You and Oliver Wood had been friends for so long that everyone just assumed you’d go to the Yule Ball together. Everyone except Oliver himself.

Because Oliver had a secret — a big one — one that tied his stomach in knots whenever you smiled at him.

He liked you. Really liked you. More than a friend. More than he knew what to do with.

And with the Yule Ball only a month away, he’d officially begun panicking.

Practice ended late, the pitch still glowing with enchanted lanterns, mist curling in the winter air. Oliver wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his Quidditch robe, muttering to himself.

“Just ask them. It’s easy. You’ve faced rogue Bludgers. You can face this.”

George Weasley passed by, raising an eyebrow. “Talking to yourself again, Captain?”

Oliver jumped. “No. Yes. Maybe.”

Fred leaned in, smirking. “He’s trying to ask someone to the ball.”

Oliver glared. “Shut it.”

But the twins only cackled harder.

The next day, he found you in the library, curled up beside a pile of books, your quill tapping your cheek as you studied. You didn’t even notice him until he knocked on the table.

You looked up and smiled — that smile that absolutely destroyed him every single time.

“Oh, hey Ollie.”

His heart did a full Quidditch dive.

“Hi,” he said, voice cracking like a broken broomstick.

You tilted your head. “You look pale. Did Flint hit you with a Bludger again?”

“No,” he quickly replied. “Just… thinking.”

“You? Thinking? That sounds dangerous.”

He laughed weakly. Yeah. He was doomed.

Oliver sat down across from you, trying to look casual.

“So… you know the Yule Ball is coming up,” he began.

“Mhm,” you hummed, still reading.

“I was wondering if maybe… maybe you would—”

Your quill rolled off the table. You bent to pick it up. Oliver’s courage died on the spot.

“—want to go early to Hogsmeade to buy dress robes!” he blurted.

You blinked. “Wait… with you?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean—just as friends—no pressure—I’m helping everyone—”

You laughed softly. “Oliver, you’re rambling.”

He buried his face in his hands.

After practice a few days later, he saw you sitting in the stands, waiting for him like you always did. He jogged over, broom in hand, adrenaline making him bold.

“Hey,” he said breathlessly. “I wanted to ask—”

A Quaffle rolled past him, knocking into his ankle. He tripped. You gasped. You rushed to him.

And Oliver, who was supposed to be Gryffindor’s graceful keeper, ended up sprawled at your feet.

“Are you okay?” you asked, worried.

“Fine,” he groaned. “Just mortified forever.”

You helped him sit up, your hand warm on his arm.

He lost the nerve again.