Otherwise Known as Fate

Chapter One- Curses and Rather Lenient Broomstick Owners

Dear Mr. and Mrs.Wood- It has come to our attention that young Oliver is not currently participating in any of the higher learning or elective classes, with the exception of Care of Magical Creatures, that Hogwarts has to offer. While we feel that your son is not academically lacking, rather, quite the opposite, we feel that taking another class would be in his best interest. Enclosed is a list of classes that Oliver is eligible to enroll for.

Have a pleasant holiday,

Minerva McGonagall

"Why, mum?" Oliver Wood groaned as he leaned against the kitchen counter, sounding as if he was in great agony. He loosely held his extra thick Hogwarts envelope in one hand, its roughly opened edges tickling his palm. His eyes followed his busy mother, bustling about the kitchen, not looking at him as she answered. Her dusty brown hair was swept into a bun, green mediwetch uniform sleeves rolled up as she popped some leftover sausages into the icebox. Olivers father, a sports journalist for a popular Quidditch publication, "U.K. Quidditch Weekly," had already left for his office in Edinburgh.

"I already told you, Oliver, you need to add more academics to your schedule."

"But-"

"No buts, my boy. Come now, finish up with those dishes, I have to get to work!" His mother sounded breathless, yet somehow cheery, packing leftover breakfast objects into tupperware and shoving them into the icebox. Oliver sighed, giving his Hogwarts letter a long look before setting it on the kitchen table and taking some dirty dishes to the sink. He clanked the dishes into the soapy water and leaned his weight against the counter, absently staring out of the window above the sink. The day was beautiful and bright, midmorning sun casting its warm rays over their large, rural backyard that was mostly ringed by a forest, with a peculiar old garden that belonged to no one in particular on one side. His thoughts drifted, hands resting on the edge of the counter as he stared blankly outside. His gaze locked in on a small branch sticking out of a wild, overgrown bush near the edge of the property as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Oliver stared at it, mind totally blank. He often did this now, randomly spacing out and staring at things without a thought in his head.

"Oliver! Come on, back to Earth!" His mother's voice awakened him out of his trance. He slid his hands into the sudsy water and began to scrub the dishes agressively. He and his mother stood side by side at the sink, scrubbing dishes in resolute silence, elbow deep in soap suds. After they had finished cleaning up and Oliver's mother had grabbed her tote bag full of items necessary for work, he pestered her again.

"Mother," he whined uncharacteristically, "You know I'm not interested in any of those stupid classes! Look, there's no way I'm getting into any advanced course, anyway!"

"Ol, you know not to call me mother, it makes me sound older than 'mum' does." She joked, clearly amused at Oliver's attempts to convince her, winking as she passed him (who rolled his eyes). Striding briskly out of the kitchen, she hummed merrily. Oliver glared. How could anyone be so constantly cheery?

Oliver followed her to the living room, moving ahead to lean against the doorframe of the front door to their two-story house. Arms crossed, he watched his mother look around the small, comfortable space to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything. "Alright then, mum, you know that there is no way I'm getting into an advanced course! I can hardly pass my regular ones." It was his mothers turn to roll her eyes.

"Oh, come off it, you're a good student, you just don't like your classes."

"But I really don't want an advanced one."

She walked up to him, smiling brightly, crossing her arms to match his stance. "Well, then, I supppose you'll just have to take a new one!" She said cheerily, pushing past him and opening the door. She stepped outside, Oliver following her. "Bye, Ollie, see you later. If you go out, lock the door!" She kissed him on the cheek and quickly stepped down the doorstep, jogging through the front garden, down the long dirt drive that led to the road where her honking carpool full of other mediwitches waited. The midmorning sun shone over the rural Scottish countyside that surrounded the house, the bright day hardly lifting Oliver's spirits.

"Are you sure I have to?" He called from the doorstep with little hope.

"I'm really rooting for Arithmancy!" She called over her shoulder as she climbed into the back seat of the royal blue car, still smiling brightly. Oliver groaned, his head thumping back against the oak door. His mother smiled more than was humanly possible, he resolved, watching the car speed off. He turned and walked back into the empty house with a sigh, resisting the urge to slam the door in frustration. Well, he thought, at least it's only one class. And I'm not taking arithmancy... Striding through the living room, he snatched a Quidditch magazine off of the coffee table, absently flipping through it as he strode back to the kitchen. He sat down at the table, attempting to read an article on Wimbourne's new chaser, but his thoughts kept wandering back to the death sentence he had received that morning. He threw the magazine onto the table, giving up on it, and closed his eyes. He put his hands over his face, then rubbed his temples, taking a deep breath and letting it out. Hogwarts just wanted him to fail as a professional Quidditch player, didn't they? He picked up the envelope off the table, awkwardly spinning it around in his fingers. He would have opened it to read the extra letter again, but he had already memorized it from reading it over so many times.

Oliver snorted, still fingering the envelope. Curse the day I showed my teachers that I have a brain, he thought. He would have rather gone on as a burly idiot in his professors eyes, too thick to understand anything other than Quidditch and fights, rather than be forced to take another class. He didn't need any more distractions from his passion, which was, undoubtedly, Quidditch. This was his seventh and last year at Hogwarts, and Gryffindor's last chance to win the Cup with Oliver as Captain. He almost sobbed at the memory of how the Cup had been stolen from Gryffindor in the past two years, and strangely, each time Harry Potter having something to do with it. I mean, if he just had to battle You Know Who every year, couldn't he do it during, I don't know, Christmas break, when there were no matches? Oliver thought angrily at this always untimely annual act of heroism. Well, it was no matter, because Harry was truly the best seeker since Charlie Weasley had been on the team. Seeker's talent aside, the team itself had quite some talent. Angelina Johnson was excellent as a chaser, and he had always said the Weasley twins were like a pair of human bludgers themselves. With this team, Gryffindor had to win the cup this year, they had to, and if things didn't get too insane, they would, most definitely. That didn't mean the team was going to practice any less, of course.

Oliver sighed yet again. Well, he had a whole day to do what he pleased, and a bit of time to either choose a class and get it over with or find ways to avoid this situation. That's a tough descision, he thought sarcastically, deciding that he would rather just go do something to clear his mind. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor, and stood up, stretching. Well, there's only one thing to do in a situation like this, he thought. He put on a pair of sneakers and walked to the back door, sliding it open and stepping outside. He breathed in the pleasant warm air, the scent of grass and sunwarmed paddocks. Making his way down the slightly sloping land to the old shed with peeling blue paint, he whistled to himself, attempting to releive this morning's stress, and it was working, at least a bit.

Upon reaching the shed, he reached out to grab the brass padlock, clicking it open without any trouble. His father had placed a charm on it that prevented anyone with less than perfect intentions from opening that shed, which contained he and his son's lifeblood: broomsticks. Oliver opened the door and deeply inhaled the scent of wood and broom polish, which were undoubtedly his favorite scents. He walked to the hanging rack at the back of the broomshed, door swinging open behind him. He admired each broom, from the old, decrepit sticks of matchwood that were probably older than his father to the nicely polished Cleansweeps and his own Nimbus. His family was definitely not rich, even with two working parents, and he was lucky to have that lovely broom. He had gotten it as a Yule gift two years previous from his grandfather, who was also a Quidditch enthusiast. Definitely runs in the family, mused Oliver as he carefully pulled his beloved broom off the rack. He held it before him for a minute, lovingly looking at it with a pride. He had won matches on that. He had come painstakingly close to winning the cup two years in a row on it, too... a pang of regret hit him at the thought. Well, we'll just have to practice harder this year... come to think of it, I haven't practiced in a while... Thoughts of his new class completely abandoned, he quickly picked up an old quaffle crate and carried it under his arm, walked out of the shed, broom clutched in his left hand, and carelessly left the door swinging open. When he got in these type of moods he often forgot to eat, talk, or do anything but think of Quidditch. His gaze was firmly set on the woods. He would do a little practice flying in his favorite clearing and then have a go with the quaffles his dad had charmed to shoot at the goalpoasts without human assistance (his father had found great ways to use his knack for charms). After all, he had a whole day to himself. He stepped into the thick, green forest, mind only set on the rigorous practice to come, completely forgetting that he had left both the front door unlocked and the shed door open. A breeze ruffled the overgrown grass in the yard, bringing a bit of releif to the drooping plants and humans about.

A/N: Like I said, this entire story has been practically overhauled as of January 2, 2005... heh, that feels weird, saying 2005... ahem, yes, anyway, most of the changes were made in the later chapters, but this one was also edited and revised. Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are appreciated.