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There’s a heartbreaking sincerity in the way Cedric does things, and it is driving Hermione insane.
Like now, as he intently watches the shelf in Zonko’s, finger stroking his chin, as he tries to decide which his favourite article from the shop would be, even though the question was a joke - for the most part.
“The firecrackers,” he announces shortly, “They’re my favourite.”
“Didn’t peg you for a firecrackers kind of person,” she says, because she didn’t; even though she knew for a fact that he had a cheeky side to him, someone as composed as Cedric Diggory being excited by firecrackers seemed like a stretch.
“Everyone is a firecrackers kind of person,” he grins. Adorable , her brain supplies. She pushes the thought away.
“I’m not,” she says. She isn’t. Sure, she liked the little sparkles that Fred and George gave her during the summer, but the flamboyant kind that were at the Quidditch World Cup? Definitely not.
“You are,” he insists, looking at her from the corner of his eye, “you just don’t know it yet.”
She laughs at that. “If you say so.”
They’re heading down Hogsmeade, after Cedric refused to take Hermione to Madam Pudifoots’ because, ‘It’s so pink, Hermione, and it smells like strawberry syrup and my grandmum’s perfume,’ and she really couldn’t argue with that logic.
Their silence is companionable, punctuated with observations she makes and little anecdotes he narrates.
Three Broomsticks isn’t the best place for a date, but there’s a familiarity to the oaken floor and pastel walls that warm her heart, and Cedric’s soft smile speaks volumes of his own opinion of the inn, so Hermione takes his hand and walks in to find them a table.
It unusually sparse today, but it takes them a little while to find an appropriate table. There’s an unspoken code in the Three Broomsticks that if you’re not seated in one of the corner tables, you are okay with being approached. Judging from Cedric’s inclination towards the table at the far left of the inner room, he isn’t okay with it.
Hermione smiles as they settle down across from each other, after making their respective orders.
Cedric’s fingers are drumming on the wood of the table, chin resting lightly on his palm and face ruddy from wind chill.
“You’re quiet today,” he informs her.
“Oh, it’s just that you’ve only seen me under the influence of Butterbeer, I’m usually not that forthcoming.”
He chuckles. “Did you even get your shoes that night?”
She flushes. She hadn’t. She had run back to the common room immediately after he’d left, unthinking of the consequences of leaving her expensive shoes in a common bathroom. “I got them the next morning,” she mumbles.
“That excited, were you?” There’s that lopsided smile. With Cedric Diggory, Hermione can’t go without her heart skipping a few beats ever once in a while.
“Don’t forget that I saw you skip all the way back to the castle,” she reminds him lightly, failing to keep her expression aloof.
“I have no shame in admitting I was excited,” he says, grinning.
Hermione flushes. She has nothing to say to that, so she doesn’t. This is what she means when she says heartbreaking sincerity.
A bottle and a mug filled with Butterbeer levitate towards their table, and Cedric, with all the instinct and agility of a Seeker, catches them without tipping over a single drop.
“Here,” he says, sliding the mug over to her. “I don’t understand why you like it warm, though.”
Hermione frowns. “It just tastes better, since my mouth doesn’t feel like it’s lost all its sense. Add in a little ginger, it becomes perfect. On the contrary, I don’t get how you like it cold.”
“Well,” he says, eyes glinting, “maybe we’ll take each others’ orders next time.”
Next time. Hermione’s insides do a small victory dance.
They slip into conversation as easily as breathing, Cedric talking to her about his NEWT preparations (‘Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I even took seven NEWTs. But then I start working on an Ancient Runes assignment and realise that the all-nighters really are worth it.’), and Hermione about her own preparations for the OWLs even if they’re a whole year away.
(They tiptoe around the topic of the Triwizard Tournament, Hermione really doesn’t want to - cannot- pick sides.)
After fighting over the check and finally splitting it, they head out of the inn.
It’s drizzling. Most students are either waiting by shops or in them, but it’s turned the atmosphere pleasantly cool and Hermione doesn’t mind it. She looks to Cedric to check if he wants to take shelter somewhere. His smile and curling hair tell a different story, so she swallows the question and hikes up the road, her hands brushing against his accidentally a couple times, deliberately a couple others.
There’s a tentativeness to Cedric’s posture that she hasn’t seen before, and she wants to ask him whether he’s not enjoying this as much as he seems to be and is simply too kind to say so, when she realises the rain has gotten heavier. She pulls up the hood of her robes and almost tugs at his hand when she looks up to see Cedric grinning, somewhat maniacally.
Oh, no. “Cedric Diggory.”
He only grins wider and holds out his hand. “Hermione Granger.”
“No, absolutely not. I do not want to get sick and you shouldn’t either.”
His smile dissipates a little. “But it’ll be fun! Besides, from where I stand, the sun is shining all over the place.”
Hermione dismisses the reference.
“You’re a Prefect,” she reasons.
“Extra privilege,” he shrugs.
“The second task!”
“Madam Pomfrey likes me.”
“Are all boys this insufferable?”
“Excuse me, I’m very tame.”
He pouts. Cedric Diggory pouts . And God forbid that he looks like anything other than an angel when he does.
“You’re a zoo animal,” she chides with a laugh. “Fine, do what you want to, but don’t complain when your nose is puffy and runny and your lungs feel like they’ve been filled with sawdust.”
“You’ll take care of me, won’t you?” His smile turns mischievous and Hermione smacks his arm before walking over to the sidewalk, under the eave of a shop building.
Despite his modest claim of knowing only a couple musicians, it has has been made clear to her through their initial encounter and the letters that followed that Cedric Diggory is a musical in guise of a man. A song for every occasion, a line to sign off every letter with.
He looks around and once he’s certain that there’s no one around, clears his throat for dramatic effect, and spreads his arms.
“I’m singin’ in the rain,
Just singin’ in the rain,
What a glorious feeling,
I’m happy again.”
He’s swaying a little, mouth curved into a smile around the song, robes fluttering, hair sticking to his forehead. She knew it was coming, but she has to resist the urge to sing along anyway.
“I’m laughing at the clouds,
So dark up above,”
He pretends to hug an imaginary pole and grins the goofiest grin there is, and she can’t fight the smile that makes its way onto her face.
“The sun’s in my heart,
And I’m ready for love.”
He looks at her, eyes so fond it takes all she has to not avert her eyes. What in good Merlin’s name had she ever done to deserve that?
“Let the stormy clouds chase,
Everyone from the place,”
He takes off an imaginary hat and bows to an imaginary person,
“Come on with the rain,
I’ve a smile on my face,”
He does a little hop and stand with his legs spread, smiling at the sky. So he does have the entire choreography memorised? He never ceases to amaze her.
“I walk down the lane,
With a happy refrain,”
He pulls out his wand and twirls it around, skipping a bit as he makes his way towards her,
“Just singin’,
Singin’ in the rain,”
And this time when he holds out his hand, Hermione caves in with a chuckle.
“Dancin’ in the rain,”
Neither of them knows how to tap dance, and even Cedric memory can’t tell his feet how to move, so they hop around each other on four left feet, giggling hand-in-hand, humming after discovering that Cedric cannot yodel for the love of magic, and amidst the pitter-patter of raindrops and their off-key humming, she finds Cedric’s gaze and holds it, even after he steps on her robe and she stomps on his foot.
“I’m happy again,
I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the rain.”
They’re singing together and moving together, circling each other and hopping like she’s seen in the folk dances from the country, and now she’s drenched as he is, and she can’t take her eyes off his smiling eyes, the hair stuck to his forehead, his cheeks flushed from the cold and the movement, and Hermione’s heart is going at a million miles per hour.
“I’m singin’ and dancin’,
I’m singin’ and dancin’ in rain.”
He twirls her around and dips her, and it’s nowhere near perfect but it’s Cedric and he’s smiling at her like the sun rises and sets in her face and there’s nothing that can ruin that. For a long moment, they look at each other. And then they burst into a fit of giggles.
“Let’s go,” Cedric says breathlessly between chuckles, and she obliges. They run towards the castle even though Cedric can apparate, hands entangled between them, like their life depends on it.
The gush of the pouring rain is woven through with the sound of delighted laughter and the freshness of young promises, and amidst it all, Hermione’s soul sings,
The sun’s in my heart, and I’m ready for love.