Oliver Wood

The empty Quidditch pitch was almost immersed in the evening fog. You were packing up after practice when you heard a familiar voice behind you:

— Not a bad hit. For someone who's still trying to beat me.

You turned around. Oliver Wood was standing at the gate, leaning on a broom and smiling smugly.

"Trying?" You chuckled. "I'm just giving you a chance to maintain your dignity."

• How noble of you.

• Don't get used to it.

Oliver came closer and stopped opposite.

— There's a match tomorrow. And I'm warning you: no slack.

• As if I need them.

Silence fell between you for a few seconds. Oliver looked straight into your eyes, and his usual smile softened slightly.

— Do you know what irritates me the most?

• What?

• You really know how to make me angry.

You chuckled.

• You've been irritating me since the first day.

• So we are perfect for each other.

You rolled your eyes.

• Dream on, Wood.

He laughed and headed towards the exit.

• See you tomorrow, rival.

— See you tomorrow, Wood. And try not to lose.

Oliver glanced over his shoulder.

• Don't even hope.