Gryffindor’s victory party was full chaos—music vibrating the floors, cushions flying, someone already reenacting the final play with a broomstick and way too much confidence. Oliver was doing his best to look like he was still riding the high, laughing when people clapped him on the back… but every few seconds, he found your face in the crowd.

You caught him the third time, raised an eyebrow. He smiled—a quick, subtle thing—and started moving toward you.

He didn’t stop in front of you. He stepped in close instead, close enough that the heat of the room fell away, close enough his shoulder brushed yours. Then he dipped his head so his mouth was near your ear, voice low and warm and meant only for you.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

A soft breath of a laugh followed, warm against your skin. “I’m about two minutes away from losing my mind.”

Your answer must’ve been written on your face, because he grinned — bright and boyish, like he’d been hoping you’d say yes.

He let his fingers graze yours, guiding you toward the portrait hole with a quiet, “Come on.”

The second you stepped into the corridor, the noise softened behind you. Oliver exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a weary smile.

“I swear, if one more person tried to describe that goal to me, I’d…” He didn’t finish the sentence — just laughed, shoulders dropping as he fell into step beside you.

Your arms brushed as you walked. Neither of you moved away.

Without talking about it, you both drifted into the small alcove off the corridor — that snug, tucked-away spot barely big enough for two. Oliver leaned beside you, close enough your knees nearly touched.

“Knew you’d want the quiet too,” he murmured, nudging your foot gently with his. His eyes softened — not a confession, just an easy truth shared between you. “Glad you came with me.”

The party roared somewhere far away, but here it was just warm stone, soft torchlight, and the two of you breathing in the same stolen pocket of calm.