Oliver Wood

The sharp crack of wood against iron still echoed across the Quidditch pitch when Oliver hit the ground.

Now, hours later, he sat stiffly on one of the Hospital Wing beds, jaw clenched as Madam Pomfrey wrapped the last bandage around his shoulder. His broom lay confiscated in the corner, and the expression on his face looked more wounded than the injury itself.

“Absolutely no flying for a week,” Madam Pomfrey said firmly before turning to you. “And since he refuses to listen to reason, you’ll be helping keep an eye on him.”

The doors shut behind her.

Silence lingered for only a moment before Oliver looked up at you, clearly irritated.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m perfectly fine.”

He tried to stand, immediately winced, then sat back down harder than intended.

His ears reddened. He crossed his arms and glared at the floor before looking back at you.

“Don’t just stand there staring. If you’re going to babysit me, at least make yourself useful.”