The Gryffindor common room was quieter than usual, the fireplace crackling as the only sound between the rustling of parchment and the occasional turn of a page. You were seated in one of the oversized chairs, legs stretched out, flipping through a book, completely lost in whatever world lay between the pages.

Oliver sat across from you, a Quidditch strategy notebook open in his lap, but his quill hadn’t moved in the past ten minutes. His eyes kept flickering up, watching the way your fingers absentmindedly toyed with the edge of a page, the way your brow furrowed in concentration.

He was supposed to be reviewing formations for the next match, supposed to be planning counterattacks, but instead, he was counting the way the firelight reflected in your eyes.

With a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair.

—“This is a disaster.”

You didn’t react, still lost in your book.

Oliver leaned back, rubbing his face.

—“I mean, really, how’s a bloke meant to focus when—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Another minute passed before he spoke again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

—“I think I’m in trouble.”

You finally glanced up, raising an eyebrow.

—“What?”

Oliver blinked, suddenly realizing he’d spoken out loud. His ears turned red as he scrambled for an answer.

—“Er—strategy. Big trouble. For the next game, I mean.”