Oliver wood imagine's

Something Like US

You and Oliver had been on the same Quidditch team since the 2nd year. It was now your 5th. The two of you became close the very day you both tried out—close as in really good friends... unfortunately. Because somewhere along the way, you developed a crush. A serious one.

It had started slowly, as Oliver got older and grew into himself—more confident, more determined, more passionate. Watching him transform into such a dedicated (and occasionally terrifying) team captain made it almost impossible not to fall for him. And honestly, the fact that he was stupidly good-looking didn't help. It would practically be a crime not to fall in love with that boy.

But Oliver also had his downsides—several of which were on your list of reasons why pursuing him was a terrible idea. The biggest: he was too passionate about Quidditch. There was that one time Gryffindor lost a match, and Oliver tried to drown himself in the showers afterward... which, frankly, was not the kind of behavior you want in a boyfriend. You could already imagine having to drag him out of the water every time the team lost.

Then, of course, there were the more practical reasons. Risking your friendship. Making things unbearably awkward on the field. And really, would he even want to date anyone? The boy was practically married to Quidditch. Did he even have room in his heart—or his schedule—for an actual person?

Still, no matter how many reasons you listed, your heart stubbornly refused to listen. Every practice, every strategy meeting, every late-night conversation in the common room—they all made the crush worse. You hated how easy it was to fall for him. How he'd flash you that lopsided grin after a good play. How he'd ruffle your hair when he was excited. How he'd look at you first whenever he needed someone he could trust on the pitch.

It wasn't fair.

But you kept reminding yourself that Oliver Wood was... well, Oliver Wood. Quidditch was the sun around which his entire world revolved. And you, unfortunately, were merely a very fond moon—close enough to feel his warmth, but never close enough to reach him.

You tried to distract yourself. You told yourself that a crush was harmless. That you could handle it. That it would go away eventually.

It didn't.

In fact, things only got worse during the lead-up to the next match. Oliver had been spending even more time with you—asking for your opinion on plays, pulling you aside to practice formations, praising your technique like you were the only player on the team who mattered. Every compliment from him felt like a small spell to your chest.

And then there was the moment that broke you a little.

Practice had run late—very late—and most of the team had already returned to the castle. You stayed behind with Oliver to put away the equipment. He was rambling about tactics, hands waving animatedly, hair damp with the misty night air. You weren't even listening; you were too busy watching the way the moonlight softened his features.

Then he turned to you, grin bright as ever, and said,
"D'you know something? I don't think I'd survive the season without you."

He meant it platonically. You knew he did.

But Merlin, it felt like your heart was trying to beat its way out of your ribs.

You laughed it off, made some light joke, acted normal—but it haunted you all the way back to the common room.

Because as much as you tried to convince yourself otherwise, the truth was painfully simple:

You were already in far too deep.

The next morning at practice, you tried to act normal. Really, you did. But being around Oliver felt like trying to play Quidditch with a Bludger lodged in your throat. Every time he looked at you, your brain short-circuited like a hexed broom.