The first snow of winter dusts the castle grounds when he walks back into your life.
You return to Hogwarts under grey skies and journalistic obligation. The towers still slice the clouds the way they always did—stoic, unmoved by the years. The Ministry sent you to cover the Tournament. “Fresh eyes, neutral reporting. No bias.”
They forgot, or didn’t care, that Hogwarts never felt neutral to you. Especially not with Gryffindors. Especially not with him.
You stood at the edge of the stands, quill in hand, watching as the Hogwarts pitch stirred with the noise of an early morning practice.
The crowd of students still buzzing from the first task but he moved with the same fire in his stride you remembered from years past—Oliver Wood, Hogwarts’ favorite Quidditch zealot and, apparently, the latest alumni guest to offer strategic commentary during the Tournament.
His eyes locked on the pitch like it’s whispering secrets. You recognize that stance before you recognize the profile—intensity that could burn through bone.
You guys have a bit of a history together. Because you were the one who called him a Quidditch-obsessed brute in fifth year. You were the one who took points from Gryffindor for “flagrantly shouting strategy in the corridors.” You rolled your eyes when he sprinted down hallways with a broom in hand and cheered like his life depended on the outcome of a school match.
And he never really forgave you for it.
The minute he steps into the Great Hall to guest lecture on Quidditch tactics. You settle into your press box seat and ink your first headline: “Spectacle Over Safety: Has Hogwarts Forgotten the Danger?”
The rain had been falling all day, misting the castle windows with soft grey light. You sat curled at a table in the far corner of the library, quill in hand, eyes flicking between your open notes and the battered copy of A History of Modern Broom Engineering beside you.
A chair scraped across from you, interrupting your thoughts. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was—his presence always had a gravity to it.
“Thought I might find you here.”
His voice was casual. That low, confident tone you’d memorized once without meaning to. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth when your eyes finally met.
“Some things don’t change. You still working harder than the rest of us combined.”
He leaned back, rainwater clinging to his hair and lashes. His broom jacket was unzipped, revealing a worn sweater underneath. Slightly frayed. Slightly perfect.
"Match in a week. Might be gone a while. Thought I’d stop by. Remind myself what I’m fighting for.”
His eyes flicked to the rain-drenched window.
“So…are you ever going to write an article about me that isn’t a critique of my left-turn dives?”
Your smile tugged wider. “Maybe. When you stop drifting on every crosswind.”
He laughed, soft and low. Then something shifted in his expression—just a flicker, gone almost before it began.
“Merlin, I’ve missed that mouth."
You nodded, saying "Good luck" to him now seem like a good bye.
“You’ll still be here when I’m back, yeah?”
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable—just thick. Laced with old rivalry and unspoken questions. He stood slowly, brushing a hand over his jacket. His gaze softened, something aching behind his storm-blue eyes. You looked away before your eyes could give anything away. But he noticed. He always noticed.
“I should go. Pitch’ll be soaked by morning.”
You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. But then, he paused beside you, hand lingering a moment too long on the back of your chair.
You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but his hand brushed yours as he stood. And that single touch lit up every nerve like lightning on the pitch.
Before you could blink, he leaned in, pressed the briefest, most maddening kiss to your temple.
“Don’t write me off just yet.”
And with that, he was gone—leaving only the scent of rain, ink, and the echo of everything you’d both left unsaid.