You had been friends with Oliver Wood since first year. Back then, it was all about broomsticks, late-night studying, and endless laughter echoing through the corridors of Hogwarts. Over the years, that friendship had grown into something deeper, something neither of you dared to name—at least not out loud.

Now, in your sixth year, the air around Oliver seemed different. He carried himself with the same fierce determination on the Quidditch pitch, but there was something in his gaze when he looked at you—something softer, something that made your chest tighten and your thoughts scramble.

You knew he loved you. Everyone could see it except you. Or rather, you felt it too—but you didn’t trust yourself. Your family had been cursed years ago, a dark shadow that whispered you were doomed to never love or be loved in return. So you told yourself: you couldn’t feel this way. You shouldn’t feel this way.

Yet every time Oliver laughed, your heart leapt. Every time he brushed past you in the corridor, a thousand little sparks ignited in your chest. And when he wasn’t near… the air felt heavier, your breaths shallower, as if a part of you was missing.

It was during one evening in the Gryffindor common room that everything became impossible to ignore. You were sitting by the fire, your head resting on your knees, lost in thought. Oliver appeared beside you, holding two mugs of butterbeer.

“Thought you might like this,” he said, offering you one with that crooked grin that always melted your resolve.

“Thanks,” you whispered, taking it, your fingers brushing his. A spark—electric, undeniable—shot through you.

He hesitated, his green eyes searching yours. “You’ve been… distant lately,” he admitted softly, his usual confident tone replaced by something raw, something uncertain. “Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”