Ignoring the press of people around him, all chattering excitedly about the fast-approaching Quidditch game, Oliver made his way to the Gryffindor locker room to change. All the while, he was mulling over what he had said the night before to Hermione. He hadn't meant to single her out, or to even say anything to her. It just popped out. He could say that he did it out of pity; Hermione was always so tired and studied so much, she looked like she needed someone to say something nice to her. He could say he did it out of courtesy; it would have been rude to just ignore her. But he wouldn't – or maybe he couldn't.
I guess I always admired her – from an academic point of view. She was smarter than all of the others in her year, and smarter than a lot of people older than her. Oliver automatically put on his scarlet and gold Quidditch robes, ignoring the rest of the team as they filed in. Let them think he was pondering Quidditch strategy. That's what everyone thought about him. Oliver Wood was always thinking about Quidditch. Okay, so most of the time, especially before a match, he was thinking of ways to beat the other teams. But there were times when he wasn't. Especially recently.
Oliver knew that a lot of girls liked him; they looked at him and giggled and tittered in the hallways. No one asked him who he liked, only assumed he was consumed by his game. That was probably for the best – if he told anyone, it would spread around school like a wildfire through dry brush. Oliver Wood, a seventh-year student, likes a third-year, and the know-it-all third-year at that.
At least he knew Hermione liked him. He could tell that much. It was in her face whenever she looked at him. Like last night, when he was talking to the team. She kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, all the while trying to study. He almost laughed out loud. It was almost flattering to be something that could distract Hermione Granger from her bookwork.
For an instant, he did smile, and Harry looked at him strangely. "Are you feeling okay, Oliver?"
Oliver nodded quickly. "Yeah…I was just thinking about something." Someone.
Remembering that he was supposed to be giving the speech that everyone had already heard, he launched into a surprisingly short spiel about how they have to win this match, watching Fred and George mouth the words along with him.
"Okay, let's go." he finished, and grabbed his broom. The others followed suit, and followed him out into the cold day. It was foggy and gray, bad weather conditions for a Quidditch match.
I can barely see the top of the goal posts from here. Oliver thought, peering into the gloom.
Then the Slytherins came onto the field, to a hail of boos and jeers from three-quarters of the audience. Oliver stepped forward to shake hands with Captain Marcus Flint, before Madame Hooch's whistle blew and the teams scattered into the fog.
Author's Note: Okay, I know it's short. I didn't want to make Oliver too hung up about Hermione – Quidditch is still (basically) his life.