Oliver wood imagine's

Unexpected relations

You had been at Hogwarts for six years, and in all that time you had managed to avoid Oliver Wood surprisingly well.

It wasn't that you disliked him exactly—you didn't. But you couldn't deny that something about the boy grated on your nerves. Maybe it was his relentless intensity. Maybe it was that competitive glare he always seemed to give you whenever you so much as answered a question correctly in class. Maybe it was the fact that he walked around with the confidence of someone who owned the castle.

Or maybe it was because he made your stomach twist in ways you'd rather not acknowledge.

And yet, here you were now: assigned as Oliver Wood's partner for a month-long History of Magic project, a twist of fate cruel enough to suggest the castle itself was laughing at you.

***

You were early to the library, parchment and ink at the ready, determined to set the tone: professional, distant, cooperative. You were not going to let him derail your grade with some Quidditch-obsessed tangent.

But he arrived late—of course—and out of breath, hair slightly damp from the misty morning outside. You hated that he somehow looked good like that.

"Sorry," he muttered, dropping into the chair across from you. "Had something to take care of."

"I said noon," you replied without looking up.

"It is noon."

"It's twelve-oh-five."

"And here I thought you weren't the punctual sort." He smirked, leaning back in his chair like he'd just made the cleverest joke on earth.

You glared. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"This—whatever this rivalry thing is that you insist on." You set your quill down, tired already. "Let's just finish the assignment and be done."

For a moment, Oliver said nothing. His expression flickered—surprise? Amusement? Something unreadable. Then, very quietly:

"I don't insist on anything."

You looked up, startled to find him watching you rather seriously. His brown eyes were softer than you'd ever seen them.

But as quickly as it appeared, the softness was gone, replaced by his usual half-cocky focus.

"Right. Project. Goblin rebellions?" he said, rolling up his sleeves. The movement revealed the light dusting of freckles along his arms—unnecessarily distracting freckles.

You forced your brain to function.

"Goblin rebellions," you confirmed.

But as the hours stretched on, you realized something deeply frustrating: Oliver Wood was actually good at this. He had opinions, historical questions, theories. He argued back. Challenged you. Matched your pace.

You didn't expect him to be clever outside of a broomstick.

At some point you sighed, flicking your eyes over the notes you'd been compiling.

"You're surprisingly tolerable when you're not talking about Quidditch."

He hummed under his breath, lips curving slightly.

"You're surprisingly easy to talk to when you're not trying to outrun me from class to class."

"I don't outrun you."

"You do," he said calmly, turning a page. "You spot me, panic, and disappear like a startled kneazle."

Heat shot up your neck.