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The world is blurry.
Under the tears, Hermione knows it’s because she had one too many butterbeers; a terrible decision, she can tell, but the lightheaded feeling is worth it, her brain rationalises. Her head pounds against her skull, and she feels far too warm to be good.
Ron. Ron was a wanker. Of all the days in the world, he had to ruin everything on this one, a day Hermione had resolved to let her hair down and actually dress up. She can feel the tears drying against her face, and is acutely aware of the fact that her mascara must have run down, but is far too tired to care. Having abandoned Viktor on the dance floor (who had already replaced her with a sixth-year Slytherin) she has nothing else to do.
Bunching her dress in her hand and picking her shoes with another, she rises and climbs down the stairs, exiting the ballroom and walking into a bathroom by the courtyard.
The image of her the mirror reflects is somewhere between what she’d expected to look like and dreadful. Some of her perfectly arranged hair had escaped the updo, the foundation on her forehead had long vaporised, revealing embarrassing little teenage pimples and scars they’d left behind, black lines traced a path down her cheeks, her eyes were red and puffy.
This night had been far more trouble than she’d originally imagined and for naught. With a sigh, Hermione opens the tap and feels the cool water run through her fingers before splashing her face with it. Rationally, with all the makeup she has on, she’d have some work to do before she could wash her face, but she decides she’s far too tired for that nonsense. She rubs at her cheeks and forehead and nose a little too aggressively, but it is oddly liberating to direct her frustration toward something.
She rinses her face one last time and pulls out all the pins from her hair, letting it fall in long ringlets down her back. Her head feels lighter and a dull ache stems from the sudden release. Never again, she vows silently. Grabbing a paper towel from by the sink, she wipes her face dry.
The air outside is cold. Hermione sits at the base of a gargoyle statue and leans her back against it, closing her eyes. She feels the chill hit her nose and a light ache bloom in her nostrils, feels the sting of the winter breeze against her skin, through the far-too-delicate material of her dress. The lightness in her mind is fading, and her thoughts are sharper, more fluid. She sighs again. So much for trying.
“Hello?” a soft voice says, shaking her out of her dramatic reverie. Her eyes fly open, only to be faced with the ruddy and unfairly handsome face of Cedric Diggory.
In the moment that she takes to gather her thoughts and form a coherent sentence, he asks, “Are you okay?”
Hermione nods, inhaling deeply and responding with, “I’m alright, just needed some air.”
Cedric tilts his head slightly, a gesture that is far too charming. “Are you sure? You look pretty tense.”
Hermione smiles wearily. “Absolutely, I just had a clash of opinions with a friend.”
“I guess we’re in the same boat then,” he says with a lopsided smile. “May I?”
He’s gesturing to the space beside her, and Hermione gingerly pats at it. “With pleasure.”
“Hermione Granger, am I correct?” He’s looking at her, eyes smiling yet focused.
Merlin’s twisted, maggoty beard, Cedric Diggory knows my name! squeals a small part of her that has the teensiest crush on him.
“That would be me. Cedric Diggory, am I correct?” She furrows her brows thoughtfully, as if she wouldn’t know Quidditch star and Golden Boy Cedric Diggory, before seeing him grin and feeling herself mimic his expression.
“That would, indeed, be me.” His grin widens, and Hermione takes the quiet as an opportunity to take him in.
His bow-tie is loosened, and sometime during the night, he’s taken his robe off, and now he’s in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair is wind tousled, unlike it was at the beginning of the ball, and there’s a flush to his cheeks and a glaze in his eyes that Hermione associates with Butterbeer. As the moment stretches, and an amused air grows around Cedric’s expression, Hermione realises it seems like she’s staring.
She clears her throat and looks away, and hurriedly asks, “So what brings you here? If I’m not stepping over boundaries here, I’d say you and Cho looked happy.”
He sighs, leaning his head back. “Suffice it to say we didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”
She lets herself steal a glance, sees his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and flushes. “Besides, I think she fancies Harry.”
Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s rather insolent, don’t you think?”
Cedric turns towards her, the amusement in his face intensifying. “You could look at it that way, yes. And you? Did Krum speak of himself enough for you to run away the first chance you got?”
Hermione scoffs. “Something like that.”
“Well, that’s a shame. If I were him, I’d be able to speak of nothing but how wonderful you look.”
A blush rises on her cheeks as she looks at him sharply, but there’s no flirty smirk on his face, just a sincere and resolute smile.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she says, abashed and dying on the inside, “Although I could’ve helped you do that bow-tie better.”
Her face catches fire and she stares down at her palms. Where was all this confidence coming from? The Butterbeer, she decides. It has to be the Butterbeer.
Her embarrassment dies down a little after Cedric chokes out a startled chuckle that dissolves into a soft, melodious laugh. His canines are a little too long, she observes instinctively, but they look nice.
“I’m sure you could’ve. I’ll remember that for next time.” The grin is back and Hermione feels accomplished.
His feet erratically tap on the ground, and the sound of the clip-clopping of expensive boots fills the silence between them. It’s not awkward, but Cedric breaks it anyway. “I’m brimming with adrenaline, I don’t think I danced nearly enough.”
His voice takes on a whiny tone, which sounds slightly off on someone as well-rounded and put together as Cedric, but it makes Hermione smile. “Is this restlessness a necessary trait to be on the Quidditch team? Merlin knows all players that I’ve met are like that.”
“Will you dance with me?” Hermione looks at him, and she knows it probably looks like her eyes are popping out of her skull, but she is that surprised and absolutely can’t help it.
“What?”
“Dance?” he says, gesturing with his arms a position he’d waltz in, “Will you dance with me?”
“Why?”
“The night is young, I’ve had too much to drink (and might’ve snuck in a flute of champagne or two), and I’m here with a beautiful girl like yourself. What else is there to do?”
She is still startled enough to let the fact that the Golden Boy himself had illegally had alcohol slide. “But I left my shoes in the bathroom,” she says dumbly, because she has no idea what else to say. Why don’t they teach us social cues? she wonders silently. How else am I supposed to know the appropriate response to when an insanely gorgeous boy asks me to dance with him?
“Well, not a problem,” he replies smoothly, tugging at his laces and untying them, slipping his legs out of his shoes, then rolling his socks down and slipping them off. “There, now we both don’t have shoes.”
“But - “ Hermione begins, still processing the completely mind-boggling fact that Cedric Diggory is barefoot because she is and wants to dance with her, “I’m terrible at it, dancing.”
“Nonsense,” he smiles, standing up and holding out his hand, “you were the epitome of grace on the dance floor today.” She can’t tell whether or not he’s being sarcastic, but there’s a genuineness on his face that wipes her mind clean of all doubts.
“Okay,” she says, “okay.” She places her hand in a palm the second time today, and feels lips brush against her knuckles the second time today, but it’s surely the first time that chills go up her spine from the contact.
Cedric tugs gently at her arm, and Hermione steps forward, leaning into him. “We don’t have music, though,” she says.
It’s somewhat of a lie, the music from the ballroom is soft and slow but audible, but it’s a ridiculous Celestina Warbeck song and she’s certain she doesn’t want to dance to words like, ‘Stir my cauldron of love,’ or ‘Your love charms me like a spell.’
“Not a fan?” Cedric chuckles. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll sing for us.”
“You can sing?” Hermione is almost exasperated at how perfect he is.
“Not well,” he admits, looking slightly abashed, interlacing their fingers absently. “Let’s hope Elvis Presley’s magic can mask the horrifying quality of my singing.”
“You know Elvis Presley?” She’s surprised, not many Purebloods were into Muggle culture.
“Of course, he’s the only one my mum will agree to listen to, other than Miss Warbeck herself.”
Hermione chuckles. “Your mother’s taste in music is puzzling.”
“Well, a lot of things in life are,” Cedric says, drawing her to him. She complies, placing her arm on his shoulder, feeling his palm settle on her back, slightly above her waist. What a gentleman, her brain sighs dreamily.
“May I begin?”
“Surely.”
He clears his throat, and looks at his feet for a moment, before inhaling deeply and starting off.
“Wise men say,
Only fools rush in.”
It’s a little cliché, but the slight tremor of Cedric’s voice and how he’s begun to gently sway, makes it come alive.
“But I can’t help falling in love with you.”
She sucks in air sharply as she feels his breath on her face, forming little white puffs in the chilly air. It enunciates the warmth of the circle of his arms, the heat that radiates from him and warms her.
“Like a river flows,
Surely to the sea,”
The fluidity of his movements is stunning, and Hermione can’t help but get swept up in his sure-footed, lithe grace. At this proximity, she can see his amber eyes glowing in the lamplight, and the pale smatter of freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks. It is adorable, Hermione decides.
“Darling so it goes,
Some things are meant to be,”
His voice cracks a little and a giggle escapes him, making Hermione grin like a fool. Her grip on his hand tightens and he squeezes back.
“Take my hand,
Take my whole life too,
I can’t help falling in love with you,”
He’s beaming and the crescent that his smiling rosy lips form make Hermione’s heart flutter. His left incisor is chipped the slightest bit, and she thinks it’s wonderfully charming, wonders how she never noticed it before.
“Oh, I can’t help falling in love with you.”
There is a certain boyish charm to his charismatic face, small imperfections like his mildly crooked nose and chipped tooth that make him beautiful. He touches his forehead to hers and she closes her eyes, leaning in. She doesn’t know when her arms circle his neck or when both this arms are around her waist, but before they know they’re swaying to rustling leaves and gushing fountains and the hum of Celestina Warbeck’s music, and in that moment where she can feel Cedric’s skin against hers, his warmth becoming hers, she doesn’t know where she ends and where he begins.
She doesn’t know when they stop moving, doesn’t know when they start heaving breaths. She doesn’t know when their dance turns into an embrace. All she knows is she doesn’t want to let go, which is irrational because she had her first conversation with Cedric not half an hour back, but she does.
She doesn’t know when they pull away. She only knows that she’s staring at him, at his soft guileless smile, radiating nothing but pure adoration. Her heart swells.
“This was lovely,” he finally says, when they realise they’ve just been looking at each other for far too long.
“Yes,” Hermione breathes. “Yes, it was.”
“Would you,” he scratches the back of his head, and his shyness is so endearing she could burst, “would you maybe want to see me again?”
“You’re a Triwizard Champion, kind of hard to miss,” she grins.
“Of course, I just mean - “
“I know, and yes. I would very much like to see you again.”
His face lights up, and all the decorations on the Christmas tree they have inside couldn’t be brighter. “Excellent. I’ll let you know, then?”
“Certainly.”
“Good night, Hermione,” he says with toothy smile.
“Good night, Cedric,” she beams back.
With a last lingering glance, he turns to leave, and as Hermione runs back to the Gryffindor tower like her life depends on it, she’s confident her face must have broken because of how wide she’s smiling.
Can’t help falling in love, huh?