Oliver wood imagine's

The Captains Priority

It started with a bruise.

A massive one — blooming dark and ugly across your ribs the morning after Gryffindor's brutal scrimmage against Ravenclaw. You hadn't even noticed when it happened; adrenaline had kept you moving, laughing, brushing off Oliver's concerned glances. But in the quiet of the dorm that night, the throbbing ache had settled in.

By breakfast, it hurt every time you breathed.

You tried to hide it.

Gryffindors were stubborn.

Quidditch players were even worse.

But Oliver Wood?

He noticed everything.

You were leaning over the table in the Great Hall, trying to reach the pumpkin juice without stretching too far, when Oliver slid into the seat beside you. Not across. Not diagonally. Right next to you, as if he had been waiting to intercept you.

"Morning," he said, but his eyes scanned you instead of meeting yours. "You're moving stiff."

You froze. "Am not."

"You are."

Of course he didn't drop it.

His brow furrowed the way it always did when he was analyzing a play. "Is it your shoulder? Your back? Something from the scrimmage?"

"Oliver, I'm fine."

You attempted a casual shrug—big mistake. Pain shot through your side, and your face tightened before you could stop it.

Oliver's eyes snapped to your expression instantly. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me." His voice softened, but it didn't lose its intensity. "Where does it hurt?"

"Oliver—"

He didn't wait. He set down his spoon, stood from the bench, and held out a hand.

"Come on."

"...Where are we going?"

"To the hospital wing."

You stared at him. "No. No way. I'm not missing class because of a bruise!"

He didn't budge. "If you wince when you breathe, it's not just a bruise."

You crossed your arms. "How do you even know I wince when I breathe?"

Oliver stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Because I watch you. On and off the pitch."

Your heart did something unreasonable inside your chest.

But you shook your head. "I don't need a healer."

Oliver exhaled through his nose — a soft, frustrated sound — then leaned in just slightly, eyes warm but stubborn.

"You're my Keeper—"

"I'm your Chaser."

"Semantics," he snapped gently. "Point is, you're on my team. You're important. If you're hurt, I take care of it. That's what a captain does."

You huffed. "Quidditch captains don't drag their players to the hospital wing."

Oliver's gaze locked on yours. Serious. Unyielding. Soft in ways he never let anyone else see.

"Well," he said quietly, "I'm not like other captains."

***The Hospital Wing (Reluctantly)***

He didn't physically force you — he didn't have to. He just walked beside you the whole way, matching your pace, hands ready to steady you if you faltered. Once, when you winced stepping up a stair, his hand hovered at your back, not touching... just waiting.

Madam Pomfrey tutted the moment she saw you. "You should've come last night! You've cracked a rib."

You groaned. Oliver stiffened.

"Cracked—what?!" He turned sharply to you. "Why didn't you say something?"

"You were busy talking strategy," you muttered. "Didn't want to ruin your mood."

Something in his expression broke—like a Snitch slipping through his fingers.

"Ruin my mood?" he repeated, stunned. "You being hurt is my mood."

Madam Pomfrey waved her wand and clucked. "This is why I tell you all that sport is dangerous. Any more hits like that and you'll—"

"I'll make sure that doesn't happen," Oliver cut in immediately, his voice tight.

When Pomfrey walked away to fetch a potion, Oliver sat beside your bed. Too close. Warm. Worried.

"Hey," you said softly. "I'm going to be okay."

"That's not the point."

You blinked. "Then what is?"

Oliver ran a hand through his hair — something he only did when he was truly overwhelmed.

"You scared me," he admitted. Quiet but raw.

Your breath caught.

He continued, staring at the floor like it was easier than looking at you. "When one of my players gets hurt, it's my responsibility. But when you get hurt—" He stopped, jaw flexing. "It feels different."

"How?" you whispered.

Oliver finally looked at you, and the honesty in his eyes made your stomach flip.

"Because I don't just care about you as a teammate."

Oh.

You forgot how to breathe for a moment — cracked rib or not.

"You matter to me," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "More than Quidditch. More than the Cup. More than anything I'm supposed to prioritize as captain."

Your heart stuttered. "O-Oliver..."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped to keep them from shaking. "Let me protect you. Not because it's my job. Because I—because you're important to me."

His ears turned bright red.

It was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him.

And you adored him for it.

You reached out, touching his hand gently. "Okay," you murmured. "You can protect me."

Oliver's shoulders relaxed instantly, like those five words untied a knot inside him.

He squeezed your hand — carefully, slowly — as if afraid you might break like glass.

"I'll always be here," he said softly. "For every bruise, every fall, every scraped knee. I'll worry. I'll show up. You don't have to ask."

You smiled. "You know, that makes you sound a bit overbearing."

"That's because I am."

"And dramatic."

"Also true."

"And kind of ridiculous."

He gave a small, crooked smile. "But you like me anyway?"

Your face warmed. "Yeah," you whispered. "I do."

Oliver inhaled sharply, his eyes softening in a way that made your heart ache.

"Good," he said quietly, "because I'm not going anywhere."