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The Gryffindor common room had never know quiet. The house known for being boisterous and loud and always full of laughter. It is in the Gryffindor common room that you felt most at home despite having been sorted into Slytherin at eleven years old.
You had nothing against your house; it was the house of the determined, the cunning and the prideful. Friendships had been forged that ran deeper than blood and allegiances made that would only be favoured once graduated from the school for witchcraft and wizardry.
However, the appeal of Gryffindor house came in the form of their Quidditch captain – Oliver Wood. Deep brown eyes combined with a lush smile that had your knees weak. There was supposed to be a rivalry; enemy houses and enemy Quidditch teams yet you loved the teenager more than your own house. You had fallen for him in Fifth Year and he, you. No-one could deny the love you felt for each other was going to outlast the aged walls of the enchanted castle.
Along with the appeal of the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, the Gryffindor team has also taken you under their wing. Friendships forming despite the green of your robes. The Weasley twins in particular had taken a liking to you.
They never meant anything by it, their harmless flirting. Fred and George doing it to get a rise out of Oliver.
“(Y/N)!” Fred shouts, a smirk on his face.
“Yes, Fred?” You answer from your seat next to Oliver. The brunette tenses from Fred’s words, already dreading what is about to come out his mouth.
“Do you mind if I slither in?”
You snort, unimpressed by Fred’s attempt at flirting, “That’s in poor taste, Fred. I expected better from you.”
Fred winks, ignoring the cross look from Oliver. “It’s okay,” He starts, “I’m sure I’ll think of something to impress you.”
You laugh, placing a hand on Oliver’s thigh. “I have no doubt about it, save it for later though.”
Fred salutes before walking away, laughing with George over something that had happened earlier in the day. You shake your head at the sight of it, in shock at the foolish bravery displayed by the redhead. You turn your attention to Oliver; his brown eyes barely concealing the anger raging within in. Opening your mouth, you go to offer some words of comfort and reassurance, but Oliver pushes your hand from his thigh before leaving the common room.
You share a look with the twins before following Oliver out of the portrait hole and into the corridor. “Oliver, what’s wrong?”
“Why do you flirt back?” Oliver demands, throwing his arms up in exasperation.
“It’s harmless fun. They mean nothing by it, Oliver! Neither do I!”
“Do you?” He asks before the words can be stopped. Oliver sees the hurt flash over your face as his accusation lands. You take a step back, holding a hand to your stomach as you work through your emotions.
“If you think that I would do anything that could hurt you – hurt us – then you really don’t know me at all, do you?” Tears threaten to spill but you hold them back, meeting Oliver’s eye unashamed.
You wait for him to say something, to say anything but nothing leaves his mouth. Shaking your head, you turn away from the Gryffindor, not letting him see the tears that finally track their way down your cheeks as you head to the Slytherin common room.
Oliver runs a frustrated hand through his hair as he stares after your rushing figure. “Love,” He calls out in the hopes that it will make you turn. He releases a pitiful groan as he watches you duck your head further, steps getting faster and faster until you’re finally out of sight.
The sobs thankfully wait until you’re in your room. The darkness provided by the quilt of your bed calling you like a siren song. The darkness provides solace and comfort as the tears trail down your cheeks; wondering how on earth Oliver could doubt your relationship and your loyalty to him.
-------
The night proves to be long, but the morning proves to be longer. You stand outside the Great Hall wondering what you were going to do. Breakfasts were reserved for Oliver, everyone knew that. Even the teachers knew that – you would sit with the brunette and chat about anything and everything. He often distracted you, pulling you in for spontaneous kisses whenever he could.
Now though, you didn’t know where to sit. You would be welcome at the Slytherin table, of course you would but it didn’t sit right within you. It didn’t feel right to not be with Oliver for the first meal of the day.
Turning away from the Great Hall, you think about the snacks hidden away in your trunk. They would do for a while, until you could figure out what was happening and where you were going. For now though, you found respite in the library, wandering there and sitting down at one of the many aged wooden tables. The day had barely begun but there were already students milling about the grand room, dawdling between shelves as they got started on homework and essays alike. Running a finger through the wood grain, eyes running over the graffiti littering the table, you reach for the work burning a hole in your bag.
This would do, for now.
----
Oliver finds you in the library the following day. This time you are hidden away in the back of the library, among the shelves that hold the older books. The smell of worn leather is almost overpowering, but it comforts you, especially as you reach for
You don’t know how long he has been standing there. You gasp as you look up from the aged pages of your book to find his deep brown eyes watching you. Oliver looks unsure of himself; the air around him insecure and curious to your reaction.
“(Y/N),” Oliver greets, voice quiet and close to breaking as he takes a shy step towards you.
“Oliver,” You reply, looking anywhere but at him. Once glance into those brown eyes and you would crumble, it wasn’t for you to crumble.
“Can we talk?”
You shake your head, standing from your seat and staving off the inevitable tears that will fall when he leaves. You weren’t ready to talk. As much as you missed him – his smile and his kisses, you weren’t ready to discuss what happened that night.
“Please?” He pleads, close to falling to his knees and begging.
You shake your head once more, taking a step back before realising that you are pressed against the bookshelf. You clear your throat, dislodging the lump that had made its home there, “Not yet, Oliver.”
He nods, the hope in his eyes dimming at your words. He runs a hand through his hair, the locks the longest they had been in a long while. “Of course,” He comments. He sends a smile your way, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “Good luck for the match on Saturday. I know you’ll play well. You always do.”
“You too,” You whisper. You bite your lip, watching him walk away from you, his hands hanging limply at his side as his shoulders hunch.
After the match. After the match, you would talk to him, you promised yourself. After the match, you would explain that he could not go around flinging accusations like he did. After the match, it would all be solved and forgiven.
You hoped.
------
Saturday rolled around slowly. For the rest of the week, Oliver hadn’t tried to talk to you. Countless times you had caught him watching you; regret shining deep within his brown eyes. Sadness settled deep within you when you left your classroom after every lesson to find him absent. He was giving you the space you had asked for; he was respecting your wishes and yet you found yourself wishing he hadn’t listened to you.
You missed him. You missed him terribly. From his obsession with the sport you both played to the way he would pull you in by the hem of your shirt to kiss you. You missed the feel of his hand wrapping around yours; the way he would press a kiss to your temple randomly.
Your heart ached with his absence, but the space was needed. The logical part of you repeated this too often – the space was needed, he had to know he couldn’t go flinging accusations left, right and centre. However, your heart – the part that tended to control you more often than your mind – missed him too much for your own good.
Walking to the changing room, you remind yourself of the promise you had made to yourself earlier in the week. Get through the match. Get through this match and you can talk to him without distractions. Things needed to be mended between you, if it could be mended at all.
The usual nerves settled deep within your stomach, rolling around, leaving you nauseous. You finish tying the fastenings to your gloves, ensuring their tight enough before grabbing your broom and leaving the changing room.
Feeling foolish, you stand outside the changing rooms, hoping and wishing. You fiddle with your uniform, hoping and wishing for Oliver to show up regardless of your argument. It had been tradition for the last two years – no matter the match whether it his house versus your or yours versus another, he would always meet you here for a good luck kiss. It wouldn’t be more than a peck of lips, sweet and chaste but it always meant so much.
The kiss settled your nerves. It brought a smile out across your face, butterflies now rioting in your stomach instead of your nerves.
Looking to your left and then to your right, you sigh heavily. Pushing down the need to cry, you realise with some heaviness that Oliver wasn’t going to show. The gap that had grown between you two was getting too big for him to think about coming to wish you good luck before the match.
After the match, you repeat to yourself. Get through the match and you can tell him everything. Get through the match and you can whisper apology after apology to him, hoping he understood why you had taken a step back.
Steeling your nerves, readying yourself for the match, you head out onto the pitch all the while feeling as if something is going to go terribly wrong.
-------
Most people when waking from a long sleep do so slowly; they start by waking every limb, checking they work before moving onto stretching and opening their eyes. You, on the other hand, gasp suddenly as if jolted with something powerful. You wrench up, more than aware of the sharp pain lancing through the right side of your body.
It takes a moment for you to recognise your surroundings, the gothic, vaulted ceilings and the light stone walls of the hospital wing coming into focus as the dizziness abates.
You wince from the pain radiating in your side. Oliver stands from his seat, rushing to your side. His hands clench repeatedly into fists as he represses the need to touch you. “Don’t try to move,” He whispers, “Madame Pomfrey said you would be sore for at least a week.”
“Oliver?” You question, confused. Your eyebrows furrow as you meet his concerned gaze, taking in the dishevelled state of his Quidditch uniform, as if he barely gave himself time to get changed before rushing to the hospital wing.
“What happened?” You ask, pressing a hand to your head as if the very touch will bring back the memories.
“A dirty play,” Oliver grits; anger rising to the surface that he tries his best to quash but he had never been known to ignore his temper. “What do you remember?”
You sigh, rubbing the side of your head, “I remember something hitting me in the side and I remember losing grip of my broom…” You trail off, straining your memory in the hopes of remembering something. You shake your head, “That’s all I remember.”
Oliver nods as he sidles closer to the bedside. “You were hit by a bludger. In truth, an argument broke out between the teams. The Weasley’s are awfully protective of you, you see and when they saw you, they started to argue with your team. From there, it escalated and bludgers started being flung in every direction. One hit you in the side, knocking you sideways and off your broom to the pitch below.”
“No-one else was hurt though?”
Oliver laughs: a short burst, “It’s just like you to be concerned with someone else when you’re the one lying in the hospital wing having just recovered from broken ribs.”
“Well?” You all but demand, “Was anyone else hurt?”
Oliver shakes his head, “No, love. No-one else was hurt.”
You bite your lip, body heating at the use of the term of endearment. Oliver called you many things: ‘darling’, ‘dear’, ‘Leannan’, but ‘love’ was your favourite. To hear it fall from his lips after a week long absence of it, it made you feel like everything could be solved.
“Who won the match?” You question, eyes running over Oliver’s dishevelled form.
“No-one,” Oliver states, plain and simple.
“What?”
“I threw the match,” He says, shrugging his shoulders as if it didn’t bother him.
“Why would you do something like that?”
“You were laying on the grass, out cold. I didn’t know if you were breathing, I didn’t know anything,” Oliver rushes, his chest heaving with the force of his words, “I was going to make sure you were okay before I was back out on any damned pitch.”
“Oliver!” You gasp; shocked at his words. He loved Quidditch; had even been scouted to play for a team after graduating from Hogwarts. You had never heard him speak like this about the sport.
Oliver rests his face in his hands, getting to grips with the emotions surging through him. All he sees behind his eyes is your body falling helplessly to the ground; limbs limp and hair flying everywhere. It wouldn’t be a sight he forgot quickly.
He regains control only a moment later. He pulls his face out his hands and releasing a long breath. “I love you,” He states honestly, “I love you. This week without you has been hell and then seeing you get hurt… I just about lost my mind.”
You sniffle, tears beginning to form in your eyes at his words. Oliver stalks forward, taking your hands in his, squeezing them tightly as he brings them up to his mouth. He places one, two, three kisses to the back of your hands before whispering, “I am so sorry. I’m a jealous fool. I had no right to question our relationship.”
“No, you didn’t,” You state, eyes searching his, finding nothing but love for you within their depths.
Oliver takes the chance. He leans down, pressing his forehead to you as he repeats his apology as many times as needed.
After the fourth time, you pull back with a laugh.
“What?” Oliver asks, a shy smile on his face.
You shake your head, “You’re impossible, Oliver.”
“Impossibly in love with you,” He flirts, his smile growing larger.
You groan, letting your head fall back onto the pillow. He nudges you gently, getting you to move over slightly so he can join you on the hospital bed. Oliver brings a hand to your face, his thumb rubbing over your cheekbone and down to your jawline as his eyes search your face for what, you don’t know.
The smile has disappeared from his face, replaced with a serious expression that looks so out of place. “I am sorry, my love,” He starts, “Can you forgive me?”
You lean forward, meeting him halfway, nudging your nose with his as you seek out his lips. “You’re already forgiven. Who else would wait by my bedside when I’m injured?”
One of Oliver’s hands winds its way through your hair. “Let’s try not to make that a habit though. Please?”
You pull back slightly, letting Oliver see the large smile on your face. “I can try my very hardest,” You quip with a laugh.
A laugh that is quickly quietened by Oliver’s lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s been a week in the waiting. Forgiveness and love personified by the way he takes his time, relearning the way you move against him whilst trying to not kiss you the way a man dying of thirst would reach for water. You smile against his mouth, unable to keep the grin off your face for longer than necessary, way too happy to be back in his arms once again.