Chaser 2, Holyhead Harpies

2. (song) 'Hello' by Evanescence

9. (quote) 'Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.' - Emily Bronte

11. (dialogue) "I'm still here."

WC: 1,724


Year One

Oliver Wood sees Arthur Weasley pat his third oldest son, Percy, on the shoulder. Arthur is smiling wide, tears glistening in his eyes. Oliver is just close enough to overhear the fatherly words that come next.

"Make me proud, son."

Percy nods before gruffly moving away from his mother's hugs and kisses, coming to a stop below Oliver's compartment window.

"Bye Mother! Bye Father! Don't cry, Ginny, I'll be back at Christmas."

Then the whistle is blowing and students are scrambling to get to their compartments, leaning out windows and waving at the parents standing below.

Oliver doesn't move. He has no one to wave to. His father doesn't say things like, "Make me proud."

His father doesn't even call him 'son.'

Percy ducks into Oliver's compartment, moving to the window to wave one last time at his family before the train pulls out of the station. As King's Cross fades from view, Percy plops down in front of his friend.

"Ham sandwich?"

Oliver doesn't reply, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence, Percy sighs, pulls out a book, and opens it to page one.


Year Two

Oliver is determined to make it onto the Quidditch team. He hadn't been allowed to play as a first year, but he's twelve now, and this time, things will be different.

It's pouring rain, which is a bit odd for the first week of September, but it doesn't stop Oliver. He's got the field to himself and Quidditch tryouts in a week; he can't allow a little rain to prevent him from practicing. He's even convinced Percy to teach him a clever little charm that makes Quaffle fly at the goalposts.

He's chasing after the Quaffle in question when he hears the voice.

"Oi! Mate! What are you doing out in this bloody storm?"

Oliver pauses, looking around. There, about ten yards in front of him, is a pearly-white figure floating in mid-air without a broom. It's nearly thirty seconds before Oliver realizes it's a ghost.

"Who're you?" he says, squinting through the rain. "I didn't know there were any ghosts who haunted the Quidditch Pitch."

The ghost raises his hand in a cheery wave. "Edgar Cloggs."

"No way." Oliver feels his jaw drop. "I know you. You've got a chocolate frog card. The youngest Chaser for the Tutshill Tornadoes."

Edgar grins. Oliver can see the rain pouring through his smile. "At your service."

"You had some of the highest stats in the League when you played." Oliver knows he's babbling, but he can't help it. Edgar Cloggs. "You died in a Quidditch accident at 23. What are you doing at Hogwarts?"

Edgar chuckles. "Hogwarts has always been my home. I haunted the Tutshill stadium for a bit, but I've found I quite prefer it here, where I can help youngsters like you. Well, with Quidditch. I'm not so great at helping students with their Herbology homework."

Oliver grips his broom as a gust of wind whips past. "You help people?"

"I do my best."

"Could you help me with blocking some of these shots? I'm not good in the rain yet."

Edgar smiles. "Of course, son. What's your name?"

Oliver's stomach flips with excitement when Edgar calls him 'son.' "Oliver. Oliver Wood."

"It's nice to meet you, Oliver. Now, what do you say to playing some Quidditch?"


Year Four

It's Professor McGonagall who tells him his mother has died, and McGonagall who escorts him to the funeral. His father doesn't even bother to send a letter.

When he returns to school, he immediately grabs his broom and his Quidditch robes. He should be catching up on the copious amounts of work he's been avoiding, but he can't stand the thought of being inside. It's snowing outside, but that doesn't make a difference to Oliver. He'll play in anything.

As long as it makes him forget.

He's given up on technique by the time Edgar shows up. He punches and kicks the balls as hard as he can, yelling curses at the top of his lungs as the balls just come flying back.

"Had a rough day?"

Oliver catches the Quaffle, not even glancing at the ghost hovering beside him. Edgar is a reminder of death that Oliver doesn't need just now.

"I haven't seen you around for a couple days," says Edgar. "You get detention or something?"

"No."

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Oliver? What's wrong, mate?" Edgar floats closer, reaching out tentatively, but he doesn't touch. They both know his hand will just go through Oliver like mist. That's all Edgar is. Mist.

"Are you even real?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're dead. You're supposed to be gone." Like my mum. "Are you just something my mind made up?"

"I'm not sure—"

"People who die don't get to stay here."

"Son—"

"STOP!" Oliver pelts the Quaffle at Edgar's head as hard as he can. It flies through his neck instead, spiraling downwards and disappearing from view.

"Just go away." Oliver lets out a sob as he collapses on his broom. "Leave me like everyone else does."

Edgar doesn't leave. "I'm still here," he says, placing his hand right next to the boy's shoulder.

Oliver sniffles a bit but doesn't recoil from Edgar's touch. It's not a hug—it's not even physical contact—but the ghost is the closest thing he has to a friend right now.


Year Five

Oliver and his father sit down to dinner at 6 o'clock sharp every single night.

"How was work, Da?" he asks. He's not particularly interested, but it's better than sitting in total silence.

"Fine."

"I got my Hogwarts book list today."

"That's nice. You will be going to Diagon Alley to pick up supplies tomorrow?"

It's always this way. His father talks to him as if he's another Ministry official, not a fifteen-year-old boy.

"Yes. I'm going to need some new Keeper gloves as well." He hesitates. "I've been named Captain, you know."

His father pauses at this. For a moment, Oliver dares to hope that he's found a topic in which his father will show an interest. "Are you sure you're ready to be Captain?"

Oliver bristles. "Excuse me?"

"You should be focusing on your studies. I've let you play Quidditch because it's a good way for you to release your childish energy, but you're becoming a man now. You need to focus on your studies so you can follow me into the Ministry."

"Da, I don't want to work at the Ministry."

"You come from a long line of Ministry officials."

"I want to play Quidditch."

His father says nothing.

"I want to play professional Quidditch." Oliver says the words slowly. He's never discussed his dream with anyone before, especially not his father. "I want to die on a broomstick, right where I've always belonged. I don't care about the Ministry. I don't care about my studies or your expectations. I want to play Quidditch."

He leans towards his father with a pleading expression on his face. Maybe, if his Da can see how much he loves Quidditch, he'll find it in his heart—

"You do not raise your voice to me, boy!"

"Da—"

"It's your mother's stubbornness that makes you act this way. She coddled you from the start. I've been trying to fix you for years, but clearly you are your mother's son."

Oliver shoots out of his chair, not registering when it clatters to the floor behind him. "Fix me? Don't try to fix me. I'm not broken!"

"Oliver—"

"I'm Mum's son, yes, but I'm your son, too, Da. I'm not some colleague or some intern from your office. I'm your son."

His father glares at him. "You certainly don't act like it."

Oliver's heart plummets.

Without another word, he walks out of the house.


Year Seven

"So, you're hoping to be scouted?" Edgar is helping Oliver practice a new move he's come up with, one where he dangles from the broom and head butts the Quaffle to one of his Chasers. He has Edgar fly around in front of him, and each time the Quaffle hurtles towards him, he tries to get the Quaffle directly into where Edgar's hands would be if he were alive. "What does your father think of this?"

"He doesn't."

"You haven't told him yet?"

Oliver shakes his head. "I don't really speak to him anymore. I ignore him when I'm home on holidays, and he ignores me. We're both happier this way."

The conversation pauses as Edgar makes suggestions on how to improve Oliver's aim. Soon, though, he's asking more questions.

"Have you ever apologized to your father?"

Oliver scoffs.

"Has he ever apologized to you?"

Oliver catches the Quaffle and gives Edgar a look. "We are talking about the same man, aren't we? My father doesn't apologize. For anything. Ever."

"Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves, you know. Perhaps you should make amends before it's too late."

"What are you talking about, Edgar?"

"I'm not sure. I feel...restless. Something is stirring. I think something bad is about to happen."

"You're talking like a bloody centaur. Worse—you're talking like Professor Trelawney."

Edgar shakes his head. "I'm being serious."

Oliver runs a hand over the Quaffle. "It's pointless to apologize to my father. I've done nothing but try to please him my entire life. No matter what I do, I'm still a disappointment."

Edgar snorts. "Have you seen what you can do with a Quaffle? Believe me, boy. You're no disappointment."

"Thanks, Edgar." Oliver sighs. "You know, you've felt more like a father to me than my own da."

"I never thought anyone would see me as a father figure." Edgar looks rather pleased with himself. "I didn't make it past 23."

Oliver catches the Quaffle once more and starts to descend. It's getting late, and he has fourteen inches on bogwart to write for Professor Snape. "Your body may not have made it past 23, but your soul did. I'm glad I met you."

Edgar smiles. "I'm glad, too." He places a hand just above Oliver's shoulder; it's close enough that he can feel the chill that accompanies all ghosts, yet not close enough that it goes through his shoulder. "I'm proud of you...son."