A/N This is told from the Oliver Wood's father's perspective. I have not
reviewed all the details from GoF regarding the magic used in this piece,
so my usage of it may be a little skewed. Please forgive me.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just play with them occasionally to suit my purposes. Please direct all inquiries about the nut writing the story to the Ministry of Magic, Attn: Cornelius Fudge. (Mmm, Fudgey, fudgey goodness.)
You call my son a Quidditch tyrant.
I do not know where that term came from. He is dedicated, not obsessive; devoted, not compulsive; gifted, not pathetic. I love my boy, a gift from the gods when my wife and I thought that we would never be able to bring someone to love into this world. I will not deny you this, though: I never prevented him from pursuing his dream to play Quidditch. Not only at Hogwarts, but professionally. I believe that he has the potential to do great things in his life. Nothing can stop him.
How do I know this, you ask? How can I be so idealistic as to believe that Oliver will be a star player one day? How do I know that my son will one day have national Quidditch teams competing against one another to sign him? How can I be SURE that my son, who has the attention span of a three- year-old in F.A.O. Schwartz, will want to pursue a career in Quidditch?
I know this because I have made it so. I have given him the gift of flight. I have risked my life, my reputation in the wizarding world to give my son such gifts. I have sold my soul to Voldemort for this - for my son, for success, for happiness. Simply because I love him. And isn't this all that a father can do in this world? Do whatever it takes to make their child happy?
You are a sage man; you know what I do. You why I am the only parent to make the trip to the island Hogwarts inhabits each and every time Gryffindor is in competition against another House in Quidditch.
If want me to say it though, I will say to you - and only you. The truth is my son cannot play Quidditch. Without my help, the only thing my soon can competently do with a broom is sweep, and we both know that in the Quidditch world, this means nothing. The boy cannot even fly competitively. He only thinks he can. And if anyone ever found out what I did to give him this talent, I could easily end up the lifetime girlfriend of some unusually large man named Butch at Azkaban: I put the Unforgivable Curse, Imperio, on my son every time he sets foot on a Quidditch field to play in competition. I was a very good Quidditch player. Captain of my house in both academics and physical education, except I also had a life-threatening condition which the Muggle half of me could not withstand. (And I curse my mother each and every day for being Muggle born, but of course, her being Muggle is about as much her fault as that Harry Potter is responsible for his being homely.) When Madame Pomfrey told me I could no longer play, I did what any good Quidditch captain would do. I ignored her until the injury worsened to the point that it would kill me, and only then could Pomfrey get me off my broom by shackling me to a bed in the Hospital Wing. I gave up my dreams wearing those damn shackles.
I live through my son: Ollie zips and whirls on his broom like a beautiful bat out of hell who thinks he is control of his movements. A stickly bat (with my wife's unibrow front and center of his face) in possession of a fierce passion to win, but still a bat out of hell. My bat. With the best parts of my beloved and me displayed in every nuance of his game. I am giving him everything I always wanted, making him want what is best for him. I put an Unforgivable Curse on him because this professional Quidditch- ery is exactly what he needs in his life. He cannot fly worth a lick without my assistance, of course, but once he is the hit of the wizarding sports world, he will see that what I do for him is best.
Voldemort threatens me every now and then, to reveal my secrets. He does not appear to me in bodily form, but I hear his voice. And you may laugh at me for putting my freedom at stake only to give my boy his remarkable abilities, but you have never glided the field, the roar of your House snaking up to your ears, causing you to fly higher - higher - HIGHER, to win this game for THEM because they love you that much.
I could not call myself a father if I did not risk my freedom for my son. His time at Hogwarts is soon coming to an end, and as my son signs with Puddlemere United, I know that everything I have risked is worth it. He is my progeny, my dream come true. He will accomplish all that I could not. And if for some reason I am found guilty for my sins, I will know it was worth it because for awhile, yes, for awhile, my son knew the gift of flight.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just play with them occasionally to suit my purposes. Please direct all inquiries about the nut writing the story to the Ministry of Magic, Attn: Cornelius Fudge. (Mmm, Fudgey, fudgey goodness.)
You call my son a Quidditch tyrant.
I do not know where that term came from. He is dedicated, not obsessive; devoted, not compulsive; gifted, not pathetic. I love my boy, a gift from the gods when my wife and I thought that we would never be able to bring someone to love into this world. I will not deny you this, though: I never prevented him from pursuing his dream to play Quidditch. Not only at Hogwarts, but professionally. I believe that he has the potential to do great things in his life. Nothing can stop him.
How do I know this, you ask? How can I be so idealistic as to believe that Oliver will be a star player one day? How do I know that my son will one day have national Quidditch teams competing against one another to sign him? How can I be SURE that my son, who has the attention span of a three- year-old in F.A.O. Schwartz, will want to pursue a career in Quidditch?
I know this because I have made it so. I have given him the gift of flight. I have risked my life, my reputation in the wizarding world to give my son such gifts. I have sold my soul to Voldemort for this - for my son, for success, for happiness. Simply because I love him. And isn't this all that a father can do in this world? Do whatever it takes to make their child happy?
You are a sage man; you know what I do. You why I am the only parent to make the trip to the island Hogwarts inhabits each and every time Gryffindor is in competition against another House in Quidditch.
If want me to say it though, I will say to you - and only you. The truth is my son cannot play Quidditch. Without my help, the only thing my soon can competently do with a broom is sweep, and we both know that in the Quidditch world, this means nothing. The boy cannot even fly competitively. He only thinks he can. And if anyone ever found out what I did to give him this talent, I could easily end up the lifetime girlfriend of some unusually large man named Butch at Azkaban: I put the Unforgivable Curse, Imperio, on my son every time he sets foot on a Quidditch field to play in competition. I was a very good Quidditch player. Captain of my house in both academics and physical education, except I also had a life-threatening condition which the Muggle half of me could not withstand. (And I curse my mother each and every day for being Muggle born, but of course, her being Muggle is about as much her fault as that Harry Potter is responsible for his being homely.) When Madame Pomfrey told me I could no longer play, I did what any good Quidditch captain would do. I ignored her until the injury worsened to the point that it would kill me, and only then could Pomfrey get me off my broom by shackling me to a bed in the Hospital Wing. I gave up my dreams wearing those damn shackles.
I live through my son: Ollie zips and whirls on his broom like a beautiful bat out of hell who thinks he is control of his movements. A stickly bat (with my wife's unibrow front and center of his face) in possession of a fierce passion to win, but still a bat out of hell. My bat. With the best parts of my beloved and me displayed in every nuance of his game. I am giving him everything I always wanted, making him want what is best for him. I put an Unforgivable Curse on him because this professional Quidditch- ery is exactly what he needs in his life. He cannot fly worth a lick without my assistance, of course, but once he is the hit of the wizarding sports world, he will see that what I do for him is best.
Voldemort threatens me every now and then, to reveal my secrets. He does not appear to me in bodily form, but I hear his voice. And you may laugh at me for putting my freedom at stake only to give my boy his remarkable abilities, but you have never glided the field, the roar of your House snaking up to your ears, causing you to fly higher - higher - HIGHER, to win this game for THEM because they love you that much.
I could not call myself a father if I did not risk my freedom for my son. His time at Hogwarts is soon coming to an end, and as my son signs with Puddlemere United, I know that everything I have risked is worth it. He is my progeny, my dream come true. He will accomplish all that I could not. And if for some reason I am found guilty for my sins, I will know it was worth it because for awhile, yes, for awhile, my son knew the gift of flight.