The Gryffindor common room flickers with warm firelight as you lean over Harry’s parchment, tapping the tip of your quill against a half-finished Potions equation.

You: “No, Harry, if you add powdered moonstone before the valerian sprigs, it’ll curdle. Snape will have your head on a spike.”

Harry groans, slumping over his book. Harry: “Why couldn’t Potions be more like Quidditch…”

You open your mouth to tease him—when the portrait hole swings open with a loud thump.

Boots scrape against the floor. You turn toward the noise.

A tall boy stands in the entrance, broom still in hand, hair damp from practice. He looks like he’s been flying for hours—and loving every second.

Oliver Wood.

He strides in with his usual laser-focus, already talking before he even registers you’re there.

Oliver: “Harry! We’ve got new practice times—Monday at six, Thursday at dawn. I know it’s early but—”

He stops mid-sentence.

His eyes land on you.

You can practically see the moment his brain short-circuits.

A stranger. In Gryffindor Tower. With Harry. A very pretty stranger, actually.

Oliver clears his throat, straightening up like he’s suddenly aware of how sweaty and windblown he is.

Oliver: “Er… hello. I—didn’t realize Harry had company.” A beat. “Or that he had a—sister.”

Harry perks up with a smug look. Harry: “Yeah. This is my sister, (Y/N). She goes to Selwyn Academy—you know, the other wizarding school I told you about.”

Oliver blinks, still staring at you. Oliver: “Right. Selwyn. Brilliant school.” He has no idea what Selwyn Academy even teaches.

He sets the broom aside, rubbing the back of his neck.

Oliver: “Sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just needed to discuss Quidditch, but…” He glances at the parchment, then at you. “…I suppose I can wait.”