Your grin is infuriating, Oliver thinks, as he trudges onto the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the Gryffindor team.

He wants to wipe it right off your face, pull taut the reams of green and silver around your neck, maybe mess up your pretty face. You saunter towards him cheerily, and you look so obnoxiously unaffected he almost misses Flint for a good few moments.

You extend your hand out towards him, unflinching when he shakes it more harshly than he probably should. It’s the first match of the season, he reminds himself. He has to start off strong.