Oliver Wood's stomach dropped at the sight of the crimson payphone. He'd been avoiding the phone call for days now and he couldn't ignore it any longer. He drummed his fingers anxiously on his thigh as the dial tone buzzed in his ear. He took a rattling breath, desperate to calm himself. He punched in the phone number that he'd memorized since he was just a lad hanging in the broomshed while his old man polished the very broom he was calling about.
When she answered, just for a moment, he thought he could hear his dad in the background and his heart flipped in his chest. There was nothing he wouldn't give just to hear his voice one last time.
"Hey, Mum. I just wanted to let you know I'm coming home soon." He whispered into the payphone, holding back the panic spasming in his throat.
"Yeah, no, everything is fine. I–I just need to see your face." He reassured her. Of course of all the people in the world she'd be able to detect it in his voice. He flicked his eyes over to the old broom propped up against the table.
"Love you too. Wait, do you happen to remember what year Dad's broom was?" He asked her as if it was a last minute question. He knew she knew it wasn't but they both pretended anyway.
"It's a '67 Cleansweep? Okay, yeah, thanks. Love you too."
He sat down in the crummy flat that wouldn't be his anymore in just a week. He wouldn't miss the rat infested hellhole. He wouldn't miss the banging and clanging of his neighbors' life or the whooshing sound of leaky pipes at all hours of the night. He wouldn't miss agonizing over how to pay all of his bills or if he could afford groceries. He wouldn't miss any of it.
A slightly crumpled copy of yesterday's Daily Prophet lay sprawled open on the walnut table, a pair of reading glasses beside it. A few grease stains blurred some of the text on the classifieds page and condensation rings from a forgotten glass marred the phone numbers.
Are there broom polish stains on your skin? Did a Wronski Feint leave a scar on your chin? Do Quidditch games take you back to your childhood? I got what you need, '67, cherry wood.
Oliver bit his lip as an unidentified tawny owl flew into his window. He knew it was about the ad he placed in the Prophet. Guilt grew in his stomach as he told the man that wrote the letter where and when to meet him. He couldn't ignore the feeling of his father watching him, judging him.
"I swear to god, Dad, I'll keep her safe." Oliver muttered to the emptiness just in case his father was listening.
"It's nice to see a broom like this again. Man, she's in really great shape!" The man, old enough to be Oliver's father, commented as he slid his hand across the broom handle.
"Yeah, it was like my dad's baby. He took really good care of her." Oliver told him nervously. He felt mildly ashamed of the musty odor and growing fungus on the wall of the kitchen. He shook his head, knowing that the man only came to look at the broom, not inspect his life. What would his mother say though?
"Why are you selling her, son?" The man turned to face him, greying eyes piercing into his guilty heart. It was a reasonable question. People with valuable heirlooms didn't typically get rid of them.
"I'm in a bit of a tight spot and I need to get home to my mum." Oliver rubbed the back of his neck slowly. He just really needed to get back home to his mum.
"So you're selling this beauty?" The man asked incredulously.
"I've never really been a man's man, if you know what I mean, and I just really need to get home." Oliver muttered. He didn't like the twenty questions game this man was playing. Either buy it or move on.
"So why not just sell her to a Quidditch supply shop?" The man asked him with an intent look painted on his creasing face.
Oliver cringed openly at the thought. "Dad would kill me at the thought of his broom going to someone who might strip her down. It has to go to someone that would love her the way that he did."
"I used to have this broom at 17." He told Oliver, a dazed look in his eyes.
"Yeah? Well then you know it's a real durable broom." Oliver pitched at him, trying to close the deal. The man looked up at him and smiled a sad smile.
"It sure is. It brings back so many memories. My wife, you know, she used to play for the Holyhead Harpies on the reserve team. I have some real good memories of her and this broom." He told Oliver wistfully.
"Well, why don't you take her for a test fly, see if she's what you're after." Oliver suggested.
He took the polished handle and grinned, the same look in his eyes that Oliver's father always had. His heart panged for his father. It's been six months and the pain hadn't eased.
"I can't afford what you're looking for and I can't low ball a kid like you, but it sure was nice to see a broom like this in this condition." He told him handing the broom back to Oliver.
"Oh, well, thanks for considering it." Oliver held it a moment, feeling his stomach twist and knot all over again. It was a miracle his intestines were still intact.
"No problem. I hope you find what you're looking for." The man gave him a warm smile.
Oliver watched him walk to his door, the handle grimy and a draft that could be felt all the way to the kitchen. From behind he looked just like his dad. The dark hair and the broad shoulders he couldn't get out of his head.
"Wait. I'll take a lower offer. I know you'll love her the way that Dad did and I just need enough to buy a train ticket, pay off my debt, and pay my mum back." The words spilled from Oliver's mouth before his brain had time to process what he'd just said.
The man froze on the spot, considering what Oliver had said. He turned around slowly, his eyes crinkling with a small smile.
"How about I take you out for some proper supper and we'll negotiate." The man countered. Oliver grabbed his keys.
A/N per Rumpel's request: This collection of one shots have these things in common: -an ad placed to buy or sell an object -each ad is adorable and rhyming -each character was a Hogwarts quidditch player -each character is dealing with loss
This chapter was inspired by Aaron West and the Roaring Twenties' "'67, Cherry Red."