In Shadow and Signal (Book 2)

Oliver Wood's POV

The sky was clear over the Highlands.

Not a cloud in sight.

But I couldn't breathe.

I sat alone in my flat above the Puddlemere training center, one boot half-laced, my jersey folded neatly on the back of the couch. The game was over hours ago - Ireland had taken it, of course - but the real match had just started.

Because I felt it.

Not pain.

Not panic.

But magic.

It snapped down my spine like a warning. Hot. Alive. Familiar.

Harriet.

The connection we shared - sealed in a contract neither of us asked for but had grown into - wasn't supposed to be active across miles. Not unless something went wrong.

And something had.

The Portkey around my neck thrummed once - sharp and urgent - like a second heartbeat.

I stood too fast. Knocked over my training bag. Didn't care.

She was in danger.

I didn't know how. Didn't know where.

But I knew.

I crossed to the window. The moon was full, pale and high. A wind rolled in from the north, carrying the sharp scent of distant magic. Not the good kind. The old kind. Wild and angry.

I almost used the Portkey.

Almost.

But she hadn't triggered hers.

And Harriet wasn't reckless. Not with that.

I paced, fists clenched, heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.

Every fiber of me screamed to go to her.

But all I could do was wait.

Trust her.

Trust us.

⸻

The owl came two days later.

Short. Scrawled. Ink smudged like she'd written it too fast to breathe.

I'm safe.
Not everyone was.
The Dark Mark was cast.

I didn't use it, Oliver. But I nearly did.
That has to mean something.

-H*

I held the parchment long after it had gone cold.

The Ministry had buried the news already.

But I didn't care about the headlines.

Because I knew this:
Whatever was coming - this year, this war, this unraveling - Harriet was at the center of it.

And I wasn't about to let her stand there alone.