Character: Oliver Wood
Rating: K
Summary: Oliver really wants a Firebolt.
Notes: My laptop died, so nothing new for long time. Oliver's dad does not have a name because I am lazy, and this is prettier on LJ.

"No," she said cruelly, casting her glance upon the feeble young man before her. Her arms crossed sternly, eyes betraying no warmth. "We simply cannot afford it, Oliver."

With a whimper, the boy looked up upon his mother, smiling hopefully. "Perhaps I could do those chores you say I do not do and we could sell my old broom."

"The cost would still be – by far – too substantial. I'm sorry, Oliver. I really am." Cherry Wood looked fondly at her son. "I wish we could."

"But – but," struggled Oliver. "Teams will never want me if I never win the Cup. You simply must order me the Firebolt."

Cherry raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And just how will the Firebolt help you?"

"I'll go faster," Answered Oliver immediately, nodding seriously.

Cherry shook her head. "You will beat the Slytherins with or without the Firebolt, dear."

Oliver frowned. "Fine. I'll ask dad."

He found his father in the kitchen, eyes flitting from one raised paper to another, apparently trying to find some similarities. The light cast from the wide window behind the sink caused the moving words to be unreadable to Oliver, and he therefore was not sure whether he should interrupt his father or not.

"Dad?"

He looked up, flicking the papers aside as he did so. "What is it, Oliver?"

Oliver looked pitifully at his father. "I would really like to have a Firebolt."

He sighed, running a hand through thick brown hair. "We cannot afford to buy you one, Oliver. Your Mother and I both told you that last week in Diagon Alley." The papers folded neatly behind him, Quidditch stats lost from his forgetful mind.

Oliver was unusually quiet, thinking. "Mum is a bit volatile, is she not?" Oliver gestured his hands violently outward. His father smiled a bit and nodded. "So every time you talk with her, it is a bit of a gamble."

He did not see were the conversation was going (other than, of course, the obvious) but he said, "Yes," all the same.

"Excellent." Oliver grinned. "And you are still alive dad, so that means you are good at gambling, yes?"

He chuckled a bit. "Yes, Oliver. I am a good gambler."

Oliver's grin became wilder. "So we shall take the money you receive from the selling of my broom, and you can go gamble with it."

He shook his head tiredly, trying unsuccessfully to repress a grin.

"You will have the money in no time." Oliver beamed ecstatically. "Is my plan not great?"

"Unfortunately," he said, "I will not be able to do that."

Cherry Wood appeared in the carved arch behind Oliver, lips pursed. "I quite agree. One should not go gambling."

Oliver breathed out slowly, grin melting from his tanned face.

Cherry, who was not one for Quidditch and did not quite understand, took pity on her son. "No broom, but I will make you a cheesecake."

Oliver thought it over, knowing all was lost, and relented. "Very well." His shoulders sagged as he left the kitchen, heading for his bedroom.

"Be aware, though, Oliver," called his father, "That I would if I could."