Oliver wood imagine's

New Seeker

I was sitting in the classroom next to Oliver, trying to stay awake as Professor Quirrell droned on about whatever irrelevant topic he had decided to focus on that day. Honestly, it was agonizing—Professor Quirrell took at least ten minutes to get through a single sentence, and I felt my eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment. Just as I was on the verge of dozing off, Professor McGonagall burst into the room, interrupting the monotonous lecture.

Thank goodness! I thought, relieved at the distraction. I couldn't take much more of Quirrell's stuttering attempts at teaching. My mind was starting to drift in a fog of boredom when McGonagall called for Oliver and me. My heartbeat quickened. What could she possibly want? I couldn't imagine Oliver being in any trouble; he was such a good, sweet boy—everyone knew that. But then a chill ran down my spine. What if she had found out about the Anteocultia spell I had cast on a Slytherin causing him to sprout antlers?

The thought made me anxious. Had my little prank gone too far? I glanced at Oliver, whose face reflected confusion, and I wondered how I would explain this if McGonagall really was onto us. The anticipation twisted in my stomach, something between dread and curiosity. What was coming next?

We step outside and she looks at us with her emotionless facial expressions making it hard to tell if she is mad or not.

"Professor, if this is about giving Marcus antler, it wasn't my fault," You say

she lifts her eyebrows and scrunched with confusion

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, miss y/l/n but that is a topic I will discuss with you another time as of this moment, I have called both of you out of your class because I have found you a new seeker," Mcgonagall says as a small brunette, blue-eyed boy with glasses stands beside her looking confused.

"Oh, great. Where are they?" I asked, oblivious to the fact that McGonagall had already indicated the little boy standing beside her was, in fact, the new Seeker.

"Miss Y/L/N, this is Harry Potter, and he will be your new Seeker," Professor McGonagall said, her voice steady but with an edge of impatience as she tried to bring me up to speed.

"Him? A first year? Is that even allowed?" I exclaimed, utterly confused and flabbergasted. The idea seemed absurd; how could a boy who barely knew his way around the castle take on such an important position on the team?

"I expect both of you to train Mr. Potter," she continued, her gaze firm. "He needs guidance, and I believe you two are the right people for the job."

Suddenly, my bewilderment shifted. Training Harry Potter? The name rang a bell, and my mind raced as I recalled snippets of chatter in the corridors. This was no ordinary first-year.

 On a sunny day at the Quidditch pitch, Oliver Wood and I were preparing to train Harry Potter as our new Seeker. Oliver instructed Harry to get comfortable on his broom, encouraging him to take laps around the pitch. Despite initial nerves, Harry quickly found his rhythm and gained confidence. Oliver emphasized the importance of anticipating the Quaffle's movements and had Harry practice catching it. Although Harry's first throw went off course, he was improving with each drill. Recognizing Harry's natural talent, Oliver proposed practicing formations to prepare him for actual games. 

As Harry zipped around, Oliver turned to me, his expression shifting from coach to something softer, more personal. "You're doing a great job, Y/N. The way you encourage Harry — it's brilliant. He really looks up to you."

"Thanks, Oliver," I replied, feeling a warm blush creep across my cheeks. "I'm just trying to help him. He has so much potential!"

"Yeah, he does," Oliver said, a hint of admiration in his tone. But then, an unexpected shyness took over him, and he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away.

As we continued training, I felt a growing connection between us, something charged and electric amidst our discussions of strategy and plays. The way he looked at me, the earnestness in his voice — it was hard not to blush when I caught him sneaking glances my way.

"Focus, Wood!" I teased playfully, breaking the tension as I tossed the Quaffle back to Harry.

"Right! Sorry!" he replied, a sheepish grin breaking through.

The rest of our training continued with laughter, encouragement, and the thrill of the game. But underneath it all, that subtle current between Oliver and me only seemed to grow stronger, hinting at a connection that could bloom outside the pitch, just as brilliantly as Harry's blossoming talent as a Seeker.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the castle grounds, Oliver and I walked side by side, our brooms slung over our shoulders. The excitement from training still hung in the air, but there was something more intimate about the moment now, a softness that was hard to ignore.

"Harry was fantastic today," I said, breaking the comfortable silence. "I think he's really starting to find his footing."

"Definitely," Oliver replied, a proud smile spreading across his face. "He's a quick learner. But I also think you had a huge part in that. You really know how to encourage him."

I felt my cheeks heat, a flutter of nerves mixed with joy at his acknowledgment. "Thanks, Oliver. That means a lot coming from you."

As we reached the cobblestone steps leading up to the castle, Oliver paused and turned to face me, his expression serious yet soft. "Y/N, can I talk to you about something?"

"Of course," I replied, curious and a bit apprehensive.

"I—" He hesitated, running a hand through his tousled hair, a gesture he only ever seemed to do when he was nervous. "I really enjoy spending time with you. Training with you, talking with you... it just feels different. Better."

My heart raced as I met his gaze, the intensity in his eyes making it difficult to breathe. "I feel the same way, Oliver. We've been getting along so well."

He took a step closer, the space between us shrinking. "I've been trying to ignore it, but I can't anymore. Every time you're near, it feels like there's this... spark. And I know it sounds silly, but it's not just about Quidditch for me. I like you, Y/N. A lot."

My heart soared at his confession. I had secretly hoped he felt the same way, but hearing him say it made everything feel real. "Oliver, I like you too. I've tried not to make things complicated, but I can't help how I feel either."

The vulnerability in his eyes melted the last of my reservations, and a smile broke through my nervousness. "Really? I thought I was just imagining things," he said, relief flooding his voice.

"No, it's real," I affirmed, feeling a warmth spread through me. "I've enjoyed every moment we've spent together. Training, laughing, and just... being ourselves."

Oliver's smile widened, and he took another step closer, the air between us thick with unspoken words. "What do you say we make this official then? Us, I mean. Maybe grab a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks sometime?"

"I'd love that," I replied, my heart racing in excitement. "I think we'd have a great time."

As we resumed walking toward the castle, the connection between us felt electric. I could hardly believe it — a budding romance wrapped up in broomsticks and Bludgers. Who knew that training Harry Potter would lead to something so wonderful? But as soon as I glanced up at Oliver, the playful glint in his eyes told me I was in for an adventure far beyond Quidditch.