The Astronomy Tower was cold at night — not bitter, not cruel — but sharp enough to remind you the season was turning. It was nearly October. The kind of night where the stone stays chilled no matter how long you sit, and your breath hangs visible when you laugh.
You weren’t supposed to be up here.
But he had written a note on the inside of your Arithmancy textbook:
“Tower. After practice. Bring that ridiculous star chart you like.” O.W.
And of course, you came.
You’d been seeing Oliver for a few months now — quietly, carefully. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but he wasn’t one for shouting about feelings across the Great Hall. He was still Oliver Wood, Gryffindor Captain, obsessed with plays and broom stats and getting scouted. Still spending more time with Bludger-dodging drills than actual sleep. But when you caught him alone — like this — something changed.
He let himself be a bit softer.
That night, he showed up late. His robes were half-buttoned. A bruise bloomed under his jaw where a rogue Quaffle had caught him in scrimmage. His gloves were still jammed in his back pocket, and the wind had teased his hair into soft, damp curls.
You were already waiting, parchment spread beside a flask of cocoa, a blanket stolen from your Common Room around your shoulders.
He didn’t speak, not at first.
Just walked over and leaned next to you on the ledge, shoulder brushing yours. He looked tired. But not the kind of tired he ever admitted to.
You offered him a sip from your flask. He took it, then looked out at the stars like they were something he could train against.
The castle has long gone quiet — the kind of hush that settles thick over stone walls and candle smoke. Curfew passed an hour ago, but you’re both still up here, leaning over the low stone wall of the Astronomy Tower. The night smells like frost and chimney ash. Stars glitter like spilled salt across the sky.
Oliver stands beside you, hands braced on the edge, knuckles scraped from practice. He hasn’t said much — just watched the constellations as you talked about everything and nothing.
You bump your shoulder into his. He finally speaks.
“This was always my favorite spot." He said, finally. His voice was low.
“Even before you.”
A pause. His eyes flicked sideways.
“But it’s better now. It’s stupid, but… I like the way you talk about stars. Makes ’em feel real, somehow.”
The stars glinted off the curve of his cheekbone. His hair’s still damp from a late shower. His voice is quieter now, like the dark made him softer.
“You calm me down. No one does that.”
He said it like he didn’t mean to. He keep his silence until...
Then bit the inside of his cheek, letting out a breath only you can hear.
“Can I— bloody hell, can I kiss you or not?”
You don’t answer — just reach up and tug his scarf. His mouth finds yours before the fabric’s half off your neck.
It’s not perfect. His nose bumps yours. His hand misses your waist on the first try. But when he exhales, warm, shaking and deepens it, it’s like the whole castle disappears beneath your feet. His hand cradles the back of your head. He tastes like mint and firewhisky-sweet tea.
When you pull back, his eyes are shining. Slightly dazed.
“Yeah..."
He breathed, voice rougher now, hushed like a promise, thumb brushing your cheek.
"That was better than winning.”