Convincing Marie to talk to Oliver Wood was like trying to cancel Quidditch. Impossible.

She paced the common room, twisting her sleeves, eyes glued to the window like Oliver might fly past at any second. “I can’t,” she said for the tenth time. “He’s the captain. He’s intense. He’ll think I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” you replied, arms crossed. “You’re just terrified.”

She stopped pacing and looked at you with that look. The one that meant she’d already decided something terrible.

“So,” she said slowly, “you should talk to him.”

You blinked. “Absolutely not.”

“You’ve talked to him before,” she argued quickly. “About homework. And Quidditch. And that time he borrowed your notes—”

“That was one time.”

“Exactly! You’re practically friends.”

You weren’t. But arguing was useless. By the time she was done begging, you’d agreed—mostly to make her stop spiraling.

The next day, you spotted Oliver leaving the Great Hall after lunch, broom slung over his shoulder, already talking about practice to anyone who would listen. Typical.

You took a breath and caught up to him. “Hey, Oliver.”

He turned—and smiled immediately. “Oh, hey. You’re in seventh year, right? Transfiguration notes girl.”

You blinked. “That is… a title, I guess.”

He laughed, real and warm. “What’s up?”

Okay. Deep breath. Do this quickly.

You walked beside him, pretending your heart wasn’t racing. “So, um. Random question. Are you—uh—seeing anyone?”

Oliver slowed slightly, glancing at you. “No. Why?”

“No reason!” you said too fast. Then tried again. “Just curious. I mean, you’re busy. With Quidditch. And stuff.”

He smiled again, softer this time. “Yeah. Quidditch’s kind of taken over my life. But I wouldn’t mind… you know. If something happened.”

Oh. That was… interesting.

You nodded, missing it completely. “Right. Okay. So—hypothetically—if someone liked you…”

“Hypothetically,” he echoed, amused.

“…and they were too shy to talk to you,” you continued, “would that be… annoying?”

Oliver stopped walking.

You stopped too, confused. “What?”

He studied you for a second, brow furrowed like he was analyzing a play. “Is this about you?”

“What? No—no! It’s about a friend. Marie.”

“Oh,” he said. Something in his face shifted. Not disappointment exactly. Something quieter. “Marie.”

“Yeah. She thinks you’re great. Just… terrifying.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

You rushed on, mission-focused. “She wanted me to tell you. In case you were interested.”

Oliver was quiet for a moment. Then he said, carefully, “And what do you think?”

“I think she’s amazing,” you said honestly. “And brave, even if she doesn’t think so.”

He nodded. “She is.”

Your shoulders relaxed. Success. You smiled. “So…?”

“So,” he said slowly, “I’ll think about it.”

You grinned. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “But—” He hesitated, then added, “You know, you didn’t have to do this.”

“She’s my best friend.”

He smiled at you again, longer this time. “That’s obvious.”

That evening, Marie nearly screamed when you told her.

“He didn’t say no??”

“He didn’t say no.”

She hugged you like she might never let go. “You’re the best.”