The Captain’s Favourite Fan - imagine
Oliver Wood x reader
summary:What began as a casual Saturday distraction turns into something far more consuming when you attend your first Quidditch match at Hogwarts. From the stands, you watch Oliver Wood—focused, determined, unyielding—and find yourself drawn into his world of flight and fire. Match after match, your quiet admiration grows into something deeper, stitched into every save and shout from the pitch.
When Oliver finally notices the girl who never misses a game, a subtle connection sparks—a glance through the storm, a shared smile after a victory, and the slow realization that neither of you has been imagining it. As the season builds to its final match, the boundary between captain and fan blurs into something undeniable. In the quiet aftermath of triumph, under the glow of the common room fire, that connection finally finds its moment.
warnings: none
wordcount: 5.3k
The first match she ever attended was supposed to be nothing more than a Saturday distraction. The castle was caught between seasons; winter still clung to the edges of the grounds, the sky a restless patchwork of grey and pale blue. She went because everyone else was going, scarves trailing, mittens mismatched, the whole school surging toward the pitch in a tide of colour and noise.
She had never really understood Quidditch. The few pages she’d read in Quidditch Through the Ages hadn’t stuck; it all sounded like a blur of rules and statistics. But when she reached the stands and the first whistle blew, the confusion melted into awe. The sky came alive with movement—scarlet and gold weaving between clouds, the crowd roaring each time a glint of red streaked past the hoops.
At the centre of it all was Oliver Wood.
He hovered in front of the goalposts like a sentry, shouting directions to his teammates, rain-dark hair plastered against his forehead. He moved with the sort of intensity that made you forget there were fourteen players in the air. Even when the action shifted to the far end of the pitch, her eyes followed him. There was purpose in the way he gripped his broom, a kind of stubborn grace; every save looked like it cost him a piece of himself.
When Gryffindor finally scored the winning goal, the stands exploded. She found herself shouting too, hoarse with exhilaration, though she wasn’t sure she understood what she was cheering for—the team’s victory or the way he smiled, exhausted and radiant, when he landed to shake his Chasers’ hands.
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After that day she started noticing his name everywhere: on the notice board, scribbled across practice schedules, whispered by first-years who idolised him. It was as though seeing him once had tuned her eyes to his frequency. She told herself it was harmless curiosity. She just wanted to understand the game.
The next match came two weeks later. She arrived early enough to claim the same seat high in the stands, where she could see the entire pitch spread out like a living diagram. She watched the team file in from the tunnel—their brooms resting on their shoulders, robes rippling in the wind—and felt the same quick jump of anticipation.
By the second game she could follow the rhythm of play, predict when he’d dive. She noticed he always touched the handle of his broom before a penalty, almost a silent promise to himself. When he shouted to his Beaters, the words carried through the chill air, steady and commanding.
Between matches she found herself replaying certain moments in her head: the arc of his broom as he blocked a goal, the raw focus etched across his face. She tried to sketch the motion in the margins of her notes, tiny figures balanced on sticks, but the drawings never captured the energy of the real thing.
Hermione teased her about it. “You’ll end up knowing the playbook better than Wood himself,” one of them laughed, but she only smiled, folding her notes closed. She didn’t mind the teasing. It felt like holding a secret; they saw a crush, but she felt something else—admiration, maybe, or the thrill of watching someone who refused to be ordinary.
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The season crept on, and the weather turned unpredictable. Some Saturdays dawned bright, sunlight glancing off the towers; others brought wind that whipped the banners sideways. No matter what the sky decided, she was there.
Sometimes she thought she imagined it, but occasionally his gaze seemed to brush past her section of the stands. It was never long enough to mean anything, but the possibility made her pulse quicken. She told herself that of course he didn’t notice individual faces; the captain had a hundred things to think about. Still, she began wearing the same knitted hat each game—a lucky charm, she called it—to mark her place among the crowd.
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The third match arrived with a storm. The clouds hung low and heavy; by the time the teams took flight, the rain had turned the pitch into a glistening blur. One by one, umbrellas blossomed in the stands, then folded again when the wind tore at them. Students fled for cover between plays, laughter echoing through the stairwells.
She stayed.
Water soaked through her cloak, dripped into her boots, blurred the ink on her hastily drawn sign. She could barely see the Quaffle through the sheets of rain, but she watched the red-clad Keeper cutting through the weather, fearless. Every time he dove, spray exploded around him like silver fire.
At one point he paused mid-air, squinting up into the stands to gauge visibility. For a moment his eyes found hers. He had to be searching for the ball, she told herself, yet his gaze lingered half a heartbeat too long. Then he turned and launched forward again, slicing through the storm.
When the final whistle sounded and Gryffindor scraped a narrow win, she was drenched, shivering, and utterly elated. As she followed the crowd back toward the castle, she caught herself smiling for no reason. She carried the image of him—the way he’d looked up through the rain—like a spark cupped between her palms.
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Oliver didn’t think of himself as the kind of person who noticed spectators. The stands were a blur of colour and sound; all that mattered was the pitch, the wind, the next move. But that night, drying his broom in the locker room, he kept remembering the single figure who hadn’t left when the rain drove everyone else away. There’d been something steady in the way she’d sat, chin lifted, hair plastered to her cheeks.
He tried to push it aside—practice schedules, strategy meetings, upcoming exams—but the memory threaded itself through his thoughts. It wasn’t distraction so much as recognition: a small echo of his own stubbornness mirrored back at him.
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By spring, Quidditch had taken over the rhythm of school life. Posters brightened the corridors, charms sparkled from the banners overhead. She moved through it all with a secret undercurrent of anticipation. Her studies filled her days, but every time she passed the pitch her heart gave that same treacherous flutter.
She learned to spot him even at a distance: the broad shoulders, the easy balance on his broom, the shout that cut cleanly through the air. Sometimes she lingered near the edge of the stands after practice, pretending to read while the team cleared equipment. She liked the way his voice softened when he joked with the younger players, the way he never left the field until everyone else had gone.
He never looked her way then, and she told herself that was fine. She didn’t want to be one of the giggling girls outside the changing rooms. She wanted to stay unnoticed—safe in the illusion of watching from afar.
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The day of the championship arrived with rare, perfect weather. Sunlight poured over the grounds, the air humming with excitement. She took her usual seat, heart thrumming with a mixture of pride and dread. The whole school seemed to pulse with the same rhythm.
From her vantage she could see Oliver gathering his team before kickoff, voice low but firm. Even from across the pitch his confidence reached her like heat. When he mounted his broom, the stands erupted.
The game unfolded in bursts of colour and sound. She followed every movement, half-holding her breath through each save. The crowd’s noise rose and fell like waves, but her focus never wavered. It felt, absurdly, as though her attention itself might keep him aloft.
The minutes stretched; Gryffindor clung to a slim lead. Then, in a blur of motion, their Seeker caught the Snitch. The whistle split the air, and the stands became chaos—scarlet banners, laughter, students pouring onto the grass.
She stayed in her seat, hands pressed to her chest, watching him. He hovered for a heartbeat above the jubilant swarm, turned slowly toward the stands, and his eyes met hers.
This time there was no doubt. Recognition flared—surprise first, then something lighter, almost amusement. His mouth curved into a grin that reached his eyes before he dipped his head, as if sharing a secret. Then he was gone, swallowed by teammates and the glitter of confetti.
She sat very still, the roar of the crowd fading into a distant hum. The sun caught the droplets still clinging to the rail in front of her, turning them into tiny prisms. For the first time, she realised her heart was hammering not from the victory but from being seen.
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That evening, long after the castle had quieted, she found the scarf she’d worn to every match still damp with dew. She hung it by the fire, smiled to herself, and tried not to wonder whether he would remember the face behind the cheering.
Somewhere across the castle, Oliver lay awake staring at the canopy of his bed, replaying the moment he’d looked into the stands and recognised her—the determined fan who had weathered the storm, always in the same seat. He didn’t know her name, but now he found himself wanting to.
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The victory that day seemed to fold the whole of Hogwarts into a single heartbeat. The air was thick with steam from breath and clouds, banners trailing scarlet and gold in the rain. It took hours for the stands to empty, and even then, laughter echoed up from the pitch long after the team had landed.
She stayed until the last broom was grounded, pretending to wait for a friend but really waiting for him. She watched Oliver’s easy grin as he clapped his chasers on the back, the way his hair clung damply to his forehead. There was a new lightness in him — the kind that comes only after long strain has been lifted.
When he finally turned toward the tunnel, he caught her gaze through the haze. For a heartbeat, the crowd around them blurred. Then he broke into a grin that wasn’t for the team or the fans, but for her.
Later, in the Great Hall, the celebration roared on — students pounding the tables, confetti charms bursting in gold sparks, Professor McGonagall smiling with rare, tired pride. She stood near the far wall, nursing a goblet of pumpkin juice, trying to look like she belonged there, like her pulse wasn’t racing just from seeing him across the room.
He found her anyway.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, voice rough from shouting, still laced with that Highland warmth that rolled the edges of his words.
She turned, tried for nonchalance. “You think I’d miss a victory party? You underestimate Gryffindor spirit.”
He laughed, the sound low and surprised. “Spirit, aye? You were the loudest one out there, weren’t you?”
Her cheeks warmed, but she managed a shrug. “Maybe.”
“Thought I heard someone nearly fall off the stands cheering,” he said, stepping closer, the grin tugging at his mouth. “Guess I know who that was now.”
It was small talk, just banter between a captain and a fan, but something under it shifted. The warmth between them was quiet but immediate. He lingered a beat too long before someone called his name, pulling him back into the crowd. As he turned away, he looked over his shoulder once — and that was when she realised he had memorised her face.
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In the days that followed, the castle carried the hum of spring — the scent of wet grass, the bright chatter of students shedding winter layers. Classes resumed their rhythm, but for her, everything seemed threaded with something else. She felt his presence even when he wasn’t near: a glimpse of him on the pitch at dusk, a flash of red robes at the end of a corridor.
And then she began to notice that he noticed her too.
In the Great Hall, she’d glance up to find his eyes on her across the tables. In the courtyard, as she studied under a tree, he would pass, greeting her with that same disarming half-smile. Once, in the library, she looked up from a Charms essay to find him leaning against a shelf two aisles over, pretending to browse. He caught her looking and, with a raised brow, mouthed, Caught me.
It became a pattern — one that neither of them seemed eager to break.
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By the next practice, his teammates had started teasing him. “You’re grinning like a loon again, Captain,” one of the Beaters said as they took off. Oliver brushed it off, but he knew the reason. Every time he scanned the stands, he caught sight of her in his mind — that unwavering, bright energy she had whenever she watched him play. It made him sharper, steadier.
He told himself it was ridiculous, that he had no time for distractions, but the truth was simpler: he’d never wanted one before.
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A week later, on a rare sunny afternoon, she was heading back from the pitch when she heard footsteps behind her.
“Oi — hold on a second!”
She turned to find Oliver jogging up, broom over his shoulder, grin easy and open.
“You know,” he said, stopping beside her, “it’s odd seeing you leave the stands instead of sitting in them.”
“I do have classes, you know,” she replied, smiling despite herself.
“Aye, but I was starting to think you lived up there,” he teased, then lowered his voice, just a shade softer: “Not that I’d mind the company.”
The warmth in his tone made her heart flutter. She tried to steady her breath. “I’m sure you have plenty of fans for that.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, playfully. “Maybe. But I’m particular.”
And there it was — the start of the flirtation that would carry them through the days to come.
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From then on, their paths seemed to intertwine everywhere. In corridors, they traded glances that lingered too long; in study halls, smiles that said more than words. He began to find excuses to talk to her — about the next match, about weather charms, even about how dreadful the new referee was. Each time, his accent slipped richer, his tone dipped lower, as though he knew the sound alone could undo her composure.
She learned to play along.
When he leaned against a wall, looking entirely too confident, she’d meet his eyes coolly and say, “You’re awfully sure of yourself, Wood.”
And he’d grin, unbothered. “You’d be too if you had someone like you cheering for you.”
It became a game — one neither wanted to end.
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Then came the final match of the season. The air that morning crackled with anticipation; even the castle seemed to hold its breath. She took her usual seat, her scarf wrapped tight, heart pounding harder than it should have for someone who wasn’t on the field.
From the first whistle, it was chaos. Rain again — sheets of it — and the opposing team relentless. But Oliver was at his best under pressure; he moved with focus that bordered on fierce grace. She watched him fly higher, faster, until it was all a blur of motion and wind.
And then came the impossible save.
The Quaffle shot like a comet toward the goalposts. He dove, the stadium gasping as one. For a second it seemed he wouldn’t make it — and then he did, snatching the ball out of midair, spinning his broom in a perfect arc. The stands erupted.
In the midst of the noise, he lifted his head — and pointed straight toward her section.
For one breathless moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. Rain streaming down his face, chest heaving, his grin unmistakably meant for her.
After the match, as students swarmed the field, she found herself pressed near the tunnel, heart pounding. He was there, still in his soaked gear, hair plastered to his forehead.
“Knew you’d be there,” he said, breathless but smiling. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re giving me far too much credit.”
“Maybe not enough,” he said quietly. And then, softer still, “You’ve been there every match. Do you know what that does to a man trying to keep his head in the game?”
The words hung between them, a confession wrapped in a smile.
She felt the shift then — the same one that had lived between them all season, finally breaking open. Around them, the noise of celebration blurred into a distant hum.
And as he looked at her, eyes bright with something more than victory, she realised that the chase had ended. Neither was just watching anymore.
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The castle was quieter now, the storm outside reduced to a steady whisper against the windows. Most of the school had drifted off to bed, hoarse from cheering. The air still smelled faintly of rain and woodsmoke, a reminder of the match that would be talked about for years.
She lingered near the common room fire, watching the embers pulse and fade. The door creaked, and footsteps padded across the rug.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Oliver’s voice was softer now, without the roar of the pitch behind it.
She turned, smiling. “Too much excitement.”
He dropped onto the couch opposite her, broom still in hand, as if he’d only just come in from the field. His hair was tousled, his grin easy, but there was something quieter in his eyes — something that hadn’t been there before.
“You were incredible out there,” she said.
He laughed, shaking his head. “Aye, but I was thinking I owed it to my good-luck charm.”
“Your what?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin deepening. “You. Every match, you’re there. Don’t pretend you don’t know what that does to a fellow.”
She rolled her eyes, trying not to blush. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still here.”
The room seemed to shrink around them, the firelight flickering across the walls, catching in his eyes. For a long moment, neither spoke. The quiet stretched until it became its own language.
He stood, took a step closer. “I should probably thank you properly.”
Her breath hitched. “You already did.”
“Not like this.”
He reached out, his hand brushing a stray curl from her cheek. The touch was careful, almost hesitant, but his gaze held hers with steady warmth.
And then, slowly, he kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed or clumsy. It was the kind of kiss that had been waiting in every glance across the pitch, in every half-smile traded in passing. The air between them seemed to hum; the taste of rain still lingered on his skin. She felt the laughter still in his breath, the thrill of the match still beating in his chest.
When they finally broke apart, the fire had burned low. He rested his forehead against hers, both of them catching their breath.
“Been wanting to do that for half the season,” he admitted, voice rough with honesty.
She smiled, fingers still tangled in the edge of his sleeve. “Worth the wait?”
He laughed quietly. “More than worth it.”
“Come on,” he said. “Too many eyes down here.”
She hesitated only a second before letting him lead her through the winding stairs. The tower was nearly empty; portraits slept, their snores echoing faintly. By the time they reached the top landing, the storm outside had quieted to a whisper of rain.
His room was warm, scattered with Quidditch gear and the faint smell of broom polish. He set his broom aside and turned to her. For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then they did.
The kiss this time had no hesitation. All the weeks of glances and half-smiles came tumbling into it. She felt his hands at her waist, steady but trembling; her fingers brushed the back of his neck, tracing the line of his hair still damp from the match. He tasted like wind and adrenaline and the kind of victory that meant more than points on a board.
They pulled apart just long enough to laugh quietly, foreheads touching.
“I’ve been trying to keep my head,” he said against her skin, voice thick with warmth, “and you’ve made it impossible.”
She smiled, whispering, “Good.”
The next kiss was slower, deeper — a rhythm that melted the last of the distance between them. The rain outside swelled again, a soft percussion against the windows, and the fire in the grate flickered higher. They stayed like that, learning the shape of something new, until the castle bells chimed the hour and the world returned in small sounds: the crack of the fire, the steadying of breath, the quiet wonder of it all.
When they finally drew apart, Oliver rested his hands on her shoulders, eyes bright.
“Whatever comes next,” he said, “I’m in it.”
And she believed him.
