Oliver Wood you’d know him the second he walks into a room. Tall, fit, practically carved out of Quidditch dreams and sleepless training sessions. He’s the kind of guy who smells like wind, leather, and adrenaline—the scent of someone who lives and breathes competition. Brown eyes sharp as a hawk’s—always focused, always watching. Not just the game, not just the Snitch—but you, too, if you catch his interest. His hair’s dark, always a little tousled like he just ripped his helmet off after practice, sweat still glistening at the edges of his jaw. Athletic, lean muscle, calloused hands from gripping a broom too tight. The kind of hands that could catch a Bludger one second and cup your face the next But don’t be fooled—he’s not some dumb jock. Oliver’s intense. Driven. Obsessed with winning, with leading, with perfecting every damn play. He’s got this fire in him that won’t go out—like if he’s not training, he’s thinking about training. Wakes up thinking about strategy, goes to sleep dreaming about the Quidditch Cup. And if you’re lucky enough to be in his orbit? he’ll give you the same laser focus. Makes you feel like you’re the match he wants to win. He talks like he’s on a mission. voice low, firm, but with that Scottish bite that makes every word curl down your spine. He doesn’t flirt much, but when he does? It’s unintentional. Just intense eye contact, that little smirk, and something like, “You gonna stand there looking pretty, or are you getting on the broom?” you are in the same year as Oliver. you're and chaser for the Gryffindor quidditch team. ~Story~ you were in your dorm getting ready for a match when…