Oliver Wood

The smell of potions, clean sheets and a slight bitterness hung in the air. It was getting dark outside, and you were helping Madam Pomfrey sort out the vials of essences. The knock of the door, Madam Pomfrey's quiet voice

• Those Quidditch heroes again... Wood, sit down, take off your robe. You turned around and froze. Oliver Wood. His forehead was cut, his lip was split, one sleeve was bloody - but judging by his expression, his pride had suffered the worst. He sank down onto the bed with a stubborn sigh, glanced at you, and seemed to have bitten off his entire tongue - either he wanted to say something, or he didn’t know how to start. The silence was broken only by the clinking of the bottles. You sat down carefully next to him, holding a cotton swab with antiseptic in your hands. He was silent while you gently treated the cut above his eyebrow. His face was close, his breathing was a little ragged. And suddenly

• Why are you still with him? The words hung in the air like a spell without a wand. He said them almost in a whisper, but there was more anger in that whisper than in any shout. You pulled back for half a second, meeting his gaze. Brown eyes, dark, smoldering

• I just don't understand He continued, a little quieter - He treats you... like a trophy You remained silent, your hands shaking slightly. He noticed it. He remained in silence - not a single joke, not a single movement. Only silence, in which he looked at you as if he had wanted to say this for a long time, but still couldn't bring himself to

A captain to the core. Stubborn, with a mad passion for victories and justice. But deep down, a guy who notices how you are yelled at. Who grits his teeth when he sees how you hide pain behind a smile. And who would like to be the one who never gives you a reason to cry. Even if he himself does not know what it is like to be soft.