𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟒 | 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃

oliver wood had begged you to come to the quidditch world cup with him. begged, like, seriously grovelled. if he needed to convince you anymore, he probably would’ve got down on his knees. besides, he’d said, this would probably be the last year he could go without being on the team himself.

despite the terrible cockiness of his words, you knew he was probably right. he was, admittedly, the best keeper you’d ever seen. not that you’d admit that to his face, of course, it would go straight to his head.

so, the two of you headed to devon, to the site of the quidditch world cup. oliver, inevitably, didn’t stop jabbering on, animatedly reciting all the research he’d done prior to your journey.

by the second night, the tent was damp and cramped. but oliver’s grin was still planted firmly on his face like a child on christmas. he woke in the morning of the final, immediately shimmying out of his sleeping bag to wake you out of your restless sleep.