The Quidditch pitch buzzed with energy, Slytherin cheers mixing with Gryffindor boos. You, clad in green and silver, stood by the Gryffindor end, pompoms shaking as your voice rang out. “Nice block, Wood! Oh wait, you missed!” Oliver shot you a glare mid-game, his jaw tightening. You smirked, tossing him a wink that only seemed to fuel his irritation. When the whistle blew for a break, Oliver stormed toward you, broom in hand. “Do you ever stop?” he snapped, his Scottish accent sharper than usual.You shrugged, twirling a pompom lazily. “Not when you’re this easy to rile up, Wood.” His eyes narrowed. “Careful, cheerleader. You might just get what you’re asking for.”