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The stadium sparkled and shimmered. Thousands of enchanted lights from wands and magical fireworks illuminated the night sky as bursts of cheers and excitement rattled the very bones of the stands. Towers of seating rose as tall as the heavens and as steep as a mountain face, and not one empty space could be found among them. Hundreds of thousands of witches and wizards—young and old, foreign and native, die-hard fans and those dragged along by friends or family—crowded the arena, alive with awe and electric anticipation.

A large section of the spectators huddled together, though “huddled” was a feat in itself when there were so many that they would have filled Buckingham Palace twice over. They were clad in dark robes, black-and-white stripes painted across their cheeks. One fan had even gone to the lengths of donning a particularly ugly hat topped with a black bird, which shrieked dreadfully at anyone who came too close. Unfortunately, the bird was not the only thing screeching. The fans of the Montrose Magpies were some of the most boisterous—if not the loudest—in the British and Irish Quidditch League. Known as the most successful team in league history, with thirty-two league wins and two European championships, their devotees were very much in the mood to secure yet another victory for their already overcrowded trophy boxes.

However, crammed even more tightly on the opposite side of the stadium was a sea of blue and gold, a blur of color and motion that made the Magpies’ supporters look like child’s play. Embellished with as much—if not more—ferocity than Montrose’s, worshippers of Puddlemere United gripped one another and sang their team’s notorious song:

“Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys, and Chuck That Quaffle Here!”

It was sung with such passion, and such spectacular lack of pitch, that anyone listening might have believed they were attempting to summon a banshee. 

And that was not where the crowd ended. More and more people flooded the stadium in endless rows of black or blue, and the occasional wonky color that stood out like a mandrake in a rose bush. To outsiders, the cult following and borderline dangerous obsession with this match might have seemed unnecessary. But to the wizarding community, this game determined the fate of millions of bets, hopes, and whispered prayers to Merlin.

It was July 10th, 1999. In Bodmin Moor Millennium Stadium, the Montrose Magpies were set to face Puddlemere United in the semifinal match of the United Kingdom’s Quidditch League. This match had drawn an unusually large Puddlemere following, as many witches and wizards who were not even fans of the team cheered them on, claiming it was “due time” for “someone to knock the Magpies down a peg.” Puddlemere United had crept up the rankings of the 1999 league, surprising more than a few who had been convinced the Tutshill Tornadoes were making a comeback this year. Much of this success could be credited to a recent change in management.

As the roars deafened the stadium, the heart of a young man pounded wildly. He urged it to slow, but the unwavering support of thousands of devoted witches and wizards filled him with both adrenaline and nausea.

Oliver Wood, twenty-three-year-old Keeper and former captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, stood nervously in the Puddlemere locker room, his hands wringing together. He tried to take a breath and choked on it. After graduating from Hogwarts, he had been signed to Puddlemere’s reserve team, waiting for the main Keeper to retire, be seriously maimed, or die. Wood had not been upset when he was signed—quite the opposite, in fact. Thrilled to go professional, he trained just as tirelessly as he had while drilling his Hogwarts team on the school pitch.

But six years later, with no sign that his career was moving forward, his heart had begun to sink. While he was still young, most players retired in their early thirties—sometimes even their late twenties. Wood was the only player on the reserve team who had never played in a match. Not once in six years. Everyone else had stepped in once or twice, or even several times, due to injuries. Everyone except Wood.

Unfortunately for him, Puddlemere’s Keeper had enjoyed an almost insulting streak of perfect health.

Bloody hell.

Wood began pacing the narrow hallway, lockers towering on both sides, his Firebolt Supreme–the standard league broom–resting on the bench that ran down the center of the passage. He was running out of time, and he didn’t want to be benched forever, waiting for the Puddlemere Keeper to finally get a knock on the head or kick the bucket.

“Wood!”

A heavy hand clapped his shoulder, startling him. He spun around, and despite everything, he couldn’t suppress the smile that rose to his face.

“Hey, Lamsly,” Wood replied, returning the clap with equal force.

Liam Lamsly was burly—a giant of a man who cast shadows across anyone unfortunate enough to stand too close. He had short ginger hair and a long red beard, and reminded Oliver of what a leprechaun might look like if it had been fed steroids. With hardened eyes and years of experience etched into every line of his face, the forty-two-year-old, nine-time European champion regarded Oliver with a friendly gaze.

“Getting along fine, are ya?” Lamsly asked in his thick Irish accent. “Not getting nervous now?”

Wood tried to smile, but it came out closer to a grimace. Lamsly raised an eyebrow and gave him what could generously be called a gentle smile.

“Not really,” Oliver lied, his eyes drifting past Lamsly to where the rest of the reserve team talked in low, focused voices.

Liam gave him a knowing look and pushed him down onto one of the long benches. He sat beside him, fingers trailing through and scratching at his crimson beard.

“So what’s the matter with you, then?”

Wood let out a quiet chuckle at Lamsly’s bluntness, though it faded quickly. This was what he liked about him. Even though Oliver was “just some kid on the reserve team,” Liam had always treated him like an equal. Always congratulated him, always acknowledged his work.

Still, Oliver could never escape his pre-game shivers. The thought that one day he would have to stand in for the older man terrified him—even though he desperately wanted to play. Would he live up to expectations? The fans’? Lamsly’s? His own?

His eyes dropped to his hands, wringing together like a child’s. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“How do you do it?” Wood asked.

He realized immediately how stupid that sounded and almost rushed to clarify, but stopped at the thoughtful look on Lamsly’s face. The fingers in his beard stilled, then began to stroke it as though wisdom might fall from it.

“I imagine I am a worm,” Lamsly said gravely.

Wood’s face blanched. “A—a what?”

“A worm.”

Wood frowned. “You’re playing with me.”

“Not at all, mate.”

Wood’s face reddened. “If this is some way of making a joke out of me—”

“Merlin, calm down and listen,” Lamsly interrupted, shoving his shoulder. “Them worms are bloody strong. Ever seen one get eaten by a vulture? Next day the vulture shits out the worm and fucking dies. And the worm’s still alive. Never lets their opponent get the best of them.”

He looked at Wood fondly, as if he hadn’t just said the most unhinged thing Oliver had ever heard.

“So what you’re saying,” Wood said slowly, “is that I should get crapped out of some dunce’s bum?”

Lamsly smacked him upside the head.

“Hey!”

“What I’m saying,” he continued, jabbing a finger into Wood’s chest, “is if some big, ruffled-up poof is going to attack, you attack back when they least expect it. Cause all of their shit is gonna be for show, but you’re gonna be the real underdog, ’cause they don’t expect ya. Don’t let them under your skin.” Lamsly let a fierce grin overtake his face. “Kill the vulture,” he said, poking his finger into Wood’s chest to emphasize every syllable.

Lamsly was a fucking psychopath.

Wood hoped the mortification from Liam’s “pep talk” didn’t show. He simply nodded, forcing a serious expression onto his face.

Lamsly stood as if his little speech had just solved all the world’s problems, releasing a content little sigh, and held out his hand. Wood took it reluctantly, still a wee bit dazed from the acid trip of a conversation, and stumbled to his feet.

“Just so you know,” Lamsly said, leaning in closer, lowering his voice, “between you and me, you’ve got a real good shot of making it on the team. You’ve got real talent, Wood. More than I’ve seen from any of these other kids.”

Then Lamsly leaned back, a toothy grin splitting his face, and resumed his booming voice. “Don’t let it get to your head, bud. I’m still the best!” He snorted and smacked Wood on the back, sending him stumbling forward with an “oof!”

Wood rubbed his shoulder, rolling it out as he watched the older man stride away, still chortling to himself. That settles it. Lamsly definitely takes a shot of euphoria elixir before a match. Wood sat down again, his head buried in his hands as he watched the time tick down. And down. And down.

As the clock shifted to the five-minute warning, the reserve Seeker, Lenny, nudged Wood as he and the rest of the reserves passed him to gather in the tent that would open at the end of the countdown, releasing the team onto the pitch.

Wood let out one last huff of breath, grabbed his broom, and followed.

Inside the tent, a woman with jet-black hair pulled into a high ponytail stood in front of a whiteboard splattered with frantic tactics in blood-red marker. The main Puddlemere team sat on benches facing her. Viktor Nakariakov—thirty-nine-year-old Russian legend, two-time World Cup champion, and internationally ranked Chaser—sat with his arms folded. His slender build contrasted sharply with the power he wielded on the pitch. Ariana Humfry lounged nearby, younger than the rest, her baby face betraying none of the viciousness that had earned her a reputation even among her own teammates. Dorris Fawley and Baglan Wellnelly, twenty-seven and twenty-eight, sat shoulder-to-shoulder. The beaters worked like a single organism. Fawley looked meek and sweet, but her passive-aggressive tongue and stubborn nature made her difficult to stomach. Wellnelly was quiet, but his steady kindness filled the gaps his words never did.

Of course, there was Liam Lamsly—famous across the United Kingdom for his trophies, temper, and flaming beard—ranked among the greatest Keepers Britain had ever seen.

And—

“Oh thank Merlin you’re here.” Benjy Williams, Puddlemere’s Seeker, sat on the bench directly in front of him. He twisted around and grabbed Wood’s arm. “These meetings are dreadfully boring.”

Oliver had met Benjy before his promotion. Two years after Wood joined Puddlemere, Williams had arrived as reserve Seeker and been assigned to Wood’s quarters. Oliver’s first impression had been negative: baggy Muggle clothes, hair cut almost too short, young and skinny. A Hufflepuff, apparently. He only became a seeker in his final year, after the whole Triwizard Tournament disaster and once Wood had graduated. Oliver hadn’t liked him. Even as a pure-blood Gryffindor with no real blood prejudice, Benjy’s aggressively Muggle way of existing had rubbed him raw. Wood had thought him an insult to Quidditch. An embarrassment to the Quaffle.

He’d been wrong. Wood had never seen a better Seeker. Quick. Agile. Razor-eyed. He’d apparently played with so many clubs outside Hogwarts that his inexperience barely showed. Benjy had been promoted only a year after signing. Wood had called it luck—the previous Seeker had retired at just the right time—but Benjy deserved the sky. It was his second year playing on the main team. In a lot of ways, Benjy reminded Wood of a more energetic and loud-mouthed Harry Potter.

“Griffiths’s been going on for ages about how we’ve got it in the bag,” Benjy whispered out of the side of his mouth. Wood bent his knees to hear him better. “Blimey, she’s getting cocky.”

He was punched from both sides. Apparently, his teammates had been listening.

“Guys,” the woman at the board growled, “focus! We’ve got about five—no, four minutes. Four very valuable minutes left!”

Wilda Griffiths—Puddlemere’s newest captain, transferred from the Holyhead Harpies much to her former teammates’ outrage—stabbed her marker at the board.

“The Daily Prophet just revealed that Maddolk, the captain of the Montrose Magpies, was fired two games ago. Something about trying to play Muggle football.”

Wood kicked Benjy lightly in the back of the legs as his head snapped up at the word football.

Ruddy Muggle-borns.

“The team’s being run temporarily by their Seeker, Lennox Campbell, and some newbie from the reserves took Maddolk’s place,” Griffiths continued with a grin. “So this is our perfect chance to demolish them. And I don’t want any whining.”

“Ah—!”

A voice cut through the noise.

Philbert Deverill, manager of Puddlemere United, stood at the tent entrance and clapped his hands together once. Small in height, massive in girth, he waddled forward, patting Griffiths’s shoulder and motioning her to sit.

“Game day!” he announced, hands clasped, smile plastered on. “Semi-finals, no less! I have every confidence you’ll perform outstandingly—especially with the coming retirement of Mr. Nakariakov, our resident Chaser.” Philbert’s eyes glossed over. Sentiment or terror of losing him, Wood couldn’t tell.

The reserve Chasers immediately stirred, buzz rising like flies. The chasers on the reserve had been pushing themselves on top of the others like tackling in muggle American football ever since Nakariakov announced his retirement a month prior. Sucking up. Showing off. Scrambling for the vacancy. 

Philbert clapped again sharply.

“Focus up!”

Benjy startled at the sound.

“Yes, yes, all very sad,” he said briskly. “But we have a game to win!”

A few dignified huffs of adrenaline and scattered whoops rippled through the team.

“All right!” Griffiths shouted, jumping to her feet and physically herding Philbert aside. Several of the players followed her lead, buzzing with energy, hearts hammering, fierce grins flashing across their faces. Even the reserves shot upright, some of the fire returning to their eyes.

“Can I hear you shout Puddlemere United?”

“Puddlemere United!” the team roared.

“Always number one!”

“Always number one!”

“Puddlemere United!”

“Always number one!”

With a final holler and broomsticks thrust into the air, Puddlemere United gathered itself and began filing out of the tent, forming lines at the barracks with only a thin flap of cloth separating them from the thunder of the crowd. The main squad took the front in two neat rows, the reserves lining up behind.

Wood stepped forward, angling toward Lenny’s side.

“Wood, was it?” He turned to see Philbert wobbling toward him. “A word, please?”

Oliver stared for half a beat as the words processed. “Uh—y-yeah, of—of course, Mr. Deverill,” he said. The reserves’ sidelong glances made heat flood his face.

A large, hairy arm looped around his shoulders and guided him aside, into a quieter corner of the tent, out of sight of the others. As Philbert released him, dread settled in his chest. Why did Philbert want to speak to him? Had he done something wrong? Was he being cut? Wood’s face blanched.

“Have I done something, Mr. Deverill?” he asked.

“What? No, my dear boy!” Philbert said, amused. “No, I was simply checking in. Lamsly has told me quite a bit about you.”

Oh no.

If it were possible, Wood went even paler.

“He’s told me many great things,” Philbert clarified, noticing his expression. “Says you’re the best Keeper he’s seen since Meaghan McCormack of the Pride of Portree’s. Says you’ll make the Quidditch history books one day.” A greedy little glint flashed through Philbert’s eyes—already tallying galleons, no doubt.

“Mr. Deverill—”

“Oh, please, call me Phil. We’re all family here,” he said with a desperate smile that unsettled Oliver.

“…Mr. Phil,” Wood tried, “why are you telling me all this?”

“No reason. I just wanted to introduce myself to you–we haven't spoken since your try-out, yes?” Phil’s grin widened. He winked, then clapped his hands. “Now! The game’s starting. Off you go to the team, pip pip!” Philbert steered him back toward the open side of the tent.

Oliver didn’t even correct him for saying team instead of reserve. He was too busy reeling over what the bloody hell Phil had wanted. Wood slipped into line beside Lenny, who gave him an odd look. Up ahead, Benjy twisted around and flashed him a thumbs-up before Lamsly smacked his arm and shook his head.

Lamsly glanced back once more and mouthed something that very clearly resembled “kill the vulture.” Oliver swallowed, suddenly remembering his mother’s advice about not speaking to strange men.

He shook his head to clear it.

Closed his eyes.

And breathed.

This time, he didn’t choke.

Griffiths’s last-second instructions washed over him like distant noise. All he could hear was the rush of blood, adrenaline, and something like water roaring in his ears. It felt as though he were suspended inside a current, body condensing, mind narrowing, the world compressing into a single, focused point.

A whistle pierced the air.

Wood mounted his Firebolt Supreme.

The tent flap tore open.

Light flooded in.

And he kicked off.

—

The stadium erupted into pure, unfiltered chaos as the Puddlemere team burst onto the pitch.

They swooped in like Muggle fighter jets, the main squad rocketing upward in a series of intricate maneuvers and razor-sharp flips. They circled the stadium in wide, sweeping arcs, twisting and whipping through the air as they showed off their precision and control. Above them, the Magpies were already mounted on their brooms, black-and-white robes billowing, scowling openly as Puddlemere cut dangerously close, passing them at distances that felt deliberately unsafe.

A low hiss of boos rose from the Magpie stands, but it was utterly devoured by the roar of Puddlemere supporters. Oliver swore he saw one fan wearing a headband with an entire broomstick strapped to it, the bristles smacking their neighbor in the face as they jumped and flailed.

As always in Puddlemere’s routine, when the main team soared overhead, the reserve team formed two long, straight lines across the pitch—half facing the crowd, half facing the goalposts—hovering in disciplined stillness.

“Here comes Puddlemere United, twenty-two time victors of the British and Irish Cup and two time winners of the European Champions!” the announcer boomed, voice magically amplified. “Number twenty-four Captain Wilda Griffiths leads the team!”

“Ah yes, Wilda Griffiths! A transfer from the Holyhead Harpies!” A second announcer said.

“Her first year with Puddlemere, is that right Alan?”

“You bet, Brad! Wilda Griffiths made history last season when she broke the all time chaser record for the highest velocity throw. She's got power!”

“Well, let's just hope that power translates to leading her team. Oh, and look there Alan, it’s Puddlemere's famous Vulture-V!”

The main team snapped into a sharp V-formation, gliding across the field like a pack of falcons before surging upward. They climbed nearly two hundred feet above the stadium, then pitched forward as one, plunging nose-first toward the pitch.

That was the reserves’ cue.

Blue-and-gold dust burst from the tails of their brooms as they streaked across the field, weaving into a crisscross lattice of shimmering cerulean and molten gold. The cloud glittered under the stadium lights as the main team tore straight through it, emerging brilliant and sparkling, robes glowing as if forged from light itself.

“As always, an amazing spectacle by Puddlemere United! Very good, very good!” the announcer cried, wand pressed to his throat.

The reserves peeled away and slipped quietly into the dugout while the main squad remained aloft.

Oliver touched down with a muted thump, the sound completely swallowed by the screaming crowd. He dismounted, propped his Firebolt Supreme against the wall, and folded his arms over his chest as he looked back up at the sky. Worry was already seeping into his bones.

At the center of the pitch, Griffiths and Montrose’s captain, Lennox Campbell, met in midair and shook hands—both grips clearly intended to break fingers.

They had to win this. Puddlemere hadn’t reached the finals since 1987. Hadn’t won since 1985. If they lost now, the Magpies would claim a third consecutive championship and advance to the European Cup. Oliver grimaced, torn between the thought and the shrill scream of the starting whistle.

The match exploded into motion.

Brooms streaked through the air, the wind howling around them, nearly drowned out by the voices of thousands of magical beings chanting, screaming, and very enthusiastically butchering the tune of “Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys, and Chuck That Quaffle Here.”

“Here comes Puddlemere Chaser number nine with the Quaffle, weaving past Magpie Chaser number eight!”

Wood nearly chewed his fingers as Nakariakov tore toward the goalposts.

“Number nine with a beautiful maneuver, dodging a Bludger sent by Magpie Beater thirteen! He advances on the hoops—Magpie Keeper thirty-seven moves into position—nine throws—and—miss! Ten points to Puddlemere!”

The crowd roared. The scoreboard flashed as the ten lit up beneath Puddlemere’s name. The reserves whooped and bumped shoulders. Wood punched the air as Nakariakov was congratulated above.

“It’s Puddlemere’s ball again! Quaffle released and quickly taken by Chaser number twenty-four!”

Griffiths ducked under a Magpie arm, slamming the player aside as she surged forward.

“Twenty-four passes to Chaser eighteen!”

Humfry caught cleanly, tilting her broom for a clear angle.

“Eighteen shoots—! And Magpie Keeper thirty-seven deflects it with his broom tail!”

A collective groan rippled through the stands. Humfry very nearly flipped him off. The Magpie Keeper only grinned.

“Puddlemere Chaser nine regains possession—moving into position—but the throw is intercepted by Magpie Chaser number eleven!”

Wood blinked. Intercepted? There hadn’t been anyone there. But sure enough, a blur of black and white rocketed downfield.

“Number eleven shoots on Puddlemere Keeper forty-two—! He misses by inches! Montrose scores!”

The Magpie section erupted. Lamsly had missed. That was rare. For the top-ranked Keeper in Britain to miss meant one thing: that Chaser was good.

Oliver scanned the reserves until he spotted Lenny near the bench, gnawing on his nails. Wood stepped beside him just as Griffiths scored again.

“Hey, Lenny?”

Lenny startled. “Oh—Wood. What?”

“Who’s number eleven?” Wood asked. “Magpies’ Chaser.”

Lenny hesitated, eyes flicking toward him. “He’s new. Don’t know his name. Got pulled up from reserves two games ago when one of their Chasers fell off her broom.” Humfry scored again. Lenny cheered, then continued. “Big bloke. Muscular. Honestly looks more like a Beater. But he’s fast. Real fast.”

He pointed upward. “There. That’s him.”

For once, number eleven hovered almost motionless. Wood caught one clear glimpse before he shot forward, snagged the Quaffle, and fed it to a teammate—who scored again.

“The score tightens, folks! Puddlemere leading thirty to twenty!” the announcer cried. “And here comes Puddlemere Seeker twelve shooting across the field—was that the Snitch?! Magpie Seeker thirty-three closes in—ooh, nearly! And—brilliant Bludger from Puddlemere Beater sixty-seven sends him spinning! The Snitch is lost, and Puddlemere lives to fight another minute!”

The reserve team whooped and cheered for the beater, Fawley, who had stopped the Magpie in his tracks. The other Puddlemere beater, Wellnelly, slapped him on the back. From above, Wood could see Benjy sheepishly rub his neck in embarrassment before zooming off again to scan for the Snitch.

Wood heard Lenny scoff beside him. “I would have caught that,” he said bitterly.

“In your dreams, Lenny,” the reserve beater standing next to him—whom Wood had forgotten was there—said. “That’s why you’re in the dugouts and Williams is in the air.”

Lenny crossed his arms, huffing.

The reserve beater leaned forward, glancing at Wood. “You were talking about Eleven, right? I’ve heard stories about him. He’s scary—both in skill and personality. I saw the Magpies’ last game and watched him closely. He uses his weight to gain momentum. Once he starts, it’s hard for him to stop, which is why when he gets the Quaffle he often doesn’t pass it to anyone else. When he does pass, he’s usually sitting still. He incorporates some keeper and beater moves into his regimen, which is pretty admirable. I like his use of the Finbourgh Flick—its practicality in terms of—”

Although any other day Wood would be head-over-heels to talk about Quidditch plays, Wood tuned the beater out as he watched Nakariakov score another ten points for Puddlemere. The reserve beater quickly abandoned his rambling and high-fived Lenny as the rest of the dugout shouted their support.

“Another ten points for Puddlemere, bringing the score to forty to twenty! The Magpie keeper tosses the Quaffle back onto the field! Magpie chaser number seventy-two swoops in to take the ball, racing toward the Puddlemere goalposts! But Puddlemere keeper forty-two is standing at the ready! Seventy-two throws the Quaffle, and it looks like forty-two’s going to block it—wait! Both Magpie beaters use the move Dopplebeater Defence, striking the Bludger at the same time for extra power! They aim it at forty-two—it’s a headshot! It slams into his shoulder! Puddlemere keeper forty-two is down!”

Oliver watched as Lamsly’s body jerked back from the impact of the Bludger with a sickening crack. He managed to stay on his broom for a moment before slowly drifting downward and collapsing into the sand.

The crowd erupted in outrage, cries of “foul!” and “penalty point!” echoing through the stadium.

Wood’s heart stopped. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Puddlemere medical team rush past the dugout toward the curled figure of Liam. Above them, Griffins made a “T” with her hands, calling a timeout. A whistle blew as the referee accepted it, halting the game. The crowd only grew louder.

Just because the Puddlemere keeper was down didn’t mean the Magpies couldn’t score. The Quaffle had clearly gone through the goalpost, but with the timeout—and the likelihood of a foul—the goal might not count.

The medical team levitated Lamsly onto a floating stretcher and rushed him toward the medical tent beside the dugout. Wood watched his body disappear behind the white flaps, unable to see what happened next. Puddlemere’s manager, Mr. Deverill, slipped inside after him.

It had been years since the world-renowned keeper had been injured in a match, and judging by the crack that had echoed through the stadium, Wood doubted he was in good shape. The main team dove down from the air, landing in front of the dugout and the tent. They jumped from their brooms and stormed forward, shouting as a medical wizard blocked them from entering. Wood couldn’t make out their words, but he was fairly certain many of them were profanities.

Griffins pushed her way to the front and turned to face them. Even from a distance, Wood could see the fury in her expression. Though he couldn’t hear the team, he could hear her clearly as she reprimanded them. The players fell silent—only to erupt again when Mr. Deverill poked his head out of the tent.

He raised a hand to quiet them and pulled Griffins aside, whispering in her ear. Her face shifted into shock. Whatever he said, it clearly wasn’t good. Deverill gestured toward the dugout, then the medical tent, then the sky. Griffins’ expression passed through something that looked painfully close to grief before settling into resolve. She nodded. Deverill disappeared back into the tent.

The team exploded into questions again, but one sharp look from Griffins silenced them. She slowly walked toward the dugout, moving as though if she went slowly enough she might sink into the ground and avoid whatever came next. A few players followed her with questioning expressions, but she turned and sent them back, preferring they bother the medics instead of her.

Whispers rippled through the reserves—fear and confusion thick in the air. Griffins stepped into the dugout and glanced at the benches as though she’d never seen them before (she haddn’t–when was the last time Wilda Griffins was in a reserve dugout?). She cleared her throat. Every reserve player seemed to hold their breath.

“I’m looking for Oliver Wood.”

Oliver’s breath caught. One by one, heads turned toward him until every eye in the dugout was fixed on his face. Griffins followed their gaze. Her eyes locked onto him, brow lifting slightly. She stepped forward. 

“You Wood?” she asked, appraising him.

“Yes,” he said, his voice somehow steady despite his nerves.

“Lamsly wants to see you,” she said, her head tilted as she studied him.

—

Oliver was rushed along by Griffins toward the medical tent, her hand pressed firmly against his back—almost pushing him forward rather than guiding him. It was as though she was afraid he might run.

As they drew closer to the white canvas, the protests of the main team grew louder. He could make out Humfry’s shouts and Wellnelly’s silent, aggressive threats as he cracked his knuckles in front of the poor medical wizard guarding the entrance.

“Make way! Move it!” Griffins barked, forcing her way through her teammates.

Benjy shot Oliver an odd look as he was pulled to the front of the players, but Oliver didn’t have time to interpret it before he was unceremoniously shoved into the tent. He stumbled, barely keeping his balance. 

It was bright. Very bright. His eyes burned as they adjusted to the fluorescent lighting. When his vision finally cleared, he realized the inside of the tent was far larger than it appeared from the outside. Thank Merlin for magic.

Mr. Deverill stood in one corner, a hand clamped over his mouth and chin as he stared at the center of the tent. Two medic wizards hovered over Lamsly, who lay shirtless on a cot. Griffins entered behind Oliver and immediately crossed to Deverill, the two launching into a hushed but aggressive argument.

“Wood!” Lamsly called. A wide grin spread across his face—though it quickly twisted into a grimace as a medic pressed a wand too firmly into his shoulder. 

Oliver’s stomach lurched. Lamsly’s shoulder was horrific. Angry reds and purples bled across the skin. The Bludger had split him open; raw flesh and bone were visible beneath the torn muscle. An ugly, crimson wound gaped against his skin. Oliver felt bile rise in his throat.

Lamsly flexed his shoulder slightly, watching the bruise distort. The medics snapped at him to knock it off.

“Come closer!”

Oliver obeyed, approaching cautiously, eyes flicking back to the injury. He hadn’t seen a wound like that since the Battle of Hogwarts last year. He shoved the memory away and stopped at the edge of the cot.

The medics shot Mr. Deverill irritated looks, silently asking him to remove Wood from the tent. Deverill waved them off.

“Wood,” Lamsly said, meeting his eyes. 

Oliver stiffened, giving him his full attention.

“You are an incredible keeper. Better than I was at your age. I’ve been thinking about—no.” He shook his head, then gestured weakly toward Deverill. “We’ve been thinking about this for a while now. Wood, I’m retiring at the end of this season.”

Oliver’s jaw dropped.

“You—you can’t! You’re Lamsly. The greatest keeper ever. You’re a legend!”

Lamsly chuckled at his expression. “You are right, boy, but even legends retire. I’ve wanted to for months. I want beaches. Sunshine. A drink that isn’t stadium tea.” He lifted his shoulder to emphasize the point and immediately winced.

A medic shot him a murderous look. He began to wrap Lamsly’s shoulder in a weed-like material.

“And that’s why—hey, careful!—I called you here.” His face sobered. “The medics say I’m out for weeks. Bone splintered. A piece broke off and lodged into the shoulder. They can’t magic it out without risking nerve damage. So I gotta heal the Muggle way.”

He held Oliver’s gaze.

“I hate to end my career like this. It’s rather embarrassing. But I can’t play. And Puddlemere needs you. You need to play for me as keeper,” Lamsly elaborated.

Oliver’s mouth opened, but no words came. His hands curled into fists. This was everything he had ever wanted. Quidditch was his life. His dream. So why did his chest feel so tight?

“…Are you sure?” Oliver asked quietly. “I can’t live up to your legacy. Even for one night, I don’t think I’m worthy.”

Lamsly stared at him. “Bloody hell, Wood. I just told you you’re a good keeper… and what do ‘ya mean, ‘one night’?”

“I’m standing in while you heal… right?”

“…No.”

“…No?”

“Kid, you’re taking my spot.”

Oliver stared at him dumbly, mouth slack and a vacant expression placing itself onto his face. “What?”

“Starting next season, you’re Puddlemere United’s new keeper.”

“Are you joking?” Oliver asks, and he knows it’s a stupid question because just look at Lamsly’s shoulder but a small part of him can’t process what was happening. 

“No dear boy,” Deverill spoke up from the corner, a hesitant smile fitting across his face, “he’s quite serious. Mr. Lamsly has tried to retire all season. He kept insisting that you would take his place. He eventually wore me down and we settled his contract after the last game. You’re the top keeper on the reserve team, and with no other pro-quidditch player looking to transfer teams, you are our top pick.” Deverill placed a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I simply didn’t expect this to happen today.”

“I’ve seen you play,” Griffins added. “I might not like the idea a whole lot, especially at semi’s, but we really don’t have a choice. But I trust his judgment,” she finished her speech with a little smirk on her face, placing her hands on her hips.

“I don’t think I—” Oliver began.

“Shut up, Wood,” Lamsly said.

Oliver’s teeth clicked shut.

“You can do this. We trust you,” Lamsly leaned forward, much to the chagrin of the medical wizards, and placed a hand on Woods shoulder. “Go make me proud.”

Oliver stared at the floor. Then at the people in the tent. Then back at Lamsly. This was his dream. A look of resolve cements itself onto his face, his lips stretching tightly across his face. He straightened.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

Lamsly gives him a proud grin, taking his hand off of Woods arm and leaning back into the cot. He grasped Wood’s hand in his. “Kill the vulture, kid.” Oliver smiled. “Kill the vulture.”

When Oliver exited the tent, the team was still there—some standing, others sitting, and a few with their ears pressed to the flap of the canvas. Thank Merlin they weren’t allowed to carry their wands during a match. It would have been embarrassing if they’d heard all of that.

Oliver was led out by Griffins once again, though this time—to his slight relief—she wasn’t pushing him. As expected, the team sprang to their feet instantly, hurling questions at Griffins from every direction. None of them paid Oliver any mind, as if he wasn’t there at all.

None of them except Benjy. He kept throwing Oliver knowing glances, struggling to suppress his smile. Benjy knew. He probably knew Oliver was going to become keeper next season.

That little shite.

“Shut up, all of you!” Griffins shouted. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, pinching the crease between her brows. “Lamsly can’t play.”

She cut off the roars of confusion before they could start by lifting a sharp hand.

“As you know, Lamsly is retiring. You’ve all done well to keep it quiet from the public—Merlin help us if the Daily Prophet ever got hold of that. Lamsly won’t be able to play for a couple of weeks. Probably the rest of the season.” She turned slightly. “So Wood here is taking over.”

Every head snapped to Oliver in unison. Oliver gulped as they assessed him, eyes scanning his frame, measuring him in silence. Benjy gave him a thumbs-up from the back.

“He’s taking over indefinitely?” Oliver heard Humfry ask.

“Yes,” Griffins replied. “For the rest of the season, and potentially future seasons.”

“He’s a bit… wee… for a keeper, isn’t he?” Fawley said. Eyes flicked back to Oliver, tracing his build. 

Oliver was far from small: he had broad shoulders and muscular legs with thick, long arms–much different from his Hogwarts days now that he could train all day, every day. He had a good amount of height to him, too. However, many of the other keepers in the league were years older than him. Playing in the keeper position did not require much flying around, meaning that many keepers got to play for much longer than their chaser, beater, and seeker counterparts. These old keepers were vikings of men–like Lamsly–who had been training for decades, built more like mountains than men. So while Oliver was in incredible shape, his build was slighter than other keepers. 

Unexpectedly, Nakariakov huffed, a deep chuckle vibrating through his chest. 

“Let boy play,” he said, his thick Russian accent clouding his words. “We don’t have much to lose now Lamsly is gone. I follow in footstep—maybe stowaway on boat to Bahama with him.”

Despite the attempt at humor, tension still polluted the air.

“Lamsly chose Wood specifically,” Griffins said sharply, folding her arms. “He knows what he’s doing.”

The team still looked uncertain. Oliver saw Benjy flap his hands at him, gesturing insistently, urging him to speak. Oliver glanced at Griffins. She noticed Benjy’s frantic motions but said nothing—neither granting nor denying permission. So Oliver took the chance.

“Um—…” he began. They all looked at him. Merlin help him, he had no idea what he was supposed to say. It’s fine. He would improvise. He was the captain of the Gryffindors back in the day, how hard could this be?

“I know having me on your team is the last thing you expected. But right now, all that really matters is winning this match. So I’m asking you—just for this game—to trust me too. I’ll earn your respect later. Let’s win this.”

Silence. Even the roar of the stadium seemed muffled in his ears.

“Wow,” Humfry said. “That was probably the most cliché, dumb, and lame speech I’ve ever heard.”

Heat flooded Oliver’s face. He almost folded in on himself, shoulders drooping as warmth crawled up his spine. Then Humfry burst into cackles, slapping her knee. The laughter wracked her so hard she had to grab Wellnelly’s shoulder to steady herself—driving the stake deeper into Oliver’s heart.

“You’re funny, kid. I like you!” she said, finally straightening, flashing him a wild grin. “If you’re as good on a broom as you are at making me laugh, we’re gonna get along just fine.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Now let’s get back to this match.”

She waved a hand and sauntered back toward where her broom lay on the ground. Fawley followed her, glancing at Wood with an odd expression. Wellnelly stepped forward next, silently shook Oliver’s hand, and walked off again. Nakariakov simply slapped Oliver on the shoulder and laughed, bringing a fresh wave of embarrassment.

“Lamsly tell me great thing about you. Don’t let team down,” Nakariakov said, giving Oliver’s hand a firm shake.

Griffins gave him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder before following the others. Then Benjy appeared in front of him, excitement written all over his face.

“Hey, new keeper,” Benjy said with a smirk, hands on his hips as he leaned forward knowingly.

“You knew I was going to be keeper,” Oliver said flatly. It was a statement, not a question.

“I wanted it to be a surprise! And it was! Just—maybe not at the right time?” Benjy gestured vaguely toward the medical tent.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

Benjy only shrugged before taking his broom from where it was leaned up against the tent. “Lets get your broom.” They fell into step.

“Was my speech good?” Oliver asked.

“Not at all. It was awful.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. But I think you made a good impression,” Benjy noted.

“Merlin, help me.”

“Merlin can’t save you now.”

Wood shoved him slightly for the comment as they reached the dugout. The moment they stepped inside, every eye turned to Oliver again. 

Benjy looked around fondly, the way Griffins had earlier—but with familiarity. “Aw, I missed being in the dugout. It’s been what—two years?” His smile widened when he spotted Lenny. Benjy waved insistently at him. “Lenny! What’s up!”

“Hello, Williams,” Lenny ground out, eyes blazing. Oliver didn’t have the heart to tell Benjy that Lenny probably wanted him dead so he could take his spot.

Wood moved to the corner and took up his Firebolt Supreme, running his fingers along the polished wood. This was it. He was finally going to fly for real. Not as part of an entrance. Not as a reserve. His team, his mind corrected. He was playing for the main team. The realization made him lightheaded. Something giddy fluttered in his chest, and he had to fight the stupid smile threatening to split his face. He shook his head, clearing the fog, grounding himself.

“You’ve got your broom? Then let’s go,” Benjy said with a grin.

“Wood,” someone called from the reserve benches.

Oliver turned. One of the reserve chasers he’d never really bothered to know was watching him.

“You playing?”

Oliver nodded. “Lamsly’s out of commission. I’m covering for him.”

“Finally,” the beater who’d rambled earlier about Magpie number eleven scoffed. “It’s been like five years. Good for you, man.”

Even though he wasn’t close with them, warmth spread through Oliver’s chest. It meant something—knowing they were glad he finally got his chance. Even though they disliked Wood’s friendliness with the main team as a reserve, no one likes seeing a player benched for their entire career. 

“Don’t mess it up, Wood,” the chaser added, smiling.

“I’ll try,” Wood grinned. 

“Enjoy this night, because it might be another five years before you get your next chance!” Lenny cackled. 

“Thanks, Lenny.” Wood grimaced. 

“What? No! Oliver’s playing as keeper perman—oof!” The air was slammed out of Benjy’s chest as Oliver elbowed him in the side. But it was too late. The reserve team heard it. 

An awkward silence flooded the dugout. Oliver seized Benjy by the arm and dragged him out before the outrage could start.

“What was that for?” Benjy demanded.

“Sometimes you’re a right bloody idiot.”

They rejoined the rest of the team, still loosely gathered around the white medical tent. They were no longer fighting to get inside, but they hadn’t gone far. Everyone stood with brooms in hand—everyone except Griffins.

She was in the air, arguing with the Montrose Magpies’ captain and the referee. The team watched as she flung her arms like a madwoman, nearly smacking the referee in the face before wheeling back down to the ground. She dismounted hard, face flushed with fury.

“That can’t be good,” Benjy muttered.

Griffins stomped toward them, fists clenched at her sides, her broom creaking under the strain of her grip.

“We get a penalty shot,” she said, “but the Magpies still get ten points for getting it through the hoop.”

“Bollocks. Absolute shitty fucking bollocks,” Humfry declared.

“Why were the points counted?” Benjy asked. “It was a foul.”

Griffins exhaled sharply. “The penalty is for the beaters’ headshot on Lamsly. Even though it hit his shoulder, it still counts because of intent. According to the referee, the chaser wasn’t involved—so the points stand. According to the actual rules of Quidditch, the referee is spewing absolute bullshit.”

Oliver’s teammates groaned, and Humfry turned her head to the side, spitting on the ground. A sharp whistle cut through the air, signaling that both teams were on the field and that Puddlemere’s timeout—extended for the medical emergency—was over.

“Well,” Griffins said, looking up at the referee with a glare, “let’s do this thing. Mount!”

The team obeyed immediately. Benjy nudged Oliver’s shoulder before mounting his broom, offering a small, encouraging smile. Oliver returned it with a forced one of his own. His nerves ignited. Amid the chaos, he’d already cycled through so many emotions that performance anxiety barely scratched the surface: worry for Lamsly, uncertainty about taking over as resident keeper, the dizzying thrill of realizing his dream—maybe—yet not nervous about flying itself. His pregame jitters were nothing compared to this. Now, he was actually playing. Now, he had to perform.

What Lamsly and Mr. Deverill had said wasn’t a promise—it was an offer. And if he failed spectacularly tonight, that offer could vanish as quickly as it had been made.

Oliver’s hands clenched tightly around his broom handle. He couldn’t let the thoughts take him. He had to focus. He had to do this. As he kicked off the ground alongside his new teammates, a new weight settled squarely onto his shoulders.

—

“Alright folks, let me draw your attention back to the playing field as we resume the match!” Alan announced.

“We see Magpie chasers 72, 11, and 80 get into position, head to head with Puddlemere chasers 24, 18, and 9. Puddlemere beaters 67 and 2 are at the ready, clearly glaring at Magpie beaters 13 and 55. Puddlemere seeker 12 and Magpie seeker 33 dance in the air, eyes fixed on the field where the snitch has disappeared. And Magpie keeper 37 waits at the golden hoops, staring down Puddlemere keeper 42—! Apologies, Puddlemere keeper 7. Keeper 42 was put out of commission by a headshot bludger from Magpies 13 and 55, impacting his shoulder and putting him out for the rest of the game. Keeper 7 from the Puddlemere United Reserve Team is a new player to the field, with no prior record,” Brad shouts.

“Puddlemere United gains a penalty shot at the Montrose Magpies’ goalpost. Chaser 24 takes the quaffle—scoring ten more points for Puddlemere, bringing the score to 50:30!” Alan remarks.

Oliver watched as Griffins zoomed back to the middle of the field, squaring off with the referee and the Magpie captain once again. The real game was about to start. His thighs gripped tightly around his broom, holding him still as if he might fall off at any second. Honestly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he did. The roar of the crowd sounded far louder from up here than it had in the dugout. He shook his head, forcing his mind back to focus. This was the most important night of his life. Oliver drew a deep breath, cold air filling his lungs and escaping a hot, ragged exhale.

“The referee tosses the quaffle, and it’s in the playing field! Immediately snatched by Puddlemere chaser 24, she flies across the field—only to be intercepted by Magpie chaser 72, who shoots in the other direction! He passes it to Magpie chaser 80 as he makes his way downfield—but a well-timed bludger from Puddlemere 2 stops him in his tracks! In his surprise, Puddlemere chaser 9 bumps him from the side, sending the quaffle flying—!!! It’s anyone’s ball now! Magpie chaser number 11 catches it!”

Oliver’s hands were sweating profusely as the play unfolded. Blurs of black, white, blue, and gold filled his vision, and he struggled to make out who had the ball. Then he saw him. Chaser number 11 was racing toward him like a bullet, quaffle clutched under his bulky arms. Oliver felt his heart hammering as he tried to predict the chaser’s aim, sweat making his hands slip on the broom handle. The chaser was still twenty meters out when a sharp crack split the air.

“Puddlemere beater 67 aims a bludger at Magpie chaser 11!” the announcer shouted.

Oliver watched the chaser’s head snap up at the incoming bludger. He waited for the obvious dodge, the instinctive pull-up—but the chaser didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward, nose-diving, using his momentum to pull up right in front of the scoring zone. Chaser 11 hurled the quaffle at the left goalpost. Oliver’s hand shot out—blocking it, briefly—but the chaser’s throw had the strength of a beater’s swing. The quaffle snapped his hand aside and sailed through the hoop.

Oliver gripped his throbbing hand, glaring at the chaser, who had already zipped back toward midfield. The crowd hissed, and the scoreboard reflected the blow: 40:50, Puddlemere still ahead, but with a margin slipping fast.

“C’mon, Olly!” Oliver’s eyes shot upward. Benjy circled fifteen feet above him, a glare set on his face. “You’re better than this! C’mon!”

“Magpie seeker 33 makes a nosedive!” Brad announced.

“SHIT!” Benjy screamed, diving after him, barely inches from the grass. The Magpie seeker pulled up sharply, nearly sending Benjy crashing, but the crowd erupted as Benjy executed a perfect Wronski Feint. He pulled away, scanning for the snitch.

Oliver’s eyes snapped back to the field. Puddlemere chaser 18 gained the quaffle—Humfry weaving through his opponents, a sour look etched on his face.

How had he already messed up?! All his preparation, his years of effort, seemingly flushed down the drain by his nerves. He shouldn’t have accepted Lamsly’s offer. He should have stayed in the dugout, safe and invisible. Oliver slapped himself across the face. Fuck the audience. Fuck the nerves. This was Oliver Wood. Panicking at Quidditch? Not a chance.

This was the man who had won the Quidditch Cup at Hogwarts, who had led Gryffindor to victory, who had spent hours studying strategies from Quidditch Through the Ages. He wasn’t some washed-up reserve player, playing once every five years. He was Oliver Wood. He had Liam Lamsly’s trust, Mr. Deverill’s faith, Benjy Williams’ friendship, and Wilda Griffins’ confidence.

A scowl set across Oliver’s face, turning all his nervous energy into a burning fire of determination. He was Oliver Wood, and no chaser was going to shove him back into the reserves.

“Puddlemere chaser number 18 scores ten points! Total now 60:40!”

The crowd roared, but Oliver’s mind was silent. His hands were steady, his focus sharp.

“The quaffle is released into the middle of the field!”

He was Oliver Wood.

“Magpie chaser 11 snatches the quaffle from Puddlemere chaser 9! He races down the field, avoiding Puddlemere chaser 24 to his left!”

And he was going to be the best Merlin-damned keeper this team had ever seen. 

Chaser 11 reached the scoring zone, quaffle clutched under his bulk. This time, Oliver wouldn’t miss. Number 11 starts flying in a zig-zag pattern.

Kill the vulture.

The chaser gained on him, feinting to the right. Oliver followed instinctively. But the new chaser didn’t aim for the middle hoop—he shot for the bottom left instead. Oliver’s eyes widened. He recognized the move instantly, recalling it from Beating the Bludgers—A Study of Defensive Strategies in Quidditch. It was Joscelind Wadcock’s signature move, used by the Puddlemere United chaser in 1976 to avoid a bludger and secure the league. Apparently, Number 11 had modified it into an offensive maneuver.

Oliver gritted his teeth. If this chaser wanted aggression, he’d give it right back. Risky, yes, but there was only a split second to decide. Once the technique came to mind, he knew it was the only way to stop the quaffle.

As the quaffle zoomed toward the left hoop, Oliver launched himself forward. He leapt off his broom midair, swatting the ball with the bristles like a muggle baseball bat, sending it flying away. For a heart-stopping moment, he fell in freefall before remounting midair and pulling himself upright.

“Puddlemere keeper 7 deflects the quaffle—! Puddlemere chaser 18 takes it and scores ten points for Puddlemere United!”

The crowd erupted into absolute chaos, cheering and screaming. Oliver barely registered their noise, staring first at where the quaffle had flown, then back at the field.

“Absolutely amazing move by new Puddlemere keeper number 7! That there folks was a technique last seen in an official game by Kenmare Kestrels’ Darren O’Hare in 1954! That’s one player we’ll have to keep an eye on!”

Yup. He was Oliver Wood. Back to himself. Even through the cheering, he could pick out Benjy’s shouts from above without looking up. His teammates scattered across the field, chasers mostly around midfield or near the opposing goalpost. Fawley and Griffins hovered nearby after their failed attempt to dislodge the quaffle from 11.

Fawley’s expression was flat, almost indifferent, like saying, one good move cancels out that terrible play five minutes ago. Griffins, though usually serious, gave him a small, approving smile.

Oliver’s eyes flicked to Number 11, still lingering in front of the scoring zone. Odd. Usually, a chaser would have shot back to midfield by now. The chaser stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

“WOOD!?!” the chaser shouted.

Oliver startled. Had the commentator said his name? No, not he didn't. How did this chaser know Oliver’s name? Oliver didn’t recognize him, yet there was a flicker of familiarity, something in the deep, scratchy voice, like chalk against a blackboard or a muggle smoker. Maybe Roger Davies, former Ravenclaw captain? Could it be that he resembled Joey Jenkins of the Chudley Cannons? No, it wasn’t clear.

A whistle signaled the next play. Chaser 11 turned slowly, glancing twice over his shoulder at Oliver before moving back toward midfield, slower than usual. Huh. Weird guy.

“Puddlemere takes a thirty-point lead on the Magpies, totaling 70:40! The quaffle is released onto the field again—taken by Magpie chaser 72—intercepted by Puddlemere chaser 9—no wait!—taken again by Magpie 72! Puddlemere chasers 24 and 18 close in from the sides, trying to cut him off—Ooh! A wayward bludger from Puddlemere beater 2 aimed at 72 strikes chaser 24, forcing him to fall back! Magpie chaser 72 gains a lead on 18, makes it to the scoring zone—keeper number 7 deflects the quaffle again, sending it back to the center! Puddlemere chaser 9 takes it once more!”

The crowd roared at the deflection, and cheers exploded even louder when Nakariakov scored another ten points for Puddlemere, bringing the total to 80:40.

As the game progressed, Number 11 kept his distance from Oliver. Wood almost scoffed—one deflection, and the man was afraid to come back at him? What a coward.

But even with Puddlemere in the lead, the Magpies were fighting hard. Their skills were evenly matched, much to Oliver’s chagrin. Even the Magpie keeper was performing admirably, blocking everything thrown his way.

The score held steady for a stretch, quaffle zipping across the field, and Oliver blocked each attempt that came into his zone. He was locked in, every nerve and muscle focused, every thought tethered to one goal: do not let this ball through.

Unfortunately, the Magpies gained an extra ten points on a penalty shot; Humfry and Nakariakov had accidentally committed the foul of Stooging when both chasers entered the scoring area at once. But Oliver didn’t care. He was on cloud nine. Every fiber of him buzzed with exhilaration, and it showed in his play. He caught another quaffle with precision, sending it back into the fray.

“Deflection by keeper 7! Quaffle caught by Magpie chaser 80, who passes it to chaser 11—nice dodge of a bludger from Puddlemere beater 67—but the quaffle is taken by Puddlemere chaser 9!”

The crowd roared as Nakariakov zipped along the field.

“Chaser 9 barrels toward the goalposts—ouch! Hit in the foot by Magpie beater 13! Doesn’t look seriously injured, but the quaffle drops, landing squarely in the hands of Magpie chaser 11!”

Nakariakov gave a shaky thumbs-up to the crowd, signaling he was fine, before flying off—albeit a little slower than usual.

“We’ve got a promising lineup of new talent this season, don’t we?” the commentator continued. “Magpie beater 13, Martha Anderson, in her first season, already showing skill—remember her hit on Brevis Birch’s broomstick handle in the match against the Tutshill Tornadoes? Then, Puddlemere United’s new keeper, number 7—according to Puddlemere’s roster, that would be Oliver Wood, who’s made some of the best defensive moves we’ve seen in years! His first professional game, and he’s already making a lasting impression. And finally, Magpie chaser 11, Marcus Flint, who took the place of former captain and chaser Maddolk just two games ago. His offensive and defensive techniques have proven highly effective in this match and in prior ones. Very promising rookies on both sides!”

Oliver froze. Marcus Flint. Chaser 11. Former Slytherin captain. The raspy-voiced guy who sounded like he smoked a chimney back in the day. Holy shite.

His grip tightened on his broom handle as Flint zoomed across the field, quaffle in hand.

“Chaser 11 has the quaffle and is moving in on Puddlemere’s goalposts—and wait! Wait, wait, wait! Both seekers are chasing something—is that the snitch?! Both seekers 12 and 33 pull up into the air, nose to nose! Their hands reach out! They’re coming back down! One of them’s got something in their hand! Yes, indeed—it’s the golden snitch! Puddlemere seeker number 12, Benjy Williams, has caught it! Puddlemere United gains 150 points, bringing the total score to 230:50! Puddlemere United wins the Semi-Finals of the British and Irish League and will be moving on to the Finals!”

The crowd lost their minds. If you were a mile away, and aware of what was happening, you might have thought the world was ending. And for Puddlemere, their world had exploded too—but in the best way possible. Fans went absolutely bat-shit insane, firing illegal fireworks into the sky with their wands as blue and gold sparks rained down around them.

They did it. Oliver had won his first Pro Quidditch game. A relieved, exasperated huff escaped his mouth as he laughed, throwing his head back and running a hand through his sweat-streaked hair. He closed his eyes, letting the moment wash over him. They had done it. They were going to the finals. And he was going to be there when it happened. He was on the team. He was Puddlemere United’s official and definite keeper for the foreseeable future.

His eyes stung with the threat of tears, and he willed them back, opening them to scan the field for Benjy so he could celebrate. But instead of meeting Benjy’s eyes, he met Marcus Flint’s. Flint hovered about eighteen metres away from Oliver and the goalposts, quaffle tucked under his arm.

Oliver could see why he wouldn’t recognise him before. Now that he knew it was Flint, Oliver could definitely see the similarities between the man in front of him and the boy who had once been captain of the Slytherin team. Without a name, he never would have known it was him. Like in his Hogwarts days, Marcus was tall and muscular, but now his strength was far more controlled. His bulk remained, but it was leaner, more agile, perfectly suited to a chaser. He looked less threatening, more precise—still formidable, but refined.

His straight black hair had grown out, sweeping sharply against his jawline instead of the cropped short cut he once had. His facial structure was familiar, though matured, and his cold grey eyes were fixed on Oliver. Oliver wondered if Flint’s teeth had ever been fixed. Judging by his slightly open-mouthed stare, they were still a little crooked, though his overbite was far less extreme.

It was undeniably the same boy who had thwarted him countless times during their school days, the one who had stolen the Quidditch Cup from him. And now, standing on the field, Marcus Flint was back in his life—older, sharper, and just as imposing as ever.

He should have recognized Flint just as easily as Flint recognized him. The difference was simple: Oliver hadn’t changed in the slightest since his schoolboy days. Aside from looking five years older, Wood was still very much his old self. He was more muscular now from far more intensive training, and while his hair remained short, the strands had grown slightly longer, swept upward into a less awkward fringe.

Oliver’s mouth opened as if to say something, then snapped shut. What could he possibly say to Flint? They weren’t friends back in school—far from it. In fact, it occurred to him that he didn’t have anything to say to the former Slytherin at all.

Instead, Flint opened his mouth first. He drew in a breath, eyes darting to the side. Oliver realized he had never seen Flint look this nervous before. Back in their school days, Flint would crush anything that made him anxious—rocks, people, whatever got in his way. Yet now, he looked unsure, hesitant, like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how.

Before Oliver could dwell on it, a blur of blue and gold collided with him from above. Benjy tackled him midair, nearly sending him flying off his broom. “Merlin’s beard, you did amazing, Oliver!” Benjy punched him roughly in the shoulder, and Oliver’s hand shot up to rub at the sting.

“Well, you just won the game for the team!” Oliver said, a wide grin slipping across his face.

“Yeah, well, I do that every game, so it doesn’t really count,” Benjy replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

The rest of Puddlemere United followed quickly, zooming over to join them, surrounding Oliver and Benjy.

“Didn’t think you’d have it in you, kid,” Humfry said from his left. “I think we’ll get along just fine—as long as you don’t make any more speeches.” She held out her hand with a smirk. Oliver grasped her forearm firmly, squeezing before letting go.

“I promise,” he said.

He glanced to his right at Fawley, whose expression was a curious mix of surprise and disbelief—as if she couldn’t quite fathom that a guy like him could pull off that many stunts. She still looked at him with a hint of disdain, but something like respect flickered in her eyes.

The rest of the team exchanged congratulations over the noise of the cheering crowd, and Griffin swooped down toward Oliver, immediately launching into a conversation about the maneuver he had used earlier to deflect Marcus Flint’s quaffle attack.

Before he could answer, a finger poked him in the back. Turning on his broom, Oliver saw Wellnelly silently pointing to the ground, where a man was being levitated from a white tent toward a nearby portkey meant for medical emergencies.

Lamsly.

Oliver nose-dived toward the ground, hopping off his broom and sprinting to the portkey just as a group of medic wizards and Lamsly apparated away. He heard the team land behind him, their cheers muted by the intensity of the moment.

“Hey, kid,” Lamsly said, lifting his head as he rested against the levitation support. “You did good. Well–except for that first quaffle you let pass through your hoop. That was embarrassing.”

“I think your memory’s messed up—I do not remember that happening at all.”

“The bludger hit my shoulder, not my head.”

“Then you’re just getting on in age.”

“I’m forty-two.”

“And you’re retiring.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m old.”

“Isn’t that the definition of retirement?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

Lamsly chuckled, a fond expression softening his features. “Seriously, kid, you did a good job out there. I knew I chose right when I picked you to replace me as keeper.”

“Thanks for choosing me,” Oliver said, grinning.

“Mahhh, you deserved it anyway. Now let’s not get all sappy. I have to go sit in a hospital, but you guys get to deal with all the fans.”

“I think I’d rather take a bludger to the shoulder,” Humfry muttered from behind.

“Now go, Wood. Leave me to go to the Bahamas. I’m free at last!” Lamsly laughed into the air.

Benjy grabbed Oliver’s arm, tugging him toward the rest of the team. Lamsly lazily raised a hand in a wave. The rest of the team swarmed him, firing question after question at the medic wizards, who finally pushed them away in exasperation and portkeyed Lamsly out without a word.

“Well… that was odd. Now let’s go get fucking hammered as shit.”

Oliver couldn’t help but agree with Humfry. As the team funneled out of the noisy stadium through Puddlemere’s main tent, Wood suddenly remembered something. In the chaos, he had completely forgotten about Flint and the awkward, tense moment they’d shared.

He looked over his shoulder—but all he saw was a sea of audience members. Marcus Flint was gone.

—

In the end, Puddlemere wound up losing the Finals to the Ballycastle Bats, 120 to 230. Puddlemere had been in the lead too, with the score sitting at an impressive 120:80—until the other team caught the Snitch.

Unfortunately, Puddlemere United’s seeker, Benjy Williams, went into a nosedive to catch it, but didn’t pull up in time. He crashed into the field, his left arm bent at a buzzard angle, nearly out of its socket. Since he was out of commission for the rest of the game, reserve seeker Lenny Berserk took over.

Let’s just say he wasn’t making it to the main team anytime soon.

Lenny had been quaking on his broomstick, suddenly realizing he was playing in front of a million witches and wizards in the Finals of the British-Irish Quidditch Cup. Oliver understood nerves—but Merlin’s beard, he should have pulled himself together. What made it worse was that when the Ballycastle Bats spotted the Snitch and took off after it, Lenny didn’t even notice until it was already too late. By the time he reacted, the Bat’s seeker’s hand was barely a meter from the golden ball.

In brief: Puddlemere United lost the Finals because their seeker harpooned himself into the dirt and his replacement was pissing his pants in midair.

Wilda Griffins was not happy with her two seekers after that. Oliver hadn’t seen Lenny since.

Wood visited Benjy at St. Mungo’s—coincidentally in the bed right next to Lamsly—as the medics fitted his broken arm with some sort of wizard-cast. He then watched, almost amused, as Griffins nearly bashed the injured seeker’s head into the wall. He would have laughed if it hadn’t cost them the Cup.

The Ballycastle Bats vs. Puddlemere United match had stretched on impossibly long, and the result of it would bring Puddlemere impossibly long embarrassment. 

But if there was any positive side to the game, it was that Lamsly was still injured. Not that him being injured was a good thing, Oliver reasoned with himself—it was just that he got to play Quidditch in his place. Merlin, he was an asshole. Caring about Quidditch more than the health of his friend? That was cold.

But it also sounded exactly like something Oliver Wood would do. He might have a little obsession with Quidditch, if it was not obvious.

Lamsly announced his retirement publicly a few days after the match, sending both the Puddlemere team and the entire Quidditch community into a frenzy. He refused to answer questions from the press—still recovering from his injuries—but left them with one final piece of information: Oliver Wood was set to become Puddlemere United’s new keeper.

Oliver hadn’t been out in public since. He was actively avoiding anything that flashed or carried a notepad with an emerald-green enchanted pen. That evening, when Oliver and Lamsly were discussing maneuvers and positioning, Benjy, from the adjoining bed, silently handed Lamsly a copy of the Daily Prophet.

The page was already turned to the Quidditch Cup spread.

Oliver flushed beet red and tried to stop him—but Lamsly was already scanning the article, his neutral expression slowly splitting into a grin. Oliver knew exactly what it said. He’d read it earlier that day. Lamsly, however, paid no attention to his distress and continued reading.

Benjy had to tell the medical nurses off, who had rushed into the room convinced Lamsly was having a heart attack.

“Oh my—oh Merlin’s beard! BAHAHA!” Lamsly was losing his mind, gripping the newspaper so hard it began to tear.

“It’s not that funny! She’s a terrible writer—there are typos all over that thing!” Oliver snapped back, his face as red as Lamsly’s shoulder wound.

Lamsly choked, coughing as he tried to catch his breath. “My, what cute puppy-dog eyes you have!” he said, pitching his voice up in a mockery of Rita Skeeter.

“Stop it! Seriously!” 

Benjy began doing an impression of Lamsly. “I, Liam Lamsly, approve of Oliver Wood! My protégé, my quaffle deflector—”

Oliver jinxed Benjy with a flick of his wand, sewing his mouth shut. Lamsly clamped his mouth closed.

“I’m pretty sure you can’t jinx a patient in a hospital, Wood,” Lamsly said.

Benjy had already de-jinxed himself; thankfully, Oliver’s magic hadn’t been very strong.

“Jinxing a teammate, Wood? My, my. What would Rita Skeeter say?” Lamsly tutted, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment.

“Well, it’s not like I’ll hear what she has to say. I won’t hear from her until next year,” Oliver muttered, not bothering to apologize. Benjy deserved it.

But the ear-to-ear grin spreading across Lamsly’s face made Oliver want to jinx him instead.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lamsly said quietly, fingers tightening in his bedsheets with childish excitement.

“What do you mean by that?” Dread pooled low in Oliver’s stomach.

“What I mean is Rita Skeeter will be at the Gala. You do know what the Gala is, right?”

Oliver scoffed. “Of course I do. The Department of Magical Games and Sports holds one every year to celebrate the end of the Quidditch season. Every team is invited—reserves aren't invited. It’s supposed to encourage ‘friendly sportsmanship’ and ‘making connections’ or whatever. But why would I care if Rita Skeeter’s there? It’s not my problem.”

He had a very bad feeling.

Benjy seemed to catch on before Oliver did. “Oh, it is most definitely your problem,” he cut in, attempting to point—before staring down at his broken arm in mild shock.

Bloody idiot.

“Why’s that?” Oliver asked warily.

“’Cause you’re going,” Lamsly said.

He fucking knew it.

“Why would I be going?!” Oliver exclaimed. “I’m technically not even officially on the team until next year! And I’ve only played, like—one and a half games!”

Lamsly waggled a finger. “Nuh-uh. You’re going. I sure as hell can’t, not with this shoulder. And even if it’s ‘just’ a gala, it’s a big deal.”

Oliver opened his mouth, but Lamsly cut him off. “Zip it, Wood.”

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is a great opportunity to meet other players. Exchange information. You want to go pro, kid? Then start acting like it. You might learn about sketchy business between managers—or pick up on opposing players’ personalities, weaknesses. There’s no real downside, Wood… so long as you don’t embarrass yourself.”

He paused. “And you might even get some new strategies out of it.”

“I’m sold,” Oliver said quickly, scowling as Lamsly slid him a smirk.

“And while you’re there,” Lamsly added, “try to find a hobby. You’re too obsessed with Quidditch—and that’s coming from me. You eat, sleep, and breathe it. Try to have a life in between, yeah?”

Oliver couldn’t tell whether that was an insult or genuine advice.

“Promise you’ll go?” Lamsly pressed. “C’mon, I’m giving you puppy-dog eyes right now, Woody—wait! It was a joke!” he called as Oliver stood to leave.

Oliver dropped back into the uncomfortable plastic chair, resting his chin in his hand.

He sighed, shut his eyes, and silently begged Merlin for patience.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Yes. I’ll go.”

“Thank Merlin. I didn’t want to have to go to that shite show again—” Lamsly snapped his mouth shut at Oliver’s death glare. “Merlin, for a kid nineteen years my junior, you sure act like my elder.”

Oliver ignored him. “When is the Gala?”

“This Saturday, at P.R.’s Wizarding Gardens,” Benjy replied.

Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. “Wizarding Gardens? Isn’t that the venue where Nicolas Flamel celebrated his five-hundredth birthday? The castle that used to belong to Morgana le Fay?”

“Aye.”

“Huh.”

“Told you it was a big deal.”

Oliver waved a dismissive hand. “Well, whatever. It’s just one night. I’ll get it done and over with, then I’m out. Easy.” He slid his palms together, brushing away imaginary dust.

“Pfft. Yeah, sure. We’ll see how you feel after the Gala. Just make sure you don’t show up in your Quidditch robes or anything,” Lamsly said, smirking.

“I wasn’t going to,” Oliver frowned. Well, there goes that idea.

Benjy shifted on the bed, feet dangling and swinging. “Don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “I’m still going to the Gala. A broken arm won’t stop me.”

Oliver returned the smile, small but genuine. “Well… at least I won’t be alone then.”

Benjy nodded. “It’ll be fine. Trust me. It’s really not that bad. I promise.”

—

The grand Ministry Gala is in full swing, enchanted chandeliers drifting overhead like captive constellations, each crystal prism breathing out slow pulses of gold and blue light that ripple across silk, velvet, and polished dragon-hide shoes. The light does not simply shine—it moves, sliding along the high glass ceilings in liquid patterns, as though the stars themselves have been coaxed indoors for the evening. P.R.’s Wizarding Gardens are nothing like a normal ballroom. The castle’s outer walls, once Morgana le Fay’s private stronghold, rise around the grounds in pale, opalescent stone veined with faintly glowing runes that react to nearby magic. Ivy the color of deep sea emeralds crawls upward in living patterns, parting politely for guests, then knitting itself back together once they pass. Towering archways open into overlapping terraces, each one a different climate, a different illusion of place: a moonlit glade dusted with silver moss; a warm conservatory where floating pollen glows like drifting embers; a shadowed water garden where narrow channels of enchanted streams wind between tables, carrying glass petals instead of lilies.

Music carries through the Gardens without any visible source. It seems to seep from the roots of the place—harps threaded into vines, violins murmuring through water, low brass notes that vibrate faintly through the soles of Oliver’s shoes. Every sound is softened, layered, as though the Gardens are actively preventing any single noise from becoming too sharp, too real.

Oliver Wood, still nursing the sting of Puddlemere United’s World Cup loss to the Bats, adjusts his red dress robes for what must be the tenth time. He stands off to the side, near a trellis of crystal thorns that bloom and retract in slow, elegant cycles.

Despite Lamsly’s advice, he keeps to himself rather than venturing into the sea of players.

He can’t quite bring himself to mingle with the figures before him: Mervyn Fenwick of the Tutshill Tornados laughing beside a drifting fountain; swingin’ Joey Jenkins of the Chudley Cannons already surrounded by admirers; hothead Basil Horton of the Foulmouth Falcons arguing animatedly with a Ministry official near a table that grows its own glassware. Legends, all of them. People whose names had lived on posters, in commentary boxes, in the mouths of schoolboys.

And Oliver is here because a man got injured.

A few reporters wander over from time to time, notebooks hovering at their shoulders, enchanted pens scratching eagerly. He makes polite, hollow small talk. Faces blur and compliments slide off him without sticking. He had managed to avoid Rita Skeeter, but that wasn’t particularly challenging as the guests liked to keep a good ten foot distance from her at all times.

He knows it’s foolish, wasting a night like this. But the embarrassment and guilt of making the team the way he did burn hot beneath his skin, driving him steadily backward until he finds a quiet edge of the Gardens where the music dims and the lights soften.

Wood nurses a spiked butterbeer like it’s the last solid thing left in the world, condensation freezing faintly along the glass. He avoids members of his own team like they’re contagious, eyes fixed anywhere but the glittering crowd.

The Gardens continue to breathe around him—blossoming, whispering, remembering.

And Oliver feels very, very small inside them.

Benjy—who had earlier abandoned the new Keeper to speak with Galvin Gudgeon, Seeker of the Chudley Cannons (rumored to have fallen off his broom while attempting to catch a passing bumblebee during a match against the Tutshill Tornados)—eventually found his way back to Oliver. A cheery expression was plastered across his face, and Oliver couldn’t tell whether it was the result of successful socializing or a generous amount of liquor.

“Whatchu look so down for?” Benjy asked, grinning lopsidedly.

Liquor, then.

A floating silver tray of hors d’oeuvres drifted past, guided by levitation magic. Oliver reached out and snagged a miniature meat pie, scowling as the image of a certain Ballycastle Bats Chaser cutting off his dive flashed unhelpfully through his mind.

“Just thinking about the match,” Oliver muttered. “Could’ve sworn Wimbourne was offside when he scored that first goal…”

Benjy promptly stole the tart from his hand and shoved it into his own mouth.

“Hey—what gives—?!”

“No treats for you!” Benjy declared thickly, crumbs spraying across his red dress robes. “No talking about bad things tonight! Only happy!”

“We need to be preparing for next season,” Oliver protested. “Analyzing our losses will help us create new strategies for—”

Benjy grabbed a treacle tart from another passing platter and firmly pressed it into Oliver’s mouth.

“I take it back, my friend. No talking for you at all. Eat treats instead!”

Before Oliver could properly register what was happening, Benjy had seized the front of his robes and was dragging him bodily out of the shadowed edge of the gardens and toward a bright, noisy knot of Puddlemere United and Holyhead Magpies players.

“Hey—knock it off,” Oliver hissed, prying Benjy’s strong hand away before they reached the group. As Wood smoothed down the front of his robes with irritation, they were intercepted by a tall figure in dark silver robes.

The fabric caught the chandelier-light like polished steel, and the man wore it with the casual confidence of someone who had learned long ago how to occupy space. Broad-shouldered, scar-lined, and already smirking as though the night had personally amused him.

Finbar Quigley, beater of the Ballycastle Bats, smirking like a man who’s already won twice.

“Ah, Williams, Wood! Fine match, wasn’t it?” Quigley said smoothly. “Almost felt bad watching our Chasers toy with your Keeper like kneazles with a ball of yarn.”

Oliver’s fingers curled into the fabric of his tie. “Would’ve been a different game if your Beaters hadn’t ‘accidentally’ redirected every Bludger at my head.”

Quigley chuckled, lifting his glass and swirling the amber liquid inside. “That’s tactics, lad. Though I do admire your plays. Brilliant blocks and maneuvering. And that last stop was incredible—shame it still went in.”

Oliver snorted, opening his mouth with a retort already lined up—

“Quigley, still running your mouth after all these years? You’d think winning would’ve humbled you by now.”

The voice cut through the moment like a precisely aimed hex. The small cluster turned as Gwenog Jones strode toward them through the luminous garden paths, emerald dress robes flowing behind her like the trailing edge of a Quidditch cape. The enchanted light caught in the fine metallic threading of her sleeves, glinting every time she moved. Her posture was relaxed, confident, and unmistakably predatory in the way of someone who had spent most of her life moving faster than the people around her.

Quigley stiffened, just slightly, but enough.

Oliver blinked. “Captain Jones?”

Benjy elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Bloody hell, mate, don’t call her captain.”

Gwenog laughed, low and warm, folding her arms. “Nice to see Puddlemere’s newest recruit has some fire in him.” Her gaze flicked back to Quigley. “Though I’d save it for the pitch next time, Wood. This one’s not worth the breath.”

Quigley scoffed. “Jones. Shouldn’t you be off terrorizing some veteran players?”

“Oh, I will be,” she replied smoothly. “Just stopped by to remind you that Puddlemere might’ve lost this one, but your Beaters still hit like Confunded Bludgers.”

Oliver bit back a grin.

“I’d have to agree with that assessment,” a deep voice said from behind him. Mervyn Fenwick, Keeper of the Tutshill Tornadoes, sauntered into the circle, drink in hand, expression amused beneath the lines earned from years of wind and stadium lights. Oliver’s mouth went dry. He’d been watching Fenwick play since he was a child, reenacting his saves with bent coat hangers and school brooms. He was the first Scotsman he ever saw playing Quidditch, with a heavy Scottish accent that rivaled Oliver’s own.

“Your Beaters are quite something indeed,” Fenwick continued mildly. “I just so happened to come down with a fascinating case of sudden sleeping sickness right before our match against the Bats. Know anything about that?” He raised a brow.

Oliver felt something dangerously close to glee bubble in his chest.

The gossip columns had been full of it: a Bludger supposedly “mis-charmed,” a hit that hadn’t bruised so much as it had dropped Fenwick unconscious before he’d hit the pitch. The League had claimed there wasn’t enough evidence to pursue it, but bludgers weren’t meant to make a man fall asleep.

Quigley’s jaw tightened. Oliver had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. It was one thing to have Gwenog Jones backing Puddlemere. It was another entirely to have Mervyn Fenwick casually twisting the knife.

Quigley looked like he wanted to hex everyone within a fifty-foot radius, but he managed a stiff nod. “Ah, Fenwick. Hope you’re feeling better now.”

Fenwick rolled his eyes. “Oh, feeling just peachy, thank you.”

Quigley scowled, and after a few moments of silence, he muttered something about needing to find someone, and stalked off into the crowd.

Fenwick leaned slightly toward Wood, not taking his eyes off the Beater’s retreating back. “Don’t trust him, lad. That fool’s got it out for anyone and everyone.” He snorted softly, then finally flicked his gaze to Oliver’s face—catching the barely concealed grin there—and back to Quigley again.

Fenwick did a double take.

“Well I’ll be,” he said, attention snapping fully back to Oliver. “You’re Oliver Wood.”

Oliver, thoroughly taken aback by the sudden attention, recovered with a polite—if faintly flustered—smile. “That’s me. It’s an honor, really. I’ve watched you play since I was a kid.”

“Always nice to meet a fan,” he said, clapping Oliver on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “Your team fought hard. Hell of a season. Shame about the finals. But you, lad—you’re a different story. You made some damn fine saves out there.”

Oliver tried to swallow down the fluttering pride in his chest. He was still furious about the loss, still replaying every missed opportunity in his head—but hearing it from Fenwick made something warm and electric spark behind his ribs.

“Thank you, Mr. Fenwick,” he said, unable to quite hide the awe.

Fenwick waved it off. “Enough of that ‘Mr.’ rubbish. Just Fenwick. And don’t be so stiff. You’re young—enjoy the spotlight a little.”

Gwenog rolled her eyes, though she was clearly fighting a grin. “You’ll feed his ego if you’re not careful, Fenwick.”

Fenwick barked a laugh and slapped Oliver on the back hard enough to knock him forward. “Bah! So what?”

Oliver caught himself, jaw tightening briefly at the sting. Still, he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth.

Fenwick draped an arm around his shoulders. “So, boy. I want to talk to you about Quidditch maneuvers.”

Oliver’s heart practically sang.

Benjy groaned out loud. Gwenog muttered, “Not the time nor place, Fenwick,” but Fenwick was already steering Oliver away.

Oliver shot a glance back, catching Benjy’s dramatic eye-roll. It took all his self-control not to laugh.

They moved slowly through the gardens, Fenwick carving a path through clusters of players, Ministry officials, and floating trays. There were faces Oliver recognized only from the Prophet blurred past: legends, captains, record-holders, but they were all reduced to background noise as Fenwick talked.

“Wood, you pull off the Double Eight Loop beautifully. You’ve got your fundamentals nailed.”

Oliver felt his chest swell. “I’ve been studying it since I was a third-year,” he admitted, trying—and failing—to sound nonchalant.

Fenwick boomed with laughter and clapped his back again. “Dedication. That’s what I like to hear. A true lover of the game.”

They fell into rapid conversation—formations, feints, keeper philosophies, broom responsiveness, legendary matches Fenwick had flown in and near-disasters he’d barely saved. Oliver soaked up every word. The Gala noise faded to a distant hum. The earlier embarrassment, the bitterness about the finals, even the weight of being new—all of it receded beneath the sheer joy of talking Quidditch with someone who spoke it like a native language.

But Oliver began to notice Fenwick’s attention wandering. Mid-sentence, his head kept turning. Scanning the terraces. Peering through hedge arches. Watching the pathways between the glowing flowerbeds, as though he expected someone specific to step out.

"I agree! What the Bats did in the half game play was clearly stooging! I can only Starfish and Stick for so long before—"

Wood noticed Fenwick’s distracted glances and he hesitated mid-sentence. "Uh—everything alright?" he asked.

Fenwick waved a hand dismissively, though his gaze never stopped scanning the crowd. "Just keeping an eye out for Gudgeon. He owes me ten Galleons from our last bet—said I couldn’t block a Bludger with my face." He grinned, tapping a thin scar on his forehead that seemed to glint when the light caught it just right. "Proved him wrong, obviously... oh, also, I’d like to introduce you to someone."

Wood’s curiosity spiked. He had been casually chatting with one of his childhood heroes, and now Fenwick was dangling the promise of another introduction like a golden snitch just within reach. His stomach fluttered, caught somewhere between exhilaration and disbelief.

"Oh, sure." Wood’s heart picked up pace, hammering like a drum in his chest, and he felt the familiar thrill of standing on the edge of something extraordinary.

"Ah! There he is!" he called, his voice booming across the stands with the ease of someone used to being heard above a roaring stadium. Wood followed his line of sight and saw a man in a dark green suit, finely tailored, conversing with several other faces that Wood didn’t recognize.

Fenwick waved energetically, shouting over the crowd. "Birch! Over here, you old coot!"

Brevis Birch–captain of the Tutshill Tornadoes–looked up, eyebrows lifting in amusement. He gave a brief nod to his companions before striding over to them, his movement smooth and confident, like a chaser who had spent decades cutting across the pitch at top speed. Birch raised an eyebrow as he approached, glancing from Fenwick to Oliver with a bemused smirk that suggested he had seen this scene play out countless times before.

"Well, well. Finally dragged some poor soul into your Quidditch ramblings, Mervyn?" he said.

Fenwick grinned, slapping Oliver on the back again—but gentler this time, careful not to knock the wind out of him. "None other than Puddlemere’s new Keeper—Oliver Wood. Kid’s got talent, Birchy."

Birch studied Oliver with a deliberate, appraising gaze, his green eyes sharp but not unkind, like a vulture circling before committing to a dive. Then he extended a hand, the gesture formal yet welcoming. "Brevis Birch. I’ve heard about you—Lamsly’s been singing your praises all season."

Oliver shook his hand firmly, fighting to keep his pulse from racing entirely out of control. First Fenwick, and now Birch—both legends of the pitch—standing mere feet away and talking to him as if he belonged. "Sir. It’s an honor," he said.

Birch chuckled, the sound rich and easy. "No need for ‘sir,’ lad. Just don’t let Mervyn here talk your ear off about ‘the good old days’—he’ll never stop."

Fenwick feigned a dramatic offense, crossing his arms and huffing. The corners of his mouth twitched upward, betraying the amusement behind his mock indignation.

"Too late," Oliver joked, his voice betraying a mix of awe and trepidation. "We were just dissecting the Bats’ last match—he’s already got me questioning my entire defensive strategy."

Birch smirked knowingly, the kind of look reserved for those who had seen young players rise and fall and rise again. "Ah, so that’s why you two look like you’ve been conspiring in a corner." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret with someone who already understood the stakes. "Careful, Wood. If Quigley catches wind of this, he’ll start plotting your demise before next season."

Wood swallowed, a shiver running down his spine—not from fear, but from the thrill of being included in this world of legends, strategy, and just a hint of danger. 

Fenwick snorted. "Let him try. Kid’s got sharper reflexes than half the league already."

Oliver swallowed hard, his face burning under the praise—and the weight of two legends casually vouching for him in front of half the professional Quidditch world. Birch clapped him heartily on the shoulder, just as Fenwick had, making him wobble slightly. 

There was clearly a trend here.

"I like you, kid. You've got a sharp mind for the game, that’s clear enough—and you don’t seem too intimidated by the likes of these blowhards."

Oliver almost couldn’t believe his luck. Every word from Birch and Fenwick’s mouths seemed to make his chest swell with pride. He was being praised by two of the greatest players of all time, like he was some sort of prodigy. He tried to keep his excitement hidden, but a wide grin broke across his face.

"T-thank you, sir..." he began, then caught himself and corrected quickly, "Thank you, Birch."

Birch laughed. "No need to be so uptight, kid… you’re among friends. I’d like to introduce you to them—" He turned to the group standing behind him. Oliver had almost forgotten they were there.

Birch gestured, and Oliver’s breath caught. Behind him stood three sharply dressed figures he recognized instantly from Quidditch trading cards and newspaper spreads, their robes pressed, colors gleaming with enchanted polish.

"Oliver Wood, meet my teammates—Peregrine Derrick, Beater for the Tornadoes, Sylvia Fontaine, Chaser extraordinaire, and Cassius Warrington, our Seeker."

Derrick, a burly wizard with a nose that looked like it had been broken one too many times, gave Oliver a firm, approving nod. Fontaine, her silver-streaked hair braided tightly back, offered a sly, almost predatory smile. Warrington—tall, dark-haired, and looking perpetually bored—raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak. The faint shimmer of his Seeker’s reflex charm seemed to cling to him like a halo.

Fontaine tilted her head, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Ah, the Oliver Wood. Heard you blocked one of Quigley’s nastiest shots with a Starfish Roll in your debut match."

Derrick grunted approvingly. "Took guts. Most Keepers would’ve balked."

Warrington finally spoke, his voice dry, like sandpaper. "Or just dodged."

Oliver’s mouth went suddenly very dry. He was standing in front of the entire Tutshill Tornadoes starting lineup, legends all, and his heart practically pounded out of his chest. His brain scrambled, searching for something—anything—intelligent to say.

"I—uh—just did what felt right?" he said, cringing internally. Smooth, Wood.

Fontaine smirked, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Modest. How cute. The Daily Prophet wasn’t lying about you."

"I wonder how your season will proceed next year," a fourth voice said. Oliver almost jumped at the sudden interjection, so caught up was he with the players. He hadn’t even noticed the man standing a little apart, observing him with an intensity that made his stomach tighten. A quick glance at the polished badge on the front of the man’s smart robes told him exactly who this was: Alwyn, the Tornadoes’ manager.

Oliver’s heart lurched. He hadn’t anticipated speaking to a team manager, let alone Alwyn. The Tornadoes’ manager was notorious for being as stern as he was fair, known for his sharp eye for detail when it came to the game, the kind of gaze that seemed to notice every minor movement on and off the pitch. And now he had it trained squarely on him.

"Going to be a rough season, considering Nakariakov and Lamsly—Puddlemere’s aces and hall-of-famers—are both retiring," Alwyn gruffed, folding his arms across his chest, the sleeves of his robes creasing sharply.

Oliver’s jaw tightened slightly, but he schooled his expression back to neutrality, forcing himself to breathe evenly.

"They’re leaving big boots to fill," he admitted, voice steady despite the sudden pressure of scrutiny. "But Puddlemere’s got fresh talent coming up. Benjy Williams has only been on the team for a short time and is shaping up to be one of the fastest Seekers in the league, and we have plenty of incredible Chasers on the reserve team ready to take Nakariakov’s place."

Alwyn studied Oliver for a long moment, his sharp eyes taking in every detail, then nodded once—approvingly. "Hmph. At least you’re not delusional about the uphill battle. Just don’t let pressure crack you."

Oliver exhaled slowly. "Wouldn’t dream of it, sir."

"Reserve team, hm? I suppose the rumors are wrong, then?" Birch hummed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

Oliver blinked, confused. "Rumors?" He glanced between the others. They all seemed to understand exactly what Birch was implying. He felt strangely out of the loop, as if he had wandered into the middle of a game halfway through.

Birch’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. "There’s been talk of a… transfer."

"Transfer?" Oliver raised an eyebrow, now thoroughly perplexed. 

This time, Derrick spoke, his gruff tone carrying the weight of someone used to commanding attention. Oliver almost wanted to shrink back under it. "From what I’ve heard, Puddlemere is making a bold decision to sign a member in the League and get them to transfer to Puddlemere as the new Chaser. It’s rare that happens so early in a player’s career, and it’s causing quite the stir. I’m surprised you haven’t heard."

"Yes, I’ve heard the same," Fontaine said, tilting her head slightly, silver-streaked hair glinting in the dim light of the stadium’s lounge. "That chaser from the Magpies, right?"

Oliver froze.

"Ah, yes! Flint, I believe. And in his rookie year! I heard he was decent, but he must have played better in the matches I couldn’t catch. How in the bloody hell did he manage to break his contract with the Magpies already? It’s a mandatory three-year contract," Birch questioned, voice rising slightly with incredulity.

"I think it was something to do with the wording of his contract," Fontaine explained smoothly. "Said a minimum of three years before transference with the Magpie Corps. I think he did a year with the reserve but another year at their training center, and that somehow counted…"

"Flint?" His voice came out sharper than intended—too sharp. The moment the word left his mouth, he regretted it.

Birch’s eyebrow raised, Fontaine tilted her head, intrigued by his reaction, and even Warrington—who had seemed barely interested in the conversation—flicked his gaze toward Oliver with mild curiosity.

“Do you know him?” Fontaine asked.

Oliver forced himself to relax his grip on the glass, feigning nonchalance. "We—uh—went to school together at Hogwarts. Played Quidditch together in different houses." He didn’t elaborate. He certainly didn’t mention the years of brutal rivalry, the fouls that just skirted the line of legality, or the fact that Flint’s mere presence made his blood boil.

Fontaine hummed. "Interesting. Small world, Quidditch."

Derrick grunted. "Or a cursed one."

Birch, ever the instigator, leaned in. "Problem with Flint, Wood?"

"No problem," he lied smoothly. "Just… surprised. Didn’t realize he’d be transferring his rookie year."

Alwyn watched him with a suspicious eye. "Hmph. Well, if the rumors are true, you’ll be seeing a lot more of him."

Oliver took a drink from a nearby floating platter, taking a slow sip of the firewhiskey to buy enough time to school his expression. "Guess we’ll find out."

Inside, his mind raced. Flint. On his team. Merlin’s beard. It had to be just a rumor.

Alwyn studied him one last moment before the conversation shifted away from Flint, moving toward other league news—who was moving where, who was being scouted, and who might be a contender for next year’s Cup.

But Oliver’s thoughts stayed glued to Flint. He tried to focus on the discussion, but his mind kept looping the same questions over and over. How could he play on the same team as Flint? It felt like a sick joke. A cruel twist of fate.

"I think the Magpies have a decent shot at making it to the finals," Fontaine commented, her voice cutting through Oliver’s thoughts.

"Not if that Flint really is being transferred," Derrick interjected, voice rough with certainty.

Birch huffed theatrically. "My, my, all this uncertainty. I am dying to know if the rumors are true!" He swept his gaze across the gala, scanning the crowd with practiced ease.

“Well, speak of the Devil!”

Oliver followed Birch’s gaze—and froze.

There, just across the room, was Marcus Flint himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, and glowering with the same moody expression he had carried five years ago, Flint was dressed in dark green dress robes that made him look more like an irritated troll than a professional Quidditch player. He was deep in conversation with a few Magpies players, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.

Oliver’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t seen Flint since their last match, and the sight of him now brought back every memory of frustration, competition, and bruised pride.

Before Oliver could even react, Birch raised his voice just enough to carry across the gala. 

"FLINT!"

Flint’s head snapped up instantly. His grey eyes narrowed, scanning the room until they locked on Birch.

Birch gestured imperiously: come here.

Flint’s scowl deepened as he spotted Birch, as if offended by the gesture, but then his gaze shifted slightly—landing on Oliver. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes before he turned back to his teammates, muttered something under his breath, and stalked toward them as though ready to pick a fight.

Oliver felt his shoulders tense instinctively. Flint stopped just short of their group, arms crossed, radiating that familiar intensity. "Birch," he said, his voice rough, low, and laced with the same competitive edge that had driven Oliver up the wall during their Hogwarts matches. By their interaction, it was clear Flint and Birch already had history, most likely from the violent match the two teams had earlier in the season. "What do you want?"

Birch, utterly unfazed by Flint’s glare, grinned. "Just wanted to congratulate you on the rumors."

Flint’s brows furrowed. "What rumors?"

Fontaine smirked. "Oh, don’t play coy. Word is you’re breaking contract with the Magpies already."

A muscle in Flint’s jaw twitched. "That’s none of your business."

Birch chuckled, the sound echoing across the gala hall. "It is when half the League’s talking about it." He jerked his thumb toward Oliver. "Especially since Wood here seems real interested."

Flint’s gaze shifted to Oliver—slow and deliberate, like he was only just acknowledging his presence. The weight of it made Oliver’s skin prickle. Flint had changed—his broad shoulders and muscular frame were still there, but now his body was leaner, more agile, like a muggle swimmer. His longer black hair was swept back, keeping his face clear in an attempt to look “presentable” for the gala. His face had thinned, the rounded cheeks from Hogwarts gone, and the crooked underbite mostly corrected. His piercing grey eyes seemed to size Oliver up with the same intensity as five years ago.

Oliver stiffened under Flint’s scrutiny, suddenly hyper-aware of how much the other man had changed—and yet how familiar that stare still felt. His grip tightened around his glass again, but he forced himself to meet Flint’s gaze head-on, refusing to look away first. A tense silence stretched as the two former rivals assessed each other, the years of brutal Quidditch matches and heated clashes simmering between them like a distant thunderstorm.

"Flint," Oliver finally said, keeping his voice deliberately neutral. "I hadn’t realized that you signed with the Magpies."

Flint’s eyes roamed over him, lips quirking. "Observant as ever, Wood."

Oliver bristled at the remark, ready to retort, but Birch clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Wood tells us you both used to play Quidditch together.”

Flint didn’t look away from Oliver when he answered. "We were in the same year at Hogwarts."

Birch raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. "Friends?"

Oliver snorted, but before he could respond, Flint butted in. "Something like that."

Birch looked intrigued, like a cat about to pounce on its dinner. He crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, a smirk playing at his mouth. "Interesting. Care to elaborate?"

Flint shot him a look, and Oliver caught the flash of old, familiar hostility in his eyes. "Not particularly."

Birch’s smirk deepened, clearly savoring the tension hanging between them. "Ahhh, so that’s how it is."

Fontaine leaned in slightly, her gaze moving between them with open curiosity. "Let me guess—rivalry?"

A muscle ticked in Flint’s jaw. He didn’t confirm it. He didn’t deny it either. But Oliver knew better than to think that silence meant indifference. He could practically see the memories behind Flint’s eyes—every hard-fought match, every collision in the air, every moment they had pushed each other to the brink at Hogwarts.

"We were in different houses," Flint said carefully. "We just played Quidditch."

Birch let out a snort of laughter. "Oh, so it was a friendly rivalry then."

Flint’s gaze snapped back to him, hard and unyielding. "It was a healthy rivalry. One we both grew from."

Oliver blinked, genuinely surprised.

He had never imagined Flint would describe it like that. And yet, as the words settled, unwanted memories surfaced—moments in the air when the crowd had vanished, when it had been only the two of them, chasing the goal and the other guarding it, reading each other’s movements, matching instinct with instinct. Moments when Oliver had seen something in Flint that went beyond spite. A competitor. Someone who wanted to win just as badly as he did. Someone who understood the game the same way he did.

"Sounds dramatic," Birch commented, clearly entertained. "You two are awfully civil for old enemies."

Flint shifted, crossing his arms more tightly. "We were never enemies."

It shouldn’t have surprised Oliver, and yet he felt a faint jolt all the same. He glanced sidelong at Flint, but Flint wasn’t looking at him. His attention was fixed squarely on Birch, irritation simmering in his eyes.

"We were rivals," Flint corrected. "There’s a difference."

Birch lifted both hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never left his face. "My mistake."

Oliver could practically hear Flint’s teeth grinding. Flint scoffed and turned his gaze away, jaw clenched. Some of the tension eased from Oliver’s shoulders, but not all of it. The old animosity was still there, humming beneath the surface like a latent spell. Strangely, he realized he wasn’t enjoying Flint’s discomfort the way he’d once imagined he would.

Birch clapped his hands together, far too pleased. "Brilliant. Now that the re-introductions are done—Flint, tell me, how did you swing that transfer?"

Flint shot him a withering glare. "Bugger off."

Oliver exhaled through his nose, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Some things never changed. "Right. Well. If you do end up at Puddlemere—"

"When," Flint corrected gruffly.

Oliver blinked. "...When?"

"Contracts already signed."

The words hit Oliver like a well-aimed Bludger.

So it was true.

Flint—Marcus bloody Flint—was going to be his teammate.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Oliver’s thoughts scattered as he tried to process it. He had assumed—stupidly, he realized now—that the rumors were just that. Whispers. Exaggerations. That there was no way in hell the Magpies would willingly let a rival team poach one of their players after barely a year. But now it was sinking in. Flint was really transferring. And not only was he transferring—he was transferring to Puddlemere. On Oliver’s team. His teammate. For a moment, all Oliver could process was one single thought: how?

Flint’s eyes were still on him, studying his reaction, clearly aware of the effect his words had. His expression was unreadable, but Oliver could swear there was something like a challenge in his gaze—something sharp and deliberate, daring him to react.

Oliver’s jaw clenched. He met Flint’s stare squarely, forcing his voice to stay even. "Congratulations."

It was harder than he would have thought to make it sound sincere. There was an edge to it—irritation, unmistakable, and the faintest trace of mockery he hadn’t quite managed to bury.

Flint’s mouth twisted into a smirk. "Thanks." His tone dripped with sarcasm. "I’m sure you’ll be a pleasure to work with."

Oliver tensed instinctively. There it was—that familiar flintiness from their Hogwarts days, that sharp edge of sarcasm and challenge. It felt eerily familiar, like muscle memory snapping back into place, and before he could stop himself, he answered in kind.

"The pleasure will be all mine, I’m sure," Oliver said, his voice just a little too sickly sweet.

“Careful, Wood. That almost sounded enthusiastic,” Flint’s smirk widens—sharp, like a knife sliding from its sheath.

Oliver feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring too hard at Flint’s face—specifically at that damn smirk. Now that it’s pointed out, he forces himself to look away and takes a slow sip of his drink.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation,” Oliver mutters into his glass before lowering it again. “I know how much you hate being underestimated.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Birch barks out a trollish laugh so loud several nearby heads turn their way. Flint’s smile fades, his expression darkening. He doesn’t take well to being mocked—especially by Oliver.

“You still have that smart mouth of yours,” he mutters, all pretense of civility gone. His eyes rake up and down Oliver. Oliver’s stomach does a strange flip. He doesn’t like the way Flint is looking at him—too calculating, too intense. It makes him feel like he’s being put under a microscope.

“And you still have that big ego,” Oliver shoots back, unable to stop himself. “Some things never change.”

“You still talk too much for someone who spent half our matches hiding behind the Quaffle,” Flint scoffs.

“I was blocking, you insufferable bastard—!”

But Flint very well knew that. He smiles—an evil little thing—and sticks his hand out toward Wood. Oliver’s jaw clenches, his heart pounding. He can’t believe Flint is actually grinning, and the bastard has the audacity to stick his hand out like they’re old drinking buddies. Slowly, grudgingly, Oliver takes Flint’s hand. It’s a strong grip, and the calluses on his palm are the same rough, hardened surface he remembers from their many matches at Hogwarts. Flint’s hand feels so familiar against his. Oliver nearly jerks away, but forces himself to maintain the handshake.

They had done this before every single match. They would grip each other as hard as they could, trying to break each other’s hands so the opposing team started off on a bad note. It was familiar. Except also foreign. Because now they were shaking as a sign of cooperation, not rivalry. Now they were on the same team. And to Oliver’s surprise, the handshake isn’t as rough as he expected—perhaps Flint truly doesn’t want to break his hand.

Flint’s grip is still firm, but he doesn’t try to hurt him. There’s still a challenge in his eyes—but the hostility is lessening, almost like Flint is actually starting to… What. Enjoy this?

“Guess we’re partners now, aren’t we, partner?”

Partner. Oliver almost laughs at the sound of it. Oliver’s grip tightens instinctively—not enough to hurt, but enough to make it clear he isn’t backing down. His other hand clenches at his side, knuckles white.

“Tch. Still got a fighter in you, I see,” Flint’s smirk sharpens, his eyes flashing with something between irritation and reluctant respect. 

He yanks Oliver closer by the handshake—not enough to break anything, but enough that their faces are inches apart. The air between them crackles like a live wire.

“Good,” he mutters, low and rough, “because Puddlemere won’t win with either of us playing nice.”

Oliver exhales sharply through his nose, but he doesn’t pull away. The tension between them is thick enough to cut with a knife—competitive, charged, and familiar. It feels like the split second before a match starts.

“We never played nice,” Wood mutters back. “That’s why we won.”

Flint’s smirk twitches—almost approving. He gives one last sharp squeeze of Oliver’s hand before finally releasing it. “Don’t get soft on me now, Wood.”

Birch whistles low under his breath from beside them. “Merlin’s pants—that was either the most toxic or healthiest team-bonding moment I’ve ever seen.”

Oliver’s hand tingles with lingering warmth—from the handshake, or something else, he isn’t entirely sure.

Flint is still staring at him, something unreadable in his eyes. He’s more subdued now, but the challenge and defiance haven’t fully faded. Oliver can’t help but return his gaze—he has too many questions and too many things he wants to say.

Before he can, a hand claps him on the shoulder.

“Hell of a pairing you two make,” Birch says cheerfully, interrupting their staring match.

Wood finally looks away. His pulse is still racing, and he can still feel Flint’s gaze on him.

“Right, enough of that nonsense,” Birch cuts in, far too cheerful for the tension between them. “Let’s make a toast.” He lifts his cup. “To the 2000 season!”

Even Flint can’t refuse a toast. He and Oliver reluctantly lift their drinks, eyeing each other like they’re ready to go for round two.

“To the new season,” they murmur in reluctant unison.