You and Oliver had been dating for six months — six months of intense Quidditch training, stolen kisses in hallways, late-night study “dates” that turned into cuddling, and watching him panic over literally anything that wasn’t a broomstick.

But nothing… nothing… prepared you for this.

It was the week before Halloween when Oliver approached you with the most serious expression you’d ever seen. Like he was about to confess he loved you or ask you to marry him or retire from Quidditch.

“Babe,” he said, voice low, “I need you to do something for me.”

You sat up straighter. “Okay… what’s wrong?”

He leaned in dramatically. “I want you to dye my hair blue.”

You blinked. “…Blue?”

“Blue!” he repeated as if this was the most reasonable request in the world. “For Halloween! The whole team is doing colors and I— I want you to do mine.”

“You want me to dye your hair?”

“Yes,” he nodded seriously. “I trust you.”

You choked a bit. “Oliver, that’s— that’s a huge mistake.”

Ten minutes later, you were in the Gryffindor boys’ bathroom with a bowl of shimmering blue dye and Oliver sitting on a stool like a man about to meet his doom.

He wore his Quidditch jersey “for emotional support.”

“This won’t burn my scalp, right?” he asked for the fifth time.

“No,” you sighed.

“And it comes off eventually?”

“Yes.”

“And I won’t go bald?”

“If you do, I’ll shave my head too.”

He gasped. “You’d do that for me?”

“No.”

“Y/N!” he whined, offended.

You laughed, dipping the brush into the dye. “Hold still, Captain Drama.”

Oliver tried to hold still. He really did. But he flinched every time the brush touched his hair.

“Ow!”

“It didn’t touch you yet!”

“I felt emotional pain!”

“Stop moving or you’ll end up looking like a blueberry!”

“Maybe that’s my destiny— OW!”

“That wasn’t even me, that was the air!”

At one point he grabbed your wrist dramatically. “If I don’t survive this—”

“You’re not dying, Oliver.”

“—tell McGonagall she was like a second mum to me.”

You shoved his shoulder. “OH MY GOD.”

But between the chaos, the nervous babbling, and your constant teasing, he kept sneaking soft glances at you. Small smiles. A blush whenever your fingers brushed his hair.

At one point you cupped his jaw to angle his head forward. He went very still.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“I— I think you touching my face is making me forget how to breathe.”

“Oliver.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He squeaked. He actually squeaked.