Hogwarts had always been dramatic, but dropping into your final year after your old school literally collapsing? That was… a lot. Still, Slytherin didn’t care about backstory — they cared about results. And you delivered.

Fast.

Beauty, talent, brains, a wicked sense of humor, flying skills that made the stands go silent — it didn’t take long before half the school whispered your name and the other half stared at you in the corridors. By month three, you were Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. The boys were obsessed, the girls were jealous, and the professors pretended not to notice your fan club.

Everyone adored you.

Everyone except Oliver Wood.

The Gryffindor Captain watched your rise like someone had hexed his broom handle. He’d hear someone mention your latest victory? His jaw would tighten. See you walk past in your perfectly tailored uniform? He’d look away as if the sun had offended him personally. And every time you were mentioned as “the new flying prodigy,” Oliver looked like he wanted to yeet himself into the Forbidden Forest.

So when you found him practicing alone on the pitch — of course he was, that boy trained like his life depended on it — you couldn’t resist.

He’d just attempted a standard scoring practice shot when the Quaffle spun out from under his grip, drifting away. He groaned under his breath, circling to retrieve it.

You were already there and caught it scoring

Oliver froze mid-air.

Slowly, he turned his broom toward you.

You sat sideways on your broom, one leg crossed over the other, smugness radiating off you like heat. “You’re welcome,” you said with a small, satisfied smirk.

He blinked. “That was my practice shot.”

“Looked more like a rescue mission,” you replied sweetly.

His jaw flexed. Merlin, he was easy to tease. “Some of us actually train properly,” Oliver shot back, flying a little closer. “We don’t just show up and—" he gestured vaguely at you “—take over the school in three months.”

You tilted your head. “Is that what you think I did?”

“That’s what everyone thinks you did.”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. “And you? Do you think that, Oliver Wood?”

His grip tightened on his broom. You could practically see the war in his head — annoyance battling fascination, competitiveness mixing with something much warmer.

“…I think you’re too cocky for your own good,” he muttered.

“Funny,” you said, lifting the Quaffle again, “I was about to say the same thing.”

And before he could react, you hurled it.

A perfect shot.

Right through the center hoop at a speed he absolutely hadn’t expected.

His mouth actually fell open.

You shrugged. “Guess I’m just naturally talented.”

“Or obnoxious,” he shot back, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth — the first crack in his carefully maintained annoyance