𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕣𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕤. cedric diggory

5

In second year, my first crush was Angelina. She was a Gryffindor and out of my league. You said you fancied Oliver Wood. I remembered the way my veins froze over at that information, the way my eyes twitched any time he would so much as bloody glance our way in the corridors. It was a sickening feeling that I didn't fancy too much, but it sat with me for the longest time, eating away at my consciousness at night, hurting my ribcage in a way that left me breathless.

I deluded myself into believing that I was threatened by him -- worried that he might take my best friend away from me without consideration.

(But we both knew it was nothing close to that.)

In third year, Harry Potter finally attended school. I had heard so much about The Boy Who Lived and I claimed myself (in my head) as a tiny bit of a fanboy. To finally get a glimpse of the one person who took down You Know Who was something of an occasion that I had been longing for.

But you were angry, for some reason. You called me pathetic, said it was idiotic to be so hung up on some kid because of something he doesn't even know he did. I told you he singlehandedly saved the wizarding world with his mother's sacrifice. You called me a measly fanboy. I was livid. We stopped talking.

And it sucked. It was the bloody worst year of my life. Every day, I would see you in the corridors, hunched in on yourself, bag clutched tightly to your shoulder, books in your arms, your head down as you sped through students to get to the next class that we had together. Sometimes, Cress was with you, but you usually stayed alone, quiet and isolated, and it hurt me to see you like this.

I was always surrounded by other friends, all of them laughing at something or another, but I could never focus on them, especially if you were in the same room as me. I thought our fight to be a stupid one, one that could be easily resolved in the span of a few days. But you didn't approach me and I couldn't approach you because I had thought you hated me, spent nights in the dorms, hot tears pricking at my eyes at the thought of never speaking to you again.

It was stupid, I remember, this vicious burning in me. This searing pain in my heart, churning and aching at the thought of our friendship never being the way it was. Of never being repaired. It was like someone had taken a Crucio curse and used it on me, over and over again, until I was left writhing, internally screaming in excruciating pain.

When I decided I couldn't stand it anymore, when it got too much for me to handle, I hunted you down and I gave you the Christmas present I had been saving. I was nervous, hands shaking, heart racing in my chest at the thought of being near you, in your space, breathing you in, after so long. It was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

I bought you a bracelet. You asked me what the hell it was. I told you it was your Christmas present. You called me a prat, but there was laughter laced in your eyes, a smile printed on your face, so I figured it was okay. I called you a dolt, grinned widely, and told you to put it on because I couldn't wait -- because I knew it would look perfect on you.

And it did. The leather was perfect on your smooth skin, not clashing, but blending in effortlessly with your dark complexion. I loved it.

And when you gave me the journal, I almost cried. I didn't know what it was, but the old, worn pages of the journal made me sentimental. Filled my heart with so much love and affection for you that I almost couldn't contain it, that I almost tackled you in a hug and never let go. I felt like it was the most brilliant present I had ever gotten.

I told you this. Told you it was amazing. Thanked you for it. And there was this thrumming in my veins, my head, my heart. Everything was enhanced just by that one smile that you gave, eyes crinkled and teeth so brilliantly blinding that I needed to look away but couldn't bring myself to.

I didn't know if I wanted to.