For two years, Oliver Wood had been your everything—your storm and your shelter. Seventh year at Hogwarts was overwhelming for most couples, but not the two of you. You’d found a rhythm long ago: his chaos wrapped in your softness, your fire tucked into his determination. He was captain of the Gryffindor team, constantly planning plays at 5 a.m., and you were the Ravenclaw-turned-healer-in-training who always forced him to drink water, eat something green, and sleep at least some nights.

You talked about the future nearly every evening now.

Oliver would wrap an arm around you in the Common Room or sneak you into his dorm and confess, “I’m going pro. I have to. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

And every single time, you’d smile against his chest, “And I’ll be a healer. Someone has to take care of you after your games, Wood.”

He’d kiss your forehead and say, “Someone better—because I’m not letting anyone else touch me.”

That was your normal. Your safe place. Your chaos wrapped in love.

But the last few days… everything felt wrong.

Your stomach twisted. Your legs trembled at random moments. You were exhausted even after sleeping twelve hours. And then Hermione, sharp as always, squinted at you in the library.

“You look pale. Are you sick?”

You shrugged. “Probably just a flu—”

“When was your last period?”

“Last month.”

“When last month?”

You blinked. “Two weeks ago. I’m late.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Two weeks late.”

Suddenly your pulse began pounding in your ears. You hadn’t let yourself think about it—not once. Not seriously. Because Oliver had a future planned out with military precision, a Quidditch career waiting for him. And you… you loved him too much to risk derailing that.

Hermione took your hand gently. “You need to tell him.”

“I can’t.” It came out too fast. Too shaky. “Not until I know for sure.”

Hermione nodded, though worry lingered in her eyes. “Then go to the Hospital Wing tomorrow morning. I’ll cover for you in class.”

But tomorrow never came the way you expected.

Because that night, Oliver found you hiding on the Astronomy Tower steps with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and your head in your hands.

He’d been looking for you for an hour. Your friends had all covered for you—poorly. Eventually Percy pointed upstairs and muttered, “Just… go.”

Oliver climbed every step breathlessly. When he saw you curled there, he exhaled like the world had stopped spinning.

“There you are…” His voice was soft, relieved, but concerned. “Love, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head. “I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ for days.” He knelt beside you, hands cupping your cheeks. “You barely eat. You shake half the time. And you look like you’re about to faint. Talk to me.”