#oliver wood x you

[heartthrobin]

all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

-

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

-

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

-

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

-

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

-

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

-

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

-

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them. 

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

-

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

-

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[redheadspark]

Fifth Floor Prt. 2

Summary - You and Oliver take full advantage of the Prefect's Bathroom

Warnings - SMUT SMUT SMUT! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, 18+ ONLY!

Part two of Fifth Floor

It surprised you: one minute you two were kissing and now you two were together in the bath on the throes of pleasure.

Both you and Oliver were not going to slow down as soon as you cast the charm along the door and walls into the Prefects Bathroom.  The pent-up feelings you two kept to yourselves over the past few years since you graduated were now pouring out to one another, like a busted open dam.  Yet it felt like it was right, stripping each other's clothes off while kissing and giggling.  The serious tones of being consumed by one another never masked the playfulness either, which was almost a reflection of your relationship with one another anywho: serious and yet light.  Of course, you were baffled when Oliver perched you on the edge of the tub that was now filled to the brim with hot water mixed with scented and enchanted bubbles.  

His boldness came through as he gently pushed your legs open and licked into your folds like he was a starving student at a Feast.

Intense hot pleasure came through you ten told as he was between your legs, thankful that you could be as loud as you wanted since no one outside the room could hear your activities together.  Yet it made Oliver persistent, listening to the cues on where to lick and where to kiss along your folds and inside your cunt.  Almost like a devoted student, taking notes and knowing what makes you come undone and what made you whimper and writhe.  You were unraveling in seconds since it's been some time since you had something like this with someone, his fingers gliding along your folds when he felt you shaking and close to orgasm.  No matter how long you tried to hold out, it was closer than you thought.  

Seeing him in front of you, his head between your shaking legs and his back muscles glistening and contracting made your head swim all the more.  All of those times practicing and playing Quidditch was showing in his muscles along his backside and his arms.  He memorized you, even with him giving gentle kitten licks along your sensitive clit.  It made you fall back against the marble floor, moving your hips and trying to prolong the orgasm that was coming so fast.  

Up right before you broke, you placed your hands in his brown tuffs of hair and felt your body move without your knowledge, rolling your hips into his face and finally feeling him suck your clit.

You fell with a howl, and Oliver thought of you as a gorgeous siren. 

After a good moment or two of you calming yourself down, of Oliver watching you with wide eyes and a small glimmer of liquid on his chin and lips, you grinned widely like a Cheshire Cat at him as you pushed yourself back up into a sitting posting.  Sinking into the water and feeling the temperature engulf your now sensitive skin, you sighed and moaned at the same time as you turned him around and made him lean against the bathtub wall.  He went willingly, you pressing a hand against his hard and toned chest as he was how against the bathtub wall with nowhere else to go.

Slowly and without breaking eye contact with him, you reached your other hand down beneath the bubbles and felt his cock.  Hard, a bit large for your hand to wrap all around, but it felt perfect in your hand as you gripped him tightly.  Oliver inhaled sharply, his eyes going wide and his breath shaking as you started stroking him off under the water.  

You never thought you would be in this kind of situation with your best friend, bringing in emended pleasure under the bubbles and water in a bathroom alone.  But it was also a dream come true, being in his arms and blissfully happy.  There would never be a right moment for something like this, Oliver reminded you of that moment before you both were in the throws of pleasure and lust like this. 

But it felt right now, getting Oliver off as he was manning and biting his lower lips with every twist of your hand and every squeeze of your fingers.  You could sense and see that he was trying not to be too loud, which seemed ironic since he made your moan crudely a moment before when he was licking into your cunt with vigor.  

It should be the same for him. 

You leaned up to kiss his neck and lick along his skin as your hand was moving a bit faster, feeling his hips shaking under the water and moving in sync with yours as his hands were gripping the sides of the tub, arms stretched out and his head thrown back.

"You can let it all out know you," You hummed against his jaw, kissing his neck once more with a bit of vigor as you pressed your bare chest against his, "No one will know we're in here, and they won't hear anything.  You sound gorgeous like this, Oli,"

"F-f-fuck!" He moaned aloud as you traced your thumb along the tip of his cock.  He was shaking, the water splashing the pair of you as you grinned wickedly and straddled one of his thighs.  The hard muscle against your still sensitive cunt made you moan against his neck as your other hand raked in his brown hair and pulled hair.  He moaned crudely, his head snapping back as you looked at his exposed neck and his trembling lips.  

He looked beyond gorgeous to you.

Before you could say anything to him to make him come undone as he did with you, he moved one of his gripped hands from the bathtub wall and placed it on your arm in a death grip, making you stop stroking him since you thought you did something wrong.  Your other hand released his hair, making his head snap back to look at you as you shot him a worried look.

"You okay?" You asked him, heading his labored breathing and how dilated his eyes were.  The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him or made this a bad experience, it would have pained you.  Maybe you were too harsh or this was too quick.  But he slowly grinned, his crimson lips and flushed cheeks should no sign of pain or uncomfortableness as you were searching his eyes.  He leaned forward, kissing you soundly and gently in the water, making you melt and release his cocked as you framed his face.

To share a gentle moment in the throws of love seemed far too much, yet not enough.  He kissed you gently and with no hint of urgency.  There was more time in the world for you two to finally have each other, to be in love with one another, and you felt like Oliver wanted to savor every second with you.  

"I don't wanna cum yet," He whispered against your lips, tracing your nose with his as you gulped, "Not when I wanna have ya here,"

That alone made your heart skip, feeling his hands go under the water and grab your hips as he too was not breaking your glance.  He moved your swiftly, having you now against the wall and him crowding you as he kissed you over and over.  His hands moved to trace and touch your breast, some bubbles slipping down your nipples and making you moan as he palmed them both while kissing down your neck and jawline.  You felt as if you were boneless under his touch, his chest against yours as his mouth moved now to lick and suckle your breast, his thighs against your own under the water to make you feel his still hard cock near your own aching core.  

It felt perfect, all of this felt perfect.  

Releasing a nipple from his mouth with a pop, your eyes were glazed over as he leaned into you again and stared into your orbs to catch his breath, "I got ya, okay?" 

You nodded your head, you two staring each other down as his spare hand reached down to take his cot in hand and guide himself into you.  You felt it all through your bones and skin, through your veins as your eyes rolled back and you felt him slowly sink himself inside of you.  The stretch felt like an ache, a good ache after being on a broom for far too long.  It felt right, almost engrained within you as his cock snugged against your walls and you moaned loudly with no sign of being restrained.  Your eyes were closing, not seeing how Oliver was watching you take him so well and how he wished he could etch this image in his mind.  You were naked, covered in water and bubble, bare and open for him and only him.

He won't forget it ever in his life.  

Oliver, once he was fully inside of you, waited for your to adjust for him as you took a long breath.  It was a bit much, almost losing your breath as your thighs trembled under the water and against his own legs.  You had to hold onto his neck for some kind of support as his hand under the water grasped one of your thighs.  His other unoccupied hand was back out of the water and bracing the wall by your head as he kissed your face over and over.

"Okay?" He asked in a raspy voice, he too was feeling the immense pleasure of your walls keeping him inside of you.  You whimpered and nodded your head as he grinned along your cheeks, "Merlin you feel fuckin' good.  So…so good."

His hips were moving slowly, with deep hard thrusts that made you moan with each push. His hips were doing most of the work, the thrusts were deep enough and hard enough for you to melt against the wall but enough to make everything shake under your skin as you were taking everything he gave you.  Oliver was not going fast, which made you wonder for a split second if he wished to.  No, you could tell in how he was going at it that he wanted this to last, not a fast fuck.

"Yes….Merlin Yes…..Oli…FUCK!" You mewled as he hit that spot inside of you, hearing him growl for a moment as he was still fucking you in the tub.  His hand that was holding your thigh was in a tight grip, not letting you sink as you clung onto his back of dear life, feeling your nails almost break the skin as your moans were getting louder and more vocal.  His rhythm was consistent, not slowing down or going too fast just to drive you insane as you felt that feeling of an intense orgasm come over you again.   

"I'm c-close, O-o-liver—" You were moaning into his neck as he huffed and stopped his thrusts.  You were about to protest at him, teetering right on the edge of that pleasurable fall when he moved swiftly once again.  Still inside of you, he leaned back a bit and scooped you in his arms, moving with ease to have his back against the wall once again and you in his lap.  With his cock still buried deep inside of you, he peered up at you and saw the state you were in.

Naked and shaking from pleasure, hair plastered to your neck and backside, eyes wide and unhinged.  He reached up, damp hand up to your neck to look at the image before you as he smiled.  Being perched over Oliver made you feel almost powerful, untouchable, and yet you were still at his mercy.  You too wished to savor this image in your mind forever, knowing you would never be the same.

His thumb traced your lower lip, his hips now moving up and down as his other hand under the water moved to touch your cunt, right over your clit.  You keened, leaning over from the shock of pleasure as he gripped your neck and watched you get that high again.  With his thumb on your clit, making sharp and small circles and his cock drilling into you, he was watching in utter fascination and wonderment.  

"Cum for me," he whispered rapidly against your lips as he kissed you boldly, "I can feel you're close, aren't ya?  I wanna feel it, all of it.  Please, cum for-"

The orgasm you felt slammed you sideways and made you scream, your body going stiff from the pleasure that was now intensified up and down your body as you rode through every second of it.  Oliver saw how your eyes shot wide, your body quivered in the still hot water, and your hands clenched onto his shoulders tight as he thrusts two more times before he too released with a loud moan.  

You felt him unload inside of you, spreading inside of you to feel that warmth along your walls and make you moan some more as you collapsed on top of him.  He wrapped you in his arms, still riding out his release as he thrust into your a few more times.

The pleasure was no long piping hot but a simmer, you both still shaking and each your breaths as Oliver gathered you in his arms and kissed you all over.  You were grateful you were still in the tub, covered in water and bubbles to get some relief.  Although he pulled out of you, he never once released you, placing you in his lap and kissing you soundly with a massive grin on his face.  

"Merlin's Beard…that was…." You said, still unable to talk as Oliver grinned widely.

"I was thinking the same thing," He murmured, his voice uneven himself as he pressed his forehead against yours, "And to think we could have done this sooner if we weren't thick in the head,"

That made you giggle, curling into him some more as he was keeping you close in his arms.  It was true, if you both weren't worried so much about the "what if's" and simply went with what you felt, then you would have this kind of love, this intimacy, way sooner.  But life was strange in that way of course bringing you two back together in the aftermath of an almost catastrophic war that would have erased everything you knew and loved.  

You decided then and there to live in the moment, leaning up to kiss him hotly.  

30 minutes later, you two walked out of the Prefects Bathroom, dried off, and back in your old clothes.  Heading back to the Great Hall and the Courtyard, you both walked side by side and held hands between the two of you, trying to hide the still evident flushness and blush on both of your cheeks.  

Yet neither one of two saw Professor McGonagall near the Great Hall entrance watch you two walk out together, a knowing smile on her lips as she looked at her two old students and Gryffindor Alumni.

"Took those two long enough," She replied with a soft smile.  

The End.

Tagged - @a-lumos-in-the-nox

[luv4freddie]

Aerophobia (fear of flying)

Your fear of flying had kept you off a broom ever since first year, but dating Oliver Wood was bound to fix that. 575 words, fluffy mini story

“Please doll?”

You’d been very adamant about one thing in your time at Hogwarts, and it was that you would not be getting on a broom.

Your first year flying lessons had been a very unfortunate experience, with the amount of falling and bumping into other students you did it was a miracle they even let you finish the class.

And ever since then you’d sworn off getting on one of those cursed cleaning tools.

A relatively easy ban, until you ended up dating Oliver Wood— someone who might actually spend more time on his broom than on his feet.

One thing led to another, and now here you are, with your boyfriend giving you his pretty puppy eyes and a broom hovering next to him.

“I told you-”

“I know,” he says, familiar with your objections, “but your wonderful boyfriend is here and he’s an amazing flyer and he promises to not let you fall off.”

“He’s also talking in third person, which is weird,” you mumble.

Oliver laughs, but he recognizes that you’ve given up.

He holds the broom horizontally and lets you climb on, before climbing on behind you.

He’s reaching around you to hold his hands in front of you so that you’re trapped, his arms acting like the bumper rails you’ve seen at muggle bowling alleys.

“Relax,” he whispers, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.

“Just go before I change my mind.” You state, gritting your teeth in nervousness.

He lets out another chuckle but kicks off anyway, and you screw your eyes shut as a gust of wind hits you in the face.

The broom stabilizes in the air, and you wait to feel him take off zooming, but he never does.

You cautiously open one eye, squinting around at your surroundings.

You’re hovering about ten feet in the air— not moving.

“Ollie?” You have to speak up to be heard, as you’re too scared of shifting the broom to turn his way.

“Yes love?”

“Why aren’t we moving?”

“Do you want to?”

“I just thought you would.” You risk the small movement of shrugging your shoulders, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks again.

“I’ll move, but you can’t close your eyes, deal?”

“I don’t know…”

He lifts one of his hands off the broom to offer his pinky to you, but you let out a squeal, leaning your back further into his chest.

“Oliver Wood you put your hand back on this broom right now!”

He laughs, “make the deal then.”

You let out a groan, still pushing further into him, and decide that anything is better than falling off the broom.

“Fine. Deal. I’m not moving my hand though.”

He places his hand back on the broom in front of you, at the same time placing a kiss on your cheekbone.

“Good answer.”

You brace for the broom to take off, clutching the handle tighter but keeping your part of the deal up— your eyes stay trained directly in front of you.

Oliver moves one hand further up and the broom gives a small lurch forward.

You hear him laugh at the squeal you let out, but you’re moving much slower and less aggressively than Oliver usually is on his broom, and your fear starts to drain as he continues to gently move the broom forward.

“Look, you can see the courtyard over there,” his voice is calm in your ears, and you excitedly look over.

“I see it! Look! Do you think that’s Fred and George?” You question, pointing to your left at two ant sized figures with red hair.

“Might be.” He hums, trying not to point out your sudden confidence as your hand moves again, pointing at something else.

Five minutes later and you’re back on solid ground, Oliver helping you off the broom with a satisfied grin on his face.

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” He teases.

“I guess not,” you concede, popping up to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“What’s that for?” He asks, although he’s already got a smug smile on his face.

“For taking such good care of me.”

He grabs your hand, interlacing your fingers and placing a sweet kiss on your knuckles while leading you back to the castle, his other hand holding the broom.

“I’ll always take care of you.”

[rainydayathogwarts]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐝 >> 𝐎𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

this is a small series I’ll be uploading. I’ll post each character on its own, but the character i’ll be writing this for are: Harry, Ron, Percy, Oliver, Remus, Sirius, James.

oliver! is always ready to praise and worship your body no matter what time of the day it is, so when you come up to him after a successful Quidditch match, engulfing him in a big hug and standing on the tip of your toes so you can whisper in his ear how much you want him, he is ready to pounce.

You can barely close the door to the changing rooms before Oliver's lips are on your body, kissing every inch of skin he can reach. He's lucky the team prefers to shower in their dorms. His veiny hands are gripping your waist while he's nipping at your skin, hips grinding mercilessly into you. It's only your hands, relentlessly trying to tug his pants down his thighs that have him pulling away from you to take over the job. He strips down to nothing, but scolds you when you mimic his actions because he takes joy in taking your clothes off.

You turn away from him and teasingly bend forward when taking your panties off, and not nearly a second later, Oliver is on his knees, pulling you back onto his face as he devours your cunt. You cry out loudly, tightly gripping the lockers in the room, the thought of anyone walking in on you making you impossibly wetter. Oliver can tell when you're about to orgasm from the way your pussy clenches around his tongue so he pulls away, one hand coming up to smack your ass, eyes trained on the way it jiggles.

When you whine, starting to beg for more, Oliver wraps an arm around your wrist, pulling you along into one of the showers, where he lets the water run hot before pounding into you, his body pressing yours up against the wall. He's basically carrying you with the way one of your leg is propped up on his hip, the other trembling from the pressure. Your arms wrapped around his body keep him impossibly close to you and he grunts into the crook of your neck.

He gets sloppy with his strokes, but one hand comes down to urgently rub your clit, making sure you come before him. Your second leg gives out from under you when you finally orgasm, but his tight hold on your body keeps you up, and his hand picks your second leg up to wrap around his waist so he can use the momentum to make him go quicker, pulling a second orgasm from you while he cums inside you, hips erratically pumping into you while he whimpers quietly.

He holds you in his arms, using the wall as support while he catches him breath, pressing soft, and much less urgent kisses on your skin. He knows he can put you down when you leave a kiss on his jaw, one hand coming up to push his face closer to yours so you can kiss him properly.

After the celebratory party in the Gryffindor Tower, he pulls you up to his dorm for an inevitable round two.

[slytherweasley]

Concussion (Oliver Wood x reader)

Warnings: smut, oral male receiving, swearing

Summary: Oliver gets knocked out after being thrown off his broom by a Slytherin. You stay by his side but his concussion makes him irritable. He’s in so much pain you decide to take care of him.

Oliver lays on the hospital bed still knocked out after being thrown off his broom by a Slytherin at todays game. You sit by his side rubbing his scalp trying to soothe him in hope he will awaken. You were frozen in fear as you watched him fall, you couldn’t get up to see if he was okay until others from the crowd assured you he was alive.

Slowly Oliver’s eyes begin to open, his team mates are also here to show support for their captain. He groans in pain and Madam Pomfrey rushes to his aid. Once the team had given him their best wishes she sent them off so he could have some space.

You stayed by his side the whole time, you tried to cheer him up in every way you could think but he was short with you. “Oli, do you want me to go?” You ask softly “No stay” he says holding your hand firmly “i am in a lot of pain so I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings it’s not my intention” “I know, it’s okay” he reaches up slightly but you meet him with a kiss.

Madam Pomfrey releases him from the hospital wing and gives you everything you need as well as instructions on how to take care of him. He refuses to be wheeled in a wheelchair so you put your arm around him and let him lean on you as you walk to his dorm.

Oliver is well liked which is why it wasn’t a surprise that everyone wanted to talk to him but you tried to get him to his dorm as quick and safely as possible. You finally get him there and into bed “thank you darling” he kisses your forehead as you stack pillows behind him.

Once he is comfortable you organise his meds and everything he needs. “Darling?” He asks “Yes, Oli?” “Can you come cuddle? It will help my pain.”

He makes some space for you and you get into bed with him and try to adjust the pillows but he hits his head on the bed post “fuck” he yells “shit, baby I’m so sorry” you gently rub his head “stop. Just stop” he yells. “I’m sorry, I failed at everything” you mumble “I know you’re trying to help and you’re doing a great job, it’s just these pain meds are only doing so much.”

He pulls you into a hug “you didn’t fail at this, you could never fail at comforting me.” Something about the way he assured you created a solution to help him feel better.

You let go of the hug “I promise I won’t fuck this up” you say “fuck what up?” He asks as you lift his shirt up halfway pressing kisses down his stomach. Your fingers slide into his pants and start to palm him over his underwear “fuck darling” he groans as you feel him getting hard underneath your touch.

Your hand slip underneath his underwear as you begin to jerk him off slowly “feels good” he assures you “I love it when you touch me like this.”

You stop jerking him off to get rid of his pants and underwear letting his dick free. Your spit on his dick letting your saliva run down the base down to his balls “Oh darling, you are going to be the death of me.���

Your lips wrap around the head and you start sucking and swirling your tongue around the head tasting his precum and letting out a moan. Slowly you begin moving further down until your nose hits his mound. Oliver’s moans become louder and needier which makes you incredibly wet but you focus solely on Oliver.

Your hands massage his balls, he goes wild every time you pay attention to his balls. “Fuck darling, that’s it.” You start to move faster on his dick your eyes start to water and drool goes down your chin, you can hear the sounds coming from the back of your throat that Oliver is obsessed with.

“So good for me darling, I’m so close” this prompts you to do everything you can to keep going. “Fuck, I’m really close, you got to pull out if you don’t want me cumming down your throat” he warns but that’s what you want.

“Ah so good darling” he says as he cums in your mouth. You swallow and gently remove your mouth from his dick. “Thank you” he kisses your forehead “so much better than pain meds, do you need me to repay you?” He asks as you help him out his boxers on “No, it’s about you my love, I’ll manage as long as you are okay.”

You lay down carefully beside him facing him with your lips almost touching, he wraps his arms around you. “I don’t deserve you” he mumbles against your lips “yes you do” you close your eyes and lazily kiss him.

[pufflyhallows]

The Tryouts

Pairing: Oliver Wood x reader

Request: @cokecola4211 Harry Potter imagine Oliver flirts with Harry sister at the Gryffindor warm up tryouts. / Harry Potter imagine the reader is Harry sister and Oliver tries asking the reader out to.

a/n: sorry for taking so long!

Warnings: none.

Word count: 1,6k

You were excited.

It was the quidditch tryouts and the Gryffindor team was looking for a new chaser to replace Katie Bell. Your younger brother was already on the team and that made you even more excited. It would be fun to play alongside him, representing your house and also your family. You liked to think your dad would be proud of both of his kids. So, needless to say, this was important to you.

You woke up extra early to have breakfast and meet with Harry, who was already in the Great Hall with the rest of the team and a few other students who were maybe just early birds. Or maybe they were there for the tryouts too. You hoped it was the former.

“Nervous?” he asked as you sat down beside him.

“Good morning to you too,” you said. “And no, I am not.”

“So your sister will be trying?” Fred Weasley asked from across the table. “I reckon it will be a tight dispute.”

“Why? Is there no room for another set of siblings?” you inquired back.

“I’m just saying there will be a lot of people trying this year.”

“Again, why?”

“Well, we always have more than a few contestants,” George Weasley explained. “But this is Oliver’s last season. He’s been encouraging nearly everyone to try their chance. He wants to win the cup.”

You looked over at Oliver Wood, the team’s captain, who was sitting a few seats away from you, drinking from his glass of juice, seemingly clueless to the conversation.

“Oh,” you said, “Then he should let me in. I’ve been training all summer.”

“Some people have been training all their lives,” Angelina Johnson fired back.

“I didn’t have that opportunity,” you answered, leaving her uncomfortable. Harry smirked.

“Sorry”, she said.

“Well, I’m rooting for ya,” Fred said as he and George stood up, “It’d be cool to have another Potter on the team.”

“Thanks,” you smiled at him.

“Don’t get too excited,” Harry warned as the twins left, “There will be a lot of people.”

“That’s a lot of faith you have in me, brother.”

“C’mon, team,” Oliver Wood suddenly said as he stood up, “I would like to practice a bit before the other students get there.”

Harry, Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson prepared to follow him.

“Can I come?” you asked Harry, who shrugged.

“Ask Oliver.”

For God’s sake, you thought.

“Hum, Oliver?” you called and the boy, who was already leaving, turned around. He looked at you as if he didn’t expect to see you there.

“Yes?”

“Can I come? I know the tryouts are at 8 and it’s still 7, but I would like to watch you guys practice.”

“You’re up this early for the tryouts?” he asked. You looked at Harry, who shrugged again.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“Hm, I like your readiness,” he said, “Let’s go.”

You smiled, thinking that maybe you had gained a few points already. You grabbed whatever you could to eat on the pitch and followed the others.

It wasn’t too hot outside, and soon you made your way to the stands. The team gathered in the center of the pitch, brooms in hand, and you could see that Oliver was talking to them, probably telling them what they were going to be doing today. You took a bite of your ham sandwich and sat back to watch as they flew away.

Harry was going to practice by himself, as usual, while Alicia and Angelina practiced shooting the Quaffle at Oliver, who was at the goalposts. Fred and George practiced with each other.

Normally, you would watch your brother, but something was drawing your attention towards Oliver Wood. He was the captain. He was the one you needed to impress. And that was his last year at Hogwarts, which meant you really needed to impress him. That finally made you nervous, something you weren’t before.

Angelina managed to grab the Quaffle from Alicia and flew towards Oliver, who had his eyes fixed upon the ball. You felt your heart start to beat faster with excitement to see him defend. Angelina threw the Quaffle at the first goalpost, and Oliver raced to his right, stretching his arm out and touching the ball with his fingertips, just enough to get it out of its way to the goal. You smiled. And suddenly Oliver had his eyes on you. He had a proud look on his face and seemed satisfied to know that you had seen that.

Then, your eyes were back on your brother, your cheeks slightly warmer. You spent the rest of the practice paying attention to him, while he chased the Snitch again and again, catching it every time. You wished your dad could see him now.

Oliver called the team back to the center of the pitch, and everyone got down from their brooms. They talked a little bit and then Harry waved at you, telling you to go there. You pointed at yourself as if to say ‘me?’ and he motioned ‘come here’ again. You stood up and got down from the stand, entering the pitch and walking towards them.

“Practice with us,” Harry said as soon as you approached them.

“Right now?” you asked, surprised.

“Yes. Right now. Go get a broom.”

“Give me a lift,” you asked and he rolled his eyes, but got on his broom anyway. You got on the back and you both flew to the locker room, where you picked a broom to use.

“But hey, why am I practicing with you guys before the others?” you asked, curious.

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugged for the third time that morning, “It was Oliver’s idea.”

“Hm,” you thought. Oliver’s idea. Maybe he wanted to see if the other Potter was just as good? Either way, you couldn’t not think that you were getting a little advantage over the others.

Once you were back on the pitch, Oliver approached you.

“I want you to work against Alicia and Angelina, okay? You’re on the opposite team. They’ll try to take the Quaffle from you and you won’t let them. Then, you’ll shoot at me. Understood?”

“Understood,” you replied, slightly nervous.

He handed you the Quaffle and everyone got on their brooms, flying high in the air. You followed. When everyone was on their positions, Oliver whistled. It had started. On your left, Alicia came flying fast, Angelina was on your right. You quickly flew down below them, making them almost collide on each other. Before they could recover, you were already flying fast towards the second goalpost, where Oliver was.

You flew as close as you could, and then threw the ball at the first goalpost, but Oliver was just as fast as you, and caught the Quaffle before it could go through.

“Damn it!” you shouted. Oliver smiled, spinning the ball in his hand.

“So close,” he said, “But not close enough,” then he winked at you.

“Let’s do it again,” you challenged, feeling flustered with that wink.

“Sure thing.”

Oliver gave Alicia the ball and told her she would be in your place now, with you and Angelina working together.

He whistled and it started. Alicia went to your left as fast as she could, and you followed, but suddenly she moved to the right, faster than you could tail her. You spun in the air trying to catch her, but she was gone. Angelina was right behind her, though, so you flew towards Oliver, already predicting Angelina’s next move. The chase was spectacular, with both girls going up and down. But much to Alicia’s dislike, Angelina was faster, and soon grabbed the ball from her hands. You were in the right position, close to the first goalpost, with Oliver flying in front of the middle one, but still closer to you. Angelina, then, threw the Quaffle over to you, and you caught it just fine, flying straight to the first goal. As soon as Oliver moved to his right, you shot the ball with your whole strength to the third goalpost, past him, who wasn’t quick enough to try and catch it. You scored a goal.

“Yes!” you shouted, quite happy with yourself.

“Well done,” Oliver said in an admiring tone, “Not bad at all. Let’s do it again!”

This time, Angelina was alone against you and Alicia. Through teamwork, Alicia almost scored a goal, but Oliver was able to catch it. He then called everyone to the center of the pitch once again.

“We’ll do the tryouts as a formality, but I think we have our new chaser right here,” Oliver announced.

You looked over at Harry, who was smiling. The rest of team cheered and congratulated you.

“Are you serious?” you asked in disbelief.

“Of course I am,” he said, “I know talent when I see it. And you definitely have it, Ms. Potter.”

You smiled at him and thanked everyone.

“We can take five to rest!” Oliver said to the team, and most of them left the pitch, except for you and him.

“What happens when we do the tryouts and you realize there’s someone better than me?” you asked sincerely.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he replied with the same sincerity.

“How can you be so sure? I mean, this was my first practice.”

“And you scored a goal against people who have been playing competitively for years. Look, Y/N, I see talent in you. And even more, I see potential. I can see a good future for you in this team. With more practice and training, who knows what you’ll be able to achieve? I have faith in you.”

“Wow,” you smiled, “Thank you.”

“But I can definitely tell you more about it over a cup of tea.”

“W-What?” you blushed.

“A cup of tea. Me and you. What do you think?” he asked, hopeful.

“I… Sure. Yeah, a cup of tea,” you smiled.

“It’s a date.”

[star-girl-05]

Score for Gryffindor

Oliver Wood x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

SLYTHERIN WINS… the whole of Slytherin erupts with cheers while Oliver lands the rest of the Gryffindor team falling close behind. They watch Oliver closely; he's fuming there's smoke coming out of his ears. They've learned through the years that it's best to leave him alone when he's in a mood like this. 

Then they see her, the Slytherin captain and Oliver woods nemesis. She's constantly teasing him, messing with him trying to get in his head before any games even if it's not against Slytherin. Oliver always gets pissy after they talk, usually taking it out his frustrations on the team. That's the last thing they need right now, not when he's already about to explode. 

“Good game Wood” they were not expecting that, there was no teasing in your tone you were being genuine. For a moment they think that someone must have drunk a polyjuice potion and replaced you.

Oliver on the other hand knew you were still messing with him as soon as the words left your mouth he felt something snap inside him. You’ve always been bitchy to him, teasing him not only during quidditch. You’d stop him before he heads to the pitch for practice and rile him up even during classes, you always find a way to bother him. 

“Shove it, L/n”

“Don’t be that way, I’m just being friendly” You reach out placing a hand on his shoulder, a friendly gesture it would seem. Oliver didn't take it that way, no you couldn't be friendly. Everything you did had an alternative meaning, and right now he had no patience for it. In a second he's shoving you against the closet wall getting right in your face. 

George is the first to speak telling Oliver to calm down; they never expected their captain to get violent. He gets very passionate about quidditch but he's never done anything like this. 

“Shut your mouth before I shut if for you” Olivers' words are filled with venom. Instead of being intimidated though, you seem pleased, excited even. 

“Please do” your voice is just above a whisper but the team still caught it. Their eyes widened dramatically. No way the ice cold Slytherin captain just said that, and no way is there captain Oliver Wood snogging them.  None of them knew what to do till Oliver pulled away from you leading you away from the pitch.

“Guess Woods going to be scoring on Slytherin after all” 

[iconicstoner]

clothing swap

oliver wood x gn!reader

words: 538

summary: Oliver didn’t expect for someone to see him shirtless on the train, but that’s what happens after he spills his pumpkin juice all over y/n.

“Jesus Christ, did you just spill coffee on me?” Your voice jumps up as you feel the hot liquid seeping through your shirt. This is certainly not how you wanted your train ride back to Hogwarts to go.

“Well, it’s actually hot pumpkin juice.” At the sound of his rich Scottish accent, you look up to see a brunette with luminous brown eyes looking down at you. He has a small smirk, which doesn’t surprise you when you look down to see he’s wearing a Gryffindor quidditch sweater.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I am not.”

“Well, all my other clothes are in my trunk, so I guess I’m wearing this through dinner,” the words come out with an exasperated sigh as you push your head back.

“You can borrow my jumper.” He begins to lift his shirt, slowly revealing his toned body, clearly sculpted by hours of quidditch practice.

“Woah! You can keep your clothes on.” He smiles down at you and offers out his hand. With a hint of confusion, you accept, and he lifts you up effortlessly, which is another thing that would surprise you if it weren’t for his quidditch sweater. He quickly leads you out of your train car and towards the bathrooms.

“Where are you taking me?” He doesn’t answer your question, and instead opens the door to the bathroom. The door is somewhat jammed, and he has to lift the handle, but he clearly already knows this, and he opens it with ease. He motions for you to step into the bathroom and locks the door behind you.

“Here,” he says, his Scottish accent still enticing you, as he quickly throws off his sweater and passes it to you. You stare at him blankly, trying not to look directly at his toned body, but you can’t help yourself.

“Do you need me to leave?” He asks with a smirk, making you need a moment to compose yourself.

“No, this is fine,” you say hesitantly before slipping off your shirt, unsure of what to do with it. When you look at Oliver, his face is slightly flushed, and he’s staring right at your exposed body. He quickly clears his throat and makes eye contact with you as he grabs the shirt out of your hand.

“Wait, I’m not sure we’re the same size,” you say awkwardly as he starts to put the shirt on.

“We’re wizards. We’ve got magic to fix those kinds of issues,” he says with a small chuckle as he finishes dressing himself in your clothes. “So, are you going to continue to stand in front of me naked, or are you going to put my shirt on?”

“Oh, sorry,” you say flusteredly before quickly shoving on his shirt. He laughs softly before taking a step closer to you, his face just inches away from yours.

“I’m Wood. Oliver Wood. If you’d ever like to stand in front of me naked again, then write me an owl,” he says in a low playful voice that accentuates all the sexiness in his voice. His hot breath felt good on your neck, and you consider if you might need more time in this bathroom as he quickly unlocks the door and steps out.

[lizzie-boo]

Pumpkin Carving

Oliver Wood x GN! Reader

A/N: Fictober Day 2! Hope you enjoy this one, it was inspired by real events, lol.

~~

“Just push it in,” Oliver urges. 

“It’s too hard.” 

“You just need to push harder.” 

“I would but it is all gross and sticky,” you retort, turning to look at him. 

“I hate to be the one to tell you this but it shouldn’t sound so sexual,” Fred chimes in from the couch. 

Both you and Oliver look up from the pumpkin you’re carving in shock. Fred smirks at you before turning back to his product design. Glancing at Oliver you see his cheeks tinged pink and you can’t help but laugh. 

“It’s okay Ollie, you can actually hear what I’d say in the bedroom later.” You finish your sentence with a wink and his face goes from pink to red.

[leaawrites]

Shower Secret

Oliver Wood x fem!Hufflepuff!reader

Words: 0,7k

Warnings: making out, indication of sex, Harry getting pushed off his broom(?), indication of nudity, grammar mistakes (maybe? English isn't my first language)

Materlist

There wouldn't be any reason to keep the relationship between a Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff a secret. If the Hufflepuff wasn't the shame of an all Slytherin family. So, Oliver Wood had to keep his relationship extra secret with the outsider girl.

With her reputation and the things that happened to her, Y/n couldn't be less worth to her parents. But with You-know-who being out and about, even her dissapointed parents didn't want her to get into it too much. So they kept an eye on her and made sure someone always watched what she was doing. If her parents found out she was dating some gryffindor, y/n didn't want to challenge someone and guess what they would do to Oliver.

After the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, Oliver let himself ignore everyone that tried to come near him. That also counted for her.

When Y/n tried to make him talk to her, he only pushed her off and walked past her into a direction she couldn't see from the people that were running in her vision.

Harry was just being thrown off his broom by a dementor and now everyone needed to know what was going on with him, immediatly.

Y/n made her way to the Hospital Wing, pushing past the people who gave her dirty looks in the process or even yelling at her to get out. Fred and George apeared at the door, wanting to tell the others off when their eyes found Y/n's e/c one's.

"He's in the washingrooms," George called out to her, knowing who she truly cared for more.

Y/n rolled her eyes when she had to push past the ever growing crowed again. She made her way to the washingrooms, ignoring the eyes she felt on her as she past through the halls of Hogwarts.

The air was cold and in the process of almost freezing to death (or at least feeling like she will), Y/n opened the door without knocking. No one else was in there without Oliver.

"Olli?" She called out for him. The water stopped spilling and Y/n could hear the defeated and disappointed sigh leaving hef boyfriend's lips.

"Go away," He told her. "I'm not in the mood to talk about what happened."

Y/n slowly stripped off her shirt and trousers, only left in her underware, when she heard the shower being turned on again. She opened the shower curtain that hit Oliver and peeked inside. Oliver was leaning with his head against the wall, his eyes not darting in her direction, but instead they were focused on the crowd.

"We still lost," He said. "It's so unfair. Harry should've just got that snitch and then we would've won and still have a chance for the Quidditch cup."

Y/n touched his spine with her nose, leaning into his body. "You know it's not that easy. You know that better than anyone. And you still have a chance on the Quidditch Cup." She argued.

"But-" He stopped, not knowing what he wanted to argue himself.

"It's gonna be alright," She assured him, making him sigh again, but this time in relief. He always had someone who supported him. He knew that now better than ever.

"What if someone walks in?"

Y/n thought for a minute, would her answer scare him off? "I don't care," she whispered, kissing just below his ear and leaving small pecks down his neck. "They will probably out before noticing who it is anyway." Both laughed at that.

Oliver turned around, his hands holding her hips, while hers laid on his chest, drawing small shapes on his skin. "You make me go crazy."

"Oh yeah?" She asks teasingly, her toungue pulled between her teeth.

"Extremly." He kisses her, deeply devouring the taste of her lips. "I actually just train this hard for Quidditch to impress you." He breaks the kiss.

"Liar." Y/n answers without hesitation.

"I've got caught," He inhales sharply as her hands traveled lower with each word he spoke.

"You make me go crazy as well," She answeres, pulling him into another hot kiss.

The steam of the shower made the tension between them grow more lustful.

"Do you wanna continue this here or somewhere more private?" Y/n asked, pulling away and almost slipping from the water under her feet. Oliver held her steady and laughed as she straightend up again. "And not so slippery," She added.

[mastermindmiko]

Masterlist

Masterlist

Here is a collection of all my works on Tumblr, and I’ll try to keep this updated as much as I can 

Start: 4th of May 2023 

Last updated: 2nd of September 2024

Requests are open, and thank you for 800 followers

Harry Potter 

what a relationship with them would look like:

Tom riddle

Draco Malfoy

Matteo Riddle

Oliver wood 

Percy Weasley Imagines:

Rainy dancing

Cedric Diggory Imagines:

reunions

Harry Potter Imagines:

Restless nights

Yellow

The Malfoy sister (completed)

part one  part two part three part four part five part six

Blue butterflies - part one and part two

Neville Longbottom Imagines:

greenhouse escapades

Fred Weasley Imagines:

Heaven on earth

Promised

Milestones

Tests

Poor Mrs Norris

mood board

Sirius Black Imagines:

Blood traitor

Parties

Enigma

My name

Moodboard 2

George Weasley Imagines:

Drunk (complete)

Prologue part one Part two Part three Part four part five part six part seven

The ear that wasn't

Draco Malfoy Imagines:

Potions Partners (complete)

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten, part eleven, part twelve, part thirteen, part fourteen, part fifteen, part sixteen, part seventeen, part eighteen, part nineteen, part twenty, final part

Heart shaped eyes

Oliver Wood imagines:

Tensions

Mattheo Riddle imagines:

secrets

Ron Weasley Imagines:

Green eyed monster and green skin girl

You're in love

Charcoal pancakes and confessions

Gatherings at the Burrow

Oblivious

James Potter:

Rivals

The person at the opposite end of the table

Chess

Remus Lupin:

Secrets

NEWTs

Chilly Hogsmeade

Regulus Black:

Muggle world hideout

Ghost love part 2 part 3

Tom Riddle:

Mr. Head boy

Charlie Weasley:

Dragon Healer

Bill Weasley:

Congratulations! You're a heartbreaker

More

More coming soon 

[heartthrobin]

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

-

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

-

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

-

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

-

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle. 

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports. 

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge. 

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner. 

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers. 

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor. 

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed. 

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish. 

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster. 

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge. 

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you. 

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone. 

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move. 

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face. 

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches. 

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.” 

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again. 

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“ 

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.” 

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor. 

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick. 

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.” 

He’s brushing past you. 

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“ 

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded. 

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable. 

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?” 

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked. 

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone. 

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him. 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration. 

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him. 

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.” 

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle. 

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own. 

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.” 

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness. 

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms. 

It’s quiet. 

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks. 

“Why’re you out here alone?” 

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him. 

Why do you care? 

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters. 

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.” 

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t. 

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches. 

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something. 

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent. 

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room. 

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.” 

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

-

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours. 

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!” 

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch. 

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow. 

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction. 

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way. 

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it. 

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets. 

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

-

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

-

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

-

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

-

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[redheadspark]

Fifth Floor Prt. 1

A/N - I wrote this out and it ended up being SO long! Part two will come soon enough, and that HAS the SMUT in it!

Summary - You and Oliver reunited after the Battle of Hogwarts, and old flames are rekindled again

Warnings - Just some fluff and angst in this part, Part Two is found here

"Alright, make a perch right here,"

Madam Promfrey helped place you on one of the old Great Hall benches, at least the one that wasn't destroyed and still standing.  You groaned a bit, your head throbbing from a wound that was inflicted on the top of your forehead, your energy dropping by the minute and your adrenaline was no longer evident.  The rest of the students and teachers around you were in no better shape either, trying to mend their wounds and unwind from all the chaos that happened within the last several hours.  Not to mention the bodies that were being moved and placed in a secluded area on the other side of the Great Hall.   It was heartbreaking to see, both Death Eater and those in the Order.  They were all the same: lifeless.  But it was worse since some of those bodies were of the students.

You both felt lucky and cursed to be alive.

Coming back to your old school Ala Mater, you wanted it to be more of a blissful reunion and not a bitter one.  But you were called back too, thanks to the enchanted Galleon you were given. The world was already turned upside down when You-Know-Who took over the Ministry of Magic, his followers running around all over Europe to capture half-blooded and muggle-borns, the safety of the medical world was now critical.  You even had to go into hiding since you were a half-born witch, your mother being a witch and your father a muggle.  Luckily, they both were out of the country on Holiday over in America visiting family when the Ministry Fell, and you can get in contact with them to stay across the Pacific until further notice.  

With your parents safe and out of harm's way, you were not focusing on yourself and going into hiding at your cramped little flat.  It was a bit hard, thinking that when you would go to sleep you would be awakened by a Death Eater leering over your little bed with a wand at your throat. Plenty of people were disappearing in the night.  You were glad to have escaped a few close calls, seeing Death Eaters going among the streets in packs and causing chaos for no random reason.  

Thankfully, you learned a thing or two when it came to blending in and staying under the radar.  You kept your eyes on your neighbors, especially the older couple that had no one else to turn to.  Thankfully, they were not a target to any Death Eaters or even the Ministry of Magic.  They would go for anyone, and to make sure you were not a min target, you made sure any communication with anyone was going to be minimal.

Yet the one person who you were still talking to since you graduated together, was Oliver Wood. 

Being from the same House and in the same year, you both were thick as thieves throughout your years at Hogwarts and in Gryffindor House.  Ever since you were first years, you and Oliver were sticking together when it came to classes and studying.  It was nice to have another friend in your year since you were on the shy side, though Oliver was a bit cockier and a sports enthusiast.  Especially with Quidditch, which was his obsession and life. 

Speaking of which, you saw him helping bring in some of the bodies of the fallen to the corner of the Great Hall, placing them gently on the ground and covering their bodies with some of the blankets from the Hospital Wing.  He too looked worn from the Battle: his clothes were disheveled and covered in dust, and blood was evident along his jaw and a bit in his hair.  But you were glad he was walking around and alive, in a much better state than others.  It made you smile, seeing him alive and alert.

The older you two got while at school, the deeper your friendship was going, and with the deep friendship, you developed feelings for him came along too.  You had no clue when it happened, whether it was your 4th or 5th year when it shifted, but you started to look at him in a different light.  How he would fly as the Keeper on the quidditch team, you watched him a pinch longer during practice or a heated match against Slytherin.  You two were still friends, going to Hogsmeade on certain weekends to get butterbeer and catch up together, or go out on the ground studying together for Potions or Herbology.  

You were catching feelings, whether you liked it or not.

"Hey!"  You saw him make his way over to you, weaving his way around the other survivors who were walking around and trying to catch their breath.  His eyes were right on you, and you gave him a small smile as he finally sat down next to you.  Before you could say anything, he engulfed you in his arms, you clinging onto him while you both were sighing in relief and happiness that you both were alive.  

You were beyond glad to see him there with all his limbs and functioning, the last time you saw him was still in the wee hours of the morning and he was making his way over to the courtyard with some of the other Quidditch players,  You were taking one at least two Death Eaters that were trying to kill a group of 1st years that were caught in the middle of battle and couldn't hide out in time. Of course, the rest of the night you were thinking about Oliver and if he was okay, if he was going to make it to the morning and survive that whole ordeal.

He did, and you two were reuniting again.

"You okay?" He asked as he pulled away abruptly and scanned your appearance frantically, "Nothin' broken?!"

"I'm okay.  I promise I'm okay," You reassured him as he gave you another hug, this one felt gentler and a pinch intimate.  Just being hugged by Oliver alone made you feel at peace for the first time since you arrived at the school on the threshold of chaos and death.  His hugs always made you feel calm through a storm, peacefulness in a chaotic world, and most of all love in a lonely time.  No matter how many times you two hugged, whether it was a simple hug or something more intense, you felt love. 

You both again pulled away and you took in a long breath, looking away from Oliver for a moment, seeing the Great Hall still trying to heal and digest all that happened.  People were weeping, others were clinging onto each other in hopes of feeling consoled, and the rest were simply sitting, saying nothing with longing gazes on their faces.

"I can't believe that happened," You said in a long exhale, tapping your fingers rapidly on your leg as Oliver was watching you carefully and with a hint of concern, "He almost killed all of us, didn't he?"

You-Know-Who, filled with rage and power that it seemed that you were losing hope in winning this war.  All of the horror stories you knew about him and his followers were in effect that night. You knew it would take some time for you to heal, you didn't know if it'd take months or years, but you weren't the only one.  Everyone in that room would need to heal.

"Aye, but I'm glad we're all alive," Oliver murmured next to you, sitting back a bit on the bench, "Thanks to Harry,"

You gave a small smile at the mention of the Boy Who Lived, remembering him as merely a fellow Gryffindor and someone who flew with Oliver on the Quidditch Team.  You've ran into him a few times, being one of the plenty who knew of his story before he even did.  But he was kind, a bit brash at times but kind and willing to stand up to the bullies.  Harry Potter was a true Gryffindor, and for him to lead the battle against the very Dark Lord who tried to kill him as a baby, he was beyond brave.

"Thanks to Harry," You repeated as Oliver shifted in his spot.  He gave you a serious look.

"Where are your folks?" He asked, you rolling your shoulders.

"In America, visiting my Aunt and Grandfather," You replied, "They left two weeks before the Ministry fell, and I told them not to come back,"

"Good," He replied in relief.  Oliver met your parents a few times, the first time was at Platform 9 and 3/4 when you were going back to Hogwarts for your second year.  Your mum and dad thought of Oliver as a great fiend inviting him to come to your home over the summer once or two to both use your backyard to train for quidditch together and to simply talk quidditch with your dad.  

"Your folks?" You asked him with a raised brow.

"Fine.  They…um.. they went into hiding as I did, but they're safe with some old colleagues of theirs," Oliver explained to you, you smiling in return.

"I've always liked your mum and dad," You stated, "They've always been so kind to me, especially your mum.  And your dad is just like you,"

"Or I'm just like my da?" Oliver asked as you smiled and shrugged.

"Don't know, but I'm not complaining," You joked half-heartedly, hearing him laugh in return.  Such an odd thing to do at a time like this, almost dying from Voldemort, almost seeing the school that you grew up and loved become dust.  Yet you two were laughing as if you'd never parted after graduation.  Some people were looking over at you in confusion, wondering why two young adults covered in dust and blood were laughing like teenagers all over again.  

But it felt good to laugh, it felt good to let that emotion come through like a wave that was crashing on the shore.  You remembered laughing like this with him when you two would study together in the Common Room, or chat side by side during dinner in the very Great Hall you two were at.  You missed this, being with your old best friend and not having a care or worry in the world.

For the briefest of moments, you forgot about the war and how you almost died.  

After the laughing died down and you two were quiet again, Oliver looked down at his attire and grimaced a bit, "I don't know how much dust I have on my blazer,"

"Me neither," You agreed, looking at your coat and noticing all that it took on with the battles.  Some wear and tear along your sleeves, your shirt ripped at the bottom from a Dead Eater nearly ripping it off of you while you were trying to escape, blood splattered along your pants and boots that you threw on, and even your hair was a bit matted and barely staying together from the braid it was in over your shoulder.

The last thing you wanted to do was move from the bench you were on since it felt like you could fall over in exhaustion, but you also wanted to scrub down all the filth from your skin.  Your mind didn't know what you wanted to do, and thinking of traveling back to your small cramped apartment seemed too stressful.  

"I need to wash this off," You grumbled, flicking off some dry blood that was stuck on your thumb.

"And I doubt there's anything here in the castle to rinse off in," Oliver added in agreement, then pausing with a tense look on his face.  You looked back at him with a questioning gaze.  You knew that look on his face, plenty of times in the past when he had a bright idea, whether it was during Quidditch practice or knowing what to do in his homework.

"What?" You asked him, seeing him then gaze at you while pointing to the Great Hall doors that were barely propped open and showing the battered hallway.

"You think the fifth floor is still intact?"  He asked you, having you cock your head at him.

"The fifth floor?" 

Oliver got the door open, with a gentle nudge of his shoulder as he had to give it a shove.  After you followed him through the small opening of the door, your eyes went wide from the site in front of you.  Of course, with some debris everywhere and a few cracks in the wall and windows, most of the room itself was mildly damaged from the battle.  Perhaps there was some enchantment in this room, with all the minor damages that were evident all around the room.  You had no clue, you've only heard of this place through some gossip with some friends.

The Prefect Bathroom. 

A massive tub that took up half of the room itself was built into the ground, aligned with cool step stones and marble that wrapped around and melted into the stone walls.  Stain glass windows that were floor to ceiling were on the other side of the tub, different shades of greens and blues illuminating the room from the sun that was already rising over the Scotland mountains and countryside near Hogwarts.  

Along another wall, there were facets, dozens upon dozens of bronzed facets perched over the tub ready for use.  A shelf that was splintered had some white towels that were tossed to the floor, along with some vials that looked to have stored oils and perhaps scented substances for use in baths.

Shocked was not a word you would use in your everyday vocabulary, but this time you were going to have to use it.

"Merlin's Beard," You gasped as Oliver walked over to where the facets were, you were scanning the whole room as Oliver was checking the damage of the tub.  The surprise and shock of this massive room were still reeling in your mind, you've never seen any kind of bathroom like this in your life.  The ones in your old dorm back in Gryffindor Tower had no tubs, simply shower stalls that were decent enough.  But this tub was the size of your entire bathroom at your home.  

"How do you know about this bathroom?" You asked him as he was kneeling next to the facets and scanning the tub.

"Quidditch Captains get access along with the Prefects and Head Boys and Girls," He explained, "You don't know how many times I would hide out here and soak in this tub after a match,"

"No wonder you fled after the games rather quickly," You hummed as you were staring at the gorgeous stained glass over the tub, the image of a Mermaid from the Black Lake was along the glass and looked hauntingly beautiful.  

"Let's test it out, shall we?" Oliver asked, you looking over at him with a hint of shock as he was turning a few of the facets.  Some gurgles were heard, and you thought that the facets were going to be broken and water wouldn't come out. Sure enough, a huge flow of water was coming through at least 5 facets.  Oliver chuckled turning a few more facets with ease.

"What if someone sees us in here?" You questioned in worry, looking at the door that led out of the room thinking someone was going to walk in on you and Oliver in the Prefect's Bathroom.  Of course, you two were grown adults, not longer students at Hogwarts, but it would still be a bit of a shocker if a passerby happened to stumble on the pair of you alone together.  You were no prude, but you would hate to be caught in an awkward situation.  

Oliver gave you a raised brow and a glare, "You think anyone's gonna wander up here after what just happened here at school?  To the Prefect Bathroom of all places?!" 

You glared, "You know what I mean,"

"Aye I do, and you're a bit paranoid," He replied, you huffing and pointing to the running water from the enchanted faucets.

"How is it still working?" You asked in shock as you watched the water flow into the massive tub.  Each facet was giving out a different color in the water but once it was in the tub, it was all clear again.  

"Don't know, but I'm not goin' to complain," Oliver huffed as he sighed and stood back up.  Walking over to you, Oliver cleared his throat and gestured to the tub that was being filled up with hot water, "I'll just…umm…let you go first."

You blushed and fiddled with your fingers.  Now hitting another wall In this situation, taking turns in a bath with your old best friend.  It was already risky enough for you to be venturing amongst the school grinds, right after a massive battle that almost took out the entire castle.  

But another risk was being there with Oliver, the very Quidditch Captain that you both adored as a friend and secretly had a crush on.  No matter if you two were adults, covered in blood and dirt, still running on adrenaline and stress from nearly a handful of times within a few hours, exhausted in both fatigue and mental pain, you were getting those butterflies in your stomach again.  Just like you were teenagers, sitting together during a meal or in a study session, those fleeting emotions seemed to be coming back on overdrive.

Perhaps you were thankful he was alive and with you, finding you in a massive crowd of survivors and making sure you were okay and safe.  Or maybe it was the fact he reached out to you hours before everything happened, telling you Harry was calling all of the ex-Quidditch players to help defend Hogwarts.  You were both barely in contact with each other since you graduated, and seeing him at your doorstep with that glint in his eye and the look of panic and pain on his face.

But you would follow him anywhere, even if it meant into battle.  Placing your life on the line for the sake of helping your old friends defend the school you grew to love. Oliver had a way about him, the way of being able to give you a sense of security and vulnerability that no one else could ever do.  He knew your deepest secrets but held them to his heart with no sign of exposing them to others, his own unique joy and humor made you laugh more than anyone else ever could.  

There was no denial for you, you did love Oliver.

"Thank you," You replied, seeing him give you a small smile.  He was about to walk past you, leaving you in the Prefect Bathroom when you suddenly grabbed his arm.  Oliver stopped, looking at you as if something was wrong.  But you were giving him a kind smile, still holding his arm gently within your fingers and remaining close enough to almost feel the heat radiating off his skin.  It made you wonder if he could hear your heartbeat going up a bit faster.

"You okay?" He asked, his voice was low and subtle, almost sounding gravely, and yet warmth was mixed in his tone.  

"I'm just….I'm glad we're both okay and alive," You said in a stammer, Oliver saying nothing but staring down at you, "Mostly, I'm glad you're okay,"

Oliver gulped, giving you a short nod, "I'm glad you're here too,"

"And I know we haven't talked in a long time since we left Hogwarts, but you were my best friend.  All of the best memories I have ever had within these walls were because of you.  I never had a chance to tell you, and I wanted to tell you now," You explained with no hesitation in your voice.  It was selling out of you before you could stop yourself or dial it down. 

"I'm just glad we're both alive and that I told you how I felt.  It would have killed me if I didn't," You said calmly, then being a bit bold by leaning up a bit on your tiptoes and giving him a gentle kiss on his cheek.  It was brief, the fog that would roll over the Black Lake outside of the castle on an early Autumn morning.  But the feeling alone made you feel experience sparks under your skin, that teenage sensation was back tenfold as you were about to turn back around and grab one of the towels that seemed decent to use.  

Oliver turned you back around with a gentle grab on your arm, kissing you soundly on the lips.

You've been kissed before, yet not like this.  This felt like a new level of a kiss, his chapped lips along your own that almost shuttered from the sensation.  Other kisses felt clumsy or out of place, maybe failed attempts to make you feel swooned.  You hated those kisses, they seemed uneasy and stumbled.  But not this.

This felt like the sensation of flying on your broom for the first time, drinking a butterbeer on a cold winter day in Hogsmeade, and the feeling of snow touching your cheeks during the first snowfall.  Kissing your best friend, the one friend who was your true north and compass in the bad times, the one friend who knew how to make you laugh and feel overjoyed, and the one friend who was your number one fan and supporter in any choice you made.  

He pulled away slightly, you still in a daze from that simple touch of the lips as you slowly opened your eyes and watched him gaze at you.  With him being slightly taller than you, his brown orbs were pouring into yours as he was almost wishing to read your mind.  

But you knew that the same broke inside of you.

"Merlin," You whispered, leaning back up and kissing him back.

You both melted into one another, hands grasping each other's clothes as Oliver kissed you over and over as if he was both starving and yet taking his time with you.  You were letting him, his fingers brushing along your neck as he cradled your face close to kiss you soundly, his body pressing against you with the right amount of pressure that your head was spinning.  Everything about Oliver was consuming you, your fingers were clinging onto his blazer in fear that he was going to drift away from you. He wouldn't, you knew that deep down that he wouldn't leave you like this.  

One of his arms moved from your neck to lower your body, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you in tightly as his kisses evolved into deeper and more sensual kisses.  It felt like a drug was kicking in with no sign of slowing down, maybe the knowledge of almost losing each other hours before when the castle was in flames and people were dying around you was still igniting in you.  

Before you both knew it, hands were roaming as you were leaning into him more and more. His hands moved to strip off your jacket letting it fall to the ground in a heap as your tongue moved out to trace his lower lip.  A small sharp inhale was heard from him, his fingers were dancing along your worn down shirt and his other set of fingers were digging into your hair while your hands attempting to push off his blazer.  Oliver grinned against our lips, moving his hands away for his blue blazer stained in blood and grime was now on the ground. 

"What are we doin'?" He asked against your lips as you kissed his hotly and smiled. 

"What we should have been doing for some time," You murmured back as his arms were around you again.  

"Aye, we should have done this a long time ago," He confessed as he pulled away again to look down at you again. You saw how plump his lips were, his dilated his brown eyes looked, and even the flush on his skin and cheeks.  This was a unique look on Oliver, who always seemed to have his cool and calm demeanor even the most stressful of times.  But now he looked undone, stripped open and bare, and it was all from kissing you.

"I think this is crazy," you admitted with a soft smile, though the smile on Oliver's face never left as he shook his head.  

"We just survived a war at the hands of Voldemort, and you think snoggin' in the prefect's bathroom is crazy?" He asked you in a breath, you staring deep into his eyes and seeing him reach into his back pocket where his wand was snug in.  With a twist of his wrist, you heard the door snapping shut and locking automatically.

"What's crazy, is that I never said a word about how I felt about you all those years we were friends," He explained with a gulp, his eyes never leaving yours as he went on, "I was afraid to say anythin', but not anymore.  I wanna be with ya, only ya, and after what we went through last night, I'm not lettin' ya go,"

You would have melted to the floor from hearing those words from Oliver, and you knew then and there you would never be able to let him go either.

Reaching down to retrieve your wand that was on the floor with your blazer, not losing your gaze on Oliver who was still giving you an alluring gaze, you licked your lips and gripped your wand tightly.  Finally, you turned around and aimed at the door.  With a flick of the wrist, magic shot out of your wand and landed against the door and the wall, giving a shimmering light.

“What did ya do?” Oliver asked in a tentative tone, thought you grinned and looked back at him with a soft grin.

“Imperturbable Charm” You answered, seeing him  grin widely as you dropped your wand onto your jacket that was on the floor.

“Bloody Hell,”

To Be Continued....

Tagged - @a-lumos-in-the-nox

[radiantdanvers]

Falling In love with Oliver Benjamin Wood

[rainydayathogwarts]

Hi there! I absolutely love the short write-up you did for Oliver Wood. <3

Would it be possible to request a short fic of Oliver Wood x Reader (other House) reuniting during the Battle of Hogwarts when they went back to fight, after having previously dated for a short time while they were schooling but broke up probably due to differences in priorities? Like they haven’t seen each other much since the break up and then graduating but seeing each other again made them want to give it another try. Thank you!!

So sorry I'm getting to this late, hope you like it!

Oliver Wood was a Hogwarts prodigy. Everyone knew his name alongside James Potter and Charlie Weasley's; they were the Quidditch Gods of the magical school. The names Regulus Black, Lily Evans and Y/N L/N were also quite famous, but for different reasons. The geniuses, students who soon after their time at Hogwarts became published witches and wizards for their incredible discoveries and talent.

That was one of the main reasons your relationship with Oliver Wood was so short-lived. You both had extreme talents, but they led you in opposite directions, only tugging you both further and further away from each other. Whilst you worked on magical discoveries that went beyond your education at Hogwarts, becoming known as one of the greatest witches of your time, Oliver worked relentlessly to fuel his passion for his sport which would build his career, his future. It only made the few months you spent together during your last year at Hogwarts unpleasant, the love you held for each other being over-powered by ambition, which led to the inevitable break up that shook all your friends, for they thought you would remain together forever, carrying out the legacy of being the one couple that would make it past their Hogwarts days.

Alas, that did not happen.

Instead, your magical discoveries were written and taught in the few years you had developed them and were the main source of protection for all the students who had decided not to fight the war, seeking shelter in the dungeons of the castle. Finally, what feels like days later, you're muttering the counter active spell, the hand holding your wand shaking with the trauma of the war you had just endured. When the protective force field finally breaks apart, you whisper the password to the Slytherin Common room. The portrait swings open and immediately the room falls silent. You announce that Voldemort's dead and spin around, heading into the direction you had just come from. You didn't want the reactions; The good, the bad or the dirty.

You wipe some blood from the side of your face, only to notice that the fabric of your long sleeved top doesn't soak up the liquid fast enough, and that you're bleeding quite heavily. Despite trying to stay calm, you begin to pant, tears blurring your vision, but you don't let them spill, not when you're so close to the Great Hall, where someone will have time to clean you up. Unfortunately, the way you immediately collapse onto a bench alerts more than just one person, and you suddenly have what feels like an audience crowding you. "Hey, hey, give her some space." The voice is familiar to you, but you just can't put your finger on who it is. "Y/N? Can you tell me your date of birth?"

The hand holding your face is gentle, and you can barely feel the tingle of the healing spell against the side of your face, which you take as a good sign. "You know my name." You recognise, slowly blinking. "Hey Y/N try keeping your eyes open for me, okay? Get me someone with skills here!" The demand goes to someone else, but it seems that those are the only words you're able to process. "So I take it I don't look so good?" Your words come out slurred and you feel your body slumping against something, or rather someone.

Oliver has resorted to being your own personal pillow. He didn't want you to look like one of the dead bodies, laying down still on the benches of the Great Hall, which has now become both a morgue and an infirmary. The spell he did on your wound worked, but he had one of the 7th Years going into healing fix you up and get some more blood into you to make up for what you lost. He felt your body sway against his and was immediately alert, even as you gathered balance to sit up on your own. He gave you time to process your surroundings, looking down at his feet instead. It was only when you cried "Oliver!" That he averted his gaze back to you.

"Y/N" He smiled, relieved that there was some colour in your face. You seemed confused yet surprised, putting together what had happened. "I haven't seen you in... A long time. How- are you hurt?" He laughed at your maternal instincts kicking in and shook his head at you. "No, Y/N, you got hurt. You were bleeding from your head and I just barely fixed you up." A look of realisation dawned on your face. "That was you? I... Well I feel bad now."

Oliver shook his head again, an awkward silence settling over the conversation. It was you to break the silence, stating "Well, I hear you're doing well now. I watched one of your games recently, you played nice." Oliver's eyes widened and he grinned, cocking his head to the side. "I can say the same about you, Ms. Published three books. And since when did you get into Quidditch?" It was your turn to act surprised now, retorting with "I've always liked Quidditch, I just didn't used to be into it. And you know, I wanted to see what was so special about Mr. Wood's Keeper skills here." Your eyes scanned the Hall around you, and the smile on your face slowly drops. As Oliver followed your eye-line, his did too.

"You didn't? You know, lose anyone important, did you?" You ask, now sounding a lot more empathetic. "Well I almost lost you for a second there." You glance over at Oliver and smile genuinely, matching the softness in his eyes. "Let me get you home safely. Everyone's already left." You nod at his words, using his arm as a support system for you to stand. You feel his muscles contract underneath you and look back up at him.

Despite the dirt and blood that freckles his face, he looks peaceful. He looks like someone you could find peace in.

[a-araiguma-a]

Between the serving and Her smile

Chapter 4. Wild Mischief

Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Oliver Wood x fem!reader, Charlie Weasley x f!reader, <?> Warning: fluff, mutual pining, friends-to-lovers drama, first love, jealous

Summary: He was the captain and keeper of the Gryffindor team, and his quest to win the Quidditch Cup became an obsessive goal. All his thoughts revolved around tactics, training and strategies, but sometimes his own heart reminded him of another, equally important side of life. He believed that love and Quidditch could coexist in his life. He swore to himself that he would do everything possible to preserve these two treasures, even if it required the impossible from him.

Start - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

The new school year began with an exciting blend of sorting new students, fresh starts, and returning to cozy common rooms. Everyone was immersed in the world of books and disciplines, but as always, Hogwarts remained a place full of surprises. This year, the main source of these surprises was more apparent than ever.

The culprits? Two red-haired boys who had just started their studies within the castle walls. The Weasley twins—Fred and George—born on April 1st, seemed destined to spread chaos and laughter wherever they went. It was as if they radiated an energy that made everyone around them laugh while holding their breath in anticipation of the next prank.

From the very first day, they were fully ready for mischief and provocation, effortlessly turning the mundane days into a series of entertaining (for some, at least) adventures, with something new and unusual each time. With astonishing skill, they pranked students, and even the teachers couldn’t escape their antics. No matter how many times they were punished or how many letters their mother received about their escapades, nothing could stop them from creating magical mayhem.

The one person who suffered from their tricks more than anyone else in the school was the caretaker, Filch, who was always ready to punish rule-breakers and quickly became their main enemy. Their unofficial war with him and his cat kept the old caretaker running around the castle in search of the culprits behind the latest prank. And from somewhere in the distance, you could hear Filch’s curses as he stumbled upon yet another of their tricks, whether it was a vanishing pie in the Great Hall or an enchanted staircase that suddenly changed direction.

“Blasted Weasleys!” he would always mutter, holding his ancient lantern as he made his rounds.

Yet, despite their antics, the twins were surprisingly well-liked. To the astonishment of some, their academic performance impressed even the strictest of teachers. Despite their mischievous nature, they excelled in their studies—perhaps it was a family trait, a well-developed intellect.

And what was even stranger, at some point, they seemed to be able to appear and disappear out of nowhere. Mr. Filch could no longer catch them as easily, and for Margaret, as well as many other students, it felt as though they were surrounded by ghosts—not the four house ghosts, but more like the twins, who would suddenly appear beside you, say something unexpected, and then vanish just as quickly, leaving behind only laughter and something that might explode into something unexpected.

“How do they do it?” Emma wondered, after the twins played yet another prank, leaving behind only the scent of floral candies that suddenly exploded in the Great Hall.

“It’s the Weasleys,” sighed Margaret, hiding behind Charlie’s back. “They’re unpredictable.”

Being the older brother of the twins was no easy task either. For Charlie, he could sometimes rein them in, but it never lasted long—mentioning Percy was better left alone.

“Fred, George, stop it already!” Charlie would shout in exasperation whenever he saw them launching enchanted stink bombs down the corridor, sending students running in all directions. “You don’t want someone spending a week in the hospital wing, do you?”

“Us?” the twins would ask with innocent expressions, raising their eyebrows simultaneously. “We just want to bring a little fun into the dull school life.”

Despite their jokes, the twins never put anyone in real danger or did anything that could cause serious harm. Did they have some kind of principles?

However, Margaret often found herself the target of their pranks, but much to their dismay, she managed to avoid most of their traps. Whether it was her insight, or just caution, she somehow always managed to evade their tricks, denying the twins the satisfaction of their mischief. And although they never tired of coming up with new pranks, their clever traps never went unnoticed by her.

“Margaret, wait a second!” a voice called out behind her as she hurried to class once more. “How about a pie?”

Fred and George stood in the corridor, holding a plate of appetizing pies. Their faces beamed with innocent smiles, but Margaret already knew that danger lurked behind those pies.

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry,” she politely declined, continuing on her way to the classroom.

“Pity, pity,” George said with mock disappointment. “We worked so hard!”

“Maybe next time,” Margaret winked, knowing the twins would surely come up with something new.

And while she could avoid the pranks they set up, those that involved magic were beyond her control—flying books, disappearing writing supplies, or missing desserts.

“You did well,” Charlie praised her one evening in the common room. “Not everyone can handle those two.”

“I think they just respect me,” Margaret laughed. “Or they’re afraid I’ll get back at them.”

Listening to her musings, Charlie smiled. Their conversations became a pleasant end to the day, despite the evening games and jokes echoing around them. In their little corner, an atmosphere of coziness and peace was created, the fire in the fireplace crackling and casting a warm, gentle light on the walls and furniture, lulling the mind to sleep.

“Respect is a good explanation,” Charlie replied, still smiling. “Though I’d say your attention to detail helps too. The twins are used to their traps always working. Then you come along, and their plans keep going awry.”

Margaret shrugged, a little embarrassed by his praise.

“I just try not to fall for them. Sometimes I think they enjoy the process of planning mischief more than the outcome. For them, it’s a game, and I just don’t give them a chance to win.”

Charlie laughed, imagining Fred and George, known for their inventive pranks, sitting in some hidden corner discussing how to outsmart Margaret.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said when the laughter subsided. “But even so, you keep them on their toes. They respect those who can resist their charms—if you can call it that.”

“Maybe,” Margaret agreed, thoughtfully gazing at the fire in the fireplace. “In any case, I enjoy our game. It keeps me on my toes, and I have to admit, it adds a bit of fun to my daily routine. With them, every day is new and unique.”

Though she enjoyed outwitting them and sometimes responding in kind, deep down, she felt a respect for their ingenuity and friendly nature. Every day in their company was filled with joy and laughter, but it also served as a reminder of how the magical world was full of dangers and challenges—a good training ground and foundation for the future. And one day, she would be very grateful to them, but for now, she just wanted to escape their tricks.

“Exactly right,” Charlie concluded, getting up from his chair and heading towards the dormitory stairs—the fireplace had won their little battle. “Just don’t give up and keep going strong.”

The twins, overhearing their conversation, just smirked. They had no intention of giving up either and would continue their pranks on Margaret simply because she had become a special challenge for them. When she successfully avoided their tricks, it only fueled their imagination and inspired even more elaborate ideas.

And so, the days continued: full of fun, unpredictability, and the constant anticipation of the next prank from the Weasley twins. And even the moments when they managed to catch Margaret in their traps brought laughter and joy (at least for some).

But it wasn't just Fred and George who brought joy—one of the most eagerly anticipated events of the third year was the first trip to Hogsmeade, which was met with great excitement. For all the students, Hogsmeade was a kind of magical place where they could experience all the wonders of the wizarding world beyond the school and away from their parents.

The trip was available with a guardian’s written permission, and the students had been getting it in advance, knowing that this day would become one of the most memorable in their school lives. The first visit was supervised by professors who showed the way and explained where the various shops and establishments were located. Everyone was full of enthusiasm, especially Margaret and her friends Emma and Sophie. From the early morning, they gathered and discussed what they wanted to see together and which shops they planned to visit. The plan was simple: explore the village, try something new, and maybe buy a few magical trinkets.

“I’ve been waiting for this day for so long!” Sophie exclaimed, turning to her friends as they made their way to the village.

“We should also stop by Zonko’s,” Emma added, trying to avoid getting her boots dirty. “I’ve heard they have the latest magical jokes we can try out.”

“I wouldn’t mind visiting Honeydukes,” Margaret said with a smile. “They say you can find the rarest sweets there.”

But their plans took an unexpected turn when Charlie Weasley approached their group.

“Hi, girls!” he called out, catching their attention. “Margaret, what do you think about letting me show you around Hogsmeade? I’ve been there often and know all the best spots.”

Emma and Sophie exchanged knowing, mischievous smiles.

“Oh, of course!” Emma exclaimed as if it were the most obvious decision. “We were just about to… umm… check out ‘Tomes and Scrolls’ Percy, would you like to join us?”

Percy, who was standing nearby, looked slightly flustered but couldn’t find the strength to refuse under the pressure of the two energetic girls.

“Well… alright,” he agreed, realizing he had no other choice.

Emma and Sophie quickly grabbed Percy by the arms and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Margaret alone with Charlie. Margaret had no choice but to accept Charlie’s offer.

“Well then,” Margaret said with a slight smile, “it looks like you’re my guide for the day.”

Charlie laughed and nodded, inviting her to follow him. Hogsmeade greeted them with a welcoming atmosphere: narrow cobblestone streets, magical shops with windows filled with strange and wonderful things, and the smells wafting from cafes and sweet shops creating a festive mood.

“The first thing we should do,” Charlie said, pointing down one of the streets, “is stop by The Three Broomsticks. They serve the best butterbeer. I can’t imagine visiting Hogsmeade without trying it.”

Margaret agreed, and soon they found themselves in the cozy pub, where the air was filled with the sweet aroma of butterbeer. After ordering two mugs, they sat at one of the free tables by the window, watching the people passing by.

“What’s your first impression of Hogsmeade?” Charlie asked, taking a sip of his butterbeer.

“It’s incredible,” Margaret admitted, gazing at the shop windows outside. “I’ve dreamed of this first visit for so long, and now that I’m finally here, it’s even better than I imagined.”

“Oh, you still have much more to discover in this place. Believe me, it has its own secrets too.”

After finishing their butterbeer, they continued their walk. They stopped by Zonko’s, where Charlie showed her a few magical pranks that, as he promised, were real hits among the students.

“If you want to scare someone,” he said, showing her a set of fake spells, “these will definitely do the trick.”

Margaret smiled, though she knew such things were more suited to Fred and George. They then visited Tomes and Scrolls, where Margaret browsed through ancient books and scrolls with interest, though she didn’t see her friends—perhaps they had already finished their shopping and moved on to another place.

As they continued their mini-adventure, Margaret noticed something strange. Every now and then, it felt like someone was watching them. She caught glimpses of familiar faces quickly disappearing into the crowd but didn’t pay much attention to it—many of her acquaintances and friends were in Hogsmeade today; it could have been anyone.

At one point, she thought she saw Emma, Sophie, and a somewhat disgruntled Percy nearby. After some time, she saw them again somewhere close, as if they were following her.

“Are you looking for something?” Charlie asked, noticing Margaret glancing around once again.

“No, it’s just that I thought…” Margaret began, but at that moment, she spotted Emma and Sophie peeking around a corner.

“Ah,” Charlie chuckled, “it seems some people couldn’t resist being curious.”

Margaret quietly laughed, realizing that her friends had decided to keep an eye on her outing with Charlie. The funniest part was that they were trying to remain unnoticed but were rather clumsy about it.

“I just hope they don’t try to pull anything unexpected,” she said with a smile.

“Don’t worry,” Charlie replied. “I’ll rein them in if they try anything.”

But even with the curious onlookers, they continued to enjoy their walk. Charlie showed her what he considered the best shops, sharing stories connected to each corner of Hogsmeade, and time flew by unnoticed. At the end of the day, they decided to stop by Honeydukes, where Margaret couldn’t resist buying a few interesting sweets she’d only heard of before.

“Thanks for the tour,” she said as they were heading back to Hogwarts. “I’m really glad we spent the day together.”

“Anytime,” Charlie smiled. “You can always count on me.”

As they returned to the castle, they met Emma, Sophie, and a content Percy in the hall, who pretended they had spent the whole day peacefully browsing through Tomes and Scrolls and grabbing a bite at The Three Broomsticks.

“So, how was your walk?” Sophie asked slyly as Margaret approached them.

“Wonderful,” Margaret replied, exchanging a glance with Charlie, which was full of hidden amusement. “How about yours?”

“Very educational,” Emma answered innocently, though her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

Percy, finally holding his book, looked satisfied and relaxed, even though he had spent the day in the company of two chatty girls. Under the threat of reprisal, he promised to keep quiet.

“Next time, let’s go together,” Margaret suggested, already imagining how much more there was to explore in Hogsmeade with close friends.

“Great, and hopefully, next time we won’t be interrupted,” Emma whispered the last part, but everyone got the hint.

When the girls returned to the dormitory, they all felt a light fatigue and satisfaction from the day well spent. But as soon as Margaret reached her bed, Emma and Sophie pounced on her, full of curiosity and unable to wait to hear all the details about how Margaret and Charlie spent their time together—as if they hadn't been following them and already knew everything.

“Come on, spill it! How did it go?” Sophie began excitedly, grabbing Margaret’s hand and pulling her onto the bed.

“How was Charlie as a tour guide?” added Emma, sitting down beside her and staring intently at her friend.

Margaret sighed, realizing that she wouldn't escape this interrogation until they got all the details.

“It went great,” she began, trying not to make too much of their excitement. “We just walked around Hogsmeade, visited some shops, Charlie shared some funny stories… In short, it was just a friendly outing.”

Emma and Sophie exchanged meaningful looks, their faces showing clear disagreement.

“A friendly outing?” Sophie repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yes, exactly that,” Margaret nodded, trying to ignore their doubts.

“A friendly outing is something we would do—or at most, us with Percy,” Emma chimed in with a smirk. “But when a guy, especially someone like Charlie, invites you to walk around Hogsmeade, it's definitely not just friendship.”

“You’re overthinking it; he was just being polite,” Margaret tried to argue, feeling a bit flustered. “We’ve known each other for a long time, and Charlie simply decided to show me the village.”

“Oh, come on, Margaret,” Sophie wasn’t about to give up so easily. “Can’t you see that he likes you?”

“Likes me?” Margaret blushed slightly at the suggestion. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sophie. It’s just friendship, nothing more.”

Emma crossed her arms and looked at her with clear skepticism.

“Do you really think he’d invite you somewhere just for fun? Doesn’t he have anything better to do?” she asked seriously.

Her friends’ words made her reflect on the idea that someone, especially Charlie, might see her as more than just a friend. As children, people don’t really think about these things: they befriend those they like and avoid those they don’t. But her friends spoke with such certainty that Charlie was in love with her, even though she saw him simply as an older friend with whom she could always talk about anything. He had helped and supported her—weren’t those the foundations of friendship? There hadn’t been any ambiguous words or actions from him, but now their words left her feeling slightly embarrassed and unsure. She had often been labeled a “neglected child,” which had led to societal rejection. Even as she grew older, those thoughts occasionally resurfaced, making her doubt herself and how others saw her. How could she possibly attract the attention of someone like Charlie?

“You’re just exaggerating,” she replied quietly, trying to conceal her growing doubts. “He couldn’t have invited me with those intentions. I think… we’ve always been friends.”

Sophie moved closer and sat beside her, gently taking her hand. She understood Margaret’s insecurity but knew something needed to be done.

“Margaret, you need to see yourself for who you really are,” she said softly. “You’re not just beautiful; you’re also smart, kind, and a strong witch. And that’s not just friendly talk—it’s the truth. We all see it, and maybe Charlie does too.”

Emma nodded in agreement with Sophie.

Those words touched Margaret, but at the same time, they brought back old insecurities—the doubts she had carried with her for many years. Margaret knew that her friends couldn’t be wrong; they had always been honest with her and had always supported her.

“Thank you, girls,” she finally whispered, hugging them both. “Maybe you’re right,” she said at last, looking up at them. “But I need time to figure it out… But I’m grateful for your words.”

“We’ll always be here to remind you of who you truly are,” Sophie said quietly, squeezing her hand.

“Yes,” Emma added with a smile. “And if you ever need someone to talk to about Charlie… well, you know we’re here.”

Margaret laughed, feeling some of the weight lift from her heart, though not the intrusive thoughts. That night, she had much to ponder about the day. Her friends saw more in her than she saw in herself, and that gave her mixed feelings. Old fears and doubts resurfaced, but now there was something new—an understanding that she was important to those around her, that they saw her as someone she could be if only she believed in herself.

But most of all, her thoughts revolved around Charlie. Although she had considered their relationship purely friendly, now their interactions took on new meaning—or maybe it was all just imagined, and the girls had misunderstood. What if he truly felt more than just friendship? How had she not noticed it before? She didn’t want to ruin the delicate thread of friendship that connected them, but she also needed to figure things out. Questions swirled in her mind, and the answers seemed distant, hidden in the fog of her thoughts.

After a restless night, Margaret looked exhausted and worn out the next day, with dark circles under her eyes speaking for themselves. She hadn’t found the answers she sought and now didn’t know how to face Charlie.

In the end, the only solution she could think of was to avoid Charlie for a while, to gather her thoughts and sort out her feelings. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest decision, but it gave her the necessary respite.

After that, Charlie only saw Margaret in passing and from a distance—she was like a shadow slipping through the castle, always a step ahead or slightly off to the side. He spotted her in the corridor, hurrying to classes or heading to the library. It didn’t seem to him that she was avoiding him, more that their paths simply didn’t cross as often as they used to. Their evening chats by the fireplace also began to dwindle—Charlie often found her spot empty when he returned to the common room. He attributed her absence to busyness—homework, preparation for exams, or simple fatigue, as he himself was absorbed in numerous tasks. Quidditch practice was more intense, demanding not only physical strength but also mental endurance. As captain, he couldn’t afford to slack off. His duties as a prefect also required his attention, and sometimes he felt like he couldn’t keep up with the pace of life. Perhaps they both needed a little rest and solitude.

However, despite this, he couldn’t help but notice that their communication had changed. Where they once could talk for hours about everything from Quidditch to old family stories, now their conversations were reduced to greetings and occasional discussions about schoolwork. His heart ached with the strange feeling that something had gone wrong, but he didn’t know how to fix it or what exactly needed to be done. He tried not to give in to the growing anxiety within him, convincing himself that things would return to normal and that this was just a temporary phase.

One evening, when he saw her about to leave the common room again, Charlie finally decided to talk.

“Margaret!” he called out, walking closer. “Hi. We haven’t talked much lately; I don’t even know how you’re doing. Is everything okay?”

Margaret froze in place, trying to quickly come up with an answer. She hadn’t expected him to catch her now, and all the excuses she could have used seemed unconvincing.

“Hi, Charlie,” she replied, trying to keep her voice calm. “Yes, everything’s fine. It’s just that there’s a lot to do—homework and all that. So much to do and not enough time.”

Charlie looked at her closely, noticing the exhaustion and worry in her eyes. He wasn’t sure, but something about her behavior troubled him.

“I get it; we all have a lot on our plates,” he said more gently. “But, you know, I miss our evenings by the fireplace.”

“So do I, Charlie, really. I hope things settle down soon, and we can get back to our evenings,” Margaret said sincerely. She truly wanted to return to those days before her friends had planted these thoughts in her mind, but she couldn’t.

In the meantime, the days passed, and Margaret felt a pang of guilt each time she avoided him, but she couldn’t bring herself to talk to him like she used to. However, with each passing day, the time she gave herself felt increasingly burdensome. She knew that eventually, she would have to talk to Charlie, figure out what was happening, and possibly try to find a solution. But how?

Charlie, unaware of the depth of her inner turmoil, continued with his daily routine. But the longer their distance grew, the more he felt the emptiness her absence left behind.