You’ve known Oliver Wood longer than you’ve known half the castle.

Long practices, scraped knees, whispered jokes in the stands, late-night talks about life after Hogwarts that always somehow circle back to Quidditch. Best friends. Everyone knows it. You know it. Seventh year didn’t change that—if anything, it made it feel heavier, like time was pressing in on all the things you never said.

Gryffindor wins the match in spectacular fashion. Again.

The common room is chaos—red and gold everywhere, people shouting, laughing, someone knocking over a chair. Oliver’s face is flushed, hair a mess, grin so wide it almost hurts to look at. You’re used to that look. You’re used to being right there beside him.

Someone produces butterbeer. Someone else produces something much worse.

“Truth or dare!” George announces, already far too pleased with himself.

Fred leans in, eyes glittering. “But let’s make it interesting. Tiny sip of truth potion for everyone.”

You immediately shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh come on,” Angelina says, laughing. “One last stupid seventh-year memory.”

Oliver looks at you, hesitant. “We don’t have to—”

You sigh. “No, it’s fine. If this ruins my life, I’m blaming the twins.”

Fred beams. “Worth it.”

You all sit in a loose circle on the floor. The potion tastes faintly like mint and regret. Warmth spreads through your chest—not dizzy, not dramatic. Just… honest.

The game starts harmless. Who cheated on homework. Who kissed who first. Laughter. Groans. Embarrassment.

Then George’s eyes flick to Oliver.

“Alright, Captain,” he says sweetly. “Truth. Have you ever seen Y/N”—he gestures pointedly at you—“as more than a friend?”

The room goes quiet.

Your heart drops straight into your stomach.

You turn to Oliver instinctively, ready to laugh it off, ready to save him—to save yourself. But Oliver has gone very still.

You can see it on his face—the way he tries to deflect, tries to joke, tries to avoid. Except he can’t. The truth potion won’t let him.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs the back of his neck.

“…Yes.”

The word lands soft. Simple. Unavoidable.

For half a second, no one reacts. Then the room explodes—whoops, laughter, someone yelling “I KNEW IT!” Fred nearly falls over.

Oliver, meanwhile, looks absolutely mortified. His ears turn red. He stares at the floor like it personally betrayed him.

You can’t laugh. Your chest feels too tight. Too warm. The potion doesn’t let you hide either.

“Since we’re being honest,” Angelina says, smirking, “you wanna respond?”

Every eye turns to you.