Oliver wood imagine's

snowfall in hogsmeade

Hogsmeade weekends had always felt a bit magical, but this one was something else entirely.

Snow drifted lazily from the sky, settling on rooftops and cobblestones, making the whole village look like it had been dusted with icing sugar. Students hurried in and out of shops, laughing, carrying bags, shaking frost from their scarves.

You and Oliver, though, weren't rushing anywhere.

You'd escaped the noise of the Three Broomsticks, cups of butterbeer warming your hands as you walked through the quieter edge of town. Oliver kept brushing his arm against yours—light touches, little reminders that he was there, close, paying attention to you even when he pretended not to.

"You cold?" he asked, glancing sideways at you.

"A bit."

Without hesitation, he reached for your hand, fingers threading through yours. His hand was warm—absurdly warm—like he'd been holding his butterbeer just to heat himself up first.

"Better?" he asked softly.

"Much."

He smiled, but it was small, shy, the kind of smile he didn't let many people see.

You walked like that for a while, hand in hand, snow falling around you in slow spirals. Oliver kept sneaking glances at you, as if he couldn't help himself. You pretended not to notice... even though your face was definitely getting warm.

Eventually, you stopped near one of the quiet lanes behind Honeydukes. No students. No noise. Just the sound of distant laughter and the snowfall pattering softly on your coats.

Oliver stopped too.

When you looked back at him, he looked nervous—Oliver Wood, the bold, fearless captain, nervous. It was almost endearing.

"You know," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm glad we came out here. Just us."

You stepped closer. "Me too."

His breath hitched slightly. "I, um... I wanted to ask you something earlier, but you were laughing at something Lee Jordan said, and then Fred dropped a jar of fizzing whizbees everywhere, and I thought, well, maybe now isn't the right time, but—"

You lifted an eyebrow. "Oliver."

He blinked. "Aye?"

"Ask me."

He swallowed, cheeks flushed pink—whether from the cold or from you, you weren't sure.

"Do you..." He paused, tried again. "Would you maybe—could I—kiss you?"

Your heart nearly stopped.

You stepped closer until his chest brushed yours, until you could feel the warmth of his breath in the winter air. "You don't have to ask."

His hands rose slowly—carefully—to your waist, as if making sure you had time to pull away. When you didn't, he leaned in, his forehead touching yours first, breath shaky.

Then he kissed you.

Softly.

Slowly.

Like it was something he'd been thinking about for a long, long time.

His lips were warm and gentle, moving with surprising tenderness for someone who threw himself at Quidditch goals like he didn't value bones at all. One of his hands slid up your back, pulling you in closer, deepening the kiss just slightly—just enough to make your knees feel unsteady.

When he finally pulled back, it was only a breath away.

His voice was barely above a whisper. "Merlin... I've wanted to do that for ages."

You smiled, touching his cheek. "You can do it again."

His laugh was soft, breathy, full of wonder. "Aye. I think I will."

And he did—this time a little braver, a little deeper, snow melting in your hair as he held you close, kissing you like he didn't care one bit that the world was cold around you.

Just that you were warm in his arms.