A full year of dating Oliver Wood meant a full year of watching him treat every Quidditch match like it was the World Cup. Today was no different. He’d barely slept the night before, pacing your common room, muttering plays under his breath, checking his broom for the fifth time.

“Oliver,” you’d said, stealing his hand, “it’s a school match. Not the end of the world.”

“For you maybe,” he’d answered, though his smile softened. “For me? Entirely life or death.”

And now, sitting in the stands, you could feel that same energy radiating off him on the pitch. You cheered louder than everyone — you always did — but your chest tightened every time he dove too sharply or pushed a play too aggressively.

Midway through the match, he was flying like he wanted to rewrite the rulebook.

“WOOD, LEFT!” Fred shouted below.

Oliver swerved hard — too hard.

The Bludger came out of nowhere.

You saw it before he did.

“OLIVER!” you screamed, standing up.

He twisted, but not fast enough.

The Bludger slammed into his ribs with a crack that echoed like a curse. His broom jerked violently. He tried to steady, but the impact had knocked the wind — and consciousness — out of him.

The broom spun.

Once.

Twice.

Then he fell.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran — pushing past students, leaping over the railing, sprinting across the grass with your heart in your throat.

When you reached, he had already been taken to the hospital wing

The hospital wing was quiet, too quiet. The world outside kept moving — students whispering, the team arguing about the play that led to the accident — but none of it mattered.

All that mattered was Oliver lying unconscious on the bed, pale, still, bruised across the ribs.

You pulled a chair to his side and settled in, your hand wrapped around his, thumb brushing his knuckles.

“You idiot,” you whispered softly, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You absolute stubborn idiot. Why do you always push yourself like that?”

He didn’t answer.

Hours passed. The candles burned lower. Madam Pomfrey tried to get you to eat; you didn’t even look up. You stayed exactly where you were, fingers entwined with his, head resting against the bed.

At some point, exhaustion pulled you into a half-sleep, still clutching him.