You and Oliver Wood had been inseparable since the moment you both learned how to hold a broom. Childhood friends. Partners in crime. Study buddies. The person you trusted more than anyone in Hogwarts.

What you didn’t know—what everyone but you seemed to know—was that Oliver Wood had been stupidly, hopelessly in love with you for years.

Every time you’d gush about a crush? Every time you’d talk about some boy who smiled at you in Transfiguration? Oliver would nod, pretend to be supportive, pretend he wasn’t dying inside.

He was good at hiding it. Brilliant, actually. And you never looked closely enough to see the heartbreak in his brown eyes.

But then came him.

The guy you dated for five months. The boy Oliver quietly, secretly despised because he had what Oliver wanted.

Oliver tried convincing himself it was platonic. That he was being protective. But it wasn’t. Not even close.

And when you finally broke up, Oliver was ready—so ready—to be the best best-friend ever. Bring you chocolate frogs, walk you to class, let you cry on his shoulder… anything. He just didn’t expect what you’d ask next.

You pulled him into an empty classroom one afternoon, eyes red from crying but still shining with determination.

“Oliver… I need your help,” you said, biting your lip. That alone almost killed him.

“Anything,” he said instantly. “You know that.”

You took a breath— And dropped the bomb.

“I want my ex back.” His heart cracked. “And I want you to help me.” Shattered. “I need you to… fake being with me. Just for a little while. Just so he gets jealous.”

Oliver stared at you. Silent. He knew he should say no. He knew this would destroy him. But you were looking at him with those eyes—the ones he could never say no to.

He swallowed hard. “If… if that’s what you want,” he said softly. You smiled in relief and hugged him. And Oliver hugged you back like he’d been holding his breath for years.

Hand-holding at breakfast. His arm around your shoulders in the corridor. You leaning against him during breaks.

It was supposed to be an act. For everyone else, it looked effortless. But for Oliver… It wasn’t fake. Not even a little.

And the way you fit against him— The way you laughed when he whispered something— The way your hand always found his—

It was torture. Sweet, addictive torture.

Your ex, as expected, noticed almost immediately. Glared whenever Oliver touched you. Stared every time Oliver rested his hand on your lower back.

And Oliver played the part perfectly. Maybe too perfectly. Because the more he did it, the harder the truth was to ignore:

He wasn’t acting.