Sixth year had been Oliver Wood.

Late nights in the common room with his arm around you while he pretended to study but actually watched you. Early mornings on the pitch, you bringing him tea while he barked orders at the team. Quidditch victories. Stolen kisses. Promises whispered like they were permanent.

Then it ended.

No shouting. No cheating. Just too much pressure, too many futures pulling in different directions. The breakup hurt worse because it was quiet. Because you still loved each other.

Summer passed like a blur.

Seventh year arrived whether you were ready or not.

You dated. Merlin, did you try.

A Ravenclaw who was nice but boring. A Hufflepuff who made you laugh but never felt right. A charming seventh-year who lasted almost a month—until you caught yourself comparing the way he laughed to Oliver’s.

Every time, it ended the same.

You always went back to Oliver.

Not officially. Never with words. Just… orbiting each other like nothing had really changed.

The first time it happened, you were sitting in the Gryffindor common room, pretending to read. Oliver dropped onto the couch beside you without asking, legs stretched out, arm casually resting behind you like it used to.

“You still read that fast,” he said.

“You still hog space,” you replied.

He smirked. Gods, that smirk.

You didn’t talk about the guy you’d broken up with that morning. Oliver didn’t ask. He never did. He just stayed, like he always had.

Weeks later, you showed up at the Quidditch pitch while he was practicing alone, rain soaking through your robes. He didn’t look surprised.

“Another breakup?” he asked gently.

You nodded.

He handed you a towel. No judgment. No satisfaction. Just… Oliver.

“You keep coming back,” he said quietly.

“So do you.”

That shut him up.

The truth sat between you, heavy and obvious.

You tried to stay away. You really did. You avoided him in the halls, sat at different tables, convinced yourself this year would be different.

Then one night, after a disastrous date, you found him in the common room, staring into the fire like he was waiting.

“You okay?” he asked.

You shook your head.

He stood immediately. “C’mere.”

And just like that, you were back in his arms—safe, familiar, ruined.

“I don’t get it,” you whispered into his chest. “I try so hard to move on.”

Oliver rested his forehead against yours. “Maybe you’re not supposed to.”

The room was quiet. The fire crackled. Seventh year loomed ahead of you—graduation, goodbyes, real life.

“I don’t wanna keep hurting,” you said.

“Then don’t,” he replied. “Not with me.”