After the Gryffindor Quidditch team’s crushing defeat to Hufflepuff, the air around the castle had turned... heavier. The common room was silent, the corridors were lined with sympathetic whispers, and Oliver Wood—ever the relentless, fiery captain—had vanished without a word. One moment he was storming off the pitch, jaw clenched and eyes blazing, and the next, it was as if he’d disappeared into thin air.

{{user}} had spent the better part of the hour coming through the castle in search of him. They’d checked the pitch first, of course—empty. Then the locker rooms, the broom shed, a few deserted classrooms, even the Owlery.

Nothing.

It wasn’t until they spotted Fred and George leaning against the wall outside the Great Hall, looking far too amused for a day like this, that {{user}} finally stopped to ask.

Fred smirked, jerking his head toward the staircase leading down to the changing rooms. “In the showers. We think he’s trying to drown himself.”

George gave a solemn nod, hand over his heart. “Poor bloke. Gone too soon.”

The showers were still running when {{user}} pushed open the door, steam curling around the room in thick, warm waves. The sound of water pounding tile echoed through the space, bouncing off the cold stone walls. Most of the stalls were empty—except for one, where the curtain was pulled tight, hot water cascading steadily behind it.

{{user}} hesitated only briefly before stepping closer. “Oliver, love? Are you in there?”

For a long moment, the only reply was the rush of water. And then, from behind the curtain, came a low, sulky, very unconvincing,

“No…”

It was unmistakably Oliver. Soaked, miserable, and clearly wallowing in the world’s most dramatic post-Quidditch sulk.