Chapter Text
The house is bursting at the seams.
A small stone cottage in the rolling hills of the English countryside, Ellie’s house had always felt cozy. Tight, sometimes, as they grew up and bickered over the last slice of pudding and use of the bathroom. Stifling, occasionally, when they returned home for breaks from the sprawling and ever-expansive Hogwarts.
But always cozy.
Now, however, the house is absolutely overrun.
Every chair they own is filled, every surface littered with plates, bottles of Butterbeer, and the hastily abandoned remains of candy wrappers. The air thrums with anticipation; all conversation excitedly focused on the upcoming event of the century. The Quidditch World Cup.
Ellie squeaks through the wooden frame leading into the den, nearly jostling her mother’s favourite vase off the bookcase as she brushes out of the way of a gaggle of children barreling into the kitchen. The booming laugh Ellie recognizes immediately as her father’s draws her attention to the dining table, where he stands over two boys strategizing heatedly about something on the table.
She winds across the crowded room, sliding past her Aunt, who levitates a pile of dirty dishes over a fiery game of Exploding Snap, and around her neighbour, who’s too deep in conversation with a woman Ellie doesn’t recognize to notice the dog licking his plate clean.
“The whole point is that you’re relying too much on the Keeper’s reaction time!” Her father is declaring as Ellie reaches them, jabbing a finger at the taller of the two boys. “You, of all people, should understand, Wood. It was tactical cowardice.”
Oliver lifts his hands in mock surrender. Liam groans into his palms.
“Dad,” Liam starts. “The Skinmark Scheme is too volatile these days. Maybe it worked when you were -”
“Careful,” Their father warns without heat. “We’re not talking about the Stone Age here.”
“We’re just saying it’s too risky nowadays - especially when you’re up against a seasoned Seeker. You’re basically handing over possession just for a flashy goal.”
“A flashy goal,” Their dad corrects, offended. “is what can win a game. Merlin, are you even really my son?”
Oliver snorts. “Well, he’s definitely yours. I’m the innocent bystander here.”
“You’re here often enough you might as well be mine.” Her dad retorts, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away. “Our grocery bills go up every time you set foot in this house. Anyway - the Skinmark Scheme works. It draws the Keeper out, opens the middle hoop for the free Chaser. It’s pure, aggressive offense. Absolutely beautiful.”
“You’re underestimating the power of consistent, impenetrable defense.” Oliver fires back, competitive spark flaring. “At this level, the most important thing is holding the line. It doesn’t matter how flashy your Chasers are if your Keeper is flailing around trying to predict five things at once.”
Liam groans. “Here he goes…”
“And I told him -” He points a finger at Liam, who rolls his eyes dramatically. “That if Ireland’s Seeker tries the Double-Down Loop again, they deserve to lose.”
Her father sputters. “Deserve? That move won -”
Ellie puts a hand on her dad’s arm before he can wind up again. “Dad. Stop. You’re scaring the cat.” She nods toward Aunt Tam’s orange tabby, crouched under a chair and glaring up at them mistrustfully. “Also, Mum’s looking for you. Something about the dishes smashing themselves after rinsing.”
“Not again.” Her dad sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose and hustling off toward the commotion.
Ellie turns back to the boys with a triumphant grin. Oliver returns it with a practiced, easy smile - the exact kind he’s been giving her since they were kids. Friendly. Uncomplicated. The kind of smile you save for young cousins and elderly aunts. Liam, on the other hand, squints at her like she’s a suspicious potion.
“What was that look?” He demands.
“What look?”
He gestures at her face. “That one. You’re plotting something. Wood, don’t trust her.”
Oliver huffs out a laugh. “I think she’s just happy to have ended that debate.”
“You don’t know her like I do.” Liam grumbles, scraping his chair back. The legs screech loudly and the cat bolts out of the way as the chair stutters against the wood floor. “Come on, mate, let’s get out of here before Aunt Tam assigns us to prune-mashing duty again.”
He heads to the hutch, grabs three bottles of Butterbeer, and tosses one to Oliver, who catches it easily with Keeper-honed reflexes. He holds the third out to Ellie. “Coming outside, Little Sister?”
Ellie beams sweetly and takes the bottle, twisting off the cap. “Love to.” She takes a sip, then, with a shrug, “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Mum wants the table set,” Ellie announces cheerfully. “And she asked for you specifically.”
Liam’s face falls. Oliver snorts into his drink.
“I knew it!” Her brother groans.
“Good luck, Big Brother!” Ellie calls, backing away toward the kitchen and raising her drink in salute. “The charts are in the pantry!”
Dinner smells like seasoned pheasant and roasting potatoes - rich, warm, and unrelentingly loud with overlapping voices as people weave in and out of the kitchen. Ellie ducks through the doorway, a steaming pot in the grip of her mother’s oversized oven mitts, and narrowly avoids tripping over her neighbour’s toddler, who is sprawled across the floor in the midst of an impressive tantrum.
“Careful, Ellie.” A voice rings from the doorway from behind her, and she whirls, wobbling dangerously under the pot’s weight. Oliver leans against the frame casually, arms crossed, Butterbeer still dangling lazily from one hand. His hair is a little wild - longer than she remembers it being - and he’s got that familiar half-grin as he teases that makes her feel both at ease and instantly annoyed.
She huffs, regaining her balance. “How did you even know?”
“Experience.”
“Experience with what?”
“With you.” He says easily. “Christmas, three years ago? You almost set the tree on fire.”
“That was one time.”
“And yourself.” He adds, helpfully.
Ellie’s cheeks heat instantly. “We had an extra ham.” She mutters.
Oliver hums in agreement. “We did. Still not the point.”
He pushes off the doorframe and ambles into the kitchen, all loose-limbed confidence. “Honestly,” he goes on, “It’s incredible. On land? Total liability. Stick you on a broom and suddenly you’re a prodigy. I’ll never understand it.”
“Years of being Liam’s practice partner.” She says with a shrug. “Something was bound to rub off. This was before you, obviously”
“Obviously.” Oliver agrees without missing a beat. He sets his empty bottle on the counter and casually lifts the pot straight out of Elie’s grip in one fluid motion. “But someone still has to make sure my best mate’s little sister doesn’t trip over her own feet.”
She crosses her arms. “I don’t need supervision.”
Oliver shoots her a sideways look, grin back in place. “You do when there's an open flame involved.”
His tone carries the same easy, familiar warmth he gives everyone in her family, so, when he grins, muscles flexing easily under the weight of the dish, the twisting sensation in her stomach catches Ellie off guard.
She’s seventeen now, going into her last year at Hogwarts and, suddenly - somehow - Oliver looks different. Taller. Broader. Same easy confidence, but… sharper around the edges. A different man than the boy who used to knock over her mother’s flower pots during backyard scrimmages.
But then he flashes the same uncomplicated smile; the kind of smile reserved for little sisters and family pets, and the fluttering in her stomach is quickly dampened.
“Table?” He asks, nodding toward the dining room.
“Table.” Ellie echoes, fighting to ignore the warmth blooming in her cheeks.
It’s after midnight when the last of the guests floo home, and well past one o’clock when Ellie pads back down the stairs for pumpkin juice, unable to find sleep in the restless excitement that lingers in the party’s aftermath. The fridge is predictably empty except for half a beetroot tart and something unidentifiable in a jar.
Sighing, she settles on a glass of warm water.
A sliver of light fractures down the hallway, leaking through the open door of the small sitting room, and Ellie tiptoes down the hall, curiosity getting the better of her.
Oliver is sprawled on the ancient, overstuffed couch in the small room, worn copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, dog-eared and bent, resting face-down against his chest. His old practice hoodie is bunched underneath his head like a makeshift pillow.
Oliver Wood, celebrated Gryffindor Captain, and Puddlemere United first-round draft pick - her brother’s best friend since their first-year - looking utterly at home on her family’s couch.
Ellie leans against the doorframe, watching the rise and fall of his steady breathing. He’s been a fixture in their home for as long as she can remember - always around, always loud, always covered in grass stains or debating with Liam about goal differentials. Like a piece of furniture she could always rely on, she thinks, albeit one that talks too much and eats half their pantry.
The warm glow of an oil lamp casts warm amber light that flickers across his skin and highlights the sharp planes of his face. Something uncomfortably soft blooms in Ellie’s chest, and she quickly shoves it down.
She grabs a pillow and lobs it gently at his head.
“Trouble sleeping, Captain?” She asks lightly as Oliver jerks awake, blinking blearily as the pillow lands on the floor with a soft thud. Elllie pushes off of the wooden frame, crossing the room and perching on the arm of the sofa opposite him. “Or was the anticipation of Quidditch too much for you?”
A smile creeps across his face as he rubs his tired eyes. “I could ask the same thing. Or do you always wander through the darkness, assaulting innocent sleepers?”
“You’re my first, actually.”
“Honoured.” He deadpans, peering at the darkened window. “What time is it anyway? We’ve got to be up before dawn to catch that portkey.” At this, he focuses on her, his eyes more lucid. “Did Liam ever confirm the time with you? All he sent me was a self-updating clock charm that keeps flashing random numbers.”
Ellie stifles a laugh, a wave of familiar exasperation at her brother washing over her. “Relax, he arranged it for six, but he’ll be dragging you out of bed himself, if it comes to it. You know how he gets about schedules for big events.”
“I’m begging you - don’t wake him up before five. I’ll need all the sleep I can get.” He eyes her carefully, his voice dipping into his ‘Captain’ voice. “You should get some too, if you can. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She says sweetly, taking a sip of water, but she stands and dims the lamp, letting the house sink back into its soft, sleepy quiet. “Goodnight, Wood.”
“Night, Ells.”
She freezes for a half a second, hearing the nickname no one except Oliver and her brother have adopted, and she feels the little knot in her chest twist again.
Then she slips up the stairs before he can see her smile.
The stadium buzzes long before the match begins; music drifting over the crowd, coloured smoke billowing from enchanted torches, green and burgundy streams rippling high overhead.
Ellie lingers behind her family as they climb what feels like the hundredth flight of steps, the roar of the stadium swelling with every step. Vendors shout over each other, already struggling to be heard over the growing hum - somewhere nearby, a group of fans is already singing at top volume.
Ahead, her mother is busy lecturing her father about not losing the tickets again, and her father is busy loudly insisting he did not lose them, but merely relocated them, temporarily and unexpectedly. Oliver trails behind them while Liam dissects starting line-ups animatedly with another fan, arms waving wildly as they debate.
“I’m telling you,” the stranger insists to him. “Ireland’s going to start with a staggered drive. They always do - it opens passing lanes.”
Liam snorts. “Not if Bulgaria’s Keeper reads it. They’ll get shut down before centre field.”
“Well, if Ireland plays conservatively -”
“Which they won’t.” Oliver calls from the step above, tone mild. “They’ve never played conservatively a day in their lives.”
Liam points at him in approval. “Exactly. Someone gets it.”
“All it takes is discipline.” The stranger interjects, his tone growing annoyed. “Peprikov wouldn’t know controlled defence if it bit him.”
“He did win Keeper of the Year.” Oliver offers.
“On reputation! Not performance!”
“Well,” Oliver starts, a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he meets Ellie’s eye. “I’m sure you’d know more than I would, mate.”
The stranger narrows his eyes. “You’re humouring me.”
“Never.” Oliver says, with the polite earnestness of someone who absolutely is, and Ellie hides a smile from the stranger as they part ways to their seats.
Their section is high, but the view is incredible. Ellie drops into her seat beside Liam, exhausted but buzzing with anticipation, and Oliver slides in next to her.The whole pitch stretches below, emerald grass pristine, golden hoops gleaming, banners billowing as though alive. Magic crackles in the wind; the crowd’s roar vibrates in Ellie’s ribs.
The players burst onto the pitch in a blaze of sparks and coloured smoke and the stadium erupts.
The whistle shrieks.
The Quaffle rockets forward.
Bulgaria takes immediate possession, sweeping up the pitch in a unified burst of motion. Ellie feels the force of it - movement like a live current; fast and precise. She leans forward as the lead Chaser passes behind his back, cutting through Ireland’s defences.
“Oh - oh, watch the Keeper!” She mutters, leaning forward.
Ireland’s Keeper lunges.
“Bulgaria’s baiting him,” Liam says, pointing to the left. “Look.”
The Chaser fakes high, dips low, and -
“YES!” They cheer in unison as the Quaffle arcs cleanly through the right hoop. The crowd responds like thunder; stomping, chanting, flags slapping the air like whips. Somewhere below them, a drumline starts up.
“Clean play.” Oliver says, satisfied.
“But risky.” Liam adds when the crowd’s roar dies down enough to hear. “If Ireland had tightened their formation -”
“I never said it was smart.”
“Brave but reckless?” Liam teases.
Oliver grins. “A Gryffindor specialty.”
Not five minutes later, the pendulum swings. Ireland storms downfield on a ruthless offence; their Chasers streak like lightning, bludgers slice through the air, dangerous and close enough that Ellie feels her heart knock against her ribs.
“That one’s fast.” Liam murmurs as a bludger whistles so close to a Chaser’s ear that half the stadium gasps.
“Fast,” Oliver agrees. “But predictable. He over-swings.”
Liam shoots him a look. “Predictably trying to cave someone’s skull in is still something to worry about.”
Oliver only shrugs, ever calm in the chaos.
The bludger finally connects - hard - and the Irish Chaser topples. Bulgaria swoops underneath, snatching the Quaffle and racing in the opposite direction.
Ellie’s mother gasps, horrified. “They can’t do that, can they?”
“They can.” Oliver assures, leaning in closer so she can hear. “But it could cost them later.”
“Well, they shouldn’t.” Her mother decides. “It’s rude.”
Ellie bites her lip to smother a laugh, but she can see Oliver’s shoulders as they shake with one of his own.
The match progresses; energy tightening and crackling. The Quaffle blurs between players; the crowd rising and falling like a live tide.
When Ireland’s Seeker dives in a streak of emerald green, the stadium explodes. Ellie grips her brother’s arm; her father shouts incoherently; Oliver is on his feet before she can blink.
Bulgaria’s Seeker counters.
The stadium holds its breath.
Ellie realizes she has a fist wrapped in Oliver’s sleeve, knuckles white. He glances at her - just for a heartbeat - before turning back; no teasing, no comment.
The Seekers pull up hard.
Bulgaria wins.
The stadium erupts; cheering, chanting, fireworks split the sky in red blossoms of every shade imaginable. Liam scoops Ellie into a bone-crushing hug, spinning her around until she can’t breathe; behind her, Oliver and her father are clapping each other on the back, yelling triumphantly. Everything is colour, and motion, and noise.
By the time Liam puts her down the world is spinning, the crowd dancing, and she feels light with adrenaline.
“You almost dislocated my arm.” Oliver tells her, nudging her lightly. She rolls her eyes, but her chest feels strangely warm as he grins down at her, his eyes bright with exhilaration and victory.
“You nearly trampled a child when you jumped up.” She shoots back, stamping the feeling down.
He shrugs. “Worth it.”
And with the fireworks booming overhead and the crowd roaring around them, Ellie can’t bring herself to disagree.