it?”

“Got you a worsened injury, more like it.”

Cedric’s voice is even. “You care that much?”

Oliver, as always, takes the time to respond, considers his words as if their very relationship depended on them. Perhaps it did. “If it compromises your ability, damn right I care.”

They barely meet like this, during their free periods in broad daylight. And Oliver can tell that Cedric doesn’t want to ruin it, but Cedric’s expression falls and he looks so tired. Tired, no doubt, of the double meanings and the deflections and the way Oliver just won’t say what he wants to say.

So he laughs. It’s shaky and more than a little bitter. More than a little sad. “Good to know.”

“Don’t you want Hufflepuff to have a chance at the Cup?” Oliver pushes, pretends he doesn’t hear it, pretends it doesn’t hurt him too.  

“Consider it taking out the competition, then.”

“Cedric, you know what I mean.” And Oliver says it with so much conviction that Cedric turns to him briefly before turning away once more. Cedric looked so much older then, Oliver having glimpsed the worry lines on his forehead and the grimace he sported. The only word Oliver could think of to describe him was ‘exhausted.’

“Yeah, I do.”

Oliver sighs in what sounds like relief, but Cedric isn’t finished.

“Do you ever think though that sometimes I just...don’t? That I’d like for us to see each other without having to do mental gymnastics all the time?” He stares straight ahead, misses the way Oliver winces and reaches his hand towards him, only to retract it. Little did Cedric know how tired he is too.

Cedric’s shoulders sag. “Maybe I shouldn’t care this much, yeah. But maybe you should find it in yourself to care more.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before making his way back to the Castle.

*

“What’s wrong with your shoulder?”

Cedric put his quill down. “You are not allowed to ask me that.”

“There are a lot of things I’m not allowed to ask. So you admit something’s wrong?”

“I admit,” Cedric sighed, glaring at his companion, “that you’re nosy.”

“I prefer the word ‘observant,’”

“How about ‘prat?’ Even better yet--annoying.”

Oliver shrugged, picking up his quill only to lazily play with its feather, the essay in front of him forgotten. Idly, he flicked the feather towards Cedric’s nose until he was forced to look up from his own assignment.

“Really, one heart-to-heart and you want to know all about my troubled past.”

Oliver’s grin was rueful. “I mean, I’ll trade you it for mine if you want.”

Madam Pince looked dangerously close to shushing them as she walked towards their end of the library, and Cedric fought to quiet his laugh.

“And,” Oliver continued, “I’m fairly sure it’s been more than one by now.”

Cedric snorted, “If you say so,”

“I know so. We know so, in fact. Now stop ignoring my question.”

“I’m not ignoring it, because I acknowledged it. I’m actively choosing to not answer.”

“What the hell kind of reasoning--”

“Boys!” Madam Pince shrilled, “Would you like to take your conversation elsewhere, perhaps?”

They cringed and muttered their apologies, but Oliver was relentless when he wanted to be. Cedric wondered if ultimately, this was where Harry Potter got his stubborn streak from.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with not telling me that easily.”

“What, and have you reveal my secrets to the entirety of your Quidditch team?” Cedric chuckled, “No thank you.”

Cedric intended for it to be a joke, but Oliver’s expression turned serious. “You think I’d do that?”

Cedric blinked. “Do what?”

“Exploit your weaknesses.”

“Oliver.”

“Forget it, that was unfair of me,” he replied. “Still though, whether or not you choose to say anything, just be careful.”

“Since when did you get so protective?”

Oliver hooked their ankles together underneath the table, expression almost shy. “Since someone reminded me that quidditch isn’t all I have.”  

*

“Congratulations on Puddlemere.”

They’re sitting on the soft grass of the quidditch pitch together for what they both knew would be the last time. Despite it already being late hours into the night, the warm breeze and greenness of the leaves they carried past indicated that it was summer. They both would both leave Hogwarts in the morning, and only one of them will return.

“Thank you,” Oliver says, though the reply comes out stiffer than he means for it to be. “Make sure you study hard for your NEWTS.”

Cedric plays with the grass. “Yeah.”

The silence between them is awkward, the tension so thick Oliver thinks he can feel himself beginning to choke from it.

He says the first thing that pops into his head.

“Why not Chaser?”

Cedric’s head shoots up, the blades of grass slipping from his fingers.

“What?”

“You know what.”

Cedric’s eyes narrow. “Fine. Why?”

“You know why.”

“Damn it, Oliver.” Cedric sighs, “Does everything have to be cryptic with you?”

Cedric visibly deflates afterwards and shifts closer to Oliver, moving his hand so that their pinkies are barely touching. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight.”

Oliver intertwines them, and he barely catches the surprise that makes its way onto Cedric’s otherwise solemn expression. “Me neither.”

“I’m tired of fighting.”

“So am I.”

Silence.

“So I guess this is goodbye.” Cedric stares pointedly at their hands.

Oliver doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good with words.

Instead, he intertwines their hands fully, feels the way they come together like puzzle pieces. He cups Cedric’s face with his free one, brings it closer to his own.

Oliver takes a breath, and slowly, delicately, kisses Cedric on the forehead.

He caresses Cedric’s cheek once, twice, the smoothness of his skin welcoming his calloused fingers. His touch is featherlight, and he feels Cedric move forward as Oliver retracts his hand, desperate for the contact.

“Ced?” Oliver whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Go to my matches, will you?”

Cedric shakes his head in mock exasperation, his eyes teasing. “It always goes back to quidditch, huh?”

“It always goes back to you.”

They stay that way for a long time, simply content in each other’s company.

*

Dear Oliver,

They’ve absolutely desecrated the pitch. It’s awful. Turned it into a bloody maze of all things. Granted, it’s for the Task, but still. I hate not being able to fly. And how are we supposed to play quidditch?

Roger says I’m beginning to sound too much like you nowadays. Perhaps he’s right.

Well, regardless...it would mean a lot for you to come for the third Task.

But if you can’t, well, at least this should be a fair enough notice in case you could pull some strings with Puddlemere. Sorry, is that too selfish? Argh, sorry, I know we’ve discussed not saying sorry. Oh, bugger off, I’m trying here.

Anyway, I don’t blame you for not being able to make it to the Ball, stop mentioning it. Cho was as lovely a date as they come.

(Don’t tell anyone, but I’m pretty sure she only had eyes for Hermione the entire Champions dance. Speaking of not telling anyone...how are Weasley and Flint doing?)

Other than this whole Triwizard business, everything’s as ‘normal’ as they can be. Malfoy’s still got it out for Potter, and Potter (as you know) is just trying to survive another year.

How are things on your end? I hate that we’ve not been able to see each other or write as often. I miss seeing you play.

I hope you’re doing well. I miss you.

And just...think about what I’ve said.

I’ve turned seventeen. I still know. I’m still brave. We’ve waited, Ollie, probably more than we should have. Probably more than we wanted. Maybe after the last Task, we can finally make a go of things.

Cedric

*

Oliver waves to Cho as he makes his way to the stands, but barely manages to step a foot onto what was usually the quidditch pitch before he’s almost tackled to the ground, the wind knocked right out of him.

“Merlin, Ced, are you a Champion or a Bludger?”

“You came.” Cedric’s smile is so bright that Oliver finds his breath hitching.

“Yeah, I did. Uh, surprise?”

Cedirc laughs, and Oliver starts to let go, but Cedric holds on tighter, buries his face into Oliver’s neck. “I missed you.”

His voice is muffled, but Oliver feels the words seep into his bones, vibrate throughout his entire being. He holds Cedric impossibly closer.

“I missed you too.”

Cedric reluctantly steps out of their embrace, pointing to where his father, Harry, and the other Champions are waiting for him near the Maze.

“I have to go but...have you thought about it? About what I’ve said.”

“I have.”

Oliver says nothing more, but from the dumb grin that spreads onto Cedric’s face, he thinks he’s gotten the message across.

Cedric starts to walk backwards, gray eyes never breaking away from Oliver’s. Oliver thinks he’s never seen Cedric look so young, so hopeful, so free. So alive.

Oliver realizes then that he really does know now too. He’s done waiting. It’s time to be brave.

Cedric calls out to him, “Kiss me when I win, yeah?”