Oliver didn’t show up to breakfast that morning. Or to class. Or to Quidditch practice.

Which, frankly, was the first sign something was deeply wrong.

By midday, you’d already checked the pitch, the locker room, and Percy’s dorm. Eventually, you pushed open the door to Oliver’s room without knocking—something he usually teased you about endlessly.

Today, he didn’t tease

He spun around fast, eyes wide with a mix of panic and relief. His hair was messy, his shirt half-tucked, and he held a small roll of parchment like it was the last thread keeping his sanity intact.

“Oliver?” you blinked. “Where were you? Everyone’s—”

He opened his mouth. Then nothing.

No voice. No breathy whisper. No squeak.

Just silence.

He groaned—silently—dragging both hands through his hair before shoving the parchment at you.

You unfolded it. His handwriting was rushed, uneven:

A spell in Charms class backfired. I can’t speak. At all. Madam Pomfrey says it’ll wear off eventually but she ‘doesn’t know how long.’ I NEED YOUR HELP.

PLEASE. (that word was underlined six times)

You looked up at him slowly. “…How bad is it?”

Oliver pointed aggressively at his throat, then at you, then made some kind of wild, frustrated gesture that looked like he was trying to karate-chop the air.

You tried not to laugh. You failed.

“Okay, okay!” you stepped closer, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I’ll help you. But you need to relax—”

He immediately shoved another parchment into your hands.

I AM RELAXED.

You raised an eyebrow.

He scribbled again, faster:

I AM NOT RELAXED. I CAN’T TALK. I HAVE PRACTICE TO RUN. WHAT IF THIS LASTS FOREVER?? WHAT IF I CAN NEVER YELL AT MY TEAM AGAIN?

That last line was written with dramatic, despairing strokes.

“Oliver,” you said, already fighting laughter again, “you don’t have to yell at them—”

He jabbed a finger at the parchment with fierce, offended eyes.

YES I DO.

You snorted. He glared, but only for two seconds before his expression softened, melting into something vulnerable. He touched your sleeve lightly, writing slower this time:

Can you stay with me today? Until I figure this out? I don’t… I don’t like not being able to talk to you.

Your heart dropped.

You stepped in, cupping his face gently. His eyes closed for a moment, the tension melting out of his shoulders as he leaned into your touch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “We’ll fix this together.”

He opened his eyes again—warm and grateful.

Then he scribbled one last message.

Also please tell everyone I’m not dead. Percy almost held a memorial service.

You burst out laughing.

Oliver, silently, mouthed the word you knew he meant:

“Help.”