Oliver wood imagine's

Your To Look After

The party at Angelina's flat was already loud by the time you and Oliver arrived. Music pulsed through the walls, people were dancing in the living room, and someone had already spilled something sticky on the kitchen floor. It was chaotic, crowded, and exactly the kind of night your friends insisted you needed.

Oliver... not so much.

He didn't say anything, of course. He just held your hand a little tighter when you stepped inside, scanning the room like he was assessing formations before a match. You squeezed his fingers teasingly.

"Relax, captain. It's just a party."

"I am relaxed," he said, already tense. "Mostly."

It wasn't that he hated parties—he just didn't trust them. Too many drunk people, too many unfamiliar wizards, too many situations where something could go wrong involving you, and Oliver Wood had a very strict personal policy about you: you were always to be safe, always to be protected, always to be looked after.

He kissed your temple before you went to join your friends. "Don't run off too far."

"I'm going to the kitchen," you laughed. "Not Albania."

But you should've known how this would go.

An hour later, after a few drinks—okay, more than a few—you were definitely too giggly, too unsteady, and too friendly with everyone around you.

And Oliver noticed.

He'd been talking to George Weasley about some new Quidditch gear when you stumbled back into the room, leaning heavily on the doorway, eyes bright and unfocused.

Oliver's posture snapped instantly upright.

"Love?" he called, already walking toward you.

You waved enthusiastically. "Hi Ollieee."

Uh-oh. You only used that version of his name when you were tipsy or trying to distract him from being mad. Tonight, it was both.

He reached you just in time to steady you as your balance tilted.

"Alright, that's it," he said firmly, sliding an arm around your waist. "How many drinks have you had?"

You held up four fingers.

Then you looked at them.

Then you held up seven.

Oliver closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.

"Right. Brilliant. Perfect." His breath came out through his nose. "Okay, you're done."

But the universe, unfortunately, had other plans.

As he tried to lead you toward the sofa, someone bumped into you—hard—sending you stumbling forward. Oliver caught you before you could hit the floor, but the push had definitely been more than an accident.

"Watch where you're—" Oliver started sharply.

"You alright there, sweetheart?" the guy who bumped into you slurred, giving you a grin you did not like. "Didn't mean to knock such a pretty thing over."

Oliver froze.

You could practically feel the anger radiating off him.

He stepped in front of you, jaw clenched, eyes dark. "She's not your 'sweetheart.' She's my girlfriend. And you will keep your hands—and everything else—to yourself."

The man laughed. "Relax, mate. I was being nice."

Oliver's voice dropped low, steady, dangerously calm—the way he talked in the locker room right before a match that mattered.

"Walk. Away."

For a moment, you genuinely thought Oliver might punch the guy if he said one more word.

The man finally held up his hands, muttered something, and disappeared into the crowd.

Only when he was gone did Oliver turn back to you—face softening instantly.

"Love, you're shaking. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," you mumbled, leaning into him. "You're warm."

He sighed—equal parts exasperation and affection—and scooped you into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Right. Party's over. I'm taking you home."

You let your head fall against his shoulder, fingers curling in his shirt. "You're mad at me."

"Not at you." He kissed your hair. "At the world for thinking it can get near you when you're like this."

"Mmm. You're very protective," you slurred.

"Of course I am," he murmured, tucking you closer. "Someone has to make sure you don't fall over or... or wander off... or start a duel with someone twice your size."

"I only tried that one time," you protested weakly.

He chuckled. "One time too many."

He held you the entire way home—Apparating with you carefully, carrying you inside, helping you change, making sure you drank water, brushing your hair out of your face.

When he finally tucked you into bed, you grabbed his wrist before he could move away.

"Stay."

He softened immediately, crawling in beside you. You curled up against his chest, and his arms wrapped protectively around you.

In the sleepy quiet, he whispered against your forehead:

"You're mine to look after. Always."

And even half-asleep, you smiled.