written for the international wizarding school championship!

School & Theme: Beauxbatons - Unmerited Accomplishments

Mandatory Prompt: [character] Oliver Wood

Additional Prompt: [emotion] Admiration

Year: 5

Word Count: 3,034

Disclaimer: When Professor McGonagall speaks to Oliver about Harry's Quidditch abilities, it is taken verbatim from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone — hence the italics! :)

.: you can't cancel quidditch :.

When Oliver Wood was seven years old, he rode a broomstick for the first time — a real broomstick, not one meant for small children that hovered only a foot above the ground. It was a finely made broom, and the only expensive thing he'd ever asked for. As soon as he kicked off the ground and felt the warm wind on his flushed cheeks, he began whooping with unrestrained delight.

He made three loops around his grandparents' twin pear trees, laughing the entire way, while his nana and grandad cheered him on from their back porch.

Flying was a wonderful thing! A wonderful feeling! There was a pressure on his chest, but it wasn't bad — not at all. It felt light and freeing, and he chased that feeling the same way he chased the birds that scattered on his approach.

He decided then and there, with the breeze in his hair and the sun in his eyes, that he needed to know absolutely positively everything there was to know about flying.

That's how he discovered Quidditch.

When Oliver Wood was nine years old, he talked about Quidditch with anyone and everyone who would sit still long enough to listen — sometimes, even if they didn't sit still. It wasn't a hardship for others to hear him prattle on — he'd been told so by enough people to know this was a fact — because he wasn't just passionate about the sport or accomplished at flying. He was also extremely knowledgeable about the ins-and-outs of it all, the technicalities that most overlooked.

One day, the man who helped take care of his grandparents' gardens told him it was as if he were speaking with a professional Quidditch commentator; from then on, whenever the man was around, Oliver trotted along behind him — rattling off facts and opinions as he helped pick the pears.

He was hopelessly obsessed with the sport. He had his favorite team — Puddlemere United, obviously — and in addition to knowing all of its current players' stats, he knew enough about opposing teams' rosters to piece together intelligent odds about the outcome of matches.

Oliver owned seven books on the topic, and he knew from eavesdropping that an eighth one was in the mail for his birthday. All the books were second-hand, which he didn't mind one bit, and the pages were so worn and covered with his scribbles that he had to turn them slowly, so they didn't fall apart.

When Oliver Wood was eleven years old, his Hogwarts letter arrived in the owl-post. He'd been excited for years about attending the magical school, ever since he was old enough to understand the stories his older cousins told him about the place — about the moving staircases, the ghosts, and the Quidditch games.

He could just picture it: him astride a broom, taking in the smell of the freshly cut grass and wood polish, while dressed in just-laundered Quidditch robes with the crowd around him going wild as he waved to them.

His cousins teased him greatly for his supposed vanity, but every adult in his life encouraged him. They showered him with praise, saying, "You're meant to be great!" and, "I can't believe we have the future of Quidditch in our midst!" By the way they spoke, it was like he was already a famous, professional player.

As imagined, he went bone-white and, frankly, bat-shit crazy when he saw that stipulation in his Hogwarts letter: 'PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.'

"It's an outrage!" he complained, yelling and stomping around his bedroom as if his whole life had just fallen apart at his feet. "Who are they to make this a rule?"

He vowed then and there that he was going to find a way to sneak his broomstick into the school, to hell with the consequences, but his mother was more observant than he'd banked on. So, he spent the night before he was to board the Hogwarts Express staring forlornly at his Comet 290, which was leaning against his empty wardrobe with its tail-twigs neatly trimmed and its handle properly buffed.

Oh, he'd miss that broomstick like an extra limb.

Two weeks later, the notice for Quidditch tryouts went up on the board in the Gryffindor common room. As he read the announcement, then read it again, his shoulders sunk, and he expelled a harsh breath. It was worded very specifically, calling only for people who played the position of Chaser — which was decidedly not him.

Oliver was a Keeper, through and through.

I didn't want to try out without my Comet anyway, he told himself.

He went to the trials, though, and he brought his little journal to scribble notes into as he watched. People looked at him funny when he pulled out his inkwell and quill, but if any situation ever called for diligent note-taking, it was this one.

When Oliver Wood was twelve years old, he met Charlie Weasley for the first time. He'd seen the older boy around Hogwarts — both in Gryffindor Tower and on the Quidditch pitch — but now he was speaking to him. It was the day of Quidditch tryouts, and Oliver was bouncing on his toes as he stepped onto the pitch. He was barely able to contain his excitement and eagerness.

Oliver shared a dormitory with Charlie's younger brother, Percy, and though the two were similar with their red hair, freckles, and general paleness, they couldn't be more different. Though Percy was the only of Oliver's friends that appreciated his particular type of diligence when it came to Quidditch. (His friend was even in the stands to support Oliver's first time out for the team, and Oliver sent him a jaunty wave when he located him in the towering wooden stands.)

Charlie was tall for a fifth-year, and though there was quite a bit of muscle to his arms and shoulders, he was also fairly thin and reed-like. Perfect build for a Seeker. And he was a perfect Seeker — his stats were off the charts, and he was the best Seeker Hogwarts had seen in years.

"You're a fantastic Seeker!" Oliver gushed to the older boy. The rest of the hopefuls were milling around and joking loudly, so Oliver wasn't worried they would listen in and later tease him for his exuberance and embarrassing admiration — even if Oliver was of the firm opinion that Charlie Weasley deserved it. "You could play professionally if you'd like! You've got better stats than half the Seekers in the British Quidditch League, and you're not even sixteen!"

"Ah, thanks," Charlie responded, bits of pink blooming high on his freckled cheeks. "You — ah — like Quidditch then?"

"Like it? I love it!" Oliver replied, shaking his broomstick as his skin buzzed with energy. "I've been flying for years, and I hope I'm as good as you are one day. My family all say — well, not my cousins, they just like to poke fun — but my parents and stuff all say that I could make the school team in a heartbeat. You guys didn't need a Keeper last year, though, so I just watched the tryouts instead. That's why I'm here now — to be your new Keeper!"

Oliver spoke very fast — he knew that; it was a habit — and Charlie looked as though he didn't quite know what to say. That happened with Oliver a lot. Sometimes people didn't know how to act when the full force of his Quidditch-loving buoyancy smacked them in the face with the force of a bludger.

"That's good to hear, ah… kid," Charlie eventually replied.

"Oh, I'm Oliver. Oliver Wood!" He stuck his hand out, and when his fingers closed around Charlie's gloved hand, he shook it fiercely and, likely, for far too long.

"Nice to meet you, Oliver," Charlie said sincerely. The older boy clapped Oliver on the shoulder gently, but with a camaraderie that Oliver was most excited to really experience when he made the team. "Good luck today."

As Charlie walked away, Oliver drew his shoulders to his full height and thought, I don't need luck. I've been preparing for this my whole life.

.:..:.

Oliver was the last to leave the changing rooms that day. Not because he was reminiscing about his tryout and taking in the wonder of it all, but because… he hadn't made the team.

Oh, God, I didn't make the team, he thought, leaning his forehead against the slick tile of the shower wall and hoping the falling water would hide the tears on his face — hiding it from who, he didn't know, but he liked that the shower made the fact of his tears less real.

He'd been so sure, so confident, and, apparently, so horribly cocky that he'd make the team. It turned out he should've taken the luck Charlie offered him, after all.

How did this happen? he questioned. He'd been the most prepared candidate on that pitch, that was for sure. He knew everything there was to know about being a Keeper, and he… he couldn't believe he hadn't made it.

He dressed slowly after his shower, not caring that his shoulders were still damp when he pulled on his shirt, and when Charlie walked into the room, Oliver stared down at his shoes as if they were the most interesting thing in the entire world. He couldn't bring himself to look the Seeker in the face, as he was sure that would bring on a new onslaught of the waterworks. He'd already embarrassed himself enough for one day, thank you very much.

But then Charlie spoke as he took a seat on the bench opposite from Oliver. "Great job today, Oliver. If I was captain, you'd be guarding the hoops for sure."

Oliver barely held in his scoff of disbelief and didn't respond.

"I'm serious," Charlie continued, ducking down into Oliver's sightline. Oliver wiped the back of his hand across his nose. "You've got massive potential, don't let this get you down — don't give up."

As if sensing Oliver wasn't going to give him a response, Charlie left him alone once more. Oliver rubbed his eyes with a sigh, and his small shoulders shuddered with the promise of fresh tears.

How was he going to tell his family that he'd been cut? They expected so much from him — expected him to accomplish great things on the Quidditch pitch — and they'd be so disappointed in him for his failure. How was he supposed to do all these great things if he couldn't even make the house team?

As he slowly trudged back up to the school, a bag with his dirtied Quidditch supplies slung over his shoulder instead of in the locker he thought he'd be stashing it in, he mulled his predicament over in his head.

When the plan formed in his mind, and he pictured the letter he'd write home before bed, he was even more ashamed of himself than he had been when the captain told him, "Sorry, we're going to go with Harrison instead." But this was going to be necessary. It was.

The letter he wrote read:

Dear Mum and Dad,

I made the team! I'll tell you all about it later, as I'm too tired from tryouts to really get into it. I'm really excited for the season, and I promise I'll write to you about each game! Thanks for believing in me.

Oliver

When Oliver Wood was thirteen years old, he walked onto the Quidditch pitch with much less exuberance and confidence than he had the year before. After a year of writing to his parents about all his time with the team — all his games and practices and victory parties — he was exhausted with the lie. But it was still necessary. His parents were so proud that he'd made the team when he was so young, and even though the credit they heaped upon him made him feel dirty, it was infinitely better than their disappointment.

He'd watched every Gryffindor match during his second year, and he made it to as many of the other house's matches as he could. He kept track of everything, and he broke each match down to its individual plays and the fallbacks each team relied upon — when he gave the information to Charlie, the Seeker had been gobsmacked. He'd then forced Oliver to promise he'd try out again the following year, no matter what.

So here Oliver was.

"Oliver!" Charlie greeted. As the redhead walked across the pitch, the sunlight glinted off the captain's badge pinned to the front of his red and gold Quidditch robes. "It's good to see you. I'm glad you're trying out!"

Oliver just nodded in reply, too nervous to speak. When he took to the skies five minutes later, flying to the far goalposts, he gripped his broom handle steadily. He was ready.

.:..:.

This year, he made the team. The elation he felt as he placed his things in a locker newly engraved with his name was insurmountable. When he wrote home later that night, not a single word of the letter was a lie.

When Oliver Wood was fifteen, his Hogwarts letter was bulkier than usual. As he dumped its contents onto the desk in his bedroom, a shiny captain's badge skittered across the wood. He stared at the thing in stunned disbelief for at least a full minute before he worked up the courage to open the parchment that came with it. One paper was the usual book-list, but the other was a short missive from his head of house, Professor McGonagall.

Dear Mr. Wood,

It is my pleasure to notify you that you have been named the next Gryffindor Quidditch captain. Charlie Weasley came to me at the end of last season and insisted that you be his successor. He believed you have what it takes to lead our team to a House Cup, and I agree with him.

It is my sincerest hope that you wear this mantle with pride, and I look forward to the season with you at the helm.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Oliver had spent the previous two years as Keeper for the team, and in that time, Charlie had given him advice that he cherished greatly. Though he was older now than he had been when he spilled his guts to the Seeker that first time on the pitch, he was still attempting to gain the skills that Charlie possessed. He held the older boy in great esteem, and the fact that Charlie returned Oliver's faith filled him with that same feeling he'd had when he first took to the skies.

.:..:.

Months later, Oliver met Harry Potter.

"The boy is a natural. I've never seen anything like it," Professor McGonagall had said in that abandoned classroom after pulling him from his Charms class. "He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot dive. Didn't even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it."

Of course, his professor was correct about Harry's ability, and Oliver was over the moon. After he saw what Harry could do for himself, he wrote home, telling his parents that the Quidditch House Cup was basically in his hands.

Their season was, objectively, fantastic. This year, almost every time he wrote home, the letter included something about his team and how great everything was going — and not a word of those letters were lies either.

His parent's responses were always full of warmth and praise. They gave him all the credit for the way the season was going — no matter that it was the team who pulled off their victories, not him alone. His parents believed that, as captain, he alone was deserving of their commendation.

Even though they didn't win the cup — much to his immense sadness — his parents still treated him as if he had.

One day, he vowed, I will truly deserving this.

Oliver Wood was seventeen years old when he walked onto the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch for the final time. The weather was perfect for a Quidditch final: there was no wind to speak of, the ground was firm for a fast kickoff, and the sun was shining — actually, it was a bit too bright, and he made sure to warn his team to watch that.

The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, and Oliver waved to the sea of scarlet-and-gold supporters — who drastically outnumbered the green-and-silver clad fans. They yelled louder at his wave. He let the crowd's faith and admiration wash over him, and as it settled into his bones, he mounted his broom to await the whistle of Madam Hooch.

The game that followed was, quite frankly, the best game of Quidditch Oliver had ever played in his life. Despite the two bludgers he took to the chest and stomach that left him beyond winded, he only let in two goals the entire match.

As he landed beside Harry, the golden snitch still glinting in the young Seeker's fist, he was partially blinded by his tears. He hugged anyone who came within his reach, and his teammates were hugging him back just as fiercely — all of them whooping till their voices cracked.

The next thing he knew, the supporters who rushed the field hoisted him onto their shoulders, their hands fumbling excitedly as they too cheered and were jostled by the crowds. His teammates were being similarly lifted, and through the haze of his tears, he saw the unbridled pride on their faces. Oliver had no control over the sobs that wracked his body, and though he cried in joyous delight for their victory, he also cried for that young boy he'd once been. For the boy who had believed he was unworthy — for the boy who had lied to maintain the illusion that he had accomplished what he had not.

Professor Dumbledore passed him the Quidditch House Cup, and as Oliver lifted it above his head, he breathed out a sigh of relief.

thanks so much for reading! i love love oliver wood, so this was super fun to write — and when i wrote the line "Oliver was a keeper, through and through," my Oliver-Wood-loving heart was like "yeah he is!"

i hope you enjoyed reading this! let me know what you thought :)