#hoigwarts

You had always told people you didn’t play Quidditch. It wasn’t exactly a lie—you weren’t on the school team, you didn’t hang around the pitch, and you made sure to roll your eyes every time a match was brought up in the Gryffindor common room. It kept everyone from asking questions. But it was also a lie in the sense that you’d been playing Quidditch for years, just not at Hogwarts. Every summer, you joined a local league under a fake name, slipping into games where nobody knew you as “that quiet Gryffindor who never goes near a broom.” It wasn’t about fame or glory, not for you. It was about flying—feeling the wind whip past your face, the freedom of the sky. At school, though, you couldn’t stand the pressure of being watched, analyzed, or pinned as the one thing people remembered about you. So you hid it.

It would have been fine, too, if Oliver Wood didn’t exist.

Oliver, Gryffindor’s obsessed Quidditch captain, lived and breathed the game. He practiced plays at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He read Quidditch books for fun. He scolded his team if their form wasn’t perfect. And for the past two months, he had been ranting about this mysterious player from the summer league, a flyer with incredible skill and a knack for clever feints.

You hadn’t expected him to join the same league, but of course he had. Where else would he be in summer but on a broom? He was a Keeper for another team, and the first time you outmaneuvered him, you saw the spark ignite in his eyes. He made it his mission to figure you out.

Now, after a late practice, the pitch was empty save for the two of you. You’d stayed behind, hovering above the grass, when Oliver landed hard in front of you, his broom kicking up dust.

“You’re not getting away this time,” he said, voice rough from hours of shouting instructions.

You tilted your head, veil shimmering faintly over your features. “Getting away?”

He stepped closer, his eyes burning into yours even though he couldn’t truly see you. “I’ve been watching you. You’re not just good—you’re… different. The way you fly, the way you think, the way you laugh when you nearly kill yourself with a dive—Merlin, it’s driving me mad.”

Heat crept up your neck. You opened your mouth, but he was already closing the space between you, until your broom was brushing his chest. His hand lifted—hesitant at first—hovering just near your face, like he could pull the veil away if you’d let him.

“Show me,” he whispered. “Just once. Please.”

Your throat went dry. It wasn’t the first time you’d found yourselves like this—too close after a midair save, or pressed against the boards when you both dove for the Quaffle. You told yourself it was nothing, just the heat of the game. But now, in the quiet, with his breath fanning your skin and his gaze softer than you’d ever seen, it felt like everything.

“I can’t,” you murmured.

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned closer, his voice low, like a secret meant only for you. “Why not? What are you afraid of? I swear I’d never tell anyone. I just… I need to know.”

You shook your head, forcing a laugh to cover the way your chest ached. “If you knew, it wouldn’t be the same.”

Oliver’s eyes searched yours, trying to pierce through the spell. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually kiss you, veil or not. But then he let out a shaky breath and dropped his hand, though his smile didn’t fade.

“Fine,” he said softly. “Keep your secrets. But you should know—I don’t just admire the player. I admire you.”

And when he walked away, broom slung over his shoulder, you were left trembling—not from the flight, but from the truth you refused to let him see..

“You don’t understand,” he had said to you once, dropping his fork mid-dinner. “They’re brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. If I could recruit them to Gryffindor, we’d win the Cup for the next three years straight. Their grip, their speed—it’s like they’re born to fly!”

You’d smiled, nodding along, trying not to choke on your pumpkin juice. If only he knew.

It wasn’t just irritating—it was dangerous. Every time Oliver went on about this “mystery player,” you half-wondered if he’d somehow connected the dots. But then he’d look at you, sitting with a book in hand, and shake his head as though the thought was impossible. You didn’t play Quidditch. You’d said so yourself.

One night, though, you couldn’t resist. The castle was quiet, the stars out, and the pitch was calling your name. You crept out after curfew, broom in hand, and mounted it the moment your feet hit the grass. The air rushed past you as you shot into the sky. You looped, dived, spun in figure-eights until your chest hurt from laughing. Nobody was watching, nobody was judging—it was just you and the stars.

Or so you thought.

From below, Oliver Wood had been pacing. He’d been in the locker room scribbling new play formations, trying to figure out how to counter the exact kind of moves he’d seen that mystery player pull in the summer. His brain was fried, and he needed fresh air. What he didn’t expect was to hear the whoosh of a broom cutting through the night. Irritated, he stormed toward the pitch, ready to scold whoever thought a midnight joyride was a good idea.

Then he looked up.

He froze.

There you were, silhouetted against the moon, your form perfect—knees bent, grip tight but natural, every movement flowing with effortless confidence. Oliver’s mouth fell open. He knew that dive. He knew that feint. He’d watched it a dozen times during the summer, sketched it onto parchment, obsessed over how to defend against it. And here you were, executing it flawlessly.

Oliver’s voice cracked through the night air, raw and incredulous.

“It’s you.”

Your broom wobbled midair. His gaze—wide, disbelieving, burning—pinned you where you hovered under the moonlight. Slowly, you drifted to the ground, feet touching the grass like you’d been caught stealing fire.

Oliver stalked closer, broom forgotten in his hand. “Merlin, I should’ve seen it. The dives, the feints—the exact bloody spins from camp. I thought I was going mad. And all this time…” His voice broke into a laugh, shaky and awestruck. “It was you.”

Your stomach twisted. All those nights at summer camp, the veil hex softening your features, your voice altered just enough—he had stood this close before, asking you to reveal yourself. And you’d said no, every single time. You’d told yourself if he knew, he’d only admire the player, not the person. But now there was no veil, no disguise. Just you, with the truth hanging between you like a Quaffle waiting to be caught.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out,” you said, voice small.

Oliver stared, his chest rising and falling fast, like he’d just played a full match. “Find out? You think I could ever forget the way you fly? I—” His words tangled. He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been haunted by you. All summer. Every bloody play I wrote down, I compared to you. I thought I was just chasing skill, strategy, brilliance—” His eyes found yours, softening into something deeper. “But it wasn’t just that. It was you. The way you laughed when you pulled a move that should’ve killed you. The way you made Quidditch feel… alive.”

You blinked at him, stunned. The Oliver you knew at Hogwarts was blunt, driven, focused on nothing but the Cup. But this Oliver—the one looking at you like you’d hung the stars—was softer, cracked open by the weight of finally knowing.

“You’re not angry?” you asked.

“Angry?” He gave a disbelieving laugh, stepping closer until your broom tips touched. “I should be. You lied. You let me make a fool of myself all summer. But—” His grin broke through, lopsided and dazzling. “I don’t care. I don’t bloody care, because it’s you. And you’re even better than I imagined.”

Your breath caught. His words wrapped around you like warmth, undoing months of fear. And then, because the night was quiet and his eyes were impossibly bright, you whispered, “You meant it, didn’t you? At camp. When you said you admired me.”

Oliver’s smile faltered into something gentler. His hand rose, hesitant, like it had that night at camp when the veil hex still shimmered between you. Only this time, nothing stopped him. His fingers brushed your cheek, warm and steady.

“I meant every word,” he said.

The world seemed to still. You could hear your heartbeat louder than the crickets in the grass. He was close—closer than ever—and this time there was no spell to shield you. His thumb traced your jaw, and the awe in his gaze made you feel weightless in a way no broom ever could.

You leaned in before you could stop yourself, and Oliver’s breath hitched like he hadn’t dared to hope. His lips met yours—soft, careful, but full of the fire he’d always carried for Quidditch, now turned entirely on you. It was a kiss months in the making, stitched together from late-night near-misses, half-finished confessions, and the impossible thrill of flying side by side.

When you finally pulled back, laughing breathlessly, Oliver pressed his forehead to yours. “You know,” he murmured, “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for making me lose sleep over a player who was under my nose the whole time.”

“I didn’t want people staring,” you admitted softly. “I just wanted to keep it for myself. Flying’s… mine. It’s the only time I feel completely free. I didn’t want to lose that.”

Oliver stepped closer, his gaze gentle now. “I get that. Truly, I do. But maybe—” his voice lowered, almost shy—“maybe you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Are you asking to fly with me, Wood?”

“I’m begging,” he said, grinning.

So you did. The two of you spent the rest of the night racing across the pitch, laughter echoing in the dark, the air alive with the rush of wind and something new sparking between you. Oliver wasn’t competing or analyzing—he was just flying, beside you, matching your dives and spins, his grin wide and unguarded.

When you finally landed, exhausted and exhilarated, Oliver leaned on his broom and looked at you like you’d hung the stars yourself.

“You’re incredible,” he said simply.

You shook your head, smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

He took a step closer, and before you could overthink it, his hand brushed yours, warm and steady. “Promise me something?” he asked.

“What?”

“Don’t hide this from me again. Not the flying, not… you. I don’t care if you join the team or keep it secret, just—let me see you. Like this.”

Your chest tightened, but in the best way. “I promise,” you whispered.

And when Oliver’s smile broke into something brighter than the moonlight, you realized maybe it wasn’t so bad letting someone else into your sky after all.