currently writing

You stared at the parchment in your hand. The big, round writing displayed across its surface giving a chaotic look that contrasted with the polite tone of its content, obviously forced. You read it two, maybe three times more as an incredulous smile spread across your face.

“Oh, please” you groaned out loud. “Learn to take some criticism”

“That the letter that arrived for you?” you heard your brother yell across the store as he guided some new bats onto the shelves with a twirl of his wand.

The magazine you wrote for was really small, simply an accessory to your family’s store that you had been writting casually for a few years. It wasn’t popular, hell, it was barely a magazine despite the effort that you’d put into it looking presentable. Having someone read it, let along feel strongly enough about it to write back to you wasn’t a possibility you had ever taken into consideration. And yet, here you were.

“Where is Claws?” you asked down the hallway of Quidditch equipment.

“Dear Mr. Wood,

Thank you so much for reaching out to me with your honest thoughts about my piece. I’m sorry if my criticism came across as mocking. I was attempting to paint a charming and endearing picture from your wobbly flying. I’m sure our readers were able to interpret it that way, and to be fair you might be taking your playing more seriously than anyone did. I assume you went through every writting about the game looking for someone that had something to say about you and when you finally found mine it wasn’t to your liking. I’ll go further and say that the only reason why no one else wrote about your scarce five minutes on the pit is because no one bothered to pay any mind to an unknown rookie sent to help in a pinch, so in that way: you are welcome.

Best regards,

Ms. Whittaker”

That seemed good enough for you at the time, aware enough that your behavior wasn’t much more mature than his had been. You put the letter in an envelope with the address Oliver had scribbled on the outside of his own. Claws had eagerly picked it up with a pleased screech and leapt from the concrete windowsill of the store soon disappearing behind grey clouds. A few days later another letter with his name on it had been dropped by Claws on your bed. It left your room with a protest so loud you were sure your landlord would come complain to you again. You hadn’t been sure if he would answer, but given how temperamental his letter had sounded last time, you couldn’t say you were surprised. You were excited though, the situation as amusing as it was petty. The handwriting was not as rushed this time, making the lines thinner and letters smaller. You couldn’t tell if it was politeness or measured annoyance what you would discover, but nothing could have prepared you for what you would read next.

“Dear Ms. Whittaker,

First of all, I’d like to apologize for confusing you for a man; my cousin has the same name, and he’s a boy.”

You brought a hand to your mouth to suppress a laugh. The tone shift had almost made your animosity towards him disappear.

“However, I still think that your writing was childish and unprofessional. I agree I did not put on a good performance. I’m sure you remember your first game and can understand what pressure can do to even the most talented players. I hope next time I play I can change your mind, and that you can look at me with kinder eyes. I know you are a professional, so I know one day I’ll make it into your great writing.

Kind regards,

Oliver Wood”

You read the letter over and over, but not for the same reason you had done with the first one. You cocked your head to the side, confused and intrigued by some of the things written on it. Ever since you had sent your own letter, you had reflected back on what you had written about him and read it yourself, and you had to agree maybe you had been a bit harsh on him. You were confused as to why he had mentioned your first game, which you had never played. You read the word “professional” over and over again, flattered and feeling your chest swell with pride. Then the guilt seeped in.

“Dear Mr. Wood,

I want to open this letter with the admission that my words about you were in fact unnecessarily harsh. While the criticism I wrote about you was valid, the way I placed my words was not, and I’d like to formally apologise for that.” ... “ I have to admit I’d like to be able to relate to the stomach-turning feeling of stepping on the Quidditch Pitch for the first time, but I have never played myself. Maybe I was jealous that someone my age was already at such stage on his life and the bitterness got the best of me. My enjoyment of the sport is limited to the bleachers, the higher the better, which some people might say deprives my reporting of actual insight. I guess it's not that noticeable since you thought otherwise, which I will admit made me very happy. Thank you for the kind words about my writing and I hope that we can see each other as colleagues on opposite sides of the field from now on. I will be looking forward to seeing you at the next game.

Kind regards"

“Dear Ms Whittaker,

Are we really the same age? I had assumed you were way older because I have been reading Bloody Bludgers for years and I remember reading your articles back in school. How old were you when you wrote these? I thought I might have gotten it wrong but I looked for my old volumes and your name is written in them. Were you writing in school? I also had assumed you had played before because of the detail and insight you seem to have when it comes to your writings. Your dissection of equipment is one of my favourite corners of the magazine, and I learnt a lot from it (and I already knew a lot) Will you be at the next Puddlemere game? I doubt I’ll play, but I look forward to reading your take on it.

Best regards,

Oliver Wood”

That letter had found you on a downcast November morning. Oliver’s owl, which you had met for the first time, sat for a long time on the back of your chair as if waiting. You lay on the bed, feet fidgeting as you read the words over and over again. The overly polite tone had been dropped completely, and so had the animosity. You had in fact gone to watch the game, and as he had said he hadn’t played in it, which you refused to admit had soured your mood.

“Dear Oliver,

I did in fact write during my time in school. You probably know this, but our magazine is actually part of our family business, a Quidditch equipment store. It has belonged to my family for three generations, so of course even if I have never played, I’m well versed in all aspects of the sport. If I’m being honest I’m always surprised when someone not local reads our magazine since I started it as a hobby. I guess you must read a lot. I hope I get to see you play soon. I also hope you’ll read my article on the upcoming Warwick game and give me your opinion of it”

He didn’t reply to that one for the next few days. It started worrying you that you might have overstepped by calling him by his first name. Maybe that had been too much too soon. It was the first time in years that you had interacted with someone with the same enthusiasm for Quidditch that you had. Not even your brother matched your intensity, acting more as a resigned heir to the business than anything else. He was also your best friend, which wasn’t saying much, but given the circumstances was understandable. With your friends there was always a detachment, especially the ones you’d known since school. Maybe this was for the best, you thought; becoming friends with someone like Oliver would just start a ticking bomb. So you tried to not feel hurt when another day passed by with no news of him and pretended you couldn’t feel the hope sink down all the way down to the pit of your stomach.

That was, until the Warwick game.

You hadn’t even noticed him even after he had sat down next to you. You hadn’t bothered to turn around when you felt someone sit down, only readjusting yourself when you felt their knee bump against yours. Whoever it was, they were accompanied by the faint scent of leather and an unfortunate choice of cologne. As you finally turned to fetch your writing materials out of your bag, you saw him looking around with a pair of binoculars. However, he wasn’t looking at the pit; he was looking around the bleachers. Your face had already turned into one of mild discomfort when he had turned to you and jumped on his seat when the binoculars fixed on you. As he put them down and stared at you with big brown eyes blown in embarrassment, you felt the air around you still and the noise of the crowd fade away.

“I’m looking for a friend” he blurted out nervously, each word tripping over the next as the redness spread across his cheeks. You were too shocked to register whatever he was saying, though. There, sitting so close to you his cologne would linger on your scraf for hours after was Oliver Wood. You could recognize him from that Puddlemere game, even if the feeling he gave was completely different. His headset had been hiding his longish chestnut hair, and the clumsiness he exhuded back then was nowhere to be found as he sat with perfect, imposing posture next to you. His eyes were bigger than you would have imagined, long lashes softening the natural harshness of his stare. They shook a bit, alternating between the pit and you. You realized then that your silence and unbreakable eye contact were making him shift on his seat. “Well, someone that I know. Well, sort of”

“Oh” you said out loud.

You.

He was talking about you.

It seemed like getting a word out of you actually made him more nervous than your prolongued silence had.

“I’m not doing anything weird, I swear!” he explained, a few spectators turning their heads with interest at his choice of words. His shoulders slumped slightly, as if he was trying to hide himself from them.

He put the binoculars down on his lap and stared down at the game, and so did you. How much time did you have by then? How long until it was impossible for you to reveal yourself? You had the power to make it end right at that instant with nothing more than your silence. That’d make things easier for sure. There was no need to complicate everything and hurt yourself--

“Who’s your friend?”

The question caught him by surprise, but not as much as it did you. His body, while still stiff, relaxed at the friendliness of the question.

“Umh, someone I’ve been talking to. Calling her a colleague would be more appropriate. We’ve been exchanging thoughts about Quidditch, and I thought we could discuss the game”

“A colleague” you mumbled to yourself.

“Yeah, well, we are in the same field. I’m a Quidditch player” he looked around, looking conflicted about whether or not he wanted people to hear him or not “I, uhm, I play”

“Oh, that’s awesome” you bit your tongue “And your friend?”

“Colleague” he corrected “She’s a journalist. She writes for a magazine”

 Now your toes were truly tiptoeing at the verge of the cliff. If you stayed quiet now, there was no going back. A small quiet lie to stop many other ones that would come.

“And you?” He asked suddenly “I’m sorry I didn’t... I didn’t ask you anything. Are you a Warwick fan?”

You felt a painful feeling of relief when the universe seemed to have chosen for you what you knew was the right thing to do. You swallowed the bitterness and gave him a smile.

“No, not really. I find them messy”

“How so?”

“I mean, they’ve got really good players, but they don’t blend well together. I honestly don’t think they get along at all”

“I know, right?” Oliver’s voice rose as he turned to you on his seat with a small hop. His eyes seemed to shine impossibly bright under the grey sky “When they signed Forbes I thought they’d finally get a hold of themselves, but here they are” he pointed at the losing sign.

“People keep saying they need a new coach, but Sheersmith is fine really. What they actually need is a good--”

“Captain” he finished for you.

You both exhanged a smile “Yeah”

“You know, when I was captain I prioritised chemistry over skills. You can always polish someone’s skills, but you can’t force good rapport”

“You were captain?” you feigned ignorance, having already heard about him by the second letter.

“Yes, since my fourth year” his puffed his chest with pride “To be honest I hated it at times. I’m not good with people” he seemed to think about that before adding “I’m not bad at it either, though”

“So why did they make you captain, then?”

“Because I deserved it” he said matter-of-factly, not a sign of embarrassment on his face even when you stared at him wide-eyed “I knew what I wanted”

“To win?” 

He frowned, apparently deep in thought. His lips pressed into a pout.

“To play as long as I could” he finally said, then chuckled and looked away “That sounds silly”

“No. I mean, maybe. But I know exactly how that feels.”

His face lit up with interest.

“So you played”

“Yes” you bit your tongue, hard “Seeker”

He gave you once-over.

“Excuse my straightforwardness, but how old are you?” damn it, maybe he was sharper than you had been told, but that was on you for being a pathetic liar “I mean, I don’t think I remember seeing you at any games at Hogwarts, but you can’t be much older than me”

“I am not” you laughed, and you hoped he couldn’t tell it was due to nervousness “I umh, got hurt during a game so had to stop. That’s why I said I understood what you meant”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Not recognising you from school makes more sense now. To be honest I didn’t pay much attention” He was still staring at you like he was trying to figure you out, and you were terrified he might “What house were you in?”

“Hufflepuff” you replied without missing a beat, then held your breath in silent prayer until he said:

“Gryffindor. You don’t... remember me?”

He sounded almost offended and you had to stiffle a laugh.

“Vaguely”

Oliver nodded, the statement obviously hurting his ego a bit.

“I was a keeper. I am” he corrected “Puddlemere. Or I will be when I get to play”

“You are a professional, though”

“I’m very green. I messed up my first try” “It’s funny, someone commented on how disappointing my playing was, and I got so upset when I read it, but... I think I was more upset about the fact that it was true”

You laughed to yourself.

“You let them have it?”

“Embarrassingly, yes. I mean, I had my reasons! It was a very nasty article, but it was true” When he felt your eyes on him he straightened up and cleared his throat “It’s alright though. We worked it out. That’s why I was expecting to find her here”

“To let her have it?” you joked.

“No! Merlin, no. Well, I might have back then, but judging by her letters I assume she’d beat my ass”

That got a genuine laugh out of you, the first honest thing Oliver had heard from you since he had sat by your side. He reciprocated with a smile of his own. Then it dawned on you that his plan didn’t make much sense.

“Did you plan to meet here?”

Oliver scratched the back of his neck, looking away with a frown.

“No, uhm, I know it’s stupid but I just thought I could bump into her”

”Do you know what she looks like?”

Oliver made a face and looked at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“Not really”

“You didn’t think that one too well, did you?”

He chuckled, the way his lips stretched into a smile making your eyes unconsciously fixate on them “Yeah, I don’t know. I just... felt embarrassed to ask if she wanted to watch the game. I mean, she’s working, you know”

His voice lowered a bit, making it almost hard to hear beneath the roaring crowd. A subtle tint of pink spread across his cheeks, and you wondered it maybe he felt really cold. Whatever it was it made your heart skip a beat.

“I’m sure she’d be happy to bump into you” It felt awful to say, given the fact you were already lying to him. Still, in a twisted way, you were at least telling the truth.

“Yeah, well. Now that I have come to my senses, it might be a bit weird”

You nodded, amused yet flattered “Just a bit”

“I’m not making a good first impression, am I?” He extended his hand to you with an awkward smile. “Oliver Wood, by the way”

You grabbed his hand before you could even think of what false name you were about to give him. There was no way you could say the real one now. A small droplet fell onto your linked hands, and you thanked Merlin for his compassion.

“It’s starting to rain, I should go”

You stood up, way too excited to leave.

 “Wait, why?” asked Oliver, whose hand was still hanging in the air after you had let go.

“The game’s boring anyway”

“It’s okay, we can just...”

Oliver pulled out his wand and, as everyone else had done in the stadium, casted a protection charm around him to keep the rain away. 

“Right” you said, sitting down again next to him under the invisible curtain keeping you safe from the rain that was violently falling down upon the field now.

You felt his body stiffen when you sat down again, your body pressed against him so you could fit underneath his charm. You weren’t sure at the time if the sudden warmth you felt came from the ehat his body seemed to exhude, or from how the proximity made you feel. Suffice to say, you didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the game. Neither of you did.

“That was underwhelming,” was Oliver’s consensus of the game. “Henderik needs to give up the sponsorships and actually get a broom that works for him. You would think someone has hexed him!”

You felt the unpleasant feeling of feet sinking onto the mud on your way out of the stadium. Despite the rain having ceased a while ago, the wind was unforgivingly cold, contrasting heavily to how you felt inside. Oliver walked next to you, bumping into you from time to time and hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. You wondered if his hands were as cold as yours, and how would it feel to hold them. They’d probably feel rough after the hours of practice, maybe even weasty. But you’d never find out. Maybe in another lifetime, you thought. When you looked up at him after his brief yet unusual silence, you caught him looking over his shoulder.

“What is it?”

 He snapped back, looking embarrassed.

“Nothing”

You bit your lip, pondering.

 “Still looking for that colleague whose face you don’t know?”

“I know, I know” he protested with a sigh “I think you two would have gotten along, by the way”

You desperately needed to change the course of the conversation.

“Did you come by Portkey?”

“Floo Network down at The Red Hog. You?”

“Portkey”

“I usually prefer portkeys, but I’m worried about landing wrong and hurting myself. I need to be careful now that I’m playing professionally” he said proudly and you bit back a smile.

The short distance to the entrance of The Red Hog was spent in an awkward silence that could be excused by the fact that you both were freezing, every muscle on your body feeling tight by the time you reached the door. It was a small pub with nice food and usually a great and cheerful atmosphere. An ideal place for witches and wizards to chat about the games before going down the stairs and using one of the many chimneys in their impossibly wide basement to get back home. Not your favourite way of transportation, to say the least.

“This is it” Oliver said as he stood by the door, letting people pass him by on their way inside.

“Yeah”

The awkwardness was palpable. He fidgeted with his hands inside his pockets, shoulders almost raising to his ears. You assumed he was really cold.

“It was fun” He finally said “Watching the game with you”

You gave him a smile, making sure it wasn’t as big as you knew it could be.

“I had fun too”

“Actually I should walk you to your portkey, it is getting kind of late” he offered.

“Oh, it’s okay! I’m waiting for my brother” for once that wasn’t a lie “We promised to meet here after the game”

 Oliver couldn’t come up with anything else to say, so with a thin smile and a shrug he just said:

“Very well”

Oliver walked backwards towards the door, neither of you knowing how to properly say goodbye.

“I’ll be cheering for you” you blurted out, your face bright red.

You would have felt mortified if you hadn’t seen how Oliver’s forced thin smile softened into a surprised, genuine one.

“I won’t disappoint”

You let out a loud, deep sigh of relief once he was gone. Adrenaline was rushing through your system, and your heart was beating at an alarming pace. Suddenly someone grabbed the back of your sweater and turned you around with so much force that you knew right away who it was. Pushing the hair away from your face in annoyance, you were met with your brother’s shocked face, hands grabbing at your shoulders.

“Why on earth were you hanging out with Oliver Wood?”

“So you lied to him?” your brother asked.

“Yeah...”

“And then in the middle of that lie... you lied again?”

“...yeah”

You were both trying to walk through the narrow dirt path into the woods, making sure to not slip or step on deep puddles. A few wizards near you had already fallen, and while you two had been quick to stifle your laughs, you didn’t want to suffer the same fate. You were walking a few feet ahead of him, as if that would make the embarrassment more bearable.

“And what’s the end goal here, exactly?” he asked, his genuine confusion mixed with a hint of mockery.

“There is no end goal. I couldn’t even write anything for the article” you groaned.

“At all?”

“What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just start writing notes. He would have put two and two together”

“I don’t know about that. He was never the most intellectually gifted” He stayed quiet for a few seconds before he asked “Why did you give him my story, though?”

“I don’t know! I was panicking and didn’t have the time to come up with anything, so...” You threw your arms in the air and finally, turning to him, said “We are twins anyway, so in some way it’s a shared experience”

“Yeah? You played seeker for Hufflepuff?” he mocked “You got named prefect?”

 Your hands balled into fists out of embarrassment.

“Yeah, I also got dumped by Genevive Hoggings in the middle of Hogsmeade and had to hide in Madame Puddifoot’s bathroom so no one would see me cry!”

“You--!”

He took a big step towards you, and his shoe slipped on the ground. Before he could hit the ground, you held onto his arm and attempted to stop the fall, only to pathetically fall alongside him. Your butt hit the soft, damp ground, the feeling so unpleasant you couldn’t even bring yourself to protest.

“Very nice” he said, shaking his hands now covered in mud.

“Don’t say it like it was my fault”

“We are twins, so technically it’s a shared fault”

“That makes no sense” you both helped each other up, ignoring people's muffled laughter before continuing your trip “I don’t know, I just...” You sighed deeply, struggling to find an explanation that made sense.

“It’s alright.” His tone was lower, comforting. He put a hand on your shoulder. You didn’t even care that the mud it was covered in was staining your coat “I understand”

Your smile was very small but genuine. It was moments like this that made you feel like he was older. In a way he always had to be. He looked like it too, and it made you feel guilty, like it was somewhat your fault.

“Thanks for coming to get me”

“That’s what I’m here for” Your smile fell a little, and he knowingly raised his hand in protest without even having to look at you “No, I don’t want to see that look”

“Hello,

I went to the Warwick game today. I was thinking I might run into you since you said you’d attend. We didn’t run into each other, but I’ll be looking forward to your article. I’ve been thinking about the Puddlemere one you wrote, and I wanted to say thank you for at least having an eye on me. I think that in the future I will appreciate it more”

“It seems like you guys get along,” your brother said over your shoulder once he had finished reading the letter in your hands “Both versions of you”

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply as you folded the letter back in half.

“So it seems”

You rested your back against one of the old mahogany counters. The store was surprisingly quiet despite the nice weather. Warm sunlight bathed the place in a subtle bath of gold, making the many particles of dust dancing in the air visible. There were a few kids eyeing Quidditch appliances, an early sign that August was coming to an end.

“Are you going to reply to him?”

You wanted to, that was for sure. Whether you should or not was a different story. Still, it would be odd to stop replying. Your shoulders rose with a shrug, and you could feel Patrick’s disapproving glare on you.

“What even is your plan?”

“I don’t know! We are just talking about Quidditch anyway...”

“He was looking for you” he said drily “At a game”

“Maybe he also wants to make friends who are Quidditch obsessed”

“So you are just going to exchange letters forever and pretend to be someone else when he shows up looking for you?”

“Yeah, well, what was I supposed to do!” You turned to him, and the increase of your volume made the kids turn to you “I wasn’t ready to have to go through all that out of nowhere”

“I mean, yea, not there”

“But it would come anyway at some point”

“Wrong, it will come eventually at some point”

”And you think I don’t know that?” Patrick closed his mouth, shoulders slumping a bit. You knew he meant well, he really did “We both know lying doesn’t suck as much as the other option. Can’t I enjoy this for a bit?”

“Listen, I have nothing against lying and plotting! I just sold an old man polishing cream for twelve gallons when it only costs eight! I’m just worried about what’ll happen when you can’t stretch this any longer”

“You scammed an old man?”

“It’s okay, he wasn’t that old. How are you going to write the Warwick article, by the way? You don’t even know what happened”

 You groaned onto your hands.

“Dad’s going to ask”

“We’ll say it was raining and you had to leave”

Your head perked up.

“That’s true! I’ll just write something else. The new Comet design just got released, so I’ll write on that”

“Good evening,

I’m sorry if this letter is excessive, but I think your reply might have gotten lost. Your owl did seem agitated last time it delivered your letter to me, so I wanted to make sure she’s okay. Anyway...”

The way the handwriting seemed to change at the end of the sentence caught your attention. The words that had been slightly tilted seemed to straighten up as if he had taken such a long pause after the full stop that his flow had been interrupted.

“I attended the Warwick game today. I wasn’t expecting to bump into you there, obviously, but I thought it’d be funny if we had. I was shocked that they put Diggings on the pitch when he has had a ratio of twelve out of fifty this season. I wasn’t surprised at the score at all, I could see it from a mile away. Where were you? I’m very interested to know your analysis of the game. I’m looking forward to it.

Oliver”

But he already knew what your opinion had been. You had told him at the time, sitting on the bleachers with your knees gently bumping against each other once and again. You could remember every word he had said and how he had said them, how his eyes would drift from one player to the other while animatedly giving you his very opinionated take on each play. Not like you were any better. The plan had been to not write to him anymore. Patrick was right, just how long did you think you could stretch this? You had already lied to his face, there was no way to ever come back from that. So why you picked up a new piece of parchment you were not entirely sure.

“Dear Oliver,

I haven’t been able to continue our correspondence as I have fallen ill these last couple of days. Due to this, I was unable to attend the game and also to answer your last letter. Thank you for your concern about Claws, but she is completely fine, she actually seems uneasy that she hasn’t had much correspondence to deliver lately, so she’ll be happy about this letter. I think she has gotten used to you. I will be writing a short article on the new Comet model, though. I’ll give you a small exclusive as an apology for not replying sooner: don’t buy it”

That would be it, the last time you’d write to him. You wouldn’t really have much time to go to your parents’ store for the next couple of days anyway as Patrick would be busy, so you were hoping that’d make things easier for you. That was until he had shown up at your door barely two days later. You had actually been scared to open the door, as he had rung the bell multiple times in a frantic manner. When you had peeped through the hole he had said.

“Stop looking at me and open the door!”

The safe that always got a bit jammed let go with a bit of resistance. When you opened the door, Patrick stood there, looking a bit annoyed and holding a small basket in one hand and a wrinkled envelope in the other.

“Home delivery” he announced, almost mockingly.

“What’s that?” you asked, but he didn’t reply as he walked past you into your flat. Instead, he had just handed you the letter and let himself plop down on the couch “You left the store unattended?”

“Sue me”

“Dad might”

Deep down you knew this was probably your fault , and when you opened the letter and read its contents you got confirmation of it.

“Hello,

How severe is the illness? Are you sure you should be forcing yourself to write while sick? I wasn’t sure about what was wrong with you making you sick, so I bought a few basic healing potions for malaise that the old lady at the store recommended for me. I hope this gets to you before it gets worse, and if you are feeling better, feel free to keep it all for when you get sick again. Of course I’d prefer if you never got sick again, obviously. Get better soon. Let me know when you do.

Oliver”

You folded the letter when you felt Patrick reading it over your shoulder again.

“Do you mind?”

“I do, actually! He sends them to the store, so technically I have a right to know!”

“Yeah, well. Can’t have an owl coming in and out of my flat, don’t you think?”

“Especially when the owl is mine” You had nothing to say to that “What even is this?”

“I told him I was sick, so he sent all this”

“I’m sorry. Are you dating this guy?”

The letter crumpled in your hand. You turned to Patrick, face red and eyes wide.

“Of course not!” you said, louder than necessary.

Patric’s eyed the letter in your hands, then the basket “And is he aware of that?”

“He’s just being nice! It’s called having friends”

“Oh, so you are friends”

 “Yeah”

“The two versions of you?”

You closed your mouth, brows coming a bit together as your gaze fell to the floor. Your shoulders slumped, and you felt the texture of the parchment on your hands.

“I’m not writing to him anymore” you announced, tone somber “I’ll thank him for the medicine, tell him I’m alright, and never write to him again”

“There’s no need for that but...” Patrick stared at you in silence for a short moment. There were many things he wanted to say, but they all had been said before, and he knew it wouldn’t help. He simply sighed “Okay”

“You should go back to the store” you took the small basket and handed it to him “Take this too, it is not like I can use any”

“I mean... you could”

“What if I explode?”

“That’d be fun”

“Wait, before you go!” you exclaimed as he was about to leave through the door. You disappeared down the short hallway and came back with a piece of paper in your hand “The new Comet model review”

Patrick eyed it for a brief moment.

“They are going to sue us for this”

“Dear Oliver,

Thank you kindly for everything you sent my way, it was very thoughtful. I’m currently feeling better, so you have nothing to worry about. Hope you are doing well too, as the Quidditch season is reaching the quarter finals.

Good luck”

“Hello,

I am really happy to hear you are all better now, especially as I have heard from the coach that I will be playing in the next Puddlemere game, December 12. I was hoping you could come watch it. Strangely besides my coach’s I think your opinion is the one I care about the most. Let me make up for my disastrous first game? I promise I’ll give you enough material for an awesome article we can both be proud of this time. I sent two tickets in case you wanted to bring someone. We can catch up after the game at The Meeting Point if you want. Hope to see you there”

A strong pressure weighed against your chest as you read the letter, and when you had finished it, you knew you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to read it again.

You had swallowed all your pride when you had asked Patrick to go with you to the Puddlemere venue, unable to look him in the eye. You knew what he looked like anyway, his “I told you so” face and “what is wrong with you” face mashed together. You both parted through the sea of people until you had found your seat at the very top, Oliver had made sure you got the ones at the very top. Patrick complained about the view, but it made you so happy you felt like you’d burst. It also made you feel incredibly guilty. Oliver’s flying was nothing like it had been during his first game. His clumsiness had morphed now into perfectly timed manoeuvres, the boyish charm of his nervousness was now replaced by the determination and sharpness of a seasoned player. It was the unmistakable sight of effort and discipline, and your heart swelled at the realisation of simply how mistaken you had been. Your hands gripped your binoculars a tad tighter with every Quaffle he blocked from going through the ring, your heart beating with the infectious excitement of his playstyle.

“This is just cruel. Can we go?” Patrick sat next to you on the wooden table, his complain almost drowned by the loud chatter inside the pub. On a corner at the other side of it sat Oliver, an untouched beer in his hand as his eyes scanned the room every few seconds, his head snapping towards the door whenever someone came in “This is killing me”

Patrick dragged his chair back, ready to stand up when you had said:

“I’m going to tell him”

At first he thought he might not have heard you right, but judging by the look of determination on your face he new he wasn’t mistaken.

 “All of it?”

You couldn’t answer that, and you were unable to before Oliver’s eyes caught yours from the other side of the room. It made you stand up immediately, as if you were worried you would change your mind if you took only a second longer to think about it. You made your way across the sea of bodies in the packed pub, glass in hand, painfully aware of Oliver’s gaze on you. A smile spread across his face when you were finally in front of him, and he shifted in his seat, straightening his posture.

“Hey”

“Hi” you breathed out, your heart racing as if you had just run to him “Great game”

“Thanks” A moment passed between you two. Oliver's eyes were wide and kind, gleaming under the warm vibrant candlelight, but there was something behind them, a restraint of some kind. He seemed to struggle before he asked “Do you want to sit?”

“Is that okay?”

There was a weight on the way you asked him, and even if you knew he wasn’t aware of what you really meant, it somehow felt like he did. He had come to terms with the idea that you wouldn’t show up.

“Yeah, sure”

He stood up and moved the chair away from the table so you could sit on it. The gesture made you melt, feeling grateful for the chair as you felt your legs become weak. Your knees brushed for a moment before you dragged your legs away, embarrassed. His presence felt suffocating, every inch of your body begging you to run away, while his eyes were so kind when they fell upon you. There was a softness behind them now, one not of comfort but of disappointment, and it hurt to know that it was because of you. He was waiting for you to come through that door, and sitting there beside him you couldn’t help but hate yourself.

“I didn’t expect to see you again” he said, bringing you back to reality. The smile he gave you brough warmth back to the room, his smile seeming to lit it up.

“I didn’t expect you to be that good”

Oliver’s smile widened, pride and a bit of bashfulness tugging at his lips.

“Yeah, well, I had to make up for the fiasco that was my first game”

“Had something to prove?”

“Yeah” His eyes went to the door “Something like that”

You swallowed the lump on your throat, worseded by the way his eyes seemed to shine with hope.

“It was a really good game, Oliver”

His gaze snapped back to you and he cleared his throat.

“Are you a Puddlemere fan?”

You shrugged and unconsciously gave him a once-over.

“I might become one after seeing you play.”

His eyes widened in surprise before he let out a surprised chuckle, his brown eyes turning into crescents.

“I’ve always wanted to hear that” he looked over your shoulder, and his expression hardened a bit. “I’m sorry, there’s a guy that won’t stop staring at yo. It’s making me nervous” You turned on your seat, but you didn’t need to. You knew you’d see Patrick sitting there “He looks kind of familiar” Your eyes fell down to the table as you turned back to him, your expression somber. It made Oliver straighten up immediately “Do you know him? Do I need to have a word with him?”

“No, that’s... that’s just my brother”

“Oh, right. You mentioned” you could almost see the wheels turning in his head “Did he ever play Quidditch?”

“Yeah, he did” The grip on your glass tightened, knuckles turning white “Hufflepuff seeker”

“Like you?” he chuckled “That’s funny. You guys do look alike”

“He’s my twin brother” you said clearly, and Oliver was unaware of how heavy the revelation hung in the air.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that something didn’t add up, his eyebrows slowly downing over his eyes.

“So you were in the same year? Then how could you both be seekers? I don’t remember any house having a rotation system during my time”

“They didn’t” you thought you were brave enough to look him in the eyes, but you were wrong. A single glance at his confused expression was more than you could take, and your eyes flew to the other side of the pub “I didn’t play”

“I thought tou did” he asked quietly, confused.

“I said I did. I lied to you. I’m sorry”

“Wh-- So, you didn’t play?” You shook your head, and he was silent for a while until he announced rather  cheerfully “I understand. You met a professional player and felt like you had to say that. It’s okay, I get it.”

He was so pleased with himself and so kind to you. The reassuring smile he gave you made your heart ache.

“Oliver, that’s not--”

 “You didn’t have to lie, I can tell you love Quidditch. You don’t have to play it to love it.”

That made you still. Just how different things would have been if only you could have met him before. If you could not have met him at all.

“That’s what I would always say” your voice came out weak “I’m not sure I love it, though”

Out of all the things you had said so far that was the one that seemed to alarm Oliver the most. He leaned forward on the table, trying to hear you better.

“What?”

“I don’t know if I like it or if that’s just all I have”

His hands rested on the table now. If you had moved your hand just a bit you could have held them. Your fingers were shaking ever so slightly as you attempted to keep the grip on your glass steady.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

“It’s me, Oliver” you braced yourself and held his gaze for as long as you could. His eyes widened ever so slightly, almost as if he was able to understand before you told him “It’s me you’ve been exchanging letters with”

You saw the bretah catch on his throat and his fingers twitch. He called your name in a whisper, you almost didn’t catch it among the noise.

“But-- Why--”

“I didn’t have the courage to tell you when you bumped into me and--” your voice was shaky, almost breathy “And then it was too late to backtrack”

“Why? And-- you already told me you didn’t play Quidditch, so why say that you did?” you couldn’t tell if there was any anger laced in his confusion, but it still scared you there might. There should be, you deserved it “To impress me?”

“I didn’t want to impress you. I--”

“Then why?”

“I...” you shrugged, a single tear falling down your cheek that was swiftly wipped away by the sleeve of your jumper. You should’ve become better at this by then “I really, really wanted to play. I just wanted to pretend for a moment that I could”

A million thoughts went through Oliver’s head, all of them attempting to leave his mouth at the same time only to come out as a confused groan. He flopped back on his chair and stared at you for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what we are talking about” he said frustratedly “I mean, you can just play if you want it so much”

“I can’t. You don’t understand”

“Yeah, I bloody don’t!” he looked aroudn, embarrassed at his own outburst “You’ve been lying to me and I still don’t even know about what exactly”

“I should have never written to you. Or I should have never talked to you when you sat with me. This is my fault. I’m sorry”

You stood up from your seat, and Oliver followed suit. He saw the tears in your eyes, and his hand reached for yours without really thinking about it.

“Wh-- Hold on. Can we just take a moment to calm down? I’m really trying to--”

“I’m a squib”

The room seemed to have fallen silent, even if it was only in your head. A few wizards on the nearby table did turn towards you as they heard you underneath the loud atmosphere, but that wasn’t new. Oliver’s grip on your wrist loosened, and it felt like he was letting you fall into the abyss. This was on you. This was you. Your reality.

“Well-- That’s--”

Oliver cleared his throat, then seemed to struggle with something to say. This had been the only outcome possible from the beginning, the only one you’d ever had. It still hurt, though, his silence piercing through your chest like a knife. You felt someone grab your shoulder, then heard Patrick mutter behind you:

 “Excuse us”

He dragged you out of the pub and into the crisp winter air. You couldn’t even say anything as you both walked down the street and among the passersby that, while ignorant to your presence, still made you feel like you were being watched.

“Hold on tightl,” Patrick said as you got to the portkey: a thick, used book.

 You’d never gotten used to portkeys, and every time you used one, you couldn’t help but wonder if the nauseous feeling would disappear if you were actually magical. You held onto Patrick and shut your eyes tightly, welcoming the feeling of vertigo as it took your mind off the aching pain on your chest if only for a few seconds.

“Dear Oliver,

 Please accept this letter as my last. I don’t know why I bother with the pompous writing style when you already know how messy my lexicon truly is in person. Still, I think this is me attempting to hold onto the very little dignity I have left at this point. I want to apologise first for lying to you and my behaviour the other night...”

 The letter ended up being long. Three pages' worth of excuses that had made you take a few breaks in between memories. Your hands were still shaking when you sent Claws to deliver it. You didn’t come into the store for the next few days, not even when your parents had come back from vacation. You quietly turned in your article about Puddlemere and focused solely on your classes: your regular journalism ones. Patrick had tried to drop by on a few occasions to cheer you up, but he had just sat on the couch while you studied until he would give up and leave.

On Thursday the world ended, clouds so think you had casted no shadow as you ran under the pouring rain. Your fingers had been numb as you kept your umbrella from flying away, bumping onto strangers and and the bottom of your jeans damp and heavy as you stepped onto another puddle. You didn’t notice him when you got to the entrance of your building, too busy looking for your keys in your purse while holding your umbrella under your armpit. He took the liberty to lift it, making the rain stop falling on the back of your head. There in front of you stood Oliver, eyebrows sunken onto his eyes and soaked to the bone. He answered the silent question your shocked expression was silently screaming at him.

“Your brother gave me the adress. He said you’d be back soon”

“Patrick?” Your mind was trying to catch up with the situation, shocked as you were by the state of him. Clothes compeltely drenched and hair sticking to his face “How long have you been here?”

He took a moment to answer.

“A while” he finally admitted.

“Why didn’t you hide from the rain?”

“I can’t use magic in the middle of the street” he spoke in confidence, nervous eyes looking around at the multiple people on the street passing by you.

“I meant like, an umbrella or going inside a cafe or something”

“Well, I didn’t know when you’d be back, so I didn’t want to... it doesn’t matter” He pulled a hand inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope: your letter. To your surprise, it was still dry “I don’t want to read this” he said “Whatever it is, I want to hear it from you”

You felt so small underneath his unyealding gaze. Your shoulder was freezing, having forgotten to hold your umbrella properly and letting the rain fall on you.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me again”

“I’ll make that decision myself” he stated, and something about it made your stomach turn “So, can we talk?”

You fumbled awkwardly with your keys, te metal making your already frozen fingers turn numb.

“Do you want to come in?”

His expression became blank for a second.

“To your flat?”

“I mean, it’s pouring and you are soaked. I’m really cold and very tired, so... But we can go to the cafe if you want”

“No! I mean, yeah--”

“We shouldn’t discuss this sort of thing in public, though”

“Yeah, exactly”

You fiddled with your keys and opened the entrance while he stood behind you at a distance. He took a look at you: the soaked jeans, dirty boots and almost certainly broken umbrella He walked into the foyer after you, politely closing the door behind you. The sound of rain became muffled, and you were suddenly aware of how heavily the silence hung between you two.

“It’s upstairs”

He made a gesture with his hand, inviting you to go first. He stood behind as you unlocked your door, unable to see you fumbled to put the key in with how badly your hand was shaking. When he walked inside, he took a look around, taking in every detail he could catch. The scarce furniture, the somewhat clean kitchen, the ugly curtains.

 “Have you ever been to a flat?” you asked, attempting to make conversation.

“I’m from Glasgow” he answered, still eyein your place. Before you could offer Oliver a solution for his clothes, he took out his wand and performed a drying spell that left strands of his hair sticking out in all sorts of directions “Do you...?”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll just change out of these clothes” Oliver stiffened, his eyes dropping to the way your hands were pulling at the hem of your sweater “I’ll be back in a second”

“Okay” He watched you enter your room and close the door behind you as he pulled his wand away. He stayed close by it, trying not to think too much of what was going on on the other side “Are you not fond of spells?”

He heard your laugh from the other side, muffled by the thin walls separating you two.

“It is not like that. My brother has used a few spells on me more than once”

“Oh, so he is your brother” he sounded surprised, and despite saying it mostly to himself, you could still hear him “That’s good to know”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn’t know how much of what you said was a lie, so I wondered if maybe that brother of yours was like... a friend?” he hesitated “Of the boy kind”

You made a face he couldn’t see.

“What sort of crazy person would date someone with pretty much their own face?” he was glad that was the part of the question you had focused on. You opened the door, now changed into a more comfortable Canons jersey. He eyed you head to toe, eyes surprisingly soft, but said nothing “But I guess your impression of me is not the best, so...”

“You can change that”

A warm feeling seeped through your chest before you swallowed it with a bitter smile.

“Are you sure?” you asked, serious “What if I explain everything and you still hate me?”

“I never said I hated you”

“Wouldn’t be a stretch to assume... given the circumstances”

Oliver’s brow furrowed as he stared at you, deep in thought. He eyed the way you twisted your hands in an attempt to get some warmth.

“Why don’t we make some tea and you let me decide whether I hate you or not?” you simply nodded and attempted to pass by him towards the kitchen when he stopped you ”I’m joking. I won’t hate you” he said “I might think you are crazy, though”

It hurt you to smile, but you did nonetheless. It didn’t feel fair. It didn’t feel like you deserved to smile at him. To be forgiven.

“How do you like your tea?”

He followed you to the kitchen like a puppy, standing close to you and watching you as you filled the teapot with water. Neither of you said anything, letting the familiar sounds of tea making fill the air that feelt so warm now with the storm still roaring outside.

 “I read your article” he finally said “I could tell you were really sorry by how nice your words were”

“You did really well. I was being objective” You caught him smiling to himself as he set two cups on the counter “I almost didn’t go, but I wanted to see you play” you admitted “I had a hunch that you’d do great, and I didn’t want to miss it”

Oliver said nothing. He focused on your hands, wondering if they were as cold as his were. He could have told you he had been eyeing the bleachers, as if he could have once again recognised you without even knowing what you looked like. He just assumed he’d know when he saw you, and in a way, he had.

He realized he’d been staring at you for a tad too long “Maybe you have divination skills”

“That was one of the few subjects I could get a grasp on” you remembered fondly “My brother used to let me borrow his books”

There wass a pause, and Oliver stole a glance at you out of the corner of his eye, hesitating.

“When... uhm” he cleared his throat “When did you know...”

You didn’t reply right away, and Oliver started regretting even bringing it up. But you wanted to tell him. Maybe the sharp sting on your chest would finally go away. He made it feel like it could.

“When the letter didn’t arrive” you said with a bittersweet chuckle “For a while my parents thought maybe it was because Patrick and I are twins, so we just got one letter for the both of us”

Oliver let out a short laugh before forcing himself to become serious again.

“Sorry”

“It’s okay. It is funny” You lifted your hand about to pat his shoulder but you stopped yourself, letting it fall on the counter again, fingers drumming nervously on it “I feel bad for them when I think back to it.”

“Nothing compared to how you must have felt, I assume” he said as if he was trying to retort to that.

You looked at him like he had said the oddest thing, and he stared back at you with something akin to indignation. It was an odd thing for someone to be on your side. Most people would pity you, feel bad for your family, so Oliver being on your side felt foreign and strangely overwhelming.

“Yeah... I was small, so I didn’t really understand” You swallowed the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You always got it when you talked about this, even if it didn’t happen often. They were the words you always tried to swallow, and for some reason, in the comfort of your kitchen and Oliver’s undeserving understanding you finally let them out: “It sort of felt like I had done something wrong, you know”

“Yeah, but you didn’t” he replied, indignation making his accent dance wildly across his words.

Who could have thought compassion wout feel more overwhelming than rejection. You felt yourself smile, and the tears didn’t take long to pile at the corners of your eyes. The whistle of the kettle was a good excuse for you to hide this fact from Oliver.

“Can you get that?”

Oliver hesitated but finally pulled the kettle away from the fire and pretended to not see you wipe the tears away, carefully pouring the scalding water into each cup. Maybe he put a bit more on yours.

“Do you need sugar?” you asked him, opening the cabinet above you.

“No, thank you”

“Really?”

“Yeah” he was confused “Why?”

“I don’t know. I sort of assumed you were the extra sweet type”

Oliver shrugged and gave you a nonchalant smile.

“I can be” You felt the heat crawl up to your cheeks, and you were thankful the single lamp you could afford to decorate your living room with was so dim. This was wrong. Oliver Wood standing in your kitchen, making you tea and smiling at you like this could become a habit. But you were getting ahead of yourself, and you couldn’t allow yourself to daydream about such things “So...” he trailed off, the tips of his ears a bit pink “Do you use sugar?”

“Yeah, a lot”

You led him to the couch, letting the cup rest on the coffee table as you shifted on your seat when he sat next to you. He kept a polite distance but his whole body turned to you.

“My grandmother, my mum’s mum, she’s a muggle, so she did help. With all the school stuff”

 “My dad’s a muggle too” he chirped in “He’s really upset that wizards don’t seem to care about The Beatles and all of that” That made you laugh, which gave him a sense of pride “It’s a give-and-take situation: my dad rages to my mum about music, and she rages to him about Quidditch”

“So she’s the fan that birthed the famous Quidditch Monster?” 

Something flashed behind Oliver’s eyes, and he crooked his head to the side.

“Did you rbother tell you about that?”

“He might have mentioned a thing or two about your reputation.”

“You know what, I thought about him for a long time, and I remember him being an appalling seeker”

“Oh, I know that. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Because you are an expert on it?”

“No, uhm... our parents are Quidditch enthusiasts, hence the family Quidditch store. I was shocked you were subscribed to our magazine. We have maybe only fifty regulars that do”

 “I’m subscribed to every Quidditch magazine” he stated proudly.

“Isn’t that a lot of money?” he simply shrugged, and you shook your head in disbelief “Is it worth it at least?”

You took a sip from your cup, the steam pleasantly caressing your face. When it had dissipated, you caught Oliver staring at you as if deep in thought.

“Yeah, I’d say it is” He blinked a few times, looking away and reaching for his cup “So, Quidditch?”

“After we came to terms with the fact I’m not magic, I held onto it because it was the only magical thing I could still... you know? Nothing stopped me from watching games and learning and reading about it...”

“But you couldn’t play”

“Yeah. My brother tried to get me on a broom once, my parents were not happy”

“I remember him from back in school. He was a year or so below” his brows furrowed in concentration “Lousy flying”

You left your cup on your table in a sign of protest.

 “You already said that!”

“It’s all I remember” he defended himself with a smile “I really tried to remember you, and it was driving me insane!”

Your gaze fell to his hands, holding the steaming cup of tea. The idea that Oliver had spent time thinking about you was flattering, the little joy it brought you was immediately swallowed by guilt.

“I’m sorry. I wrote that in the letter, but since you didn’t read it, I should say it aloud” You bit your lip, drawing in a deep breath “People are not... nice, usually. When they find out about the squib thing. People at Diagon Alley will still look at me weird if I happen to be at the store. They don’t say anything, but they don’t really have to. I can’t be there often anyway. I only go to help Patrick run it from time to time. He’ll be inheriting it soon”

“He is?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t even want it, to be honest”

“Do you want it?”

That caught you off guard.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll have to distance myself from the magical world for good eventually anyway”

“Why?” He set the cup on the table, body turning to you even more.

“Can’t expect my brother to act as a driver for me forever” you explained, pretending the way he leaned towards you wasn’t making your heart race “I can use Flu Network and Portkeys when in the company of an actual witch or wizard, so he always has to be around me”

“Is that how you get to the Quidditch games?”

You nodded “He takes me in and out of the magical world. It’s such a hassle, it makes me feel bad”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”

“He does. I just wish he’d say it sometimes” You admitted, for the first time out loud “I know he feels guilty. that’s why he won’t complain, ever”

 “That’s harsh. You don’t know that”

“Wouldn’t you?” Your eyes landed on him, not defiant but sympathetic “At some point he’ll have his own life... he can’t always be there for me. It is not fair.”

He sat in silence for a few seconds, pondering whether or not it was his place to get into your family business like that. He decided he shouldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to.

“You could also meet someone that would... you know, do all that” he left the idea hanging in the air and waited for the inevitable sceptical look you’d give him “What?”

“I already told you, most people are not fond of my kind” he grimaced at the term, and wondered if you’ve had it thrown at you often “I’ll just cross onto the muggle world completely. Get a job, take the tube every day, nine to five, microwave my food--”

“Do you want to do that, though?”

“Want what?”

“Live without being part of the magical world”

Your shoulders rose and fell with a shrug.

“It’s not like I’ve ever been part of it anyways” the sad look he gave you stung, so you gave him a resigned smile “It’s just the hand I’ve been dealt”

 “I can offer you my hand” he blurted, way before he could realise how odd it sounded.“Like I can-- if you need someone to keep you in touch”

“You would do that?” you asked sceptically. He answered with a shrug “Bring me in and out and from one side to another like a chauffeur at any time of the day, every day?” he seemed to think about it, and considering the argument won you added “It’s a lot, Oliver. Staying on this side permanently is the sensible thing to do”

Oliver bit the inside of his cheek and decided to take in a deep breath as he glanced around your apartment. Winning time until he got enough courage.

“You could always meet someone who wants to do all that for you” He knew the look you were giving him before he set his eyes back to you “What? You are talking like it’s impossible”

You wanted to explain to him how it truly felt like it was. For most of your life, it had been a quiet reminder that it wasn’t really a choice for you.

“It isn’t impossible, but it’s not very probable either”

“I just offered” he must have seen the look on your face, nervously backtracking almost immediately “Like, as friends. I could do that as a friend.” He got nervous when you said nothing, only stared at him in disbelief, and said, “What?”

“When I got your first letter I would have never thought you were this kind” you said, your voice quiet “All I’ve done is lie to you, and yet...”

“I’m actually being selfish. I can’t give up on the only person who can keep up with my Quidditch talk”

“Is that so?”

“You wrote very nice things to me in your last article too”

“Yeah, well, it was supposed to be a secret apology letter”

“What’s this supposed to be then?”

Your lips parted, despite knowing that you didn’t have it on you to tell him. Under his surprised exression you reached for the letter and ripped it into pieces.

“Nothing, really” you discarded of the pieces on the bin. His mouth was hanging slightly open, not really sure of how to react. You cleared your throat as if to say something important and he fixed his posture, ready for whatever you were about to say “Thank you, Oliver. For coming all this way to let me explain and for just... being kind to me, despite everything”

You both stared at each other for what felt a really long time. His features were soft, only a subtle smile adorning them. You stood there, hands grabbing the hem of your jumper for courage.

“No problem”

He saw the way your shoulders relaxed, your eyes nervously looking around the falt as if looking for something else to say.

“I actually have something to take care of...”

Oliver stood up immediately, making sure to place the cup gently on the table.

“Oh, yeah. I actually should be on my way to practice. It seems like the coach is letting me be a starter again, so...”

“Are you serious? That’s awesome!” you approached him with stars in your eyes, and he thought he wouldn’t mind the sight for a little longer. Then your smile fell “You shouldn’t have risked it to come here, though”

“Yeah, probably not” he admitted, a quiet settling between you two once again.

“You are going to be so busy from now on”

“Most definitely” he smiled “Can’t wait”

You smiled up at him and he followed your eyes as they seemed to commit every one of his features to memory. He could feel the warmth reaching his cheeks when you finally said.

“Goodbye, Oliver”

There was something in the way you had said that that had rung alarm bells in his head, but he figured he had just imagined it. There was no need to ruin what had been a pleasant moment with you with unfounded concerns. And so he said goodbye to you and walked down the staircase towards the door, the storm waiting for him on the other side.

“Did you tell him?”

You were standing by the counter of the Quiddtch store, eyes lost somewhere at the end of the maintenance aisle.

“No”

There was a sigh muffled by the gentle ruffling of clothes, and you could just picture your brother rubbing his face on his hands. You had been in the same position as him multiple times within the last few hours before you had made an emergency trip to Diagon Alley. You had paced around nervously waiting for him to pick you up, by then all your nails were bitten.

“Will you tell him then?”

“I don’t think that’d be necessary” you said, the statement weighing heavy on your chest.

“Really? The guy that barged in here demanding to speak to you. You don’t think you should tell him?” 

“He’s a Quidditch-obsessed, borderline-workaholic perfectionist that is about to become the youngest pro in the league. He won’t have time to remember me in a week”

Patrick scoffed and shook his head dismissively.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Can’t you just cancel this whole thing?”

“I’m not having this conversation again” You raised your hands in the air “You were already okay with it”

“Yeah, well. That was for your sake, and still... You can change your mind. I don’t know...”

“There’s nothing new to talk about”

“Not even Oliver?”

“Yeah, not even Oliver” you lied.

 “You are just being stubborn! He’s good for you, if only you stopped lying to him!”

“Oliver is just a guy I talked to for a few months, okay? He’s not like, someone who is going to change my life. He can’t do that, and I don’t want him to do that anyway”

“So you are just self-sabotaging again”

“He can’t change anything! I’ve made my mind, and I don’t want to see him again, so just stop”

There was a familiar creak of wood, and despite being so used to the noise whenever people walked around the store, you both turned at the same time towards the noise. There stood Oliver, a basket with baked goods in his hand, bigger than the one he had dropped when he had believed you to be sick. When you had lied to him about being sick. Your heart sank to your stomach before you even heard the way his voice strained a bit when he finally broke the tense silence.

“I came to apologise for barging in the yesterday” he said and left the basket carelessly on the counter “Excuse me”

He didn’t even bother to look at you when he left, bushy brows sunk deeply over his brown eyes that stayed fixed on the floor, slamming the door hard on his way out. The loud noise made the few customers turns their heads with curiosity.

“Aren’t you going to follow him?” Patrick asked as you both watched him through the display window, his silhouette disappearing into the crowd.

“It’s easier this way”

Patrick’s chest rose with a heavy sigh.

“You are a coward and a loser” he stated, a bit more bitter than usual “Let me know when you want to get back”

Stepping onto the Quidditch pitch felt like entering the beasts’ den. It had taken you a week of isolation and sleepless nights to decide on this. The grey, gloomy days you had stayed inside looking out of the window, no lights on in the flat, contemplating what you should do had blended into each other. It had taken a bit of trickery, but you had scored an anonymous interview with Oliver through his head coach, who was happy to give him any sort of publicity. You knew he wouldn’t meet you unless he was tricked into it. You could lie to him at least one more time, if only for the sake of coming clean once and for all.

He had been sitting at the benches waiting for you, taking care of his broom. There wasn’t any sign of surprise when he saw you approaching him, but his eyebrows did get a tad bit closer together before he looked down to the task at hand again.

“I imagined it was you” he had said when you had got close enough.

“And you still came?”

“I still have to practise. It has nothing to do with you or whatever excuse you are planning to give me”

He didn’t sound upset nor bitter, just mercilessly distant. You took in a deep breath, bracing yourself by holding your own hands.

“I have no excuses. I meant everything I said” he scoffed incredulously “But the context... I should at least give it to you”

There was a brief pause, then he said:

“I don’t care.”

He got up broom in hand and brushed imaginary dust out of his clothes. He walked up the stairs to the pit, and you knew that’d be the last time you’d see him.

“I wish I had met you before” is what you wanted to yell at him, but instead it came out in barely a broken cry “If I had magic, meeting you...” you swallowed, picking at the skin around your nails. You thought about the idea of meeting Oliver at some other time, at some other place, under other circumstances you had daydreamed about so often “So I hate that you showed up now. Not being able to meet you... that’s what I hate the most now”

You were sure you had been talking to yourself, but he was still there. He stood tall at the top of the stairs, back to you. The grip on his broom tightened as he spoke.

“After the other day I thought we were...” His steady tone withered before falling to a short silence. “On the same page” His head turned ever so slightly“I have to practise. You should leave”

His foot had just stepped onto the soft, freshly cut grass when you spoke again, a bit louder to make sure he heard you.

“I’m getting the Obliviate charm next week. I decided on it a few days before your letter arrived, and I’ve been preparing for it ever since”

 The sound of Oliver’s heavy Quidditch boots stomping on the grass stopped at once, and all the indifference he had been carrying himself with washed away just like colour on his face as he turned to you.

“What?”

“I explained it on the letter I wrote you last time. It was supposed to be a goodbye letter, but...”

He reached you in only a few steps, but as he stood in front of you, he was breathing like he had just run a full lap around the pitch. You were sure you could almost hear his heartbeat, but maybe that was because of how close he was standing.

“Wha-- wh--” he stammered, suddenly frantic “Is your family okay with it? Patrick?”

“Mum and Dad were fairly easy to convince. Patrick not so much, but eventually he got around it”

“But, why? If it’s because of what you said the other day? That’s--”

“Of course it is because of what I said the other day” You cut him off “I don’t want to be a burden anymore. To my brother or...” Your eyes left his, busying themselves on a random corner “...anyone”

Oliver’s breathing stilled, and the next words that came out of him did so in a low mutter.

“Is that what you meant? About me?”

Your face flushed immediately, feeling exposed and embarrassed.

“It is not like I assumed you would-- like... I was just explaining to him why it’d be better not to be... friends”

“Oh right, because I’m a useless meathead that can’t help?” he asked bitterly.

“Because you are kind” you answered, and the harshness of his stare softened before he composed himself “Because you would waste your time and energy to help me out, and I don’t want you to do that”

“So what?” He retorted drily, his voice steady. It took you aback, and you unconsciously leaned back.

“What do you mean?”

“I will make my own mind up about that”

“Oliver--”

“You can’t tell me what I can or can’t do, alright?” he finally snapped. The stoic expression he had made sure to maintain until then dropped completely “What, you don’t want to be a burden to me? Tough luck! If I want to stand in the rain for hours waiting for you, that’s on me!” He pointed his finger at you, actually poking you on the shoulder and throwing you off your balance “If I am late for practice because I have to take you somewhere, that’s my decision! You don’t have the right to decide whether I fancy you or not!”

The silence felt louder once Oliver’s outburst finished, and the echo of his voice died between the walls of the pit. His face was hot, his eyebrows deeply sunken over his eyes that were fixed on you. They shook slightly when reality started to dawn slowly on him, but he kept his cool. His chest rose and fell with heavy breathing, and this time you were sure you could hear his heartbeat.

“Okay,” it’s all you could say, still trying to process all he had said.

“Okay?”

There was a brief second of hesitation before you grabbed onto his face so you could kiss him. It was surprising, just how soft his skin was, it felt hot under your touch. He tensed up before he relaxed with a content sigh when your lips met his, and his arms held you closer when he felt you pulling away. He made a noise you could only interpret as a protest before he kissed you again, just as soft and airy, letting it linger, a bit drunk on the taste of your lips and your body pressed against his. When he finally decided he had had enough for the time being, he allowed you to take a small step back, but his arms were still firmly wrapped around you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, breathless.

“It’s okay” he reassured, trying to catch his breath “I’m sorry I raised my voice”

Your head rested against his chest. He felt you relax with a sigh as his hand stayed on the back of your head.

“It’s alright. I liked everything you said”

Oliver chuckled, his face breaking into a smile. You wanted to look up and stare at it, at the wrinkles that formed at the corners of his eyes when he did.

“I could have said them better”

“Good enough for me” you mumbled onto his chest, and he squeezed you tighter for a second.

“So..” you cleared your voice “You fancy me?”

To your surprise, he didn’t look embarrassed, even if his face got a bit red. He looked as proud as ever when he stated, almost nonchalantly:

“I thought that was obvious by the third letter”

“Not really” you pondered.“If anything, I might have thought that when we met at the Warwick game... when you thought I was someone else”

“Yeah... it was definitely a weird feeling” he joked, conflicted “But in the end I guess I can’t help myself”

Your head turned to the side in confusion; his fingers threaded a little deeper into your hair.

“About what?”

Oliver has no asnwer for that, instead you see his shoulders come up and down with a heavy sigh. The lit candlesticks hung on the wall offer very little light, but you can see he’s frowning. You don’t need light to know that, however, Oliver Wood always seeming to wear a scowl on his face whenever something inconvenienced him even if just a little. He can’t deny that he was at fault for being out of bonds after curfew, but how was he supposed to plan for practice without his notes? If Angelina and George hadn’t broke into that small kerfuffle about the Canons game he wouldn’t have forgot to take it with him, too busy lecturing them on how Jenkins needed to get his shit together if they wanted to win. He hadn’t counted on running into you in the hallway, the news of Sirius Black lurking nearby in the back of your heads and making you scream bloody murder, waking half the castle. McGonagall had already been in a foul mood when it came to Oliver after he had insisted on letting Harry Potter use the possibly hexed firebolt, so she was almost happy to give him detention.

“And why were you outside?” he asks, a sharp edge to his voice that makes your sink a bit in your seat “Seems like I’m not the only stupid one”

If Oliver’s behaviour is anything to go by, he seems to blame you for getting caught. As McGonagall sent you to the empty classroom he had walked ahead of you with haste, pushing the wooden door until it had bounced back on the stone wall behind it with schreeching protest. He had then sat on the desk and hadn’t said anything until you spoke to him. You finish writting the first line on your essay, the soft scratch of quill against parchment oddly comforting in the tense silence.

“I didn’t call you stupid, I called you dumb” you mutter, not sure if you want him to hear you or not “I was trying to study at a quiet place, okay?”

“Don’t you have a common room for that?”

His head falls back slightly against the back of his seat, as if trying for his voice to reach you better. There’s no need for that, any sound feeling too loud in the quiet of night.

“It’s quite hard to concentrate with all the yelling and horsing around in there, you know?”

”What house are you in?”

Your hand stills, the soft taps of your quill tip against the glass bottle coming to a halt. He can probably feel the hole you are burning in the back of his head, and whether is that or the unsettling silence, his face turns slightly towards you.

“Gryffindor. We’ve been in the same class for seven years”

The frown that has caved in over his eyes so deeply since he ran into you softens and disappears in embarrassment. He starightens himself on his seat, and you hear him clear his throat.

“Yeah, I think I remember you”

“Sure”

You dip your quill on the ink again, getting rid of the excess before writting another disjointed sentence to your essay. You don’t notice how he peers at you over his shoulder.

“But, we don’t have classes together now, right?”

You exhale loudly, sucking at your teeth in an annoyed manner.

“Muggle Studies and Herbology”

“Oh” Oliver nods, pensive “Do we sit close?”

“Does it matter?” you ask, tone a tad angrier in an attempt to to hide your embarrassment. You have known Oliver since your first year, and while not particularly close nor aquintanced with him you were at least aware of him. You guess that’s too much to ask for someone suchs as yourself “Everybody knows you don’t pay much attention to anything but Quidditch anyway”

“Yeah well, I’m planning on going pro, so...”

You spare him a glance, intrigued by how quiet his tone had been towards the end of that sentence. He’s playing with his fingers, his posture slightly turned away from you.

“Wow. I understand now why you don’t have time to spare any time to a mere peasant like me”

“Is not---” he trips over his words and his chest heaves with a sigh “Don’t tell anyone I said that”

His voice shakes slightly, no trace of the coldness it had been laced with just a few minutes ago. You let your shoulders ease, anger dispelling on your chest and an amused smile finding its way to your lips.

“I won’t. Just like when you went into the girls bathroom in your third year and scared a poor girl out of her wits”

You don’t see him jump on his seat, but you definitely hear it. Heavy wood against stone, loud and uncomfortable, making you wince thorugh your smile.

“What--- I don’t know what you are talking about”

“Sure”

Silence stretches between you two but you know it won’t last. You can hear his silence, the way he’s not moving, stiff as a statue. He doesn’t turn when he finally asks:

“Who told you that?”

“No one. As I said, I won’t tell anyone”

Oliver turns to you, confusion set in his brow so deeply you think he’s back at being mad at you.

“That was you?”

“You are so smart” you shoot at him, feeling brave enough in his embarrassment to take a jab at him “How many NEWTS are you taking? Ten, twelve?”

You let yourself smile but it freezes as soon as you see how seriously he’s looking at you, fingers gripping your quill a bit tighter. You almost feel bad, but there is something about the way he’s looking at you.

“Why were you crying?”

An uncomfortable feeling sets itself on your chest, but you know you only got yourself to blame for bringing it up.

“What’s that?”

“When I got into the--” he looks around the room as if expecting someone to be hidding nearby“-- the girls barthroom. By accident might I add. You were crying, were’t you?”

“I don’t remember” your quill hovers over your parchement, so far only two sentences written on it. Oliver’s eyes are still on you for a few more seconds before he turns around, the weight of them liftting from your shoulders. Maybe you just don’t want to sit in silence, or maybe you don’t find him unpleasant, but you tell him “I wasn’t paying attention during charms. I accidentally got my own hair cut”

He chuckles before turning around again, arm resting over the back of his chair.

“I do remember some girl cutting her hair back then”

“Oh, so that you remember. That’s nice”

“At least I remember something”

“You laughed at me, though”

That seems to offend him “No I didn’t”

“Pretty sure you did”

You know for a fact that he had found it quite amusing. His face was one of these that had been burnt on your memory as you had risen from your seat, the sound of the chair dragging against the floor muffled between the laughs of your classmates. You could remember him sitting at the back of the class near the door, a surprised chuckle leaving his mouth as his eyes became wide as you ran past him.

“If I did... I apologize” his words are slow and measured, and you are taken aback by how mature he sounds “It grew well”

Thinking about it, you are not sure of what impression you’ve had of Oliver all these years. He’s quite hot-headed in the pitch, almost imposing in the way he commands his team, even when you see him getting teased by them. In class however he has always been quiet but surprisingly applied, in fact you were shocked when you didn’t see him in Defense Against The Dark Arts at the beginnign of his sixth year, having always excelled at it. You had almost asked him for help once with a particular spell, but if you are being honest, he scared you a bit back then. He always walks like he’s got somewhere to be and he’s a bit late, barely sparing people around him a glance. Thinking about it, is not that weird to think he has never noticed you.

“What were you doing in the girls bathroom anyway?”

“No reason”

“You do realize saying that makes it worse, right? Come on, you owe me”

“For what?”

“For running into me at my lowest in the girls bathroom?”

Oliver hesitates for a moment, finally slumping on his seat, distracting himself by picking at a thin thread dangling from the edge of his worn sweater.

“I was hiding” he finally says after a brief pause, voice low “From Marcus Flinch”

That was odd. You don’t know much about Oliver but if there’s something everyone knows is that he’s not one to run from confrontation. In fact, some might say he’s got a good mouth for getting into trouble, blunt and straightforward as he is.

“Why?”

“He ran into me in the hallway and, funnily enough, threw some charm at me. We had been swept by Slytherin the day before and he was taking the piss out off me. It burnt a lot so I ran to wash my face”

“Why didn’t you go to the Hospital Wing?”

He shifts uncomfortably on his seat. “Well, it was my eyes, and they hurt. So, you know...”

You blink for a moment and then chuckle. You notice him looking at you from the corner of his eye, ears slightly pink.

“So we were both crying in the girls bathroom” you say, and he turns around with a deep frown.

“That’s not--” he stops when he sees your smile. He finds himself fighting back one of his own “Shut up. Don’t tell anyone”

“I never did”

It’s true that no one has ever mentioned it to him. He had felt his blood run cold and burning hot all over when you had mentioned what he considered to be one of the worst moments of his whole school life. Truth to be told, he had been crying for more than the charm.

“I’m sorry” you hear him say.

“What about?”

“Laughing at your hair”

Your eyes rise from your parchment to him. He’s turned slightly towards you, and you are almost sure he has forgotten he’s supposed to be writting an essay.

“I’m sorry I screamed so hard that you fell to the floor. Knowing you were half blind makes it less funny now”

The pink hue at the tips of his ears crawls down to his cheeks.

“Okay, stop remembering things about me”

“Oh, but I do remmeber things”

“Like what?”

“I’m not telling you”

“Why?”

You can tell he’s nervous, probably wondering how many more secrets you’ve got about him. You are enjoying seeing him squirm like this, even though if it makes you feel guilty.

“Because you not knowing I exist makes me having memories of you seem like a crazy person”

“I can remember you, I just did!” he’s about to say something else when his eyes widen in relaization “TRY-OUTS” he exclaims, and you feel like McGonagall might come back and give you double detention for waking everybody else again “You tried for the Quidditch team a few years back”

“You can remember that but you can’t remember us taking Herbology together today?”

“I don’t care about Herbology”

“I can tell”

Oliver rolls his eyes “Is not a you thing. I’m sure that if I try to remember anyone from class I won’t be able to”

“So you are not awful to me, you are just awful”

“I don’t think awful is the word, it's a bit harsh don’t you think?”

You give him a look.

“You called me stupid before”

“Sorry about that” he slouches on his seat, eyes darting around the room “My head is just on the pitch, you know?”

“We all know”

“Going back to that, you tried for Chaser, right? You were quite good, nice passes, good reflexes, very good broom” You put your quill down, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a more defensive position on your seat “Do you still have it?”

“Oh, so now you remember?”

“As I said, head is in the pitch” he taps his temple with his index finger, a proud smirk tugging at his lips.

You shake your head in disbelief, your body shaking with a chuckle.

“That’s actually quite impresive”

“Thank you. You didn’t make the cut, though”

You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue, deciding whether to bite it or not.

“Obviously”

“Is nothing personal is just--”

“It was personal, though” maybe you won’t bite it “You haven’t changed the team since your fifth year, no new players at all”

“I have a solid team” he says matter of factly “I can’t remove the Weasleys, obviously. Harry is our star and our Chasers are---”

“Subpar, at least two of them”

You pretend to lower your voice, but keep it loud enough for him to hear.

“Oi, watch it” that seems to irk him, but you are past the stage of being intimidated by the harshness of his tone “Do you think you could do better?”

“We’ll never find out” you say drily, your mood turning sour. It’s something that would come back to you from time to time, but you hadn’t thought you’d still be this upset. After a few seconds Oliver seems to realize the conversation is over on your side. He huffs slightly and turns to his own paper, dipping his quill on the ink for the first time and proceeding to write absolutely nothing for the next few seconds, focused on the sound of your writting. His head perks up fast when he hears the sound of your chair dragging against the floor, light footsteps settling in the desk that stands between you two “What team?”

“What?”

“What team will you join when you go pro?” you say it nonchalantly, attempting to liven up the mood.

Oliver’s first reaction is to assume you are making fun of him, but your voice must have sounded sincere enough, as you can see his stiff shoulders lowering with a soft exhale. He taps at the table with his finger before answering.

“Puddlemere would be nice” he mutters, embarrased.

“Are you a Pudlemere fan?”

He shrugs.

“Sort of, would like to play with them. They got a decent coach, but I think I have a few ideas they could try to better themselves”

“So... you think you have it in you to better a professional team?”

Oliver shrugs “Yes”

He scans your reaction, almost expecting you to laugh at him. Your eyebrows are raised and your mouth parts in a loopsided smile, but not a trace of mockery in sight.

“Okay” is all you say.

“What?”

“Nothing, you are funny”

“What’s funny about what I said?” his cheeks flush pink under the warm ligth of the candles.

“Nothing, you sounded kind of cool” there’s nothing in your demeanor that seems malicious, so despite his embarrassment Oliver accepts the compliment, his chest swelling a bit with pride “You are fun to talk to too”

His head cocks your way, you can tell he wasn’t expecting that. The truth is that this is the first time anyone has ever used these words to describe him, aware of how he comes across. He has heard it all: stubborn, quick-tempered, overbearing... the kindest way his friends would describe him was “a nice bloke” which he was very happy with. Until now.

“You are alright too, I guess”

“You guess?”

Oliver spreads across his seat, limbs hanging from the chair almost like a ragdoll. He has no intention to write at all, does he?

“Do people say things about me?”

His eyes look away when they meet yours, confusion shinning past them.

“What do you mean?” he shrugs almost like he doesn’t care “I don’t know. Why would I know”

“You seem to pay attention to me”

“Excuse me?” your voice rises in outrage, reverberating on the stone walls and making Oliver flinch “This is just how normal people interact with each other! I don’t pay attention to you” you mutter.

You can’t see Oliver’s face as he’s resting it against the palm of his hand, but his body is shaking with laughter.

“Okay, jeez” The remaints of laughter lace his words, he coughs a few times with a smile.

“But since you mentioned it... there was talk of you having a crush on Katie Bell”

Oliver straightens on his seat in one sharp, swift motion, making you close your mouth in a expression of comical shock.

“What? I don’t!” he says, the way you are looking at him making heat crawl up his neck “I seriously don’t! Who said that?”

“That’s just what I heard”

“Where”

“The common room? I don’t know”

“Well, I don’t. She’s a fine flier and all but--” your eyebrows rise and his face reddens “She is! She takes good care of her broom and she doesn’t complain about drills”

“You are not helping yourself here”

“I don’t fancy her!”

“Fine!” you say and Oliver gives you something akin to a warning look that is hard to take seriously when his cheeks are so flushed “People don’t believe you can experience any non-quidditch related emotions anyway, so I wouldn’t worry much about it”

Oliver’s bottom lip potrudes slightly as he looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

“I can”

“Make up your mind, mate”

“Oh, wait!” Oliver rises from his seat, a crooked smile on his face as he points his index finger at you. You have a very bad feeling about it “You had a crush on Fred, right?”

“Shut up”

Oliver is delighted by the way the smile disappeares completely from your face as you sink in your seat.

“That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Why do you even know that?”

“Because--” just as yours had done, his smile stills and falls, his expression turning serious.

“What”

“Nothing”

Oliver sits down again, facing the wall with his back facing you.

“It’s obviously something”

“I got it wrong, sorry”

“What is it!”

Your gaze sticks to the back of his head, and his fingers drum nervously on the table, knee starting to bounce. He can tell you are not going to let it go. He tursn to you slowly, scratching the back of his head as his eyes fixate on the stone floor.

“You.. gave him candy for Valentine’s a few years back” he says almost as if it’s a question. You nod and so does he, something tells you he was hoping you wouldn’t  “So... that’s why”

“Okay... so what’s all that about, Oliver” his gaze shoots up at you when he hears his name. It feels weird somehow, hearing his name for the first time in someone’s voice “What is it?”

“So... it was at the Common Room, on the table. I guess he left it there” He clears his throat and starightens himself a bit on his seat “We were talking Quidditch and you know... me and some other people might... have... eaten it. We didn’t see the note until it was done!” he bits his lip, analizing your reaction. When he sees none, just your eyes on him, unreadable, he continues “We all felt really bad about it, you know, when you were kind of looking at him for a while after that”

He can remember now him and the others sitting at the dining table that same day. Of course, how could he had forgotten what house you were in? He can remember you sitting there, a few seats away from him, staring as Fred passed by and sat with them without so much of a glance your way. The sight had made his stomach turn then and it did now that your face was more clear in his memory, vivid.

“Did he read it though?” you ask “The note. Before you ate it?”

“Well, we didn’t want to tell him because we knew he’d get upset. He got a bit of a temper. And he gets so much stuff anyways so we knew he wouldn’t notice--”

“Oh, that makes me feel better” you cut him with a humorless chuckle “I thought I had gotten rejected and ignored but in reality I was just... whatever. I wasn’t expecting him to say anythign anyways”

It was true that you hadn’t expected anything from Fred, obviously. However there had been that painful bit of hope that never seemed to go away, longing for the small possibility that maybe... just maybe; a pitiful ‘what if’. There had been nothing of the sort, not even a simple thank you, and that had been more painful than any rejection. Fred was known for being a riot, but he was also kind, and yet he hadn’t spoken a single word to you. Oliver’s knee started bouncing nervously, his eyes set on the way yours seem to be lost miles away, your jaw tensing slightly. He stood up from his seat, moving to sit next to you on the desk, grabbing his parchment carelessly and making it wrinkle as he brought it to the table.

“I’m really sorry”

“It was ages ago” you shake your head, tone softer in response to how sincere he sounds “I don’t even like him anymore, so... whatever”

“Oh, well. That’s good then”

“Is not like it would have mattered if he ate it” you reassure him, attempting to also ease the ill feeling in the pit of your stomach you hadn’t felt in years “Wasn’t going to make him notice me anyway”

He can hear the faint attempt at a smile in the way you speak these words and his chest aches a bit, guilt pressing against his ribcage.

“I think he’d like you, if you talked to him”

The statement doesn’t make you feel better, if anything it makes you feel worse. There’s nothing about you that could endear Fred Weasley, that’s a simple fact. You know Oliver means well, but pity is the last thing you need right now.

“Sure”

“No, I mean it. You are... nice”

“Wow, thanks. I feel so special now”

“You are” he says before turning mockingly serious “I think this might be the longest conversation I’ve had in the last seven years, actually”

His delivery makes you burst into laughter, and he smiles with a satisfied grin, breaking character.

“Oh, you are funny now!”

“I guess I am”

“Is this the first non Quiditch related conversation you’ve ever had?”

He ponders for a moment, lips purisng in concentration.

“Jokes aside? I think it might be”

Your laughters mix together and the room feels full, brighter despite the long shadows spreading through the dimly candlelit chamber.

“Well, you have to be serious if you want to join the Puddlemere soon” Oliver smiles but looks away, still feeling embarrassed about having told you that “Do you really not spend time on anything else?”

Oliver shakes his head “Not really”

“So you don’t fancy Katie Bell?”

His mouth opens and closes a few times before sighing, a resigned look on his face as he turns to you.

“... I did for a bit, okay?” he admits in confidence, sounding defeated “How did people even find out?”

“Maybe you are easy to read”

“It was awful. I got teased a lot by those two pricks and the giggles and everything” his eyes meet yours, falling to your amused smile “Yeah, those little smirks too, I hated them. Leave me alone”

He waves a hand at you, turning to face forward, obviously flustered by the memories of all the teasing that had gone down back then. Katie’s awkward smile every time they had met each other in the hallways and during practice had haunted him for years, a feel of shame and embarrassment of a kind he had never felt before or since.

“Only one parchment away for that to happen. You should hurry”

Your own parchment is still practically empty, and you stare at it with heavy eyelids, already feeling the weight of sleep forcing them close. You write another disjointed sentence, hoping McGonagall won’t actually read it.

“What will you do, when you graduate?”

The scratchy sound of quill dragging against the parchment stops as you ponder on the question. It’s been something you have tried not to think about and yet it seems to follow you into every room, every conversation.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll become a pro quidditch player” you joke.

“What do you want to do?” he insists.

“I don’t know” His interest earns him a confused look from you, and a moment passes between you two “I’m not like you”

“What do you mean?”

“Again, you are... kind of cool”

Oliver’s eyebrows presses over his eyes, his foot still tapping against the floor almost imperceptibly.

“Why?”

“You know what you want to do... you are doing it. In the meantime I feel like...” you shrug, letting your silence fill in the blanks.

“Well, I also feel... sometimes, you know?” he stirs on his seat, pulling at his sleeves again “Like, I’m working so hard, right? I can say that” He pauses and looks at you with a slight turn of his head, as if asking for confirmation “If for some reason that’s not enough... then it’s over. I’ve got nothing else”

His voice is bare and low and maybe that’s what makes you scoot a bit closer to him. You notice his fingers fidgeting with a string dangling from the edge of his sweater, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowes drily.

“Good thing that you are going to be the youngest professional player in the country then”

Oliver’s head turns to you ever so slightly. You can see a smile tugging at his lips, eyes turning into a crescent under its weight. He doesn’t fully turn to you, looking in the opposite direction and his fingers still, resting over the wooden desk.

“Are you making fun of me?” he teases “I know some people do”

His laugh is quiet but still reverberates through the room with a soft rumble. Your mind travels somewhere else, not realzing a small spot of ink expanding through where you have rested your quill for too long now.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure” he replies, way too quickly.

You both stare at each other for a second too long before you build up the courage to bring it up.

“Last year... when you lost against Ravenclaw” your words are cautious, knowing how deep that cut was, Gryffindor had taken a good few weeks to recover from it. No one had taken it as hard as Oliver though, that you knew better than anyone else “I couldn’t sleep and went down in the common room... late at night”

You say that last part with certainty, knowing that he will understand. Sure enough, Oliver’s face turns a bit solemn, eyes falling down at his lap.

“You saw that?”

You had, actually. It had been one of these nights in which there were way too many thoughts swarming your mind and no matter how tired you were, sleep didn’t seem to catch you. After tossing and turning you had gotten out of bed, making sure to not wake anyone up and walked down the stairs of the Girl’s Dormitory to the Common Room. When you set foot on it you heard a noise that made your skin crawl. You hid under the stairs, heart beating wildly as you tried to adjust yourself to both the silence and the pitch dark of the room. With a hand over your mouth you stayed completely still until you heard the noise again. It had startled you so horribly that your brain hadn’t been able to process what it had been, but now it was clear. Someone was crying in the dark room, not a small fire nor a single candle lit.

“Well, listened” you say “I’m sorry. I walked in and I saw you and I... stayed on the stairs”

“On the stairs? Just, listening?” his question is halfway between amused and confused.

You remember peering behind the wall of the stairs into the room, Oliver’s shape familiar yet hard to make out in the dark. It wasn’t until the moonlight had seeped through the cloudy night sky and through the high windows that you could see his face.

“I’m not sure. I think it didn’t feel right leaving you alone” you admit, feeling embarrassed right away “I kind of wanted to go and pat your back and say... I don’t know, comforting words or something, but we didn’t know each other” Your hand moves to you neck, it feels even hotter under Oliver’s eyes which you are trying to avoid “And now I know that you didn’t even knew I existed so I just... stayed there, thinking about how cool it’d be to be a good person and cheer you up”

You let out a small laugh, trying to ease your embarrassment.

“I think I would’ve liked it” he finally says.

“Yeah?”

“No” Oliver chuckles and casually nudges at you with his elbow “I would have gotten really embarrassed and walked away. I’d probably have been rude too, so you did the right thing”

“I would have been terrified if you had been mean to me”

“I’m sorry. In a hypothetical way”

“Oliver Wood knows the word hypothetical?”

“Oi!”

He playfully pushes you away with his arm, and you become painfully aware of how athletic his frame is, his slight touch moving you away with ease.

“Hypothetically speaking...” you start, and you both share a look “I think we could have been friends, at some point”

Your draw out the sentence, abashment apparent but not unwelcome.

“Me too”

“If only you had been aware that I existed”

“I was! It’s just...”

“I’m just not on your Quidditch board?”

“Exactly!”

“I could have, if you had put me in it” you turn away from him, facing the front of the class “But it’s okay”

Oliver’s lips part in an amused yet offended expression.

“That’s low”

“Is it? I think it’s valid criticism”

“I have very good judgement when it comes to my team”

You nod to yourself as if preparing yourself to release your tongue from the grip you’ve had it in all night.

“So, no one making the team had nothing to do with the fact that that was the year you had a crush on Katie Bell? Who we’ve stablished you liked and is also, statistically speaking, your worst Chaser?”

“So you know statistics now?”

“Am I wrong?”

“That’s...”

He opens and closes his mouth, his eyes walking around the room looking for a way to deny what he knows he can’t. He knows you’re right, he knows he didn’t want to put Katie on reserve, having been worried to hurt her feelings. He bites the inside of his cheek, lips trying really hard to not press into a smile as he looks away from your accusatory gaze.

“I knew it!” you say, savoring the sweet taste of victory “Everybody knew it, actually. That’s how people relaized you liked her”

“Do you people want me to have feelings or not?” he snaps, finger pulling at the neckline of his sweater, the room feeling hot out of nowhere.

“I don’t personally care”

“Oh, I think you do”

“I just wanted you to admit it. You remembered me quite well from the try-outs so I’m assuming you thought a lot about it. It’s cute, really”

“Can we change the subject?” he asks, voice raising in a plea.

You pretend to ponder for a moment, finger tapping at your lips.

“Fine by me”

“So, why did you fancy Fred?”

“Actually let’s circle back to Katie” a laugh rips through Oliver’s chest, head hanging back and you catch yourself staring at him a bit too long. Is loud and foreign and it stretches your lips into a smile. When the laugh dies he stares at you and you shrug “He’s... fun”

“Debatable” cuts Oliver “So is Geroge though, so are a bunch of other people”

“Why are you asking?” you hide your face between your hands, feeling a blush starting to creep up.

“Because I could tell you really fancied him. Like, really fancied him. The way you stared at him...” his smile turns into a short pressed line. There’s guilt in his insistence "And I’m assuming you’ve never talked to him so... I’m just curious”

A short silence stretches between you two but he doesn’t hurry you, letting you search for the right words. You take your time, looking back and within yourself to try to find a plausible way to explain the soul crushing crush you had developed seemingly out of nowhere.

“It’s like... when he enters a room, it feels like he’s setting it on fire” Oliver’s eyes look up, head nodding in understanding “I dont know, one day you stay longer at the common room because he’s there, and you look forward to lunch because you can see him and you get sad the days yo don’t see him at all and... I guess that's it”

“I’m sorry”

“For what?”

“He might have talked to you if I hadn’t eaten it”

You shake your head with a reassuring smile “You just said he got a bunch of other gifts”

“Yeah but he’s not a jerk, he thanks every girl that sends him something”

“So what? He would have said ‘thanks’ and I would’ve frozen in place and just be really awkward and he would have walked away. The end”

“He could have fallen for you” he insists.

You turn to him, face twisting in a sour smile.

“Are you taking the piss right now?”

“No I’m not, just...” Oliver massages his forehead trying to put his reasoing into words, hand passing through his hair and making it stand in an awkward way “He’s not dumb. He’s got a good eye for people” his brown eyes bore into you and you can appreciate how long and many his eyelashes are, they kiss at his skin when he blinks at you “That’s why I think he might have liked you. If he had just talked to you back then”

You become aware of how much the gap between you has closed, his voice while still low and clear in your ears. His knee graces yours under the table and you notice a jolt runs through your body.

“Yeah, well. We’ll never know” you finally say, you voice a bit high pitched “Is not like I still like him, so, stop feeling bad about it. Go back to not knowing I exist and it’ll go away”

You give his shoulder a firendly pat and straighten up in an attempt to keep a bit of distance, his presence suddenly suffocating. You don’t move your knee away though, and neither does he.

“Too late, I’m too aware of your existence”

“Really?”

“You talk a lot” his eyes unconsciously move to your lips, which doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“I’m so sorry, should I shut up?”

“Yes, please. I have to finish this parchment if want to get out of here”

“More like you have to start the parchment first, you mean?”

You eye his parchment, completely blank with the exception of a few ink stains. Yours however displayed three written lines that somehow seemed to vary in size and handwritting. McGonagall wouldn’t grade this, right?

“Well, you’ve been distracting me, so...”

“I have been distracting you?” you feign offense, hand at your chest as if hurt.“Mr. Why-Did-You-Like-Fred-Weasley-Two-Years-Ago”

“You keep talking to me about stalking me in the common room and knowing about my crushes, it’s kind of weird” he narrows his eyes at you, accusatorily “I think you might be obsessed with me”

“Well you are... what’s the opposite of obsessed? Like obssesively unaware of someone?”

Oliver pretends to think for a moment, his lips pressed together while trying not to laugh.

“I think that’s just me not caring”

“That’s way harsh, Oliver”

He finally breaks into a smile, bottom lip cuaght between his teeth as he lets the way you say his name ring in his ears.

“Just, let me write my thing” he says, finally peering his eyes away from you. He waves his hand in front of you, facing forward and leaning over his parchment, quill in hand.

For a while you both focus on writting something that resembles an essay. The satisfactory sound of quills scratching the parchment settles in the room only accompained by the soft rustling of your arms moving across the table. Your arms bump together whenever you reach the end of of your parchment, making you look forward to it with every sentence. He sighs once, twice. There’s something on his mind.

“You didn’t say why you were out so late”

His voice interrumpts your train of thought, and you forget where your sentence was going. You frown as you dip the quill in ink.

“Yes I did”

“Yeah but you didn’t say where”

“Dark Lake” you shrug “Thinking”

“About what?”

“I thought you were going to write? Who’s distracting who now?”

“It’s kind of relevant to the topic, so...”

You bit down a smile, your hand slows down as you write another messy line on your essay.

“I was just... I needed some time alone”

“Got a lot on your mind?” he asks quietly, looking at you over his shoulder “Anything bothering you?”

“You are suddenly interested?”

“I am”

“You are doing great progress in the social aspect--”

“Are you alright?”

Your eyes stay on the parchment, your forced cheerful tone still echoing in the room when you fall quiet. You wonder when did he notice, what did you say?

“What are you on about?” you try to scoff but your throat is dry and you choke a bit.

“Well, we keep talking about me. I joked that it’s because you are obsessed with me, which I still stand by” he jokes, aware of how stiff you have become “But I think that... maybe you just don’t want to talk about yourself?”

You wet your lips which feel suddenly dry, your uneven breathing making it worse. You want to clear your throat, try to make your heart go back down to your ribcage, but the silence has become so deafening you don’t want to make a single noise.

“Maybe”

You can feel the weight of his stare on you and you don’t dare to look up. He nods almost imperceptibly, before softly saying:

“Okay”

He doesn’t ask any further, but there is something in the way he looks at you. You give him a small smile, it’s heavy and is honest, and he drags his arm a few inches to bump it softly against yours. He goes back to his essay, falling quiet once again. He can tell you are not writting, your arm not moving, instead still resting dangerously close to his. You can feel the warmth of his proximity, oddly overwhelming despite such a light touch.

“I can tell you anything you want” you say, attempting to get back into conversation.

You find yourself missing the sound of his voice in the silence that you had so desperately seeked refugee in a few hours ago.

“What’s your Quidditch team?” he asks.

“I don’t have one”

“Are you serious?” he turns to you with look of disappointment “That’s unnacceptable”

“I guess I was just waiting for you to join one” you say in a quiet voice, shrugging mischeviously. There is a shift in his eyes “I’m going to buy sweaters and hats with your name on it and have posters in my wall with you in them and I will get into fights at bars to defend you even if you suck”

His hand stills, something soft and unguarded behind his eyes as his gaze holds onto yours for a heartbeat too long.

“Please don’t get into fights at bars for me” his voice comes out in a soft plea, but it’s obvious that he isn’t completely opposed to the idea, he sounds strangely flattered.

“So is everyhting else okay? The sweaters, the posters---”

“Yeah, that’s fine”

Oliver has given up on the essay, looking at you like you are the only thing worth his attention. The weight of it presses down on you, unyielding, eyes darting across your face as if reading you. It’s suffocating and it makes you want to run away, and yet you stay still, anchored on your seat and letting the heat climbing up your neck reach your cheeks.

“Make sure to remember me this time? When you are famous?”

For a moment Oliver remains completelly still, eyes dragging heavy through your features, his lips slightly parted as if he’s about to say something that ultimately remains unspoken. He leans forward and your breath catches on your throat, the warmth in his proximity making the room seem way smaller and the silence much louder, only interrupted by the sound of his bretahing, shaky and short. He stops himself, not really waiting for you to cross the little distance left, but savoring the charged quiet between you two. You haven’t crossed it, but it almost feels like there’s no need for it. Your nose brushes against his almost intentionally, a ghostly caress that lets him know he isn't unwelcome. His eyes come into focus with slight difficulty, and he sucks his bottom lip into his teeth when they met yours.

“Wow, Oliver Wood” you whisper, hot breathing meeting his as he draws in a soft gasp, coming back to his senses.

His eyes shut tightly as he lowers his head, forehead almost resting against your shoulder but not brave enough yet to touch you.

“Shut up” he’s embarrassed, and his words fan against the skin of your neck.

You tilt your head just enough to press your cheek against the his hair.

“We should finish our essays”

“Yeah”

McGonagall had come back into the room two hours later. She was obviously agitated about something, not even bothering to look at your essays as she rushed you out of the classroom. Oliver doesn’t hurry this time, measuring his steps carefully to stay by your side as you walk back to your common room. You feel his hand brush against yours once, twice, making your heart beat so fast you had to sigh multiple times to get some air in.

“Where was your Common Room?” he asks when you are almost in front of the Fat Lady “What house are you in again?”

“Very funny” you push him playfully, hand wrapping around his bicep. It makes you blush how strong he is “Was that going be your first kiss?” you tease.

“Don’t know what you are on about”

He rushes up the last few steps and speaks the password, you can see how pink the tip of his ears are from behind. The Common Room is empty, the darkness welcoming you two home as you step in. You accidentally bump into the armrest of the couch and you hear him snort and hold back a chuckle, hushing you as your giggles reverberate through the room. You both walk to the bottom of the stairs, waiting for one of you to go first.

“I guess I’ll see you around” you say, and you think your voice sounds too loud, or maybe you hate how obvious your are. Oliver doesn’t seem to mind.

“We have Muggles and Herbology together so, can’t miss you”

“I’m not sure of that. You’ve managed to do it for while now”

You say it as a joke, but there is a hint of fear that it might happen. That he might walk into class tomorrow and spare you a small smile and a nod and just continue with what he’s always done.

“It’d be nice to talk again. Preferably out of detention”

“Oh no, but what will we do then?”

“We can study together, properly. Have lunch... walk?”

“Anything else?” he doesn’t catch it right away, not only he sees the way you are looking at him with a teasing smile that is costing you all your courage to give to him. The heat is too much and you deflect “I’m joking”

You look down at your feet, fire prickling at your skin and all over your body.

“Shame” he mutters, eyes lowering and staring straight at you before looking away when you look up at him. He clears his throat and thanks Merlin is so dark in here “Anyways we should go”

“Yeah”

He lets you go first, and you can’t see the way his hands hover behind your back in case that you take a wrong step. The staircase is dark and you both need to keep a hand on the uneven stone wall, meeting one another a few times on your way up.

“Be careful”

He whispers behind you when he hears the way your foot bumps into one of the last steps. You stop walking, making Oliver almost bump into your back. You can hear him draw in a breath about to speak, and you let it out before he can say anything.

“I want to talk to you again”

He doesn’t take long to answer, but it feels like forever. Despite the lack of echo, your words hang in the air, you wonder if you can take them back.

“Me too” Oliver finally says and you realize just how close he is to you. There is the faintets hint of a smile when he says it “I just said it”

“Yeah, well” you shake your head “Nevermind”

“No, tell me” he holds onto your hand when you attempt to keep going up.

“I’m just being weird. Is late”

“I want to know” he gently tugs at your wrist, making you go down the steps until you are in front of him again. You plan on stopping two steps above to leave enough space and stay above him, but he tugs one more time until you are almost touching him, his nose brushing your forehead if he moves too close “I’ve been trying for you to talk to me all night. This is a victory for me”

“I don’t know why I said it” You keep your head down, his touch warm where he’s still lazily holding onto you “Like, maybe you will change your mind. Because this is a bit crazy, isn’t it?”

Maybe is not enough for him to understand, because it takes him a bit to say anything back. You can feel his eyes on you, though, you know he wants you to look back at him but you can’t. Not when you already feel this breathless and bare.

“I actually have practice in three hours” you are so close to his chest you can see it expanding as he breathes in deeply “I know it’s a bit early but it’d be nice if you came to watch”

“Oh... that’s---”

“Too early, I know. It’s better if you rest and sleep”

“Yeah, I should. I’ve got Arithmancy first in the morning”

“Right”

He lets go of your wrist slowly and passes his hand through his hair with an airy chuckle. Your head falls back slightly, enough for you to look at him.

“So I’ll see you in the pitch in three hours”

It takes a few seconds to distinguish his features in the darkness, the proximity of his body almost flushed against yours becoming more overwhelming once you can see him. You feel his nose drag alongside your forehead when you look up at him, his breathing fanning against your face when he finally let’s go of a breath he was holding.

“You don’t have to”

“I know” you shift your weight, and he brings an arm to hover on your side when he feels you move, not really touching you but close enough for you to feel it “But I’m your first fan, I need to set an example” you expect him to laugh at that, to feel his smile on your face, but he doesn’t. He leans down and you feel the light touch of his lips over yours. They are soft but dry, warm and hesitant in the way they set on yours before he steps back. You can barely register the kiss before you are trying to ease the worry you can feel coming from him “Wow, Wood. Again?”

This time he laughs, relieved and light and you know he must have woken someone up by now.

“What?! I’m not doing that!” 

“It’s a dare! You have to do it, or you eat one of Fred and George’s experiments… what were they called? Barfing Bonbons?”

“Puking Pastilles. Barfing Bonbons? I’m offended, Johnson!”

“Yeah, why would we name it that? You must have no faith in our marketing abilities!”

“Considering the last five blokes to try them went to the Hospital Wing for an ‘unidentified illness,’ I don’t think you’ll be marketing them at all anytime soon!”

The group dissolved into laughter, while Fred and George continued to feign offence to the barb. Angelina rolled her eyes, and turned back towards you, her eyes gleaming in challenge. 

“Alright. If you don’t want to turn McGonagall’s robes blue–”

“I definitely don’t,” you said firmly. The last thing you needed was to get in trouble with Professor McGonagall. 

“–then we need a dare that’s even worse. As punishment for rejecting the first one.”

“Oh, I know!” Katie exclaimed triumphantly, turning to you with a grin. “Oliver.”

You frowned. “What about him?” He was noticeably absent from the group tonight, something you’d tried not to be too disappointed about.  

Although, considering what was said next, you found yourself rather relieved he wasn’t.

“You have to kiss him.”

“I have to what?!” you exclaimed, aghast, and Katie nodded triumphantly. 

“You’ve liked him for long enough, it’s time to do something about it.”

“But… I can’t do that!” you protested. Katie shrugged while Angelina nodded in agreement.

“It’s either that or try one of the Throw-up Tiramisus.” she offered, and you shuddered.

“I am not kissing Oliver,” you said, aghast. 

“You could always turn McGonagall's robes red.” 

“Seriously. You’re going to make me?”

You stared at your friends in shock and they stared right back, unrelenting. Katie raised an eyebrow. 

“Listen,” you tried one last time. “The only time I would ever kiss Oliver of my own volition was if he was… I dunno, nervous about a game!”

“That never happens.” George said, completely missing that that was your whole point. You didn’t want to kiss Oliver because someone had dared you to. You wanted to kiss him because you wanted to, and he wanted to kiss you too.

Which would never happen, because you were fairly certain he definitely didn’t. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m not going to kiss him because of a dare, okay?”

“You know the rules! It’s either accept the dare or jump into the Black Lake. And it’s winter, so I would think very carefully about this.”

“I know, but–”

“The question’s simple, alright?” Angelina interrupted, crossing her arms and fixing you with a steely look. “Are you going to do it, or not?”

༺ ✧ ༻

The cold winter wind whipped against your face as you stepped out of the castle, following the throng of students heading towards the Quidditch field. It had snowed last night and was well below freezing outside, so you had been quite surprised to see how many people were going. 

“If I’d known this many people would show up, I would’ve come earlier,” you told your friend Scarlett, your teeth chattering as you side-stepped a particularly large, snow-covered rock you’d seen someone trip over earlier. 

“I think we should be okay,” she said. “I still see a bunch of available seats.”

“Yeah, but it’ll fill up pretty fast,” a voice behind you said, and you turned to see Fred Weasley grinning, his broom slung over his shoulder.

“Weasley! Don’t you start playing in like, what, fifteen minutes?” you asked.

He shrugged, still smiling. “Yep. Overslept.”

“I’d run if I were you,” you warned. “Otherwise Oliver might genuinely hit the roof of the locker room.”

“Nahh, it’ll be fine,” Fred waved a hand dismissively. “Besides, I have a secret weapon.”

“And what’s that?” you asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

“You,” he said, and promptly grabbed your arm, veering off the path and dragging you with him in the direction of the locker room tents. 

“Fred! What are you doing?!” you yelped, stumbling along down the snowy hill. 

“Holding you to your promise!”

“My what?”

“Don’t you remember?” he said, continuing to pull you towards the entrance of the tent. “Last week. You said you’d snog Wood if he was ever nervous about a game.”

“Yeah, because he never gets nervous.” 

Fred threw you a look over his shoulder. “Well, guess what he is today.”

You snorted in disbelief as Fred tugged you towards the locker room, reaching out for the door handle. “Please. He’s never–”

Fred threw the door open and you were met with sight of none other than Oliver Wood, pacing back and forth in agitation. 

“–nervous.” you finished lamely, and Fred dropped your arm, stepping up beside you and giving you a meaningful nudge. You shot him a dirty look, crossing your arms and standing there as Oliver looked up, apprehension written all over his face.

“Well, don’t just stand there, Weasley,” he snapped, gesturing at the open door. “You’re letting all the cold air in!”

“My mistake, Wood!” Fred chirped, squeezing past you and whistling a jaunty tune as he did so. Oliver glared at him before glancing back up and seeing you still standing there, stunned, in the doorway. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, frowning, but his shoulders dropped a little and some of the creases on his face smoothed out. 

“I, uh…” You trailed off, glancing over at Fred and George. George was observing you and Oliver, apt, while Fred triumphantly polished the handle of his broomstick. To his right, Angelina and Katie were simply standing there, watching this unfold expectantly. Angelina had a slight smile on her face and you resisted the urge to glare at her. 

Seeing you weren’t going to get help from any of them, you turned back to Oliver, shifting awkwardly on your feet. 

“Just to say hi,” you said finally, and Oliver sighed, striding over towards you. For a second, your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat as he got far too close. Was he going to kiss you? He was certainly within close enough distance–

All your hopes quickly deflated as he simply reached past you, pulling the door shut and giving you a mildly irritated look, though it lacked any real malice. 

“You shouldn’t be down here right before a game. Only players are allowed,” he told you, even though you knew that. 

“Yeah, I just…” You glanced over at your other friends again, and sighed, shaking your head. “If you must know, I was told you were nervous.”

Oliver scoffed. “Nervous? I’m not nervous.” he said seriously, and Fred let out an audible laugh. He immediately looked at him, sharply, and Fred shrugged. 

“Tell that to the spot in the floor you practically wore off with all your pacing,” he pointed out. 

“I wasn’t pacing,” Oliver countered, “I was strategizing.” 

“On the ground? Quidditch is a game that takes place on brooms– you do know that, right?” Fred asked.

Another sharp look. “Yes, I know that very well.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Fred muttered and Oliver immediately pointed at the door.

“Out.”

“What? We still have ten minutes!”

“Out.” 

Fred grumbled something incoherent but grabbed his broom, slinging it over his shoulder again and walking towards the door. 

“The rest of you lot, too,” Oliver added, earning a number of insulted gasps from the players. “I need to be alone.”

Feeling rather crestfallen, though you didn’t allow your thoughts to linger long on why, you started to back towards the door too, but a voice stopped you. 

“Not you,” Oliver said, his tone considerably softer than it had been earlier. “You can stay.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly very dry as you heard a chuckle behind you. Turning around, you saw it was Angelina, giving you a significant look before following her team outside and letting the door swing shut behind her. 

Once you and Oliver were safely alone, he let out a long sigh, dropping down onto one of the benches with his head in his hands. You frowned, concern for him immediately overriding the nerves you felt around him. You’d only been in love with him since what, your second year?

“What’s wrong?” you asked him quietly, approaching him cautiously until you were standing in front of him. He shook his head and when he spoke, his voice was slightly muffled by his hands. 

“I don’t know,” he told you, sounding strained and tired. “We’ve played Ravenclaw and won before– a lot– but they have the best brooms of the season now, and a killer new Keeper.”

You raised your eyebrows. “‘The best brooms of the season’?” you echoed. “Doesn’t Harry have a Firebolt as well?”

Oliver glanced up, peeking through his fingers. “Yeah. But–”

“And they have a new Keeper too?” you interrupted. He nodded, and you scoffed. 

“Not as good as you, I bet,” you said decisively, and he took his hands away from his face, watching you speak. “I don’t watch much Quidditch, but I can say you’re by far the best Keeper I’ve ever seen.”

“If you don’t watch a lot of games, then you’re not really a reliable source.”

“Rubbish, Wood. I’ve watched you play, so I know my stuff. And there’s no way you can lose.” you told him seriously. 

“Thanks for your confidence,” he said wryly, tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling. “But I don’t think–”

“But nothing!” you cried. “I won’t hear any more of your protests but if I do, I’ll go ahead and see myself out.”

You took a step backwards towards the door and immediately Oliver’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and stopping you from going any further. 

“Don’t go,” he said instantly. “Stay.”

“You have five minutes until game time, Oliver,” you said, trying your best to disguise the quiver in your voice. “I can’t stay for long.”

“That’s alright,” he said quietly. “Just… stay.”

You swallowed roughly again, but nodded. 

“Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll stay.”

Oliver took a breath, then stood up and pulled you into a tight, nearly bone-crushing hug. You stiffened at the unexpected contact, then slowly relaxed into his embrace. 

Tentatively, you allowed yourself to wrap your arms around him too, feeling the coarse material of his Quidditch uniform scratch at your ungloved hands. He smelled like broom polish and the apple turnover you’d seen him eat for breakfast, a combination that should not have smelled as good as it did. 

He hugged you a little tighter, holding on for a moment more before releasing you and stepping back. 

“You should go,” he said reluctantly, still sounding worried but less so than before. “We don’t have long until playing time.”

“Good luck,” you said. “Even though you don’t need it.”

He nodded, giving you a grateful look, and you started to step back. Then, before you could lose your nerve, you lifted yourself up and kissed him on the cheek. 

It was a quick kiss, lasting no more than a second or two, but your lips definitely landed on his cheek. You heard his inhale of surprise but turned away before he could react, already rushing towards the door–

For the second time that day, he caught your wrist before you could leave and turned you around to face him. 

“What was that for?” he asked, light brown eyes alight with something indecipherable. You shook your head, trembling slightly.

“For luck,” you repeated breathlessly, trying to tug out of his grasp again.

“You missed.”

You frowned. “I what?”

“You missed,” he repeated, then pulled you to him again, his lips landing solidly on yours in a real, true kiss. 

You immediately froze, your brain completely malfunctioning as you tried to comprehend the fact that you were finally, actually snogging Oliver and that this wasn’t some fever dream you would wake up from in a couple seconds, before instantly regretting you were no longer asleep. You found yourself wishing he would never pull away, that this feeling would go on forever and ever–

He ended this kiss first, drawing back but just enough so he could breathe. His lips continued to hover over yours, slightly swollen and inviting. 

“That was…” you began nervously, and he exhaled hard, his breath warm over your cheeks. 

“Less talking, more kissing,” he murmured, starting to kiss you again. 

“Don’t you have a game to play?” you pointed out, even though you’d like nothing more than to keep snogging him. 

Oliver paused, hesitated, then shrugged. 

“It can wait,” he muttered, leaning forward again. “I think I need a little more luck first…”

A/N: Okay, there it is! This was pretty fun to write and I hope you enjoyed reading it. I’ll try to write some more for him as well as other characters in the HP series, as is one of my goals this year. Please request any specific characters you’d like to see, and a happy new year to you. And yes, a bit of that dialogue was inspired by the movie Elf!

Quite quickly after arriving at the bar, all of you had settled in your self proclaimed corner, the one with the biggest pool table which was also not too far from the throwing darts game.

It was later into the evening now, you had let yourself seduced by shots with Natasha and you hadn’t exactly stopped drinking after that. Sipping your mojito happily, you took a moment to take a look at the members of your squad, who were spread out in two groups. Natasha, Bradley and Bob seemed to be having a vigorous debate over by the dart board, while Javy, Reuben, Mickey and Jake were engrossed into a party of pool, which Jake was leading, of course.

Bradley had invited you to their game a little while ago but you had gently refused, opting to just sit for a moment, content to watch your friends have fun while enjoying the warm feeling the alcohol was giving you. It wasn’t very often you drank, not really liking the way you became so emotional and loosed tongue. But so far, you seemed to be doing fine, the liquor in your system making you feel giddy for once and not so mushy like it usually did.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, how the hell are you still winning when there’s three of us against you ?” Mickey complained, which caught your attention.

“This is actually starting to feel unfair,” Reuben agreed, putting his cue stick on the pool table, while Javy was letting out an exasperated grumble.

“I don’t know boys, I’m just that good. There’s nothing you can do about it except maybe just make peace with it,” Jake retorted, a smirk brighter than the sun itself stretching his lips. “Let’s go again, I promise to go easy on you this time.” He winked charmingly at his three friends who were staring at him with infiltrated irritation.

“No way, I’m out.” Javy capitulated, throwing his arms in the air before walking towards the bar.

“Okay,” Jake smiled, letting the last syllable linger, “damn, didn’t know you were such a sore loser Coyote.” He called out after his friend, “come on, Payback, Fanboy, you two against me.”

“Sorry man, honestly it’s not even fun anymore,” Reuben declared.

Jake just waved him off, turning to Mickey expectantly.

“No way.” The man simply said before walking with Payback towards the rest of the group next to the dart board.

Jake was left with an air of incredulity deforming his features.

“What the hell, guys ? So what, you’re just gonna leave me hanging ?”

“Now you know what that feels like,” Bradley called out to him with a smirk, evidently proud of his quick wit.

“Shut the fuck up, chicken.” He then, looked at the rest of the squad while walking over to them, “are you serious ? No one wants to play with me ?”

You had been watching the whole exchange quietly from your barstool, and you didn’t like the way Jake’s tone changed, almost imperceptibly to the normal human ear, but it didn’t go unnoticed by you. Nothing he would ever do would go unnoticed by you, which you considered to be your greatest misfortune.

“Are you really surprised ? Nobody likes playing with you, Hangman.” Natasha retorted harshly.

In any other circumstances you would have agreed with her, threw in a snappy remark of your own, not wasting an opportunity to put him in his place. But in your state, her tone sounded overly cruel in your ears. And the way Jake reacted was not helping the oncoming wave of empathy and emotion you could feel rising in your throat.

He simply looked at them with an unreadable expression for a second and just as he was about to say something, Javy returned to the dart board, carrying a tray full of drinks.

“Alright who’s up for darts ? Jake, don’t even think about it dude, leave us a chance to win.”

Jake cleared his throat, “Yeah, okay. I mean, I thought pilots like you would like some competition but if you like an easy win, have at it,” he conceded with a resigned grimace.

“We’re not in the air, Bagman, let us have fun. Not everything has to be hardcore competition,” Bradley almost snarled at him, while taking off some drinks from Javy’s tray.

Jake let out a bitter chuckle, “yeah, alright. Have fun then.” He said before walking back to the pool table, where he had left his drink.

Despite the bravado he forced himself to put on at all times, it was clear as day he was hurt, and you felt your heart tighten. It wasn’t often you saw him showing any other emotion that wasn’t infuriating cockiness, thinking about it, never had you seen him like that.

Jake loved pool, everyone knew that. Sure, you could say that every respectable fighter pilot liked pool, it was always fun to play. But Jake ? Genuinely loved it, his face would light up when he was playing, especially when he was winning. Which was pretty much all the time. Every time you all went to the Hard Deck together, he would practically rush for the pool table in the left corner, hurrying everyone else, already putting on chalk on his cue. He knew all these strategies, which you had always laughed at, why need strategies ? It was literally a ball sinking game. Jake was also capable of doing these — this you’d admit — insane tricks with the balls, giving them effects as he sunk them, even making the cue ball jump over a striped one so that it could sunk one of his full ones and he was always ecstatic to show off to anyone who would deigned to watch him.

And with no warning, you felt tears rising to your eyes as you stared at Jake sipping his drink all alone. Why would they reject him like that ? He just wanted to play. Your heart lurched at the sight, your squad having fun together, and Jake, reassembling the balls to prepare to break them, so that he could play, by himself.

Without any second thought, drink still in your hand, you got up from your stool, swaying lightly and cursing as your feet hit the ground. If you needed any confirmation that you had too much to drink, this was it.

For a minute you felt dizzy — your blurry vision not helping — you waited a moment to avoid completely falling flat on your face and made your way to your friends by the dart board. Sniffling and keeping your head up high to avoid having tears run down your cheeks.

Bob was the first one to spot you coming, and immediately he seemed alarmed by your expression. A quick touch of your cheek confirmed that you hadn’t done a good job of containing the evidences of your chagrin.

“Hey, Y/N, what’s happening ? Are you alright ?” Bob asked gently, getting up from his stool so he could get to you.

His worried tone made everyone perk up, and all the pilots started to gather around you.

“You okay ? Did someone bother you ?” Bradley asked.

They were all accustomed to how emotional you could get while drunk, but Bradley especially would never put aside the possibility of some weird guy harassing you.

“You guys are—“ you were cut out by a pathetic little sob, “so mean !” You said an accusing finger pointed in their direction.

“Y/N, you’ve had too much to drink, okay ?” He said gently, while going to take the drink from your hand, which you quickly retracted, pulling it against your chest.

“No, you guys are so mean,” you sniffled, “why won’t you play with him ?”

Everyone shared confused glances, in the corner of your eye you saw Javy murmured to Reuben something that sounded like “the fuck is she talking about”.

Natasha got closer to you, features morphing into something gentle, she knew better than anyone how to handle you in that state.

“Y/N, who are you talking about ?”

The fact that none of them even had the smallest idea of who you were referring to was your last straw. They had just dismissed him entirely, someone they flew with every single day. Threw him away with some hurtful remarks, left him all alone and they had the nerve to ask who you were talking about ?

“What do you mean who am I talking about ?” You whined, the emotion felt like it would burst out of your chest from feeling too much of it, “Jake ! I’m talking about Jake ! He wants to play pool but none of you wants to play with him !”

Mickey bursted out laughing then, which got him a stern look from Bradley.

“Don’t worry about him, sweetheart.” Natasha told you, “he’s a grown man, he’s fine. Why does that bother you anyway ?”

“He’s not fine !” You insisted, smalls sobs along with the alcohol making you hiccup, “he’s sad ! Go play with him, right now.”

“We love you, Lightning, we really do,” Reuben started, “but no way in hell.”

“You’re really not helping,” Bob reproached him with a sigh.

Mindlessly wiping the tears running freely on your cheeks with your free hand, you tried to refrain the next sob that was threatening to break out.

“Fine, I’ll go play with him then.” You declared in a very determined tone, already turning around and making your way over to Jake, swaying lightly on your feet.

“Hey Y/N come back—“ Natasha was about to go after you but Bob quickly stopped her.

“It’s okay, she’ll be with Jake, he’ll take great care of her,” he mischievously smiled at her, which only got him a puzzled look.

“What, you seriously don’t know ?” He asked her, visibly incredulous.

The chatter of your friends got more and more distant as you got closer to the pool table where Jake was sinking balls easily with an evident lack of enthusiasm. There was a laziness to his movements, like he was disinterested. The contempt and rejection from the squad seemed to had drain all the excitement of the game for him.

He looked like a kicked golden retriever puppy and your heart couldn’t have possibly handled more.

“Hangman !” You called out, quickly wiping the tears that had ran down during your walk there, “I’m playing with you.”

Jake suddenly stood up straight from sinking a ball upon hearing your voice, and immediately he seemed startle by your expression, similarly to how the rest of the squad had been only minutes ago.

“Hey, Lightning, you good ?” He asked, getting closer to you, his sharp eyes taking you in and inspecting you for any physical hurt.

You waved him off, while trying to ignore how his concern made your whole chest feel warm, when you’d sober up you’d probably blame it on the alcohol.

“Put the balls back in the middle, I’m playing with you.” You declared, words slurring slightly.

Jake only looked at you for a second, his raised brows betraying his surprise.

“You,” he started, pointing a finger towards you, “want to play with me ?” His index now pointed at him.

Taking another sip of your drink, you nodded into your glass.

“Yes, that’s what I said. I’m playing with you.”

“How much have you had to drink ?”

“Jake that is literally not the point, I want to play pool, so let’s play pool !” You insisted in a whine, putting your glass down on a table — not before taking another sip — and going to collect the balls he had already sunken from the pockets.

He stared at you, taking you in. Your urgency felt uncharacteristic, especially if it was related to doing anything with him. Jake never really saw you drunk, it wasn’t often you allowed yourself to reach such a state and when you did, you usually sticked close to Natasha or Bradley. Your behavior was completely new to him and it was taking him aback a bit.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of the squad eyeing you both, while whispering things amongst each other. A few seconds passed, the gears were turning in his head, he looked at your drink on the table, your tears streaked cheeks, the way the squad was so very obviously gossiping about the two of you… And then it clicked.

Jake took one long look at you carefully placing all the balls in the middle with the rack.

“You know you don’t have to play with me if you don’t really want to, right ?” He began cautiously, a gentle tone in his voice. “I was fine playing on my own.”

But the words ‘on my own’ seemed to trigger another wave of tears, they ran freely down your cheeks as you sobbed, “no you were not, you were sad.”

Jake’s whole face seemed to melt instantly.

“Aww, sweetheart…” he cooed, taking a step towards you.

But before he could get anything else out, you continued.

“And they are so—“ you began through sniffles, “so mean for treating you like that all because you wanted to play pool. So I am playing with you, I want to play with you.” You finished while weeping the tears from your eyes.

Jake stared at you for a moment, feeling like his heart would burst out of his chest just from looking at you. You were standing in front of him, determined and adorably empathetic — glassy eyes from the alcohol and the tears boring into his. Your cheeks were flushed from all the drinks you’d had, and you were leaning against the pool table, probably in an attempt to stabilize your dizzying vision.

He felt something dangerous happen to him, standing in front of you, having you be so nice to him for perhaps the first time ever since he had met you, he felt dangerous thoughts cross his mind — the ones he only ever allowed himself late at night, in the quiet of his apartment — and travel to the tip of his tongue. But he caught himself before they could become anything more than that, thoughts. Jake forced himself to swallow the words, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was overcome with an emotion he couldn’t possibly had voiced you, but his face showed nothing of it when he looked at you.

Pink lips stretching into a fond smile, jade green eyes soft and staring at you with… was it fondness ? The alcohol might had been blurring your judgement.

“I really appreciate it, darlin’, that’s very nice of you. I’d love for us to play together.” He said in a soft, soothing tone, hoping to calm your meltdown and the state of distress you were in at the sheer idea of him playing pool alone.

You nodded, satisfied by his answer, and Jake helped you put all the balls back in the middle with the rack before taking it off. He handed you a cue stick.

“Break ‘em.”

“No, you do it.”

You knew he loved to break.

Seeing a spark of something you couldn’t decipher flash in his eyes, he let out an almost bashful smile as he looked at you, and you gestured for him to take the shot, not sure you could handle his intense eyes on you any longer.

Jake got in position, upper body getting close to the table and your drunken brain immediately diverted your eyes to the curve of his ass, making a warmth spread out in your chest that you couldn’t blame on the liquor.

“Eyes on the game, darlin’.”

Your heat skipped a beat.

“I was watching the game,” you slurred, hoping your cheeks weren’t any more flushed than they already were because of your many drinks.

He let out a chuckle as he lined up his shot and every ball went bouncing off in every direction. He managed to sink a striped one.

“Alright, you take the full ones.” He told you.

Simply nodding, you watched him take another shot, sinking a ball. And then another successful one. It’s been quite some time since you’d seen him play this close, he was really good. On his third shot, he missed, finally letting you take your turn.

Circling the table and holding on to it, you tried to find the best angle to sink one of your balls, “You know I’m very good,” you stated like it was obvious, “but it’s been a long time since I’ve played.”

Jake caught himself before he could make any remark about how in your state he wasn’t expecting you to be world champion anyway.

“I wouldn’t know,” he settled for instead, “we’ve never played together.”

You abruptly stopped your rounding of the table to look at him, both of you standing perfectly on opposite sides. Your brows frowned in a confused expression and Jake wanted nothing more than to kiss away the crinkle on your forehead.

“Have we really never ?”

“Never,” he confirmed, “you don’t exactly carry me in your heart, remember ? You always say you don’t want to play with an arrogant jerk like me.”

His words seemed to fall on you with the weight of a thousand suns, your heart aching at his depiction of your own words.

“Do I really say that ?”

But Jake didn’t seem to notice the way his — yours — words had affected you, he only laughed as he continued to reminisce.

“Yeah, I tried so many times. Don’t tell me you don’t remember all the nights I literally begged you to do just one game with me ? You normally never even want to be in my vicinity when we come here.”

You shook your head, feeling the emotional overload pile up in your chest, rising in your throat to form a lump that was impossible to swallow.

“Oh…” was the only pathetic sound you managed to get out.

“Anyway, I’m glad to finally see what you are made of, Lightning.” He finished with a small chuckle.

But it had been too much too fast. The crushing realization of your harsh words, the way you had treated him no better than your friends you just yelled at a few minutes earlier, made you sick at yourself.

Still holding your cue stick in one hand, you broke out into sobs. Your head fell into your free hand, shoulders shaking with the force of your inconsolable chagrin.

If you had been able to see Jake’s face you probably would have laughed at the way his eyebrows raised comically fast.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” he said in a hurried panic, putting his cue stick down on the pool table to cross the distance that was separating you, “Y/N what’s wrong ?”

He raised his hands in an instinctual move to put them on your shoulders to try and comfort you, but unsure of what his touch could do to you right now, he awkwardly put them back down. Instead he lowered himself slightly, trying to catch your eyes where you had your head bowed down into your hand.

“Y/N ?” Jake called out softly.

“I’m an awful person—“ you said in a huge sniffle, tears cascading down your cheeks with no way of stopping them. You still refused to look at him. “I’m so sorry Jake, so sorry, I’m so mean—“

He managed to get over his temporarily shock, attention now entirely focused on your wellbeing and seeing you smile again. He gently took the cue stick out of your hand to put it on the table, and before you could bring your newly free hand to your face, he took it softly, fingers wrapping around your wrist.

“Y/N ? Could you look at me for a second, sweetheart ?”

You shook your head, sobbing harder now.

“I’m sorry, Jake. So so sorry—“

“Everything is alright, I promise. You did nothing wrong,” Jake soothed, rubbing what he hoped were calming circles onto your wrist. “Could you look at me, please, Y/N ?”

Rubbing your eyes in a clumsy attempt to wipe the tears staining your cheeks, you finally lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. Jake’s heart nearly broke witnessing your lip quiver, signaling that another wave of tears was incoming. Your features were contorted into a chagrin he never witnessed before, an expression he never thought he’d see on your pretty face. And he got the most irrepressible desire to take you into his arms, rock you softly and shush you soothingly until your wet lashes dried.

His brain sent out the signals before he could stop it, his arms lifted open in an instinctual move to bring you into him, but stopped himself at the last second, arms still frozen open.

But your eyes caught the movement, and it was enough for you to launch yourself into him, sending him stumbling backward a bit from the force you had thrown yourself with. You buried your nose in his collarbone, your arms around his waist holding on as tight as your drunken state allowed you to.

It took Jake a second to get over the shock before his arms wrapped around you, one hand holding your head while he put his chin on top of it, gently caressing your hair.

“Shh shh, it’s okay, baby. Let it out. Everything is okay, I promise, everything is fine.”

Like he had imagined it only seconds before, he swayed you gently from left to right. Soothing voice hitting your ears and calming down your distress. You sniffled as you completely melted into his embrace.

“How you feeling, sweetheart ?”

“Better,” you mumbled against his collarbone.

Jake let out a fond chuckle, “i’m glad.”

He continued to rock you gently for a few minutes before he slowly began to pull back so he could look at you, his arms still wrapped around you. Your tears had dried, leaving small stains on your cheeks as you looked up at him.

“I’m really sorry I’m so mean to you all the time, Jake. I don’t know why I act like that.” You confessed in a small voice.

He gently put a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes soft as they gazed down at you.

He hummed softly, “I’ve got a little idea.”

You waited for him to explain further but when he didn’t say anything else, you frowned.

“What are you waiting for ? Tell me.” You whined.

He just smiled knowingly.

“I think that’s something you need to figure out on your own.”

Your bottom lip stuck out as you pouted and Jake playfully tsked you.

“Hey none of that,” he warned jokingly, “what can I do to bring a smile back on your pretty face ?”

Gazing at the table on your right, your voice found a new determined tone.

“I want to play pool.”

“Is that really what you want ?”

“Yes, with you.”

The smile that broke out on Jake’s face almost made you look away from how dazzling it was.

“Alright, let’s play, sweetheart.”

He handed you back your cue stick, signaling for you to take your shot since it was your turn. Aligning yourself with the cue all, tongue between your teeth in deep concentration you took the shot and—

“Oh, well I’m worse than I thought.” You stated with a hint of disappointment as you completely missed the cue ball.

Jake was unable to hide a laugh, “to be fair I don’t think everything you drank is helping you. Want some help ?”

“From the pool king himself ? Yes please.”

Jake was happy to notice some of your wit coming back, he came up behind you, not close enough to touch but close enough that you could feel his warm breath on your neck as he bent down slightly at your level.

“Just get really close to the table, yeah ?” He put a warm hand between your shoulder blades as you went down, “aim for number 5 over there,” he pointed at the ball.

You got low like he told you, chest almost touching the table, hips and ass pushing back as Jake respectfully stepped aside so he wouldn’t collide with you. Focusing really hard on where you wanted it to go, you finally took your shot and the ball went straight into the left corner pocket.

Excitement immediately made you stand up and turn around to see Jake harboring a bright, wide smile.

“Look at that, a true natural.” He praised, flashing his palm for a high five you eagerly participated in.

“What can I say ? I have the world champion player by my side,” you chimed.

You both continued to play pool, Jake very subtly letting you win. And when you had sunk all your balls and hazardously shot the 8-ball in the left middle socket, you squealed as Jake clapped for you.

“You beat me fair and square, sweetheart.”

That was clearly debatable, but you were in no state to question it, your victory seeming totally legitimate in your eyes. You walked around the table to go get your drink.

But right as you were about to take a sip, Jake — who had somehow crossed the distance in three steps — took the glass out of your hand.

“Hey ! That’s my drink !”

“How about you stick to water for now, mmh baby ?”

All the fight left your body as soon as the petname hit your ears, his Texan drawl making it sound so sweet. His voice having rendered you completely pliant, you just nodded.

“Let’s go ask Penny for a glass.” He prompted and you quickly took a hold of his arm as he guided you to the bar.

You were still holding on to Jake and Penny wasn’t able to hide her surprise when she saw the two of you.

“That’s certainly a sight,” she said with a smirk, eyeing the way you were clinging to Jake. “You okay, sweetie ?” She asked you.

“I’m great,” you assured, a tired but bright smile stretching your lips.

Jake chuckled fondly, “could we have a glass of water Penny, please ?”

The older woman nodded and quickly got out a glass that she filled with ice and water before she handed it to you. You thanked her and began downing the drink.

“Well, you definitely needed it.” Jake joked, ruffling your hair affectionately, “when you finish that glass, I’ll drive you home, yeah ?”

You nodded as Penny looked at Jake with squinting eyes.

“How much have you had to drink, sailor ?”

“Don’t worry, I just had one beer a few hours ago.”

“Alright, drive safe.”

Jake saluted Penny as you finished your glass, settling it down in the bar.

“Good night Penny !” You waved at her, the older woman eagerly returned your gesture.

“Alright, let’s say bye to the squad now.”

Making your way over to the squad, still firmly wrapped around Jake’s arm, it was almost comical to see your friends’ look of disbelief when they started to notice you walk over.

“Alright gang,” Jake caught their attention, “I’m driving Lightning home.”

All of them were stunned silent at seeing you two so close, and you so pliant and calm with him. Bob was the only one harboring a small, tender smile.

“Drive safe, we’ll see you guys on Monday.”

“I’m sorry, is no one gonna mention any of this ?” Reuben undignified himself while gesturing wildly to the two of you.

“What is that supposed to mean ?” You inquired, not liking the way he seemed to be referring so hostilely to Jake and you.

“Leave them alone,” Bradley’s voice caught everyone’s attention. “You get her home safe, Hangman.” He looked at Jake straight in the eyes, tone firm and authoritative before he softened and turned to you. “Text us when you’re home, alright ?”

While everyone was expecting Jake to come back with a smug and arrogant remark — like he usually did — his simple, diligent nod raised everyone’s brows. You let go of Jake momentarily to go hug Bradley, he wrapped his arms around you and left a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t do anything you’d regret tomorrow,” he whispered in your ear.

“Me ? You know I could never Bradshaw.” You replied jokingly.

Jake patiently waited for you as you hugged every member of the squad. When you came back to him, you immediately took hold of his arm again while he bid everyone goodnight and led you to the door after your goodbyes.

The fresh air of the summer night was a welcome sensation on your flushed cheeks. “Tonight was so much fun,” you declared.

Jake chuckled, quietly wondering how could it had been fun for you when you spent half of it crying your heart out for him.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, sweetheart.”

“Did you have fun ?” You asked, looking up at him expectantly.

Stopping next to his truck, he looked down at you, feeling the words swell up in his chest — in which his heart was hammering. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm the swirl of emotion billing in his throat.

“Yeah, I did. Thanks to you.” He said in a voice that carried so much fondness it felt like a warm embrace.

A bashful smile made its way onto your face, as Jake refrained the urge to leave the softest kiss on your forehead, instead he just opened the passenger door for you and helped you in.

The drive was rather short, but Jake was struggling to focus on the road as he could sense your intense stare on him. Your eyes never wavered from his face and despite himself he could feel heat slowly coming onto his neck and cheeks.

Parking out in front of the small house you were renting near base, he came to your side to open your door and helped you out. In front of your door, you both stopped.

“Thank you for tonight, darlin’.”

Your hazy eyes bore into his with an intensity that shook him to his core.

“Jake ?”

“Yeah, baby ?”

“I think I figured out why I’m so mean to you all the time.”

He froze, his heart skipping a beat, not sure if it was from excitement of finally hearing the words he longed to hear from you or fear of having you say them while the alcohol was clouding your judgement.

“You did ?” His voice was strained, feeling his palms sweat and wiping them down on his pants.

“Yes. The reason I’m so mean to you all the time is not because I hate you, I think—“

“Y/N, Don’t say anything, please,” he stopped you, putting his hands on your shoulders.

Giving him a confused look, you felt your heart drop, “why…?” You asked, voice small, “you don’t wanna hear what I have to say…?”

Jake let out a sigh, “It’s not that, sweetheart,” he assured, voice gentle, “I just don’t want you to say things you could regret tomorrow.”

“Do you know what I was going to say ?”

He gave you a small smile, one hand sliding from your shoulder to cup your flushed cheek, thumb rubbing gently. The cool temperature of his hand was a welcome sensation as you nuzzled against it.

“I do.”

“But I want to say it, I want you to know.” You whined, putting your hand on top of his that was cupping your cheek.

“Believe me, I already know, darlin’. Have for quite some time now. But when you say it to me, I want it to be because you are ready to say it, not because the alcohol is forcing you to.”

But Jake could still see the disappointment in your eyes and your pouting lip was making a reappearance, completely melting him from the inside.

“How about you tell me tomorrow ? When you’re sober.”

“I won’t have the courage to do it tomorrow ! That’s the whole point of doing it now…”

“Then I’ll wait, it’s okay.”

Feeling the tears starting to come back with the frustration of not being able to express what you had been feeling this whole time, you complained, “I don’t want to wait anymore, Jake. I lo—“

“Baby, please don’t,” Jake put a panicked hand over your mouth.

You frowned and he could see your eyes getting hazy with tears.

“If I take off my hand, will you listen to me for a second ?”

As you nodded, Jake moved his hand from your mouth to your cheek, so both of his hands were holding your face. He hated knowing he was the cause of the small tears that were slipping from your confused and hurt eyes.

“Y/N, I promise that I feel the exact same way you do, I have for years, okay ? And there is nothing on this earth I desire more than to finally hear you admit it, but when you do, I want it to come from you, not the alcohol.” Drowning in his jade green eyes, his words made your heart almost beat out of your chest. “I want you sober when you finally tell me, cause then there won’t be anything else holding me back from kissing you like I’ve been dreaming of, alright ?”

His words stunned you quiet as his thumbs gently wiped the tears on your cheeks. It’s like your breath had been taken away. Nothing had been said, and yet you both knew. The silent truth was lingering in the air, silencing every other noise. In this moment it was only you and him, standing in front of each other, finally on the same wavelength.

Your lips stretched out on their own. Unknowingly to you both, your hearts were beating in synch to the rhythm of your unspoken, and yet certain, feelings.

“You have to promise me something, Jake.” You finally said when you found your words.

“Anything.”

“You need to come find me tomorrow, so I can tell you. Tomorrow morning, first light, I want you right here in front of the door, so I can tell you. If you don’t come to me I’ll never have the courage to go find you myself.”

Jake let out a shaky, relived exhale before a smile broke out onto his face.

“I will, sweetheart. Promise.”

“What time will you be here ?” You eagerly asked, already impatient for the first rays of sunshine to cast a golden glow over his features as you would pour out your entire heart to him.

Jake chuckled, before he bent down slightly, leaving a tender kiss on your cheek that you leaned into the best you could.

“I’ll be here at first light, just like you said. If you think I’m not impatient as well, you’re mistaken, darlin’. Now go to bed, it’s going to be a long day tomorrow, we have a lot to talk about.”

You nodded, embracing him as tight as you could.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jake.” you said in a barely contained excited giggle.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

You opened your door, flashing him one last smile before closing it and disappearing inside of your home.

Jake didn’t know exactly how much time he spent in front of your door after you closed it. His chest felt tight, heart filled with the quiet love he had carried all these years, a love he’d finally be able to express out loud.

He looked up at the moon which was casting an eerie glow over the street, and prayed for the night to fly by fast. He usually loved the stars, but looking up at them he found himself thinking that he’d be fine never seeing another star again if he meant he finally got to be with you. He smiled, feeling giddy like the first time he’d realised he was in love with you. He had waited patiently for years for this moment to come, and somehow it felt impossible to sit tight for another few hours.

Jake couldn’t wait for tomorrow to come.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Author’s note : alright I definitely didn’t planned for this little fic to get that long, but I hoped you liked it, thank you for reading !!

Ernie had been his usual cheerful, friendly self earlier in the day, but during Potions he seemed distracted, nodding disjointedly when you spoke to him and scribbling in the margins of his parchment instead of actually taking notes. You didn’t think anything of it, figuring he was just tired. He was a school Prefect in the running for Head Boy next year, and involved with just about every club from Dueling to Choir to Charms. Certainly, it wasn’t the first time he’d grown worn out by the end of the day.

Once Potions ended, though, he’d acted stranger still. Instead of walking you back to Ravenclaw tower like he usually did, he’d disappeared the moment you turned your back to pack your school bag. After a moment of searching for him in the herd of students wandering out of the classroom, you’d shrugged it off. Perhaps he’d suddenly remembered some responsibility he needed to complete or a club meeting for which he was running late.

However, as the main corridor in the dungeons cleared, with students hurrying back to their common rooms, you heard something strange – a voice echoing through the hall, hushed but amplified by the hollow, stone-carved space.

“Han!” There was a chuckle, low and distinctly male, emanating from behind one of the pillars at the end of the corridor. “Han, my love, we really shouldn’t.” It was bright and amused despite its protests. “Come, now, what if someone sees?”

The voice was so familiar, your feet froze to the spot immediately. It was Ernie’s voice.

Almost involuntarily, you turned in the direction of the thick stone pillar, whispering a spell to suppress the noise of your heels clicking against the floor of the corridor. In the silence you could hear the continued whispers echoing through the hall.

“Everyone’s already left.” You’d heard Hannah Abbot’s voice many times before, but never like this – she sounded like a vixen caricature and you wanted to hex her immediately. “It’s alright, Ern, no one will see.”

“Han, you know –” 

The boy you’d known that morning as your loving, sweethearted, devoted boyfriend suddenly froze as you stood in front of him, his Prefect partner’s arms twined around his shoulders like a second skin.

“Am I interrupting something?”

You felt a strange spark of pride at the way your voice failed to waver even as your heart sunk into your boots and your stomach roiled at the sight before you. In your wildest nightmares, you couldn’t have created this – your boyfriend who you’d spent over two years devoted to, with his hands all over a girl who you’d thought of as a friend.

Ernie saw you first, his eyes widening in horror as he took in the way your arms crossed in front of your chest and your jaw tensed, clearly understanding exactly what you were interrupting. Hannah, whose back was towards you, whipped around the moment she heard your voice, her jaw dropping when she saw you. Finally, her stance wavered, her arms slowly retreating from your boyfriend’s shoulders and her feet stepping back.

“Baby, I –” 

You cut off Ernie’s wavery protest with a watery, tense laugh. “Oh, please, carry on,” you snapped. “Don’t let me interfere.” The tears were already gathering in your waterline, but you refused to let them escape, firmly blinking them away. 

“Please, baby, you don’t understand.” He finally stepped away from Hannah, causing her to stumble to the side as he came towards you. She looked astounded at his sudden disregard for her, and in another situation, you would have felt bad for her. “It was a mistake! It only happened a couple of times, I swear. It was so stupid, please, you have to believe me.”

He tried to reach for your hands to hold them in his, as he’d done a thousand times before. This time, though, you pulled away, a sudden wave of disgust crashing through you. Who was this bloke standing in front of you? In the two years of your relationship, you’d never seen anything close to this side of him. The Ernie you knew was intelligent, responsible, sweet, caring…nothing like the person you were witnessing now, begging you to just forget about the way you’d caught him with another girl.

Your eyebrows lifted, your lips pressing together as you continued to fight back tears. “Is this what you’ve been doing while you were ‘patrolling’ on your rounds? Taking advantage of the fact that I’m not there to see you with her?” Memories flashed in your mind of the way he used to complain that he missed you while he was patrolling the corridors at night. You wondered if he’d meant it at some point or if it was a lie from the beginning.

“I –” Ernie sputtered, but from the look in his eyes, you knew you’d hit the nail on the head. Nausea overtook you, sickness in your stomach and your throat as you wondered how long, exactly, this had been going on. He’d been a Prefect for almost the entire duration of your relationship – had he been fooling you this whole time?

The rest of the argument was a blur, fading into unreality as your mind struggled to process the fact that your whole world had just turned on its head. Finally, you turned on your heel, exhausted and convinced that there was no point in continuing this fight. 

“Baby, please.” Ernie’s eyes were full of tears, an expression of despair carved so deeply on his face that in any other situation you would’ve run to him, wrapping him tightly in your arms and holding him closely until everything was better. But nothing could make this better, he’d brought this on himself. “We can work this out, there must be something I can do –”

You shook your head firmly, tears once again pricking at the corners of your own eyes, your vision blurring. Even this morning, you couldn’t have imagined a scenario where you would’ve ever ended things with Ernie. The two of you had talked about getting married after Hogwarts, moving into a flat together, how many children you would have… Just the previous week, he’d told you that he wanted to buy you a promise ring. Your lungs seized at the thought that you’d excitedly described your ideal ring while he was snogging Hannah Abbot on the side.

“No.” Finally, your voice trembled as you brought your gaze up to meet his eyes. “There’s nothing you can do, not anymore. We’re done, if that wasn’t clear.” Then, you glanced back at Hannah, who was still standing behind the two of you, chewing on her glossy lip. “You can have him.” With that, you stormed away.

When Ernie and Hannah finally disappeared behind you, the tears began to fall. Sobs seized your throat as your feet carried you further and further into the dungeons, getting you lost in the dark corridors beneath the school. You couldn’t believe this was happening. Thoughts raced faster than Firebolts in your head, time and space falling to the wayside as you wondered with horror how many of these hallways your newly ex-boyfriend had snogged Hannah in while the two of you were dating. You’d molded your entire life around him. His friends were your friends, his enemies were your enemies. Meanwhile, you weren’t even his only girlfriend.

You stumbled through the dungeons with shaking shoulders and weak knees until you finally found the door to an empty classroom. Stumbling through, you claimed your refuge amongst the silhouettes of abandoned chairs, some stacked atop dust-ridden desks. Rays of sunset streamed through the window, displaying the writings of some former professor on the blackboard, untouched through years of disuse. You stared blankly at the words, eyes unseeing as you slid down the stone wall, sinking to the floor and pulling your knees to your chest.

Time slipped by as you sobbed on the dusty floor, your forehead resting on your knees, the wool of your tights pricking your skin. It felt impossible to wrap your mind around the sudden implosion of your relationship that had felt so perfect in the morning. Why weren’t there any signs? How had you not noticed? He’d lied to you so smoothly, so successfully – if you hadn’t caught him and Hannah together, how much longer would you have stayed with him without realizing? A million questions tormented you in the midst of your seemingly unending flow of tears. 

The sun had slipped behind the mountains and the sky turned from pink to navy by the time your breath steadied, but you still couldn’t fathom the thought of getting up and facing the world. Your hands were still shaking and you were certain your eyes were horrendously red and swollen. Just the thought of anyone seeing you in this state filled you with dread.

And then, as if your life were some cruel joke, the door to the empty classroom slowly began to swing open.

Your breath seized in your chest. “Occupied!” you called, but your voice was so weak and shaky you were certain that no one could hear you. Inhaling and exhaling, you tried to summon the strength for another protest.

It was too late. Inside the doorway stood a silhouette, some fellow student with a schoolbag in hand. He stepped into the empty classroom, flinging his bag down atop a desk without a chair resting on it.

“Please go away.”

The words spilled out of your mouth involuntarily, and the bloke jumped, searching for the source of the noise. Quickly, you swiped at your cheeks, trying to erase the remaining evidence of your tears as his eyes fell on you.

“What’re you doing in here?”

Every muscle in your body tensed at once. You hadn’t recognized the figure in the darkness, your vision blurred from crying, but you knew that voice.

“Zabini?”

Of course, as if your day couldn’t get any worse, it had to be Blaise Zabini who found you crying and covered in dust on the floor of an empty classroom.

Ernie hated Slytherins, and Zabini most of all. The feeling was most certainly mutual. Although it was typically Draco Malfoy who ran about the corridors sneering at students from other houses and throwing wayward jinxes at anyone who looked at him the wrong way, whenever you and Ernie were in sight, Zabini took on the role. He and Ernie were constantly exchanging insults and hexes. The other Slytherins would join in to fling ink in Ernie’s direction in class or make over-the-top gagging sounds whenever the two of you held hands. The obnoxious behavior had lessened once Ernie became a Prefect, as Zabini quickly learned how easy it was for him to take points from Slytherin, but his lip still curled at the sight of you. You were sure he’d get a great laugh out of seeing you like this. 

Abandoning his school bag, he stepped closer, and your heart jumped into your throat. But his lips didn’t quirk upward into his usual smirk. Instead, a little furrow appeared between his eyebrows as he frowned, looking you up and down.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine,” you snapped. “Just…had a bit of a stomachache. I was hoping for a little privacy.”

Brows raising, he eyed you suspiciously. “The Hospital Wing is that way, you know.” He gestured out the door of the empty classroom. 

“Well, it’s passed anyhow.” Standing, you dusted off your skirt, praying that your hands weren’t still shaking. “I’ll be going.”

“Right.” His skeptical voice flowed through the room as you turned away, stepping towards the door. “You sure you’re okay?”

Something about his insistence annoyed you, and you turned back around to face him. “What’s it to you?” you snapped. Immediately, you regretted opening your mouth, your shaky voice betraying you. “You hate me.”

Zabini let out a little scoff. “No, I don’t.” His eyes shifted for a moment as he paused. “MacMillan, maybe. But not you.”

Just the thought of Ernie made your face fall, and to your embarrassment, tears began to gather in your eyes again. Face hot with humiliation, you turned back towards the door, but your feet seemed to be glued to the spot.

“Hey.”

His voice was low and oddly calming, even as you struggled to hide your tears from his sight.

“What’s wrong?”

Finally, you turned back towards him. He was inches from you now, gazing down at you with a mix of confusion and sincerity that you’d never seen on his face before. It was such a far cry from the arrogant, sarcastic version of him that you’d always known, it made you wonder whether this was all a strange dream. First, the person you trusted most in the world betrayed you, and then someone you wouldn’t trust as far as you could throw him was standing in front of you with nothing but care in his eyes.

“I might hate him too.”

Something inside of you broke, as though admitting the truth out loud had eliminated your last hope that maybe none of it was real. Sobs wracked your body and tears flowed down your cheeks, but you were only left to shatter on your own for a moment. A pair of arms wrapped around you, and then Blaise Zabini, of all people, was holding you up as your knees trembled beneath you.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured softly, guiding you back towards the spot where you’d been sitting against the wall. For a moment, he released you, and you wondered if this was all some cruel joke leading up to him hexing you or throwing ink in your face. But then you saw that he was taking off his school robes, revealing the black button-up and trousers that he wore underneath. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing, but before you could, he laid his robes down on the dusty floor.

“There you go.” He guided you down so you were sitting on his robes, settling himself down beside you.

You frowned, glancing over at him with watery eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

His eyes lowered for a moment before he met your gaze. “Because whatever he did to you, you didn’t deserve it.”

You cried for a long time after that, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders as you laid your head against him. It felt strange and wrong to be in the arms of someone that wasn’t Ernie, especially considering the bloke currently holding you was his worst enemy. But Blaise was there, and he cared, and strangely enough his touch felt like it was the one thing that could soothe the sickening sensation of loneliness and abandonment that was breaking you down. Though you knew your smeared makeup was probably getting all over his shirt and he was sitting on the dusty floor while you were resting on his discarded robes, he didn’t seem to mind, rubbing your back steadily as you released all of the grief that had accumulated inside you. 

As your tears began to dry up and your trembling finally paused, his low voice finally slipped through the air. “What happened?” His thumb traced your shoulder gently. 

You swallowed hard, forcing your weak voice to speak. “He’s been snogging his Prefect partner for a while.”

Glancing up, you tried to read Blaise’s expression, still not fully trusting him not to laugh. But there was no trace of amusement on his face, only an anger that pooled into disgust. 

“He’s even more of an idiot than I thought he was, then.”

You gave a weak laugh, your fingers fiddling with the edge of your skirt. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious.” He gave your shoulder a light squeeze. “You gave a tosser like that a chance and he wasted it? He’s got to be the dimmest bloke alive.”

Instinctively, a protest rose in your chest. That wasn’t the version of Ernie you’d known for two years. The Ernie that you fell in love with was funny, adorable, kind, intelligent… But it was all a lie, you remembered. It must’ve been. Somehow, you’d missed it.

“He was a good boyfriend,” you managed. “While we were together.” It still felt so strange to say. Imagining your life without Ernie seemed impossible.

Blaise let out a mirthless chuckle. “He’s a cheater and a prat.” His voice lilted with amusement. “You’re allowed to admit it.”

You frowned. “I know you hate him, but I dated him for a reason.” An annoyed little huff escaped your lips. “I’m not a total idiot.”

“I never said you were.” His words were light but insistent. “I always figured he must’ve been doing something to keep you around.”

Satisfied with that, you let silence fall around you. Your thoughts, though, continued to swirl like a tornado in your mind. Were you a total idiot? During your last fight, Ernie had tried to deceive, cheat, and manipulate you, and yet if someone had asked you the day before, you would’ve insisted that such a thing was impossible. How had you managed to ignore every flaw in his character for years?

“How –” You bit your lip, pausing as you wondered how to ask the question that was on your mind.

“Hmm?” Blaise glanced down at you attentively.

“Why don’t you like Ernie?” you finally asked, your voice soft and wavering. “How did you see…whatever it is about him that makes the two of you not get on? How did I miss it?”

A little sigh escaped from Blaise’s lips as your question hung in the air.

“Quit thinking like that,” he finally responded. “This wasn’t your fault.”

He’d read you like a crystal ball – the thoughts of self-doubt and anger at your own naivete had been spiraling in your mind since the moment you’d discovered Ernie’s cheating. But your expression was insistent as you finally lifted your head from his shoulder and held his gaze. “I still want to know.”

Blaise glanced downward, swallowing heavily. For a moment, you wondered whether he would answer. Then, he lifted his eyes back towards you.

“I can’t stand MacMillan because I can’t stand hypocrites,” he finally said. He paused, seemingly considering his words before continuing. “Have you ever noticed how he looks down his nose at everyone when a party gets busted, or when someone gets caught sneaking out, but when he wants to go get food from the kitchens it’s fine? Or how he’s always talking about how you have to earn high marks, how he’s put in the work for his grades, but in the next breath he’s asking you for your notes because he was ‘too tired’ to take them himself?” With a scoff, he shook his head. “He’s a swot who’s not even good at being a swot. That’s why I don’t like him.”

You frowned, glancing down at your lap as you considered Blaise’s words. Ernie had always justified those things to you when you’d first started dating. His dormitory was right next to the kitchens, it wasn’t as if he were sneaking across the castle when he went for a late snack. He was involved in so many activities, he was more tired than the other students and deserved help more than they did. Soon after, he’d stopped having to come up with the excuses. You’d made them for him. 

Of course he was spending a great deal of time with Hannah, she was his fellow Prefect, and they had plenty of projects to work on for the betterment of the school. Of course he was taking longer on patrols than the other Prefects did, he was dedicated to searching every corner of the castle for students out of bed. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, even though tears were beginning to trickle down your cheeks once again.

His fingers that had previously been resting against his thigh lifted, finding purchase beneath your chin and lifting your head so that your eyes connected with his. “Don’t you dare cry over him.” Thumb lightly swiping across your damp cheeks, he cleared the evidence of your sadness away. “No more tears, okay? He’s not worth it.”

Nodding, you gave a loud sniff, trying your best to curb the crying that had been plaguing you for hours. With a heavy inhale, you worked to steady your breathing. As you continued to think on Blaise’s words, another thought struck you.

“He always told me you hated us because we weren’t in Slytherin.”

You weren’t sure why you said it – maybe as a way of trying to explain to Blaise why you’d been so quick to take Ernie’s side in their unending feud. But at your words, his dark eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed before he looked squarely into your eyes.

“I never hated you,” he said firmly. “Never.”

A tension rose in the room, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. You were suddenly very aware of the places where Blaise’s fingers were touching your skin, in the little gap between the bottom of your sweater and the top of your skirt. Once again you found yourself wondering whether you should be sitting so close to him, and your lips parted as you fumbled for something to say.

“You did get ink on my favorite shoes, though,” you finally managed. A wry laugh escaped from your lips as you tried to diffuse the tension.

He raised his eyebrows. “Then let me take you to Madame Malkin’s, I’ll buy you a hundred more.” When you gave another soft laugh, he eyed you insistently. “I’m serious. I’m sorry.”

Shrugging, you gave him a little smile. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“Come here.” He lowered his touch to your knee and brought his palm across your legs, glancing at you for permission. You felt a moment of hesitation, but the comfort that Blaise brought you quickly won out over whatever little hangups you were still facing at the thought that you were in the arms of Ernie’s worst enemy. Caving to his touch, you relaxed into him, letting him bring your legs to rest over his thighs and pulling you in close to his chest. Your arms twined lightly around his torso in return. “I would take you to London and let you spend all my gold, just as long as you don’t cry over that rancid prat again, you hear me?”

“You say that now,” you replied, a lilt of playfulness audible in your still-tired voice, “but I really like bags.”

Blaise threw back his head and laughed at that, in his eyes a mixture of amusement and relief that you were joking instead of crying. “Buy whatever you want, I promise.”

You giggled softly despite yourself. “‘S okay. I’m not really in a spendy mood.” Resting your head against his chest, you closed your eyes and let yourself relax for the first time in hours. Although your heart still ached, the tension in your muscles finally released.

Seeming to sense your tiredness, he let the conversation fall to the wayside as a heavy exhale slipped past your lips. “There you go, angel.” His voice was a low murmur, reverberating against your body and soothing you further. “Did y’ eat dinner yet?”

You shook your head. “I can’t go up there.” Your weary whisper was barely audible. “Everyone’ll ask why we’re not sitting together.” There was a pain in your chest as you wondered whether your ex-boyfriend would be sitting with Hannah instead.

"I’ll go get you some food.” He gave your knee a little squeeze. “You just rest.”

Your heart nearly melted at that, but the thought of leaving the empty classroom still filled you with dread. “The common room will be just as bad.”

“Then we won’t go to your common room. We’ll go to mine.”

The Slytherins stared at you in confusion when you stepped through the door of their common room, but if Blaise’s arm wrapped protectively around you didn’t put a stop to that, the glare he shot at them, daring any of them to object, certainly did. Once his housemates had made the wise decision to turn back around in their seats and mind their own business, he guided you toward a beautiful, high-backed couch in front of the fireplace. After pulling a few throw pillows and a blanket from the neighboring chairs, he let you settle in, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders.

“Still doing alright?” He checked in on you as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and you nodded gratefully. “I’ll be right back,” he assured you, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “If you need anything, just let the girls know.” As he gestured toward a nearby set of armchairs, you saw two girls settled in them, one with a dark, chin-length bob and one with medium-length blonde hair. You knew them to be Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass, and although you’d never considered them particularly friendly before, they now looked back at you with genuine smiles as Pansy waved. 

“Thanks.” You gave him a soft smile, glad to have a few more allies in unfamiliar territory. Never had you considered that you’d ever step foot in the Slytherin common room, and when Blaise left for the Great Hall, you took to studying your surroundings. You’d always known the room was located below the Black Lake, but truly seeing the bluish-green light seeping in through the windows as fish and mermaids swam by was a different experience entirely. The dark-coloured furniture and moody ambience, with torchlights flickering off the walls, made the place suitable to your current persuasion. 

You were in your sixth year at Hogwarts, and you’d never even considered friendship with any Slytherin, mostly because Ernie had always told you that they hated anyone who wasn’t in their own house. It would have been so easy for you to carry on this way until the end of school. But the Slytherins you’d encountered that day were nothing like Ernie had described. For the first time, you were able to consider that maybe your breakup with him was a good thing. The idea of your future without him still felt hazy and made you a bit ill, but you wondered what else you might find behind the curtain of the lies he’d told you. What else could you experience and enjoy now that you weren’t tied to him? 

Blaise’s return with two large plates of beans, potatoes, and ham pulled you from your thoughts a few minutes later, and you finally remembered how hungry you actually were. You hadn’t eaten since lunch, and the clock on the wall told you it was now nearly eight o’clock at night. 

“You’re amazing.” Gratefully, you took one of the plates into your hands as he settled down on the couch next to you to eat. 

It didn’t take long after you finished your meal and Vanished your dishes for your eyes to start fluttering closed. Your head relaxed against Blaise’s shoulder and you heard him let out a contented little sigh, reclining against the back of the couch so you could lay against his chest instead. 

“All good?” His voice seemed to wrap around you just like the blanket he’d provided, keeping you warm and safe.

You nodded, a little smile on your lips. As you fell to sleep, you felt his fingers gently running through your hair, ensuring it was out of your face.

“Things will be better tomorrow, angel.”

Friday night. The Hard Deck was packed, and you were nursing a beer while Phoenix told a story about Rooster’s latest landing that had gone slightly sideways.

“I’m telling you, he almost clipped the carrier deck. Swears up and down it was textbook, but I was right there—”

“It sounds like Rooster,” you said, grinning. You’d met Natasha—Phoenix—during your first week since you moved bases. She’d shown up at the tower to dispute a training score and you’d liked her immediately: sharp, no-nonsense, with a wicked sense of humor. She’d taken you under her wing, introducing you to the good coffee spots on base and insisting you needed to “actually have a life outside of work.”

Hence the Hard Deck on a Friday night.

“Speak of the devil,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the door where Rooster had just walked in with a few other pilots. “Brace yourself. When the squad’s all here, it gets loud.”

You watched as they made their way to the pool table—Rooster with his ridiculous mustache, Fanboy excitedly explaining something while Bob listened with quiet interest, Payback and Coyote already bantering back and forth about who gets next game, and—

And a blond guy who moved through the bar like he owned it, that easy confidence in every step.

“That’s Hangman,” Phoenix said, following your gaze. Her voice had gone slightly flat. “Total player. Goes through women like he’s collecting trading cards. We fly together, but that doesn’t mean I like him.”

“You work with him?”

“Unfortunately. He’s a good pilot—one of the best, actually—but his ego could fill a hangar.” She took a sip of her beer. “Why? Please tell me you’re not interested.”

“No, I just—” You paused as Hangman laughed at something Rooster said, and that sound.

You knew that sound.

“Oh God,” you said.

“What?”

“That’s Dagger Two.”

Phoenix’s eyes widened. “Wait. That’s your chatty pilot? The one who keeps trying to flirt over comms?”

“I wouldn’t say flirt—”

“You literally told me yesterday, and I quote, ‘if Dagger Two makes one more comment about my voice, I’m going to revoke his radio privileges.’”

“That was— I was exaggerating.”

Phoenix was grinning now, clearly delighted. “Oh, this is perfect. Hangman has no idea he’s been annoying you for two weeks.”

“Nat, don’t—”

But Rooster had spotted Phoenix and was waving her over. Phoenix grabbed your arm, hauling you up. “Come on. This is going to be hilarious.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

The group made room as you approached, Rooster clapping Phoenix on the shoulder. “Took you long enough. We’re already getting destroyed at pool and need backup.”

“That’s because Hangman keeps calling impossible shots,” Bob said with a small smile on his face.

“They’re not impossible if I make them,” the blond guy—Hangman—said. Then his eyes landed on you, and that easy smile appeared. “Hey. I’m Jake. Don’t think we’ve met.”

Phoenix was practically vibrating with suppressed glee. “Jake, this is my friend. She just transferred here a couple weeks ago. Works in the tower.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said, extending your hand.

The moment you spoke, Jake’s expression shifted. His eyes widened, his head tilted slightly, and you watched recognition dawn across his face like sunrise.

“Wait,” he said, his grin spreading slowly as he shook your hand, holding it maybe a second longer than necessary. “‘Your heart will survive.’ Tower. It’s you.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.” He stepped closer, completely ignoring Phoenix’s delighted snort. “That voice. Two weeks I’ve been listening to that voice, and here you are.”

“I told you to focus on flying.”

His laugh was the same one you’d heard over the radio a dozen times, but richer in person, warmer. “This is— I can’t believe this. Here I was thinking Tower was some grizzled veteran who’d seen it all, and instead you’re—” He stopped himself, but his eyes said the rest.

Rooster leaned over to Phoenix. “Is he… blustering?”

“I think he might be,” Phoenix whispered back, looking fascinated.

Coyote sidled up next to Jake with a knowing smirk. “Hangman’s actually speechless. Someone write this down.”

“I’m not speechless,” Jake protested.

“You kind of are, man,” Fanboy added, grinning as he chalked his pool cue.

You studied Jake for a moment. He seemed genuinely surprised, genuinely pleased. But Phoenix had warned you.

Player. Heartbreaker. The kind of guy who knew exactly what to say.

“Well, now you know,” you said. “Mystery solved.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I have one.”

“Another one, then. After that one.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He didn’t push, just settled back against the pool table like he had all the time in the world, though his eyes kept finding their way back to you.

“Fair enough. You any good at pool? We could use someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

“She’s terrible at pool,” Phoenix interjected, grinning. “But I’ll play. You and me, Hangman. Let’s see if you can back up all that talk.”

As Phoenix and Jake started setting up, Rooster moved closer to you.

“Fair warning: those two are competitive. This might get ugly.”

“Nat can handle herself.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about Phoenix.”

You glanced at him, confused, but he was already watching Jake, who kept looking over at you between shots, like he was making sure you were still there.

You thought that would be the end of it. One conversation, curiosity satisfied, everyone moves on.

You were wrong.

Jake started showing up. Not in an obvious way—he was too smart for that. He’d just… appear. At the coffee cart you frequented before your shift. At the Hard Deck on Friday nights, always gravitating toward wherever you and Phoenix were sitting. At the O-Club when Nat dragged you to some mandatory fun event.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he’d say, like it was pure coincidence.

“It’s the base coffee cart, Hangman. Not exactly a secret location.”

“Jake. You can call me Jake, you know. When we’re not on comms.”

“I’m aware of your name.”

“Just making sure. You want anything? I’m buying.”

“I can buy my own coffee.”

“I know you can. I’m asking if you want me to.”

You’d usually say no. Sometimes you’d say yes, just to see what he’d do. He never made it weird, never acted like you owed him anything. Just handed you the coffee and asked about your day.

Phoenix noticed immediately.

“He’s like a puppy,” she said one afternoon, watching Jake walk away after delivering your usual order without you even asking. “A very tall, very blond puppy.”

“He’s just being friendly.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why he hasn’t looked at another woman in three weeks?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Hangman—king of the one-night stand, collector of phone numbers—hasn’t so much as glanced at anyone else since he met you.” Phoenix leaned back in her chair. “It’s actually kind of freaking the guys out.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not. Ask Bob. He’s been keeping track.”

You refused to think too hard about what that might mean.

Over the radio, though, nothing changed.

“Tower, Dagger Two. How’s your morning?”

“Dagger Two, maintain radio discipline. You’re clear for takeoff, runway two-niner.”

“Copy that, Tower. Runway two-niner. Just saying, hope you liked the coffee earlier.”

“Dagger Two.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

It was Rooster who brought it up first during their next squadron meeting.

They were at the Hard Deck, the usual Friday night crowd, and Jake had barely glanced at the brunette who’d been making eyes at him from the bar for the past twenty minutes.

“Hangman,” Rooster said, setting down his beer. “You feeling okay?”

“Fine. Why?”

“Because that girl over there is definitely interested and you haven’t even looked at her.”

Jake glanced over briefly. “Not my type.”

Phoenix nearly choked on her drink. “Since when do you have a type beyond ‘breathing’?”

“Funny.”

But then the door opened, and Jake’s attention snapped toward it immediately. His whole posture changed—straightened up, ran a hand through his hair.

You walked in, laughing at something on your phone, completely oblivious.

“Oh my god,” Phoenix said, even though she’d seen this exact reaction a dozen times now. “You’ve got it so bad.”

“What?”

“You’re making moon eyes at my friend.”

“I don’t make moon eyes.”

“You absolutely make moon eyes,” Rooster said, grinning now. “How long has this been going on?”

“There’s nothing going on. We’re friends.”

Bob, who’d been quietly watching the exchange, spoke up. “Friends.” There was a knowing quality to his tone, subtle but unmistakable.

Jake shot him a look. “Yes, Bob. Friends. Some of us have those.”

“Some of us don’t turn into golden retrievers every time those friends walk into a room,” Payback added.

Coyote leaned back in his chair, arms crossed with an amused grin. “I’ve known you for years, Hangman. Never seen you like this.”

“Like what?” Jake asked defensively.

“Like you actually care,” Fanboy chimed in, exchanging a look with Coyote. “It’s weird. But also kind of nice?”

“I hate all of you.”

Phoenix was watching him with a calculating expression. “You’re serious. You actually like her.”

“Of course I like her. She’s—” He stopped, seeming to realize he was about to prove their point. “She’s nice.”

“She is nice,” Phoenix agreed. “She’s also one of my best friends, which means if you hurt her, I’ll make sure your callsign gets changed to Grounded.”

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s… actually terrifying.”

“Good. It should be.” Phoenix leaned forward, her expression serious. “I’m not kidding, Hangman. She’s not one of your usual conquests. She’s—”

“I know,” Jake said, and his voice had gone quiet. Serious. “Trust me, I know. Why do you think I haven’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m trying to do this right.”

Phoenix blinked. In all the years she’d known Jacob Seresin, she’d never heard him sound like that. “Oh. You’re really serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” She studied him for a long moment. “Okay. But I’m still watching you.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

But he was already up, making his way across the bar to where you stood.

You saw him coming and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Which was becoming a problem, actually—how much you didn’t mind when he showed up.

“Hey,” Jake said, that easy smile in place but something softer in his eyes. “Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

“It’s Friday. I’m here most Fridays with Nat.”

“Right. Yeah. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m about to order one.”

“So that’s a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were fighting a smile. “Sure, Hangman. You can buy me a drink.”

His whole face lit up like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery.

From across the bar, you caught Phoenix watching with a knowing smirk. You made a mental note to interrogate her later about whatever that look meant.

The thing was, Jake was… different than you’d expected.

Sure, he had the callsign and the reputation and the smile that could probably stop traffic. But when it was just the two of you—usually with Phoenix somewhere nearby, watching like a protective older sister—he wasn’t Hangman.

He was just Jake.

He asked questions—real ones, not the smooth-talking kind meant to impress. He wanted to know about your hometown, your family, why you’d joined the Navy, what you wanted to do after. He listened when you talked, actually listened, his green eyes focused on you like you were the only person in the world.

And he told you things too. About growing up in Texas, about learning to fly, about why he flew the way he did.

“I know what they say about me,” he said one night. You and Phoenix had stayed late at the Hard Deck, and she’d stepped away to take a call, leaving you and Jake alone on the deck overlooking the beach. “Hangman. Like I leave people hanging.”

“Do you?”

“In the air? Yeah. Sometimes. Because I know I’m good enough to get the job done alone.” He picked up a handful of sand that had blown onto the deck railing, let it run through his fingers. “But it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because… if I’m the one taking the risk, then no one else has to.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. At the way his jaw tightened, the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes.

“That’s lonely,” you said quietly.

He did look at you then. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Something shifted between you in that moment. Something that made your chest feel tight and your breath catch and oh no, you thought.

Oh no.

Phoenix returned a moment later, taking one look at both of you and raising an eyebrow. But she didn’t say anything, just settled back into her chair and changed the subject.

Later, when Jake had left and it was just the two of you walking to your cars, Phoenix bumped your shoulder.

“So.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Nat.”

“He’s different with you. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s actually trying to be a real person instead of just Hangman.” She paused. “I know I gave you the warning about him. And I meant it—the old Hangman, the one who went through women like they didn’t matter? I’d tell you to run. But this…” She shook her head. “Maybe people can change.”

“You think I should give him a chance?”

“I think you already are. I’m just saying… I wouldn’t hate it. If you two figured things out.” She grinned. “But if he screws it up, I get to kick his ass in training. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“He’s got it bad,” Rooster said two months later, watching Jake watch you from across the rec room. You were completely focused on the tablet in your hands, reviewing flight logs while Phoenix looked over your shoulder and pointed something out. Oblivious.

“It’s kind of painful to witness,” Fanboy agreed, shaking his head. “How long has this been going on?”

After a short pause, Bob spoke. "Three months? Maybe four?"

“And he hasn’t even tried anything?”

Phoenix, who’d joined them, shook her head. “Nope. He just… follows her around like a puppy. Gets her coffee. Listens to her talk about radio frequencies like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Hangman?” Rooster asked.

“Right?” Phoenix settled into a chair, still watching. “I gave him the shovel talk, like, six times. Told him if he hurt her, I’d never forgive him. You know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said he’d never forgive himself either.”

“Damn,” Payback said. “He’s really gone.”

Coyote whistled low. “Never thought I’d see the day. Hangman actually settling down for someone.”

“He’s going to crash and burn,” Rooster said. “She has no idea how he feels.”

“Oh, she knows,” Phoenix said. “She just doesn’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s Hangman. And she’s…” Phoenix paused, trying to find the right words. “She’s careful. She doesn’t trust easy. And Jake’s reputation isn’t exactly helping.”

"I think it's nice. He's actually trying," Bob said, watching as Jake moved closer to you, saying something that made you laugh.

“He better be,” Phoenix said. “Because if he breaks her heart, reputation change or not, I’ll break him.”

You didn’t believe it.

Sure, Jake was… around. A lot. And yes, he’d stopped flirting with other women—Phoenix had confirmed that, even seemed pleased about it. And okay, maybe your heart did this stupid flutter thing every time you heard his voice over the radio or saw him waiting by the coffee cart in the morning.

But Jacob Seresin didn’t do relationships. Everyone knew that. This was just… friendly. He was being friendly.

The fact that his hand would linger when he handed you your coffee, or that he’d started texting you good morning every day, or that he’d shown up with soup when you’d mentioned feeling under the weather—that was just how he was.

Probably.

“You’re an idiot,” Phoenix said, not for the first time. You were in her apartment, having your weekly movie night, and she’d paused the film just to give you this look.

“I’m realistic.”

“He brought you soup!”

“He’s nice.”

“He’s not nice! He’s Hangman! He’s only nice to you!” Phoenix grabbed your shoulders. “Listen to me. I have known that man for years. Years. I have seen him go through women without learning their last names. I have watched him charm his way out of consequences and into beds without a second thought. And I have never—not once—seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

“Nat, really—”

“I’m serious. He’s different now. With you. And I know his reputation scares you, but people can change. He’s changing. For you.”

You wanted to believe her. God, you wanted to believe her.

But wanting something and trusting it were two very different things.

It was a Wednesday when everything changed.

You were in the tower, middle of a routine training exercise, when the alarm sounded.

“Dagger Two, Dagger Two, this is Tower. We have reports of a bird strike. What’s your status?”

Static.

Your heart stopped.

“Dagger Two, come in.”

More static, then: “Tower, Dagger Two. Confirm bird strike. Engine two is out. Engine one is… not looking great.”

His voice was steady, professional. But you could hear it underneath—the tension.

“Copy, Dagger Two. What’s your altitude?”

“Fifteen thousand and dropping. Trying to restart engine one.”

You pulled up his position, calculated distances, ran through every protocol you knew. Your supervisor was already moving, picking up the direct line to Base Operations.

“Ops, this is Tower. We have an in-flight emergency. Dagger Two, bird strike, dual engine failure. Pilot is attempting emergency landing at auxiliary field two-zero miles northeast. Launch crash crew and medical.”

Phoenix’s voice crackled through on the emergency channel. “Hangman, this is Phoenix. I’ve got Bob with me. We’re tracking you. Talk to us.”

“Phoenix, I’m losing altitude fast. Not gonna make it back to base.”

“Dagger Two, nearest divert is North Island. Can you make it?” you said, keeping your voice level through sheer force of will.

“Negative, Tower. I’m not going to make it to North Island.”

Your breath caught. “Dagger Two, there’s an auxiliary airfield twenty miles northeast of your position. Sending coordinates now.”

“Copy, I see it.”

Your supervisor was coordinating on the other line. “Crash crew is rolling. Ambulance and fire truck en route to auxiliary field. ETA twelve minutes.”

“Jake.” You never used his name over comms. Ever. “You can make it.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Yeah. Yeah, I can make it.”

The next ten minutes were the longest of your life. You talked him through every step, keeping your voice steady even though your hands were shaking. Phoenix stayed on comms, her voice calm and professional, while Bob fed Jake technical readouts in that steady, measured way of his.

When he finally confirmed wheels down, safe, you had to sit down before your legs gave out.

Your supervisor touched your shoulder. “Good work. Crash crew is on scene. Medical is evaluating him now. They’ll transport him back to North Island by ground.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Phoenix’s voice came through your headset. “Tower, Dagger Three. Bob and I are RTB. Ground crew has Hangman. They’re bringing him back by ambulance as a precaution.”

“Copy, Dagger Three,” you managed. “Safe flight.”

“Tower?” Phoenix’s voice was gentler now. “He’s okay. He’s safe. And knowing the squad, they’re probably already gathering at the medical building.”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Copy that.”

“You should probably be there too.”

You shouldn’t have left your post early. You definitely shouldn’t have been standing outside the base medical building with the entire Dagger Squad all waiting restlessly.

But there you were.

The ambulance pulled up, lights flashing but no siren, and the moment the rear doors opened, Jake climbed out on his own power, waving off the corpsman who tried to help him. He looked exhausted and rattled but whole.

His eyes scanned the group and found yours immediately.

Phoenix nudged Bob, who gave a small nod and stepped back without a word. “Come on. Let’s give them a minute.”

“The rest of you too,” Rooster said, herding the remaining Daggers toward the building entrance. “Move it.”

“But I want to see—” Coyote started.

“Move,” Phoenix said, her tone brooking no argument.

Then they were gone, and it was just you and Jake in the parking lot.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself.”

“Thanks for—”

You closed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around him. He froze for half a second, then his arms came around you, tight and sure.

“You scared me,” you said into his shoulder.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If you ever do that again—”

“I won’t.” His hand came up to the back of your head, cradling it gently. “I promise.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were so green, so close, and he was looking at you like…

Oh.

Oh.

“I thought I wasn’t going to see you again,” he said quietly. “And all I could think was that I never told you—”

“Jake.”

“I’m in love with you.” The words came spilling out in a rush. “I know you probably don’t believe me, and I know I have a reputation, but I swear, I have never felt like this about anyone. You make me want to be better. You make me want to be the guy you see when you look at me. And if you don’t feel the same way, that’s okay, I just needed you to know—”

You kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was soft and deliberate, your hand coming up to cup his jaw as you rose onto your toes. He made a sound—somewhere between relief and wonder—and pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the small of your back while the other cradled your face like you were something precious. The world narrowed to just this: the warmth of his mouth on yours, the way he held you like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment, the taste of salt from tears you hadn’t realized you’d shed.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead dropped to rest against yours. His eyes were still closed, and when he opened them, they were bright with something that looked like reverence.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You terrify me.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do casual. I can’t— I’m not built for that.”

“Good. Because there’s nothing casual about the way I feel about you.” His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, gentle and reverent. “I’m all in. Have been for months. Everyone knows it. Phoenix has threatened me at least six times. I don’t care. I’d let her threaten me every day for the rest of my life if it meant I got to keep bringing you coffee and hearing you tell me to maintain radio discipline and just… being around you.”

You laughed, slightly watery. “You’re really in love with me?”

“So much it’s actually embarrassing. Have been since the first time I heard your voice over the radio. When I finally saw you at the Hard Deck and realized the voice I’d been falling for had a face to match…” He shook his head. “I was done for.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’m scared,” you said again. “But I— I think I might be in love with you too. Which is terrifying because I didn’t think that was possible four months ago.”

His smile was incandescent, and then he was kissing you again—softer this time, sweeter, like a promise. Like he had all the time in the world and wanted to spend every second of it right here with you.

From somewhere behind you, you heard Phoenix’s voice carry across the parking lot: “FINALLY!”

Then Rooster: “Did she just—”

“Yep,” Phoenix said, sounding immensely satisfied. “Called it. Pay up, Bradshaw.”

“I knew it!” Payback’s voice rang out. “Fanboy, you owe me twenty bucks!”

You broke apart, laughing, and Jake tucked you against his side, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple. “Did they all bet on us?”

“Probably,” Jake said, but he was smiling, looking down at you like you were everything he'd been missing. “Don’t care. Totally worth it.”

And looking up at him, at the way he was holding you like you were the only thing that mattered, you had to agree.

It really, really was.

Six Months Later

“Tower, Dagger Two. Radio check.”

You smiled, adjusting your headset. “Dagger Two, Tower. Read you loud and clear.”

“Copy that, Tower. Hey, what are you doing after your shift?”

“Dagger Two, maintain radio discipline.”

“Come on, just tell me.”

“Dagger Two.”

“Is it hanging out with your extremely handsome boyfriend? Because I heard he’s planning something special.”

You could hear Rooster groaning over the comms. “Hangman, some of us are trying to focus here.”

Phoenix cut in, sounding amused. “Hangman, I swear, if you don’t focus on flying, I’m telling her about that time in Lemoore—”

“Phoenix, no—”

“Then focus.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to enjoy the show,” came Coyote’s voice, a laugh in his tone. “This is better than anything on TV.”

“Coyote, you’re not helping,” Bob chimed in, though you could hear the amusement in his voice too.

“Tower, this is Fanboy. For the record, some of us are actually trying to maintain professionalism up here.”

“Thank you, Fanboy,” you said, fighting back a smile.

“He’s lying,” Payback interjected. “He’s got popcorn. Literally eating popcorn in the cockpit.”

“I do not!”

You bit back a laugh. “Dagger Two, you’re clear for takeoff. And yes. Seven is fine.”

“That’s my girl. Dagger Two is airborne.”

Your supervisor gave you a look. You shrugged innocently.

From the tarmac, you heard Phoenix’s voice: “Tower, Dagger Three. Just so you know, your boyfriend is doing barrel rolls. Showing off.”

“Dagger Three, tell him to stop.”

“I tried. He says, and I quote, ‘she likes it when I show off.’”

“Dagger Three, you have permission to knock some sense into him during training.”

“With pleasure, Tower. Phoenix out.”

Some things, you’d learned, were worth breaking protocol for.

“Maybe that’s not the best idea.” Jake says gently. “I’ll call the landlord.”

“Okay.” You nod. “You want some tea?”

“Sure.” He watches you shiver, and you sigh.

“Am I imagining it, or does it already feel colder in here?”

“Here, lemme get you a sweatshirt.” Jake says, darting off to his room and choosing to ignore the fact that you have plenty of sweatshirts in your own closet.

You slide on your smiley-face slippers and make your way out into the kitchen, pulling the kettle and two mugs out. Jake comes in with a flashlight and one of your favorite hoodies of his—not that you’ve ever told him.

“Here,” He hands it to you awkwardly, thankful that the lights are out and you can’t see how pink his face is.

“Thanks Jake.” You smile, accepting the sweatshirt and sliding it over your head, reveling in the warmth it brings you. You let your face linger in the fabric, flooding your senses with Jake.

After your tea has been made and candles have been lit, you’re settled into the couch, sitting closer to Jake than you usually do. Luckily his iPad was fully charged and now you’re watching a random movie on it. With each minute that passes, your eyelids feel heavier. You’d pulled your duvet from your bed and wrapped it around you and Jake, and it’s like he senses that you’re growing tired, because he moves closer, so that your head can rest on your shoulder.

“You gettin’ tired sweetheart?” He murmurs softly, warm breath hitting the side of your face. You nod, nuzzling farther into him. His heart rate has picked up by a tenfold and he hopes you’re too tired to notice. His hand slides up and down your side, the slight contact even through your—his—hoodie making you feel warm and fuzzy, almost like you’re floating.

Pretty soon you’re out cold and Jake isn’t far behind you. He moves his iPad to the coffee table and settles in, reveling in the way you seem to melt into him, in your sleep. Your breath passes softly through parted lips. Your eyelashes flutter minutely with each exhale. Jake feels lucky that you’re so comfortable with him—on—him.

Jake continues watching—less than half paying attention—until he feels his arm go numb. He lets it stay that way for a while until he worries about how your current position will affect you, he doesn’t want you to hurt your neck. Mentally he runs over his options. He would just carry you to his bed and get in with you, but he doesn’t want to be presumptuous. Maybe he can move the couch cushions so there’s more room. Or maybe he can—

“Jake?”

“Hey, hey darlin’,” He murmurs softly. “I’m here. What do you need?”

“Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah.”

You groan, throwing an arm over your face. “Can we go to bed?”

We? His heart flutters.

“Sure, can darlin’, you need help getting to your room?”

You scowl, features crinkling up in a way that makes Jake want to laugh. “Can we go to your room?”

Jake swallows roughly, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You want to?”

You nod sleepily. “S’too cold to sleep alone.”

Jake lets you unwrap yourself from the blankets and shuffle to his room, his warm hand at your lower back, just in case.

He pulls back his dark green duvet, letting you get tucked under the sheet before he straightens the rest of the covers on top of you. Sliding in next to you, his heartbeat quickens. He’s a respectable distance away, when you curl into him, arm slinging over his torso, like there’s a magnet on your bodies keeping you from being too far apart.

“It’s a ‘just-because’ present,” you interrupt, tapping your foot impatiently. “Now open it or I’m going to take it back.”

“No take-backsies!” Adrian declares, snatching the package from your hands eagerly. He wastes no more time ripping into the paper, and you laugh at how impatient he is. There is no savoring the moment with Adrian.

“I made it,” you say quietly when the gift reveals itself—a palm-sized amigurumi Vigilante, holding a tiny chainsaw. “After you finally got your chainsaw kill last week.”

Adrian’s jaw drops, and he lets the wrapping paper fall to the floor.

“Oh my god, it’s me,” he says, awed, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “It’s a tiny me. You made this?”

“I crochet,” you remind him. “In my spare time, at home.”

“I know that,” Adrian says, his brow furrowed. “You made me my winter hat and mittens. The teal ones, they’re my favorite. They’re really soft and they fit me perfect and I’m pretty sure I say thank you every time I wear them which is like, every fucking day.”

“Right,” you say. You clear your throat. You have to admit, your motives were slightly selfish when you made Adrian that beanie. He looks so fucking good in a hat, his curls sticking out at the bottom, and god, his messy hat hair when he pulls it off makes you want to melt into a puddle.

“But I had no idea you could do stuff like this,” Adrian continues. “This is cool as fuck!”

“It’s just a silly hobby, but I thought you would like it—”

“I love it,” Adrian cries, cradling the tiny yarn creation like it’s something precious and not something you whipped up in a few hours while binge-watching television in old, stained pajamas.

“You love what?” Chris interrupts, poking his head over the divider that separates his desk from Adrian’s. A much-needed addition that (kind-of) keeps Adrian from talking his ear off all day. Adebayo pokes her head over, too, to see what the commotion is about.

“Look at this!” Adrian says, holding up the tiny Vigilante so his friends can see it. “This is—the best gift I’ve ever gotten in my whole life!”

“Aw,” Ads says. “That’s adorable. You made that?”

“I did,” you say, a little embarrassed that Adrian is drawing so much attention to it. You should have anticipated this.

“Hey,” Chris says, offended. “The best gift you’ve ever gotten in your whole life? What about that sick ass vintage gun I gave you for your birthday a couple years ago?”

“This is better,” Adrian says. “It’s literally a tiny me. With a chainsaw. To commemorate the best day of my life, when I finally got—”

“—to kill someone with a chainsaw, yeah, we know,” Emilia says as she passes by on her way to the break room for a coffee. 

“Just remember I did it first!” John calls across the office, a little smug.

Adrian pouts. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a tiny yarn Economos, so who is more special?” he grumbles. 

“You are,” you say quietly, so only Adrian can hear. “To me.”

He fiddles with the tiny figure in his hands and looks up at you with a small smile.

“Thank you,” he says, and now it’s his turn to be a little shy. He clutches the mini Vigilante in his fist as he stares at your hand, like he wishes he was holding it instead.

“Do you think you could make it into a keychain for me?” he asks. “So I can take him everywhere I go?” Then he pauses and frowns. “No, I shouldn’t do that. He would get dirty and worn out. I should keep him somewhere special where no one is ever allowed to touch him and he will remain in pristine condition forever—”

“You could get one of those cases,” Ads suggests. “That people keep their Labubus in. I think they make ones you can clip to your bag.”

“Yes!” Adrian says. He immediately opens a new browser window and starts searching.

“What the fuck is a Labubu?” asks Chris. He squints, looking a little closer at the amigurumi Vigilante. “That is pretty cool, that you made that. Hey…do you think you could make me one of Eagly?”

It’s a normal day.

Or it was.

You’re halfway through sorting reports—that shift in the room. Not loud, not obvious, just… different. Like the air tightened.

You glance up.

And there he is.

Frank stands just inside the doorway, looking completely out of place and entirely like himself at the same time—dark shirt, worn jacket, eyes scanning out of habit before they land on you.

And then they stay there.

Your brain barely catches up before your heart does something ridiculous in your chest.

“Give me one second,” you tell your co-workers quickly, already moving.

Frank doesn’t move as you approach him, but there’s a tension in his shoulders—like he’s debating whether he should’ve come at all.

“Frank?” you say, a little breathless. “What are you doing here?”

“Was in the area,” he mutters automatically.

You raise an eyebrow.

“…really? An hour from the house and you’re in the area.’”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening just slightly—caught.

“Yeah, well.” His hand shifts from behind his back and that’s when you see it.

Flowers.

A small bouquet, nothing over-the-top. Simple. Real. Completely unexpected.

You blink at them, then at him. “You brought me flowers?”

Frank immediately shrugs like it’s nothing, gaze sliding away for a second. “Don’t make a thing outta it.”

Too late.

Your expression softens, something warm spreading through you as you reach out and take them. “Frank… these are really nice.”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Figured you’d like ‘em.”

You look back up at him, smiling now—really smiling—and it hits him square in the chest. You can see it happen, the way his posture shifts just a fraction, like he wasn’t ready for that reaction.

“They’re beautiful,” you say.

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright—don’t start—”

You step closer before he can retreat, rising up just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Frank freezes.

Completely.

Like his entire system just short-circuited.

When you pull back, his eyes snap to yours, a little wider than usual. “You—”

“Thank you,” you say simply.

Something in his expression softens then—real soft, not the guarded version he usually gives the world. His hand comes up like he’s going to touch you, hesitates for half a second—

Then settles at your waist, firm and steady.

“…Yeah,” he mutters, voice rougher now. “Alright.”

You grin at him. “So you just show up, give me flowers, and expect me not to make a big deal out of it?”

“Was hopin’ you wouldn’t,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.

“Too bad.” you smirk.

For a second, neither of you move. The noise of your workplace fades into the background, people passing by, talking, living—and Frank’s just standing there with you, letting himself exist in something normal.

Something good.

His thumb shifts slightly against your side, grounding himself.

“…Had a rough day,” he admits quietly, almost like it slipped out.

Your expression softens instantly. “Yeah?”

He nods once, eyes on you. “Thought I’d come see you.”

That warmth in your chest spreads again, deeper this time.

“Well,” you say gently, holding up the flowers a little, “I think you made my day instead.”

Frank huffs softly, something almost like a smile tugging at his mouth.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes lingering on you. “Worth it then.”

-

Frank notices the second he sees you.

He’s halfway through shrugging off his jacket when he freezes, eyes locking onto you like something just set off every instinct he’s got. For a split second, it’s that same sharp, dangerous focus he always carries—

Then it softens.

“…You did somethin’.”

You pause in the doorway, fingers automatically brushing your hair. “Hi to you too,” you tease, a little unsure. “And yeah, I cut it. It’s not that—”

He’s already crossing the room.

Fast. Quiet. Intent.

Frank stops right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks. Really looks. Like he’s cataloging every change, every detail, committing it to memory.

“Lemme see,” he mutters.

His hand comes up, rough palm sliding along your jaw before disappearing into your hair. He moves it gently, testing the weight of it, the way it falls. There’s nothing rushed about him now—none of that usual edge. Just… focus.

“…Yeah,” he breathes, almost to himself.

The way he says it—low, certain—sends a little warmth through your chest.

You try to play it off. “It’s just shorter, Frank.”

“Mm.” His gaze flicks over your face again, slower this time. Softer. “Nah.”

Before you can ask what that means, his hand slides to the back of your neck, not pulling—just holding you there, grounding, steady. His forehead dips toward yours for a second, like he’s collecting himself.

“…Makes your face stand out more,” he murmurs. “Can’t stop lookin’ at you.”

That catches you off guard.

Frank doesn’t talk like that. Not often. Not easily.

“Yeah?” you say, quieter now.

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

“Yeah.”

A beat passes—thick, quiet.

Then, like he can’t help it, he leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. Not rushed, not careless—slow, deliberate. His hand stays in your hair the whole time, fingers flexing slightly like he’s still getting used to it.

“…You should do that more often,” he adds, voice rougher now.

You laugh softly. “You just like an excuse to stare at me.”

Frank pulls back just enough to look at you again, something almost amused tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Ain’t an excuse,” he says. “I already do that.”

And yeah— he absolutely does.

—

Frank’s in the middle of cleaning a cut on his arm when you walk in behind him, quiet as anything. He doesn’t even look up at first—until your fingers brush lightly over his shoulder.

Not a grab. Not urgent.

Just… soft.

He stills immediately.

“…You gotta stop sneakin’ up on me like that,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.

“Or what?” you hum, stepping closer.

Your hand trails down his arm, careful of the injury, but slow—deliberate. You lean in just slightly, your breath warm against the side of his neck as you glance at what he’s doing.

Frank exhales sharp through his nose.

“That,” he says, voice already rougher, “you gotta stop that.”

You blink, all innocence. “Stop what?”

His jaw tightens.

“You know what.”

You don’t.

Or maybe you do.

Because later, you’re sitting on the couch beside him, tucked into his side, absentmindedly playing with his fingers while he tries to focus on whatever’s on TV.

You’re not even looking at him.

Just tracing over his knuckles… his palm… lacing your fingers through his.

Slow.

Thoughtless.

Frank hasn’t heard a single word from the screen in the last ten minutes.

“…You always do this?” he mutters.

“Do what?” you ask again, glancing up at him this time.

There it is—that look.

Curious. Soft. Completely unaware of what you’re doing to him.

It makes something in his chest tighten.

“You don’t even know,” he says under his breath.

And then there’s the worse moments.

Like when you’re standing in the kitchen, reaching up on your toes for something in the cabinet, and his shirt—his shirt—you stole hangs just a little too much.

Frank leans in the doorway, arms crossed.

Watching.

You turn, catching him staring. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just pushes off the wall, walking toward you slow, measured. His eyes drag over you like he’s trying real hard to keep it together—and failing.

“…That’s mine,” he says finally.

You glance down at the shirt, then back up with a small smile. “I know.”

That smile is a problem.

Frank stops right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. His hand comes up, gripping your hip—not rough, but firm. Grounding.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. 

Your fingers curl lightly into the front of his shirt, tugging him just a little closer without even thinking about it.

That does it.

His breath stutters—barely, but it’s there.

“…You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.

You tilt your head, teasing. “That so?”

Frank’s grip tightens just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes dropping to your mouth for a second before meeting your gaze again. “Walkin’ around like this… lookin’ at me like that… actin’ like you don’t know what you’re doin’.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

“…Maybe I don’t.”

That earns you a low, disbelieving huff.

“Bullshit.”

But there’s no real accusation in it.

The thing is…It’s not just that you get to him like this.

It’s how easily you do it.

No effort. No games. No trying.

Just you being soft with him. Close to him. Touching him like he’s something worth holding onto.

That’s what really gets under his skin.

That’s what drives him crazy.

Because Frank Castle can handle pain. Violence. Chaos.

But you?

Looking at him like he’s just a man you want?

Touching him like he’s yours?

Yeah.

That’s the thing that wrecks him.

Later, when he finally pulls you into him, arms tight around your waist, forehead pressing briefly to yours like he needs a second—

He exhales, low and rough.

“…You got no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs.

But the way he holds you after that— like he’s not letting go anytime soon—Says he doesn’t really mind.

-

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Frank’s at the table, cleaning a gun with the kind of focus that usually means don’t bother him unless it’s important. His sleeves are pushed up, movements precise, controlled—every piece laid out exactly where it should be.

And then there’s you.

Hovering.

Watching him like you’re about to do something.

“…What?” he mutters without looking up.

“Nothing,” you say quickly.

That alone makes him glance up.

You’re smiling.

That’s a red flag.

Frank narrows his eyes slightly. “…What’re you plannin’?”

“Okay, listen,” you say, already grinning. “I have a joke.”

He immediately goes back to what he’s doing. “No.”

“Frank.”

“No.”

“Frank.”

He exhales, long-suffering, setting the piece in his hand down with a quiet click. “…This better not be one of those—”

“It is.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You beam. “Okay. Ready?”

He leans back in his chair, already regretting every life choice that led him here. “…Go.”

You clasp your hands behind your back, rocking on your heels like you’re way too excited about this.

“Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”

Frank stares at you.

Blank.

“…I don’t know,” he says flatly. “Why.”

You pause for dramatic effect, barely holding it together.

“Because they don’t have the guts.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Frank doesn’t react.

Doesn’t blink.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if this is a joke or a personal attack.

“…That’s it,” he says finally.

You burst out laughing.

“Come on—that was funny!”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was a little funny.”

“It wasn’t,” he repeats, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth now.

You point at him immediately. “You’re trying not to smile.”

“I ain’t.”

“You are.”

Frank huffs, shaking his head, but there’s no bite to it. “That was the worst thing I ever heard.”

You grin, completely unbothered. “You loved it.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

He mutters something under his breath, reaching for his gun again—but he’s slower now. Distracted.

Because you’re still smiling.

Still looking at him like that.

“Hit me with another one.” he asks after a second, like it slipped out against his will.

Your face lights up. “Oh, I have so many.”

Frank immediately regrets it.

“Yeah,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “…Figured.”

But he doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t tell you to quit.

Just sits there, listening to every terrible joke—quiet, steady, and just a little softer than he was before.

And by the third one?