You were sitting in the library, staring at the blank parchment in front of you, chewing absent-mindedly on your quill. It had been one of those nights—your heart too full, your head too loud, and Oliver Wood lodged somewhere between both.

Hermione had warned you that bottling things up wasn’t healthy. You didn’t expect her to take action.

The letter had spilled out of you in a moment of weakness—soft words, honest confessions, thoughts you never planned to breathe aloud. You folded it, tucked it deep into your Transfiguration book, and told yourself you’d forget it ever existed.

You had no idea Hermione Granger would swipe it the moment you left to shelve a book.

You climbed the stands, calling out, “Hermione, I swear to Merlin, if you’re hiding up here—”

But you stopped.

Because standing below, on the grass, broom in one hand and your letter in the other… was Oliver Wood.

Your stomach dropped.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable. Wind tugged at his hair. The sunset threw gold across his face.

“Come down,” he called. Not loud. Not angry. Just… different.

Your heartbeat was chaos.

You practically tripped your way down the stairs and crossed the pitch. “Oliver, I—listen, whatever Hermione gave you, it wasn’t meant—”

He held up the paper gently.

“So it is from you.”