Imagine Book 2

Under the Weather, Over the Moon- Oliver Wood (Harry Potter)

Fem Y/N

The Scottish shined over the Quidditch pitch, creating perfect weather conditions for playing that normally brought Oliver Wood comfort. Today, however, something felt off. His eyes scanned the gathered players, doing a mental headcount as he always did before practice. That's when he noticed the absence that had been nagging at him since he arrived.

Y/N wasn't there.

In three years of playing together, she had never missed a practice. Not once. Even when she'd taken a Bludger to the shoulder last season, she'd still shown up to watch and analyze the team's formation from the ground. Her dedication was one of the many things that made his heart skip whenever she was near – not that he'd ever admitted that to anyone.

"Has anyone seen Y/N?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual despite the worry gnawing at his stomach. The team exchanged glances and shrugs.

"Haven't seen her since breakfast," Fred offered. "She barely touched her food, come to think of it."

George nodded in agreement. "Looked a bit peaky, she did."

Oliver's grip tightened on his broom. "Right. Everyone start with warm-up laps. I'll... I'll be right back."

He ignored the knowing looks the Weasley twins exchanged as he headed toward the castle. The rain soaked through his practice robes, but he barely noticed. His mind was too occupied with thoughts of Y/N – her brilliant smile during their victory against Slytherin, the way she laughed at his obsessive play diagrams, how she was the only one who stayed behind to help him pack up the equipment after practice.

The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty when he climbed through the portrait hole, most students either at dinner or in the library. But there, curled up on the couch nearest the fire, was Y/N. His heart clenched at the sight of her.

She was pale, too pale, with flushed cheeks that spoke of fever. Her usually vibrant eyes were glassy, and she had wrapped herself in what appeared to be three different blankets. Despite this, she was shivering.

"I'm fine," she croaked before he could say anything, attempting to sit up. "Just resting for a moment before practice."

Oliver crossed the room in three long strides, kneeling beside the couch. "You're not fine," he said softly, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. She was burning up. "You're ill, and you need to be in bed."

"Can't," she mumbled, trying to push his hand away but missing completely. "Important practice. New formations."

"The only formation you need to worry about is horizontal," he said firmly. Then, without warning, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her easily. The blankets came with her, creating a cocoon in his arms.

"Oliver!" she protested weakly, but her head fell against his chest anyway. "Put me down. I can walk."

"You can barely sit up," he pointed out, already heading toward the boys' dormitory stairs. His own room- private, since he was capitan of the Quidditch team- was closer than the girls' dorms, and he didn't fancy trying to navigate those cursed sliding stairs while carrying her.

"Where're we going?" she mumbled against his chest, and he tried not to think about how right she felt in his arms.

"My room. You need proper rest, and I need to make sure you actually take care of yourself instead of trying to sneak out to practice."

She made a noise that might have been protest, but by the time he reached his door, her eyes had drifted closed. Using wandless magic – something he'd only recently mastered – he opened the door and carried her inside.

His room was neat, with Quidditch posters covering the walls and a stack of play books on his desk. He laid her gently on his bed, tucking the blankets around her more securely. She looked so small among his quilts, so vulnerable, and something protective surged in his chest.

"Stay here," he whispered, though she was already half-asleep. "I'll be right back."

He rushed to the bathroom, gathering supplies: a cool, damp cloth for her forehead, a glass of water, and the Pepper-Up Potion he kept for emergencies. When he returned, she had burrowed deeper into his pillows, her hair splayed across them like a fan.

"Y/N," he called softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Can you sit up for me? Just for a moment?"

Her eyes fluttered open, and she allowed him to help her into a sitting position. "You're missing practice," she mumbled.

"Practice can wait," he said, measuring out the potion. "You're more important."

She stared at him with fever-bright eyes. "But you never miss practice. You once made us play in a blizzard."

"That was different," he said, trying not to smile at the memory. "Here, drink this."

She took the potion without argument, grimacing at the taste. Steam began to curl from her ears – a normal side effect – and some colour returned to her cheeks. Oliver helped her lie back down, placing the cool cloth on her forehead.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice clearer now but heavy with exhaustion.

Oliver busied himself adjusting the blankets, avoiding her eyes. "Because I care about you," he said finally. "More than... more than Quidditch."

She gave a weak laugh. "Oliver Wood cares about something more than Quidditch? I must be hallucinating."

"You're not," he said quietly, finally meeting her gaze. "I care about you so much it scares me sometimes. When you took that Bludger last season, I couldn't sleep for days. Every time you pull off an impossible shot during practice, my heart stops. When you smile at me across the Great Hall..." He trailed off, realizing he was rambling.

Y/N was staring at him, her lips slightly parted in surprise. "Oliver..."

He shook his head. "You don't have to say anything. You're ill, and I shouldn't be dumping this on you now. I just... I need you to know that you matter. That you're not just another player to me."

She reached out from under the blankets, her hand finding his. "You matter to me too," she whispered. "Why do you think I stay after practice every day? It's not because I love packing up equipment."

Oliver's heart thundered in his chest as he looked at their joined hands, then back at her face. She was still feverish, still exhausted, but her eyes were clear as they met his. Slowly, giving her time to pull away, he leaned down.

The kiss was gentle, careful. Her lips were warm with fever, but soft against his. He kept it brief, mindful of her condition, but when he pulled back, they were both smiling.

"I've wanted to do that for ages," he admitted.

"Me too," she said, then yawned. "Sorry."

"Don't be. You need to rest." He started to stand, but her hand tightened on his.

"Stay?" she asked. "Just until I fall asleep?"

He settled back onto the bed, his back against the headboard. "Of course."

She curled onto her side, still holding his hand, and her eyes drifted closed. Oliver watched as her breathing evened out, using his free hand to gently stroke her hair.

The sun continued to stream through the windows, but now it felt right again. Comfortable. Perfect, even. Looking down at Y/N's peaceful face, Oliver knew he'd make this choice again and again – her over Quidditch, every time.

Just before she drifted off completely, she mumbled something that made his heart soar.

"Best sick day ever."

He smiled, squeezing her hand gently. "Sleep well, love," he whispered. "I'll be here when you wake up."

And sure enough, he was.