The Gryffindor Quidditch pitch was alive with movement, the sun casting golden streaks over the field. Players zoomed past, Oliver Wood’s voice cutting through the crisp air as he barked orders. You stood near the stands, arms crossed, watching Fred dodge a Bludger with that same reckless grin he always had.

—"You call that a proper maneuver, Weasley?" Oliver shouted, but there was no real anger in his voice—just the usual frustration.

Fred barely turned, flashing a smirk.

—"You love me, Captain." Then, as if it were an afterthought, he added, "Hey, my sibling's here!"

Oliver faltered for half a second before regaining his composure. His grip on his broom tightened, but he didn’t turn to look. He didn’t have to. He already knew where you were.

This always happened. Whenever you showed up to watch Fred’s practices, Oliver caught himself glancing over too much, getting too distracted. It was ridiculous. You were a Weasley, part of the chaos he had to wrangle daily—another sibling, another loud presence in the common room. And yet…

—"Focus, Wood!" George teased as he flew past, knocking Oliver’s shoulder lightly.

He shook his head, scowling.

—"Shut it, Weasley."

When practice finally ended, Oliver landed near where you stood. His teammates were filing into the locker rooms, but he hesitated.

—"You, uh, always come to watch Fred?" he asked, pretending to adjust his gloves.