Slytherin’s Siren & Gryffindor’s Golden Boy: The Sweetest Twist Yet
Oliver Wood x slytherin captain reader
The Hogwarts Herald – Quidditch Edition
ISSUE NO. 87 – Autumn Term
“Slytherin’s New Serpent in the Sky: Y/L/N Named Quidditch Captain”
by Icarus Flint, Sports Correspondent
In a move that has already sent shockwaves through the Quidditch pitch (and one broom spiraling into the Whomping Willow during a “friendly” training session), Y/N Y/L/N has officially taken the reins as Slytherin’s Quidditch Captain.
The seventh-year Chaser—and rumoured strategic prodigy—has spent the summer not sunbathing, but reinventing Slytherin’s entire playbook. Sources close to the team say Y/L/N’s drills are brutal, her tactics precise, and her broom speed? “Terrifying,” according to one first-year who saw her slice through three Bludgers without blinking.
Her appointment is seen by many as the green team’s best chance at finally dethroning Gryffindor—whose current captain remains unnamed out of professional courtesy and because we’ve written about him enough already, haven’t we?
Well. Let’s hope Oliver Wood is ready to share the sky.
Or get knocked out of it.
Oliver Wood was halfway through his toast when he saw the front page of The Hogwarts Herald.
Then slowly, dangerously, lowered the slice of toast back to his plate.
“Oi,” George said, leaning over. “You’ve gone all weird. What’s that face?”
Angelina leaned in too. “Is that the Quidditch issue?”
Oliver didn’t respond. He was too busy reading the article for the fourth time, jaw tightening with every line. His eyes scanned “Slytherin’s New Serpent in the Sky” like it was a personal declaration of war. Which, to him, it absolutely was.
By the time he got to the last line—Well. Let’s hope Oliver Wood is ready to share the sky. Or get knocked out of it.—his left eye twitched.
“Oh no,” Katie said under her breath. “He’s gone full Captain Mode.”
“That’s not Captain Mode,” Fred whispered. “That’s Murder Mode.”
Oliver slapped the paper down with the kind of force usually reserved for Bludgers. “Who the hell is Y/N Y/L/N?”
“A Slytherin,” George offered helpfully. “Seventh year. Chaser. Smart. Hot. Fast broom.”
“Fast mouth,” Oliver growled. “This is libel. I’ve been captain since fourth year and they skim over me?”
Fred plucked the paper and read aloud, barely holding in a laugh.
“Her broom speed? ‘Terrifying,’ according to one first-year—”
He wheezed. “Mate. A first-year.”
“I’m not sharing the sky,” he muttered. “I own the sky.”
“Oh Merlin,” Angelina said, grinning. “He’s actually offended.”
George, ever helpful: “You sound jealous.”
Oliver stood abruptly, grabbing his practice bag. “Get changed. We’re flying early.”
“But practice isn’t for another hour,” Katie said, blinking.
He stalked out of the hall, cloak billowing behind him like a war banner. The team looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“I give it three days before he snaps,” Fred said, folding the paper.
“Two,” George replied. “If she smirks at him.”
It was supposed to be a normal practice.
Just a few warm-up laps, some Chaser drills, maybe a scrimmage. Ease into the season. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had gone right since breakfast.
Oliver stood in the center of the pitch, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching as his team flew like first-years with vertigo.
“George, that’s the third time you missed the swing!”
“You threw it behind me, mate!”
“I meant to! It was a feint!”
“Sure it was,” Fred muttered under his breath. “Just like how you meant to call us all to practice so early because a girl bruised your ego.”
Oliver spun on him. “What did you say?”
Fred held his hands up. “Nothing. Sir. Captain. Sky King.”
Oliver narrowed his eyes.
From the air, Angelina swooped down and hovered beside them. “Oliver, do you wanna maybe… take a lap? Or scream into a towel? Because you’re not even blowing the whistle in rhythm anymore.”
He hadn’t realized he was still clutching the whistle in a death grip. “I’m fine.”
“You’re twitching,” Katie said from the sidelines. “Like, aggressively.”
They all exchanged looks.
Practice ended in a slow, painful descent into chaos. No one remembered the last play. No one cared. Oliver didn’t even yell when Fred dropped the Quaffle. He just stared off into the distance like he was having a crisis of faith.
They were packing up when it happened.
A Ravenclaw prefect strolled by the edge of the pitch, chatting with a younger student.
“Did you hear about Slytherin’s new captain?” the prefect said. “Y/N Y/L/N. She’s brilliant. My brother’s in her year—says she’s—”
Oliver turned so fast it startled the entire team. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, will everyone just stop talking about her like she’s some kind of Quidditch messiah?!”
The Ravenclaw stopped mid-step, eyes wide.
“Brilliant?” Oliver mocked. “Please. She’s a Slytherin with a broom and a good PR team. That article was all smoke! Strategy? Please she is s captain out of the blue! She hasn’t even played us yet. Let’s see how brilliant she looks when she’s ten feet in the air with a Bludger to her ribs.”
Fred leaned toward George. “And there it is.”
The Ravenclaw blinked. “Um. Right. Good luck this season.”
Angelina sighed. “You good now? Got that out of your system?”
Oliver dropped onto the bench, rubbing his face. “No.”
Katie smirked. “Admit it. You’re scared she’s better than you.”
His head shot up. “She’s not.”
“Oh, he’s doomed,” Fred whispered.
Oliver was pacing near the entrance to the Great Hall, still fired up from practice. His team had dispersed, but he hadn’t stopped.
“Honestly, can you believe the hype around that Slytherin captain? ‘Terrifying broom speed,’ they said. More like terrifyingly overrated.” He scoffed loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear.
A cluster of Gryffindor students chuckled, egging him on.
“She’s just lucky to have a fancy title,” Oliver continued, voice rising. “Wait until we face her. I’ll have her eating dirt before the first quarter ends.”
Nearby, hidden behind a stone pillar, Y/N stood perfectly still. Her arms crossed, lips twitching at the edge of a smile. She listened, patient and amused.
When Oliver paused for breath, she didn’t move.
The chatter in the hall had been buzzing all morning. Everyone knew the date for the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match was looming, but what no one expected was the sudden arrival of Y/N—quiet, fierce, and stunningly composed—as she strode straight to the Gryffindor table.
Oliver’s jaw dropped the second she sat down right beside him, cool as ice.
“Glad to see I got your imagination running wild while you were busy running your mouth,” she said with a teasing smile that made his pulse skip.
Heads turned. Whispers exploded. And Oliver, for once, was utterly speechless.
She leaned in slightly, eyes glittering. “So, I have a little challenge for you~”
Oliver blinked, struggling to keep his usual bravado.
“A friendly match,” she continued, voice silky but sharp, “Slytherin vs. Gryffindor. But with a twist.”
She paused, letting the tension build.
“Whoever loses will play the official match without their Keeper.”
The hall fell silent. Then laughter bubbled from the Gryffindor side—until Oliver shot them a look that shut everyone up.
He looked back at Y/N. “You’re on.”
She grinned. “Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
News of Y/N’s bold challenge spread like wildfire.
In the hallways, students from every house debated the upcoming showdown. Gryffindor and Slytherin alike wore expressions ranging from cocky grins to nervous anticipation.
Even in the Teachers in the Staff Room
Professor McGonagall sipped her tea thoughtfully. “It’s rare to see such a public challenge. Interesting… I wonder if this will improve teamwork or lead to more… competition-related incidents.”
Professor Flitwick twitched his fingers. “Ah, the youthful spirit! Perhaps it will inspire a new level of skill. Or mischief.”
The buzz didn’t die down until the day of the match—when the entire school gathered around the pitch, buzzing with excitement, eager to see who would win the friendly… and who would suffer the Keeper-less in the real game.
Y/N stood before her team, calm and unreadable.
“So,” she said casually, “today we play like toddlers.”
A chorus of confused murmurs broke out.
“What?” Lyra whispered, eyes wide.
“Are you serious?” Another Chaser blinked.
Y/N smirked, crossing her arms and letting the silence hang for a moment.
“So… you want us to lose the friendly?” someone finally asked, voice uncertain.
Y/N’s smile was sharp, almost mischievous.
“Not lose,” she corrected. “Let them think they’re winning.”
She shrugged, her eyes gleaming with that unmistakable calculating spark.
The stadium was packed. Students lined the stands, scarves flying, bets whispered between housemates. Professors sat in the upper gallery, pretending not to be invested.
The Gryffindor team flew in fast and sharp—red robes cutting the air like fire.
Oliver Wood hovered above the center line, jaw set, eyes scanning the sky for movement.
They glided in… slowly. Controlled. Casual.
Y/N led the formation like she was strolling into a ballroom, not a battle. No sharp turns. No warm-up dives. Her expression unreadable, chin high, a little smirk tugging at her lips.
As the whistle blew, Gryffindor launched into formation—Fred and George immediately taking position to block, Katie diving for the Quaffle—
They hovered. They passed lazily. They flew with the energy of a post-lunch nap.
“What the hell are they doing?” Oliver muttered, eyes narrowing as one of the Slytherin Chasers literally spun in place before half-heartedly tossing the Quaffle across the pitch.
“Are they drunk?” Fred called out mid-dive.
“They’re toying with us,” George said.
Oliver didn’t believe that. Not yet. But the doubt gnawed at him.
They weren’t even trying to score.
His eyes locked on Y/N. She gave him the briefest look across the pitch—bored, elegant, smug.
Like she already knew how this would end.
And suddenly, Oliver felt it.
The game was chaos—but only on one side.
Gryffindor was a blur of red, fire and fury in motion. Fred and George moved like twin meteors. Katie zipped between plays with laser focus.
And Oliver? He was losing his mind.
Because Slytherin was doing nothing.
Worse—they were doing it beautifully.
He hovered near the center hoops, barking instructions, scanning for threats—and there she was.
Drifting lazily around him in wide, slow arcs, like she had all the time in the world. Her green robes billowed behind her, her hands loose on her broom, head slightly tilted like she might fall asleep mid-flight.
And she kept looking at him.
Not with fire or challenge. No, that would’ve made sense.
She looked at him like he was… entertainment.
Like this wasn’t a game, but a joke only she was in on.
“Do you plan to play at some point?” Oliver snapped as she drifted a little too close.
She just smiled, lazy and maddening.
“I am playing, Wood,” she said sweetly. “I’m just playing smarter.”
She dipped her broom in a slow spiral around his left shoulder. Too close. Too smooth. Her voice was practically purring.
“I am tense,” he hissed. “Because none of you are doing anything.”
“Oh, we’re doing plenty,” she murmured, flicking her eyes down the pitch where another Gryffindor goal was made easily. “You’re just too busy shouting to see it.”
Then, just to drive him mad, she leaned slightly forward, her shoulder grazing his as she passed. Her lips ghosted close to his ear.
He whipped around—“What save?!”—only to see her passing the quaffel through the hoop and drifting away again, perfectly bored, perfectly smug, perfectly in control.
The more he tried to focus, the more she distracted him—spiraling around him like some siren in green silk, taunting him with half-smiles and lazy dives. And while Gryffindor had scored goal after goal, the one time he blinked—
A lazy pass. A single, off-rhythm dart from a Slytherin Chaser. And just like that, another 10 points on the board.
Oliver shouted in frustration, smacking his palm against his broom.
From across the pitch, Y/N shot him a wink as if to say: Oh, you noticed?
The room was tense. No one spoke at first, still unsure what exactly they were doing out there.
Then Y/N turned from her locker, beaming like she’d just received the highest honors.
“That,” she said brightly, “was perfect.”
Her teammates blinked. “…We’re losing.”
She nodded. “Exactly. They’ve got 100, we’ve got 30. Isn’t that brilliant?”
Marcus the Keeper narrowed his eyes. “You want to lose?”
“No,” she said, suddenly sharp. “I want them to think we’re losing. They’re cocky now. Loose. Overconfident. And Wood—”
She smirked, tossing her gloves into her locker.
“Wood is obsessed with me.”
The team made various noises of discomfort and disbelief.
She clapped once, bringing their attention back.
“Here’s the plan. Second half—we fly out lazy again. Keep the act going.”
She turned to the Seeker.
“You. The moment you get a real line on the Snitch—you take it. Don’t hesitate. I know you can do it.”
The Seeker nodded slowly, brows furrowing as realization dawned.
Y/N turned to the rest of the team, her voice lowering, eyes gleaming.
“And when we move in the real game—we move hard. We hit them with our best game while they’re still daydreaming about how easy we are to beat.”
That’s when the mood shifted.
Chasers sat up straighter. Beaters exchanged looks. The Keeper cracked his knuckles.
And just before they headed back onto the pitch, Y/N glanced into the mirror, adjusted her hair, and whispered to herself with a grin
Score: Gryffindor 100 / Slytherin 30
Gryffindor stormed back into the sky with the confidence of kings. Oliver’s voice rang out across the pitch to the second half.
“KEEP THE PRESSURE! MOVE! FASTER, FASTER—THAT’S IT!”
Fred snatched the Quaffle with a laugh. “Are they even trying?”
“They’re practically napping again,” George called, diving under a barely-thrown pass from a Slytherin Chaser.
Oliver chuckled from his post. “We’ll need to find actual competition this year.”
From the sidelines, students started cheering Gryffindor’s name. Even McGonagall cracked a rare smile.
Meanwhile, high above the pitch…
Y/N floated near the center, face passive, head bowed slightly as if bored.
Oliver didn’t even bother to watch her anymore.
And that was his mistake becouse he would see her smirk.
The Seeker—quiet all game—dived.
Cheers turned into gasps as he cut through the air like a silver streak. A glint of gold flashed near the Slytherin goalposts.
The stands exploded into chaos.
The announcer’s voice cracked through the megaphone
“AND THAT’S IT—SLYTHERIN TAKES THE WIN—ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY TO ONE HUNDRED!”
Fred and George turned around mid-flight, mouths open. Katie was already pulling up her broom in disbelief.
Across the pitch, Y/N finally looked at him
She flew lazily once more—this time straight past Oliver—and gave him that same infuriating smile.
“I warned you,” she said softly as she passed. “You were too busy running your mouth to watch the board.”
Cheers erupted in the green locker rooms. Hands clapped. Brooms slammed against lockers in celebration.
Y/N just sat on the bench, unlacing her boots with a calm grace.
“Let them cry,” she murmured, voice like silk. “Because next match?”
“There won’t be a red Keeper.”
The entire school was buzzing.
“Did you see her face when the Snitch was caught?”
“She flew circles around him.”
“Gryffindor’s going to play without Wood next match. That’s suicide.”
Oliver stormed into the hall, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.
He ignored the stares. The whispers. The very smug Slytherin table.
But what he couldn’t ignore… was her.
Y/N was already seated at the end of the Slytherin table, legs crossed, buttering toast like she hadn’t singlehandedly shattered Gryffindor’s pride the day before. She glanced up at him casually and offered a tiny wave.
Oliver changed direction instantly.
He stalked over, leaning on the table like he might snap it in half.
Y/N blinked up at him, perfectly calm. “Morning, Wood. Lovely game yesterday.”
“That wasn’t a real match. You played dirty. That wasn’t—”
“A friendly, wasn’t it?” she said innocently. “With a wager you agreed to. Publicly.”
“Your team faked being bad.”
“Correction: we didn’t fake anything.” She took a bite of her toast. “We just didn’t waste energy proving something before it mattered.”
He scowled. “You want us to go without a Keeper in the real match?”
“I don’t want anything, Wood,” she said sweetly. “You made the bet.”
She leaned forward slightly, voice velvet and razor-sharp.
“Next match, no Wood between the hoops. You said it yourself—faster, better, stronger, right?” Her smirk widened. “So prove it.”
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
Every table nearby was listening now. Even McGonagall’s eyes were flicking discreetly in their direction.
Y/N stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her robes. “I’d wish you luck,” she said, stepping past him, “but I think we both know you’ll need more than that.”
Leaving Oliver Wood—legendary, proud, fire-blooded Oliver Wood—speechless and Keeper-less.
The stadium was packed. Scarves waved in every direction, faces painted, banners enchanted to shimmer in house colors.
But the real spectacle wasn’t the fans. It was the buzz—everywhere you turned, people whispered the same thing:
“They’re really doing it.”
“No Keeper… they’re screwed.”
“Slytherins have this in the bag.”
And seated high in the Gryffindor section, arms crossed and jaw tight enough to shatter diamonds, sat Oliver Wood.
Around him, the team fidgeted in red robes, trying to stay confident, but the tension was thick.
“I still say we could sneak you in last minute,” Fred muttered.
“Yeah,” George added, “just toss the robes on a broomstick and pretend it’s a tactical illusion.”
Oliver didn’t laugh. He was too busy glaring down at the pitch.
They entered like royalty.
Y/N at the front, flying smooth and sharp, her green-and-silver robes rippling behind her like a banner of war. Her team followed in perfect formation, crisp and terrifying.
McGonagall adjusted her glasses, watching closely from the staff stands.
Lee Jordan’s voice boomed from the commentary box
“And there they are—Slytherin, looking more smug than usual, which is saying something. I count seven players… all present. Meanwhile, Gryffindor—ah—yep, definitely only six. No Wood. Rest in peace, goalposts.”
Y/N hovered above the center line, eyes sweeping the sky, calculating. Then, very deliberately, she turned and looked up into the stands.
He leaned forward in his seat, fists clenched, heat rising to his face. That smile said everything
And now you get to watch.
From the first whistle, it was clear
Slytherin wasn’t just playing Quidditch—they were performing it.
Passes were crisp, too crisp—like choreography. Formations unfolded with near theatrical precision. Every loop, every dive, every back-handed flick of the Quaffle had flare.
The crowd didn’t know whether to cheer or applaud.
Even Lee Jordan was losing his mind.
“Did—did you see that reverse pass?! Y/N with the no-look—blimey, I think I just fell in love—!”
Meanwhile, high in the stands, Oliver Wood sat frozen.
He wanted to be mad. He was mad. But mostly?
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Y/N darted through the air like she was born there, her flying both ruthless and elegant. She made impossible look easy—and she was everywhere. One moment blocking a pass, the next diving beneath a Beater’s swing, then flipping upside down mid-turn to flick the Quaffle into a teammate’s arms.
Slytherin moved like an orchestra and she was the conductor.
Oliver’s heart was pounding. Not from rage anymore.
He didn’t just respect her game.
He wanted her on his team.
He wanted her everywhere.
And it was driving him mad.
On the pitch, another Slytherin scored—this time tossing the Quaffle behind their back as Y/N looped through the rings midair, dramatic and showy and perfectly timed.
“That’s 150 to 60! I repeat—Slytherin’s turning this into a BLOODY MUSICAL!”
At the half-time whistle, the Slytherins bowed.
Gryffindor looked shell-shocked.
Slytherin looked like they’d just wrapped a matinee performance and were ready for their encore.
The stadium buzzed, people standing, whispering, enchanted banners rippling with:
“WOODLESS GRYFFINDOR = SPINLESS”
But none of them saw her rise alone.
Y/N soared upward on her broom, head tilted back, the wind tugging playfully at her hair. When she reached the Gryffindor stands, the crowd parted like a sea—because there she was, facing Oliver Wood himself.
She tossed something toward him .. his broomstick.
The crowd collectively gasped.
Oliver caught it without thinking. Stared.
She hovered, perfectly composed, a sly smirk curling on her lips.
“It’s too sad and too easy, really,” she said, voice just loud enough to carry. “Be up in two minutes.”
And she dipped, diving back toward the pitch, the tail of her robes snapping behind her like the curtain on a closing act.
The stadium erupts as Oliver Wood kicks off from the ground.
Lee Jordan’s voice practically cracks
“HE’S BACK—WOOD’S ON THE PITCH! And yes it’s legal, Y/N’s the one who pulled him back in—oh Merlin, this is mad!”
And for exactly three seconds, Gryffindor hopes.
Then Y/N snatches the Quaffle straight out of the air mid-jump twist and flies through the opposing formation like water through fingers.
“Slytherin scores—again! That’s 170!”
Oliver blinks. He hadn’t even seen her teammate fly up behind him.
Because the Slytherins? They weren’t playing Quidditch anymore.
They were doing bloody aerial ballet.
One Beater cartwheeled off his broom and slapped the Bludger upward—only for it to ricochet off the tail of a teammate’s broom and knock the Quaffle loose from Alicia’s hands. Another player spun into a barrel roll, passed the Quaffle to Y/N between their legs, and she flipped backwards into a loop, releasing the Quaffle with a kiss.
Straight through the ring.
“AND ANOTHER! 180! I—I need to sit down—”
Even McGonagall dropped her quill.
Oliver tried to adjust, barked orders, blocked a few—but every time he got close, Y/N would circle him like a shadow.
Hovering inches from his broom, leaning in like she was sharing a secret:
“You sure you wanted back in, Wood?”
Then two more. One scored while upside down. Another where the Chaser faked fainting mid-air and flipped last second.
It was humiliating. Glorious. Legendary.
And the Gryffindor stands went quiet.
Because the Slytherins weren’t just winning.
Oliver dropped back near the goalposts, panting, sweat sticking to his neck.
And still, through the chaos, he looked across the pitch at her—
Y/N, spinning mid-air like she was dancing, eyes glinting under the stadium lights, her laugh real and victorious.
But damn if his heart didn’t skip a beat every time she smirked his way.
And Gryffindor was wrecked.
Oliver hovered near the goalposts, breathing like a dragon, hands clenched on his broomstick. He was watching for Y/N—he had to—but she was everywhere and nowhere at once.
She appeared right in front of him.
The Quaffle in her grip. Her hair whipped around her shoulders. Wind at her back.
“One more for the road?” she said sweetly.
Before he could react, she flipped the Quaffle into the air, twisted mid-flip and kicked it—KICKED it—clean through the center hoop. It spun like a flaming coin into the goal.
“Y/N JUST—SHE—DID SHE KICK THAT?? THROUGH THE HOOP???”
But Oliver didn’t hear the crowd.
Hovering in front of him, upside down now, head tilted toward him with mock pity.
“You’ll want to look up, Captain.”
Slytherin’s Seeker darted from the clouds, hand stretched out—
“Slytherin CATCHES THE SNITCH! THAT’S THREE -HUNDRED AND SIXTY TO SIXTY—IT’S OVER! SLYTHERIN WINS!”
Slytherins were screaming. Some were sobbing. The green section of the stands practically caught fire with celebration.
Y/N hovered a few feet away, gaze on Oliver, chin high, that maddeningly calm smirk back on her lips.
And slowly turned her broom, flying back to her team.
The pitch was clearing out—students still buzzing, talking over each other in disbelief, cheering, shouting, dissecting every insane move Slytherin pulled.
But Oliver Wood wasn’t moving.
Not until he spotted her.
Still in full gear, hair windswept, arms crossed loosely as she leaned against the Slytherin lockers like she hadn’t just destroyed him and his entire team.
His boots hit the grass harder than he meant as he walked over.
She looked up at the sound of his footsteps.
That smirk still played on her lips.
“Come to thank me for the show?” she asked coolly.
Oliver stopped right in front of her, jaw tight. He opened his mouth—closed it again. His whole body was still tense from the match.
“What the hell was that?” he said low, biting.
Her brow lifted. “You’ll have to be more specific. There were so many highlights.”
“You set us up. That ‘friendly’ match—” he nearly growled. “You played us.”
Y/N straightened slowly, stepping in just enough that they were toe-to-toe now. Her voice dropped, but her tone never lost its sharp edge.
“Maybe don’t spread rumours about venomous snakes next time, Captain.”
Oliver’s breath hitched. Because damn. She said it like it was a checkmate—like she was bored of his tantrum already.
And she still looked stunning. Hair tangled from flying, jersey loose, eyes bright with adrenaline. So infuriatingly calm.
“You’ve had my name in your mouth for weeks, Wood. Thought I’d give you a proper taste.”
A flicker of something darker passed through his expression.
“No. But it was more fun because it was you.”
The silence between them crackled. Too close. Too tense. Too much heat under the skin.
And just a few feet away—
A student from the Hogwarts Herald froze mid-snap, holding up a camera charmed to hover.
Oliver turned slightly. “Are you—are you taking photos?!”
The student grinned and shouted, “Front page!” before sprinting off.
Y/N just snorted under her breath and stepped around him, brushing his shoulder as she passed.
“Smile for the paper, Wood. I know I will.”
Leaving Oliver standing there, flushed and furious and—Merlin help him
It was barely 8 a.m. and the Hogwarts Herald was already flying across the tables like cursed parchment. Every student had a copy in their hands. And the front page?
A full spread photo of Oliver Wood and Y/N.
Her head tilted, smirking like the villain in a romance novel.
“ENEMY ON THE PITCH, CHEMISTRY OFF IT?”
Slytherin Captain Y/L/N shuts down Gryffindor’s Oliver Wood in more ways than one.
The Gryffindor table was in chaos.
Fred Weasley let out a howl. “LOOK AT HIS FACE—he’s BEGGING for forgiveness!”
George leaned dramatically across the bench, holding the paper up like it was sacred scripture.
“You know you’re not allowed to fall for your nemesis, right? That’s her job.”
“Ooooh, she walked off on you like a damn queen! Look at her face! Look at yours!” Teased Angelina
Oliver, sleep-deprived and sore as hell, just scowled and tried to eat his toast.
“You’re all infants,” he muttered.
“Infants with eyes,” Fred shot back.
“And ears,” George added. “We heard about the whole ‘thought I’d give you a proper taste’ line. Spicy.”
Oliver reached across the table and ripped the paper in half.
Oliver hadn’t taken more than two bites of his toast.
Because everyone was still talking. Still laughing. Still whispering behind their hands as they stole glances at the ripped Hogwarts Herald beside his elbow.
And across the hall, sitting serenely at the Slytherin table like the eye of the storm—
She was sipping her pumpkin juice. Calm as glass.
Oliver shoved his chair back so hard it screeched against the stone floor. His team barely blinked—they’d already seen him lose it half a dozen times this week.
By the time he got out into the corridor, she was ahead of him. Turning the corner. Untouched by chaos.
That got her. She paused, glanced over her shoulder like she hadn’t planned this exact moment already.
Oliver caught up, breath short, adrenaline still buzzing through his veins.
“Why the hell are you so calm about this?” he snapped.
“The article. The match. All of it. The whole school’s treating it like some tragic romantic play, and you’re just—sipping juice?!”
“You were watching me sip juice?”
She finally turned to face him fully. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.
“I don’t have to lose my mind when I’ve already won, Wood.”
Oliver’s jaw locked. “So that’s it, then? This whole thing was just to humiliate me?”
Her gaze softened just a fraction. Just enough to make his pulse jump.
“You’re not as observant as you like to think,” she said, voice quiet.
But she was already turning away.
“Maybe if you paid attention before I wore green jersey, you’d understand.”
And with that, she strolled off.
Every time he blinked, he saw her spinning her broom lazily through the air. Every time he turned a corner, he swore he caught the sound of her laugh. And every time someone said “Slytherin,” he had to resist the urge to check over his shoulder.
It was stupid. Insane. She was arrogant and smug and played Quidditch like it was a ballet—but with violence. She made him look like a fool. She ruined his press.
Oh god, does he like her?!
Oliver was early. He wanted quiet. What he got instead… was evidence.
He opened the door to the usual study room to find it empty—except for one thing:
A worn-out green leather notebook on the table.
Left behind. No name. But it was very clearly Quidditch-related: play diagrams, position notes, scribbled arrows and speeds.
3rd Year – Personal Strategy Notes
4th year changes in the teams
Heart banging like a bludger.
He knew he shouldn’t open it. He really did.
But then… the next page had a heading
Gryffindor Keeper Analysis – Oliver Wood (4th Year)
“Okay. No. This is not real,” he muttered.
“Strong aerial acceleration.”
“Left arm blocks are instinctive but sloppy under pressure.”
She’d watched him since he was in fourth year.
And written in the margin, barely visible
“Could have been captain. Will be. Just not yet.”
He dropped the notebook like it burned.
Then immediately picked it up again.
Because now he couldn’t stop reading. Couldn’t stop seeing every diagram with little details she noticed—about him. His flying. His choices. His reflexes.
The green notebook was practically glued to his hands. His eyes flicked over diagrams, notes, and—Godric help him—little sketches she’d made. Of him.
One showed his flying stance mid-save, complete with an arrow pointing to his jawline and the scribble:
“Focus level: deadly. Cute when he’s mad.”
He choked out a laugh. Actually laughed. Soft and fond and doomed.
Oliver stood there, notebook clutched in both hands like it was going to explode.
He’d barely slept. Barely breathed. Every page of her notes had burned into his mind like a permanent brand. He’d reread the part about his “determined shoulders” six times before slamming the book shut and declaring he was losing his mind.
Y/N Y/L/N. Walking across the courtyard, wind in her hair, scarf flapping behind her, absolute chaos in human form. Her broom slung casually over one shoulder.
She sauntered up with that same infuriating grace, as if she hadn’t single-handedly dismantled his confidence and reprogrammed his brain chemistry.
Oliver held the notebook out wordlessly.
She stopped right in front of him, peered down at it—and then at him.
“So. Finally figured it out? Or should I leave another clue?”
He nearly dropped the thing.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“…You—you did that on purpose.”
She tilted her head, all innocence. “What, accidentally left years of Quidditch analysis and secret adoration for the Gryffindor Keeper in a room you frequent?”
Oliver made a strangled noise.
Y/N plucked the notebook from his hands gently, like she hadn’t just ripped the rug out from under his emotional equilibrium.
Then, as she turned, she tossed over her shoulder:
“Let me know when you’re ready for my notes on your kissing technique. I’ve got predictions.”
Oliver stood motionless for a solid minute.
Then, very quietly, to himself
The sun was setting, casting golden light across the nearly empty pitch. Oliver had stayed late, of course. Flying laps. Obsessing. Thinking.
She’d been haunting him—on and off the pitch.
He didn’t want her out of his head. He wanted in.
Just outside the locker rooms. Alone. Hair slightly wind-tousled from her own practice. Laughing at something on a parchment she’d tucked into her bag.
Without thinking, Oliver swooped down.
She blinked up at him. Slowly. Smile curling into something wicked.
Oliver was already blushing. “I—uh—no. I mean—yes. Wait.”
She took a step closer, chin tilted in that same maddeningly confident way.
“So what’ll it be, Wood? Another snarky comeback, or are you here for your first lesson?”
It was impulsive. A little rough. Desperate in a way only someone who’s been losing sleep could kiss. But it was real—and it shut her up for once.
Y/N pulled back slowly, eyes still half-lidded.
Oliver turned just in time to see Dennis Creevey scrambling away behind the stands with a camera clutched to his chest and the expression of someone who just won the journalism lottery.
“We’re going to be front page, aren’t we?” Oliver muttered.
Y/N snorted. “Hogwarts’ scandal of the month.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “This is mad. You’re driving me mad.”
“Good. Means it’s working.”
He stared at her for a moment, then finally admitted—quiet, but sure
“Teach me more. About you. Please.”
Then shrugged, as if this was the most casual decision in the world
“Only if you buy me dinner first.”
He grinned. “Hogsmeade. Saturday.”
And with that, she turned and strolled off, victorious again.
Oliver stood there in a daze.
“Quidditch goddess. Absolute menace. And somehow… mine.”
Hogwarts Herald — Special Edition
“Enemies to Entanglements?”
Love Soars as Rival Captains Kiss on Pitch
By: Rita Twiglet, Fourth-Year Gossip Correspondent
Photos by: Dennis Creevey, Local Menace
EXCLUSIVE: The Quidditch pitch wasn’t the only place sparks were flying this season. In a shocking turn of events, Gryffindor’s golden boy Oliver Wood and Slytherin’s new captain and chaos incarnate, Y/N Y/L/N, were spotted locking lips just outside the locker rooms after practice last Thursday. That’s right. You heard it here first: The rivals are snogging.
Our sources say the romance started with competitive banter, mysterious notebooks, and a wager that left Wood watching the official Gryffindor-Slytherin match from the stands. Some say he’s been love-struck since that humiliating defeat. Others say he never stood a chance.
“It’s like watching two stars collide,” one Ravenclaw swooned.
“Honestly? I ship it,” said a blushing Hufflepuff fifth-year.
And we will be feasting more on this drama for the rest of the year.
Stay tuned, witches and wizards — we’re calling it now
Slytherin-Gryffindor Power Couple? Incoming.
Good luck, darling. You’re going to need it.
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