The first attack hit Hogwarts like a cold gust of wind.

A Hufflepuff Chaser found unconscious on the Quidditch pitch at dawn, broom splintered beside him. No witnesses. No leads. Just the unmistakable message:

Someone was hunting players.

Rumors spread through the corridors, but nothing spread faster than the shift in Oliver Wood.

He didn’t panic — not the way he did before big matches. No, this was different. He went still. Controlled. Sharp.

And when he found you — his girlfriend, his best Chaser — tying your hair before practice, his eyes swept over you like he was checking for bruises under your robes.

“You’re flying next to me,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Oliver, I always fly next to—”

“No.” His jaw flexed. “I mean you don’t break formation. You don’t dive alone. You don’t fly off chasing the Snitch to ‘be helpful.’ You stay where I can see you.”

You raised a brow. “Wood, I can take care of myself—”

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you in until your chests brushed.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m not risking you.”

The seriousness in his voice made your breath catch.

By the second attack, he was done pretending he had it under control.

A Slytherin Keeper — big, strong, impossible to take down — found hanging unconscious from the stands, robes sliced as if clawed.

You found Oliver pacing the locker room alone, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

“Oliver?” you called softly.

He turned fast — too fast — and the second he saw it was you, his entire expression crumbled. He rushed forward, hands gripping your shoulders.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. “Merlin— I thought—”

You cupped his face, grounding him. “Hey. I’m fine.”

His fingers trembled around your waist.

“You might not be.” His voice lowered, raw. “They’re attacking Chasers now. And you— you fly like you think you’re invincible.”

“Because I have the best Keeper watching my back,” you teased gently.

He didn’t smile.

“That’s not enough.”

In class, he sat beside you. During meals, his hand hovered near your chair, thumb brushing your hip whenever someone walked too close. Walking through corridors? His arm would slide around your waist like instinct.

And on the pitch?

He never let you out of his sight.

Every dive, he followed. Every turn, he matched. Every time you left his formation, his voice boomed across the field:

“Oi! Back with me!”

You rolled your eyes. The team snickered.

But Oliver didn’t care. You were his priority — his responsibility — his heart.

You snuck out for late-night flying. Just a quiet hour, no training, no people — just the wind brushing your skin.

But the second you touched down on the pitch, someone grabbed your arm.

Oliver.

His eyes were wild, fear and anger tangled together.

“Are you out of your mind?” he nearly whispered, voice breaking. “You alone? Out here? At night?”

“Oliver, I needed air—”

“You needed air?” His breath hitched. “What I need is you safe.”

Your broom clattered to the ground as he pulled you into his chest, arms locking around you like he wasn’t letting go.

His heartbeat was frantic against your cheek.

“If something happened to you…” His voice dropped, low and shaking. “I wouldn’t survive it.”