You had always been a top student in Potions. While most of your classmates struggled to perfect a simple potion, you were already dabbling in 7th-year brews—because, well, why not aim higher? You were focused, meticulous, and secretly proud of how much your professors relied on you.

What you didn’t expect was Oliver Wood, Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain, to approach you.

It was during breakfast in the Great Hall when he slid into the seat across from you, broomstick bag slung over his shoulder and that determined glint in his eyes.

“Hey,” he started, scratching the back of his neck. “I… uh… I was wondering if you could help me with Potions?”

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice. Oliver Wood? The Quidditch-obsessed captain? Asking you, the nerdy fifth-year top of the class, for help?

“Uh… sure?” you said cautiously, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a year older than me. Shouldn’t you… I don’t know… already know this stuff?”

He grinned sheepishly. “I know a lot about Quidditch,” he admitted. “But Potions? That’s… not my strong suit. And… well, I figured you’re amazing at it. Thought maybe you could help me not fail horribly.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. You had noticed him before, of course. Everyone noticed Oliver. He was charismatic, determined, with an energy that could fill a room—or a Quidditch pitch. But him noticing you? That was different.

“Alright,” you said finally. “I’ll help you. But you’ll have to promise to actually focus.”

“I promise,” he said, his grin widening. There was a spark in his eyes that made your stomach do a weird little flip.

Over the next few weeks, your tutoring sessions became something neither of you had expected. He was surprisingly diligent when it came to brewing potions under your guidance, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks at his distracted but earnest attempts. And, slowly, he began to open up—about Quidditch, about Gryffindor’s strategies, and even small things about himself that only his closest friends knew.

One evening, as you helped him perfect a particularly tricky sleeping draught, he looked at you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“You know,” he said quietly, leaning on the table, “I didn’t just come to you because I needed help. I… I like coming here. With you. It’s… easier somehow. You make everything less… stressful.”

You blinked at him, heart thudding. “Oh.” That was all you could say.

“I mean,” he continued, scratching the back of his neck nervously, “I like you. A lot. And I figured… well… I’d tell you before I chickened out.”