It still felt like a dream sometimes.

You, the youngest on the team, younger even than Harry, wearing your Gryffindor robes with wind-burnt cheeks and bruises that somehow felt like badges of honour. Madame Hooch had spotted you during flying class and wasted no time dragging Oliver Wood out to see you loop through the air like you belonged there—because you did.

Of course, some of the older players weren’t thrilled. You’d heard them whispering: “She’s just a kid.” “She’ll panic in a match.” “This isn’t a game for little girls.”

But Oliver? Oliver had only watched you fly once. And that was all it took.

He gave you space. Gave you time. Let you prove yourself in drills, one-on-one training, late-night practices. Every time you got better, he noticed. He always noticed.

And slowly, something started to shift between you. Between stolen glances on the pitch, between his hand brushing your wrist when he passed the Quaffle to you, between the way he said your name—like it was something rare.

He became yours, in the kind of way no one else noticed. Not yet.

And tonight, after the Slytherin match—your hardest one yet—the common room was full of victory noise. The win over Slytherin had been hard-earned. Bludgers flying wild, rain soaking through your robes, green robes closing in on all sides—and yet somehow, you’d made it through. Fast. Focused. Smart. The kind of match that left your knuckles sore and your heartbeat high for hours after.

Everyone was still buzzing. Laughter, loud voices, Butterbeer bottles clinking, Seamus retelling the moment you dodged a Bludger mid-air like it was a scene from a bloody war movie.

People laughing, Ron still waving a torn Gryffindor banner like a lunatic, someone already sneaking food from the kitchens.

You were curled into the red velvet couch, half-listening to Hermione ramble about something spell-related, your muscles aching and your mind still flying. Your hair was a mess, cheeks pink from wind and adrenaline.

That’s when he sat down.

Right next to you, with a thump and a little sigh like he’d finally allowed himself to sit still after a day of pacing. His broad shoulders brushed yours when he settled in, and—maybe it was your tired brain—but it felt like he was close. Closer than usual.

His arm stretched behind you on the back of the couch, not touching you but definitely there, and Hermione, bless her (or not), caught the shift instantly.

You barely even noticed Hermione’s voice trailing off.

But she noticed.

Her eyes flicked from you to Oliver, narrowed in a way only Hermione could manage, and then she stood abruptly.

She glanced between you two once. Smiled. And stood up with a suspiciously innocent, “I’ll just… go get my notes from upstairs.”

Sure, Hermione. Thanks.

The second she disappeared, it got… quieter. Not around you, but between you. Like a bubble had been blown into the noise, just the two of you inside it.

Oliver shifted just slightly, leaning a little closer. You could feel the warmth of him at your side, the scent of sweat, wind, and something sharper—focus, maybe. Drive.

“You were incredible tonight,” he said, voice low enough that no one else could hear. “That second feint? Bloody brilliant.”

Oliver Wood wasn’t smiling in the usual, wide, team-hype way. He looked… genuine. Like this was for you, not the rest of the team. Not the post-match celebration. Just you.