The Highlands were slow in the summer — golden light caught in the gorse bushes, air full of buzzing insects and the smell of sweetbread rising in your gran’s kitchen window.
Your parents had sent you to stay with Gran for the summer while they were away on Ministry business. You didn’t mind. Her cottage backed up onto a wide, grassy hill that looked out over the loch — and best of all, the Wood family lived just down the slope.
Oliver Wood, age nine, had knocked on the door the day after you arrived with a crooked grin and a toy broom over his shoulder. He said:
“You’re the kid from last summer, right? You still got that pretend wand?”
And from that moment on, you were inseparable.
You spent days racing across hills and inventing rules for made-up games. He scraped his knee at least once a day. You shared buttered crumpets and played “dragon tamers” with socks on your hands. And now?
Now you were in the garden, and Oliver was sitting cross-legged in front of you on a threadbare blanket, shirt grass-stained, cheeks red from flying.
The sun hung low in the sky, a golden peach blur over the Highlands. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and raspberry jam, and a lazy breeze rustled the edges of a too-old picnic blanket stretched across the garden.
You grabbed a comb, a handful of old ribbons from your gran’s sewing basket.
Oliver Wood sat cross-legged in front of you, knees scabbed, shirt grass-stained, and face sun-kissed. His hair — a thick mop of messy chestnut brown — stuck out in every direction from flying around on a toy broom earlier that morning. You’d told him to sit still or you’d hex him with a daisy chain wand (which, to be fair, was mostly twine and wishful thinking).
He grumbled but didn’t move as you dragged a comb gently through his hair, your little fingers tugging and twisting as you tried to braid the front.
“I let you do this." He muttered dramatically.
"Because you promised there’d be treacle tart after.”
You didn’t reply, focused on your masterpiece.
Oliver sighed deeply, like he was being martyred.
“If Marcus Flint sees me with flowers in my hair, he’s going to tell everyone at flying camp.”
Still, he didn’t pull away. Not once.
When you finished, you tapped his shoulder and spun him around. His hair was tied up in tiny uneven plaits with pink ribbons you’d stolen from your gran’s sewing tin.
“You’re lucky that i even play with you."
He said, cheeks red as he looked down, fingers twitching near the braid ends.
“But if you tell anyone I let you do this…”
He trailed off. Then, quietly.
“Do it again tomorrow?”