You’ve loved Oliver Wood long enough to know the exact rhythm of him. The way his grin used to soften when he saw you. The way his voice dipped when he got serious about Quidditch. The way his laugh used to change—loud when he was excited, breathless when he was tired, crooked when he was nervous.

That’s how you noticed it. The first mistake.

It was nothing at first. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like a muscle misfiring. He smiled at you across the Gryffindor common room, and for a split second it looked… stuck. Then it relaxed. Normal. Almost.

You told yourself you were imagining it.

After all, you were both seventh-years. Stress was expected. Oliver lived and breathed Quidditch. You loved him. You trusted him. You noticed everything.

The second thing happened at 3:04 a.m.

A knock. Soft. Precise. Three taps.

When you opened the dorm door, Oliver stood there in full Quidditch gear, broom in hand, eyes bright in the dark. Too bright. His smile was already there, wide and perfect, like it had been placed on his face rather than grown there.

“Come fly with me,” he said.

No teasing. No whispering so he wouldn’t wake anyone. No explanation. Just the sentence, spoken cleanly, evenly. Like he was reciting something he’d practiced.

You didn’t go. You laughed it off, said tomorrow, said he was insane. He nodded once—once—and walked away without another word.

You watched his back disappear down the corridor. He didn’t turn around.

After that, the habits began.

He started showing up in places he shouldn’t have been able to reach so quickly. Outside your classes. At the foot of the staircase. By the pitch at hours when no one else was awake. Always smiling. Always watching.

When he spoke, it felt… wrong. Like the words were assembled instead of spoken.

You tested it once.

You brought up the time you both fell into the Black Lake during second year, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. You expected him to complain about the cold, about how his boots had been ruined.

Instead, he smiled and said, “Yes. I remember when you pushed me in during winter.”

That never happened. You never pushed him. And it hadn’t been winter.

You corrected him gently. He didn’t argue. He didn’t look confused. He just paused—exactly two seconds—and then said, “Right. My mistake.”

Same tone. Same smile.

His laugh started to bother you the most. Because it never changed.

Every joke. Every moment. Same length. Same pitch. Same sharp inhale at the end, like the sound was being replayed from somewhere else.

You stopped sleeping properly. You started watching him instead of reacting to him.

You didn’t tell anyone. Because telling would make it real.

When you finally went to Percy, it was because you needed confirmation. Percy had known Oliver for years. Percy would notice if something was wrong.

You found him in the library, surrounded by parchment. Safe. Normal.

You told him everything in a whisper. The smile. The memories. The voice. The laugh.

Percy frowned. Adjusted his glasses. Thought.

“I’ve noticed he’s been… off,” Percy admitted. “But Oliver overworks himself. Always has. Quidditch does that to him.”

Relief flooded you—too quickly.

You thanked him. You stood to leave.

And then you saw Percy’s reflection in the glass of a bookcase.

He was smiling.

Wide. Perfect. Unmoving.

The same smile.

Your stomach dropped.

When you turned back, Percy’s face was normal again. Concerned. Kind. As if nothing had happened.

You didn’t sleep at all that night.

Oliver knocked on your door again at 3 a.m. Same taps. Same timing.

“I missed you,” he said.

You stared at him, searching for something—a crack, a flicker, a hint of the boy you loved. His eyes reflected the torchlight too clearly, like glass.

“You already saw me today,” you said carefully.

He paused. Two seconds.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s correct"