You’d been dating Oliver Wood for a year now. It was easy to lose yourself in the chaos of Gryffindor Quidditch practices, study sessions, and late-night chats in the common room—but there was one thing Oliver knew about you that you hadn’t been able to shake: your fear of flying.

Not that you didn’t know how. You could handle a broom perfectly fine, your form was good, and your reflexes were sharp. But every flying lesson, every match practice, your heart would hammer, your hands would shake, and you’d keep your broom low to the ground.

Oliver noticed. Of course he noticed.

It started subtly. “C’mon, love,” he said one afternoon, broom in hand. “I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

You frowned, nervous. “What kind of surprise?”

“You’ll see,” he replied with that confident grin that made your stomach flip. “Meet me at the pitch after dinner. Don’t be late.”

When you arrived, Oliver had the Quidditch pitch to himself, the sun dipping low and painting everything gold. He held out your broom.

“Okay,” he said softly, walking over to you. “I know flying… isn’t your favorite thing. But today, we’re going to change that.”

You swallowed hard. “Change it? I… I don’t know if I can.”

Oliver crouched down to meet your gaze. “You can, because I’ll be with you the whole time. No matter what.”

He led you to the center of the pitch. “Alright. First, we start slow. You keep your broom low. I’m right here.”

You mounted your broom hesitantly, gripping the handle so tight your knuckles turned white. Oliver floated beside you, steady and calm, as if nothing could go wrong.

“Just breathe,” he said gently. “In… out… you’ve got this.”

You lifted off the ground slightly, trembling. Oliver’s hand brushed against yours instinctively as he flew closer. “See? You’re already flying. That’s it. That’s all it takes.”

Your heart raced, but you nodded. His encouragement was a lifeline, making you feel brave in a way no one else had.

After a few laps close to the ground, Oliver suggested, “Let’s try a little higher… together.”

Your stomach sank, fear clawing at you, but Oliver’s eyes were so warm, so trusting, that you couldn’t say no. He stayed beside you, matching your pace, guiding you with gentle words.

“You’re doing amazing,” he said, voice soft. “I’ve seen you fly better than anyone else on this pitch. Now, show yourself what you can really do.”

You took a shaky breath, heart pounding, and lifted higher. For the first time, you felt the wind beneath your broom instead of the fear pressing down on you. Oliver grinned, looping around you, and your laughter rang out across the empty pitch.

“You’re flying!” he cheered, and it hit you—you really were. You weren’t just floating; you were soaring.