Our story begins in the humid depths of the Gryffindor changing room, where man sweat and shower steam combined to create an atmospheric, musky fog. From this fog emerges our hero, Oliver Wood. Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. Betwixt his perfectly muscled thighs swings the most magnificent cock known to Wizardkind. It came (ha) in at 15.6 inches, and was as girthy as the average adult fist. Thick veins throbbed from base to head, like rivers of gushing dick-blood flowing to a majestic dick-blood sea. But it doesn't end there. Beneath his spicy sausage lay two behemoth testicles, swaying gently with each step.
Standing before him were none other than the infamous Weasley twins, the (probably) platonic power couple of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Thinly Veiled Racism Metaphors.
"Hello Fred. Hello George. I want to be a professional quidditch player" said our hero, while oiling up his rippling pecs.
"Oi guvna', first thou art be needin' sum o'dat strange wizard moneys to be gettin' a fancy new broom, wot wot" Spoke Fred (a/n hey remember how in canon he's dead now? that's pretty sad. I bet even 20 years later George still looks to his left expecting Fred to be there. but he's not. cause he's dead. forever.)
"Aye, luckily me and my dear brother Frederick here doth hath a proposal for thou to, mayhaps, do us thee most prestigious honour of considering. Good sir" Spoke the other twin, punctuating the end of his proposal with a deep bow.
Oliver Wood regarded them cooly like Sasuke in that one episode of Naruto when he looked at someone like that.
"Fine. I will hear your proposal"
"Dip dip cherrios that is excellent news old sport!" Fred replied in a lively manner, clapping his hands like a seal. George continued, equally excited.
"Yes indeed, thou agreement art most excellent. Most excellent, indeed. Being that we share a locker room, my dear living brother and I could not help noticing that you have a gigantic schlong. Coupled with your fantastically fitting surname, we believe you would be perfect for a new project we art overtaketh."
"A new project?" Oliver inquired, raising a single perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Something tells me this new project will be wacky and hijinksy, as no project involving my comically large meat stick could be anything but."
"G'day mate!" exxxclaimed Fred, jumping back into the conversation like a kangaroo that had not yet been killed by poachers. "Y'all are right indeed! As thou mayest be aware, our dear father is an expert on the ways of Muggles. Whilst perusing his research, we came (ha) across the Muggle Industry of Pornography. Being filthy luddites who refuse to even replace fucking useless quills and parchment with ballpoint pens, we wizards have no such industry. But, young Oliver, with the help of your massive 2x4, that may soon change."
Fred and George stared at Oliv3r, awaiting a response. Oliver stared at a patch of mold on the wall, considering his options. In order to make it in the fast paced, high stakes world of professional quidditch he would need a top of the line broomstick. Finally, he turned back to the godless ginger twins.
"My lords, we have an agreement"
600 miles away, Severus Snape hastily recovers his palantÃr with tarp. Stopping only to rub more bacon grease into his luscious locks, he runs off into the night to report back to his dread master.