You told yourself it was a mistake.

A stupid, heat-of-the-moment thing after a brutal fight with Percy—his words sharp, dismissive, too logical, like feelings were an inconvenience. You’d stormed out, heart racing, needing air… and somehow ended up knocking on Oliver Wood’s door.

Oliver, who had always looked at you a second too long. Oliver, who knew exactly how to read you. Oliver, Percy’s best friend.

It was supposed to be one time.

You’d said it together, breathless and shaken afterward.

“This can’t happen again,” you’d whispered. “It won’t,” Oliver had promised. “Never again. Percy can’t know.”

And you meant it.

Until the next fight. Until the next late night. Until Oliver’s voice was the only thing that calmed you down.

Every time, it was the same script.

Last time. I swear. This is it.

And every time, you broke it.

Oliver never pushed—but he never stopped you either. Sometimes he looked wrecked afterward, jaw tight, guilt written all over him. Sometimes he kissed your forehead like he was trying to apologize without words.

Then one afternoon, everything collapsed.

You were in your dorm, half-asleep, heart still pounding from the night before, when the door opened.

Percy.

“I brought your notes,” he said automatically—then stopped.

His eyes dropped.

There, near your bed.

A green Quidditch shirt. Oliver’s.

The room went silent.

Slowly, Percy picked it up. “Why,” he said carefully, “is Oliver’s shirt in your room?”