╰┈➤ ❝ [𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝑆𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑁] ❞ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
⁺⤾·˚.⃗.  [ᴄʜᴀᴏs ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴅʀɪʟʟs] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
- Scottish Highlands
( September 21st, 1994. )

𝑻he buzz of the Triwizard Tournament was already crackling through the castle like static electricity, the welcoming of Beauxbaton and Durmstrang was only about a week away.

Excitement bled into every corridor, every conversation, and every meal in the Great Hall. Students speculated endlessly about the tasks, the champions, and—most of all—what it would mean to have two other magical schools descending on Hogwarts.

For Cassie, the hype was mostly background noise. Sure, it was exciting, but she had more immediate concerns. Namely, the boy currently standing in the center of the Quidditch pitch, tossing a Quaffle up and down with infuriating precision.

"You're late," Oliver called, his voice carrying over the empty stands. His broom was balanced casually against his shoulder, his stance relaxed but his eyes sharp, already assessing her like she was an opponent.

"I'm two minutes late," Cassie countered, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face as she waltzed over to him. "Maybe if you didn't schedule these sessions at the ass crack of dawn, I'd actually be on time."

Oliver couldn't help but let out a chuckle at that. "Well It's not the ass crack of dawn," Oliver said, his smirk widening. "It's half past seven. That's practically midday."

Cassie rolled her eyes, gripping the borrowed broom in her hand. "Right. And normal people sleep in because it's Saturday."

"Normal people don't challenge me to a Quidditch match when they barely know how to fly," Oliver quipped, tossing the Quaffle up one last time before catching it with both hands. He nodded toward her. "Come on, Harrington. Let's see what you've got."

Cassie groaned but swung her leg over the broom. "You know," she said as she kicked off into the air, wobbling slightly before steadying herself, "I think you're using this whole 'teaching me' thing as an excuse to take out your frustration."

Oliver arched an eyebrow as he followed her into the air, his movements smooth and practiced. "Frustration?"

"Yeah," she said, turning her broom to face him. "You're mad quidditch was cancelled, so instead, you're forcing me to suffer through your weird little control freak tendencies."

Oliver laughed, shaking his head. "You've got quite the imagination, Harrington."

"Am I wrong?" she pressed, her grin sharp.

He hovered closer, smirking down at her. "Very wrong. And you're deflecting. Let's focus on you scoring, which, by the way, you still haven't managed to do."

Cassie narrowed her eyes, her competitive streak kicking in. "Oh, I'll score. And when I do, you're going to owe me big time."

Oliver leaned back on his broom, his smirk turning cocky. "Is that a bet?"

"It's a bet," she shot back.

"Alright," Oliver said, spinning the Quaffle in his hands before flying toward the goalposts. "If you can score on me, I'll do whatever you ask."

Cassie's eyes narrowed, her mind already spinning with ideas. "And when I lose?"

"You'll listen to me for once," Oliver replied, shooting her a cheeky grin as he took his position in front of the goal. "No arguing, no backtalk."

Cassie snorted. "You'd better get comfortable up there, Wood. Because this is going to be my easiest win yet."

She tightened her grip on her broom, her heart racing as she prepared to show Oliver Wood exactly what she was made of.

Cassie hovered a few feet away from Oliver, clutching the Quaffle in one hand while glaring daggers at him. There he was again, with that maddeningly smug smirk plastered across his face like he owned the pitch—and maybe, in a way, he did. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

"I don't think you understand how much I want to wipe that smirk off your face, Wood," she said, her voice tight with frustration as she adjusted her grip on the broom.

He chuckled, the sound easy and infuriatingly self-assured. "Oh, I understand perfectly," he replied, lazily leaning back against his broom as if he didn't have a care in the world. "The thing is, Harrington, wanting and doing are two very different things. And you've got a long way to go before you can back up all that talk."

Her jaw tightened. Of all the people in this castle, why did Oliver Wood have to be the one she'd roped into teaching her? Sure, he was the best flier she'd ever seen, but he was also the most arrogant, insufferable perfectionist she'd ever met. And yet, somewhere deep down, she couldn't deny that he got under her skin in a way that no one else ever had.

Maybe it was the way he always seemed to know just how to push her buttons, or the fact that he looked like he genuinely enjoyed doing it. Or maybe it was that damned smirk—the one that made her want to either slap him or... no, she wasn't even going to finish that thought.

"Is this your strategy?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. "Annoy me into giving up? Because if it is, it's not going to work."

Oliver grinned wider, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "It's not a strategy," he said. "I don't need one. I've been playing this game longer than you've known how to hold a broom, Cass. This isn't a challenge for me—it's a warm-up."

Her blood boiled at the casual dismissal. "You're such a prick, you know that?" she shot back, gripping the Quaffle so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"And you're terrible at insults," he countered, his voice light but his grin sharp. "Come on, Harrington. Put all that fire to good use. Show me what you've got."

Cassie's grip on her broom tightened as she shot forward, her heart pounding. She had one goal: to score on Oliver and make him eat every single word that smug mouth had thrown her way.

As she approached the goal, Oliver shifted into position, his body tense but his expression still maddeningly calm. He tracked her movements with the precision of a predator watching its prey, and for a split second, Cassie hesitated. He was so damned good, and she hated that he knew it.

"Come on, Cass," he called, his tone taunting. "Don't choke now."

That was it. That was the spark she needed.

"Oh, I won't," she snapped, pushing her broom faster as she hurtled toward the goal. At the last possible second, she veered left, throwing the Quaffle hard toward the right hoop.

Oliver was already moving to block it, his hand outstretched—

"Is that Madam Hooch?" she called out.

Instinctively, his head turned, just for a fraction of a second. But it was enough. The Quaffle slipped past his fingers and sailed cleanly through the hoop.

Cassie let out a triumphant laugh, spinning her broom around to face him as the sound of the goal echoed across the empty pitch. Oliver hovered in front of the post, staring at the Quaffle as if it had betrayed him.

"That's one for me," she called, her grin wide and unrepentant. "Guess you're not as unbeatable as you thought, huh?"

Cassie hovered mid-air, her heart still hammering in her chest as she took in Oliver's reaction. He was staring at her with that familiar smirk—but this time, there was a flicker of something else behind it. Surprise? Amusement? She wasn't sure, but she wasn't about to let him brush off what had just happened.

"I'll admit," Oliver said finally, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against his broom. "That was... unexpected."

Cassie narrowed her eyes, her smirk sharpening. "Unexpected? What's unexpected is how easy that was. I thought I was supposed to be facing Hogwarts' Quidditch star."

His brows rose, the challenge in her tone clearly sparking something competitive in him. "Don't get cocky, Harrington," he said, his voice low and teasing. "One lucky shot doesn't make you a player."

"Lucky?" she scoffed, flying closer to him. "You turned your head, didn't you? That wasn't luck, Wood. That was skill. And distraction. You underestimated me, and now you owe me."

Oliver rolled his eyes, though his smirk didn't falter. "Owe you what?"

Cassie crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "Our deal. If I scored, you'd do whatever I asked. Remember?"

His smirk deepened, and Merlin, it was infuriating how he managed to look so composed even after she'd just outplayed him. "I remember," he said, his tone mock-casual. "I just didn't think I'd actually have to worry about it."

"Well, start worrying," Cassie shot back. "Because I've got something in mind."

Oliver leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Oh, do you now? This should be good."

Cassie opened her mouth to respond but hesitated, realizing she hadn't actually thought that far ahead. She'd been so focused on the thrill of beating him—of finally wiping that smug look off his face—that she hadn't considered what her request would be.

His smirk widened at her pause. "What's wrong, Harrington? Still recovering from your lucky shot?"

"Stop calling it lucky," she snapped, the fire returning to her voice. "And no, I'm not recovering. I'm just deciding how to make the most of this opportunity. It's not every day you get Oliver Wood wrapped around your finger."

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Part of my charm," she shot back, leaning forward slightly. "So, are you going to honor the deal, or are you all talk?"

Oliver tilted his head, his smirk shifting into something a little more genuine. "Oh, I'll honor it," he said. "But don't get used to this, Harrington. It's a one-time thing."

Cassie grinned, already reveling in her small victory. He got under her skin like no one else, his cocky attitude and relentless teasing driving her mad—but moments like this? When she managed to throw him off his game? They made every ounce of frustration worth it.

"Good," she said finally, her tone light but triumphant. "Because by the time come up with something, you'll regret ever underestimating me."

Oliver laughed again, shaking his head as he gestured for her to follow him back to the ground. "Big words for someone who's still learning how to fly straight."

"Oh, don't worry," she called, flying after him. "I'll let my next goal do the talking."

Oliver landed gracefully on the pitch, his broom barely making a sound as he touched down. Cassie, on the other hand, came in hot, skidding slightly as her feet hit the ground. She stumbled a step before regaining her balance, her broom clutched tightly in one hand.

"Still working on those landings, I see," Oliver quipped, his smirk firmly in place as he leaned casually on his broom.

Cassie glared at him, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "It's the broom," she said quickly, patting the slightly battered school-issued broomstick. "This thing handles like a rusty wheelbarrow."

Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "Blame the broom all you want, Harrington, but you're not getting a new one until you prove you can handle the basics. Now, back in the air. We're not done yet."

Cassie groaned but mounted her broom again, kicking off into the air with a little more stability this time. Oliver followed, circling her like a hawk as she steadied herself.

"Alright," he called, flying in front of her. "We've worked on scoring, and you've surprised me once today. But now we're going to focus on control. If you can't move with precision, you won't stand a chance of keeping up with a real player."

"I kept up with you just fine," Cassie shot back, her voice laced with defiance.

He smirked, slowing his broom so they were flying side by side. "Sure you did. Once. Now let's see if you can do it again."

Oliver suddenly veered off to the left, picking up speed as he weaved through a series of invisible markers he'd clearly envisioned. Cassie groaned but leaned forward, urging her broom to follow.

The first turn was sharper than she anticipated, forcing her to grip the handle tightly as her broom wobbled. She managed to adjust, but Oliver's pace was relentless, his movements smooth and calculated as he flew through the imaginary course.

"Come on, Harrington!" he shouted over his shoulder. "You're flying like you're stuck in slow motion!"

Cassie gritted her teeth, her frustration bubbling over. She leaned further into her broom, forcing it to move faster as she closed the gap between them.

"I'd like to see you try this on this old piece of junk!" she shouted back, the wind whipping her words away almost as soon as she said them.

Oliver slowed slightly, just enough to let her catch up. "Excuses, excuses," he said, his tone light but still maddeningly smug. "If Fred and George can fly these things, so can you."

Cassie didn't respond, too focused on matching his movements as he dipped low, then suddenly shot upward. She followed, nearly colliding with him when he stopped abruptly and hovered in mid-air.

"Not bad," he said, nodding in approval as she came to an unsteady halt beside him. "But you're gripping too tight. Loosen up, or you'll never get the control you need."

"I'm not gripping too tight," Cassie muttered, though her white-knuckled grip on the broom said otherwise.

"Sure you're not," Oliver said, rolling his eyes. He reached out, grabbing her hand and forcing her fingers to relax. "Like this. Let the broom do some of the work."

Cassie stiffened at the sudden contact, her eyes flicking to his hand on hers. For a moment, her frustration wavered, replaced by something she couldn't quite place. Then Oliver let go, his smirk returning as if nothing had happened.

"Alright," he said, pulling back. "Let's try it again. This time, don't fight the broom."

Cassie took a steadying breath, nodding. "Fine. But if I crash, it's on you."

"Deal," Oliver replied, already flying off again.

As she chased after him, her grip a little looser this time, Cassie couldn't help but feel a strange mix of emotions. He got under her skin like no one else—but for reasons she didn't quite understand, she didn't entirely hate it.