Hello!! I'm Allie!! I go by she/her and this blog is my safe place!! <33 Masterlist
I write fanfics, headcanons, one shots, create moodboards, and just random things to be honest. I have already posted rules when it comes to requesting a fanfic but overall those rules are applied when it comes to interacting with me.
I am a multishipper. It would be nice if you respect that!! I might write a fanfic with a pairing that you don't like but it's alright you can scroll away or even block me but refrain from leaving hate comments!!
I believe we can have our own likes and dislikes without constantly feeling scared to voice out our own opinions!! <33
P.S.: English is not my first language so there might be some grammatical errors. (;;;・_・)
The Quidditch pitch in early November was less a field and more an expanse of gray ice, biting wind, and mud.
While the rest of the castle huddled around the roaring fires of their common rooms, Oliver Wood stood at the center of the pitch, his broom resting against his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the sky. He lived in a world measured in quaffles, bludgers, and tactical plays. For Oliver, the pitch was simple: you trained until you bled, you played until you won, and everything else was just noise.
Except for you.
You were sitting on the bottom row of the frozen wooden bleachers, wrapped in a thick scarlet-and-gold scarf, a warm mug of tea tucked between your gloved hands. You weren't on the team, but somehow, over the last three months, you had become a permanent fixture of his grueling evening practices.
Oliver landed with a heavy thud in the slush, his chest heaving, hair damp with sweat despite the freezing air. He walked over to the barrier, leaning his arms against the wood and looking down at you.
"Practice ended twenty minutes ago," he said, his Scottish brogue thick and rough from shouting play calls against the wind. "You're going to freeze out here."
"I have a Warming Charm on my cloak, Wood," you replied, looking up from your notebook with a faint, amused smile. "And someone has to make sure you actually stop flying before you collapse from hypothermia."
Oliver paused, his hazel-brown eyes scanning your face. The wind caught a lock of your hair, blowing it across your cheeks, and without thinking, Oliver reached out. His leather-gloved thumb gently brushed the stray hair back behind your ear, his knuckles lingering against your cold skin for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
His breath caught in his throat. The cold air suddenly felt entirely too thin.
"I don't collapse, I'm quite a healthy fella you know." he muttered softly, his voice losing its sharp, booming captain's edge.
"Uh huh?" you whispered back, holding his gaze. "Whatever you say, captain."
The tension between you wasn't built on grand gestures or dramatic declarations. It was built in the quiet, breathless spaces between the chaos of the school year.
It was Oliver finding you in the common room at two in the morning, buried under a mountain of Charms essays, and silently sitting beside you to hold your parchment flat while you wrote.
It was you standing on the sidelines after a brutally difficult match against Slytherin, stepping past the cheering crowd to quietly hand him a damp cloth to wipe the mud from his face.
Every touch felt heightened, magnetic, and completely unspoken.. the way his large, warm hand would grip the small of your back to guide you through a crowded corridor, the way your pulse would skyrocket whenever he leaned over your shoulder to point out a play diagram on his parchment, his mint-and-rain scent wrapping around you, the lingering, deliberate looks across the Gryffindor table—glances that lasted just a second too long, leaving your chest aching with a sweet, unbearable tension.
Oliver was terrified of it. He understood Quidditch; he understood strategy, speed, and hard hits. But the way his heart hammered against his ribs whenever you smiled at him? That was a terrifying, unknown sky. He felt like he was falling at terminal velocity, without a broom to catch him.
The storm hit during the third week of November.
Rain lashed against the castle walls, driving everyone indoors. You were sitting on a plush leather armchair in the corner of the Gryffindor common room, the firelight casting a deep, amber glow across the dark wood.
The portrait hole swung open, and Oliver stepped in, drenched to the bone. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his Quidditch robes heavy with rainwater. He stood in the entryway, looking utterly exhausted, the heavy weight of the upcoming cup weighing visibly on his broad shoulders.
He didn't look at anyone else in the room. His eyes swept straight to your corner.
You set your book down, standing up as he walked over to you. He stopped just inches away, the heat radiating off his body mingling with the cold rain clinging to his clothes.
"Oliver," you said gently, your hand reaching out instinctively to touch his forehead. "You're soaked."
Oliver stared down at you, his breathing heavy. The common room around you seemed to fade into a blur of meaningless background noise. All he could see was the soft, genuine concern in your eyes—the only light in a world that felt constantly loud and overwhelming.
"I can't focus," Oliver breathed, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
"On the match?"
"On anything," he confessed, stepping a fraction closer, closing the distance until you could feel the steady, rapid rise and fall of his chest. "I try to draw up plays, and all I see is you. I try to fly, and I'm just looking for you on the bleachers."
Your heart did a wild, frantic leap in your chest.
Slowly, as if he were approaching a skittish creature, Oliver raised his hands. His large, calloused palms cupped the sides of your face, his fingers sliding into your hair. His touch was warm, trembling slightly, completely devoid of his usual rough strength.
"You're driving me mad," he whispered, his thumb tracing the soft curve of your cheekbone with agonizing sweetness. "Every light, every breath... it's all just you."
You didn't step back. Instead, you reached up, your hands resting against his damp chest, feeling the wild, unrestrained rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.
Oliver let out a low, shuddering breath—a sound of complete and utter surrender.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss wasn't rushed it was a slow, overwhelming wave that swept through both of you. It carried months of quiet lingering looks, late-night study sessions, cold rain, and unuttered prayers. His grip in your hair tightened, pulling you flush against him, drowning out the cold, the rain, and the rest of the world.
He kissed you like you were the ground rising up to meet him after a long, terrifying fall grounded, warm, and entirely his.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless in the dim firelight. Oliver’s eyes opened, hazel-brown and entirely clear, stripped of all his usual tension. A small, breathtaking smile tugged at his lips.
"What about my training schedule?" he whispered playfully against your skin, his thumb still gently stroking your cheek.
You laughed softly, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him down for another quiet, lingering kiss.
"You can keep your schedule, Captain," you murmured. "As long as I'm the one waiting for you when you land."
Can anyone tell how much I love Oliver Wood? yeah...
Oneshot fic inspired by the song There She Goes by The La’s
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
The Gryffindor common room was a chaotic blur of scarlet, gold, and flying roaring candy, but you were completely oblivious to all of it.
You were simply trying to cross the room to get to the portrait hole, a stack of oversized books tucked under your arm and a half-eaten peppermint toast balanced precarious on top. You were distracted, hum-singing a tune under your breath, completely unbothered by the fact that a stray fanged frisbee had just missed your ear by two inches.
And from his usual perch on the armrest of the worn velvet sofa, Fred Weasley watching you.
George was mid-sentence, rambling about a new batch of Skiving Snackboxes, but Fred hadn't heard a single word for the last thirty seconds. His head was tilted, a slight, dazzled smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as his eyes followed you across the rug.
There she goes.
You tripped slightly over a rogue Gobstone, caught your balance with a clumsy little hop, adjusted your books without dropping a single page, and kept right on walking as if nothing had happened.
"Fred. Fred. Are you listening to me, or have you finally been hit with a Confundus charm?" George knocked his shoulder against his twin's.
“Look at her, Georgie,” Fred murmured, not taking his eyes off you for a fraction of a second. “She's doing it again.”
"Doing what? Walking?"
“No,” Fred sighed, resting his chin in his hand, his brown eyes warm and bright. “Existing. Maddening, isn't it? She doesn't even notice the absolute scene she creates just by walking into a room.”
You reached the portrait hole, tapped the frame to get the Fat Lady’s attention, and glanced back over your shoulder to see if anyone was watching. When your eyes caught Fred’s, you gave him a quick, soft, completely effortless smile the kind that looked like sunshine breaking through a London fog before slipping out into the corridor.
Fred's breath hitched. His heart did a familiar, ridiculous little flip against his ribs.
“Right,” Fred said suddenly, slapping his knees and standing up. “I'm going.”
George rolled his eyes, a grin spreading across his face. "She's literally just going to the library, mate. You saw her five minutes ago."
“Five minutes too long,” Fred called back over his shoulder, already vaulting over the back of the sofa and snagging his coat off the peg.
He practically burst through the portrait hole, taking the moving staircase two steps at a time until he spotted you down the long, sunlit corridor. The afternoon light streamed through the high stained-glass windows, catching in your hair as you walked.
He didn't run up and pull a prank. He didn't drop a Canary Cream in your bag or set off a Smoke Bomb. He just slowed his pace, walking a few feet behind you, enjoying the quiet rhythm of your footsteps echoing against the ancient stone.
You stopped at a window to watch a pair of owls swoop past the Quidditch pitch, leaning your forehead against the glass with a peaceful little sigh.
Fred stepped up beside you, leaning his shoulder against the stone window frame, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“You know,” he said, his voice dropping into that warm, breezy tone that always made your skin tingle, “you're terribly distracting.”
You turned your head, blinking in surprise before a bright laugh pulled from your lips. "Me? I haven't even said a word to you today, Weasley."
“That's the problem,” Fred said, leaning in just a fraction closer, a soft, helpless grin playing on his lips as he looked down at you. “You don't have to say a word. You just walk past, and suddenly I've forgotten every single thing I was supposed to be doing.”
"Is that your way of saying you didn't do your Transfiguration homework?" you teased, nudging his arm with your shoulder.
“It's my way of saying,” Fred whispered, reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing warm against your cheek, “that there you go... making my whole day without even trying.”
You flushed a deep, pretty pink, looking down at your shoes, but you couldn't hide the huge smile pulling at your face. And as Fred walked beside you down the corridor, pulling your heavy stack of books into his own arms just to make your load lighter, he knew he was completely, hopelessly caught—and he didn't want to be rescued at all.
You sat at a secluded oak table deep within the Arithmancy alcove, surrounded by stacked volumes of runic translation and star charts. As a Ravenclaw, solitude was a commodity you guarded fiercely.
Until a sharp, familiar shadow fell across your notes.
“You're in my spot.”
You didn't look up immediately. Instead, you deliberate finished dipping your quill into the inkwell, letting three precise beats pass before lifting your gaze.
Draco Malfoy stood above you, arms crossed over his chest, his silver-and-green tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d had a long day. His pale hair was slightly damp from the storm outside, catching the dim candlelight.
“I didn't realize the library assigned seating was based on pureblood birthrights, Malfoy,” you said quietly, keeping your voice low enough to avoid Madam Pince’s wrath. “There are fifty other tables.”
“None of them have the draft from the east window,” Draco replied dryly, stepping closer and leaning one hand against the edge of your table. “And most of all, none of them keep Granger’s incessant whispering out of earshot.”
You glanced toward the main aisle, where Hermione Granger was indeed debating something animatedly with Ron. A quiet, reluctant exhale escaped you. You pulled a stack of parchment toward yourself, clearing precisely half the table.
“Sit, then. Avoid spilling ink on my charts, I'll hex you if you do.”
Draco went still for a moment before he pulled out the heavy carved chair across from you. “Quite charming as always.”
For two weeks, the arrangement remained unsaid and strictly functional.
Every evening at seven, Draco would appear at the alcove. He would drop a heavy leather book on the table, sit down, and work in near total silence. At first, the air between you was taut, bristling with unspoken house rivalries and the weight of the world outside Hogwarts' walls.
But Ravenclaws are observers by nature.
You began to notice things. The subtle drop in his shoulders when he finally sat down, as if carrying an invisible, exhausting weight. The way his pale fingers twitched near the cuff of his left sleeve whenever someone walked past the aisle too quickly. The obsessive, meticulous way he organized his notes every line calculated, precise, and guarded.
And Draco noticed you.
“Your math is off,” he muttered one night, not even looking up from his copy of Advanced Potion-Making.
You paused, quill hovering above a complex astrological chart. “Excuse me?”
He reached across the table, his long fingers carefully turning your parchment toward him. His knuckles brushed against yours for a fraction of a second—a sudden, sharp spark that made the air feel thin.
“Third line. You miscalculated the planetary alignment for the moonstone extraction. If you brewed that, you’d melt the cauldron.” He pointed with his quill, his silver eyes finally rising to meet yours. “I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be thorough.”
“It was a transposition error,” you countered, pulling the parchment back, though your pulse spiked slightly under his steady gaze. “And since when do you care if my cauldron melts?”
“I don't,” Draco said softly, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into that cool, guarded tone. “I just prefer my study environment unexploded.”
The turn came on a quiet Tuesday in November.
The castle was freezing, draft blowing through the stone corridors. You were engrossed in a difficult translation of ancient runes, frustration mounting as the meaning continued to slip through your fingers. You rubbed your temples, letting out a sharp sigh.
Without a word, Draco shifted his own notes aside. He reached across the table, taking the ancient text from your hands.
“Hey—”
“Quiet,” he murmured, his eyes sweeping over the runes. “It’s Early Middle Aramaic dialect. You’re translating the second root word as ‘fire’ when it clearly means ‘containment.’ Look at the upper serif.”
You leaned in closer to see where he was pointing. The scent of cedarwood, cold rain, and mint drifted off him. You were inches apart now, you could see the dark circles etched under his eyes, the stark contrast of his pale lashes against his skin.
“How do you know that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Draco didn't move away. His eyes flicked from the parchment to your face, holding your gaze with a strange, searching intensity. The usual arrogant mask was gone, replaced by something raw and unexpectedly quiet.
“My mother had a tutor for me before Hogwarts,” he said softly.
There was a bitter edge to his words, a quiet confession hanging in the space between you. You didn't offer pity.. you knew he would hate that. Instead, you simply nodded, leaning back just enough to give him room, but leaving your hand rested on the table between you.
“Show me,” you said gently. “The rest of the passage.”
A subtle shift happened in his expression—a softening around his eyes, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding finally releasing.
“Fine,” he whispered. “Pay attention this time.”
One late evening, as the curfew bell echoed faintly through the castle, you both packed away your belongings. The rain outside had turned to quiet snowfall, dusting the glass in white.
You wrapped your scarf around your neck, turning to find Draco watching you, his coat already buttoned.
“Goodnight, Malfoy,” you said softly, turning to leave.
“Wait.”
You stopped, looking back over your shoulder.
Draco stepped around the table, stopping just inches away from you. The tension between you was palpable now a slow, simmering heat built over weeks of quiet glances and shared space. He reached out, his fingers catching the loose edge of your scarf, adjusting it neatly around your collar. His fingers brushed against the skin of your neck, warm despite the chill in the room.
His gaze lingered on your lips before pulling back up to your eyes, heavy with things left unsaid.
“Don't stay up late finishing that Arithmancy essay,” he said, his voice low, almost rough. “I won't be here tomorrow to fix your math.”
“Is that a threat?” you whispered, a faint smile touching your lips.
Draco stepped back, the familiar, quiet smirk returning to his lips, though his eyes remained soft. “Consider it a warning.”
As he turned and walked out into the corridor, his cloak trailing behind him, you stood in the quiet alcove, your skin still tingling where his fingers had rested knowing that whatever was brewing between you was only just beginning.
The atmosphere inside the Quidditch field was nothing short of electric. The stands groaned beneath the weight of hundreds of students pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, their voices rising in a storm of cheers, chants, and jeers that seemed to shake the wooden beams under your feet. Banners fluttered magically in midair, the Gryffindor lion roaring proudly against waves of crimson and gold while serpents of green and silver coiled menacingly on the Slytherin side.
Even the sky seemed to brood with anticipation, the November clouds hanging low and heavy, the wind sharp biting at your cheeks and fingers. The Hufflepuff section where you sat was quieter than the rest, buzzing with the impartial thrill of competition, from your seat wrapped tightly in your scarlet and gold scarf still wondering where your dearest friend got it, you couldn’t stop your eyes from straying across the pitch. There he was. Oliver Wood. His broom was steady, his posture tense, and even from this distance you could see the intensity etched into his face.
“Goodness.. look at her, the match didn't even start yet and she's here staring at Oliver like he already won the Quidditch cup.” your friend said that made you turn to look at her with a shocked expression.
“Hush, Eliza! What if someone hears you!?!?” you replied as you frantically looked left and right.
“Oh please, with that scarf around your neck you're basically announcing to the whole world that you're—” you clamped her mouth shut before she could continue saying more which earned some confused look from your fellow Hufflepuff’s.
“Well, it's not like they'd know I'm cheering for him!” you hissed.
“Sure sure whatever makes you sleep at night.” Angelica replied.
You huffed softly, scanning the surroundings once more and sighing quietly when you saw that each of them was lost in their own world, confirming that none had heard the chattering of your flock of birds for friends.
Across the pitch, broom in hand, Oliver soared upward with the rest of the Gryffindor team. His dark hair whipped in the wind, his sharp gaze already narrowing as he scanned the pitch with the kind of determination that made him seem carved from stone. Keeper, captain, leader. His entire being was absorbed in this one moment.
The sharp shrill of Madam Hooch’s whistle split through the heavy air, echoing across the Quidditch pitch like the crack of lightning before a storm.
Fourteen broomsticks launched forward at once.
The crowd erupted.
A deafening roar surged through the stadium as scarlet, gold, yellow, and black blurred together against the iron gray sky. The wind whipped violently through the stands, carrying with it the scent of damp grass and rain-soaked wood. Somewhere along the Gryffindor stand, someone shouted the their chant at the top of their lungs while another student groaned dramatically at the immediate foul committed near the center of the pitch.
Yet despite the chaos unfolding around you, your attention remained painfully, hopelessly fixed to him.
His broad shoulders were tense beneath crimson robes that snapped wildly in the wind, dark hair tousled mercilessly across his forehead as he maneuvered his broom with practiced ease. There was a kind of intensity to him now, something almost frightening in the way his sharp eyes tracked every movement on the pitch. Every muscle in his body seemed wound tight with concentration.
Oliver carried the weight of Gryffindor victory like it had been carved directly into his bones.
“Johnson—LEFT!” His voice thundered across the field, rough and commanding even through the roar of the spectators.
Katie Bell swerved sharply to avoid an incoming Bludger while Angelina Johnson sped forward with the Quaffle tucked tightly beneath her arm. The opposing Chaser dove aggressively toward the Gryffindor hoops—
And Oliver moved.
Merlin.
Your breath caught so suddenly it hurt.
He launched sideways in a sharp arc, broom tilting dangerously as the Quaffle rocketed toward the left hoop. For one horrifying second, it seemed impossible for him to reach it in time.
Then his gloved hand shot outward.
The Quaffle slammed against his palm with a loud crack before ricocheting violently away from the goalposts. The Gryffindor section exploded into triumphant screaming. Without thinking, you lurched forward with an excited gasp.
“Yes—!” The word escaped far louder than intended.
Silence immediately settled around your section of seats. Slowly, painfully, you became aware of several Hufflepuffs staring at you.
Your smile faltered. “...Good defensive maneuver?” you offered weakly.
Beside you, Angelica made an unimpressed sound while Eliza buried her face into her scarf to hide her laughter. “Goodness,” Angelica muttered, “you looked ready to leap onto the pitch and kiss him right there.” Your entire body nearly short-circuited.
“I would not?!” you retorted.
Eliza peeked up. “Uh huh? Yet your face says otherwise.”
“Oh please, my face says nothing.” You quickly yanked the smuggled scarf higher over your cheeks while your friends dissolved into quiet giggles.
Rain began falling in thin icy droplets, misting across the stadium and soaking into cloaks and scarves alike. The sky darkened further overhead, clouds swirling ominously as thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. Students huddled closer together against the cold, but the players barely seemed to notice.
Especially Oliver.
If anything, the worsening weather only made him more terrifying on the pitch. He shouted strategies over the wind, barked warnings to his teammates, and guarded the hoops with relentless focus. His broom curved sharply through the rain as though the storm itself bent around him willingly.
And Merlin help you—
he looked breathtaking.
A sudden shriek erupted from the crowd. Your stomach dropped instantly. A Bludger tore through the air straight toward Oliver’s head.
Time seemed to freeze.
“OLIVER!” The cry escaped your lips before you could stop it.
At the last possible moment, he ducked low against his broom. The Bludger missed him by mere inches, rushing past so violently it spun him slightly off balance. Gasps swept through the stadium. You could physically feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribs.
Meanwhile Oliver straightened with reckless confidence and shouted something unintelligible but undoubtedly arrogant toward the opposing beaters.
Eliza stared in disbelief. “That boy has absolutely no survival instincts.”
“He’s going to get himself killed one day,” you whispered faintly, clutching the front of your robes.
Angelica snorted. “And you would still attend the funeral talking about how handsome he looked in the coffin.”
You shot her a horrified glare while she laughed harder.
Then—
As though he had heard your voice through the storm itself—
Oliver looked toward the stands. Toward you.
Your breath stilled. Even from this distance, you saw it happen.
The sharp intensity on his face softened. His eyes found yours amongst hundreds of students as though it were the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly the roaring crowd, the pouring rain, the thunder overhead it all faded into meaningless background noise beneath the weight of that single glance.
Then Oliver smiled. It wasn’t boastful. Wasn’t triumphant .Wasn’t the wild competitive grin he wore after a perfect save. No, this smile was smaller. Warmer, Softer around the edges, and devastatingly fond. Heat rushed violently to your cheeks despite the freezing rain.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Eliza whispered beside you, sounding deeply entertained. “You are absolutely doomed.”
You could not even deny it. Not when Oliver was looking at you like that beneath a storm-dark sky, with rain dripping from his hair and victory burning bright in his eyes.
Not when your heart had already belonged to him long before you ever realized it did.
Hey so.. sorry for the late update I was unmotivated these past few months. Surprisingly so, I found myself longing to write once more. New fics might be posted, and a mini side story for this series.
Thank you for the likes everyone! Love Allie.
P.S.: I am not quite proud of this chapter since it's been a while since I wrote something, nevertheless once I have found that comfort and thrill of writing again, I will undoubtedly be back with lots of fics.
Can you do a George Weasley x Oliver woods older sister? She’s the quiddich captain for a professional quidditch team and one of the only women in the league. There’s a lot of misogyny and George sticks up for her all the time and finally gets with her after years of flirting.
Heeeeyyy!! Sorry I couldn't respond immediately I was so busy and just recently checked my Tumblr today! This is an interesting prompt I'll try posting it by this week if things aren't so busy. (◍•ᴗ•◍)
Just finished watching this in one sitting with my friends and I fear I am not the same person anymore. He used to be so goofy then he just.. AND THE MOON SCENE STOPP I am not well
summary: after years of being in love with your best friend you look back at the moments together that left their mark on you, and wonder if it's time to let him go.
content: she fell first but he felt harder; slow burn; fluff; angst
notes: Hufflepuff reader, no use of y/n, why do I feel like I could make this a "choose your own path" fic, the way I put all my favorite boys in it
wc: 17k (I'm sorry)
You can still remember the day you had met Oliver Wood. It had been early in your first year when the cold air of spring was still crisp, leaving you with no choice but to wear a scarf tightly around your neck. Or maybe you hadn’t, you weren’t sure. But Oliver had, that you can remember. It had been resting lazily over his sholders, loopsided after running down the hallway only to speak to you.
“Quingly!”
You hadn’t been thrilled about it, not at all. He had been part of a pletora of students that had approached you to tell you how much they liked your father. Most of them were obviously trying to get something out of telling you this, you thought, seeing their eyes gleam when they mentioned how they had tried to get an autograph from a professional player for years. Your polite smile had been stretching so thin at that point that you thought it might snap. That had been the last time for a long time that you would be anything but elated at the sight of Oliver before you.
“Quingly, right? Oliver Wood”
He had stretched out his hand to you, and despite finding the formality odd, you had reciprocated it nonetheless. It was cold to the touch and slightly rough. His hair was a tad bit too short you though, his features soft and eyes big and warm with a gleam behind them that you could only describe as presumptously confident.
“Gryffindor team?” you had asked, eyes on his scarlet and gold scarf that was on its way to the floor.
“Not yet, I’m preparing for the upcoming try-outs”
He hadn’t mentioned your father once during the conversation that had turned so long, he had to sit down in one of the stone benches with you following suit. The only time he had brought him up was when he had asked if your father was hard on you about the sport, which you had reasured him wasn’t the case. Then someone had called for him and he ran down the corridor to his next class, waving at you with a "see you later!" After that you had started looking for him during meals and in the hallways, but even when you did find him, you hadn’t dared to actually go and greet him, or even wave your hand. One time he had locked eyes with your at lunch before you had looked away, going completely red in the face and accidentally dropping your goblet of pumpkin juice.
You did however go to the Gryffindor Quidditch try-outs and sat on the section of the bleachers closest to the rings. When Oliver stood in front of them, a serious look on his face, you couldn’t help but think that he looked beyond cool, even if you had always found the Keeper head gear to look funny. He didn’t look at you, matter of fact, there didn’t seem to be anything that demanded his attention more than the quafle on the aspiring Chaser’s hands. You could still remember how many shots he stopped and how many he missed -seven and one- and that had only been because his broom had lagged slightly. You recognized the model, a Comet 260 that while well regarded had a tendency to lose it’s touch with time, and it looked like Oliver had been using his for a lifetime. When the trainning had been over you had walked down the stairs of the bleachers and towards the exit, where you heard someone call your name followed by:
“Came to watch?”
Oliver stood in front of you, his hair sticking to his forehead and still catching his breath. He was beaming.
“Yeah! You did really well”
“I don’t know, I failed the last shot”
“That was only one!”
“Every point counts on the pitch”
You had wanted to laugh at his seriousness, but he would have probably not taken it well. And you wanted him to like you.
“I’m sure you will get the position” you finally said, and it felt like the words were leaving your mouth in slow motion “They’d be mad to pass on you”
Oliver laughed and lightly tapped your shoulder. The adrenaline was still running through him, and something told you he wouldn’t have a wink of sleep before they announced the results in a few days.
You remember how heavy your eyelids had been feeling by the time Madame Pomfrey carefully shoke your shoulder.
“You ought to go, child. It’s late now”
You had stired on the chair you had been sitting on for a few hours, Oliver still unconscious in bed. The strange goo that Madame Pomfrey had put on his temple to treat the gash on it was still there, and yet you thought that he looked peaceful. The bludger had hit him barely twenty minutes into the game, and you had been running down the bleachers faster than they had picked him up.
“Go, don’t make me call a prefect”
Madame Pomfrey practically lifted you up from the chair and walked you to the doors of the Hospital Wing before closing them in your face. For days you would visit him in the morning before class, and bring your homework and reading to the Hospital Wing in the afternoon until dinner. The more days that passed, the more you couldn’t shake the worry that built up in your chest. Madame Pomfrey had started leaving the chair next to his bed, no longer bothering on putting it back on its place. Then on Saturday you had walked in to visit him and found that he wasn’t there anymore. You never told him you had been keeping him company, and if he had heard he hadn’t commented on it.
Of course the word “love” was far away from your vocabulary at the time, and you would only become aware of its meaning when it had started to eat you from the inside out. Oliver’s indifference while not on pourpose had started on your second year after you had made the Hufflepuff team. While the year before - and during the summer - you had spent almost every free second talking Quidditch, loyalty to his team was something he took very seriously. As such, mending with someone from the opposing team meant Quidditch talk was way more scarce, and Oliver did not have many other conversation topics. Despite that, your friendship remained, your footsteps following him with animated chatter and casual study session on subjects both of you were awful at. After all, Quiddicth was the only particular thing you excelled at, aside from Charms and Transfiguration, which was the cause of many long evenings helping him out of his barely passable grades.
But there was no other memory as pivotal to your feelings for Oliver, so bright that would find you on your darkest times, than your first Quidditch game. You had played Gryffindor, and despite putting up a decent fight your team had been defeated by fifty points by the time the snitch had been caught, Charlie Weasley waving it in the air victoriously. Shoulders slopped and surrounded by the deafening cheers of the Gryffindor side of the bleachers you hadn’t heard Oliver call your name. You remember trying to take off your gloves, pushing the thick taste of defeat down your throat when his hands had grabbed your face with a bit of force, making you look at him. Sweat shinning on his forehead like dew on an early morning under the bright sun, a halo forming around his head.
“That was brilliant!”
You could remember the hot and damp touch of his fingers, the scent of leather as he held you in place. How you had notcied in that moment he seemed to have grown a few inches taller as his big glistening eyes, only narrowed by the weight fo his smile, looked down upon you with something close to admiration. His breath smelled strangely sweet, hitting your face as he panted in front of you.
“You won, though” you managed to mutter, feeling your legs start to quiver.
“No” he had said “Not to you”
And that right there had been the moment, the first time your child mind and young heart had felt the sharp sting of love. It had been things like these that had been seeding inside of you, blooming with every passing spring, not even the cold of winter able to make your feelings wither. It pained you however how casually his hands had found and held you close like that, as if it was nothing, as if you could just do that back without setting your heart aflame. Oliver Wood was for all intents and purposes, a dense idiot; and you had just fallen in love with him.
It had been your third year that had set the tone for the inevitable situation you would find youself in eventually; Oliver and you passing each other by like strangers, stolen glances all you had left. Fred and George Weasley while annoyingly good at Quidditch were not particularly good with subtlety, and they would never know how influential they had been at accelering the process of your eventual heartbreak. You had to admit you refused to like them because as they played opposite to you, you found yourself envying their technique and how in sinc they were during plays, shooting yours down every time. That’s why it was easy to get mad at them instead of Oliver, or even yourself, when Fred had asked:
“Won’t you introduce us to your girlfriend?”
You had approached the Gryffindors as all the teams waited on the pitch for one of Madame Hooch’s official meetings that took place once a month. There was a History of Magic exam comming up, and while you knew you wouldn’t pass, pretending to study for it would be better with Oliver keeping you company.
“Not my girlfriend”
Maybe if the twins hadn’t been such a constant headache, as he had expressed uncountable times to you, his tone would had been less harsh.
“But--”
Despite Fred’s teasing tune he had actually meant it, completely under the impression that Oliver was just acting tough whenever you talked to him in front of them. Especially ever since their first game against Hufflepuff.
“Merlin, her arms will break” George had joked to Fred once they were in the air, having stood in front of you as the teams greeted each other.
However there hadn’t been much laughter on their way back to the locker room after the game, Oliver in an espacially foul mood.
“Weren’t you listening yesterday during practice?”
Fred and George had been, in fact, not listening. As a result, despite Gryffindor winning the game, they saw themselves floored and unprepared for both Cedric’s agility and the reckless yet effective way you’d directed your bladgers at the Gryffindor players to keep them out of his way.
“Thought she’d be nicer” said George when they had walked into the cluttered dark room.
“Why?” Fred made a face “She doesn’t even look nice”
“You could learn a thing or two” the twins winced at Oliver’s stern voice behind them. While happy that they had won, he was beyond satisfied “She’s an Under19 contender you know? I told you to watch out for her, flew Alicia out her bloody broom twice”
Alicia Spinnet had been busy trying to apply a reparation charm she was reading from a book on her shattered broom.
“Under19?” George looked betrayed “Why didn’t you say?”
“I did! Don’t you read Monthly Snitches anyway?”
“Do they look like they read?” had asked Angelina, looking at the twins. Fred found that particularly funny.
“You should have seen how bummed out he was when she was sorted in Hufflepuff” Charlie, who was carefully taking off his gear, chimed in “You could tell he had planned the program for the next six years in his head the moment he heard her last name”
Oliver had too much respect for Charlie to talk back to him, so he just scoffed and took off his head gear with a bit too much force.
“Whatever, would you really like us to play like that?” asked Fred, making a face “Because I think she ought to be re-sorted into Slytherin. She was all over the place!”
“You get to be reckless when you are that good” he muttered, not bothering to look up.
“Seems like someone has a crush” Katie hummed from beind Oliver, her eyes locking with Angelina who giggled behind the twins.
“Shut up” was all Oliver had said, and so Fred had been under the impression that there was obviously something between the both of you.
But it was only after George had elbowed him, signaling towards you, that he saw that he had made a mistake. Your smile was frozen in place in an almost unnatural way and your body had turned stiff. He could swear you had stopped breathing as well.
“You planning for next year?” Oliver had asked you, completely ignorant to what had just transpired “That captain spot is looking really easy”
“Oh” something heavy was finding it’s way to the pit of your stomach, dense and suffocating “Yeah”
“You need to start planning ahead, much to do with your lot”
“Yeah, right. See you later”
Fred and George watched as you walked back to your team, Fred earning another elbow to the side that he didn’t bother to complain about. Oliver also found himself staring at you as Cedric Diggory leaned over to whisper what seemed to be a joke in your ear. A very funny one it seemed, as you playfully slapped his arm. He had made a fuss about Diggory the moment he had seen him at the Hufflepuff try-outs, almost earning you a scolding from Ms. Pince a few weeks later.
“There’s only one reason why he’d want to be seeker” he had whispered indignantly, gripping his quill so hard it almost broke the parchment “He wants to stand out”
Sitting opposite of him on the table you had abandoned your Potions book, no longer interested in pretending that your attention wasn’t somewhere else. Oliver’s hands holding the quill in a peculiar way between his surprisingly slender fingers, the apple of his neck bobbing up and down occasionally, and in this case the way his accent thickened when he got upset.
“What are you talking about?” you had asked, almost absent minded, bitting the end of your own quill like an idiot.
Oliver looked up from his paper and stared hard at you, his eyes momentarily looking down before shooting right up again, then away from you.
“Seekers have to be light, and fast. He just wants to be the center of attention by going against that”
“He is fast, though”
“Pretty boy, that’s what he is” he muttered as he went back to his paper.
You hummed in response, his stubborness making you swing your feet under the table at how endearing you found it.
“What” Oliver had risen his head in a swift motion, staring at you as if you had just said something awful “Don’t tell me you agree”
His tone had rose significantly, a few heads turning towards in your direction. Dunking your head out of abashment you shot him a confused look.
“What?”
“Diggory. You think he’s cute” he said the last word with almost repungance.
“I mean...” you had not expected that, the brief pause seeming to agitate him even further, his head shaking as if to hurry the answer out of you “He’s also very nice, and people like him a lot”
Oliver shook his head, ink splattering everywhere when he sunk his quill on the bottle. A few droplets fell on your book, darkenning the word “hence” and swallowing it whole, making it disappear.
“It’s all Angelina and Alicia bloody talk about. Diggory this, Diggory that”
Oh how much you had wished you could have told him that he was all you could think about too, your borderline pathetic adoration way beyond anything Angelina and Alicia could ever feel. You fantasized sometimes about telling him that sort of stuff, imagined his cheeks flushing pink and his eyes going wide, a stutter falling from his parted plush lips.
“I still prefer you”
You bit your tongue, knuckles white as you grabbed the edge of your skirt underneath the table. Oliver simply scoffed, eyes never leaving his paper.
“Thank you very much” he said drily, a hint of sarcasm laced in his words.
Despite what one might think, that didn’t bring you down. After all, it had been a while since you had come to terms with the fact that Oliver either wasn’t aware of your feelings or pretended not to be. You found yourself missing the days where he’d beam at your compliments, but ever since becoming captain no praise was good enough for him. Similarly, praise didn’t come your way anymore if it wasn’t wrapped in some kind of critique about your technique. Oliver jotted down the last line he had written with a groan and leaned back on his chair, eyes closed and his hands behind his head. He had written the same sentence twice. You tried not to pry at how the uniform shirt stretched around his biceps, or how his loose tie rested over his chest that rose and fell with a tired sigh. You stood up from the chair, attempting to make as little noise as possible, not wanting to exacerbate the students looking your way any further. You had stood next to him, his tired brown eyes fell from the ceilling to you.
“I’m going for dinner” you whispered.
“I have to finish this”
You had nodded, smiling at him as a silent goodbye. You hadn’t started to walk away when he said:
"Wait, I’m coming with you”
If there was something you couldn’t remember was how many times you had fantasized about your first Hogsmade visit. The image of Oliver and you walking side by side, arms and hands brushing against each other in search of warmth and the smell of sweets in the ir. Reality hadn’t started far away from that image. A blush had crept up from your chest up to your cheeks when Oliver had found you among the aglomeration of students waiting at the entrance of the castle. He had made his way to you, hands in the pockets of his courdoroy jacket, his thin black turtleneck underneath hugging his athletic figure in a way that made you dizzy. You had asked him to hang out with you, something that had felt more nerve-wrecking than it should have been for just a friend. The carriage had seemed spacious to you, but only once Oliver had sat down did the difference in size register properly in your head. His legs seemed to take most of the space on the seat, his knees bumped and rested against your thinly covered ones, the rough fabric of his jeans causing you to squirm and shift on your seat. It always had killed you knowing that he was always oblivious to the effect he had on you, how he could touch you so carelessly and with ease; how he wouldn’t have cared if you had moved your leg away. The seats in front of you were taken by two Gryffindor girls that had stolen a few glances at you both before bursting into poorly covered giggles.
“Hey” they had said.
“Hey” Oliver said back, it was obvious they knew each other.
You noticed how Oliver’s knees would slightly touch those of the girl in front of him whenver there was a small bump on the road, and wondered if he ever noticed things like that. If anyone’s touch could make him feel the way he did to you. The thought made you want to vomit.
“You are going to love Spintwitches” Oliver had said, excited.
“What’s that?”
“Quiddicth store” you rolled your eyes “What?”
“You said you’d give me a full tour... You better not just drag me there for the whole trip”
“I won’t!”
The girls suppressed dainty laughs behind their scarfs.
“You could try Madam Puddifoot” said one of them, her voice sweet and teasing.
“No way” had said Oliver immediately, as if the mere mention of that place had burnt him “Is not like that anyway”
“Oh” said the girl, and they didn’t say anything else during the rest of the trip.
You hadn’t understood what that exchange had meant until you’d been in front of the building yourself. You had wanted to come in before you had read the name, understandind what Oliver had meant, that bitter taste you were so familiar with bubbling up your throat. The whole walk through High Street had been a blur, your mind playing the image of that Gryffindor girl holding onto Oliver’s shoulder to get down from the carriage over and over again, how she had turned to thank him as she pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The facade was of a powder pink, the paint slightly chipped from the passage of time, colorful sweets catching your attention through the wide windows displays. Dozens of couples smiled at each other inside, hands being held and smiles reciprocated, the feeling so foreign to you it made the world feel a bit colder. It really wasn’t like that, you already knew that.
“Dreadful” Oliver found his place next to you.
Your hands closed onto fists and you bit your lip.
“I think it’s cute”
“It’s a trap. I’ve seen friends get dragged in by girls, never to be seen again” he joked and you couldn’t stop your brows from furrowing, eyes fixed on the way some guy you recognized from Potions class played with his girlfriend’s fingers.
“Well, I am a girl, and all the boys in there look very happy to me” your turned around, glaring at him out of the corner of your eye “Not like you would get it”
“What?” he followed after you “I’m not clueless you know” he sounded quite offended “I just don’t get it”
“Lucky you” you mumbled, not sure if he had heard you.
Oliver stopped walking and you turned around to face him with a huff. He lifted his hands in the air, a mix of annoyance and confusion in his face. The same face he made when Gryffindor would get penalized during a game
“Like, you want to go in? We can go in if you bloody want!”
It was as if your face had burst into flames. What was he saying?
“Why are you mad at me?” you asked, voice rising comically as you looked anywhere but him. People were definitely starng now.
“You are the one getting mad!”
“I am not!”
“Yes you are!”
“Where is that bloody Quidditch store!”
Oliver huffed and closed the distance between you both, took a deep breath as he scanned your features, an obvious mix of embarrassment and evident anger in them as you looked away.
“Come on” is all he had said, giving a short tug at your scarf and walking ahead of you down the street.
You walked there with a strange feeling looming over your heads that immediately disipated the moment you entered the place. Oliver’s face changed to that of a child at a candy store, immediately walking along the corridors decorated with Quidditch equipement. Is not like you hadn’t wanted to go there, after all, Christmas was approaching. Last year you had gifted Oliver a small chest, which he hald held and turned around in confusion.
“It’s for all the letters I send you, I know they are a lot” you had scratched the back of your head, and in a sad attempt to sound casual you added “I mean, if you still have them”
“Of course I have them”
There had been reassurance and mild offense in the look he had given you. Then his eyes had widened as if he had just remembered something. Something awful.
“Yeah, wait here. I’ll bring yours”
He stormed off from the Great Hall and didn't come back until the teachers were hurrying all of you to leave for the train, running down the stairs and stopping in front of you, panting.
“For you”
He held something in his hands, black and shapeless. When you took it from him, you realized it was a scarf: his scarf. The one you’d seen him wear multiple times. The one you had been wearing at that exact moment, especially selected for your first trip to Hogsmade with him. He didn’t comment on it.
You had looked around the store, a few items catching you attention. He was standig by the shelves, heavy book open in his hands. Your feet stopped in front of his, some strands of your hair failling onto the pages as you lowered your head to read it too. He put them aside like a curtain, holding them onto place as his eyes went over the same parragraph a few times.
“You know” he started, his lips pressed together as if winning time “If you want to go there, I’ll go with you”
He propably heard the breath catching in your throat, close as you both were. The weird tension had dissipated and had been replaced by something else, something that felt terribly bittersweet.
“Where?” you feigned.
Oliver drew in a sharp breath, eyes never leaving the book.
“Bloody pink house of horrors”
It was strange, how unhappy that sentence had made you. Your heart, far from accelerating fell all the way through to your stomach. You forced a smile and a playful tone out of you.
“Are you mad? What would people think” You weren’t preocupied with how shaky the laugh that had crept out of your throat had been, but about how pathetic it was that deep down you had wanted him to retort that, to insist in going with you. “Also I’d like to go with someone who wants to take me there”
Too occupied looking elsewhere but him, you missed the way his jaw tensed before he swallowed.
“Yeah, right” he closed the book, a thin smile not reaching is eyes “You’ll have to find yourself a nice boyfriend then”
You reciprocated a similar fake smile.
“Guess so”
You couldn’t remember what you had given him that Christmas, nor what he had given you, that day at Hogsmade overshadowing most of your memories of that year. As such, most of what you remember happened in your fourth.
It had been the first meeting of the season and the sky seemed to protest at all of you being forced out of bed at 7am on a Saturday. The gray opaque clouds kept any sight of the sun hidden behind them, and as if they were sympathetic to you they protested with a low thunder. Hufflepuff had been walking alongside the Ravenclaw team who greeted you lazily at the Great Hall. Gryffindor as expected had been at the Pitch ahead of time, and you assumed Slythering couldn’t be too far behind you. As usual your eyes scanned the Gryffindor team in search of Oliver, however it had been for a complete different reason this time. You found him talking to George, and you immediatelly blended between your teammates to stop him from looking your way. You hadn’t told him yet what you were sure Ms. Hooch would announe briefly. And so she did after a particularly long chat.
“Finally, I want to congratulate Cedric Diggory on becoming the youngest captain of the last fifthy years”
Your teammates celebrated the announcement, playfully pushing Cedric around, his cheeks slightly rosy. Some Ravenclaw and Gryffindor players had joined with scattered cheers, even a few Slytherins clapped once or twice. Then a question cut through the air.
“What?”
While Oliver’s voice hadn’t been that loud, it had been enough to make the cheering cease almost immediately. Everybody had turned to look at him, but his eyes were focused on you, burning a hole through Preece’s wide frame that you were still hidden behind of.
“Is there a problem, Wood?” Ms. Hooch’s voice broke the silence with authority and mild confusion, but Oliver said nothing. “Right, meeting is over. Off you go”
One by one you could hear footsteps starting to walk away from where you stood, bottom lip between your teeth holding your breath as if expecting for a kick to the stomach. It really felt that way, if you were being honest. It had been bad enough having to break the news to Oliver that despite his expectations, when the time had come for you to be offered the captain badge you had decided to turn it down. It had downed on you through the summer that it wasn’t the role of captain you had been lookiing forward to, but the look on Oliver’s face when you told him about it. Maybe the scarce praise he had been giving you through the last few years would come more often, and the look in his eyes as he greeted you as equals on the pitch similar to the one he had given you after your first game. The look he had been giving you as everybody was walking away wasn’t anywhere close to that.
“You alright?”
Despite the question being quiet, you found yourself startling at Cedric’s voice. He had looked down at you, eyes briefly looking to the side as if being able to see Oliver walking towards you out of the back of his head.
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll catch up with you guys”
Cedric hesitated but just nodded, lips pressed together. He had started walking away just in time you thought, as Oliver was getting close enough to see the lines on his forehead where his brows met.
“Oi” Oliver had called after Cedric, who simply kept walking away without giving him a spare glance “Oi! I’m talking to you!”
“Oliver!” you pleaded, standing in front of him with your hands up in the air.
“That prick? Captain?” he spat, incredulous “Has Hufflepuff lost their minds?”
You couldn’t really blame him, after all this had been your fault. If only you had told him from the get go, faced the way you feared he would have looked at you, the way he was looking at you now, this wouldn’t have happened. “I’ll tell him tomorrow” you had told yourself every day, finding any excuse good enough not to do so, and so all the days had slipped away.
“Oliver...”
“It’s a sport not a popularity contest!” he made sure to emphasize these last words loud enough for Cedric to hear, his figure barely visible behind the thin curtain of rain that had started to fall.
“Oliver!” the sharp edge to your voice had managed to catch his attention, angry eyes setting on you and making you shudder “I got the spot offered to me. I turned it down”
You blurted it out quickly, scared that you would stop yourself in cowardice once again. There was a brief pause, gears turning on Oliver’s head.
“What do you mean?”
You swallowed.
“I... I didn’t want it”
“What are you talking about?” his voice cracked in disbelief “We’ve been talking about you becoming Captain for years”
It was somewhat true, you thought. Oliver had got it in his head that you should become captain the moment you joined the team, being the only one who in his eyes deserved to lead it. You had never corrected him on it, too drunk on the way he seemed to beam at the idea of you becoming captain.
“Cedric will do well”
Bitterness casted itself like a shadow over Oliver’s features, always finding it unpleasant when Cedric’s name came from your lips.
“You’d do better! He barely has a brain to use!”
“You don’t know that Oliver...” you retorted, eyes fixed on the grass. When had it started to rain? “You don’t know him either”
“Well, I know you!”
“Do you?” the question hung in the air louder than you had spoken it. Oliver’s shoulders came up and then down one more time, lips parted but saying nothing. When it had become too much to bear and before he had time to ask what you had meant ,you added “I wasn’t ready, that’s all. Okay?”
Something had flashed behind Oliver’s eyes, soft and vulnerable, then immediately hardening into the stubborness you knew all too well.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You pursed your lips together, feeling the overwhelming weight of a cry creep up your throat. All you could o was shrug.
“Because you really wanted me to be captain? I don't know. I didn’t want to...” disappoint you, is what you wanted to say “Bum you out”
“I just wanted--”
“Well I don’t”
Oliver’s body stiffened at the crack in your voice, louder and more upset than he had ever heard it. Only then did he feel the damp coldness of the rain, clothes sticking to his body and falling down on your face as you nonchalantly lifted your arm to rub your eyes against your sleeve. It occured to him that you had refused to look at him through the entire conversation, and realized he didn’t like it. It was strange and unnatural for him to not be able to stare back at you, your eyes always wide and glistening with something only your eyes seemed to hold. He bit his bottom lip, hand aching to--
“Are you crying?” he had asked, blunt in his surprise.
The question had felt mocking in your ears, making the sour feeling in your chest more painful than it already was.
“No” you lied, and he knew it “It’s just rainning”
You had braced youself for more harsh and stubborn remarks, sporadic fights no matter how rare always ending with Oliver having the last word. Instead however, you felt the light, almost ghostly touch of his fingers brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face. You felt your body stiffen as it tended to do whenever Oliver touched you no matter how briefly, eyes fluttering for a moment as he abruptly retracted his hand.
“We should get back” he had said, clearing his throat.
You nodded, a strange smile on your lips as you walked in front of him with quick steps. That had been the first time since Oliver could remember that you didn’t wait for him to catch up to you.
It must have been the second or third match of the season, you could’t remember which exactly, that brought what would go down in history as one of the most dignified defeats your house would ever suffer. It had also been one of the worst days in Oliver’s life.
“Hufflepuff needs to counter if they want to catch up!” Lee Jordan’s voice had barely registered on any of the player’s ears at that point, but it resonated loudly through the pitch.
“They need a bloody miracle that’s what they need” had said Oliver through gritted teeth.
Oliver eyes followed your figure as it flew through the pitch, they always did as he was of the opinion you were the only player worh keeping an eye on. These days however that was more difficult than he liked to admit, given your new strategy of orbiting around Cedric the moment he caught sight of the snitch, getting rid of any bludgers that flew his way. Oliver hadn’t agreed with you completely out of pride when you had pesented the idea, but he hadn’t spoken against it either. He’d die before admiting Diggory was any good, and would quit Quidditch before agreeing to the idea of you rubbing elbows with him.
“Can’t that pretty boy accelerate? Oi! Get a new broom!”
“That’s way harsh!” protested Angelina, that sat next to him.
She had to force him to sit down again, Oliver having stood up from his seat, hand cupping around his mouth as if that’d make Cedric able to hear him any better. It was no use however, as both seekers shot up on their brooms towards the cloudy sky, disappearing behind them with you following suit. Cedric’s broom was indeed just a tad bit slower than the snitch, nothing could be done about that, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a way to make it faster. You saw the yellow and green clocks dive down, and tipping the front of your own broom you took in a sharp breath before putting your plan in motion. Cedric hadn’t noticed when you had shown up next to him, his extended arm barely an inch away from the snitch, the Slytherin seeker not any closer. Cedric barely registered the nod you had given him, agreeing to whatever you had asked him to trust you for with a brief glance. You swerved and positioned your broom parallel to Cedric, and in one swift motion you recklessly grabed onto him, frocing you both to spiral on your way down. All the audience saw was a blurry mist of yellow plumenting on its way to the ground, everyone letting out a gasp before Cedric and you separated, crashing at different points of the pitch.
“Cedric Diggory has caught the snitch! The game is over with Slytherin ahead by a hundred points! Slytherin wins” he had said the last part in a lazy manner, which didn’t stop Slytherin from cheering loudly.
However their victory was drowned by the roaring applause coming from every other house, that last play overshadowing the Slytherin win in the eyes of the school. Even Marcus Flinch would compliment you on it a few days later, the interaction the first and last you’d ever have with him. Cedric had managed to stand up, not without tripping over his own feet, his hand aching from the strength he was holding onto the snitch with. He was swallowed in gold and black, his hair getting rubbed violently in a way that could have made him think you guys had won. It also made him slightly nauseous, his world still spinning as wildly as yours.
Oliver’s knuckles had turned white gripping the rails, eyes open wide as if he was trying to burn that memory in his brain, as if blinking would make the details of the play go away. He had risen to his feet the moment he had seen you dive down, heart racing in a mix of excitement and worry. His eyes were still fixed on you, having witnessed the way you had unceremoniously crashed on the sand, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he saw you stand up and walk to your team. Then he saw Cedric scoop you up, lifting you off the ground with little effort like he had done it a thousand times before. Your arms loosely wrapped around his neck, matted wind blown hair catching the light and a wide smile on your face. He didn’t miss the way the female voices in the crowd had cheered a little louder when he had lifted you in his arms.
“What a play!” had said Angelina, shaking Oliver by the shoulders as she cheered alongside the rest of the Gryffindor house to the honorary winners of the game.
The noise from his own house spiked again but Oliver could barely hear it. He was annoyed at the way Diggory seemed to love showing off. Is not like that play had been his idea, he thought, it had obviously been yours. You were probably embarrassed, upset about him taking the credit. You probably hated it. Didn’t you?
“Prick”
Valentine's Day that year had been the first one you had been brave enough to not send Oliver an anonymous gift like you had done for the past four years. You were aware that anyone would have guessed it was you by now, Oliver's friends and anyone who knew him had relaized the first time. Maybe he did know, and that’s why he always reacted so unenthusiastically to them, his subtle way of rejecting you without having to go through the uncomfortable act of doing so. You had approached the Gryffindor table with your mind set on bringing up the secret admirer you knew hadn’t sent anything this time, pathetically hoping he’d sulk even just a bit. He sat there, eyes fixed over pages of strategies that seemed to work only in his head. The sleeves of his sweater had been rised to his elbows, the usual brushes from practice spread across his arms in kisses of red an purple. His hair was a mess from all the times you could guess he had ran his hand through it already. He looked devilish handsome and a total mess, and it was only breakfast.
“Want me to bring you anything from Hogsmade?”
Oliver had been skipping the last visits to Hogsmade, insisting he had to use his free time on planning for the next game against Slytherin. The last few months had also been strange. There was an eerie sense of normalcy whenever you’d talk, something unspoken hanging in the air by a very thin thread that you both pretended not to notice. His head had quickly perked up at the sound of your voice, looking at you for a moment before forcing himself to go back to his notes.
“I’m going, actually”
“Oh, really?” you tried to sound casual “Fancy hanging out a bit later then?”
“I can’t” he replied rather quickly in a strangely proud tone. However as he looked at you out of the corner of his eye he hesitated “I’m going with a girl from class, she sent me a Valentine’s gift asking me to go with her. Veronica Mulnich, you met her”
You had needed a second to process that whole sentence, not only because of what he had said, but because of how quickly he had said it.
“Did I?”
“Hogsmade, last year. Rode the carriage with us”
Oh. So this had been what they called woman’s intuition. An unpleasant feeling like a cold sweat in the back of your neck.
“Which one?”
You had begged for him to not say “the pretty one”, repeating it like a mantra what seemed an impossible amount of times in the very few seconds it took him to answer.
“Curly hair”
“Oh, yeah”
“I guess after years of anonymous stuff she just decided to ask me out”
There was a thin sharp noise as if cracking glass, and you wondered if anyone had heard it coming from your ribcage. Oliver rearanged his notes in no partiuclar order.
“Oh!” your voice was cheerful, almost as painful to hear as it had been for you say “So, is a date then?” Oliver lightly tapped the papers on the table to align them properly “You are going on a date”
He tried to give you a casual look only to look away immediately, as if annoyed. His lips pressed into a thin smile and he nodded.
“Actually I should go, I’m a bit late”
“Right, okay” you had stood up from your seat before he did, nausea bubbling up in your stomach and making the walls of the Great Hall spin. With what little courage you had left you patted Oliver in the shoulder, your touch seeming to burn him, but you didn’t notice “Good luck. See you later”
Your friends had had to drag you to Hogsmade that day, somewheat oblivious to the long shadows cast on your face, the sickened color of your skin and glassy twinkle in your eyes. It hadn’t taken long for your heavy steps to drag you to the back of the group and eventually away from them, too far behind to bother catching up. There was a jolt that ran through you, making you stop and look; call it woman’s intuition. Across the windows of the pink building you still hadn’t had the chance to step into, there sat Oliver with Veronica Mulnich, his body slightly turned away from you. She was talking to him, hand underneath her chin and head titled to the side, a genuine sweet smile on her face. He had said something you obviously couldn’t hear and she laughed wholeheartedly the same way you always did, but it seemed different when she did it. The strain on your jaw as you tried to stop yourself from crying started to hurt too much to keep it up. In a fit of something you couldn’t quite understand you tugged at the scarf on your neck, Oliver’s scarf, and yanked it with so much strength you hurt yourself. Franctic as you had been to run away you bumped head first onto someone, a surprised gasp coming from them.
“Wow, are we in a hurry?”
It was a Weasley twin, you didn’t need to look up to know that, height and voice telling you enough. Even if you had tried to find out if it was Fred or George it would have been futile, the world engulfed in a damp mirage as warm tears fell from your eyes. You had muttered a shaky “sorry” and moved past him, or them, with as much grace and dignity as you had left, throwing Oliver’s scarf in the nearest bin without a second glance.
By the time Oliver and Veronica had left Madam Puddifoot he had ran out of things to say, but thankfully to him she seemed fine carrying the conversation by herself. She had tangled their arms together, slightly leaning onto him for warmth as they had started their walk through Hogsmade, the closeness making their walking a bit awkward, but she didn’t seem to care. Oliver’s eyes were eyeing every store and every group of people, seemingly absent from his own conversation.
“I’m sure town must be gorgeous during Christmas. Do you know if you’ll leave for the holidays?”
She had looked up and was met with his profile, jawline defined and muscles underneath tense. She gave his arm a squeeze.
“What?” he turned to her “Oh, I don’t know yet”
But he had known, he would go home and regret not being able to practice outside, probably write to you. Something made him stop in the middle of the street, Veronica looking up at him in cofusion. From in between the aglomeration of people there were two flashes of bright orange hair, impossible to miss. The Weasley twins were casually standing by one of the narrow streets, which usually would mean nothing good was about to go down. However that hadn’t been what had made him stop. One of the twins had been leaning over to speak to someone, faces too close for comfort, or maybe he just thought that because it had been you George was talking to. Whether Victoria was still holding onto him as he walked in between a group of people who gave him a strage look he wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t be arsed about it.
“Why are you laughing?” had asked George, hands on his knees so his face would be at your level, turning your sobs into a chuckle “Isn’t this better for you?”
“We adapt to short people's needs. Tell your friends"
The Weasley twins weren’t very tactful, but if there was something they had learned from their older brothers was that you should never make a woman cry, and if you ever saw one doing so, you had to fix it. They had dragged you into the more quiet street by softly placing their hands on your shoulders, the surprised cry making them apologize profusely. While not the most careful, Fred and George were nothing short of sharp, a simple look inside Madame Puddifoot enough for them to share a knowing look before they had turned around looking for you.
“Are you trying to catch a cold?” George had taken out his scarf and had placed it around your neck “There are better ways to get to skip class you know?”
“Yeah, we can hook you up” Fred said from where he was standing next to you “Is still a prototype so you might burp bubbles or something, though”
That had made you laugh, distracting you enough to not notice Fred moving beside you.
“Nothing to see here”
You had looked up to see him hands ups in the air, only partially seeing Oliver’s face behind him as he shifted enough to block his path.
“What’s going on?” Oliver asked, almost demanding.
“Street is closed due to damages”
Oliver tried to edge past Fred, his eyes never leaving George’s hands nuzzling the scarf around your neck, his hands surely grazing the skin of your neck. That wasn’t your scarf, he thought. That wasn’t the scarf he had given you, the one you had worn for the last two years. He called your name once, maybe twice as Fred kept walking in front of him, until you finally dared to look up. Your eyes were red and slightly puffy, tears catching the sunlight in a way that made them sparkle like glass under the winter sun. For a second he had the selfish thought that they looked beautiful. Then the glance was gone.
“Gotta go back to your date, mate?” asked Fred, looking over Oliver’s shoulder at Victoria, who was standing there waiting for him. Something in the way Fred had said it made Oliver flinch, earning him a hard look from him, but Fred didn't budge.
The twins swept you away swiftly with a barricade of jokes , leaving him behind in the middle of the street watching you walk away without as much as a glance as he felt an arm wrap around his again.
Dinner that night had barely saciated Oliver, busy as he had been dunking the fork repeatedly into his plate without ever really bringing the food to his mouth. His eyes were set on where you sat at the Hufflepuff table, your friends sitting closer to you than usual, almost as if they were shielding you from something. His knee was shaking underneath the table, nervously waitng for you to look up towards him. You always did, after all. He could always find you in a crowd, already looking at him and a smile ready at our lips for when he finally found you. You hadn’t looked his way once since he had sat down, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was on purpose. When he saw you get up his knee hit the table so hard it made a few people jump on their seats. He immediately stood up under the annoyed looks of the people arround him and matched your step towards the entrance of the Great Hall, where he managed to catch you before you walked towards the door that lead to the kitchen.
“Oi! What happened there?”
“Oh, hey, sorry” you retracted your hand slowly from where he had held it to stop you “It’s nothing, I just fought with my friend. We made up so it’s alright.
He knew you were lying, but there wasn’t anything he could have said to prove it.
“...okay”
“How was your date?”
That took him by surprise, the sudden question making him take an unconscious step back, hands burying in his pockets.
“It was... alright. I’m not sure there’ll be another one”
“You spoke too much about Quidditch?”
He knew he could never tell you about what had transpired after he had seen you disappear between the crowd, the image of George Weasley’s hand around your shoulders buried in his memory. There’s no way he could tell you how Victoria had insisted on entering a small shop on the corner of the street, gushing about the cluttered charming decor of the store.
“Smell this!” She had held the bottle below his nose, the strange smell reaching Oliver and making him wince “What does it smell like?”
“You tell me!” he said, a bit annoyed “It smells awful”
“Does it?” she asked, quite shocked “It smells like leather and incense to me”
“What? No it doesn’t” Oliver made a face and leaned forward to smell the contents again. This time it didn’t seem that strong, the distinct scents breaking apart from one another more distinctively “Grass... sweat” Veronica’s face panicked, and she discretely turned his head to sniff over her shoulder “Something else, perfume? What even is this?”
“Amortentia” she had said.
“Oh”
It made sense that Veronica had smelt the distinc leathery scent that always seemed to trail after Oliver, even during Divination: the incense infused class they’ve sat together at for three years. For Oliver however, it seemed to make sense it had been Quidditch. Veronica had laughed drily at that, like he had said it as a joke.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t smell a sport”
Oliver wasn’t stupid, no matter how hard he seemed to try to seem like it at times. He was aware of how familiar the smell was, yet couldn’t really pinpoint it. It was driving him crazy.
“How do you know?” he asked, coming back to you.
“You don’t have many conversation topics”
“I do! We talk about things other than quidditch”
“Do we, though?” you smiled at him, but there was a bitternes behind your words.
“Yeah, well..." You missed the way Oliver stepped forward again, getting a bit closer than he had before, taking a deep breath as he got close to you. You also missed the way he frowned as he realized there was no such scent. He would spend the rest of the school year thinking about it. "She wasn’t the one who sent me the Valentine’s the previous years, by the way”
“Oh” you prayed he hadn’t seen the way you swallowed, your mouth and lips feeling dry “The mystery continues then”
“Yeah I guess” something flickered in his eyes as he stared at you with something that you didn’t quite get “Maybe she moved on from me” he joked, but he didn’t laugh.
Your hands balled into fists, your nails digging into your palm and you managed a small shrug. If only he knew how much you wished you had the ability to do so.
“Maybe”
The walk to the locker room had been slow that afternoon, the sound of brooms dragging against the stone steps the only thing interrumpting the silence that had fallen upon your team the moment the game had ended. That, and the cheers that could still be heard from the Gryffindor house back at the pitch. Your uniform was spottless after you took it off, not a wrinkle had had the time to appear since it had been ironed that same morning. Cedric cleared his throat as he stood in the middle of the room, hands on his waist and uniform still on. You all turned to him, your eyes falling to the floor just like his was. He didn’t say a single word until one of your teammates patted him in the back.
“It’s alright Ced”
He gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before walking out of the room in silence, your teammates following suit with similar comforting remarks. And then it was just the two of you. There was a prolongued silence after the door closed with a loud screech and footsteps disappeared in the distance. Cedric ripped the goggles from his head and threw them against the ground with a crash that echoed on the walls. It made you wince, but you had been expecting it.
“Is not your fault” you murmured.
“And whose is it then?”
You couldn’t deny you were angry, frustrated tears picking at the corners of you eyes the moment you had heard the whistle barely five minutes into the game. How Harry Potter had caught the snitch so quickly was beyond you, but more importantly at the moment was that Cedric was beyond himself.
“I still have my grades” he chuckled bitterly “That’s something, isn’t it”
“I’m sure your parents won’t say anything Ced”
Frustration and embarrassment showed on his face in the form of flushed cheeks. He kneeled down to pick up his goggles and when his eyes caught the light through one of the craks on the door, you realized he was about to cry too.
“You are right, they won’t. It’s all in the eyes, you know”
You had been about to say something when the voices of the Gryffindor players caught your attention, and you found yourself reaching for the door as they tried to open it. Katie was only able to open the door a few inches before you stopped it with your hands.
“We are not done” you said, your small frame attampting to shield Cedric from the team.
“...okay?”
The Gryffindor players stopped behind Katie, Fred and George Weasley rubbing Harry Potter’s head. None of them had broken a sweat either, you noticed. Oliver came in last, asking what was holding everyone up, broom held behind his back like the world belonged to him. When he saw you, the slightly cocky smile he had had on faltered a bit.
“It’s alright” said Cedric, opening the door completely behind you.
“Oh?” said Fred “Hope we didn’t interrupt anything”
Oliver’s eyes darted from you, to Cedric, then back to you and then to the side.
“No, sorry. We were just leaving” you said
Cedric and you got out of the locker room and started to walk away when someone spoke behind your back between forced coughs:
“Nice game”
There was some snickering behind you, catching a glimpse of Oliver reprimanding his team albeit with a smile on his face that quickly fell when his eyes met yours.
That had marked the last Hufflepuff game of your fourth year, and as such there wouldn’t be much opportunity to see Oliver, not that you had been particularlly thrilled to do so. For the first time in your life you had made the effort to not find him between classes nor meals, not because you didn’t want to see him, but because you knew nothing good would happen if you did. That’s why you were shocked when despite what you had thought, Oliver keep spawning around every corner. On Wednesday he had stood in front of the Hufflepuff common room for so long that even your friends started to take pitty on him, but you didn’t budge, only going in after he had left for dinner. It was making you miserable, the lengths you had to go simlply to delay the inevitable fight that would break between you two. That’s why when you ran onto him after Herbology that Friday you had decided to give up and try to be civil.
He was leaning again the stone wall, hands in his pockets and wrinkled sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was time for him to get a haircut too, his unruly hair spiking out at different angles. You couldn’t count how many times a day you longued to just reach your hand and just--
“Didn’t take you for a sore loser” he said, voice getting lost among the animated chatter of your classmates.
You inhaled sharply, the grip on your books tightening.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oliver tilted his head to the side. taking a moment to take you in before looking away with a shrug. The sunlight that had been comming from the window behind him gave him a natural halo, and if you hadn’t been so upset the sight would have been enough to remind you why you were in love with him.
“Are you going to keep avoiding me?” he asked, his tone dry yet poignant.
“I am not avoiding you”
“Oh” he sneered “So you are going to start lying to me too? Cool”
“Have you been following me?”
His smile disappeared in an instant, tonge pocking at the side of his cheek.
“I was just trying to talk to you”
“About what”
You would be lying if you said you hadn’t meant to sound so cold, but you had. Oliver turned to you again, but the way he looked at you was harsh. He observed the way you were standing defiantly in front of him, an expression on your face that he had never seen on you, or at least never directed towards him. And all because of that guy.
“Forget about it” he scoffed.
Oliver peeld himself from the wall, not getting too far before you had grabbed his hand and started to pull with, you were surprised to find out, not much resistance. Not a single words was exchanged until you had taken him behind the greenhouse and saw two of your classmates snogging between the vines that crawled up the windows.
“Piss off!” you had said, both running away completely red on the face.
Oliver had to press his lips on a thin line to stop himself from laughing at the scene, his stubborness never allowing him to back down now. You turned back to look at him, a few strands of hair falling in front of your already flushed face, ready for it.
“What” you nudged “Come on, say it”
“Say what”
“Whatever it is you got to say about Hufflepuff, or Cedric for that matter. I’m assuming that’s what you’ve been meaning to tell me about”
Oliver really didn’t like to admit that you were right, being read like an open book was not a favorite of his. When it came to you however he knew he couldn’t escape it, denying it would have been futile. He knew that you knew. Knew what he would say, every word of every sentence, in what order and what tone. And yet you refused to see eye to eye with him.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay”
“Of course I’m not!”
“Then why can’t you agree?”
“On what!”
Oliver finally looked at you with vivid eyes, arms crossed in front of him and brows furrowed so close together they seemed to reach his long eyelashes.
“That you should be the captain!”
“Oh my-- not again Oliver” you had said in exasperation “I told you, I didn’t want it!”
“Bullshit”
It caught you off guard, the way he had said it, perfectly calm and almost calculated.
“I don’t want to lead, I just want to play”
“You just want to lose, you mean?” his smile crooked with spite “Well, does it feel good?”
“No, it doesn’t. But do you know what would feel good?” you had taken a step forward, breath catching in his throat and chest expanding as if preparing for whatever you were about to throw at him “The Head of my house bending the rules in favour of our team so we can have some damn bloody first year prodigy play with us”
To that he had nothing to say, and he hated it. He had kept Harry’s excellence a secret before the season started from everyone but his own team, and also you. Oliver Wood who prided himself in having Quidditch as a first priority had slipped and told you about it, too excited not to. He had expected you to share his excitement, and while you had tried to he had noticed there was a sour twist to the way you had smiled at him at the time.
“Even with Harry you could take us. If only you--”
“If only I did what! What about me? Why do you keep putting all this weight on me like I could fix the team by myself?”
Oliver ran a hand over his face with a groan, arms breaking free and gesturing wildly at you.
“Because you could! Don’t you see how you are the only one in the team who is worth a damn? You have the smarts and you have the technique--”
“I am not you, Oliver! I can’t lead, I’m not a captain!”
“And Diggory is?”
“Yeah, actually! Cedric’s a good leader!”
Oliver flinched at the way his name left your lips, you could see his body stiffen and the muscles tensing underneath his jaw. For a moment he just stared, brows drawing tight in disbelief. When had he found his way into your life the way he had? What had he missed?
“You can’t be seriously defending him right now”
“He’s got charisma and he’s got leadership, he’s got--”
“Beaten in five minutes by an eleven year old? Yeah, that was pretty class”
That shut you up, and for a very brief second he savoured the way you ran out of things to say. Then something shifted in the air and he got scared. But he would never admit it.
“That’s my friend, you know?”
Oliver looked away with a bitter and humorless chuckle, shaking his head before he asked:
“That’s what they are calling it nowdays?”
There was a small pause, you didn’t notice the way he held his breath.
“And what do you care”
“I don’t”
“I know” he didn’t move or say anything right away, fists flexing at his sides and eyes searching yours for something that wasn’t there anymore “Are we done?”
“Yeah”
That summer Oliver had found himself laying in bed, window open trying to escape the suffocating heat between dozens of Quidditch books and magazines. There was a particular volume that had been thrown into a corner of the room the moment he returned home that year, and still lied there when the orange hue of the late July evening casted its light over it. Hidden in one of the pages there had been an article about your Under19 debut that he had memorized by now, having thought about framing it and gift it to you for Christmas at some point. He had stared at it as he lied in bed, short sleeve t-shirt sticking to his back, the room feeling way too hot out of nowhere. It had been like this whenever he was alone with the thought of you, or more like you in the company of Diggory during summer break.
After that fight neither of you had made a single effort to go back to normalcy, and so you hadn’t talked ever since. It had been weird, losing the cup to Ravenclaw, mind already racing about all the things he wanted to go over with you before realizing he couldn’t do that anymore. You had started sitting with your back facing the Gryffindor table too, something you had never done. Because of this hostile situation he had found himself hidding behind a statue in one of the hallways as he saw you approaching with your friends, the topic of conversation almost making him rip the pages out of the book he was holding. The Diggorys had invited you to spend the summer with them, convinced that your little stunt with Cedric during the Slytherin game deserved proper trainning.
“We need to be more in sync” you had said and his stomach had turned, especially at the way your friends had giggled at that, even if you had told them to “shut up!” embarrassedly right after.
No matter how many books he read the image of you kept popping in his head, hair blowing in the summer breeze with Cedric next to you, sweat clinging to your clothes as you laughed at something he had said. Having breakfast together in the early morning and passing the brick of milk to each other with lazy, sleepy morning grins. Him with an arm around your shoulders as you had a stroll with his parents through London.
Oliver stood from his bed, shaking his head so violently his room started spinning. A few books he had on his bed had fallen with loud tuds, and he left a small groan before bending down to pick them up. He retracted one of them form underneath the bed, his hand gracing something that made him still. He dragged the small silver box from under the bed and stared at it for a few seconds, realizing he hadn’t seen it in almost a year. Had it been any other summer he would have seen it every week, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had used it. The lid opened with the soft click he was so familiar with, and the moment he had fully opened it time seemed to stand still. His body reacted half a heartbeat before he understood, the hairs in his arm standing up with a subtle chill that crawled down his back. There were dozens of pieces of parchment, letters you had sent, pilled inside as carefully as he had been able to keep them. He had lifted one of the letters with a trembling hand and brought it close to his nose, scared to confirm what he deep down already knew.
Grass, from the way it always crunched softly under your feet whenever you had agreed to practice with him during his second year, no one on the team having wanted to use their free time helping him.
Sweat, from the first time he had seen you cry after Hufflepuff lost the chance to the Cup after you joined the team. He had hugged you awkwardly, not really sure on what to do or how to hold you, his nose burying itself lightly on your damp hair that smelled like effort and regret.
And flowers, the scent that had been imprinted in every single letter you had sent him for the last five years, each one making the scent a tad bit stronger, seeping into his life almost impercetibly.
The trip to Hogwarts had been peaceful for the most part, your friends and you deciding to sit towards the end of the train to avoid the loud first years that tended to sit at the front. It was around the thrid hour of the trip that you had admitted to yourself that despite having just had breakfast you were still hungry, leaving the compartment filled with animated chatter to go find the Honeydukes cart. You found it after a few minutes, not really mentally prepared for the sight in front of you. Oliver was standing by the cart, more inconvenienced by not being able to pass by than interested in buying anything. He rarely enjoyed candy, the few times you had seen him buy any was to give it to you back on your second year when he had been able to go to Hogsmade while you had to stay at the castle. He noticed you before you had time to pretend you hadn’t.
“Hey” you had said when you finally joined everyone else at the cart, a sad attempt to be matture about it.
“Hey”
His voice was flat and casual, the kind of casual that takes actual effort.
“How was your summer?”
“Good”
Oliver’s eyes didn’t spare you a single glance, instead darting around the cart as if he had actually planned to buy something.
“Cedric and I got a lot of plays in mind for this year” you said, immaturity and his indifference getting the better of you “We planned them over the summer”
That got him, eyes narrowing ever so sligtly.
“Really?” he said, not even attempting to hide his annoyance at the statement. What would have been the point, though.
“Yeah, I stayed with his family for a few weeks in July. They got lots of space, we practiced a lot”
Oliver inhaled through his nose, slow, like he was trying to keep his heartbeat steady.
“Oh, I bet you did” he grumbled.
There had been the fantiest twitch at the corner of his mouth, more of a half scowl than a smile.
“Are you kids going to buy anything?” asked the old lady, small beady eyes looking at you both impatiently.
You took in a deep breath, his eyes stared at you in anticipation.
“I’m going to beat you this year” you said defiantly, and for a second before you turned around you could have sworn you saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.
But whether your startegies would have been Quidditch Cup worthy or not you wouldn’t have the chance to find out. The incidents surroundind the re-opening of the Chamber of Secrets had gotten Quidditch cancelled and the whole school in a constant state of nervousism.
Everybody was trying to find a way to take their mind off things, and you hadn’t even wanted to think about how Oliver was handling the No Quidditch policy. You had, against what you have told yourself, tried to check on him. Your eyes had met awkwardly across the Great Hall during meals, looking away right away like you were eleven again and still figuring out why you couldn’t stop looking for him in every room. He didn’t look away from you however, not like you’d ever find out, eyes glued to your food that wasn’t appetizing at all. Hogsmade trips had stayed in place, and that had been when you had ran into Oliver, way too drunk to have had just butterbeer, laughing and walking with some difficulty with his equally inhebriated friends. They were singing happy birthday way too loudly, Oliver not really joining but marching slightly behind, an amused smile on his face that had disappeared the moment he saw you. You weren’t sure of what you had expected, but it definitely wasn’t him simply walking throught the inches of snow towards you and away from his friends.
“You are not off age yet” you said as he stood next to you “You turned seventeen barely three months ago”
“And you didn’t wish me a happy birthday” he replied in a childishly manner.
“I was under the impression that you didn’t want to talk to me?”
“I don’t” he said way to quickly. It was very obvious how drunk he was, the thickness of the alcohol stretching and making the words stick to one another. There was also a sulkiness to his demeanor, softening his usual stubbornness “You spend all your words talking to Diggory anyway”
“Why do you dislike him so much?” you sighed “Why do you have to bring him up every time you talk to me?”
“Because he’s a prick” he muttered matter of factly, a slight pout on his lips as he swerved in place “Is he in love with you?”
“What?”
“Is he?”
“He’s just my friend! You used to be too!” you straightened in place, measuring your words “Or I thought you were”
Oliver blinked at you, slowly, waiting or all these words to register properly. The concious part of him focused on the pinkish hue your lips turned when you were cold.
“What youmean?”
You kicked a bit of snow, wondering if you should even bring it up.
“Was I ever your friend?”
He frowned, as if he was trying hard to concentrate.
“I don’t understand”
“Do you remember why we became friends?”
Oliver took his time, thinking really hard about what you were asking. After a while he could only come up to one conclusion, announcing it with a shrug.
“Dunno. You’ve always been 'round me”
You scoffed and looked away, your stomach feeling strangely hollow.
“Yeah. Sorry about that, I guess”
“What’re youon about?
“Why’d you never ask me to get lost if I bothered you so much?”
“Wh--”
“You talked to me because of who my father is, and if I had told you I don’t play Quidditch you wouldn’t have talked to me again at all”
“I guess?” Oliver shook his head “But you did, so what does that matter? You were my firend and you took care of me when I got hurt and I thought you were cool--”
“Wait, what do you mean took care of you?”
Oliver paused, looking at you like you were the drunk one.
“When I got hit in the head. Whole week”
It had been the first time since your fist year that he had ever mentioned having any knowledge about that incident.
“How’d you know about that?”
“Madame Pomfrey said, when I woke up”
“Why did you never say anything?”
Oliver shrugged as he swerved from side to side, the pink in his cheeks more noticeable now.
“...shy” he finally said “Why didn’t you say anything about it”
Your feet dragged through the snow as you stepped back.
“Forget about it”
You had meant to turn and walk away immediately, a thousand thoughts going through your mind. So he had known, confirmation of what you had suspected all these years hitting you like a Weasley driven bludger. So he had known all along, deciding not to tell you out of something. Pity? Embarrassment?
“Oi!” Oliver walked in front of you “Is he in love with you, yes or no?”
“He-!” you bit your lip and looked away. There had been something you hadn't even dared to mention to your friends. Something you had promised to not tell alyone. But you didn't want to lie to Oliver, not even when things were like this “He did confess to me, back in the summer” you looked up to him for a second before adding "He kissed me"
Oliver’s face softened and his voice shook when he spoke again, low and crestfallen.
“Took your first kiss, he did?” he asked, but it sounded like he was trying to explain it to his own drunk self.
"I turned him down, I don’t see him in that way”
Oliver tilted his head to the side.
“You don’t like pretty boys?”
You finally took a proper look at him, not having to look away and not having to pretend you didn’t want to. His hair was shorter now but still messy, strands of hair framing his flushed cheeks that matched his pinkish nose. His lips were a bit swollen from drinking and they parted slightly whenever he spoke.
“I do”
You saw the way the words seemed to ripple through him, brows furrowing ever so slightly and for a moment it seemed like he had sobered up. The space between you felt so fragile that you both stayed still, as if a simple shaky breath could break the spell. There was a something in the way you had looked at him in that moment, it had been the closest to how you had used to look at him for so long, and it made his fingertips ache with longing and the aching need to touch you. You had tried so hard not to look at him like that anymore, to not give it away so easily. And yet you were the same lovesick idiot you used to be.
“Right” you said, more to yourself than him to “See you later”
Before he could stop you again, before you fell onto the trap that were his pleading brown eyes you turned and walked away. You didn’t look back, not even when you heard his voice behind you.
“What’s that smell in your letters?”
You had been asleep for who knows how long when the hand shook you awake.
“Class is over” your friend said to you, the faint rustling of your classmates picking up their belongings bringing you back to reality.
You stretched softly, a sharp pain on your neck from the way you had been leaning against the wall for the last hour. Ms. Sinistra was giving you a nasty look that you pretended not to see, picking up your things and walking out with your classmates, hoping she would lose you among the small crowd and forget to scold you.
Your group's steps were followed by soft murmurs, an usually futil attempt to not wake up any of the paintings that adorned the walls on your way back to your Common Rooms. It was commonplace to study Astronomy late at night, when the sky was proper dark and stars shone brighter in contrast to the inky sky, but doing so at one in the morning was torture. The Gryffindor students that shared the class with you stopped in front of the portrait of The Fat Lady, quiet goodbyes being exchanged as Hufflepuff continued on their descent through the castle. As you approached the next flight of stairs, having fallen behind, you noticed how your classmates made way for someone coming up in the opposite direction: Oliver.
A few students turned arond and eyed him curiously as he stopped halfway through, stopping as he had the moment he had seen you. You hadn't spoken in maybe just three days, but it seemed that an eternity had passed and ran its course through him. Deep, dark circles adorned his brown eyes, his usually unkempt uniform adding to his restless image before you. Once your classmates had turned the corner it was just the two of you, the orange hue of the lit candles and a silence that stretched thin between you. That was until you took one step down, stopping in front of him.
“Where are you going this late?” you asked in a whisper.
“Detention” his voice was hoarse and it cracked a bit “Astronomy?”
“Yeah... what did you do to get detention for?”
“I was at the pitch after crufew. Didn't realize how late it was”
“That’s weird, but I wouldn’t put it pass you to write Quidditch plans even in the dark”
“I wasn’t writting just... thinking”
“Quidditch” you said matter of factly, almost teasing.
Oliver simply stared, letting his gaze linger for a heartbeat too long. His eyes dragged from your eyes, down to your lips, the way the orange light of the candelit hallway reflected on your features, then back to your lips.
“Among other things”
“You look like a mess” maybe you had spoken out of fear that he might have heard your loud heartbeat in the empty silence. He chuckled, looking down and passing a hand through his hair, messing it up even more “Don’t do that...”
You reached for his hair, threading your fingers through the stubborn strands before you had time to think about what you were doing. The moment your fingertips had ran through the base of his scalp he stilled, a shiver running down his back. Then ever so slightly he leaned forward, allowing you better acces to his hair, face falling dangerously close to yours.
“Better?” he asked, the question almost a shaky breath.
You had been close to look down, his plush lips that always were a bit chapped too close not to--.
“Ms. Quingly!” you heard Ms. Sinistra whisper sharply from the end of the stairs.
You both straighten up immediately, faces almost bumping into one another. Your face felt hot, and despite the very little light in the hallway you could see Oliver's face must have felt the same, red as it was.
“I should go”
“Yeah”
You walked down a few steps, not wanting to look at the disapproving look Ms. Sinistra was throwing Oliver and you. You mentally shook your head, deciding to turn around.
“Oliver” you called for him, louder than you had wanted. A painting close by hushed you “It wasn’t fair, what I said to you. You were my friend”
Oliver's grip on the banister tightened.
“I can still be, if you’d like that” there was hope in the way he had said it, bare and soft.
You wanted to tell him, just as much as you had ever wanted to. Wanted him to know how hard that was for you.
"I.. I don't know..."
“Ms. Quingly!” Ms. Sinistra got sushed by a few other paintings, upsetting her even further “I’ll have you in detention!”
Ms. Sinistra's footsteps climbed up the stairs in your direction, then Oliver’s words cut through the air.
“I missed you”
A painting grumbled at him to shut up, but Oliver ignored it, eyes never leaving you. His words had been firm and determined, as if a last plea. His way of saying sorry to all the things that had gone wrong, too many to name. Ms. Sinistra's bony hand wrapped arround your forearm.
“Ms. Quingly, let’s go!”
She started dragging you down the stairs, forcing you to look away from Oliver who remained still waiting for an answer that he knew now might never come. There was no easy way to explain how difficult it'd be to remain by his side like nothing happened. How difficult it had been been to pretend you didn’t want to see him. How hard it had been to not look for him in every room you walked in. How hard it was to not run towards him when you finally found him. All the letters you wrote to him and never sent, buried at the bottom of your suitcase. How hard it was to have him so close and not be able to tell him--
“I’m in in love with you!”
Your words hung in the air, bouncing off the stone walls with such force you were sure even the Slytherins down in the dungeons must have heard you too. You felt Ms. Sinistra’s hold on your arm loosen in shock, startled by your sudden outburst, giving you the chance to look back at Oliver. He was there, still and silent as the paintings that had become too, a faint giggle coming from one of them the only thing breaking the sudden silence
“Well, that’s enough!” Ms. Sinistra protested, evidentlly flustered as she successfully made you go down the steps "That'll be fifty points from Hufflepuff"
Oliver didn't sleep at all that night, having spend all of it lying face up in his bed trying to replay your voice as accurately as possible over and over again. As soon as students were allowed to get up he ran out of the Common Room and down the stairs, ignoring the portraits taunting him with “good mornign Mr. Wood” among giggles and whispers. He ran to the Great Hall and to the Hufflepuff table where he spotted Diggory and a few of your friends, asking out of breath where he could find you. Your female friends seemed aprehensive and just shrugged, a few of them turning around without as much of a shake of their heads. It had been Cedric who after inspecting Oliver briefly and hesitating for a moment told him that you might be running at the pitch, like every Saturday.
“Thank you” Oliver said to Cedric who gave him a nod, and it feelt like a years long fight had been settled just like that.
He ran towards the exit as you completed your tenth lap acorss the pitch, hoping the accelerated pulsing at your temple and aching on your legs would make you forget about the previous night. You shook your head and screamed at the memory of Oliver’s face staring at you in the dead silence of the night, unreadable. The faint sound of footsteps made you look up, unaware as you had been of Oliver approaching you until he had grabbed your face, lips crashing against yours without a second for any of you to think twice about it. His nose bumped into yours, faces flushed together to the point it made your lips hurt, your hands grabbing onto his wrists with a loud sigh. He parted from you, forehead resting over yours and panting breath fanning over your face with each word.
“Did you mean it?”
Your fingers curled around his hands that still held your face. You licked your lips, chest raising up and down, the way you could still taste him making you dizzy. All you could do is nod, nose brushing his as you did. Oliver pressed his lips against yours again, shorter, and let go with a loud sound.
“Say it again?”
It was hard to see his face when he was this close, vision blurring a bit until his pleading eyes came into focus. You bit your lip, suddenly shy and you were convinced he could feel the heat creeping up your cheeks beneath his fingertips where he was still holding you in place. You looked down with a nervous scoff and he followed your gaze, his head lowering so he could still look at you.
“Please” he said “Just once more?”
“And you?”
You lifted your head ever so slightly, your breaths catching onto each others, the proximity making the grip on your face shake and he brought one of his hands to your waist.
“I’m not good with words”
“I know” you nudged at his nose playfull, the grip on your waist tightened “Try?”
“I can’t go on like this” he confessed, voice a bit more casual “Don’t want to. It’s bloody awful. It’s drivng me mad” His words got a giggle from you, getting on your tip toes to kiss him again when he leaned back just enough to say something else “And for the record, I’ve always wanted to take you to that awful tea place”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah”
Your hands met at the back of his neck, lips pressed against each other in a softer but deeper kiss. It drew a long, heavy sigh of relief from Oliver, who simply held you tight against him, nails digging at your side. You couldn’t help but to leave short, wet kisses over his already swollen lips, hand scratching his scalp and your hands tangling between his hair. Oliver shuddered and a moan died on your lips, arms behind your lower back and neck trying to hold you impossibly close. Your faces were fully flushed against each other and they started to ache.
”You love me” you said, ragged breath against the side of his face.
Oliver nodded, drawing his nose around your cheek as he left small kisses.
“Yes”
“More than Quidditch?” you teased and he chuckled against your skin.
“Oi!”
“No?”
You pretended to push him away and he pulled you into him again, face crashing against his chest in a sea of laughter.
“Don’t make me say it out loud” he begged, burying his face in you hair, leaving a chaste kiss at the top of it “I have a reputation to mantain”
The first time George noticed him was during breakfast in the Great Hall. The long tables buzzed with chatter, especially at the Gryffindor table. It was… well, louder than usual— Ron choking on a piece of chicken leg because he ate too fast, Hermione patting his back to help him (which only made it worse), Harry thinking of ways to hex Malfoy again, and Fred? Well, surprisingly, he’s quite tame right now— well-behaved, if you must say. While George had been scanning the hall out of habit, looking for trouble, but then he saw him— the transfer student, German accent, eyes sharp, sitting alone with a stack of books and a mug of tea.
George grinned. Intrigued wasn’t even the word— he was captivated. There was something about the way the new boy carried himself: confident but not arrogant, alert but not unapproachable. He didn’t glance nervously at the Gryffindor table, didn’t shrink from the stares of curious students. He simply… existed, and George found himself wanting to be near him. He stood up abruptly prompting curious stares amongst his fellow Gryffindors. “Where ya goin’ George?” Fred asked, snapping out of his trance. “Err, somewhere! Be right back.” He said to the red head as he skipped across the hall.
“Don’t walk too slow or else you're going to draw attention, and don't walk too fast or you'll look too eager, just medium pace.. medium pace..” he muttered as he walked in a medium pace towards the boy. Upon arriving at his desired destination, he sighed in relief, he just stood there for a minute or so staring at the boy in front of him, he could've sworn he almost tripped or something. “Is something bothering you.. George? Or uhm.. Fred?” A Slytherin girl asked. “Oh! Nah just— may I sit here? Just for a moment?” he said as he sat down in front of the boy ignoring the curious(furious) stares around him.
George just stared at him, analyzing his every move, how long his eyelashes were, the way he scrunched his nose after hearing the man beside him say the stupidest thing ever, the way his robes seemed to fit him perfectly, his piercing gaze to him.. wait. WAIT—
“What?” the boy said.
“Nothing! Nothing, really..” he whispered to himself. ‘His voice even sounds better than— focus George! Focus!’
“Then, why?”
“Why what?
“Why were you staring at me just a minute ago?”
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
“Did not.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
The Slytherin boy sighed in defeat. “Alright, let's say you DIDN'T stare at me for 7 minutes and 12 seconds.” “Wait you—” “So, what could possibly you want from me?”
“You're new here?” George asked.
“Obviously.”
“The name's George Fabian Weasley, I hope it's not too late for an introduction.” he winked as he held out his hand for a handshake.
“I know.” he said as he stood up as he picked up his books and walked away.
George sat there with his hand still up in the air unblinking “Wait, huh?”
By the end of breakfast, George had made a quiet decision: he would get to know him. Somehow. _______________________________________________________
The Gryffindor common room smelled faintly of toast and ink, a remnant of everyone's dinner and rushed homework. He should've known he would be interrogated by his not-so-lovely younger brother A.K.A Ronald Bilius Weasley. You see he was slouched peacefully on the common room couch by the fireplace, perfect and cozy, and then suddenly Ron sat on the armchair adjacent to him.
“What was that?” Ron said as he stared at his older brother
“Hm? What was what Ronniekins?” he muttered as he opened an eye to peek at him.
“That stunt you pulled earlier this morning.”
“Ah.. that was nothing” George said, feigning innocence.
Ron stopped pacing and glared. “Don’t play dumb, George! I saw you. You were… sitting with him. That new Slytherin. What did you say to him?!”
George smirked, shrugging. “I asked him if he was new. You know… polite Gryffindor behavior.”
Ron’s eyes widened. “Polite?! Since when were you polite!?”
Fred, who had been quietly leaning against the wall, snorted. “Honestly, Ronnie, he’s a Weasley. He’ll survive. Probably.” _______________________________________________________
It wasn’t long before their paths crossed in the library. George found him hunched over a hefty Transfiguration tome, furrowing his brows in concentration. He studied across from him, which mostly meant doodling small sketches of his expressions in a notebook while pretending to read. The Slytherin noticed, but didn’t comment— only gave a pointed look, one that somehow made George laugh quietly to himself.
“You’re… very focused,” George said eventually, smirking.
“And you’re… very distracting,” the new boy replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Someone’s gotta keep things interesting around here,” George said as he leaned back on his chair with a shrug. And for the first time, he saw that small twitch at the corner of his lips— amusement. That, more than anything, made George feel… alive.
From then on, subtle interactions became routine: shared glances across classrooms, whispered jokes in corridors, playful nudges when no one was looking. Hogwarts could be exhausting, but with him, George felt lighter. _______________________________________________________
Late October brought relentless rain. The courtyard was slick, puddles forming in uneven patches, and the Slytherin was crouched over a stubborn plant for Professor Sprout’s assignment, muttering under his breath. His hair plastered to his forehead, robes damp, he looked like he was fighting the world.
George didn’t hesitate. He ran over, draping his jacket over the boy’s shoulders. “You’re going to catch a cold,” he said softly.
The boy blinked, startled, before a small smirk appeared. “I… thank you, Weasley,” he said.
“No, no,” George said, grinning. “I help people. If they’re interesting.”
Something in that smirk, that quiet acknowledgment, made George’s chest warm. He realized then that he was starting to care maybe a little more than he should have.
By Halloween, an unspoken understanding had formed. Shared jokes across classes, playful nudges in corridors, subtle touches whenever no one was looking— George realized he was drawn to the Slytherin in a way he couldn’t ignore.
The turning point came during a Charms practical. You had miscast a levitation spell, sending a parchment floating across the classroom. George lunged, catching it mid-air. “There we go,” he said, handing it back.
You looked at him, damp hair plastered to your face, and laughed— a soft, bright sound that made George’s heart flip. “You’re insufferable,” you teased.
“I know,” he said. “But you like it.”
The boy didn’t deny it, and George grinned, feeling a rush of certainty.
Holidays came, and George bold and slightly reckless when it came to feelings invited you to the Burrow. You hesitated. Slytherins weren’t exactly the usual guests, and he noticed your uncertainty immediately.
Mrs. Weasley, however, was less certain. She was kind but hesitant, her mother’s instincts stirring with worry. You were from far away, someone new, someone she feared might take her son’s heart and leave it behind.
George noticed, of course. But he wasn’t worried. He took your hand under the table, lacing your fingers together when no one was looking. “It’s fine,” he whispered. “You’re fine. Just… be yourself.”
That night, as you helped her with the dishes, she sighed softly. “He’s happy with you. I just… I’ve never seen him so happy before. You’ll be gentle with him, won’t you?”
You smiled, heart swelling with both fear and affection. “Always, Mrs. Weasley. He hears my thoughts, you know. If I ever hurt him, he’ll know before I say a word.”
She looked startled for a moment, then… she laughed. A soft, motherly laugh. “Well then, I suppose he’s safe with you after all.”
You smiled, feeling warmth spread through you. And by the second day, Mrs. Weasley was laughing along with you, asking you questions about Germany, about Hogwarts, about yourself, and secretly approving of the way George looked at you.
That Christmas Eve, George found you alone in the kitchen, staring out the window at the falling snow. He approached quietly.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said softly.
“I’m just… thinking,” you admitted.
George leaned against the counter, close enough for you to feel his warmth. “About what?”
You looked at him, eyes glimmering, and for the first time, said aloud what you’d felt for weeks: “About you, obviously.”
He laughed— a little nervous, a little relieved, entirely happy. “About me?”
“Yeah, always.”
And for a minute George stared at him and sighed. “Is something wrong?” the Slytherin asked.
“I just— I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time I see you, my chest feels too small for my heart, and I swear I can hear it racing just from the sound of your laugh. I’ve tried not to say it, tried to act like I don’t care, but I do. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you, and I can’t hide it anymore, not from you, not from anyone.”
“George..” he said in a soft voice while bringing a hand to his face, softly caressing his freckled cheeks.
“I notice everything about you— the way your eyes catch the light when you’re amused, the way you mutter under your breath when you’re concentrating, the stubborn way you never let anyone push you around. I’ve been scared to tell you because I didn’t want to ruin what we have, but I can’t hide it anymore. I don’t want to hide it. I want you to know. I want you to know that I’m yours if you’ll have me, because I don’t think I can stand a day where I don’t try to be with you. I love you. I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you, and every time I think I’ve figured out how to keep it hidden, I fail. I can’t stop imagining you, laughing with me, teasing me, making me feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. And I know it’s reckless, maybe even foolish, but I don’t care. I just… I need you to know. I need you to feel it too, because I can’t go another day pretending that I don’t want you, that I don’t need you.”
There was a long pause, filled only with the sound of quiet breathing and the distant echo of the burrow settling for the night. George’s hand lifted slowly, almost trembling, reaching for the Slytherin’s face. “I can’t promise it’ll be perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking just a little, “but I can promise this: I’ll try every day to make you feel as safe, as happy, and as loved as you make me. And if you let me… if you let me, I’ll stay by your side, through every bit of chaos, every laugh, every moment, for as long as you’ll have me.”
George’s hand lingered at the side of the Slytherin’s face, thumb brushing along their cheek. His chest heaved with anticipation, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
“I… I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
The Slytherin leaned in slightly, eyes half-lidded, lips parted just enough to invite him. George smiled softly, heart hammering, and closed the distance.
Their lips met in a gentle, tentative kiss at first, soft and searching, as if they were both afraid to break the fragile perfection of the moment. Then it deepened, warm and certain, a quiet promise wrapped up in the softness of their mouths. George’s hands tightened slightly around them, pulling them closer, and for a few blissful seconds, the rest of the world— the burrow, and even the distant chatter of his siblings ceased to exist.
When they finally pulled away, both were breathless, foreheads resting together, eyes shining.
Returning to Hogwarts after the holidays felt different. You and George were no longer just friends; there was an undeniable closeness that everyone noticed. Small touches, lingering looks, inside jokes, and your bond was unmistakable.
You navigated classes together, sometimes helping each other, sometimes competing playfully. George adored your intelligence and confidence, while you found his chaotic creativity endlessly entertaining. Even the Gryffindors and Slytherins began to notice that the two of you were inseparable.
The Slytherin-Gryffindor divide didn’t matter. The teasing, the pranks, the small arguments, none of it mattered. Every glance, every laugh, every touch reinforced what you already knew: you were perfect for each other.
Sometimes, being different wasn’t a problem. It was exactly what made love undeniable.
Hey so.. about the updates, I MIGHT be able to upload some fics and the requests. I was procrastinating so hard, and when I finally decided to update.. I slipped from our stairs and rolled around for a while, then our country got hit by not just one but two typhoons at once. So yeah..
P.S.: I just got my blood drawn for a test and now my left arm and hand hurts like hell cause the nurse who took my blood probably pushed the needle too far and now it's bruising.
i was tagged by @mrnofrends but the chain was L O N G so i starting over!
1. Favorite color: Yellow, but i especially like the red/yellow/blue trio ❤️💛💙 primaries my beloved
2. Last song: Wedding, Funeral by Waitress (guys go check waitress out i love them.... esp if u like will wood)
3. Currently reading: Skyborn: Sparrow Rising by Jessica Khoury (i say reading.. i haven't touched it but i will soon, i plan to go to the park to read it)
4. Currently watching: Star vs. the Forces of Evil (again) and Bluey (again)
5. Currently craving: Some water tbh
6. Coffee or tea: Tea but only if you put milk or creamer in it, there's too much caffeine in coffee and if i've had my adderall it makes me jittery. Plus it comes in lots of flavors and is very versatile- u can make iced tea, hot tea, milk tea etc :3
tagging ppl i wanna know more about so i sorta left out my usual tags sorry: @jsadumbliljirai @roverz-art-and-agere (WE HAVENT TALKED IN SO LOMG OMG) @regressorkel @little-adaine @caninestooth @cr4yon-b3rry
