You had been counting down to it for weeks.

One year. A full year with Oliver Wood. Every laugh, every stolen glance, every late-night broomstick race — all of it led to this day. Your one-year anniversary. You had imagined it perfectly: quiet in the Gryffindor common room, a small cake you’d baked yourself, and maybe, if he was feeling bold, one of those messy, impossible kisses that always left you breathless.

But Oliver had other plans

You woke up to the sound of the morning bells, heart fluttering. You had dressed carefully, brushing your hair until it shone, picking out your favorite robes. You’d left a small note on his desk, tucked into his broomstick bag: Happy Anniversary, Oliver. Meet me tonight?

You smiled to yourself, imagining his face when he read it.

Hours passed. Lessons went by. You tried not to glance at the door of the Gryffindor dorm, hoping he would appear. But he didn’t.

During lunch, you spotted him across the hall, laughing with the Quidditch team, completely engrossed in discussion about formations, strategies, and upcoming matches.

Your stomach twisted.

He looked… distracted. Consumed. And it hurt.

That evening, you waited in the common room, candlelight flickering on the walls. The cake you’d baked sat on the table, its frosting a little crooked, but perfect in your eyes.

The door opened. You turned quickly, expecting his grin, expecting a teasing remark, expecting a hug.

“Oliver!” you called.

But it wasn’t him.

When he finally arrived, hours later than planned, his face was flushed, sweat on his forehead, Quidditch gear tossed haphazardly over his shoulder.

“Y/N!” he gasped, rushing over. “I—”

You cut him off with a small, brittle smile. “I see you’ve had… a busy day.”

He looked confused. “Busy? What do you mean?”

You swallowed hard. “Our anniversary, Oliver. One year.”

His eyes widened. Then he froze. “Oh… oh no. I—I didn’t—”