The Sporting Life: An Oliver Wood Tale

“The what?!” Bellowed an outraged Oliver Wood.
“The Chudley Cannons.” Sudle Twighart repeated calmly.
Oliver goggled from the conjured chair at the Puddlemere United team manager and owner. “But–you can’t do that! I’m your best keeper! I’m your only keeper!”
“You’re the most expensive player on the team!” Twighart whined, his meaty hands nervously shuffling and reshuffling a stack of parchments on the desk before him. “What with your fans and the security we have to have set up around you, I’m losing every galleon I have!”
“Surely not! I mean, come on, how much trouble can a bunch of girls be?” Oliver demanded.
“Loads! Last match when you took a Bludger to the chest, you’ll remember they vanished half of the Wasp’s team! Erin Beaners turned up in Siberia, gibbering in backwards Yiddish! I had to pay hundreds in reparations and damages and St. Mungo’s fees, I did! Absolutely out of the question for you to stay on here!”
“And what about all the merchandising? The “He’s a Keeper!” limited edition broom stickers and pins?! The “I love Oliver” robe patches?” Wood was nearing hysteria now, leaning forward almost utterly out of the chair and clutching the desk.
“Well, yes, there is that.” Twighart’s beady eyes softened a bit and he licked his lips at the memories of how those little tidbits had flown off the shelves. “But I’m sorry Wood, its simply not enough, really now, don’t make too much of a fuss...”
“But why the Cannons?!” The young star nearly whimpered. “I mean, I’m pretty big, right? There’s no way that they could be the only team that’d take me! I request an override and a different transfer.”
“Denied.” Twighart huffed. “Every other team in the league is shy of taking such a risk.”
“Risk?!” Wood leapt to his feet. “I’ve never done anything illegal on the pitch!”
Wood’s former manager hummed skeptically. “Maybe not on the pitch, but what about last New Year’s Eve at the team party?”
The player flushed a dull red. “I figured since she was old enough to be on the Harpies...”
“And the time you had that horrid case of the “dragon pox” and went to Aruba with a few of your female fans to “get healthy”, causing us to forfeit a game...”
Oliver’s blush deepened. “Okay, I’m not proud of that, but still, it was only one match. We won the league anyway, didn’t we?”
“Just barely.” Now Twighart’s voice was grim and he had obviously grown a backbone, staring down the younger, more handsome man. “The point is, no one can afford to have such a liability on their team. But it seems the Cannon’s new owner is someone who knows you.”
Wood’s distinguished brow furrowed. “Knows me?”
“The head of some department or another at the Ministry. Arthur–,”
“Weasley?!” Wood sank down into the chair, remembering the tall bald man whose son often accompanied Harry Potter, Wood’s former seeker at school. “But how did he get hold of the Cannons? I always thought the Weasleys–well, I thought they were poor.”
“He’s head of a very important department now, I hear. Also he’s in partnership with someone very high up in the Bulgarian ministry, I believe. Met him at the Kestral-Vultures World Cup in the Top Box, I hear.”
Digesting this piece of news, Wood frowned at the desk. “And he asked for me personally?”
“Well, no.” Stuttered Twighart. “I ah, posted the notice that you were up for grabs about a month ago. He responded yesterday, and seemed very eager.”
“A month ago?” Wood breathed, feeling like that bludger had impacted his chest again. “You posted me a month ago and nobody responded?”
“Mmm yes well...It looks that way, ah...Yes.”
Wood slumped in his seat, realizing he had hit rock bottom. His career was over. If only that attractive blonde Harpy hadn’t been at that party...
Realizing that his former star player was down for the count and seemed to no longer have the energy to protest, Twighart waved his wand, and the disheveled parchments sloppily bound themselves together. “Yes, well, you can empty your locker of its personal effects on the way out. There’s a severance packet in there, as well as a letter from Mr. Weasley, welcoming you to the team, I believe.” He stood hastily, grabbing his polished brown leather briefcase with the Puddlemere emblem stamped on the front and Summoning his cloak from the hanger in the corner. “Good luck to you, Oliver my boy, it was lovely, just lovely working with you...Hope to see you soon, we’ll be playing Cannons sometime this next season I believe...” Then, with a crack, he was gone, leaving a crumpled Oliver Wood sitting in the plush office alone.

The pretty Puddlemere secretary had tearfully handed him a sack to put his “things” from his locker in, before throwing her arms around him and sobbing into his chest that she would miss him and think of him every day and wouldn’t he send her an owl sometime, they could go out...
And so here Oliver Wood, former Keeper and Captain of the prestigious Puddlemere United Team, was left standing in front of his locker, staring at the contents, the bag hanging limp in his hand. It was all there, everything he had once taken such personal pride in. He remembered his early days as a reserve, straight out of school. He had polished everything in this locker twice over every night and then stayed up late, feverishly scribbling down plays to use when he would someday become captain.
His leather pads hadn’t really been polished in a while, and they lay scattered and muddy in a heap on the bottom of the locker. He had been too busy to do them lately. But his robes–his robes were in pristine condition as always. The deep navy was nearly velvety in its texture when he reached out and took it off it’s peg. The golden bulrushes embroidered on the chest gleamed, as did the number “42" and the legend “Wood” emblazoned on the back. Not a thread was out of place.
Looking around to make certain the locker room was absolutely deserted, Oliver sat on the bench and spread the uniform across his knees, smoothing out the creases carefully with his hands. He’d played an awful lot of games in this. He’d blocked quaffles in this. He wore this the first time he had made a game-winning save, and sat astonished on his broom, still hovering around the hoops as the crowd chanted his name in one giant booming voice.
Shifting the cloth in his lap around, he turned it inside out and found it–the patch of scarlet sewn clumsily into the hem. A bit of his old Gryffindor Team robes, cut the night they had won the cup. Wood never said he wasn’t superstitious. Pulling out his wand, he carefully removed the scrap of fabric, and looking around himself again for interlopers, stuffed it into his pocket. He thought about taking the Puddlemere robes, or perhaps bundling them up and throwing them on the floor or something, but he didn’t really see what that would accomplish. Plus, they were kind of–well, they were important to him. So he smoothed them and straightened them again, and before hanging up, he pressed his face to them. They smelled of leather, of grass, of weather and wind, and of broomstick polish. They smelled like quidditch.
Blinking furiously, Wood shoved them back in the locker, and looked around for something else to focus on. His gaze settled on the door of the locker, where several small figures were waving from photographs.
The first was the current Puddlemere Team in the standard company photo, all scowling their best at the camera. Squinting, Oliver could make out himself somewhere in the center, looking especially fierce from under his dark eyebrows and hair. Hundreds of witches everywhere had this very photo somewhere in their possessions, with lipstick hearts and kisses drawn around that very face. He knew, he had seen some of them.
Below that was a picture of him and his last girlfriend. They were canoodling heartily–or at least, she was. He was just kind of looking off in the other direction, every so often grudgingly accepting a kiss on the cheek. She had insisted he hang it in his locker, however.
There was a photo of his parents, smiling and waving, his mother twirling a little Puddlemere United flag. Then there was the last picture of The Gryffindor Quidditch team during the House Cup finals, all screaming and hugging and generally jumping all over each other. A bedraggled Harry Potter, forever doomed to be nearly strangled by overjoyed friends and teammates in the photo, appeared unconscious, laying limply on the Weasley twin’s shoulders as they carried him tirelessly around the pitch, tongue dangling slightly, glasses lost. Oliver himself was being encircled in the arms of Angelina, Alicia, and Katie, a bemused but happy look on his face.
Oliver managed to smile a little, and took down all the photos except the second one, carefully stashing them away in the loaned sack. On the top shelf of the locker lay two parchment envelopes, both addressed to him, one blue and gold and stamped with the Puddlemere emblem, the other orange, stamped with the far less impressive Cannons symbol. He stuffed them into his bag as well and slammed the locker door, deciding impulsively to walk down to the pitch.
This too appeared to be deserted. Oliver’s footfalls were muffled by the cushion of the immaculate grass, barely a sound echoing off the facades of the tall stands, all painted up with sponsors’ names and the team emblem everywhere. The big, open space was as familiar to him as the back of his hand, and he walked from end to end and all the way around to the familiar goal hoops. He touched the base of the middle one and looked up. They seemed very large now. Funny how things are different when you’re not on a broom.
Finally, feeling tired, Oliver decided he had tortured himself enough. It was time to leave. As he turned to plod back off the pitch, he thought he saw something move in the corner of his eye. Turning sharply, he saw nothing. Just the empty stands. Suspicious, he looked all the way around himself. No one.
Shrugging it off, he made his way out of the large, enclosed space, determined not to give it a backward glance. He managed to make it all the way back out without looking once. But ten feet away, he couldn’t help but sneak one peek. The peek lasted a very long time.
“Sorry to be leaving?” A voice said suddenly.
Startled, Wood spun around. A familiar person–VERY familiar–stood in front of him, and suddenly he knew who he had seen in the stadium.
“Potter?” Oliver questioned dumbly.
Giving his famous sheepish half-grin that always accompanied the gaping stares of others, the younger man nodded. He was taller now, but still shorter than Wood, and he was still very lean and wiry with messy hair. He wore black robes, and Wood immediately recognized the emblem of an Auror on the lapel. He had seen them enough during the Second War.
“How’re you, Oliver?” Potter asked, offering his hand.
Wood immediately shook it, grinning. “Pretty well, all things concerned–but it seems you knew about that.” He said, remembering what Potter had said.
“Yeah. Arthur told me.” But Potter’s grin bespoke an inside joke of some sort. “Good’ve you to come aboard, Wood. Means the world to the Cannons.”
I’ll bet, Oliver thought wryly to himself. They began to walk down to the offices together, Oliver’s effects slung over his shoulder in the sack.
“So, ah,” Wood suddenly found himself at a loss for words. This was Harry Potter. This was the boy who had defeated You-Know-Who singlehandedly. Twice now. Perhaps more, if the rumors at school had been true. “How’re things?”
Potter shrugged, but once again, his smile gave him away. “Alright. Got married last year.”
“I heard.” Just then Oliver remembered that Potter’s wife was the daughter of his new boss. Perhaps Potter was going to be involved in the doings of the Cannons? He felt a spark of hope. Potter was a natural at quidditch. With him as an aide to the team or as an advisor to Arthur Weasley, the picture didn’t look so bleak. “Any kids?”
“Yeah, one. Boy, pretty wee. Named him Bill.”
“Excellent.”
“Yeah.” Another grin. A big satisfied one.
“So, you’re an Auror now, eh? How come they didn’t make you head of the department?”
Harry flushed just like he had back on the team when someone praised his Seeker skills too highly. “They tried. I ah–had some other business, so I couldn’t accept.”
Merlin. Potter was obviously up to his ears in good luck. And here Wood was, being kicked off the quidditch team he’d belonged to since he was out of school. Being traded to the Chudley Cannons, of all things.
“I can see why you wouldn’t be happy about leaving this place.” Potter said, looking around, hands tucked into the pockets of his robes. “I mean, Puddlemere...”
“Yeah.” Wood couldn’t help be a little sullen. Rub it in, Potter.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got a really good team going, Ron and I.”
Oliver’s ears perked. “So you are going to be involved.”
Harry grinned again, his glasses flashing in the late afternoon sun. “Yeah. Meet your new Seeker.”