Seventh year at Hogwarts was supposed to be perfect.

You and Oliver Wood had been together for a full year now—an entire year of sneaking early-morning broom rides, studying in the library while he tried (and failed) to focus on anything other than you, and him kissing your forehead before every Quidditch practice “for good luck.” He was your comfort, your laughter, your person.

So when Professor McGonagall gathered only the seventh-years to announce that at midnight, your soulmate’s name would magically appear on your wrist, you didn’t panic.

Neither did he.

Oliver squeezed your hand under the table, whispering, “Easy. It’ll be your name on mine, and mine on yours. This is the one time I’m not worried.”

And you believed him. Completely.

Midnight. The Common Room

You and Oliver sat on the couch closest to the fire, everyone around you watching the clock like it was about to explode. Some people were pacing; others were pale with nerves. But you both were calm.

Because what could go wrong?

The clock struck 12:00.

First, Oliver’s wrist glowed. He lifted it slowly, breath caught in his throat.

Your name was written there.

Clear, bright, certain.

His eyes softened—relief, pride, everything he felt for you shining all at once. He smiled, holding out his arm so you could see.

“It’s you,” he whispered.

Then your wrist warmed.

You looked down.

And the world stopped.

Marcus Flint.

Not Oliver Wood.

Not even close.

Your heart plunged, your breath catching in your chest. You stared at the letters, not believing them, hoping they would fade or shift or reveal a mistake.

They didn’t.

Oliver’s smile slowly collapsed as he watched your face drain of color. His eyes dropped to your wrist—and he froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

It felt like the room disappeared, leaving just you, Oliver, and that one impossible name.

He was the first to speak, voice barely steady.

“…What?”

You wished you had an answer. You wished you could explain fate, or destiny, or whatever cruel magic had decided to tear a crack down the middle of the life you shared.

But you couldn’t.

“I don’t— I don’t know,” you whispered.

Oliver swallowed hard. His hand trembled when he reached for yours but didn’t quite touch it, like he was afraid he didn’t have the right anymore.

“But you love me,” he said—quiet, but breaking. “And I love you. That doesn’t just… disappear because of a mark.”