Oliver wood imagine's

Over stressing

The final Quidditch game of the year loomed on the horizon, an event that sent the entire school buzzing with excitement and anticipation. This year, all four houses were in fierce competition, each hoping to emerge as the last two standing and fight for the coveted championship title. But among the flurry of enthusiasm, Oliver Wood, the captain of the Gryffindor team, was feeling the weight of expectation crash down on him like a bludger on a fumbled catch.

As his girlfriend, you couldn't help but notice how stressed he had become in the days leading up to the match. Long hours of practice had turned into an obsession as he poured over play strategies, dissecting each move with a fervor that bordered on unhealthy. He had begun skipping meals, rushing past the Great Hall with a distracted shake of his head when you'd call him over. Late nights became his routine, the flickering light from his dormitory spilling into the corridor as he meticulously scribbled down plays on parchment, thoughts racing in his mind.

You'd watch him stumble through classes, fighting to stay awake while his eyes—once filled with determination—now appeared clouded with exhaustion. It broke your heart to witness him overworking himself, knowing that he was doing it all for the team, but the toll it was taking on him was evident.

Determined to support him, you began secretly jotting down your own ideas during classes—play formations you'd dreamt up in your mind while listening to lectures. You'd sneak glances at the blackboard, the lines forming a blur as you doodled in the margins of your notes, trying to capture the strategies that floated through your mind. Each time you saw him, the look of determination etched on his brow only pushed you to work harder, wanting to give him a boost of inspiration when he seemed to need it most.

One evening, after a particularly grueling practice, you found him alone in a quiet corner of the library, papers strewn about like fallen leaves. Leaning against a nearby bookshelf, you took a moment to watch him before finally stepping forward. "Oliver," you began softly, your voice breaking the silence as he looked up, surprise flashing across his tired face.

He offered a weary smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey, Y/N. I didn't expect to see you here."

Sitting down beside him, you couldn't help but reach out and touch his hand. "I've been watching you—skipping meals, staying up late. I know how much this means to you, but you can't burn yourself out before the big game." Your voice was gentle but firm, speaking from a place of care. "You need to take a step back, breathe. You can't think clearly if you're running on empty."

He sighed, his shoulders sagging under the pressure he carried. "I know, but I have to make sure we have the best chance possible. I can't let the team down."

"I've been coming up with some ideas too," you said, pulling out your notebook and flipping it open to reveal your sketches of plays. "I thought maybe we could brainstorm together? Just, you know, take a break?"

His eyes widened, a flicker of interest breaking through the weariness. Slowly, a smile, genuine and warm, began to spread across his face as he reviewed your notes. "You really did this? For me?"

"Of course," you replied, feeling a warmth rise in your chest as the corners of your lips turned up. "We're in this together, right?"

For the first time in days, he seemed to let go of some of the tension that had wound around him. "Yeah, together," he echoed, and as the two of you began to discuss strategies, you could see the spark of joy returning to his eyes. It might not solve every problem, but it was a much-needed reminder that even champions needed a little support from the sidelines.