Professor Snape paired everyone up for the month-long potions project — which was already a nightmare — but nothing could’ve shocked you more than the moment he said:

“Wood. Y/L/N. Table three.”

You froze. Oliver Wood? Gryffindor’s golden boy? You, a proud Slytherin, brewing potions with him for weeks?

He looked just as thrown, brows raised, eyes flicking to you for confirmation that, yes, this was actually happening.

You forced a smirk. “Don’t worry, Wood. I don’t bite.”

“Didn’t think you did,” he muttered, cheeks tinting pink before he quickly looked away.

And just like that… your strange partnership began.

Two weeks in, you and Oliver had somehow found a rhythm. You teased him. He flustered. You poked at him. He pretended not to like it.

But the day you brewed the Focus-Enhancement potion — the one even seventh-years struggled with — Snape warned the class:

“Any mistake in measurements may cause unpredictable emotional… intensifications.”

You didn’t think much of it.

Until it happened.

A single mis-slice of a moonseed root. A single drop too strong.

One second Oliver was leaning over the cauldron, stirring. The next, the potion flared — a bright, shimmering gold.

Both of you inhaled the fumes.

You coughed. Oliver steadied you by the waist before he even realized he’d touched you.

And then… everything changed.

His Hand Didn’t Move.

Actually, his grip tightened. Gently, but undeniably.

“Y/N?” His voice was suddenly low, soft, careful. Much closer than it should’ve been.

You blinked. “Yeah…?”

He stared at you. Really stared at you.

It wasn’t Oliver’s usual quick glance before he pretended not to be flustered. This was intense. Focused. Almost hungry.

“Are you okay?” he asked slowly.

“I—I’m fine.” You took a step back.

He followed.

“Oliver, what are you—”

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You weren’t. But his fingertips brushed your arm as if checking, trailing lower, leaving goosebumps behind.

“Oliver,” you whispered, “the potion—”

“I know,” he said. His eyes locked onto yours, warm and desperate. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about you right now.”

Heat rushed to your face.

“That’s the potion talking.”

He shook his head. “Maybe. But it feels… real.”

And Then It Got Worse.

That evening, he found you in the courtyard.

You didn’t even hear him approach — but suddenly his hand slipped around your wrist, turning you gently toward him.

“Y/N. Please don’t walk away again.”

Your heart stuttered. “Oliver, you need to stay away until the effects wear off.”

“I don’t want to stay away.”

His voice cracked on the words.

“Every time I try to study, I think of you. Every time I close my eyes— you’re right there.” His thumb brushed your pulse again. “That can’t just be the potion.”