You weren’t supposed to care.

You were Slytherin’s youngest-ever Quidditch captain — fifth year, full of sharp edges and faster reflexes, with a broomstick like an extension of your spine and a fire in your chest you refused to dim. You were used to being underestimated. Called kid, lucky, all nerves and talent but no discipline.

Especially by him.

Oliver Wood.

Seventh year. Gryffindor captain. Loud, relentless, obsessed. He’d been captain since you were barely out of first-year robes. And he hated that you were good. Really good.

You were everything he couldn’t control. You played smart, cruel, tactical. You trained harder than people twice your age. You had your team calling you “sir” half-jokingly by the third week of tryouts.

And Oliver? He had the audacity to treat you like a joke.

It started with little things.

Snide comments in the corridor after practice. “You nearly flew straight into the stands, you know.” “Hard to steer a broom when your ego’s that heavy, isn’t it?” You’d snap back, eyes glinting, lips curled. “Oh? Sorry — couldn’t hear you over all that choking you did last match.”

It escalated. Oh, it escalated.

Training schedules were suddenly overlapping. “Accidentally.” He’d march his team onto the pitch during your booked hours, smirking. You threw a Bludger at his head. He hexed your broom to squeak every time you turned. You snuck into Gryffindor’s practice shed and filled his gear bag with chocolate frogs and snakes that screamed when touched. He turned all your water bottles into vinegar.

You chased each other down Hogwarts hallways throwing spare broomsticks, shouting insults, dodging prefects and leaving a trail of chaos. Professors tried to separate you. McGonagall begged you both to behave.

But you couldn’t. You were a storm. And he was the idiot who kept flying straight into it.

And now?

With the inter-house tournament only a week away?

The tension was unbearable.

He was everywhere. Watching you train. Looming at meals. Hovering behind corners when you passed, breathing heavier, voice lower.

And you noticed. How his eyes lingered too long when you wiped sweat from your collar. How he stepped too close during arguments. How his hand almost brushed yours when reaching for the same playbook.

You noticed. And you hated that you did.

Tonight was worse. Pitch-dark, post-practice, only the torches flickering as you headed toward the locker rooms — alone, until—

“You’re flying too tight on your turns,” came a voice behind you.

You spun, annoyed. Of course. Oliver stood there, arms crossed, soaked with sweat, shirt clinging to his chest like sin.

You rolled your eyes. “Are you following me now?”

He smirked, stepping closer. “Maybe I’m just keeping an eye on the competition.”