It was supposed to be just a small party.

Percy, Oliver’s dormmate and best friend, had decided that a Friday night at their shared Gryffindor dorm could use “some excitement.” You didn’t mind excitement. Especially when it involved music, butterbeer, and the occasional prank.

Oliver, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly a party person. He tolerated it for Percy’s sake—and because he knew you would inevitably show up.

And show up you did.

At first, it was fine. Drinks in hand, laughter spilling across the room, music thumping. You danced, joked, and flirted outrageously. Oliver watched quietly from the corner, arms crossed, brow furrowed—but with a small, secret smile.

Then you started to sway a little too much.

“Hey,” Oliver said, stepping closer as you raised your cup for the tenth time. “Maybe slow down?”

You giggled, blinking at him. “Ollie… you always look so hot when you worry like that.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t step away. “I mean it. No more.”

“Stop bossing me,” you slurred, leaning against him with more weight than you realized. “You’re perfect anyway. Handsome, smart, amazing… God, I love you.”

Oliver froze. Did she just—?

Before he could react, your balance gave out. He caught you instantly, arms firm around your waist.

“You are not drinking another drop,” he said firmly, guiding you toward the door.

“Oliver…” you murmured, voice low and affectionate, your face nearly pressed against his chest. “I could drink with you. But… I like this better.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he gently laid you against his side and half-carried, half-walked you out of the dorm. The cool night air sobered you slightly, but not enough to stop the compliments that tumbled out.

“You’re so strong, Ollie. And tall. And… and… ugh, I love the way your hands feel on me. You smell so good—like… like… victory or chocolate… or both.”

Oliver kept walking, saying nothing, trying to convince himself your words were just the alcohol talking—even though his chest warmed with every syllable.

Finally, you reached your dorm. Hermione’s light was still on. She opened the door, eyes wide.

“Oh my Merlin! You’re—are you drunk?!” Hermione gasped.

You hiccuped, giggling, and reached for Oliver’s arm. “Yes. But… I’m fine. Well, mostly fine… Ollie, stay?”

Hermione and Oliver exchanged a look. Hermione sighed. “Alright, let’s get you to bed.”

Oliver guided you inside, holding you steady. You collapsed onto your bed dramatically—but not before grabbing his tie.

“Oliver…” you whispered, staring up at him, flushed and bold. “I… I like you. I like you so much. You’re amazing. So hot. So… everything. Please don’t leave. Stay.”

Oliver froze. His heart jumped.

“…Y/N—” he began, attempting to push you gently onto the mattress.

Instead, you leaned up and kissed him. Firm. Bold. Shaky from the alcohol, but deliberate.

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t respond immediately. Tried to convince himself this was just drunken nonsense. But his heart betrayed him with every second of contact, a little jump, a little tremor in his chest.

You rested your forehead against his, breathless. “Please… stay,” you murmured.

Oliver swallowed hard, voice low and unsteady. “I… I don’t know if I should—”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. Just… just be here. With me.”

And that was all it took.

He exhaled slowly, letting himself melt into the moment. Sitting beside you on the bed, fingers tangling in your hair, brushing the back of your neck. Neither speaking for a long while, just holding each other, letting the warmth and the honesty of your tipsy confession sink in.