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With a basilisk roaming rampant, quidditch had been cancelled until further notice. You didn't claim to understand the motivations behind such a decision: surely everybody was safer if they were all together down on the pitch for a match? But, you didn't play, so you idly moved on with your life.

Someone who had not taken the news so easily was the Gryffindor quidditch captain: Oliver Wood. Upon hearing such news, he had stormed directly to McGonagall's office and given her an earful that surely must have made her deaf. His yelling could be heard on that entire floor, and gossip could reach even further. You had chuckled at the news, but some pity for the man lingered. Quidditch was his passion to the point he ate, slept and breathed it. And, now, assuming the basilisk was taken care of by the end of the year, he only had one more year to win the cup.

You weren't close to him despite being in the same year, as you resided in Ravenclaw, but you supposed that you moved in similar social circles. And maybe that was the reason you halted in your tracks when you arrived down at the Black Lake to do some reading.

Oliver Wood was stood there at the edge of the water, skipping stones with so much force that it could hardly be called skipping. He would grunt when he threw one, causing it to do one or two pathetic skips before sinking below the surface. Clearly, he was brimming with rage, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. His anger had not remotely dissipated in the many months since the cancellation was put in place.

"Wood," you said simply, making him snap his head around. Your approach had been far from quiet, so he really must have been consumed in his thoughts for you to take him by surprise.

"L/N, what are you doing here?" he asked gruffly, scouring the grassy shore for another flat stone.

"It's my favourite reading spot," you replied, moving to sit under your preferred tree, which wasn't far from him, "I take it you're frustrated?"

He threw another stone, "How could they cancel quidditch?"

"My guess would be because there's a giant snake on the loose trying to kill students?"

"So? How does cancelling quidditch make that less likely?"

You sighed, but you couldn't disagree, "I think that parents would probably criticise if the school carried on like nothing was happening."

"If anything, everyone needs something to be happy about at the minute."

You slumped back against the tree trunk, "I agree with you, Wood, just playing devil's advocate."

He turned around to look at you properly, "You don't even play quidditch, why do you care?"

"I don't," you said honestly, "But you've got me thinking about it now."

"I'm just so angry," he seethed.

"I can tell."

Wood pulled his hands down his face and sat carelessly down on the grass in front of you, "It's all I care about."

"Sounds like someone needs a stress reliever," you couldn't help the suggestive undertone you added to your words, even though that wasn't what you meant.

"Like what?" he eyed you curiously.

You shrugged, letting the flirty smirk on your lips drop, "How would I know? I don't know what you do to relax."

"Quidditch."

Such a response made you laugh, "Anything else? At all?"

He shook his head.

"Well, you sleep, don't you? Eat? Is that not relaxing?"

Wood's expression could only be described as skeptical.

"Masturbation?"

By the way he started choking, your casual statement had caught him off guard, which made you laugh again.

"Sorry," you giggled, "Just wanted to see your reaction."

You saw him let out a slight chuckle.

"This is what I do to relax," you held up your book, "It's not my passion, per se, but I enjoy it."

"I can't sit still long enough to read."

"Well, if you're a movement kind of guy, do you work out?"

He nodded, "I just spend the entire time thinking about quidditch and get angrier, though."

You hummed, "Makes sense, you probably work out for quidditch."

Wood nodded.

"Well— sounds like you need to do something that has no connection to quidditch."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," you shrugged, "Try dating?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, "I don't have time to date."

"You do now."

"I wouldn't even know how to go about that."

You let out a laugh at his words, "Practice on me. Ask me out on a date."

He raised an eyebrow, but sighed and nodded, "Hi, you're Y/N, right?" He thickened his Scottish accent, which admittedly made your stomach flip. "Well, I think you're really pretty, and I was wondering if you'd want to go on a date with me?"

"Not bad, not bad," you chuckled, "A little cliché but could work. Who d'you have your eyes on?"

"Uh, no one?" he said slowly, "The only girls I think about are the ones on my team."

"Okay, what about one of them?"

"They're all at least two years younger."

You hummed, thinking about the girls you knew, "How about Penelope Clearwater?"

He shrugged noncommittally.

"Esmeralda Arachwood?"

"Who?"

You sighed, "Have you really never fancied anyone?"

"Other than famous quidditch players I've never met, no."

"We can work with that, then. What's your type? Hair colour? Eyes? Height?"

"I don't know."

"You're useless," you shook your head, "Okay, I'm gonna set you up with Clearwater in Hogsmeade this weekend."

"What? You can't do that," he frowned at you.

"I can and I will. Get her flowers, pay for the food, all that mushy romantic stuff."

Wood groaned.

***

You sat in the courtyard, waiting for the carriages to return from Hogsmeade with students in tow. After much persuasion, you had managed to get both Wood and Clearwater to go on this date, and were anxious to learn the results of your meddling. So, when the line of chariots approached, you stood up and witnessed passengers begin to disembark.

Only, when you caught sight of the potential couple, Clearwater was storming away from Wood after throwing the flowers on the ground. She stomped right past you, muttering, "Thanks a lot, L/N."

Shocked, you turned to Wood, who was slowly nearing you.

"What the fuck did you do?" you asked.

"Apparently I spent the entire time talking about quidditch, and didn't ask her one question."

You stared at him incredulously.

"And, then, when she pointed that out, I said quidditch came before love."

At his words, you damn near face-palmed. "Fuckin' Azkaban, Wood."

"I was nervous, okay? And when I'm nervous, I think about quidditch."

"Right, we'll try this again. Only, I'll give you some guidance and prompts this time."

"Can we please stop this? I don't think dating's for me."

"You cannot conclude that after one date."

Wood rolled his eyes, "Fine."

***

Despite your extravagant and elaborate attempts to train Oliver Wood for his date with Arachwood, he once again failed spectacularly. Surprisingly, quidditch was not the issue this time— rather the fact that he accidentally let a door swing into her face and then kept walking without realising. For ten metres.

While Esmeralda was treated in the hospital wing, you were starting to wonder if Oliver truly was a hopeless case. It did not make sense to you, though, because he was handsome and athletic, he had a charming accent, and he was kind. At the end of the day, he had only one major red flag: his insane obsession with quidditch and everything that came with it. Having spent a lot of time with him now, you could safely say that ninety percent of what came out of his mouth had something to do with the sport.

The other ten percent was him complaining about your matchmaking schemes.

However, those schemes came to a vicious halt when the basilisk was successfully taken care of, with enough time left for all teams to prepare for a final quidditch tournament. All matches were to take place over the course of a week: Ravenclaw vs Slytherin, Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, then winners played each other, and the losers did the same.

Needless to say, Oliver was ecstatic, and as he excitedly told you all of this, the words you had planned to say to him died in your throat. It warmed your heart to see him so truly happy, but it hurt at the same time. You had come to enjoy his company and his rants, and now you were going to lose them. That, and for some reason you felt salty that he had never once been that joyous around you.

"I just— I can't believe it," he beamed, "I have to gather the team right away. We can't stop practicing."

"Have fun," you half-smiled, but it was clear that your heart wasn't in it.

Oliver frowned, "What's up, lass? Something wrong?"

You shook your head, "Nothing, don't worry. Go, practice."

He still did not look like he believed you, but he nodded and left nonetheless, and you watched him walk away with a heavy heart and even heavier hurt.

***

Oh, you loved him.

The realisation hit you like a Killing Curse, as you listened to your dorm mate talk about her boyfriend like he was the greatest thing to ever happen. As she gushed and gushed, annoying your entire dorm, it dawned on you that you thought of Wood the exact same way she thought of her boyfriend. You had to fight the urge to join her by talking about him the same way, and such a conclusion made you sick to your stomach. Both out of the ickiness of viewing a man on such a high pedestal, but also because Wood was far too obsessed with quidditch to even consider you in a romantic light. You had witnessed firsthand how little interest he had in dating.

And now? Now your blossoming friendship would likely disappear into nothing as his time was once again taken up by his one true love. Maybe it was for the best. You probably wouldn't be able to get over him if you still spent time with him.

How had you fallen for him anyway? He was handsome, and intelligent, and funny, but you had zero proof that he had been listening to you when you talked about yourself. Never once had he overly expressed interest in your life and your hobbies.

Rowena, you were so stupid. A classic lovesick fool.

***

"L/N!" that achingly attractive voice called as you left your shared lesson, the first time he had spoken to you in a few days.

Unable to ignore him, you paused and turned around.

"You didn't come."

"Didn't come where?"

He frowned, "You didn't come to my match. We beat Hufflepuff— we're playing Slytherin for the Cup tomorrow."

You hummed, "Yeah, well, I'm not a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. Why would I go?"

Wood appeared to contemplate your words for a few moments, "Yeah, but— I was playing."

You raised an eyebrow, trying your best to maintain a cool and unbothered façade. "So?"

"We're friends, aren't we?"

Friends. That word made you want to vomit. "Yeah, I— I guess. Sorry."

"You'll come tomorrow, won't you? Please."

"If I manage to finish my—"

"Ancient runes essay, yeah, I know. Godric, you've been going on about it for weeks."

You had actually only mentioned it twice before, and the fact he remembered was the smallest glimmer of hope that he did listen to you.

"How far off are you?"

"Oh, just the conclusion," you attempted to say casually, but the became distorted in your throat.

"Perfect, please come! It won't be the same without you."

You didn't see why, but found yourself agreeing.

***

The stands of the stadium were roaring with excitement and adrenaline, shaking the wooden structures as people chanted and jumped. Almost everyone was in attendance of this match, likely rejoicing in the basilisk fiasco being over and using the tournament as a celebration. You watched Wood as he hovered by the hoops, his careful eyes never leaving the quaffle that was being passed between the chasers.

Everyone knew that when it came to Slytherin vs Gryffindor, it was really Slytherin vs everyone. Nobody wanted the green house to win except the residents themselves.

Even when Slytherin took the lead in points, the buzz and hope of the opposition did not cease, as there was still Harry Potter— the best seeker that Hogwarts had seen in years. You knew that Wood put a lot of faith in the young boy, who had unknowingly reignited the hope of winning the Cup. And as pained as you were, seeing Wood so happy and passionate warmed your heart in a way nothing else could.

The Slytherin team scored again, and the cacophony of boos easily overpowered the minority of cheers. Wood looked frustrated beyond belief, evidently cursing himself for having let another goal through. But the match was not stopping, not until the snitch was caught.

Minutes stretched into hours, with both teams racking up points.

Finally, gasps littered throughout the stadium, the unmistakeable sign that the golden snitch had been spotted and was being pursued. For once, you pulled your eyes away from Wood, watching Potter and Malfoy engage in a furious chase for the tiny ball. They flew higher and higher up, the tension growing as the end of the match seemed to be in arm's reach.

The chase stopped.

Harry Potter proudly held up the shimmering glint of gold for the entire stadium to see.

And cheers erupted everywhere.

You quickly looked back at Wood, who looked nothing short of shellshocked as he took in the information that he had finally done it. He had accomplished one of his dreams. Eventually he snapped out of his shock, but as his teammates rushed to the ground to be presented with the trophy, Wood turned his attentions elsewhere. He was scanning the crowd for something— someone.

His eyes focused in your direction, and he darted over, hovering in front of you with the biggest smile you had ever seen him wear.

And then he kissed you with a force stronger than gravity, overwhelming every single one of your senses.

"You're the one I want," he spoke breathlessly.

"You're the one I want too," you replied without thinking.

He grinned.

"Now go get your trophy!" you said, frowning.

"No need. My trophy's right here."