Hogsmeade tension

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into it - chase atlantic 

I'm getting way too deepI'm fucking into it. 

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Oliver has always been the kind of person who throws himself completely into what he does. Or into what he loves.

Quidditch has been his passion for as long as he can remember. He plays like it's a matter of life and death—because for him, in some ways, it is. His body, his soul, his entire identity is knotted into every match, every strategy, every breath on a broomstick. That's how he works. In his world, if you're not giving everything you've got, there's no point in starting at all.

He pours the same fire into proving himself to his father. Into pleasing him. Though he doesn't know exactly when that obsession began—maybe it's always been there, in the background noise of his childhood.

His father's voice, always just loud enough to leave a mark, to make him question everything, each and every one of his actions, of his thoughts. 

If you don't train four times a week, you'll never make it.

If you don't master this defense drill, you'll never be Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. 

If you don't get into Puddlemere, you'll have failed your life. And my dream. 

Let the devil whisper too long in your ear, and you end up giving him a throne in your head.

The hardest part is realizing it's happened.

Oliver gives just as much of himself to his little sister and his mum. Always thinking about them. Always trying to be there when his dad isn't. Always trying to shield his sister from the quiet, aching truth that their mother barely remembers who they are anymore.

He's made it his mission—his purpose—to give his sister the most innocent life possible. He'll carry that mission to his grave if he has to.

That same passion beats like a drum under everything he does. Every free hour, every thought, every decision. He gives everything to his family and to Quidditch.

But there's a shadow side to devotion. When you give too much, you start to lose the shape of who you are. You forget your own feelings. Your own wants.

And again—the hardest part is knowing when it's already happened.

Most of all, this all-consuming tendency of his—to live and feel at full volume—has landed Oliver in more than a few ridiculous situations.

Like today, for example.

His obsession with Quidditch, and with a certain player, has led him to drag Fred and George out of bed at dawn on a freezing Tuesday morning to spy on the Delegations teams' practice.

The November wind bites at their faces as they lie flat behind the stands. Oliver grips his binoculars tightly.

"Fuckin' hell," George mutters through chattering teeth. "Can't believe we actually agreed to come with you. This is nonsense."

Oliver turns sharply. "Get down!"

George rolls his eyes and ducks, whispering a dramatic "Yes, Captain" under his breath.

The three of them are lying stomach-down behind the stands, doing their best not to be seen. Oliver shoots them both a warning glare before lifting the binoculars to his eyes, scanning the pitch for signs of movement.

Fred groans. "Only you would willingly get up at bloody 6 in the morning to spy on people," he complains. "I'm freezing my arse off."

Clicking his tongue, Oliver sighs, "We need to know what we're up against. I've studied Krum and Durand inside and out during all my life, but the others? I don't know how they play. I have to know. We have, actually. So feel free to be concerned."

George snorts. "You should've just said you wanted to stare at Krum all morning," he says with a smirk. "You could've left us out of it, Captain."

Oliver feels his face flush immediately. He lowers the binoculars slightly, clearing his throat like it'll somehow hide the warmth spreading up his neck. He says nothing and refocuses on the pitch.

And then— There.

Zora.

She's floating high on her broom, posture straight, arms crossed. That familiar look of concentration tightens her brow, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she studies her teammates' formations. She's shouting something—new instructions maybe—and raises both arms to punctuate her words.

Oliver notices the way she bites the inside of her lip when she's focuses or nervous, something he noticed a while ago. Her gaze moves across the players, watching their every moves and mistakes.

There's something about the way she hovers there, in control, doing what she's good at—he forgets the cold. He forgets everything, really.

Until George nudges his arm and angles the binoculars slightly to the left. "Over there," he whispers. "That's where the action is."

The player finally appear on his binoculars. Oliver doesn't respond and just shoves him with his hand and George just laughs. 

As Oliver keeps watching their game, he feels panic rising in his chest. Sure, he knew the competition would be tough, but he didn't expect this level of team cohesion—especially not from players who, for the most part, didn't even know each other a few days ago.

He knows Zora. He knows exactly what kind of captain she is—brilliant, intense, and relentless. And she's already managed to give her team a sense of unity. He knows she only swears by three things: cohesion, trust, and active listening between teammates. He remembers her saying something a few years ago, back at Quidditch camp. Her words are still clear in his mind.

"A team is a single body," she'd said. "The Chasers are the legs, the Beaters are the arms, the Seeker is the heart, and the Keeper? The brain. Each one vital. Each one irreplaceable. If one part fails, the whole body collapses."

And clearly, her new team has taken that to heart.

Oliver narrows his eyes through the binoculars, focusing on Adeline and the other Chaser from Durmstrang. The two of them fly in tandem, their movements clean and deliberate. He recognizes the pattern instantly. His stomach drops.

"Fuck," he breathes. "They're doing the Hawkshead Attacking Formation."

Fred lifts his head just a little. "Wait, seriously? Isn't that the thing you've been trying to get the girls to master for, like, ever?"

Oliver nods, his jaw tight. "Yeah. The Durmstrang Chaser's struggling a bit, but Durand? She's got it. No doubt Krum does too if she's making them drill it."

"She's good, huh?" Fred mumbles.

They stay hidden for the rest of the training session. Oliver keeps his eyes locked to the binoculars, analyzing every movement, every pass, every shift in formation. The twins are lying down beside him, whispering jokes and scribbling half-hearted notes on a crumpled piece of parchment—only recording half of what Oliver tell them to write.

Oliver tries to take mental notes of everything: offensive strategies, defensive drills, the way the Seeker initiates attacks, how the Keeper counters them. He's so absorbed, he barely hears George calling his name.

"Ollie."

No reaction.

"Oliver."

Still nothing.

"Ollie, mate, seriously—look behind you."

"Yeah, yeah," Oliver mumbles, waving him off without lifting his head.

He doesn't hear the shuffle of robes as the twins get up to their feet, hands raised innocently. Doesn't even register the soft thud of their notebooks hitting the grass.

It's not until Fred kicks him—hard—in the ribs that he snaps out of it.

"What the—?"

Oliver looks up, turns around—and nearly jumps out of his skin.

Zora is standing there, one hand on her hip, the other casually holding her broom. Her expression is pure satisfaction, a smile curling her lips.

"Well, well," she says, voice light but teasing. "Hi, cheater."

Oliver gets up to his feet and clears his throat, brushing off his robes like nothing happened. He rolls his eyes. "C'mon. It's public knowledge everyone spies on everyone in Quidditch. It's not cheating."

"Maybe where you're from," she says, raising a brow. "Not where I come from."

He shrugs. "You're on our pitch now. Play by our rules."

Zora lets out a soft laugh, stepping a little closer. "Oh, don't worry, Wood. I intend to." She leans in just slightly. "So... I suppose you wouldn't mind if I came to watch your practice tomorrow night?"

Oliver lifts one brow, cool and unbothered. "Be my guest."

Zora gives a sly smile before turning her attention to the twins. "Do you really need all three of you to understand that we're going to crush you?"

Oliver scoffs. "Please. I saw your team. Nothing to be afraid of."

She takes another step closer to him. They're only a few feet apart now. "No?" she says sweetly. "So, you did catch the Hawkshead Attacking Formation? What'd you think?"

He knows she's toying with him. Knows she's doing it on purpose. That formation is his Achilles' heel—something he's been ranting about failing to pull off every single summer at camp. She knows how to get under his skin better than anyone else.

Oliver's hands curl into fists at his sides. "Your Durmstrang Chaser is weak."

Zora shrugs. "That I'll give you."

Oliver stares at her and crosses his arms. "Still relying on a weak link to keep the illusion alive?"

Zora tilts her head. "I rely on him to improve. Unlike some, I know how to make a team evolve."

Fred lets out a low whistle. "Oof. She got you there, Wood."

"Can you two shut up for a second?" Oliver mutters, eyes never leaving Zora.

George chuckles under his breath. "Someone's upset. She touched a nerve, Ollie."

Oliver ignores them, his stare locked on hers. "You're never going to change, are you ?"

She raises an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is when you show up like a storm, provoke everyone, and think you can win just by running your mouth."

Zora steps closer. "It's not my mouth that shook your team last summer at camp. It was my tactics. And you know it."

Fred and George exchange a delighted glance.

"Strategy, or intimidation?" Oliver snaps back. "You always seem to blur the line."

"And you know it works."

They fall into silence. 

George raises a hand like he's judging a duel. "Alright, I vote Krum."

Fred nods. "Same. No offense, Ollie. But she's scary and funny. Killer combo."

Oliver turns to glare at them. "Just a reminder—we're here to check on their practice, not publicly humiliate me."

"Why not both?" George smiles.

Zora laughs softly, stepping back as she grabs her broom. She swings one leg over her broom, her gaze still locked on his. "In case you haven't understood yet, I'm going to beat you. Fair and square, of course." She winks, mocking.

She kicks off the ground, flying back into the sky. 

Fred exhales. "I think I'm in love."

George nods. "You and her in the same team would either be the best combination or cause an international incident."

Oliver sighs, eyes still fixed on the sky. "We're going to crush her."

George bursts out laughing. "If you say so, Captain."

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It's the first Hogsmeade weekend since the delegations arrived at Hogwarts.

Oliver isn't the biggest fan of these weekend out—he'd much rather spend his Saturday on the Quidditch pitch, which is exactly what he does most weekends. The cold air, the rush of flying, the discipline of training—it's where he prefers to be. 

But today, he's made an exception. He's agreed to come along with his team—well, his friends—for the whole day and evening. He figures he owes them that much, after the relentless practices he's dragged them through lately. Ever since the Delegations arrived, Oliver's been pushing harder, aiming higher.

And maybe, deep down, he knows he could use the break too.

Plus, it's a good excuse to swing by Honeydukes and pick up some Chocolate Frogs for his little sister Nora. She's probably already sent him three letters reminding him.

He walks in silence, hands into his coat pockets, beside Angelina. The cold bites at his cheeks, but the sun's out, casting a sharp and white light over the landscape. The walk is quiet, peaceful even—the kind of silence you don't need to fill. The first snow clings to the top of the Highlands in the distance, glittering under the sun, and the light is so bright it almost stings his eyes.

"Thanks for coming with us today, Ollie," Angelina says softly, breaking the silence. "It really means a lot."

Oliver glances sideways at her, frowning slightly. Her tone is sincere. Too sincere. It unsettles something in his chest. Angelina doesn't usually get sentimental. That's part of why he likes her. But now, her honesty hits him in the gut.

He knows he isn't always the easiest friend to have. Quidditch takes up most of his brain space. Emotions... not so much. And sometimes he worries he's going to wake up one day and realize he's pushed everyone away.

But God knows Angelina matters.

Even if things haven't always been smooth— with her fiery temper and the fact she's Zora's best friend—Angelina's one of the people he's closest to. One of the few he genuinely respects. They've known each other since first year, and through everything, there's always been this unspoken understanding between them. A quiet kind of loyalty.

Sure, they've grown apart a bit as they've gotten older—especially over the summers—but that bond never really went anywhere.

Oliver cracks a small smile and bumps her shoulder with his. "Didn't think you had such a soft side, Johnson."

She rolls her eyes and snorts. "Tell anyone I said that and I'll hex you. Especially Zora. She'd murder me."

He chuckles under his breath and exhales, watching the fog of his breath disappear into the crisp air. Everything always seems to come back to her.

Everything.

Always.

"It's good to be here too, Angie," he says after a moment. "Really. I know I don't say that kind of stuff enough. And that I—"

She cuts him off with a knowing smile. "I know, Captain. You always say these things and parties  are like 'team bonding' or whatever, but I know you're here because you want to be with your friends."

Oliver doesn't argue. Instead, he nods slowly, eyes fixed on the path ahead. He kicks at a small stone, sending it rolling, then taps it again with his foot.

After a pause, he sighs. "You think we're gonna win the Cup? Honestly."

Angelina lets out a long sigh and shrugs. "Honestly? I have no idea. With the Delegations here... everything's different now."

She stops walking and turns to face him. "But what I do know is that you've done everything you could to get us there. And I'm gonna give everything I've got to win it. Trust me, Cap', I want that Cup as much as you do."

A rare, genuine smile spreads across Oliver's face. "I know you do."

When they reach the village, Oliver stops by Honeydukes with Lee and Katie. It takes him more than ten minutes to realize he's probably third-wheeling something serious, and maybe he should give them a little space. He finally grabs a few Chocolate Frogs for Nora then slips away toward the Three Broomsticks.

Upstairs, the team's already taken over their usual table. He sits down, and the entire table erupts in cheers, hands slamming the table, voices chanting his name like he just scored a last-minute goal. 

Oliver knows the pub managers hate when they show up. They're always the loudest, the ones who somehow end up breaking something—usually thanks to the twins. But they're also the biggest drinkers. Let's just say... the compromise has been silently accepted.

Lee had already ordered him a butterbeer. Oliver takes a sip, the cold drink sliding down his throat. He closes his eyes for a second, savoring the taste, letting it soothe his nerves.

George leans back in his chair, shoes casually kicked up onto the bench, swirling the foam in his glass like he's about to make a toast.

"Right, so. Who wants to hear something absolutely scandalous?"

A chorus of groans rises around the table. Fred rolls his eyes. "If it's about Filch and Madam Pince again, we've heard it."

George gasps, one hand flying to his heart. "I'm offended, Freddie. This is way better." He drops his voice to a dramatic whisper. "Word is... Roger Davies was caught snogging a certain Beauxbâtons girl behind the Owlery. And I'm not saying names, but let's just say she left behind a lot of glitter."

Alicia frowns. "Glitter?"

Angelina raises a brow. "You sure it wasn't Fred in a wig again?"

Fred glares at her. "Once, Johnson. And it was a bet."

George's grin only grows. "All I'm saying is—glittery scarf, very French accent, and Davies stumbling out of the snow like he'd just seen heaven."

Oliver runs a hand down his face. "Good. As long as it keeps him distracted from my Cup."

The group immediately bursts into protest.

"What?" he says. 

"Can you go five minutes without talking about Quidditch?" Lee asks, exasperated.

Oliver just rolls his eyes and lifts his butterbeer to his lips.

"I've got something better," Lee says, who had return with Katie a few minutes earlier.

Everyone leans in. Lee clears his throat. "Diggory asked Zora Krum to the Yule Ball."

Oliver chokes. He nearly spits his drink all over the table, coughing violently under the watchful gaze of his friends.

"God, Wood, you good?" Alicia asks, reaching out.

He half-nods, one hand clutching his chest, the other giving a shaky thumbs-up. He glances toward Angelina, who's watching him with a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

"Well, Prettyboy certainly got the guts," Fred says with a laugh.

"What did she say?" George cuts in.

Lee shrugs. "No idea." He turns to Angelina. "What did she answer?"

"No clue. I don't think she answered yet. But... not sure she'll say yes."

Oliver isn't listening anymore. Not since those words. Not since they wrapped around his brain and decided to stick there like some curse.

Diggory asked Zora Krum to the Yule Ball.

Yeah, okay. He asked her. So what? Why would he care? He doesn't even want to go to that stupid ball.

But then why does his stomach twist, that unbearable ache spreading in his chest—the same one he'd felt when Pucey had his hands just a little too close to her waist?

Of course Diggory asked her. Prettyboy Diggory. Prefect, Triwizard Champion, Quidditch Captain, golden hair, tall, charming.

And of course she's going to say yes. She'd be mad not to, really. 

Diggory and Krum. What a match. Golden boy and the Durmstrang princess.

"Oi, Captain!" George's voice snaps him out of it. Oliver blinks, head snapping up. "Your beer poisoned or what? You've gone quiet since your choking fit."

He forces a laugh with the others, doing his best to mask the absolute mess going on in his chest. He fails. Miserably.

He finishes his beer. Then another. Then a third.

By the time they're ordering their fourth round, the night is well underway. Oliver feels the alcohol warming his face, calming his nerves a bit.

"Mind if I join everyone ?"

But it's not enough to stop every muscle in his body from tensing at that voice. His voice. 

"Our national champion!" Fred calls out. "Get in here!"

Everyone shuffles around to make room at the table. Oliver can't stop staring. His jaw clenches. Fist too.

It's the first time he's ever felt this much hostility toward Diggory. Just the way he walks, smiles, even talks is enough to irritate the hell out of him.

Their eyes meet.

"Wood," Cedric greets with a smile. 

Oliver just gives him a nod. 

Across the table, Angelina shoots him a look, eyes wide, silently ordering him to behave and smile. He sighs and gets up.

"Who's up for some pool?" he says, grabbing his drink.

Lee, Fred, Alicia—and of course, Cedric—follow him into the next room where the pub keeps a couple of pool tables. They've come here enough times to know the routine. Oliver grabs a cue, absentmindedly polishing it as Fred sets up the balls.

"You and me?" Oliver asks him.

Fred grins. "Never change a winning team, Cap'."

Oliver turns to Cedric. "So that leaves you three—Lee, Alicia, and you. That good?"

He doesn't know what answer he expected. Maybe that Cedric would bow out, let them play teams of two.

But Cedric just nods. "Yeah. Perfect."

The first game starts. Oliver and Fred win. Second game too—Lee accidentally sinks the black ball way too early.

Beers keep flowing. Oliver actually manages to relax a little.

Until he leans down to break for the third round, cue in hand—when this time he hears her voice.

"Can I play?"

That voice. That raspy, slightly broken voice. And her accent. God, her accent.

Oliver freezes, still bent over the table. He swallows hard, then slowly straightens up and turns around.

And of course—there she is. Zora. All smile. Eyes already on him, already challenging him. 

Oliver wonders what she's even doing here—where was she before? Probably off with Adeline or Viktor. He can't help but think about it. Maybe Angelina invited her to join them at the Three Broomsticks. That would explain her being here.

"Zora!" Alicia says as she walks over to hug her, cheerful as always.

Zora and Cedric. In the same room. Oliver nearly scoffs out loud. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

"Perfect timing," Alicia says. "Now we'll be even on each team!"

Oliver exhales sharply through his nose and straightens up.

"Jesus, Wood. You look absolutely thrilled to see me. Just say the word if I'm not welcome," Zora says, walking up to him. 

He looks her dead in the eyes. "Do you even know how to play pool?"

She shrugs casually. "I can always learn."

Oliver sighs, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "This table's for people who can already play, Krum. Sorry."

Zora crosses her arms and opens her mouth to reply—but, of course, Cedric shows up right on cue behind her.

"We can teach her," he says with a chuckle. "Could be fun, right? A bit of English pool for the lady."

For the lady. Really, Diggory ? 

Zora doesn't take her eyes off Oliver. She arches an eyebrow, daring him again. 

Oliver sighs. "Fine. But Diggory, you're in charge of her. You're with him and Lee. We'll take Alicia."

Everyone starts moving around, grabbing cues, repositioning themselves. Oliver catches Cedric explaining the rules to Zora in the background, gesturing animatedly, his voice low. Zora's chuckle cuts through the clatter of chairs.

He can't focus. He lines up to break, cue in hand, but his eyes flick to the other end of the table. Zora leans in close to Cedric, pretending to aim, and Cedric adjusts her stance with a gentle hand at her elbow.

The crack of the cue ball never comes.

Oliver flinches as the white ball rolls awkwardly, barely touching the others. A weak, failed break.

"Fuckin' hell, Wood," Fred laughs. "You never miss the break. What was that?"

"If certain people could stop chatting like they're at a bloody tea party, maybe I could concentrate," Oliver mutters through clenched teeth, loud enough for both Zora and Cedric to hear.

As the game starts, Oliver's supposed to be focusing. His eyes should be on the felt, calculating angles, force, spin. But they aren't.

They're on her.

Every time Zora laughs at something Cedric says, it's like nails on a chalkboard. Sharp. Unbearable. And Zora—Zora's standing just a little too close, tilting her head, letting Cedric lean in. Like she doesn't even notice. Or worse—like she does.

Oliver misses his shot again.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, loud enough this time for Zora to glance over.

Fred raises a brow. "What's up with you, Wood? You're playing like someone cursed your cue."

Oliver doesn't answer. His jaw tightens as Cedric gestures again near Zora, miming the right posture. His hand brushes the small of Zora's back. Oliver feels something twist in his chest, something burning and reckless.

She steps up for her turn, cue in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. She bends forward slightly, angling her body, clearly trying to mimic Cedric's guidance. Her stance is off—too stiff, too unsure—and the ball barely rolls.

Cedric laughs. "Alright, alright, maybe a little more practice. Here—let me just—"

But Oliver is already moving.

His body acts before his mind catches up. He pushes away from the edge of the table, strides over, his steps loud, final, cutting through Cedric's sentence.

"I've got it," he says. Not a suggestion. A command.

Cedric freezes for half a second. "...Alright," he says again, slower this time, backing off.

Oliver steps behind Zora before she can speak, before he can think. 

His hand finds her wrist, warm and delicate under his fingers. He adjusts her hold on the cue, slowly, deliberately, until her fingers sit exactly where he wants them.

Then he steps closer. One hand guiding her arm. The other—God help him—rests lightly on her waist. He turns her around slightly to improve her stance. He moves away his hand and adjusts her elbow and then drops his hand at the back of the cue. 

Her body against his now. Warm and steady. His face almost deep in her neck, hair lightly caressing his face. Her scent reaching him, filling his lungs like smoke. 

His chest is rising faster now.

He leans in, voice low. "Your stance is too tense. Loosen your shoulder. Let it move with the shot."

She nods once, slow, and shifts slightly. The movement presses her into him just a fraction more. His breath catches.

Neither of them says anything.

From across the room, everyone's gone silent. Even the air feels still.

Then, with a confident movement, his left hand still above hers and his right one at the other end of the cue, he hits the ball showing her the right movement. The yellow one ends up in the hole.

Zora turns her head slightly. Her cheek inches from his mouth. 

And suddenly, he's too close. He feels too much. The rise and fall of her breathing. The delicate line of her neck. He feels the curve of her back against his chest, the silk of her shirt against his arms. His pulse is roaring in his ears.

He walks back, like waking up from a dream, like the fire suddenly burned too hot.

His hands fall away. His face is flushed, jaw tight. "You were holding it wrong," he mutters, retreating toward the other side of the table.

The rest of the game drags on in an agonizing silence. Oliver's shots are sloppy, his mind elsewhere, eager to leave the table, to leave the whole room.

His fingers itch, stil burning from where he had left them, on her wrist, hand, waist. 

"Alright, alright, I think that's enough," Fred announces, clapping his hands as the final ball falls into a pocket with a muffled thud. "This is getting boring. Let's drink one more beer before calling it a night and before things get weirder here."

The others all nod in agreement, the tension hanging in the air.

Oliver nods but doesn't speak. He's already pushing his cue back into its case. He can't be here anymore. He can't keep pretending he's fine, can't ignore the way his skin burns when she's near him. 

"I'm gonna head back," he says slowly. 

Fred glances over, an eyebrow raised. "What, you've had enough of us?"

Oliver meets his gaze. "I've got stuff to do."

But even as the words leave his mouth, he knows it's a lie. He's just trying to escape the feeling. He can't stay in that room. Not with her and Cedric still talking like nothing's wrong, like everything's just fine, like he's not about to lose his fucking mind.

With a muttered good-bye, he's out the door before anyone can say anything else. The crisp night air hits him like a slap, and he breathes it in, feeling the chill bite at his skin, trying to clear his head.

Oliver walks fast, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He can't think straight anymore. His body moves on autopilot, his thoughts a chaotic blur of brown eyes, long eyelashes, soft laugh. 

He doesn't want to care. He doesn't want to feel this way about Zora. But it doesn't stop. The jealousy is eating him and there's nothing he can do to shove it down.

By the time he reaches the castle, his breath is shallow. He slams the back door open, the echo of it ringing through the empty hall, and storms down the corridor, not caring who hears.

He doesn't even want to think about it anymore. Doesn't want to think about how it feels when Zora looks at him, when Cedric stands too close to her, when he watches her smile at him like she doesn't know how it's tearing him apart.

He gets to his dorm, slams the door behind him. As he sits on his bed, staring at the shadows playing across the walls, he realizes with a sickening clarity:

Zora is making him loose his mind. Zora is making him feel things he barely felt before.  

And he doesn't know what do to with all of it. 

And he fucking hates himself for it.