The Reason for Obsession

He was obsessed; there was no doubt about it. Oliver Wood was completely obsessed with Quidditch and nothing could distract him from the beauty of the game. His team applauded him for the dedication he showed and just assumed it was because he wanted to win that he spent so much time absorbed in practicing. No one knew the real reason Oliver threw himself at Quidditch and he never wanted anyone to know.

The team had long since trudged back up to the castle and left their captain to continue his practicing. The moon provided all the light he needed; only slightly illuminating the enchanted Quaffles that sped towards him to train his awareness of the patterns of throws. He was beginning to memorise them all, leaving them to embed themselves into his mind so the reactions almost became instinct so when it came to the games he didn't even need to think, it'd just be a reflex.

Another one hurtled towards him with startling force, catching him off guard and unaware, flying through the post and just missing colliding with his shoulder.

"Loosing your touch, eh Wood?"

Oliver frowned, recognising the voice immediately as one belonging to Marcus Flint. It made sense why he'd missed the last save; no matter how much he practiced Flint could always get one past him.

Another came flying at his head and Wood ducked just in time to save himself a trip to Madame Pomfrey's office. He still couldn't see where the elder Captain was firing his shots from; somehow he didn't understand how he couldn't see someone as broad as Flint, even if it was a little darker than normal. He could hear the deep, rumbling laugh and knew there was bound to be a crooked smirk taking pride of place upon his face, sometimes Wood just wanted to wipe it off his face in any way possible- but he knew that wouldn't happen any time soon, he wasn't really into violence.

"Maybe you ought to think about retiring."

This time he was ready for the onslaught and caught the Quaffle with ease and he could almost hear the frown forming. Flint probably didn't know that he had a throwing pattern, just like everyone else did, Oliver just memorised them and used it to his advantage. No one could ever say Wood was unwise in the game, he knew every trick that made him a better player- that was why he practiced so hard.

"I've still got it." He retorted, throwing the Quaffle back to his opponent. "Maybe you're the one that better think about retirement."

Flint growled, firing another mighty short towards the Gryffindor Keeper. Wood swerved to miss collision again and it smashed against the goal behind him with the accompaniment of the sound of splintering wood. This one hadn't been aimed at the goals; it had been aimed directly at him and had been at full force.

"What was that Wood?"

"You heard me."

But when the Quaffle smashed straight into his face, Oliver wished that he hadn't.

-------

Madame Pomfrey had contacted his parents to tell them about his unfortunate accident with an enchanted Quaffle. From that moment his Mother hadn't left his side, despite the reassurances that he was perfectly fine and the swelling would go down. She'd tried her best to convince her son that maybe it was time to find something else to do to pass away his time.

But she didn't understand why he played it.

At first Oliver had played it because his father wanted him to and he'd never directly disobey what his father wanted. He worked at it to impress his father, so he could feel that his father was proud of him.

Soon though it had evolved into something else, something that was bigger than his father's pride. It turned into an obsession that he couldn't control no matter how hard he tried. It was one of those things that helped him feel powerful and strong, it was something that gave him an adrenaline rush and a dizzying sense of ecstasy that was untouchable.

He'd only equalled it once and that was something that had made him throw himself much more at the game just to forget that someone else could give him that rush. Someone that despite everything, was unobtainable.

"Oliver honey," His mother's soft voice cut through his thoughts. "There's someone here to see you."

He didn't know who was left to visit him and talk about the jinxed Quaffle; he'd retold the story hundreds of times and he wasn't even sure why he was protecting Flint in all of it. He'd seen the team at least twice, coming to tell him how the practices were going and even though he was perfectly fine- the two overprotective women wouldn't allow him out on his broom.

Wood rolled over and grimaced as he came face-to-face with the whole cause of his bed-rest… Marcus Flint.

"I'll leave you two to talk." Mrs. Wood said, graciously excusing herself from her sons' side and leaving the two alone. She didn't realise how much Oliver actually wanted her there rather than having to see him, he didn't want to have to look at the troll at that moment, and actually he never wanted to see him again.

Flint looked uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from side to side, avoiding looking at his face and Wood wondered whether that was out of guilt or whether he was purely there to gloat at the damage he caused; Wood guessed it was the latter but somewhat hoped it was guilt.

Oliver waited for him to say something, but was stunned when he felt the calloused palm cup his cheek tenderly. He looked up and was startled by the intense gaze that was settled on his own, an intense gaze he never thought he'd see again.

As quickly as it had come, the hand was gone and so was Marcus and Oliver sighed, knowing that even for that split-second there was that ecstasy that he got from Quidditch, because it was only Flint that could replace that obsession.

Until then, he just had to settle with Quidditch… That was the reason for his obsession.

R&R would be much appreciated!