On the eighth floor, in the headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore stood by the enchanted window, watching the warm autumn breeze sweep through the Hogwarts grounds. His thoughts, however, were not on the weather.
They were on Cedric Diggory.
By all appearances, the boy was perfectly ordinary—at least as ordinary as one could be after becoming the youngest registered Animagus in wizarding history.
He was cheerful, bright, and ambitious in that quiet Hufflepuff way. He didn't strut, didn't boast, didn't belittle others. He got along well with his classmates, never used his talents to suppress or overshadow them, and never sought out trouble.
In fact, he never even sought out glory.
That, Dumbledore thought, was the most curious part of all.
Had he been eleven again—bright-eyed and still finding joy in sugar quills and exploding snap—he would've leapt at the chance to be front-page news. He'd have worn the achievement like a cloak of honor.
But Cedric?
He'd politely declined media interviews, shrugged off applause, and instead of basking in his newfound fame, had returned straight to Hogwarts to study spells—during a break, no less.
Was it simply a hunger for knowledge?
Was it discipline? Obsession?
Or... was there something else?
Cedric, Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard, what is it that you truly seek?
He stared deeper into the swirling glass of his pensieve but found no clear answers.
---
Meanwhile, in the cozy Hufflepuff common room, a group of students were sneaking glances at the enchanted wall clock.
The hands ticked past 11:50.
Immediately, several students sprang to their feet, their eyes lighting up.
"Cedric, come on! It's lunchtime!"
Cedric looked up from the charm he was practicing. He gave a sheepish smile, quickly tucked his wand away, and followed his housemates toward the Great Hall.
As soon as he stepped inside, a wave of applause burst from the Hufflepuff table.
"CEDRIC!!"
"The youngest Animagus in history!"
"Hufflepuff's pride!"
Startled, Cedric blinked, then laughed in surprise. He hadn't even told anyone yet. He'd received the crystal Animagus trophy, yes, but had gotten so absorbed in spellwork afterward that it slipped his mind.
"How did you even know?" he asked.
A fourth-year student grinned. "My dad works at the Ministry! He sent me a letter last night—scolded me for being lazy and told me to start acting more like you!"
The table erupted in good-natured laughter.
It was the age-old curse: being compared to other people's children. But instead of sulking, the student puffed his chest out proudly.
"I'm okay with it though. Because you're Cedric!"
Cedric chuckled and pulled the boy into a hug. "Thanks. That means a lot."
Compared to flashing cameras and newspaper headlines, this sincere, heartfelt praise from his housemates felt a hundred times warmer.
The celebration didn't stop there.
A few minutes later, Filch—grumbling as always—and Hagrid, grinning from ear to ear, wheeled in a massive three-tiered cake, its icing twinkling with enchanted stars.
"Happy Animagus Day!" someone shouted.
Spoons were raised, slices devoured… and then the inevitable happened.
A dollop of cream landed on someone's nose.
And just like that—cake war.
Cedric was immediately targeted by no less than five Hufflepuffs, all shouting "For glory!" as they pelted him with frosting. He retaliated with masterful precision. Within seconds, it was chaos.
Only when Professor Sprout popped her head in with an arched eyebrow did they remember that magic existed.
Scourgify! Tergeo!
Fortunately, no evidence remained.
By the time lunch ended, Cedric's stomach and heart were both full. Still, he knew he needed rest. He had flying lessons in the afternoon, and if there was one thing he didn't do—it was showing up tired.
---
Out on the Hogwarts lawn, the skies had cleared just in time for flying class.
Madam Rolanda Hooch, as sharp-eyed as ever, was already waiting. Her windblown grey hair and bright yellow eyes surveyed the group like a hawk. The moment she spotted Cedric, her face lit up.
"Diggory!" she called out. "Come here!"
Cedric jogged over, and she tossed him something long and thin.
"A licorice wand. Congratulations."
"Thank you, Professor!" he said, taking it with a grin.
"I hear you've been making waves. Tell me—do you like Quidditch?"
Cedric's smile widened. "I don't just like it—I love it. I've been waiting for this day for six years."
Madam Hooch laughed heartily. "Good answer. Let's see what you've got."
Turning to the class, she clapped her hands. "Everyone—grab a broom and line up!"
Cedric picked one at random. Most of the school's brooms were old and charmed to limit speed for safety, so he didn't expect much.
"Right hand over your broom, palm down! Then say—'Up!'"
"Up!" Cedric commanded.
His broom leapt neatly into his hand.
Others weren't so lucky. Some brooms twitched. Others rolled lazily on the ground like sleepy puppies. Madam Hooch spent the next ten minutes coaching the strugglers.
By the time everyone was airborne, Cedric was already flying steady loops in the sky.
He obeyed Madam Hooch's instructions for takeoff and landing, but his movements were smooth, confident—elegant, even.
This feels right, he thought. Natural.
He didn't feel fear. He didn't even feel wind resistance. It was as if his body belonged in the air.
He remembered reading about Harry Potter's first time on a broom and couldn't help comparing it to his own. With his S-Rank Quidditch Talent, Cedric felt he was at least on par—if not better.
Mrs. Hooch called out from below. "Diggory! Try some elevation and maneuvering when you're ready!"
"Alright!" he shouted back, pushing upward.
He soared.
First, a series of horizontal figure-eight loops. Then vertical ones. Then figure-eights tilted at 45-degree angles.
He transitioned seamlessly into pentagram formations, weaving intricate aerial trails as if choreographed by magic itself.
Gasps echoed from below.
The other students—Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws alike—watched in stunned silence.
He was tall. Handsome. Bright, kind, magically gifted, and now—soaring through the skies like he belonged there.
What else can he not do? someone whispered.
Even Madam Hooch was speechless, her eyes wide with approval.
When class ended, she landed beside Cedric and clapped a hand on his back.
"Well," she said, "you've graduated from flying lessons as far as I'm concerned."
She turned to one of the prefects nearby. "Take a message to Professor Sprout. Tell her I'm sending her a Seeker candidate she might want to lock down immediately."
---
Cedric walked back toward the castle, broom in hand, grinning like a boy who had just found out he could fly—which, of course, he had.
And the whispers followed him like a breeze:
"Did you see that? He flew like a professional!"
"Smart, talented, and now a Quidditch star?"
"He's amazing…"
Great Cedric, they said.
We sing your praises, and we lift your name.
And Cedric? He just smiled, tucked his broom over his shoulder, and kept walking forward—toward whatever challenge lay ahead.
Because that's what he did.
Whatever it was, he would face it head-on.
Because really… what couldn't he do?
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