#(oli)

Oliver Wood x Reader

Professor Sprout’s favorite menace grows plants in her greenhouse, sweet-talks professors for fun, and somehow convinces Oliver Wood to move six heavy pots for one kiss.

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

—

“Absolutely not.”

“You haven’t even heard the idea yet,” Fred said.

“I heard enough when you said the words ‘let George help,’” Oliver snapped, holding his wrist against his chest as they stomped down the corridor. “Madam Pomfrey said I need something for the swelling.”

“Madam Pomfrey,” George said solemnly, “also suggested ‘a cold compress’.”

“She said Muggle methods work perfectly well.”

“She’s clearly given up on you,” Fred said.

Oliver glared at them both. His wrist still ached from the Bludger that had slammed into him at practice, and Madam Pomfrey had been out of Pepper-Up, bruise paste, and patience.

“Snape has the proper potion,” Oliver muttered.

“Snape also nearly bit Colin Creevey’s head off because he breathed too loudly,” George said.

“And if you go ask him now, he’ll probably make the injury worse out of spite,” Fred added.

“So,” George finished brightly, “we’re going to see her.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “You still have not explained who ‘her’ is.”

The twins exchanged a look.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Fred said.

—

The greenhouse was dark except for the faint glow of enchanted lanterns hanging between the beams.

Greenhouse Three always smelled strange at night, damp earth and herbs and something sweet underneath. Oliver followed the twins between the rows of plants, swatting leaves out of his face.

“Why are we sneaking?” he hissed.

“We’re not sneaking,” Fred said.

“We’re dramatically entering,” George corrected.

They reached the back of the greenhouse.

At first Oliver thought the corner was empty.

Then someone unfolded herself from beneath the worktable.

She had dirt on her cheek, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and a pair of gardening gloves shoved into the back pocket of her skirt. There were pots everywhere around her, stacked books, jars of dried leaves, strings hanging from the ceiling with herbs tied upside down to dry.

She blinked at them.

“You know,” she said, “most people knock.”

“You cannot knock on a greenhouse,” Fred said.

“You can on the glass.”

“….obviously.”

Oliver stared.

The entire back corner of the greenhouse looked nothing like the rest. It was practically a room. There were shelves full of labeled jars, a teapot on a crate, an old armchair, and half a dozen plants he was fairly sure were not supposed to be growing in school.

Fred pointed dramatically.

“He’s dying.”

“I am not dying,” Oliver said.

She looked him up and down.

“You look dramatic enough to be.”

“It’s his wrist,” George said. “Madam Pomfrey’s useless and Snape’s homicidal.”

“Hm.” She stepped closer. “Show me.”

Oliver hesitated.

She raised an eyebrow.

“What? You think I’m going to poison you?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “This looks deeply illegal.”

She gasped, offended.

“It is not illegal.”

“You have an entire secret garden hidden behind the Venomous Tentacula.”

“It is not hidden,” she said. “People are just unobservant.”

“You stole all this from Professor Sprout.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I grew it.”

Oliver laughed before he could stop himself.

“You grew it?”

“Yes.”

“In Professor Sprout’s greenhouse.”

“In my section of Professor Sprout’s greenhouse.”

“There is no such thing as your section.”

“There is if Professor Sprout likes you.”

Fred nodded. “She does.”

“Disturbingly much,” George agreed.

She shot them both a look, then grabbed Oliver’s wrist before he could protest.

He hissed.

“Ow.”

“You’ve got the pain tolerance of a teaspoon,” she said.

“You just dug your thumb into a bruise!”

“Mm.” She turned his wrist gently, frowning. “You’ll live.”

“Comforting.”

She crossed to one of the shelves and started grabbing things.

A handful of dried leaves. Something purple from a jar. A small bottle with no label.

Oliver watched her suspiciously.

“You know what you’re doing?”

“No,” she said. “I thought I’d just start mixing random things together and see if you exploded.”

Fred snorted.

George leaned over to Oliver. “She’s in a mood today. I think that means she likes you.”

“I do not,” she said without turning around.

“You know we’re right.”

She ignored them, crushing herbs with the back of a spoon.

The whole greenhouse smelled sharper now, mint and rosemary and something warm and earthy.

“You spend a lot of time here,” Oliver said.

“I like it here.”

“Because of the plants?”

“Because plants are easier than people.”

Fred barked out a laugh.

“That is such rubbish,” he said. “You love people.”

“No,” she said, “I love getting what I want from them.”

Oliver looked up at that.

She said it lightly, but there was something strange in her expression.

Like she was waiting for him to think less of her.

Instead, he crossed his arms.

“And what do you want?”

She looked over her shoulder at him.

“Right now?” she said. “For you to stop complaining.”

Then she came back and spread the paste over his wrist.

It was cool at first.

Then it burned.

Oliver yelped.

“You’re trying to kill me!”

“You’re so dramatic,” she said, laughing.

Fred and George were both absolutely useless, doubled over beside a rack of Puffapods.

“You should hear him after Quidditch practice,” Fred said.

“I do hear him after Quidditch practice,” she said. “The whole castle does.”

Oliver glared at all of them.

But annoyingly, by the time she wrapped his wrist in clean bandages, it already felt better.

He flexed his hand.

The ache was almost gone.

He looked at her.

“You actually fixed it.”

“Obviously.”

“You still probably stole those ingredients.”

“I grew them.”

“You are very defensive for someone innocent.”

“And you are very annoying for someone who needed my help.”

Fred clapped Oliver on the shoulder.

“Brilliant. You two are in love.”

“We are not,” both of them said at the same time.

—

After that, Oliver started seeing her everywhere.

Or maybe she had always been everywhere and he had simply never noticed.

He noticed her in the corridors, slipping Filch a tiny pot of salve for Mrs Norris’ paw while somehow talking him out of giving three second years detention.

“But they set off a Dungbomb in Charms,” Filch grumbled.

“Yes,” she said. “And they’re terribly sorry.”

“They laughed.”

“They were nervous.”

“They were not nervous.”

She smiled sweetly.

Five minutes later, the boys were free and Filch was walking away muttering, but holding the little pot carefully in his hands.

Oliver stared.

“How did you do that?” he asked as she passed him.

She shrugged.

“Filch likes people who remember Mrs Norris has arthritis.”

Then she was gone.

—

The next day, Oliver saw her in the library arguing with Madam Pince.

“You cannot have this book,” Madam Pince said sharply.

“I’m not borrowing it,” she said innocently. “I’m rescuing it from neglect.”

“It is in the Restricted Section.”

“And I’m very responsible.”

“You are absolutely not.”

“I brought it back last time.”

“There should not have been a last time!”

Yet somehow, when Oliver passed the library an hour later, she was sitting by the window with the book open in her lap and a look of complete satisfaction on her face.

—

Then there was breakfast.

She slid into the seat across from him with a plate piled high with toast and jam.

“You’re late,” Fred said.

“I had to help a first year who cried because his Puffapod exploded.”

“You hate first years,” George said.

“I hate loud first years. He was quiet.”

Oliver looked at her plate.

“You’ve got three extra treacle tarts.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

She looked offended.

“The house elves like me.”

“Why?”

“Because I know all their names.”

George pointed at her with his fork.

“See? This is what I keep telling people. She’s terrifying.”

She stole one of Oliver’s sausages.

“You’re just jealous because I’m more charming than you.”

“You are not more charming than me.”

“You’re right,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m significantly more charming.”

Oliver laughed into his tea.

She looked at him immediately.

“There it is,” she said.

“What?”

“That thing you do when you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed with me.”

“I’m always annoyed with you.”

“Not true. You think I’m fascinating.”

Oliver nearly choked.

Fred and George both burst into hysterical laughter.

—

A nervous fifth year stopped her outside Charms and asked if she had anything for headaches.

She handed over a tiny paper packet.

“No charge,” she said before the girl could ask.

“But-”

“You looked like you were going to faint during History of Magic. Consider it an act of charity.”

Oliver watched the girl walk away looking relieved.

“You didn’t ask for anything in return,” he said.

She frowned at him.

“I’m not evil.”

“You said you like getting what you want.”

“I do.”

“And what do you want?”

She looked away for a second.

“People,” she said quietly. “To need me, I suppose.”

It was such an honest answer that Oliver forgot how to speak.

Then, because she hated being serious for more than ten seconds, she nudged him with her shoulder.

“And occasionally treacle tart.”

—

By the end of the week, Oliver was doomed.

He knew it when he found her in the courtyard with Professor McGonagall.

McGonagall was trying very hard to look stern.

She was failing.

“You cannot keep dragging plants into the castle,” McGonagall said.

“They were cold.”

“They are Venomous Tentacula.”

“They were still cold.”

“You put one in front of the Slytherin common room.”

“It was an accident.”

“It bit Mr Malfoy.”

“It disliked his attitude.”

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose.

Then, unbelievably, she sighed and said, “Just keep them out of the corridors.”

“Yes, Professor.”

As soon as McGonagall walked away, she caught Oliver staring.

“What?”

“You get away with everything.”

“No,” she said. “I just know when to apologize and when not to.”

—

He came back to the greenhouse three days later.

He told himself it was because his wrist hurt again.

It did not.

She was sitting cross-legged on the worktable, reading a book with one foot swinging lazily in the air.

“You’re back,” she said without looking up.

“My wrist.”

“Liar.”

“It still hurts.”

“You’re right-handed.”

“So?”

“You’re holding the wrong wrist.”

Oliver looked down.

Damn it.

She grinned.

“You are embarrassingly easy to read, Wood.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

She closed her book and hopped off the table.

“So,” she said, “what do you want?”

He looked around the greenhouse.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s disappointing. Most people come here wanting something.”

“I thought you liked getting what you want.”

“I do.” She smiled. “Which is why I’m asking.”

Oliver looked at her for a second too long.

Her hair was tied back badly, like she had done it in a hurry. There was dirt smudged along her jaw. She looked unfairly pretty standing there between rows of plants in the afternoon light.

She noticed him looking.

And smirked.

“Oh,” she said softly. “You want to kiss me.”

Oliver nearly choked.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You came all the way here with a fake injury.”

“My injury was not fake.”

“You held up the wrong hand.”

“That was one time.”

She stepped closer.

“You want to kiss me so badly.”

Oliver’s ears were burning.

“You are impossible.”

“And yet.” She leaned in just enough to make him stop breathing. “You’re still here.”

Then she stepped back.

“But if you want it,” she said sweetly, “you’ll have to earn it.”

Oliver blinked.

“What?”

She pointed to the corner.

There were six enormous pots stacked beside the wall.

“I need those moved.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“You are blackmailing me for a kiss?”

“I prefer to think of it as motivation.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m very serious.” She folded her arms. “Unless you don’t want it that badly.”

Oliver stared at her.

Then at the pots.

Then back at her smug face.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He did move the pots.

All six of them.

They were absurdly heavy.

She sat on the worktable the entire time, swinging her legs and offering deeply unhelpful commentary.

“A little more to the left.”

“I am going to drop this on your foot.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You sound very sure.”

“You like me too much.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Mhm.”

By the fourth pot he was sweating.

By the fifth she was openly laughing at him.

By the sixth he was glaring so hard she had the nerve to grin.

“There,” he said, shoving the last one into place. “Done.”

She looked over the row thoughtfully.

“Hm.”

“Hm?”

“I think they looked better before.”

Oliver made an outraged noise.

She laughed so hard she nearly slipped off the table.

“You are awful.”

“You already said that.”

“And manipulative.”

“Also true.”

“And I still think you stole half these plants.”

She hopped off the table and walked toward him.

“You know,” she said quietly, “for someone who complains this much, you really wanted that kiss.”

Oliver looked down at her.

She was close enough now that he could smell rosemary and dirt and whatever soap she used.

“Maybe,” he said.

“Maybe?”

“Maybe I wanted it a lot.”

Her eyes flicked to his mouth.

“Good,” she said softly.

“Good?”

“Because I think you earned it.”

And before he could say anything else, she grabbed the front of his robes, pulled him down, and kissed him.

Oliver forgot every clever thing he had ever planned to say.

Her hands slid into his hair. His hands found her waist. Somewhere behind them, a flowerpot crashed to the floor.

Neither of them cared.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them slightly breathless, she was smiling in that smug, infuriating way again.

“You know,” she said, “you probably could have gotten that without moving the pots.”

Oliver stared at her.

“You are unbelievable.”