Handprint On My Heart

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

What We Want

Pairing: Oliver Wood/Estelle Potter (fem!HP).

Estelle Potter is small and delicate, and her classmates trail after her like ducklings after their mother. She is charming and gracious, talented and clever, creative and confident. She is all the best of both her parents, and it's a wonder she turned out so lovely with guardians like Petunia and Vernon.

Minerva's just grateful that the girl didn't turn up at Hogwarts half starved, caught far out of her depths, and way in over her head.

Apparently, she's known of magic for a very long time, and they all have Arabella Fig to thank for it.

"I've found you a seeker," Minerva informs Oliver Wood. He glances at the first year beside her, arches both eyebrows, and then studies her critically.

"She's small enough for it," he observes.

"She caught a remembral after a 50 foot dive," Minerva deadpans.

Oliver addresses Estelle. "I'm impressed, half-pint."

"I aim to please," Estelle parries.

There's a pause, and Oliver laughs, surprised and awkward. He cards a hand through his hair, tugs at the roots, and shrugs. "What do you know about quidditch?"

"Not much," Estelle answers, offers Wood a tentative smile, and asks, "Would you teach me?"

"I will," he agrees, "We can start tonight.

…

Oliver becomes her best friend. He's a quidditch nut, and he doesn't approve of her adventures, but he helps her with her homework, he invites her home for Christmas, and he lets her sit, quietly, and read to her heart's content.

She loves stories like he loves to fly.

…

At the end of his 7th year, she meets him on the quidditch pitch. Puberty's struck her with a vengeance, but that doesn't mean she's at all old enough for anything.

She still feels like a child.

"Does it bother you?"

"What?" Oliver wonders. He's sprawled out across the grass, and she's stretched out beside him, her eyes on the clouds.

"I'm so much younger than you."

Oliver shrugs, unfazed. "It won't matter in a few years."

…

At the end of the Yule Ball, she wants to kiss him. He knows it, too, but as he brushes his thumb along her cheekbone, his smile is apologetic. "Not yet, half-pint."

She sighs, drops her forehead against his broad chest, and curls her fingers into the black robe he wears. He wraps his arms around her waist, and Estelle feels safer than she ever has.

She's upset though, and she wishes she was older.

…

"I'm sorry," he says, over and over and over again. He's wrapped around her like a blanket, and Padfoot is curled up at their feet, and Estelle hasn't said a word.

Instead, she stares at the empty space before her, and wishes it was she who'd died.

…

She is 15, Grimmauld Place is miserable, and Oliver is as handsome as he's ever been. They are in her room, her door is locked, and she kisses him before he can stop her.

Its wet and sloppy, but his hands guide her head, his tongue coaxes hers, and she doesn't think she's ever felt so wired.

Almost predictably, they're disrupted by the twins, who take in the sight before them and cheer uproariously. It makes her laugh, and Oliver does too, and for a while, Estelle is truly, genuinely happy.

It doesn't last.

…

Sirius is dead, and Estelle is half convinced a part of her has died with him. Her innocence, perhaps, because there is nothing quite like being told to 'kill, or be killed' that makes one grow up, fast.

She doesn't want to think about that - of any of it - and so she drowns herself in Oliver instead, tugs at his shirt and belt and the fly of his jeans, kisses him like she'll die if she doesn't, and prays that this moment will never end.

It's rare that she ever gets what she wants.

"I love you," Oliver rasps, but he takes her hands in his, "But not yet. Not like this."

Estelle doesn't fight him on it. She's too tired, to worn, too sad. She cries instead, and he holds her like he'll never let her go.

She prays he doesn't.

…

Remus tells her that Lily chose her name.

"She named you after her favourite character from 'Lord of the Rings'," he recalls, "Apparently, his name means 'Hope'."

Estelle doesn't ask anymore questions, and instead decides that she'll kill Voldemort. For her parents' sake, if nothing else.

They deserve that much.

Moreover, she wants her life - her future - with Oliver. The one she dreamt of at the age of 11, and the one she hasn't yet given up on.

…

Dumbledore is entombed on a bright, summer day, and Oliver makes her a promise.

"When this war is over, I'm going to marry you. I swear it."

She smiles, brushes her hair out of her eyes, and answers, "I'm going to hold you to that."

And then she wins a war.

…

He finds her afterwards. She is in the Great Hall, and beside George, there is a gaping chasm where Fred should stand.

She can't stop looking for him - for Fred - and she's not the only one.

"I have something for you," Oliver says. He gets down on one knee, surrounded by mourners and bodies and covered in blood, and offers her a ring. It's white gold and delicate, with a princess cut pink diamond, and asks, "Will you marry me?"

She smiles, nods, and watches as he slides the ring on her finger. As he does, she decides that, of all the things she's wanted and never received, she's glad that this - that he - is not one of them.

And the world has never seemed brighter.