Hello and Thank You for reading my fic Like Beaters Bats to Bludgers. It is my first work here on and I can't wait to hear what you think of it! For legal reasons, I need to say this I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. THEY BELONG TO J K ROWLING. That being said, there are quite a few OCs in this story and they do belong to me, but if you want to use them, let me know and just give credit to me for their creation. Please read and review, and above all, ENJOY!
-LINE BREAK-

The picture itself is terrible, honestly. The lighting in it is shit and the film is so grainy that Oliver is surprised that anyone can make out his face. But then again no one really has to look at the picture to reach a conclusion, the Daily Profits headline does that well enough:

Puddlemere United's Resident War Hero, Gay? The name on the byline comes as no surprise to Oliver when he checks to see who wrote the article. Fuck Rita Skeeter and the hippogriff she flew in on. Looking back at the picture Oliver mentally adds, And the person who gets you your photographs, fuck them too.

How on earth Rita got her hands on the photo, Oliver does not know. It is an old one from his Hogwarts days, and even with the grainy film and the shit lighting, there is no mistaking Oliver in his Quidditch uniform. Because even if no one can make out Olivers face, having his name stamped across his back in gold (although in the black and white picture it looked grey) lettering really is a dead give away.

Oliver supposes that, were he not so angry at the invasion of his privacy, the picture could be considered sweet. Picture Oliver has his back to the camera, sitting on a bench in the locker room, almost shoulder to shoulder with another boy, each boys body turned just enough that their knees are touching. Their faces are turned so that they can see each other, and every once in awhile their hands can be seen tangling together in the space between them. At one point in the photo loop, picture Oliver leans forward and gently places a kiss on the other boys lips before resting his forehead on the boy's shoulder.

A chime sounds in the kitchen, alerting Oliver that someone is flooing in. With a sigh Oliver lifts himself from his chair to face the fireplace. When the green flames die down, Oliver is greeted with the sight of James Bernaw, his (currently) highly disgruntled team manager brandishing a copy of The Profit.

Fifteen minutes later and Bernaw leaves in a worse mood than he arrived in, three of Oliver's dining room chairs are broken along with a hideous vase that Oliver received as a housewarming gift, and Oliver himself is left standing silently in the wreckage that was once his kitchen. Because yes, Oliver did see the front page, no he did not read the article which apparently covered his date last week with the very cute and very male store clerk from Flourish and Blotts, that no Oliver was not going to publicly announce that he was going through an experimental phase because he did that experimenting back at Hogwarts thank you very much, yes Oliver is saying that he is gay, and if that is the way Bernaw is going to take it then he can go and burn Oliver's contract with the team.

All in all it was not the way Oliver thought he was going to start his morning.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

James Bernaw stepped out of the floo with a scowl on his face Wood, fucking Oliver Wood. Did he not understand how this made the team look? Puddlemere has a reputation to uphold, an image to maintain, and this certainly broke the image.

"Morning James," a voice calls out.

"Sod off Helga," James snaps, muttering under his breath about Wood and being better off without him.

Stomping into his office, Bernaw proceeds to the contract cabinet labeled Puddlemere United, and begins searching for the name Oliver Wood.

Finding the offending document takes little over thirty seconds, and soon the paper is burning away in his office fireplace.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

Helga Masterson is a kind person by nature, but being a woman in the world of professional quidditch means that she also has to be resourceful. Never let it be said that Helga Masterson is not resourceful. So when she sees James Bernaw burn the contract of the best keeper Puddlemere has seen in years through a door that was left ajar, Helga knows that she has to act and fast. Preferably before Bernaw pulls his head out of his ass and realizes the PR nightmare that he has on his hands.

Quickly running to her office (if you can call the glorified broom cupboard that she was given an office) and scoops up a blank contract, before rushing to the nearest floo, grabs a handful of floo powder, and says "Oliver Wood Residence" and disappears in a rush of green flames.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

For the second time that day, the floo chime sounds in Oliver Woods kitchen. Sighing, the Scott puts away his wand, all of the chairs now back in one piece and all the pieces of the vase in the trash (bless his mum, but it really was hideous). A moment later and a small witch comes stumbling out of his fireplace, her soft brown hair falling into her face as she tries to steady herself.

"Oliver Wood I presume?" The witch asks once she stops stumbling.

"Aye, and you are?"

"Helga Masterson, Team manager for the Burrtown Badgers". The witch - Helga, Oliver tells himself - holds out her hand for Oliver to shake. And because Oliver's mum raised his a gentleman, he takes the slightly sooty appendage and gives it a squeeze. The squeeze he gets back is far stronger than what he was anticipating and Oliver finds himself adding pressure out of habit (say what you want, but the opening handshake between team captains is a big part of intimidating another team).

"Good handshake," Helga smiles at him.

"Not so bad yourself," Oliver replies goodnaturedly.

"I play reserve beater for the team when we get desperate enough," Helga says with a laugh.

"Can I get you a drink of water while we discuss you visit Ms. Masterson?"

"Helga please, and no thank you. But you are right, to business." And with that Helga grabs a recently repaired chair and plops down, her face set as she motions for Oliver to sit down.

"I want you to play for The Badgers," Oliver blinks at her.

"I know we are a start up team, nowhere near as big as Puddlemere but frankly Bernaw is a fool who never deserved you if he thinks that -"

"Hold on," Wood interrupts, "You want me to what?"

"I want you to Play for The Burrtown Badgers. Bernaw just burned your team contract, I watched him do it, and I -"

"Want me to play for your team. I got that part, thanks. My question is why?" Oliver fixes his brown eyes on the small witch in front of him. "You watch a player have his contract torched and your first thought is 'I need to sign him'? "

Helga looks at Oliver, her blue eyes finding the brown ones across from her, and sighs.

"Mr. Wood, I am not an idiot, nor am I deff. Bernaw stormed into his office muttering about ruined images while destroying his morning copy of The Profit. I know he caned you to avoid a scandal, one that Puddlemere United cannot afford. We - The Badgers - are still young enough that we don't yet have an image to ruin. Hell at this point any press is good press. I personally do not care which team you play for, just which team you play on, if you catch my meaning." Helga sighed again, and tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind an ear before continuing.

"Now if your termination had had anything to do with your performance or anything that actually impacted your ability to play Quidditch then you can rest assured that I would not be here. No, that's not entirely true, I suppose that my decision would depend on the performance issue in question and the other variables surrounding the- but that's, I'm off topic and blabbering. My point is, your contract was terminated due to a factor that does not affect game play."

"But why now? Why not wait?"

"I am here now because as unlikely as it sounds, Bernaw will eventually pull his head out of his ass. When he does he will find himself in a worse PR nightmare than the one he was trying to avoid, and the easy solution is to get you to re-sign with P.U., issue a formal apology to the press about being a backwards bigoted bastard, and get a 'candid' picture shaking your hand showing the world how you made up. I don't think I have said this yet, but you are a damned good keeper Wood, and as soon as word reaches the other teams that your contract was burned you will have more owls and floo-calls and howlers than you can possibly imagine. I just got here first before the crowd." Helga sits back in the chair and shrugs, then adds "And to be perfectly honest, if I can't get a reserve lineup signed before the season opens, The Burrtown Badgers will be forced to disband."

The room is quiet for some time, Oliver deep in thought, and Helga watching him think. After what feels like hours, but is was probably only a minute or two Oliver speaks.

"So I'll be playing reserve Keeper?" Helga grins and pulls out the roll of parchment from her robes along with a self-inking quill and hands them both to Wood.

"No, our keeper Alice Wildman is going on maternity leave, can't have a pregnant woman playing Quidditch now can I? Not that she didn't argue for it. No, you will be on our main lineup for the foreseeable future as Alice wants to raise her children herself." Oliver smiles at the witch across the table and begins signing his name on the parchment.

"I'm affraid that the pay won't be anywhere close to what you were making with Puddlemere U. Like I said, we are a fairly new team and don't really have big backing, but we do cover cost of living well enough and medical bills - Oh, initial at the end of that line, by the date thanks - not to mention cost of transport. Not that that comes up often, we mostly Apperate and floo to our destinations. Although we do sometimes have to fly if the match is too far away and the portkey location is rather out of the way-"

"You're rambling again," Oliver points out, and laughs at the color red Helga's face turns as he hands back the rolled contract.