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Year Three: Freezing and Thawing.
The Great Hall was drafty, but the path down to the greenhouses for Herbology in the dead of January was an outright frozen wasteland.
Percy Weasley, who spent ninety per cent of his time buried in books, had completely underestimated how bitter the Scottish wind could be. He was practically vibrating with a chill, his fingers gone completely numb and white inside his thin knit gloves.
"You're going to shake yourself apart, Weasley," a voice boomed from his right.
Oliver Wood, a boy who seemingly didn't possess a nervous system capable of feeling the cold, probably due to running around a Quidditch pitch in shorts half the year, stepped into his line of sight.
Before Percy could offer a stiff, dignified retort about the virtues of bracing winter air, Oliver snagged his hand.
Percy gasped. Oliver wasn't wearing gloves at all, yet his skin felt like a freshly stoked common room fire.
"Merlin's beard, Percy! Your hands are like blocks of ice," Oliver complained, but he didn't let go. Instead, he shoved both of their laced hands directly into the deep, fur-lined pocket of his own heavy winter cloak.
"Wood! This is highly irregular," Percy stammered, his cheeks turning a bright, non-weather-related pink. "People will look."
"Let 'em look. You're shivering so hard you'll drop the Mandrake pots," Oliver reasoned, pulling him closer to keep pace.
By the time they reached Greenhouse Three, Percy's fingers were tingly, warm, and entirely functional. He reluctantly pulled away to work, but the memory of that heat lingered.
For the rest of the third year, whenever the temperature dipped or a draft swept through the library, Oliver would seamlessly reach out, find Percy's hand, and tuck it away. It became their unspoken rule: Percy provided the company, and Oliver provided the warmth.
The Library Draft
The library was always cold in winter, but that year it felt practically Arctic. Percy sat hunched over a stack of parchment, quill tapping anxiously as he tried to ignore the icy breeze creeping under the windows.
Oliver arrived late, hair damp from practice, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“You look like you’re about to perish,” Oliver said, sliding into the seat beside him.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Percy lied, shivering violently.
Oliver didn’t argue. He simply reached under the table, found Percy’s hand, and tugged it into his lap, trapping it between both of his own.
Percy squeaked. “Oliver—”
“Shh. Studying,” Oliver said, opening a book upside down.
Percy tried to focus, but Oliver’s hands were so warm it was distracting. Comforting. Impossible to ignore.
After a few minutes, Percy whispered, “You’re ridiculous.”
Oliver grinned. “And you’re thawing.”
The Greenhouse Disaster
One morning, Percy’s hands were so cold that he dropped a Mandrake pot. It shattered loudly.
Professor Sprout sighed. “Mr Weasley, gloves.”
Percy flushed. “I—I have gloves.”
Oliver held up their joined hands. “Not good ones.”
Sprout blinked at the sight of their laced fingers. “Well… as long as the Mandrakes don’t mind.”
Oliver smirked. Percy nearly combusted.
The First Time Percy Reached First
It happened in March.
They were walking back from dinner when a gust of wind cut through Percy’s cloak. He stiffened, bracing for the cold.
Oliver reached for his hand automatically.
But Percy beat him to it.
He grabbed Oliver’s hand first — quick, decisive, almost shy — and tucked it into Oliver’s cloak pocket himself.
Oliver froze mid-step.
Percy looked up, cheeks pink. “Your hands are warm.”
Oliver’s voice came out soft. “Yeah. They’re yours.”
Percy didn’t let go the entire walk back.
Year Four: Habit and Muscle Memory.
By their fourth year, the "cold hands" excuse had stretched well past the winter months. It had bled into mild spring evenings and rainy autumn afternoons. It had ceased to be an act of survival and had officially become a habit.
They would sit on the grassy banks of the Black Lake, Percy reviewing his notes for the upcoming exams while Oliver mindlessly tracked the flight patterns of distant birds, plotting Quidditch strategies.
Without a word, Oliver's left hand would wander across the grass, find Percy's right hand, and slide their fingers together.
Percy didn't even look up from his Transfiguration essay anymore. He just adjusted his grip, anchoring them together, and kept reading.
Once, Fred and George had walked past, stopping to stare pointedly at their joined hands.
"What're you two doing?" Fred asked, squinting.
"Is Percy's hand glued to yours, Wood? We have a solution for that," George offered.
Oliver didn't even blink. "His hands are cold. Bugger off."
"It's a circulation issue," Percy added smoothly, flipping a page with his free left hand.
The twins exchanged a look, shrugged, and walked away. It was so utterly mundane to Oliver and Percy that it ceased to look like anything scandalous to anyone else. It was just them.
The Rainy-Day Shortcut
A sudden downpour trapped them under an archway between classes. Percy tried to shield his notes under his cloak.
Oliver laughed. “You’re going to drown in parchment.”
Percy huffed. “Some of us care about our grades.”
Oliver stepped closer, holding his cloak over both of them. Their hands found each other automatically.
“You care about me,” Oliver said lightly.
Percy rolled his eyes — but squeezed his hand.
The Accidental Nap
One afternoon by the lake, Percy was reading aloud from his notes while Oliver lay beside him, head propped on his arm.
Percy didn’t notice when Oliver’s eyes drifted shut.
He did notice when Oliver’s head slowly tipped over and landed in his lap.
Percy froze.
Oliver snored softly.
Percy, after a long internal debate, gently brushed a leaf from Oliver’s hair and kept reading, voice quieter now, softer, like he was reading just for him.
When Oliver woke up, he blinked up at Percy and smiled sleepily. “You’re comfy.”
Percy’s heart did something alarming.
The First Time Someone Called Them Out
A Hufflepuff girl walked past them in the courtyard, saw their joined hands, and said, “Aww, you two are adorable.”
Percy sputtered, “We—he—my hands—circulation—”
Oliver squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”
Percy didn’t speak for a full minute.
Oliver grinned the whole time.
Year Five: A Natural Transition.
Fifth year brought the crushing weight of O.W.L.s and, for Oliver, the absolute obsession of his first year as Quidditch Captain. The stress in the Gryffindor tower was palpable.
They were sitting in the corner of the common room late one Friday night. The fire had died down to a low, amber glow.
Percy was rubbing his temples, exhausted from a gruelling study session, when Oliver sank onto the bed next to him, looking utterly defeated after a disastrous practice in the rain.
Automatically, without a thought, Oliver reached out. His hand was damp and slightly cool for once, but Percy met him halfway. Their fingers intertwined perfectly, a flawless puzzle piece alignment perfected over two solid years of repetition.
Percy looked at their joined hands, then looked up at Oliver. Oliver was already looking at him, his usual fierce Quidditch glare completely softened into something heavy and thoughtful.
"Your hands aren't cold tonight," Oliver murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle over the back of Percy's knuckles.
"No," Percy whispered, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs. "They aren't."
"Do you want me to let go?"
Percy squeezed Oliver's hand firmly, leaning his shoulder against Oliver's. "Don't you dare."
Oliver smiled, a small, relieved thing, and shifted closer, lifting their joined hands to rest comfortably on his knee.
There was no grand, dramatic declaration, no sudden shock or awkward fumbling.
When Oliver leaned over a few minutes later and pressed his lips gently against Percy's temple, it felt exactly like holding hands for the first time in the snow, completely natural, entirely necessary, and beautifully warm.
By the middle of the year, their status as a couple was well-established, though to the rest of Gryffindor house, absolutely nothing seemed to have changed. They had already been attached at the hip-and the hand-for so long that the transition from "friends with a circulation issue" to "boyfriends" went entirely unnoticed by most.
The main difference now was the venue. Percy was a Prefect, which meant late-night patrols through the drafty, shadow-drenched corridors of the castle.
Oliver, currently nursing a bruised shoulder from a rogue Bludger, had insisted on walking with him under the guise of "getting some air."
"You shouldn't be out of bed, Oliver," Percy scolded, though his voice lacked any real bite. He held his glowing wand in his left hand, searching the dark corners of the third-floor corridor.
"The castle air helps the healing process," Oliver lied smoothly. He reached out and caught Percy's right hand, tugging it into his cloak pocket. "See? Excellent therapy."
Percy let out a soft huff that turned into a smile in the dark. He squeezed Oliver's hand inside the pocket. "You're absurd. If we get caught by Filch, I'm giving you detention."
"You wouldn't," Oliver grinned, leaning his head against Percy's shoulder as they walked. "Who would keep you warm during the winter Hogsmeade trips?"
"I'd buy thicker gloves," Percy retorted, though he leaned back into the touch, the familiar heat of Oliver's palm grounding him against the stress of his heavy schoolwork.
The Study Break
Percy was drowning in O.W.L. prep. Oliver was drowning in Quidditch strategy.
One night, Percy’s quill snapped in half from stress.
Oliver gently took the broken quill from his hand and replaced it with a Chocolate Frog.
“You need sugar,” Oliver said softly.
“I need to pass my exams,” Percy muttered.
Oliver leaned in, forehead touching Percy’s temple. “You will.”
Percy exhaled slowly, tension melting. “You’re very distracting.”
Oliver smiled. “Good.”
The First Real Argument
It was small — stupid, even.
Percy snapped at Oliver for being late to meet him. Oliver snapped back that Percy was too rigid.
They both froze.
Percy’s eyes went wide. Oliver’s shoulders slumped.
Then, without a word, Oliver held out his hand.
Percy stared at it for a long moment.
Then he took it.
Oliver tugged him close, resting his forehead against Percy’s. “Sorry.”
Percy whispered, “Me too.”
They didn’t let go for the rest of the night.
The First Time Percy Fell Asleep on Oliver
It was after a long patrol. Percy was exhausted. Oliver was warm.
Percy leaned against him “just for a moment.”
He woke up an hour later with Oliver’s cloak draped over him and Oliver’s hand still holding his.
Oliver whispered, “You okay?”
Percy nodded sleepily. “You’re comfortable.”
Oliver’s smile was soft enough to melt stone.
Year Six: The Year Of Quiet Certainties.
Sixth year arrived with a strange, unexpected calm.
Not because life was calm — Merlin, no. Percy had taken on N.E.W.T.-level coursework early “for efficiency,” and Oliver was juggling Quidditch, Prefect duties (because McGonagall trusted him far too much), and the looming pressure of scouts watching from the stands.
But between them?
Between them, everything was steady. Warm. Familiar in a way that felt like breathing.
The Library Ritual
It started in September.
Percy would claim a table in the library, spreading out his notes with military precision. Oliver would arrive ten minutes later, drop his bag loudly enough to earn a glare from Madam Pince, and slide into the seat beside him.
Without looking up, Percy would extend his right hand.
Without fail, Oliver would take it.
Sometimes he’d kiss Percy’s knuckles before settling in. Sometimes he’d just hold on, thumb brushing absent circles over Percy’s skin while he pretended to read his Charms textbook upside down.
It became their ritual.
One evening, as Percy scribbled furiously through an Arithmancy proof, Oliver leaned over and whispered, “You know you make this look easy, right?”
Percy didn’t look up. “It isn’t easy.”
“Still looks it.”
Percy paused, cheeks warming. “That’s because you’re here.”
Oliver blinked. Then he squeezed Percy’s hand so tightly Percy nearly dropped his quill.
The Quidditch Stands
Oliver’s practices grew longer as the season approached. Percy, who insisted he was “merely supervising for safety,” began showing up in the stands with a blanket and a book.
Oliver always spotted him.
Always flew a little higher, a little faster, when Percy was watching.
One chilly October evening, Oliver landed and jogged straight to the stands, hair windswept and cheeks flushed.
“You’re freezing,” he said immediately, climbing up beside Percy.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Percy lied, teeth chattering.
Oliver didn’t argue. He just tugged Percy into his lap, wrapped the blanket around both of them, and pressed a kiss to the side of Percy’s jaw.
Percy melted embarrassingly fast.
“You’re warm,” Percy murmured.
“You’re cute,” Oliver countered.
Percy went scarlet and buried his face in Oliver’s shoulder.
The Prefect’s Bathroom Incident
It was November when Percy discovered Oliver’s newest, most ridiculous habit.
Oliver had taken a Bludger to the ribs and was limping dramatically around the common room. Percy, exasperated, dragged him to the Prefect’s bathroom to check the bruising.
“Shirt off,” Percy ordered, trying to sound clinical.
Oliver obeyed far too quickly.
The bruise was spectacular — deep purple, spreading across his side like spilled ink. Percy’s breath caught.
“Oliver,” he whispered, reaching out gently. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I breathe,” Oliver said cheerfully.
Percy glared. “That’s not funny.”
Oliver softened immediately. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you.”
Percy’s fingers brushed the bruise with feather-light care. Oliver shivered — not from pain, but from the tenderness in Percy’s touch.
“You fuss over me a lot,” Oliver murmured.
“You get injured a lot,” Percy countered.
Oliver grinned. “You love it.”
Percy froze. “I—”
Oliver leaned in, kissed him softly, and whispered, “I love you fussing over me.”
Percy’s heart nearly combusted.
The Christmas Revelation
They stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays — Percy for study, Oliver for Quidditch training.
On Christmas morning, Percy found Oliver waiting in the common room with two mugs of cocoa and a small, neatly wrapped package.
“For you,” Oliver said, suddenly shy.
Percy opened it to find a pair of thick, luxurious dragon-wool gloves — deep red, lined with soft fur.
“So your hands won’t freeze anymore,” Oliver said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though I still expect hand-holding privileges.”
Percy stared at the gloves, then at Oliver, then back at the gloves.
“You’re ridiculous,” Percy whispered, voice thick with emotion.
Oliver looked worried. “Do you not like—”
Percy launched himself forward and kissed him, nearly knocking the cocoa over.
“I love them,” Percy breathed against his lips. “And you.”
Oliver froze.
Then he kissed Percy like he’d been waiting six years to hear those words.
The Spring of Small Things
Spring brought warmth, and with it, a new ease between them.
Oliver would tuck flowers behind Percy’s ear during study breaks. Percy would straighten Oliver’s tie before breakfast, pretending not to notice Oliver staring at him like he hung the moon.
They walked the corridors hand-in-hand openly now. No excuses. No circulation issues.
Just them.
One afternoon by the Black Lake, Oliver rested his head in Percy’s lap while Percy read aloud from a book on magical theory.
“You know,” Oliver said lazily, eyes half-closed, “I think this is my favourite year.”
Percy paused. “Why?”
Oliver opened one eye. “Because you’re happy.”
Percy blinked, startled. “I… suppose I am.”
Oliver smiled, soft and certain. “Good. I like you happy.”
Percy brushed a hand through Oliver’s hair, heart full to bursting.
“I like you,” Percy whispered, “in general.”
Oliver laughed, bright and warm, and pulled Percy down into a kiss.
The End-of-Year Promise
On the last night of sixth year, they lay together on the Astronomy Tower, wrapped in a blanket, watching the stars.
“Next year is going to be hard,” Percy said quietly.
“Yeah,” Oliver agreed. “But we’ll get through it.”
Percy turned to him. “How can you be so sure?”
Oliver took Percy’s hand — the same hand he’d warmed in the snow three years ago — and pressed a kiss to each knuckle.
“Because it’s us,” he said simply. “And we don’t let go.”
Percy’s chest tightened with something fierce and tender.
He squeezed Oliver’s hand.
“Never.”
Year Seven: Holding On in the Face of the Future.
Seventh year brought a quiet, underlying tension. The future was looming. Percy was preparing for top-tier Ministry entrance exams, and Oliver was actively being scouted by professional Quidditch teams. The cosy safety of Hogwarts was drawing to a close, and the world outside was growing increasingly dark and uncertain.
Percy had a rare meltdown in March.
He sat at a desk in the common room, surrounded by books, muttering, “I’ll never get into the Ministry, I’ll never pass the exams, I’ll—”
Oliver gently closed the book in front of him. “Percy.”
Percy looked up, eyes wide and overwhelmed.
Oliver took his hands — both of them — and held them firmly. “You’re the smartest person I know. You’re going to be brilliant.”
Percy swallowed hard. “You really think so?”
Oliver kissed his forehead. “I know so.”
Percy leaned into him, letting himself be held.
Anxieties.
It was the night before the final Quidditch match of the season. Oliver was a nervous wreck, pacing the floor of the empty common room at midnight, muttering strategies to himself.
Percy didn't try to lecture him about sleep. Instead, he closed his notebook, walked over to the armchair where Oliver had finally collapsed, and stood in front of him.
"Oliver."
Oliver looked up, his eyes bloodshot and anxious. "If we don't counter the Slytherin hawk formation in the first ten minutes-"
Percy didn't let him finish. He reached down, took both of Oliver's hands, and pulled him to his feet. Oliver stopped talking immediately.
Because Oliver had been pacing in the drafty room, his hands were actually cold for once.
Percy laced their fingers together, lifting their joined hands between them. He used his own warmth-the warmth Oliver had spent four years giving him-to soothe the tension in Oliver's grip.
"You are going to win tomorrow," Percy said, his voice fierce and unwavering. "And whatever happens after Hogwarts, whether you're playing for Puddlemere United, and whether I'm stuck at a desk until midnight... this doesn't change." He squeezed Oliver's hands tightly.
Oliver looked down at their intertwined fingers, the breath leaving him in a long, relieved sigh. The manic energy left his shoulders, replaced by a deep, familiar calm. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Percy's.
"Yeah," Oliver whispered, his hands finally starting to warm up against Percy's skin. "This doesn't change."
The Quidditch Loss
Gryffindor lost a match in April. Oliver was devastated.
He sat alone in the locker room long after everyone else left.
Percy found him there, shoulders slumped, eyes red.
Without a word, Percy sat beside him and took his hand.
Oliver whispered, “I let everyone down.”
Percy squeezed his hand. “You didn’t let me down.”
Oliver’s breath hitched. “Percy…”
Percy rested his head on Oliver’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be human.”
Oliver leaned into him, finally letting himself break a little.
The Last Night Before Graduation
They lay together on Percy’s bed, fully clothed, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the quiet hum of the castle.
Percy whispered, “I’m scared.”
Oliver kissed his hair. “Me too.”
Percy turned to face him. “But we’ll be okay.”
Oliver nodded. “Yeah. Because it’s us.”
Percy took Oliver’s hand and pressed it to his chest. “Always.”
Oliver’s eyes softened. “Always.”