In Ink and Inheritance (Book 1)

Chapter 7 - The Pull of the Wind

Oliver Wood's POV

The snow was falling sideways.

Thick, wet flakes slashed across the pitch in waves, and half my team looked ready to mutiny. Alicia's broom was icing over. Fred had already hit George in the face with a Bludger - "accidentally." I was losing control of the session faster than I cared to admit.

Except her.

Harriet.

She flew like the cold didn't matter, like her broom recognized her heartbeat better than the wind. Her braid whipped behind her like a banner, and every dive was surgical. Focused. Clean.

I'd called practice mostly to clear my own head - to feel something solid beneath me again. But watching her in the air was like watching the contract come alive.

The bond is now active.

I hadn't stopped thinking about those words since I read them.

I'd told myself I could handle this like everything else. Train. Lead. Keep my head down and give her space. She was thirteen. Young. Too young. I was nearly seventeen, and the magic didn't seem to care about that - but I did.

Still... I felt it.

Every time she turned midair. Every time our eyes met. It wasn't dramatic, or painful, or even overly romantic.

It was just... pull.

Quiet. Constant. Like gravity.

"WOOD!"

I snapped out of it just in time to dodge a rogue Bludger. Angelina narrowed her eyes at me from the goalpost.

"Merlin, are you in love or just losing your touch?"

"Practice is over!" I called, voice sharper than I meant.

There were groans of relief. Brooms began descending.

Except hers.

Harriet hovered above the pitch like she hadn't heard me. Then she leaned into her broom and glided down in one long, elegant curve. Her boots crunched into the frost-dusted grass as she dismounted.

"You alright?" she asked, pulling her gloves off finger by finger.

I shrugged. "Just snowblind and short on patience."

She didn't smile - not exactly. But something softened in her eyes.

"I've been reading about the Potters," she said suddenly, like she'd been holding it in all day.

"Oh?" I tried not to sound too interested. Failed.

"They were known for mixing magic with intention. Not just power for power's sake. Everything had purpose. Even contracts."

I watched her as she spoke - the way her breath curled in the air, the way she stood like she belonged on that pitch more than anyone else.

"I found a portrait," she continued, voice lower now. "Of one of your ancestors. Archibald Wood."

My eyebrows lifted. "You spoke to him?"

"He had opinions," she said dryly. "But he said something... strange."

I waited.

"He said magic only binds what already wants to connect."

We stood in silence, snowflakes clinging to her hair, my gloves, the still air between us.

"And do you think that's true?" I asked.

She looked up at me - eyes impossibly green, impossibly honest. "I don't know. But I think it's trying to tell us something."

I stepped a little closer before I realized I was moving.

"Do you feel it too?" she asked softly.

"Yes," I said, no hesitation. "But I also know it's not fair to you."

"I didn't say I didn't want it."

That stopped me.

She was thirteen. But she wasn't a child. Not in the way others were. She'd lived through more than most adults. Fought for herself in ways no one should've had to. She spoke like someone who knew the weight of her own name.

I reached up and gently brushed a snowflake from her braid.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said. "Not until you want me to."

She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.

"Okay," she whispered.

That was all.

Just okay.

But it felt like a promise.