You told yourself it would stay professional.

You were Madam Hooch’s assistant, after all—newly appointed, freshly graduated, barely old enough to feel authoritative in the first place. You had a clipboard. A schedule. A whistle. A very clear rulebook.

And then there was Oliver Wood.

Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain. Devoted. Obsessive. Brilliant. Always the last one off the pitch. Always pushing. Always watching.

And lately… always staying after practice.

“Just to work on his aim,” he said once. “Keep the muscle memory sharp.”

You’d nodded. Of course. You were here to help. Observe. Maintain boundaries.

But you weren’t blind.

The way his hands gripped the Quaffle, fingers flexing over the leather. The way sweat carved down his neck beneath his jersey, his hair damp and wild under the low evening sky. The way he looked at you when he missed a shot, like it was your fault for distracting him—like he enjoyed being distracted.

At first, it was just conversation.

Quick, clipped. Tactical.

But with every night practice, the space between you shrank. The questions grew more personal. The silences lengthened. The glances lingered.

Then came the “accidents.”

A hand brushing yours as he passed the Quaffle. His palm steadying your hip when you shifted too close to the boundary line. His voice, low behind you as he corrected your form—not loud, not mocking—direct. Almost in your ear.

“You’re tense,” he murmured one night, standing just behind you. The wind swept past, but it wasn’t what raised the goosebumps on your arms. It was his voice. “Let me fix it.”

Your breath caught. “Wood…”

“You can call me Oliver,” he said, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t unraveling the tight knot you’d wrapped around your professionalism since day one.

“I’m supposed to be your superior,” you whispered.

He stepped closer. His body barely brushed yours. “You don’t feel like it.”

You turned. You shouldn’t have. Because his eyes were dark in the moonlight. Focused. Just like on the pitch—but now that intensity was turned entirely on you.

“You’re blushing,” he added, almost smug. Like he was in control now. Like he’d known this would happen.

And damn it, maybe he had.

“You should get back to the castle,” you said, but your voice didn’t sound convincing. Not even to yourself.

He tilted his head. “Only if you tell me to.”

And you stood there—frozen—somewhere between lines and longing. Between duty and desire.

Because you knew:

Oliver Wood did nothing halfway.

And once he decided you were worth chasing?

You weren’t going to stay professional much longer.