This was absurd. He was Oliver. Oliver Wood. Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The fearless Keeper who would throw himself in front of a bludger without blinking. He’d faced Slytherins on the pitch, screamed strategy over roaring crowds, and kept his team from crumbling under pressure.

So why—why—was it so damn hard to ask a girl to dance?

But, of course, this wasn’t just any girl. This was {{user}}. The girl who had haunted his thoughts since third year, who made him forget game tactics and practice schedules with just a glance. The one whose laugh made his chest tighten and whose smile sent a swarm of butterflies tearing through his stomach like a rogue snitch.

Oliver stood across the Great Hall, watching her as she chatted with her friends, her dress catching the candlelight just right. She looked… radiant. Like she’d stepped straight out of one of his dreams and into the Yule Ball. He swallowed hard. His palms were sweating. Ridiculous, he told himself.

He could handle a bludger to the face. He could handle this. Probably.