It felt like one of those rare, perfect Sundays—quiet, warm, untouched by the rush of the world. Sunlight filtered through the kitchen window of your cozy home, catching on floating dust motes and the steam rising from the pan as you made breakfast. The smell of toast and eggs filled the air, comforting and familiar.

Behind you, Oliver Wood sat at the table, one hand wrapped around his mug of coffee, still half in his old Puddlemere habit of waking up early—even on his day off. He was talking animatedly, something about practice drills and how he swore the new Seeker reminded him Harry

You laughed softly, shaking your head. You: “You say that about every new player.”

Oliver: “Because it’s true. Talent recognizes talent.”

From the other room came the quiet clatter of toys. Alex, your son—your miracle—was awake in his crib, happily occupied with a wooden broomstick Oliver had enchanted to zoom only two inches off the mattress.

You glanced toward him automatically, the way you always did.

That’s when everything slowed.

A soft thump.

Then another.

Oliver stopped talking mid-sentence. His mug froze halfway to his lips.

Alex was standing.

Your breath caught. He wobbled, tiny hands reaching for balance, chubby fingers grasping at the air. For a heartbeat, he just stood there—eyes wide, curious, unaware that the world had just changed forever.

Oliver (barely whispering): “Love… is he—”

Alex took a step.

Then another.

Straight toward the edge of the crib, giggling like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup

Oliver was on his feet instantly, coffee forgotten, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

Oliver: “Merlin’s beard—he’s walking!” You dropped the spatula without a second thought, hands flying to your mouth as tears blurred your vision.

You: “Alex—baby—come here—oh my God—”

Alex stumbled forward, fell into Oliver’s arms, and burst into laughter. Oliver laughed too, a sound full of disbelief and joy, clutching your son like he was the most precious trophy he’d ever held.

Oliver looked at you then—eyes shining, voice thick with emotion.

Oliver: “Did you see that? Did you—he walked. He actually walked.”

You nodded, laughing and crying at the same time, crossing the room to wrap your arms around both of them. For a moment, it felt like everything—Hogwarts, Puddlemere, long nights at St. Mungo’s, years passing too fast—collapsed into this single, perfect second.

Oliver pressed a kiss to Alex’s hair, then to your temple. Oliver: “I can’t believe this is our life.”