Numbers Between Us
Oliver Wood x Beauxbatons Reader
soulmate AU, triwizard tournament, fluffy longing and embarrassed gryffindor
⸻
Oliver Wood had long stopped checking the meter on his wrist.
As a kid, he’d obsessed over it. The glowing numbers nestled beneath the skin of his forearm had felt like a promise—one he didn’t fully understand, but believed in nonetheless.
The numbers shifted constantly, but always stayed high. 2400 kilometers. 2300. Once it dropped to 1800 for a whole day and he’d spent hours wondering if his soulmate had traveled to the coast.
It wasn’t until he was fifteen that he realized the truth: his soulmate wasn’t in Scotland. Or England. Or Ireland. She was somewhere far, far away.
Probably someone he’d never meet.
That knowledge had left a quiet ache behind his ribs, something he buried beneath Quidditch drills and textbooks and game strategies. He’d grown used to the distance.
Used to ignoring the faint golden glow of numbers under his sleeve.
Until the day the foreigners arrived at Hogwarts.
The Triwizard Tournament had turned the castle into something else entirely. There were new accents echoing in the corridors, carriages pulled by flying horses, and students gliding through the stone halls like something out of a fairy tale.
Oliver didn’t care. Not really. He had tryouts to run, a Quidditch schedule to salvage despite Dumbledore’s ridiculous “inter-school unity” speech, and a team that kept getting distracted by the new Beauxbatons girls.
But something was… off.
It started during warm-ups. A strange buzzing in his wrist—warm and faint, like an itch beneath the skin. He rolled his sleeve up and froze.
870 km.
702.
530.
290.
He stared, heart thudding. That couldn’t be right. It never changed this fast. It was never under 1000.
He tried to ignore it, climbing onto his broom with numb fingers.
But then, midair—his teammates shouting, wind in his face—the numbers kept falling.
86.3 km.
22.4.
10.1.
4.8.
He wobbled in the air, breath caught in his throat. It was like gravity had shifted beneath him, dragging his stomach toward the earth.
He yanked his broom into a sharp turn, scanning the stands, the pitch, the edges of the field—anything. Anyone.
And then—
1.0
0.5
The meter glowed white-hot on his skin.
Something slammed into him from the side. A Bludger, maybe. He didn’t feel it until he was spinning out of control, crashing through the air, the crowd screaming as he fell.
⸻
The air around Hogwarts was colder than she expected.
Beauxbatons was tucked along the coast of southern France—temperate, windswept, and warmed by salt air and sunlight. But here, the Scottish highlands pressed in from all sides like quiet watchers, wrapped in fog and mystery.
She didn’t mind. She liked the cold. It kept people at a distance.
The enchanted carriage touched down in a clearing not far from the castle, and already the air buzzed with magic she didn’t recognize. Old, heavy magic. The kind that felt like it lived in the stones and soil.
She adjusted her pale blue cloak, tucked a strand of windblown hair behind her ear, and stepped down with practiced grace. Fleur was at her side—radiant and glowing as ever—but she stayed back a little, letting the others draw attention.
She wasn’t here to be admired.
She was here to observe.
To compete, quietly.
And maybe—maybe—to feel something.
For years, her wrist had been blank. No numbers. No movement. Nothing but smooth skin where everyone else had their golden soulmate meter ticking away from the moment they turned ten.
She’d been told it was a magical delay. A glitch. A protective charm. She’d stopped asking.
Stopped hoping.
So when the soft burn started beneath her skin the moment she crossed the stone bridge into the castle grounds, she almost dropped her bag.
A strange, glowing warmth unfurled under the surface—like ink soaking into paper.
She glanced down.
There, etched into her skin in delicate gold:
1484m
Her breath caught.
It was real.
She blinked, then glanced at Fleur, at the girls still chattering behind her, then back at her wrist.
1422m.
It was moving. Getting closer.
Her heart stuttered—not with joy, not yet—but with something sharper. Suspicion. Curiosity.
She didn’t know what she believed about soulmates. She’d read enough to know that it didn’t guarantee love. Or happiness. Or choice.
But the glow on her wrist was undeniable.
As they entered the Great Hall, she scanned the crowd from beneath her lashes. Durmstrang boys. Hogwarts robes. So many faces.
731m.
She exhaled slowly, tucking her hand back under her sleeve. She wouldn’t panic. She wouldn’t chase shadows.
If fate wanted to find her—it could try.
⸻
He jolted awake with a gasp.
Pain flared across his shoulder, white-hot and immediate, and he let out a loud, unfiltered groan. His body felt like it had been trampled by a hippogriff and then kicked by every Bludger in Scotland.
“Oi—he’s awake!” someone hissed.
“Easy, mate!”
“Don’t sit up! Pomfrey said not to—”
“Mr. Wood!”
That last voice was the one he should’ve listened to. Sharp, clipped, and entirely done with his nonsense.
Madam Pomfrey swept into view like a furious storm, brandishing a glowing wand and a tiny bottle of something that smelled like burning rubber and regret.
“What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing sitting up like that? I haven’t finished mending your shoulder!”
Oliver blinked, dazed, vision still adjusting. “What… happened?”
“You crashed.” George Weasley leaned over the bed, grinning like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “Mid-match. Took a Bludger right to the chest. The sound it made, honestly—beautiful.”
Fred leaned in from the other side. “You dropped like a sack of potatoes. Elegant, really.”
“Shut up,” Oliver muttered, head spinning. “I didn’t—wait…”
It was coming back to him in fragments. The cold wind. The scoreboard. The sound of the crowd.
And the numbers.
His heart kicked hard in his chest. His wrist.
He fumbled with his sleeve, ignoring Pomfrey’s warning noise as he shoved the blanket down and peeled back the bandage.
7.9m
Still glowing.
Still counting.
He hadn’t imagined it.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed, staring.
Katie Bell leaned in to look. “Is that—your meter?”
George gave an exaggerated gasp. “Wait—did it drop? You crashed because you saw her, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t see anyone,” Oliver snapped, suddenly irritated. “It just went to zero. For a second. I think.”
Fred let out a low whistle. “That’s got to be one hell of a girl.”
Angelina raised a brow. “So what are you going to do now? Go soulmate-hunting in the middle of a tournament?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Oliver muttered, but even as he said it, his eyes flicked to the far wall of the Hospital Wing.
6.2m.
Closer now.
His chest tightened. He didn’t know who she was. But she was here. Somewhere on these grounds. Breathing the same air. Within walking distance.
“You’re going to do something stupid,” Katie said, crossing her arms knowingly.
“I’m going to do nothing,” Oliver lied.
Madam Pomfrey jabbed him with her wand again. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to—rest. You are not chasing girls around the castle with a dislocated shoulder, Mr. Wood, soulmate or not!”
Fred leaned closer and whispered, “We should follow him.”
George whispered back, “We are following him.”
Oliver groaned and flopped back onto the bed, covering his face with one hand.
4.7m.
She was getting closer
⸻
The girls’ dormitory at Hogwarts was not nearly as refined as Beauxbatons, but Y/n found she didn’t mind.
The walls were old stone, the windows drafty, and the beds creaked whenever someone so much as breathed—but it had character. There was something in the air here. Old magic. Purpose.
Or maybe that was just her mind drifting again. To the number.
It was still glowing on her wrist. A soft shimmer of gold, pulsing faintly beneath her skin like a heartbeat.
5.1m
She tucked her arm beneath her cloak and pressed her lips together.
Across the room, Celeste flopped backwards onto her bed with a dramatic sigh. “They gave us the fourth floor. Do they want us to die from climbing stairs?”
Geneviève rolled her eyes. “You sound like une enfant. It’s not that high.”
Fleur, brushing her hair calmly by the window, smirked. “You’d think we were being marched into Azkaban.”
Y/n smiled faintly, but stayed quiet.
They were speaking in French, too fast and too loud, tossing jokes back and forth in the lazy lull between dinner and curfew.
“What are you thinking about?” Fleur asked, catching her gaze in the window reflection. “You look like someone gave you a prophecy.”
“I’m just tired,” Y/n said automatically.
Celeste snorted. “You’re lying. You always go quiet when something interesting happens. Was it the Quidditch match?”
Geneviève leaned over, her eyes gleaming. “You did stare at the boy who fell from the sky. Don’t deny it.”
“I was not staring,” Y/n said, lifting a brow.
“Pardon,” Geneviève said, teasing, “you were studying him.”
“I was studying how not to play Quidditch.”
The room exploded into laughter.
Fleur tilted her head. “Do you know who he is?”
“I don’t need to know,” she said too quickly.
The girls exchanged looks.
Celeste narrowed her eyes. “Your wrist lit up today. I saw it.”
Of course she did. Nothing ever escaped Celeste.
Y/n sighed, sitting back on the edge of her bed. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means he is near,” Fleur said softly. “Your soulmate.”
“Or it means a magical glitch finally wore off,” she countered, folding her arms. “It’s only a number. A direction. Not a decision.”
Geneviève raised her hands. “She’s going to fight fate. Très dramatique.”
Celeste rolled onto her stomach. “What if he’s handsome?”
“What if he’s boring?”
They laughed again, but the words lingered under Y/ns skin. She traced the faint glow on her wrist with her thumb, slowly.
She hadn’t dared dream of the meter ever working. And now that it had—now that it was counting in meters instead of countries—it terrified her.
“I want to be a healer,” she said suddenly.
The room quieted.
“I don’t want to be distracted by… someone else’s path. Not like someone who crashes brooms because he saw a number.”
Fleur smiled gently. “Maybe he’s just bad at flying.”
Celeste smirked. “Then she’ll heal him when he crashes again.”
The girls giggled again and the moment passed—but her wrist still glowed. Still counted down.
4.3m
Closer.
Always closer.
⸻
The Hogwarts library was warmer than expected.
Y/n let her fingers drift across the spines of books lined with faded lettering and cracked leather, stopping when she reached the section she’d found earlier—Magical Healing & Theory.
She slid a thick, violet-bound book from the shelf—Wand-Based Recovery: Spellwork for Stabilization—and carried it to the far window seat. The library was mostly empty this late in the evening, the quiet only interrupted by the occasional rustle of parchment or flick of a quill.
Perfect.
She tucked her knees beneath her, flipped the book open, and breathed in the scent of ink and dust and candle wax.
This was what she wanted.
To heal. To help. To choose her own future.
Not to be swept into some soulmate myth she barely believed in, let alone trusted. The numbers still lingered softly on her wrist.
3.2m
She ignored it.
Turned the page.
⸻
Oliver entered the library like he was doing something illegal.
He hesitated in the doorway, still clutching the excuse he’d invented—a half-hearted attempt to research broom injury recovery spells—and glanced at his wrist.
5.0m
A beat passed.
4.7m
Still here.
He swallowed, tugged his sleeve down to hide the glow, and made his way between the shelves.
He’d almost crashed again leaving the Hospital Wing. Fred and George had followed him halfway through dinner before Katie threw bread rolls at them. But even when he was alone, the numbers followed him. Glowing. Counting.
4.0m
3.8m
He turned left between rows of books, then right, deeper into the quiet.
The glow pulsed.
3.3m
3.0
He stopped.
Looked up.
And there she was.
Sitting by the far window, knees tucked up, head bowed slightly over a thick tome. The gold trim of her Beauxbatons cloak shimmered in the candlelight, and her hair glowed like frost in the sunset. She hadn’t noticed him.
He didn’t breathe.
The number on his wrist flashed.
2.1m
1.8
It was her.
It had to be.
He stepped forward, just one step—and stepped directly into a creaky floorboard.
Her head lifted.
Their eyes met.
The world fell silent again.
Reader blinked, slowly closed her book, and tilted her head.
“Oh,” she said calmly, “you.”
Oliver stared at her like his brain had short-circuited.
“You… you’re…”
“Yes.”
“That’s—so it was you.”
“I assumed you weren’t falling out of the sky for someone else.”
He flushed scarlet.
She didn’t laugh, but her eyes sparkled just faintly. “Are you going to stand there all night or…?”
He cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck, and crossed the last few steps to her table.
0.1m
0.0m
The meter stopped glowing. The moment stilled.
She looked up at him again, quiet and unreadable.
“I’m Oliver,” he said. “Wood.”
“I know.”
He blinked.
“You’re the one who crashed during a friendly match,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to his wrist. “You’re famous now.”
He let out a breath of a laugh and sat down across from her, every part of him buzzing.
“I never thought it would happen. The meter, I mean.”
She looked down at hers. “Mine never worked before yesterday.”
They sat in silence for a moment, only the soft turning of a page in the distance between them.
He leaned in slightly, hesitant. “So what happens now?”
She looked up at him.
Calm. Direct. Certain.
“I’m going to be a healer,” she said simply. “I’m going to study and train and work hard for years. And you,” she added, a slight smirk playing on her lips, “are going to stay out of the Hospital Wing, or I’m going to get very annoyed with you.”
Oliver blinked.
Then laughed.
Hard. Warm. Real.
He hadn’t felt that light in weeks.
“I’ll try,” he said. “But no promises.”
⸻
Oliver leaned back slightly, the tension from the day softening in the warm library light.
“So, you don’t actually like Quidditch?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
Y/n folded her arms, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly? It’s chaos. Flying around hitting balls with sticks. Seems… reckless.”
Oliver’s eyes flashed with mock offense. “Reckless? It’s the most strategic, precise, and important game at Hogwarts! The whole school watches. It’s like chess… but faster.”
She shook her head, laughing softly. “Chess is less dangerous.”
He grinned, warming to the topic. “You don’t get it. It’s about skill, teamwork, knowing your teammates’ moves before they make them. It’s about trust.”
Her smile softened, and she tilted her head. “Sounds like a lot of pressure. I prefer healing. Predictable. Controlled.”
Oliver chuckled, then with a mischievous glint added, “Still, if you keep insulting my sport, I might just have to challenge you to a broom duel.”
Her laugh was low and amused. “I’d like to see you try.”
They sat there, caught in the moment — her easy grace and his nervous energy weaving together like an unexpected spell.
⸻
Later, as they stood up to leave, the warm glow of the library dimming behind them, she caught sight of her friends approaching, faces animated and curious. They say goodbye and she went to her friends.
Celeste folded her arms, eyes narrowed. “There you are! Where have you been all evening?”
Geneviève chimed in, “Skipping dinner again?”
She shrugged, unfazed. “I was… chatting with my soulmate. Nothing much.”
The girls exchanged shocked glances.
Fleur grinned. “Wait, who is he? The fallen sack of potatoes from the match?”
Y/n rolled her eyes but smiled. “Yes. That one.”
Celeste smirked. “He’d better be worth the hospital visits.”
Geneviève added with a teasing tone, “And the attention. Are you sure he’s not just another distraction?”
She glanced down at her wrist, still glowing faintly. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s the reason I’m here at all.”
The girls laughed, surrounding her with a teasing warmth that felt like home, even so far from Beauxbatons.
—
Oliver slumped down on the Gryffindor common room couch, still a bit breathless from the library encounter. He pulled his sleeve down to cover his glowing wrist, but it was no use — George was already smirking.
“Oi, Wood. So, what’s this I hear about you and some mysterious Beauxbatons beauty?” George asked, nudging Fred, who barely suppressed a grin.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Nothing. It’s complicated.”
Fred leaned in, whispering like it was the best gossip ever. “Complicated? Mate, you’ve known her less than a day and you’re already walking funny.”
Katie, settling in with a book, glanced up. “I heard she’s already planning to heal you if you keep crashing like a baby.”
Oliver groaned. “Very funny.”
George flopped beside him, eyes twinkling. “Come on, we all know you’re a bit of a disaster with girls, but this one… this one’s different.”
Fred nodded eagerly. “Yeah! She’s got that cool ‘don’t care’ vibe. Bet she’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”
Oliver tried to hide the smile creeping onto his face but failed miserably. “Alright, alright. Maybe she’s… alright.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Just don’t go getting yourself killed before the Tournament.”
Oliver sighed dramatically. “You lot don’t make it easy.”
George grinned. “No one said soulmate business was easy.”
—
The Great Hall buzzed with early morning chatter and clatter of breakfast plates. Oliver sat nervously at the Gryffindor table, nervously glancing at his wrist every few seconds, the soulmate meter hidden beneath his sleeve.
Just as he was about to lose himself in a piece of toast, a familiar calm presence appeared beside him.
“Bonjour, Oliver,” she said smoothly, sliding into the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation.
Oliver nearly choked on his toast. “Uh, bonjour.”
Behind her, Celeste, Geneviève, and Fleur followed, filling the space with a quiet but unmistakable French elegance.
“You don’t seem like a morning person,” she said softly, her voice laced with amusement as she flicked a glance at his half-risen hair and slightly shaky hands.
Oliver ran a hand through his messy hair. “You could say that.”
She smiled, switching effortlessly into French. “Tu es un peu nerveux, non? Ne t’inquiète pas, ce n’est pas la fin du monde.”
(You’re a little nervous, no? Don’t worry, it’s not the end of the world.)
Oliver blinked. “How much do you speak?”
“Enough to tease you,” she replied with a smirk.
The other French girls giggled softly.
Fleur added, “We’re heading on a field trip to Hogsmeade this afternoon. Would you like to join?”
Oliver swallowed, heart hammering. “I—uh, I’d love to.”
Celeste leaned in conspiratorially. “But only if you promise not to fall off your broom again.”
Y/n laughed quietly, “Oh, Oliver, you have so much to learn about resilience.”
He grinned, despite himself, feeling a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the breakfast fire crackling nearby.
—
The crisp autumn air in Hogsmeade was filled with the chatter of students, the scent of pumpkin pasties, and the crunch of leaves underfoot. Oliver’s group and the Beauxbatons girls had agreed to meet up for the afternoon, though the plan quickly turned into something much more orchestrated by their friends than spontaneous.
Fred and George exchanged gleeful looks as they nudged Oliver toward Reader.
“Go on, Wood,” Fred whispered loudly enough for several people nearby to hear. “She’s right there. Don’t let her disappear like last time.”
George grinned. “Yeah, don’t chicken out now.”
Meanwhile, Celeste and Geneviève flanked Reader, whispering in French with playful smirks.
“Regarde, elle est tellement mignonne quand elle essaie de ne pas rougir,” Celeste giggled.
(Look, she’s so cute trying not to blush.)
Geneviève added, “C’est le moment parfait pour un petit tête-à-tête.”
(This is the perfect moment for a little tête-à-tête.)
She shot them a warning glance but allowed herself a small smile as Oliver approached.
⸻
They wandered toward Honeydukes, the promise of sweets and warmth softening the nerves.
Oliver found himself beside her, both slightly quieter than their groups, the world narrowing to the crunch of leaves and the warm colors around them.
“So,” Oliver said, clearing his throat, “what’s your favorite magical sweet?”
Her lips curved into a teasing smile. “Something sour. Like a lemon drop. You?”
He laughed, surprised by his own confidence. “Chocolate frogs. Always.”
Their friends deliberately gave them space — or perhaps nudged from behind — until only the two of them stood by the counter, sharing stories over peppermint toads and fizzing whizzbees.
⸻
Back in the crowd, Fred raised his wand, discreetly casting a faint, sparkling charm above them.
“Watch,” he said to George, “the sparks fly.”
George chuckled. “Best match we’ve seen in ages.”
—
The bustle of Hogsmeade faded behind them as Oliver and Y/n slipped away from the laughter and chatter of their friends.
The path back to Hogwarts wound through shadowed trees, the last light of sunset painting the sky in soft shades of pink and gold.
Oliver stole a glance at her, the warmth of the afternoon still glowing between them.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he said quietly.
She smiled, the faint glow of her soulmate meter hidden beneath her sleeve matching the quiet in her eyes. “It was… nice. More than I expected.”
They walked side by side, footsteps crunching softly on the gravel.
The cool evening air wrapped around them, but neither noticed the chill.
Oliver cleared his throat. “So… what happens now?”
She paused, then looked up at him, calm and steady.
“We keep walking. See where the path takes us.”
He smiled, heart lighter than it had been in weeks.
And for the first time, the numbers on their wrists felt like the start of something, not a countdown.
