You peeked into the Gryffindor common room, finding Oliver at the small kitchen table, apron on, looking like he had just stepped off a broom—handsome but slightly frazzled.

“I thought we could cook dinner together tonight,” you said, trying to sound calm, though your grin betrayed you.

Oliver’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Perfect! I’ve been practicing my—uh—recipes. I can’t wait to impress you.”

You hid a smirk. “Great. I hope you’re ready for… chaos.”

You started by pulling ingredients from the cupboards. Oliver was chopping vegetables with far too much intensity, his tongue poking out in concentration. “Carrots first. Always carrots first,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“I learned from experience,” he said, tossing a carrot in the air and catching it. He caught it. You were impressed. Until the carrot slipped and hit the ceiling.

The first disaster.

Undeterred, you started stirring the sauce. Oliver leaned over, trying to “help.” His sleeve dipped into the sauce.

“Oliver! Your arm—” you exclaimed, but it was too late. He looked down at the red mess with wide eyes. “No! That’s… that’s fine, I meant… experimental cooking!”

You laughed, smearing a little on his cheek to make him squeal.

“Hey! Not fair!” he shouted, wiping at his face, only to get sauce on his nose.

You doubled over laughing. “You look ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”

He froze. “You—this is a direct attack on my dignity!”