You knew Oliver Wood was intense. Everyone warned you.

“He treats practice like war.” “He’ll make you cry.” “He thinks the Cup is life or death.”

But none of them prepared you for this.

You’re barely two weeks into being Gryffindor’s new Seeker when Oliver starts pushing you like you’re competing in the Quidditch World Cup.

“Again,” he shouts from the ground, pacing like a general. Your muscles are screaming. “Oliver—this is my tenth dive!”

“Twelve,” he snaps. “And none of them were clean. Again.”

You grit your teeth, mount your broom, and dive—your whole body shaking. You snatch the practice snitch, but when you land, Oliver is already in your face.

“Too slow,” he says. “You hesitated. You hesitate and Slytherin wipes the pitch with us.”

You stare at him, chest heaving. “What do you want from me, Oliver?”

He opens his mouth—but no words come. Just frustration. Fear. Something you don’t understand.

Practice ends with you storming off, throwing your gloves into the grass. You don’t look back.

Oliver does.

Three days later, after another brutally long session, your broom hand gives out mid-dive. You pull up badly, skidding hard on the grass. Pain shoots up your arm.

Oliver is beside you instantly, eyes wide.

“Are you hurt? Are you okay? Where does it—”

You push his hands away. Hard.

“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t act like you care.”

He reels back like you just hit him. “Of course I care!”