Madeline Hastings was always a strong, independent woman. From a young age she understood right off the bat how reality is. She was always mature for her age, and far more responsible; an old soul.
Oliver Wood was a hard working man, who grew up with the a dream of thousands of fans cheering him on as the top keeper in the professional quidditch league. He was known for having a laugh, and not being afraid to have a good time.
When they met in their first year, they were instantly good friends. They spent a lot of time together, best friends practically attached at the hip. It was surprising, really. When she sat down next to him after being sorted in Gryffindor, he smiled at her warmly.
They were best friends for so many years. They got into a few petty fights every now and then, but never the screaming and yelling type. He was always the first to apologize.
When he turned 16, he noticed there was much more than friendship with them. He ignored it for as long as he could. He tried to focus on his grades, and quidditch, of course. That wasn’t easy, especially not when she was on the team as well, and sat next to him in every class. Trying to regard her as a friend when he was starting to see her as more wasn’t easy.
When she turned 16 two months and seventeen days after he did, he gathered all of his courage and asked her to be his girlfriend. She was a bit astonished, but also excited. He wasn’t the only one who sensed a different kind of chemistry between them.
Whether or not she’d care to admit it, he was her strength. The next few years they’d spend together would be the best and hardest years of her life.
In their 7th year, at the last big game, both of them were determined to make a lasting impression. Hopefully one that would make them into the big league. He pecked her on the lips right before the game started, and they took positions.
The Gryffindor team easily had the upper hand against Slytherin, and the game was going for the Gryffindors’ favor. The crowds were cheering and shouting, and the sun was shining brilliantly.
In the last three minutes of the game, as another player was going for the last score that would finalize their win, Oliver watched in horror as he saw Madeline and a Slytherin racing to the opposite side of the field. The boy clad in green slams into her, and he lets out a yell as he watches his girlfriend’s small frame fall 25 feet to the ground. He could practically hear the sickening crunch as she hit the ground, and her blood curdling scream pierced his ears.
He follows his gut instinct, racing towards her, and abandoning his post. He’s screaming her name, and he dismantles his broom quickly. The healers are tending to her, and won’t let him near her. He’s fuming, but also breaking down in worry. He stands on his toes to try and see her, give himself the smallest piece of mind that she’s breathing alright. He paces for a moment, and then sets eyes on the boy who knocked her off.
Anger rips through his body, and he closes the small space between them. The black haired boy was smirking, until Oliver grabs him by the collar of his quidditch uniform and pushes him down. The boy stumbles back up, only to have Oliver’s fist come directly in contact with his mouth. The dark haired boy spits, and a tooth and some blood pool on the ground. Gryffindor teammates are grabbing Oliver’s arms, holding him back as Madeline’s screams of utter agony rip through the air.
That was the day her dreams of ever becoming a professional quidditch player were torn up, burnt, spit and stepped on. Oliver proposed a week later, convincing her and small voice of doubt in his mind he couldn’t be without her, and that she needed him.
They wed nine months later in a small church, two weeks after Oliver signed the contract with one of the top teams in the league.
Four years later, Madeline sat at home with a baby boy in her lap, and a wedding ring on her finger. Oliver was at practice, and she was home alone with her son Christian.
When the baby started to cry, she stood up and carried him into the kitchen. She held him in one arm and prepared a bottle with her free hand. The dog was sitting at her feet, looking at her expectantly for her dinner. The phone rang, and she sprinted across the kitchen as fast as she could. Christian was screaming in her ear, so she popped the bottle in its mouth and answered the phone.
What she heard was unbelievable. The words made he freeze, made her incomprehensible of everything around her. Her grip was slipping off Christian, so she hung up the phone and put Christian in his high chair.
Her father couldn’t be dead. No. No. This wasn’t real. Her father wasn’t dead.
Christian was in bed by the time Oliver got home. He opened the door, and put his bag down beside the door, and closed it behind him. He locked it as he did every night, and pulled off his shirt that was drenched in sweat.
He heard a weeping sound coming from the kitchen, and he darted into the kitchen.
She was bent over the counter, crying into her sleeve.
His hands found her waist, and she sprung upright when she felt his warm hands touching her. She turned to cry into his chest, and his strong arms held her tightly to him.
He had always been her strength since they were kids, and he would remain to be her strength through two more children, and other loved ones deaths.
She was his strength too; she was the reason he got up in the morning. He was the reason she kept pushing through everyday.