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braveclementine · 7 months ago

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Chapter 13

Warnings: None. However, future chapters will contain sexual content so readers that are under the age of 18 may have to skip those chapters (However they are very few so those under the age of 18 can still read a majority of this book. However please keep note of the warnings).

Copyright: I do not own any Wizarding World characters that J.K. Rowling wrote. I do however own Elizabeth Kane (main character) and Trang Nyguen (best friend). There should be no use of these two names without my permission. I also do not condone any copying of this.

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"𝕸𝖆𝖞 𝕴 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 your attention." Snape said coolly at the end of a potions lesson. He looked extremely bitter. I assumed that whatever it was, he didn't actually want to tell us. All the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws stared at him expectantly.

His mouth was set in a grimace. "It is my unfortunate duty to educate you on an event that is happening on Christmas. The Yule Ball." Some of the girls giggled and he glared in their direction. "The Yule Ball is a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament- unfortunately- and will be open to fourth years and above. However, you may invite a younger student if that suits you."

The girls, despite his glares, giggled again. I grinned, my cheeks red. "Dress Robes are to be worn and the ball will start at eight o'clock and end at midnight in the Great Hall. Now get out."

The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws sprang up and dashed for the door, the girls are congregating in the hallways to laugh and talk about whatever they were talking about. I rolled my eyes and got up much slower, stuffing my textbook in my bag.

"Who are you going with?" Snape asked from behind his desk, not looking at me, "I'm sure you've foreseen it."

I paused, "No, I haven't actually. It's not Fred- He's going with Angelina Johnson. Ced's going with Cho. Harry's going with Parvati, Ron's going with Padma, and Viktor Krum is going with Hermione. So that doesn't leave much for me. I'm thinking about not going."

Professor Snape scoffed, throwing a stack of parchment in the trash. "Yes because I'm sure only five boys like you in the entire school."

"I'm just saying I don't foresee me going with anyone." I paused and then in a teasing voice I asked, "Who are you going with? Professor McGonagall?"

"Funny." he said, sitting down behind the desk. "Get out."

"Yes sir." I said sweetly, and smiling, left the room.

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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖊 seemed filled more with girls than with boys by the time Christmas break started. I wondered if the boys had all escaped, or if it just seemed like there were more girls because I was hoping a guy would ask me.

Against my visions, Fred and Cedric asked me first and I told them who I'd foreseen them going with without even saying yes or no. They accepted my visions however and they both decided they would go with Angelina and Cho, respectively.

I was anxious again. Another mark against my visions. I was also sad, wishing that I had accepted one of their offers, despite my visions.

Hannah Abbott was going with Ernie Macmillan of course. They'd been dating for a couple of weeks. Susan was going with Zacharias. Seamus was going with Lavender. I wondered briefly who Dean was going with- or if he was going at all.

Harry and Ron approached me as the weeks continued. Harry still hadn't asked Cho and Ron hadn't asked anyone yet either.

"Look." I said, running my hand through my hair. "Here's the thing. Harry, you're going to ask Cho. Ron your going to ask Fleur Delacour. I'll meet you back at the Gryffindor common room tonight."

And so, later tonight, I waited a the portrait when Ron came tearing up the stairs, Ginny coming after him. "Why'd you make me ask her?" Ron asked, ashen face. I stared back, unamused.

"Fairy lights." Ginny said and I followed them in. Ron made his way to a far corner. Ginny was trying not to smile.

A moment later, Harry came up, looking equally depressed.

"What's up Ron?" Harry asked, not looking at me as he joined us.

"Why did I do it? I don't know what made me do it!" He said wildly, throwing me a glare.

"What?" Harry asked.

"He-er- just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the ball with him." Ginny said, still fighting her smile, patting Ron's arm sympathetically.

"Oh." Harry asked, briefly looking at my stony face.

"I don't know what made me do it! I mean, I knew I was going to but still! There were people- all around- I've gone mad- everyone watching! I was just walking past her in the entrance hall- she was standing there talking to Diggory- and it sort of came over me- and I asked her."

"Well, he sort've yelled it at her." Ginny said, her smile fighting to the surface of her face.

Ron put his face in his hands, groaning and said, almost incoherently, "She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. Didn't even answer. And then- I dunno- I just sort of came to my senses and ran for it."

"She's part veela. You were right- her grandmother was one. It wasn't your fault, I bet you just walked past when she was turning on the old charm for Diggory and got a blast of it- but she was wasting her time. He's going with Cho Chang. I asked her to go with me just now, and she told me." Harry finished dully.

Ginny stopped smiling.

Ron glared at me. "This is mad, We're the only ones left who haven't got anyone- well except Neville. Hey- guess who he asked? Hermione!"

"What?" Harry asked, distracted and I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, I know! He told me after Potions! Said she's always been really nice, helping him out with work and stuff- but she told him she was already going with someone. Ha! As if! She just didn't want to go with Neville. . . I mean, who would?"

"Shut up!" I snapped so sharply they stopped laughing. "Ginny's going with Neville."

Hermione came through the portrait at that moment. "Why weren't you two at dinner?" she asked, joining us.

"Because they've both just been turned down by girls they asked to the ball!" Ginny said angrily.

"Thanks a bunch Ginny." Ron said sourly.

"All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?" Hermione said loftily. "Eloise Migden, starting to look quite pretty now, is she? Well, I'm sure you'll find someone somewhere who'll have you."

I laughed.

"Hermione, Neville's right- you are a girl." Ron said, staring at her suddenly.

I stopped laughing.

"Oh well spotted."

"Well- you can come with one of us!"

"No, I can't." She snapped.

"Oh come on, we need partners, we're going to look really stupid if we haven't got any, everyone else has." Ron said impatiently but Hermione interrupted him.

"I can't come with you, because I'm already going with someone." Hermione said, blushing.

"No, you're not! You just said that to get rid of Neville!" Ron said.

"Oh did I?" Hermione asked, her eyes narrowing and flashing and she had a hard edge in her voice, "Just because it's taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn't mean no one else has spotted I'm a girl!" She stormed off toward the girls' dormitories.

"She's lying." Ron said flatly.

"No she's not." I said angrily.

"Who is it then?" Ron asked sharply.

"I'm not telling you, it's her business."

"Ginny you can go with Harry-" Ron started and I growled, rolling my eyes.

"I can't." Ginny said, blushing too. "Didn't you hear Eliza? I'm going with Neville. He asked me after Hermione turned him down and it wasn't like I could go anyways since I'm not a fourth year. I think I'll go have dinner." she said abruptly, getting up and leaving.

"What's got into them?" Ron asked.

"Hermione wanted you to ask her but someone asked her first and she said yes." I said flatly. "Ginny wanted Harry to ask her but he's got his eye on Cho and Ginny's got enough dignity not to ask."

"What about you?" Ron asked. "Who are you going with? I heard you turned down Fred and Cedric."

"Yeah, I did." I said sharply. "Because I saw Fred going with Angelina and saw Cedric going with Cho. I don't interfere with the future."

"Then who are we going with? And why did you tell us who we were going to ask if we weren't going with them?" Harry asked.

"Because it's important that Cho knows you like her, despite the fact she won't be going with you. And Ron was going to do it whether I told you or not. And you, Harry are going to go over there and ask Parvati right now. Ron, you are technically going to go with Padma, but considering you'll be in such a terrible mood at the ball and won't even dance with her, it'd probably be better you don't go with anyone. If you are going to ask them though." I said, glaring at them angrily. "IF, you do ask them, you'd better dance with them, do you understand me? Girls hate not dancing."

Harry and Ron looked at each other and both of them nodded. "Here comes Parvati." I muttered. Parvati and Lavender had just entered the common room. Harry got up and went over and said, "Parvati? Will you go to the ball with me?"

Parvati giggled, blushing under her dark skin and then said, "Yes, all right, then." She said.

"Thanks." Harry said in relief. "Ron wants to know if Padma will go with him."

"I'll ask her." Parvati said, smiling.

"Thanks, that would be great." Harry said and came back to where we were sitting.

"Elizabeth are you going with someone?" Harry asked.

I shook my head, a bit downcast. "I haven't been asked by anyone that I haven't seen the future about."

"I'm sorry." Harry said.

I realized that I sounded extremely upset and I jumped to my feet. "No! Sorry, I'm fine, don't worry. I'm going to go eat."

I walked out of the Gryffindor common room. I went down to the Great Hall and grabbed something to eat and walked out to the forest. It was still light out and I found Firenze easily.

"Elizabeth Kane." He greeted me.

"Hi Firenze." I said, sitting down nearby.

I was quiet and he asked what was wrong.

"Well. . . nothing really." I said. "I just don't like being able to see the future much right now."

Firenze laughed, "Can't see who your going to the ball with?"

I blinked. "How'd you know?"

"Girls are usually very interested in balls and such. So judging by your down face, I assumed it had something to do with that." Firenze said, continuing to sharpen his arrows.

"It's just. . ." I hesitated. "It's stupid to complain about not having a date, you know? There are worse things than not having a date. And it's not like I wasn't asked. . . it's just that those who asked I'd already seen going with other people. . . you know I hate interfering with the future."

Firenze nodded, "I understand that and you are right that there are worse things. But I think someone as young as you shouldn't be worried about worse things. But perhaps that's a biased answer considering how much I like you."

He held my gaze for a second before tossing another arrow onto his pile of fixed arrows. I got closer, interested in the process.

"Can you teach me how to make arrows?" I asked, changing the subject.

He showed me that using fire could help bend arrows- and bows- into the shape that you wanted. Plants could be stripped and plant insides could be used as bow string. There were flat rocks that had to be chiseled and sharpened to turn into arrow points and more twine and feathers and leaves to attach the heads to the sticks and decorations for the bottom of the arrows.

I practiced with some of the wood he had laying around. I could make decent arrows but I couldn't make a good bow. I was very frustrated by this fact and it showed on my face.

"Your being to gentle with the wood." Firenze said, "here." He placed his large hands over mine and pulled on the wood harder. "See?"

I tried concentrating on what I was doing, but I was more distracted by his hands. They were so warm, big, and comforting. I blinked, trying not to think about them.

There was a better bow shape than I had done. "But if I pull to hard it'll snap in half." I said.

"No, that's what the fires for." Firenze said. "It's gentle, fast, and hard all at the same time, see?" And then, for some reason, his face turned red and he took his hands off mine and busied himself with the rest of his arrows.

I looked at him curiously. "What? I don't understand." I had never seen Firenze flustered before.

"It's nothing, Elizabeth." He said, his face still red. "I'm just saying that while you have to be careful with the wood, you have to pull hard to make the shape."

"Oh." I said, but that hadn't been what I'd meant at all. I was trying to figure out why his face was all red. I'd never seen Firenze embarrassed before. But I let the conversation drop.

"Who would you like to go to the ball with?" Firenze asked suddenly, tucking his back legs out to the side in a more comfortable position.

"Well. . ." I hesitated, holding another arrow in my hand. "I would've liked to go with Fred or Cedric but it wasn't possible of course. . . and anyone else I could've asked is much older- like graduated from school old- so they can't come obviously. . . I don't know if I'll even go."

Firenze was quiet, carving the stone into a triangle point. We talked about different topics for the rest of the time until it got dark, and then I headed back up to the castle. I wondered how Sirius and Dad were. I wondered how Trang was. I ought to write to them all tonight.

I did just that, going straight up to the dorm and pulling our parchment and ink.

Dear Sirius, Yule Balls coming up... yay. I guess. Anyways, I just wanted to make sure you got the chicken. I don't want you to be feeding on only rats! I'll send more food when I get a chance. Miss you a lot, Write soon Love, Elizabeth

Dear Dad, Perhaps I should've come home for Christmas- don't know why in the world I wanted to stay. I just realized only now that I don't dance. I suppose I should've thought ahead better. Wish you could come up here for Christmas since I messed up. I miss you a lot. I can't wait for summer to see you again. I love you. Write soon, okay? Love, Elizabeth

P.S. Did you ever send a letter to Uncle Moody about classes? He said on our first day that he got a letter from you describing what the class had been over. I just figured you'd told him when he came to our house. Perhaps you sent a follow up letter?

Dear Trang, There's a ball going on at school this year! I know you talked about a 'homecoming' back in September. I suppose this dance is something like that. It's called the Yule Ball. I don't have a date but I might go anyways. I only said no to Fred because I foresaw him going with Angelina. I think if I didn't have visions I would've said yes. But maybe there's a reason I don't go with him- right? Anyways, wanted to get your opinion on Magical candies. I'm going to send you a lot of different things for Christmas. It'll probably get there after Christmas though. Depends on how fast Sadie can get to America. (owls don't fly over oceans well of course). Write soon okay? I want to hear all about your crazy American friends. How's Carter? Have you found anywhere secluded to fly? Did you go to that homecoming dance? Love, Elizabeth

I stuffed each letter in an envelope, scrawling their names on the outside, and put them aside so that I could send them off tomorrow. Three days until the ball. I took a deep breath. I thought about what Professor McGonagall said a long time ago. She was right. My self-worth wasn't my visions. My self-worth wasn't if I had a date at the ball. I'd been asked and I'd turned them down.

Feeling much better, I laid down and went to sleep.

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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖓𝖊𝖝𝖙 𝖉𝖆𝖞, I rose and hurried up to the owlery. I'd need three owls. Sadie had come back from Sirius, a small note attached to her mouth. "I have a letter I need you to take to Trang." I said. "I know they aren't your favorite trips and I know it's a long wait so get some sleep, okay? I'll leave the letter with you and you can take it when your ready." She hooted softly. I tied the small letter to her leg, making sure all the flaps were down. She went up to the straw and slept.

I took Hedwig down so that she could deliver a letter to Dad and then I borrowed a school owl for Sirius. I'd attached parchment to Sirius letter so that he wouldn't have to scrounge around for parchment.

I sent them off and then was going to leave the Owlery when Dean Thomas came in. We bumped into each other and both clutched our foreheads in pain.

"Hi Dean." I said. I noticed he had no letter in his hand. What was he doing up here?

"Will you go to the ball with me?" He asked breathlessly in greeting.

I stared in surprise. "Oh."

"I mean, I wasn't going to go with anyone and I know you weren't going to foresee me going with anyone so I wanted to know if you'd go with me." Dean said awkwardly. Perhaps he blushed, but it was to hard to tell because his skin was so dark.

"Sure." I said, blushing. "yeah, I'll go to the ball with you."

He grinned. "Great, okay. I'll meet you in the entrance hall, yeah?"

"Yeah." I said.

He dashed down the Owlery steps and I stood there for a second. Then I cursed. I'd just sent those letters off! Bloody hell.

Groaning in frustration I set down the stairs. I entered the Great Hall and sat down with the others. "Guess who just asked me to the ball?" I asked lightly.

"Who?" Ron asked, interested. Padma had told him she'd go to the ball with him.

"Dean Thomas."

"Really?" Hermione asked, a bit amazed. "I didn't think he was going to go with anyone."

"Yes." I said, pulling over a plate of toast and the butter dish. "He said as much in the Owlery. However, I didn't foresee him with anyone, probably because he wasn't going to go with anyone, so I said yes."

"I'm surprised." Harry said. "Thought you'd go with Fred or Cedric."

"Well. . ." I said slowly. "They did both ask me, as I've said before. But since I'd seen them with other people. . . I didn't feel comfortable interfering with the future for selfish gain."

Ron was shaking his head and muttered, "Mental." I gave him an annoyed look.

We left the Great Hall and Ron ducked behind Harry to hide as Fleur went past saying, "It is too 'eavy, all zis 'Ogwarts food. I will not fit into my dress robes!"

"Oooh there's a tragedy." Hermione snapped. ''She really thinks a lot of herself, that one, doesn't she?"

"Hermione- who are you going to the ball with?" Ron asked quickly. He'd been asking her frequently, trying to startle her into giving in. It wasn't working.

Hermione simply frowned and said, "I'm not telling you, you'll just make fun of me."

"You're joking, Weasley! You're not telling me someone's asked that to the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?" Draco's voice came from behind us.

Harry, Ron, and I spun around and my wand was out. Before I could cast a spell, Hermione beamed, and waved to someone behind Draco and said, "Hello, Professor Moody!"

Draco went pale and jumped backward, looking wildly around, but Uncle Moody was still up at the teacher's table, eating.

"Twitchy little polecat, aren't you, Malfoy?" Hermione asked scathingly and we went up to the library.

"Hermione, your teeth." Ron said slowly, looking sideways at her.

"What about them?" She asked defensively.

"Well, they're different." Ron said, frowning.

"Of course they are- did you expect me to keep those fangs Malfoy gave me?" Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

"No, I mean, they're different to how they were before he put that hex on you. . . They're all. . . straight and- and- normal sized." Ron said.

Harry and I leaned around to see her mouth too as she smiled mischievously. They were different.

"Well. . . when I went up to Madam Pomfrey to get them shrunk, she held up a mirror and told me to stop her when they were back to how they normally were, and I just. . . let her carry on a bit. Mum and Dad won't be too pleased. I've been trying to persuade them to let me shrink them for ages, but they wanted me to carry on with my braces. you know, they're dentists, they just don't think teeth and magic should- look! Pigwidgeon's back!" She said, pointing.

Pigwidgeon was twittering on top of the banisters, a scroll of parchment tied to his leg. People passed by, pointing and laughing and group of third year girls paused and said, "Oh look at the weeny owl! Isn't he cute?"

"Stupid little feathery git! You bring letters to the addressee! You don't hang around showing off!" Ron said, grabbing Pigwidgeon out of the air in a fist. Pigwidgeon hooted, his head protruding above Ron's fist. The third-year girls looked scarred for life.

"Clear off!" Ron snapped at the third-years girls. I frowned at him. "Here- take it, Harry." Ron added.

In the corner of the Gryffindor common room, Harry read aloud Sirius' letter.

Dear Harry, Congratulations on getting past the Horntail. Whoever put your name in that goblet shouldn't be feeling too happy right now! I was going to suggest a Conjunctivitis Curse, as a dragon's eyes are its weakest point but your way was better, I'm impressed. Don't get complacent, though, Harry. You've only done one task; whoever put you in for the tournament's got plenty more opportunity if they're trying to hurt you. Keep your eyes open- particularly when the person we discussed is around- and concentrate on keeping yourself out of trouble. Keep in touch, I still want to hear about anything unusual. Sirius

"He sounds exactly like Moody. Constant vigilance! You'd think I walk around with my eyes shut, banging off the walls. . ." Harry said, pocketing the letter. I giggled.

"But he's right, Harry. You have still got two tasks to do. You really ought to have a look at that egg, you know, and start working out what it means. . ." Hermione said.

"Here." I said. "Cedric's going to give you a hint and you should take it up."

Harry scowled.

"I know." I said, rolling my eyes. "But he's already figured it out. Stupid thing really, he won't exactly be paying you back and I'm not telling you what it is. But if you take up the offer sooner rather than later, you'll be much better off."

"Want a game of chess Harry?" Ron asked.

"I'll see you guys later." I said. "I'm going to get some homework done."

"Sure Ron. See you later Elizabeth." Harry said and I left the common room.

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𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝕴 𝖜𝖔𝖐𝖊 up on Christmas day, I bounced out of bed to see the stack of presents at the foot of my bed.

Dad had sent books, of course. Lord of Chaos, Insomnia, The Bingo Palace, and Born in Fire. He'd also sent me a binder with sleeves in it. I wasn't sure what it was for a moment until, after looking at it, I realized it could be used to hold my Chocolate Frog cards. He'd also sent a letter.

Dear Elizabeth, Is Hogwarts really so bad that you wish it was summer already? And I'm sure you'll end up being glad that you stay at Hogwarts for the winter. Despite that, I do miss you too. I love you a lot. No, I never sent Mad-Eye a letter. Perhaps he's mistaken or perhaps he wrote down the contents of our conversation which he then mistaken for a letter. Not entirely sure. Or maybe he just didn't want the students to know that he knows me personally. I can understand and respect that. Anyways, let me know if anything else goes on at Hogwarts. Love you, Dad

I frowned. Sure, Uncle Moody made some rash decisions but mistaking his own handwriting for a letter from dad? Not likely. Of course. . . not every wizard or witch liked to admit they knew a werewolf. . . and while dad could respect that, I most certainly couldn't. And I couldn't see Uncle Moody being ashamed of knowing Dad. He didn't care about people's opinions. So why had he said he'd received a letter from dad over the summer?

Hermione had sent me a Quidditch book titled Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland.

Trang had sent me American candy and new books from the Vampire Diary series.

Ron sent me a book called Mythology and a note saying that I should stop reading IT. I had actually gotten him the book IT for Christmas. I wondered if he'd get nightmares from reading it. Then I wondered if he would even read it.

Harry had sent me chocolates from Honeydukes.

Hagrid had sent treacle fudge and a carved dragon statuette.

Mrs. Weasley had sent me hot fudge cakes and a pink sweater with white rabbits knitted on it. She had also sent a letter thanking me for the portrait I'd done of the family and told me that it was hanging on the wall in the living room.

Fred and Cedric had sent me more charms to put on the bracelet that Fred had originally bought for me on my first Christmas here. Fred had sent a rabbit, dolphin, and British flag charms. Cedric had sent a snitch charm and a book charm. I added them to the bracelet immediately.

Bill had sent me an artkit, fit with a book, to learn how to Gongbi, a type of Chinese style painting.

I was glad that Dean hadn't given me anything for Christmas because I hadn't gotten him anything.

Sirius had sent me a penknife, not unlike the one he sent Harry. I had been meaning to ask him about the house key he'd sent for my birthday but was afraid of the answer.

As always, there was an anonymous present, which I was almost always fairly certain came from Professor Snape. I dropped the rock into my hand and stared at it curiously. It was black onyx but it didn't seem to be a decoration of any sort. There was no holes or loops to put string through to make it a necklace.

Then, looking through a small part of the onyx, I saw that there was a diamond in there. It wasn't large. Probably smaller than my pinky fingernail. But it was there. It had to have hidden meaning- I just didn't know what. I set the onyx down carefully on the table, not wanting it to get broken.

Then, I noticed there was one last present. It was wrapped in a sheaf of animal skin and I carefully laid it on my bed and opened it up and gasped. It was a bow. It was beautifully crafted- obviously handmade with a pink tint to the wood. There were about a dozen arrows with it as well. Everything about it was perfect. There was a handwritten note inside that read For my favorite human.

I laughed and set the animal skin, bow, and arrows underneath my bed. I grabbed my cloak and scarf from the bedside table and raced down the stairs, out of the castle.

I had to search a little bit before I could find Firenze. He and Ronan were talking amongst themselves. Ronan bowed to me and I bowed back quickly. "Hello Ronan." I said. "How are you?"

"Very well, and you, Elizabeth Kane?"

"Decent." I said with a smile. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas!" Ronan said with a smile. He nodded to Firenze. "I will converse with you later." Firenze nodded back and then turned to me as Ronan galloped off.

"Thank you for the bow and arrows Firenze." I said, smiling still. I didn't want to use the word gift or present in case that was offensive to their kind. Firenze already had animosity with Bane- I didn't want to create anymore.

"You are quite welcome." He said with a smile. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a drawing I'd done of him. There were actually a few sketches on the page. He took the page, looked at it, and laughed. "I think you've overdone my arm muscles a bit Elizabeth Kane."

It was probably true- I'd done up the muscles in his arms and stomach. I blushed. "It's fairly realistic in my mind."

Firenze put a hand on my shoulder. "Thank you Elizabeth Kane." Then, to my surprise as he rarely showed any type of physical affection to me, he pulled me into a hug. I hugged him back tightly, savoring the moment for I was sure this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"You're welcome Firenze." I said, smiling upwards. My stomach growled. He laughed again.

"I suppose you came out here without breakfast?" His teeth were absolutely perfect and white. We pulled out of the embrace and started walking back towards the edge of the forest.

"First thing." I said.

"Got a date for the Ball?" He asked.

I sighed, "His name's Dean Thomas. It was a bit of an unexpected invitation to be completely honest. I'd never gotten a vibe from him that he was interested in me, but I accepted as I didn't see any futuristic problems about going with him."

Firenze nodded, "That's fair enough I think."

"Anyways!" I said cheerfully. "I think I'll go inside and get some breakfast. How clear do you think the stars will be tonight?"

"Hmm." Firenze stared up at the light sky. "Probably clear. What time does the Yule Ball end?"

"Midnight." I murmured. "Best time for viewing."

My stomach growled again. I said good-bye and hurried back up to the castle to eat.

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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖞 𝖕𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖉 quickly- most likely because I was dreading dancing. I forgot I didn't know how to dance.

There was the normal Christmas lunch that took place every year. The tables looked weird because everyone was visiting different tables. There were Hufflepuffs sitting with Ravenclaws and Gryffindors sitting with Hufflepuffs. It was very bizarre to see, especially with the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons sitting throughout the four tables.

Then, afterwards, I went outside with the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione. We had a snowball fight. We mostly targeted Ron. Ginny was very good at throwing snowballs and more importantly- dodging them.

Hermione however, decided to watch on the steps. I would've thrown a snowball at her just to get her to join in, but I knew what she wanted to do with her hair so I refrained from the temptation.

She left a full three hours before the dance started. Ron shouted after her as she went up the steps, "What, you need three hours?" and then, "Who're you going with?"

But she didn't answer and simply disappeared into the castle. "Who is she going with!" Ron said in frustration, taking another snowball to the head.

"You know." I said. "If she doesn't want you to know, you'll just have to find out at the ball-" I ducked a snowball thrown at me by Fred. "-and then, you have to promise you're still going to dance with Padma."

I threw a snowball at George's stomach and it hit. I went in with about an hour and a half left and I pulled Ron aside, and said seriously, "I'm serious. You pay attention to Padma tonight, do you understand?"

"Yes, I get it." Ron snapped.

"You're going to be looking for Hermione until you find her and not paying attention to Padma. Try and change the future and give her some attention. You'd better dance with her." I said and walked away, dodging one last snowball thrown by Fred.

In the girls dorm up in the Hufflepuff house, Susan was wearing green dress robes and Hannah was wearing pink.

I quickly got into my own long purple dress. Susan zipped up the back. It took me about twenty minutes to finish my makeup. I played up the eyes and lips. Then, with a bit of help from Susan, I finished my hair in an elegant bun with small braids circling on my head. I stuck in pearl bobby pins to keep everything in place.

I helped Susan with her hair in return, and then went over to my dresser and took out the silver heels I had saved for the occasion. As jewelry, I put on the black sunflower necklace that Snape had given me for Christmas last year and the dragon ring that Dad had given me for a past birthday. I didn't wear the charm bracelet- it was to juvenile, I thought. I left my glasses off as well. My vision was a bit wonky but clear- I'd been getting used to it.

I walked down the stairs to the entrance hall. My vision was slowly adjusting. Dean came out of nowhere, wearing black dress robes.

"You look lovely." He said, a blush creeping up his dark cheeks.

I smiled at him. "Thank you."

A moment later, Harry came down with Parvati, Ron trailing after him.

"Hi Harry, Hi Parvati." I said in greeting. My arm was around Dean's.

"Ah, you look so pretty!" Parvati squealed.

I blushed. "You look lovely as well." She really did. She was from India and had worn the traditional Indian dress with a sash. The robes were a shocking pink. Her dark black hair was plaited with gold and she wore gold bangles on her wrists and gold jewelry about her neck. Her sash- if that was what it was called- was a purple color.

"You turned out well." I said to Harry.

"Gee, thanks." Harry said, looking extremely nervous.

"Chin up." I said. "You've got a pretty date and she's a strong dancer too." I winked at Parvati. She smiled. "Besides, four or five dances isn't that much now, is it?"

Ron was looking around the crowd. Parvati found her sister and brought her over to meet Ron.

"Hi." Ron said, and I was pleased to see that he was looking directly at her rather than around the crowd.

Padma was just as pretty in her dress robes. They were the same style as Parvati's, but turquoise in color with a yellow sash. In my opinion, I thought she might even be prettier. She had slightly fuller lips than Parvati and I preferred the colors of her dress robes.

"Oh no." Ron cried out and ducked as Fleur passed with the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, Roger Davies. He stood up as she passed by without a single look at us.

I ignored a group of Slytherins that had just come up from the dungeons. Instead, I focused on the front oak doors. A moment later, Professor Karkaroff entered, the Durmstrang students and their partners following after.

Krum was at the front of the party with Hermione. Her hair was done up elegantly and sleek looking. Her dress was periwinkle colored. I looked over. Harry had a blank look on his face, not knowing who she was. Ron however, looked a bit sour and I stomped on his foot and glared at him. He winced. I'd forgotten I'd been wearing heels.

"Champions over here please!" Professor McGonagall called from across the Great Hall.

"See you later." Parvati said to Ron, Padma, Dean, and I. Dean gave me his arm and I took it. Ron gave Padma his arm and she took it delightedly. His robes, I'd forgotten to mention where a dark maroon and looked well on him. No lace or nothing.

We walked past the champions. I smiled at Hermione and nodded to Cedric as we passed. Cho looked absolutely beautiful and I was glad I had declined. I wouldn't have looked like that next to Cedric. The two of them were made for each other. I found I wasn't jealous like I thought I might've been. After all, I couldn't be with all my crushes.

On the other hand, Cedric scowled at Dean, looking quite jealous. I paid him no attention. Luckily, Cho hadn't noticed- looking at her Ravenclaw friends in the crowd.

Ron and Padma followed. We made our way to a small round table in the back and joined Seamus, Lavender, Neville, and Ginny. Ginny looked lovely in her blue robes and Lavender was wearing. . . lavender robes. Us girls grouped together and the boys all sat with each other. I didn't mind though.

The champions entered in a line, following Professor McGonagall up to the high table. She was wearing crimson robes which I thought would've looked nice on her if she hadn't put such an ugly wreath of thistles around her hat.

Everyone in the Great Hall started clapping and I joined in. Ron wasn't looking sulky, the way I'd seen before, but he was getting close to it, staring at Hermione and Krum with a look of distaste. But he looked at me and immediately turned to engage Padma in conversation.

I turned my attention to the high table. There was Dumbledore, wearing robes of blue. Then Karkaroff, he was wearing a moody expression, as he watched Krum and Hermione, to rival Ron's. I remembered his bias against Muggle-born witches and wizards. Ludo Bagman was in robes of bright purple with yellow stars- ugly to say the least. Madam Maxime was wearing a flowing gown of lavender silk, applauding politely and properly. Mr. Crouch, of course, was not there- the reason still remained unknown to me. However, in his place was Percy Weasley.

I was slightly irked about Mr. Crouch not being here, as I had wanted to corner him and see if he'd managed to throw off the curse. Or maybe he'd thrown off the curse and that was why he wasn't here. The thought made me uncomfortable.

I looked over to where some of the other teachers were sitting. Professor Sprout had ditched her normal patched and frayed clothes and was now wearing clean dress robes of tinted gold. Professor Flitwick was wearing navy blue. Hagrid was wearing his usual horrible brown suit. Professor Snape was wearing black, but not his usual overflowing robes.

He was wearing long black pants and a stiff white shirt which he'd covered with a long black coat. The edges of the bottom of the coat stuck out, the entire outfit was crisp. His hair looked exactly the same and he was wearing an expression of extreme boredom. He looked extremely handsome- I couldn't help noticing.

Professor Moody was wearing brown as well with a white ruffled shirt. He kind've looking like those explorers that Trang had showed me in one of her American history textbooks, except he was missing the funny black hat. But he had the long white socks and black buckled shoes. Pilgrims- I think was the word. I wasn't very certain about American history as I was British.

Once dinner ended, our entire table got to their feet so that we could start dancing. I had my arm on Dean's again. Harry had one hand on Parvati's waist and his other was clasped in her head. Seamus and Dean sniggered and waved at him.

The Weird Sisters- not one of my favorite bands- started up a mournful tune and the champions and their partners started to dance. After an appropriate amount of time, other couples stepped in. Dean led me into the circle and we started to dance as well.

As much as I complained about not being able to dance, it was easy when it was choreographed to be somewhat the same. There was a pattern to be memorized, it wasn't just something left up to everyone.

Dean and I moved in a circle, closer to the teacher's table. I tried my best not to glance over at Professor Snape- I cared about his opinion way to much to see if he was looking at me or not. I noticed though, that Karkaroff was nearby, staring at the two of us, wearing robes of white with a black belt across his waist.

Finally though, as Dean twirled me around, I gave the briefest flicker with my eyes over to the Professors. Professor Snape seemed to be staring into my soul as our eyes met for a second. And then, my eyes were back on Dean and we were waltzing away.

Another dance started up and my eyes darted over to where Harry and Ron were but they continued to dance and I relaxed a bit.

Both Fred and Cedric interceded with Dean to get a dance or two in with me. Angelina didn't mind so much with Fred, going off and dancing with George and Lee, but Cho was another story. She threw jealous glances mine and Cedric's way, while talking to her Ravenclaw friends.

I frowned at Cedric, "You're making Cho jealous."

He looked uncomfortable as we danced, "I wanted to take you."

Now I was uncomfortable.

"Why'd you turn me down?" He asked.

"Because I saw you going with Cho and I don't interfere with the future." I replied honestly.

"What if you couldn't see the future?" Cedric asked.

I hesitated and then admitted, "I probably would've said yes."

He seemed a great deal happier with that answer and I quickly said, "But it doesn't change the fact that you were and are supposed to be with Cho."

He pursed his lips. "It's a dance Elizabeth. This is the only dance I get with you probably ever. Let me enjoy it."

I scowled at him. "I'm enjoying it."

"Good." He said with a grin and twirled me around. I finally laughed.

"You are a good dancer." I admitted.

"I know. You're terrible." Cedric teased.

I blushed, laughing again. "Oh Ced. . ."

The song ended and we broke apart, staring at each other for a moment before Cho glided over, taking Cedric back into her arms. I took the hint and went to find Dean.

Around eleven o'clock, I said goodnight to Dean. I stopped by Hermione who was in deep conversation with Krum and another boy by the drinks table. He was incredibly short.

"You look gorgeous Hermione." I told her earnestly and she smiled at me.

"And you look beautiful." She complimented me back.

"Hello Viktor." I said and simply nodded to his other friend.

"Elizabeth, you looked very nice." Viktor said awkwardly, looking at Hermione like he hoped she wouldn't take offense to him complimenting me.

"This is Viktor's friend Felix er- I can't pronounce his last name." Hermione said quickly, introducing us.

I shook hands with him. He was thin and tall with light brown hair. He was from Sweden and was only eight years old, though he looked at least twelve. I was surprised by his age. Apparently he worked under Karkaroff as a study. I thought it was very interesting. His last name was: Kjellberg. Apparently understudies started at young ages. Probably because learning things at a young age made it stick longer in the brain.

I said good-bye to them and made my way out of the Great Hall and down into the entrance hall. I noticed Harry and Ron had taken a walk too, though not with Parvati and Padma. I wondered briefly if they would still over hear Hagrid and Madam Maxime's conversation or if that had already happened.

Snape and Karkaroff had just passed them. Karkaroff had broken off from Snape, passing me now. He slowed and we exchanged a look. I shivered and looked away.

I turned down a side path, away from Karkaroff, that would lead to the greenhouses- but I went into the forest instead. I wondered where Firenze could possibly be tonight. I looked up at the sky as I walked. Firenze had been right, there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

"You look stunning tonight." a voice that wasn't Firenze's said. My heart started to beat extremely fast. I turned around slowly. Professor Snape stood there, his arms behind his back. He had no expression on his face, though there was a faint colour in his cheeks.

"Thank you." I said, barely whispering. My words carried across the clearing. I realized how story-book this was. The perfectly circular clearing with the stars shining down on us. The lovely glowing flowers that were in half-bloom. If only it was the summer and not the winter and lightning bugs were flying around.

Professor Snape seemed to be thinking along the lines of the weather because he said, "Aren't you cold?"

I looked down. I had forgotten a cloak. I shrugged instead, "I was only planning on staying out for an hour or so."

He took a step closer, a hesitant one. His eyes were locked on mine. I felt the way I had in the potions classroom with Karkaroff, except I wasn't frozen from fear- but anticipation. I shivered. He mistook the shivering however.

I met him halfway in the clearing. He held out his hand and asked, "May I have this dance?"

It was such a corny, fairy tale like line that I was utterly surprised he had used it. I placed a hand in his, noticing how warm his hands were. That surprised me even more, I think. Being in the dungeons was freezing and I expected his hands to be cold.

I put my other arm around his neck. His other hand was on my waist. I had expected him to be a good dancer- an expectation that he met.

"I did mention how beautiful you look tonight, didn't I?" he whispered in my ear.

"Yes." I whispered softly. "And though I never said a word, I think you look extremely handsome tonight."

Though I had grown over the summer, I still wasn't quite as tall as him. My head rested just on his shoulder. We'd stopped dancing formerly and were now more swaying side to side. I was trembling now, a bit from the cold, and a bit from nerves.

"You should've brought a cloak." He murmured again, against my cheek.

"I don't usually think before I act." I muttered. "You know that."

He laughed, a real one, and said, "Yes, I suppose I do."

What was this? I had never really expected romantic feelings from him- him being a teacher and all. He hadn't danced with anyone at the ball and had left early. I knew, of course, he'd had feelings for my mum and that could've been a reason he never loved anyone. The words, "I act heartless because my heart died with her" kept popping into my head when I thought about his cold demeanor.

But this wasn't cold, this wasn't heartless, and this was certainly borderline romantic. Okay, it was completely romantic. Dancing in the moonlight in a forest. His hands were warm and so was his body. I was growing careless.

"The stars are pretty aren't, they? I suppose that's the reason you came out here in the first place." he whispered. Did he just call the stars pretty? How completely unlike him.

I opened my mouth to explain exactly why I came out here, but my brain didn't work and instead I whispered, "I love you."

We stopped dancing. He froze and I froze and then I clapped a hand over my mouth in horror. His eyes were locked on mine, looking almost frightful. Without saying another word, I drew away from him, dashing past him. Kicking off my heels, I ran back to the castle, leaving Professor Snape behind in the clearing.

⬅️➡️

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heartthrobin · 4 months ago

Text

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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