You used to think nothing could get between the two of you. You and Oliver were inseparable—late-night broom runs, sneaking butterbeer from the kitchens, kissing behind the Quidditch stands when everyone else was asleep.

He was your first kiss. Your first “I love you.” Your first in every sense.

But Oliver’s drive to become a professional Keeper consumed him. And you—stubborn, hurt, proud—couldn’t accept being second place to his ambition. A stupid fight spiraled out of control. One slammed door, one too-long silence, and it was over.

Neither of you stopped it.

After graduation, he went straight to pursue Quidditch. You followed a different path. And though life moved on, you never fully healed. Some part of you still whispered his name when you felt lonely. Some part of you never loved anyone after him— not really.

Your best friend had been annoying you for days.

You: “Just tell me his name—just one thing?”

Her: “Nope. Absolutely not. You’re meeting him tonight. Wear something nice.”

She kept giggling to herself like a schoolgirl. You thought she’d been cursed.

So now, at dusk, you flew across the city on your broom, wind whipping through your hair, your stomach twisting with nerves you didn’t understand.

The restaurant she chose was packed—warm candles glowing in the windows, soft music drifting out the open patio. You landed, added your broom to the rack with the others, and stepped inside.

It was loud and crowded, couples leaning close, waiters weaving between tables.

Then you heard her.

“Over here!”

You smiled and walked toward her waving hand—and froze.

Absolutely froze.

Because sitting next to her, in a crisp button-up shirt that stretched over familiar broad shoulders, with hair a little longer, scruff along his jaw, and those same brown eyes—

Was Oliver Wood.

He froze too. His hand, reaching for his glass, stopped midair. His eyes widened just slightly, enough for you to see the shock. The recognition. The pain.

And then—he blinked, straightened himself.

Pretended.

Pretended not to know you.

Your best friend beamed, oblivious. “Finally! This is my boyfriend—Oliver!”

You swallowed hard. You forced a smile. You extended a hand that shook just a little. “Nice to meet you.”

Oliver’s voice was lower, rougher, but still the same. “Pleasure’s mine.”

His eyes flickered to yours—one second, two seconds—before he looked away.