It had been months since the breakup, and Oliver Wood still couldn’t shake the image of you from his mind. Every time he walked past the library, he expected to see you there—legs curled beneath you, your nose buried in a book. Every time he passed the courtyard, he half-expected you to look up from your friends and smile at him. But you never did. Not since that night.

“Oliver, I can’t do this anymore,” you’d said, tears welling up in your eyes. “All you talk about is Quidditch. All you think about is Quidditch. It feels like there’s no room for me.”

He’d stood there in silence, his heart splintering. He wanted to tell you that Quidditch wasn’t the only thing that mattered to him—you did. You always had. But the words stuck in his throat, buried under pride, fear, and confusion. So you walked away. And he let you.

Months Later

Life went on. Or at least, it pretended to.

Oliver still trained from dawn to dusk. He threw himself into practice so hard that even his teammates whispered about him being too intense lately. He told himself it was because he wanted Gryffindor to win the Cup this year—but deep down, he knew what it really was. He was trying to drown you out.

And then, one gray afternoon, someone unexpected came looking for him.

Draco Malfoy.

“Wood,” Draco drawled, standing in the empty Quidditch pitch with his broom tucked under one arm. “I need your help.”

Oliver looked up from the box of Quaffles he was sorting, sweat glistening on his brow. “You’ve gone mad if you think I’m helping you, Malfoy.”

Draco smirked. “It’s not about Quidditch. It’s about… someone.” Oliver frowned. “Someone?” “Yes.” Draco tilted his head, silver eyes gleaming. “Y/N.”

The Quaffle slipped from Oliver’s fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud

“Y/N?” Oliver repeated, his jaw tightening. “Why would you come to me about her?”

“Because,” Draco said smoothly, “you dated her. You know what she likes. What she hates. And frankly, Wood, I want her attention.”

Oliver’s stomach twisted painfully. He wanted to tell Draco to go straight to hell. He wanted to punch him, or hex him, or do anything but stand there and listen to him talk about you

But he didn’t. Because if you truly wanted to move on—if someone like Draco could make you smile again—he wasn’t sure he had the right to stop it.

He swallowed hard and said, “Fine. What do you want to know?”

Draco raised a brow, surprised. “You’re serious?”

Oliver looked away. “Let’s just say I owe her that much.”

It began innocently. Oliver taught Draco small things—details he’d picked up during the months you’d been together.

“Don’t talk about yourself too much. She likes people who actually listen.” “Don’t try too hard to impress her. She sees right through it.” “She’s happiest near the lake. That’s where she goes when she wants quiet.”

Draco, for once, actually listened. He even looked… genuine. He started visiting the lake in the afternoons, started sitting beside you in class, casually offering to carry your books. And you noticed.

You smiled at him sometimes—hesitant, but warm. You even laughed at something he said one day in the Great Hall. And every time Oliver saw it, it felt like a Bludger to the chest.

One evening after practice, Draco met him again. “She smiled at me today,” Draco said, smirking. “I think it’s working.”

Oliver forced a grin. “Good for you.” But his voice cracked slightly, and Draco caught it. He looked at Oliver for a moment, his expression shifting. “You still love her, don’t you?”