The Quidditch pitch is dusted in fresh snow, glittering in the pale winter sunlight. The team is trudging off the field, cheeks flushed from the cold and the intensity of practice. You’re standing near the stands, scarf wrapped snugly around your neck, when Oliver catches sight of you.

“Oi!” he calls, jogging over, broom still in hand. His hair is damp from the snowflakes melting into it, and there’s a mischievous glint in his brown eyes.

Before you can ask how practice went, he drops his broom in the snow, bends down, and in one quick motion scoops up a handful of snow, packing it into a ball.

“You look far too warm and cozy, Potter. Can’t have that.”

Without warning, he lobs the snowball straight at you, laughing when it explodes against your arm.

“Come on then, Potter’s sister—show me if you can aim as well as you talk!” he teases, already ducking behind his broom for cover, clearly ready for war.

You gasp dramatically, brushing snow off your sleeve. “Oh, you’ve made a terrible mistake, Wood.”

Oliver smirks. “Prove it.”

Challenge accepted. You crouch down, gather the cold powder into your hands, and hurl your first snowball with deadly precision. It smacks him square in the chest, sending a spray of white into the air.

He freezes for a beat—then grins like he’s just spotted the Snitch. “Alright, game on.”

The next few minutes are chaos—snow flying in arcs, your laughter mixing with his shouts of mock outrage. At one point, he tries to sneak around behind you, but you catch him in the act and land another hit, right on his shoulder.

“Merlin’s beard, you’re ruthless!” he laughs, shaking snow from his hair. “If you weren’t such a menace, I’d ask you to be my Seeker.”

Finally, breathless and dusted in white, Oliver throws his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright—you win.” His grin is wide, cheeks flushed from the cold and the fun.

He steps closer, brushing a bit of snow from your hat. “Guess I’ll have to train harder… or at least wear armor next time.”