Oliver wood imagine's

Late-night practice

It was late—too late for anyone sensible to still be in the Quidditch stadium. But Oliver Wood had never been known for his sense of timing.

You were halfway down the stone steps, clutching your cloak tighter around you, when you spotted him on the pitch. His broom hovered beside him, his hair wind-tousled and damp with sweat. The only light came from the glowing goalposts and the faint shimmer of the moon overhead.

He hadn't noticed you yet. Typical. When Oliver trained, the rest of the world stopped existing.

You called out, "You know it's past midnight, right?"

Oliver turned, startled, then grinned when he recognized your voice. "Aye, I was wondering when you'd show up to scold me."

"I'm not scolding," you said, descending the last few steps to the pitch. "Just pointing out that you've been out here since dinner. Even the Bludgers have gone to sleep."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've a big match next week. Can't afford to slack off."

You tilted your head. "You also can't afford to collapse from exhaustion."

Oliver leaned on his broom, the grin softening into something more genuine. "You worry too much, Y/N."

"And you don't worry enough." You came closer, close enough to see the faint smear of dirt on his cheek and the glint of determination still burning in his eyes. "You're good, Oliver. You don't need to prove it every single night."

He looked at you for a long moment—really looked, like he was trying to decide if he should argue or admit you were right. Finally, he sighed, shoulders relaxing.

"Maybe I just like the quiet," he said. "Out here, it's just me, the wind, and the hoops. Everything else fades."

You smiled faintly. "You sound almost poetic."

"Don't tell the team," he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "They'd never let me live it down."

You sat down on the grass, crossing your legs. "Then sit with me, just for a bit. You can get back to chasing the Snitch in the morning."

After a pause, Oliver lowered himself beside you. The stadium was silent except for the whisper of the breeze and the distant ripple of water from the Black Lake. He stretched his legs out, brushing your knee lightly.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The world felt hushed—like the night itself was holding its breath.

Then Oliver said quietly, "You're the only one who ever comes looking for me."

You glanced at him. "Someone has to make sure you don't drive yourself mad with all this Quidditch obsession."

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "It means more to me than it should, maybe. But... you keep me grounded."

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. "Is that your way of saying thank you?"

He chuckled. "Aye. And maybe... something more."

You raised a brow, teasing, "Careful, Wood. You're dangerously close to being romantic."

His lips quirked. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."

For once, Oliver Wood wasn't thinking about Quidditch, or practice, or winning. He was just looking at you—under the faint silver light, his hand brushing yours where it rested in the grass.

And when your fingers laced together, neither of you said anything. You didn't need to. The silence was enough.