I don't own harry potter, I would not be here if I did.

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Oliver Wood stood in the ashes of what used to be the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, his broomstick clutched tightly in one hand and his eyes blazing with a fury that would have made a Hungarian Horntail think twice. Smoke curled around him, and the distant sound of Death Eaters cackling blended with the chaos of the Battle of Hogwarts. The Dark Lord had crossed a line this time. It wasn't just personal—it was professional.

"They burned my pitch," Oliver muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "Nobody burns my pitch."

The battle raged around him. Spells ricocheted off walls and through the air, and the screams of dueling witches and wizards echoed in the distance. Harry Potter and his friends were somewhere in the thick of it, trying to end the war once and for all. But Oliver wasn't thinking about the prophecy or the Horcruxes. He was thinking about revenge.

Oliver's eyes scanned the destruction. His beloved Quaffles were reduced to smoldering lumps, his precious goalposts toppled like toothpicks. Even his favorite Beater's bat had been snapped in two. A cold, unyielding rage settled over him.

"Right," he growled, tossing aside his broomstick. "If they want war, I'll give them war."

Oliver's first target was a cluster of Death Eaters near the ruined stands. One of them laughed, tossing a shattered Quaffle back and forth like it was a joke.

"That was a regulation Quaffle!" Oliver roared, charging forward.

The Death Eaters turned, wands raised, but Oliver was faster. He snatched a broken broomstick from the ground and hurled it like a javelin. It struck the lead Death Eater square in the chest, knocking him backward into his comrades. Before they could recover, Oliver grabbed a splintered Beater's bat and swung it with all the force of a Bludger. Wands went flying, and the Death Eaters crumpled to the ground.

"You'll pay for every splinter," Oliver muttered, stepping over their unconscious forms.

With the adrenaline of fury coursing through his veins, Oliver scavenged the battlefield for anything he could use. A pile of broken broomsticks became spears. A crate of leftover Bludgers, hastily enchanted by Oliver, became homing missiles that sought out dark magic. Even the shattered remains of a goal hoop were transfigured into a massive, spinning shield that deflected curses back at their casters.

As Oliver stormed through the chaos, more and more witches and wizards began to follow him, inspired by his unorthodox methods. "He's like a bloody tornado!" one student exclaimed as Oliver felled three Death Eaters with a well-aimed Quaffle. "They don't stand a chance!"

Oliver's approach was relentless. Every piece of Quidditch gear became a weapon in his hands. He enchanted a Snitch to zip around Death Eaters' heads, distracting them long enough for others to disarm them. He used broomsticks as battering rams, sending enemies flying with devastating precision. The battlefield became a surreal mixture of war and sport, with Oliver at its center, a force of nature no one could stop.

Eventually, Oliver's rampage brought him to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where a group of Death Eaters were regrouping. Among them was Fenrir Greyback, his teeth bared in a feral grin.

"What's this?" Greyback sneered. "A Quidditch boy thinks he can take us on?"

"Quidditch man," Oliver corrected, leveling a jagged broomstick at him. "And you're about to regret stepping on my pitch."

Greyback lunged, but Oliver was ready. With a swift movement, he used his enchanted shield to deflect the werewolf's attack, sending him crashing into a tree. Before Greyback could recover, Oliver hurled a Bludger straight into his chest, knocking him unconscious.

The remaining Death Eaters hesitated, clearly unnerved by Oliver's unorthodox fighting style. One tried to cast the Cruciatus Curse, but Oliver countered it with a spinning goal hoop that reflected the spell back at the caster, who crumpled to the ground in agony.

"Anyone else?" Oliver shouted, his voice echoing through the forest. The remaining Death Eaters scattered, leaving Oliver standing victorious among the wreckage.

Oliver's path of destruction finally brought him face-to-face with Voldemort. The Dark Lord stood in the center of the ruined pitch, his snake-like features twisted into a sneer.

"You," Voldemort hissed, his red eyes narrowing. "You think you can stand against me with… sports equipment?"

Oliver tightened his grip on a particularly sharp broomstick. "You burned my pitch."

Voldemort's laughter was cold and mirthless. "Foolish boy. Do you think your toys will save you?"

"No," Oliver said, his voice steady. "But my aim might."

With a flick of his wrist, Oliver hurled the broomstick like a spear. Voldemort deflected it with a lazy wave of his wand, but the distraction gave Oliver enough time to launch his next attack. He summoned a crate of Bludgers and sent them hurtling toward the Dark Lord. The enchanted balls slammed into Voldemort's shield, shattering it into sparks.

Enraged, Voldemort fired a Killing Curse. Oliver dove, grabbing a piece of shattered goal hoop and using it to reflect the curse back at its caster. Voldemort's eyes widened as he narrowly avoided his own spell.

"You're mad!" Voldemort snarled.

"And you're about to lose!" Oliver shouted, hurling a transfigured Quaffle that exploded into a cloud of blinding light upon impact. While Voldemort was disoriented, Oliver charged forward, his makeshift weapons whirling.

With the last of his strength, Oliver summoned every piece of Quidditch equipment left on the pitch. Quaffles, broomsticks, goal hoops, and even shattered pieces of the stands hovered in the air around him.

"For Hogwarts," Oliver muttered. "And for the pitch."

With a roar, he sent the entire arsenal hurtling toward Voldemort. The Dark Lord's defenses crumbled under the sheer force of the attack. A final, enchanted Bludger struck Voldemort square in the chest, knocking him to the ground. His wand rolled away, and his body went limp.

The remaining Death Eaters, seeing their leader defeated, attempted to flee, but Oliver wasn't done. With a wave of his hand, he unleashed a storm of Bludgers and broomsticks, incapacitating every last one of them.

As the dust settled, the battlefield grew silent. Wizards and witches stared at Oliver in awe, their faces a mix of shock and admiration. Harry Potter, arriving just in time to see Voldemort's defeat, approached Oliver with wide eyes.

"You… you did it," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Oliver, covered in soot and clutching the remains of a Quaffle, shrugged. "He burned my pitch."

The crowd erupted into cheers. Oliver Wood, Quidditch captain and unlikely hero, had saved the wizarding world using nothing but sheer determination and a pile of sports equipment. And as he stood in the center of the ruined pitch, Oliver allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

"Nobody messes with Quidditch," he muttered.

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