Oliver wood imagine's

Too protective

Today marked the long-awaited day of your first Quidditch match since the terrible accident that had sidelined you for two agonizing months. The memories of that moment haunted you, and the thrill of flying on a broomstick was something you had dearly missed. The absence of the game left a gaping hole in your heart, and you struggled to cope with the loss. Despite your yearning to return to the pitch, your attempts to sneak in practice sessions were met with frustration; every time you tried to fly, memories of your injury loomed large, leaving you feeling helpless.

As you descended the staircase into the bustling Gryffindor common room, the familiar warmth engulfed you. The room was alive with the chatter and energy of your fellow housemates, but your gaze was immediately drawn to Oliver Wood. Your friendship with him had always been a source of comfort, and seeing him there, brimming with enthusiasm for the match ahead, filled you with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

"Hi, Oliver! Are you ready for our game today?" you ask, your voice bubbling with excitement. A bright smile illuminates your face as the anticipation of finally playing again fills the air.

"Hey, y/n," he replies, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation. "Yeah... about the game today... I'm not sure I want you to play just yet. Maybe you should get in a few more practice sessions first so we can be sure you're okay." His brow is furrowed with concern, and a worried look dances in his eyes.

"What?! No, Oliver! I'm fine, I promise!" you exclaim, frustration creeping into your tone. "I've been waiting for two long months to get back on that field. You have no idea how hard this has been for me, and now you're telling me I can't play?" Your excitement quickly turns to offense, and your heart races with emotion.

"Look, I'm just trying to look out for you, y/n," he replies, his voice softening as he shifts his weight uneasily. "I don't want you to get hurt. It was really scary for me the last time you played. I care a lot about you." He tries his best to maintain his composure, desperately hoping to ease your anger.

"Then maybe you should try to care a little less," you snap, your irritation bubbling over. "I've made up my mind. I'm playing Oliver, and that's final. You can't stop me." Your determination is unwavering, and your heartbeat quickens with defiance.

"You're so stubborn, y/n," he says, exasperation seeping into his tone as he rolls his eyes. "Why can't you see that I'm just trying to protect you?" His patience wears thin, punctuated by the slight shake of his head.

"I don't need you looking out for me!" you counter, annoyance flooding your voice as both of you stand firm in your stances, the tension palpable in the air between you.

You walk away and make your way to the Quidditch field, the vibrant green grass stretching out beneath the bright sun. As you enter the familiar space, a sense of anticipation fills you. You feel fine, though there's a hint of rustiness in your movements from the lack of practice. After a few laps around the pitch, the adrenaline kicks in, and you gradually warm up, finding your rhythm. Sweat beads on your forehead as you push yourself, and eventually, you stop to catch your breath, the cool breeze brushing against your skin, calming your nerves before the game.

Finally, the moment arrives; it's time for the match. Your heart races, a mix of excitement and anxiety coursing through you after such a long break. You take your position as a beater, and the weight of your bat is familiar in your hands. As the game begins, you start strong, your skills kicking in as you maneuver through the air. Between plays, you notice Oliver, your Keeper, occasionally glancing over at you. His concern is palpable, and it reassures you to know he's watching your back.