The Scottish storm materialized—calloused hands, angular body, and a temper as hot as a Bludger to the head. Oliver Wood didn’t play Quidditch; he waged war on the field, and you? You were his favorite battlefield.

Three years of stolen glances, three years of bruises from broomsticks, three years of arguments that left your lips red and your self-esteem shattered. He should hate you. You should resist. But the line between hostility and obsession is as thin as a Snitch’s wing, and today, the storm would explode.