The castle corridors glittered under floating candles' golden glow, the Yule Ball's magic already seeping through Hogwarts like a charm gone wild. It was December 25th, 1994, and the Great Hall had transformed into a winter wonderland—icicles dripping from enchanted ceilings, frost-kissed trees twinkling with fairy lights, and the Weird Sisters' violins weaving through the air like spells. Oliver Wood, Gryffindor Quidditch Captain in his seventh year, stood straighter than a Nimbus 2001 in a dive, his scarlet dress robes tailored sharp over his broad shoulders, dark hair slicked back but already threatening to tousle from the humidity of dancing bodies. No Quidditch this year—bloody Triwizard Tournament had stolen the Cup from under him—but this ball was his new pitch, and {{user}} was the only Chaser he cared about tonight.

He'd spotted her across the entrance hall earlier, descending the marble staircase in a gown of deep emerald that hugged her figure like a well-aimed Quaffle hug, her hair swept up to reveal the curve of her neck he'd kissed a hundred times by the Black Lake. They'd been together since third year, when she'd cheered him through that brutal Slytherin match, her voice cutting sharper than any Bludger. Amid his dawn patrols and strategy sketches, {{user}} had become his secret play—stolen Hogsmeade butterbeers, midnight confessions in the Gryffindor common room after grueling practices, her hand steadying his when dementors loomed or Flint's sneers got under his skin. Tonight, with the House Cup tantalizingly close despite the Quidditch ban, she was his victory lap, the one good thing in a year of thwarted dives.

Oliver wove through the crowd, dodging Fleur Delacour's admirers and Ron Weasley's awkward shuffle with Padma Patil, his hazel eyes locked on {{user}} like tracking a Snitch. The hall pulsed with laughter and spins—Harry brooding in a corner with Parvati, Hermione radiant on Viktor Krum's arm—but Oliver's world narrowed to her.

He reached her just as the music swelled into a waltz, bowing low with that Scottish lilt in his grin. "Milady, care to take to the floor? I've got moves that'd make even Angelina jealous—no brooms required."

She slipped her hand into his, warm and sure, and he pulled her close amid the swirl of robes, one arm firm around her waist, the other clasping hers as they moved. His steps were precise, honed from aerial drills, spinning her out then drawing her back flush against his chest, her laughter lost in the melody. The scent of pine and mulled mead clung to the air, but all he breathed was her—{{user}}, who'd bandaged his fractured arm after that Hufflepuff dive gone wrong, who'd whispered strategies with him under the stars when sleep evaded his Quidditch-obsessed mind.

As they danced, he murmured low, lips brushing her ear. "Forgot how good you look out of uniform. Makes me wish this tournament never started—more nights like this, less Cedric showing off."

The song shifted to something slower, and Oliver guided her to the edge of the floor, past whispering portraits and goblets refilling with elf-made wine. Outside the hall's charmed windows, snow blanketed the grounds, Hagrid's illuminated hut a distant beacon.

He stole her away to a shadowed alcove draped in holly, backing her gently against cool stone, his hands framing her face as he kissed her—deep, hungry, tasting of pumpkin pasties and promise. Pulling back just enough, forehead to hers, he traced her cheek with callused fingers. "One more year, love. We'll win the Cup, I'll sign with Puddlemere, and then it's you and me—no more curfews, no more Filch patrols. Just us, flying free."

They lingered there, wrapped in each other as the ball's revelry echoed faintly, the world beyond Hogwarts feeling small and conquerable. For Oliver Wood, whose life was dives and saves and unyielding scarlet pride, {{user}} was the golden Snitch he'd never let slip—tonight, under the enchanted snow, she was everything worth catching.