It was a tale that had never gotten old at the Wood home – Oliver James Wood was born the day Puddlemere United defeated the Holyhead Harpies after a three-day-long match.

Oliver's mum called it a coincidence.

Oliver's dad called it destiny.

It wasn't because of the destiny or the coincidence – whichever you prefer to use – Oliver Wood loved every aspect of flying.

When he was six, his father sneaked an adult broom to him behind his mother's back. It was his first real flight – safety brooms didn't count! He was six years old, and he could fly a real broom. Mum was just being silly and overprotective. He'd taken it for a test flight – if he thought about it long and hard, he could feel the light breeze ruffling his hair, his heart racing quickly as he tried to make a dive.

Nothing had ever felt better.

Quidditch trials were tomorrow.

He could do it! Dad said first-years often didn't make it, but he was an exception, right? He'd practised long and hard all summer perfecting his turns and his throws.

The pitch was still green with the lingering effects of summer, with a cool autumn breeze mingling with the remains. People in red and gold were already flying; there was two girls and two boys, and Oliver saw that they were the only people there. Good. He'd come early. That was a point in his favour.

Slowly, as more people arrived, the four descended. Two joined the crowed – someone with the same hair as Percy and loads of freckles stood at the front with a tall, seventh-year girl with long, soft hair.

"I'm Charlie," said the boy, who was around fourteen or fifteen. "I'm the Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Jane, here, is the captain. We're going to put you through a few different trials," he said, finishing.

Jane continued his sentence. "Diving, turning, passing, catching, the like. There won't be decisions made until next week, probably," she said, and Oliver rocked back and forth on his heels. He was fantastic at catching. His father said he was made to be a Keeper.

As Jane explained the first trial, Charlie approached Oliver.

"Are you a first-year, mate?" he asked – not rudely, but curiously, and Oliver nodded.

He felt the need to explain himself. "I'm good, though," he said, resting his hands on one of the school brooms.

"Oh, I don't doubt that," said Charlie. He grinned at Oliver for a moment before frowning. "First-years generally don't make the team, though, mate. What position do you play?"

"Keeper," said Oliver. "Just like my dad." His dad was quite the Quidditch player. That should be good enough.

"Well, I wish you good luck," said Charlie, nodding. Oliver smiled. Good luck indeed – he could do this! There wasn't really anything in his way.

He went with the other Keepers, after flying a few laps; a surly-looking seventh year girl and a tall but thin third-year boy, who could probably blow away with a particularly hard gust of wind.

Oliver could hear the things people would say now. The youngest Quidditch player in all of Hogwarts! An unstoppable Keeper! He's going to win Gryffindor the cup, no doubt about it.

With a renewed sense of confidence, he flew out in front of the hoops.

An hour or so later, he flew back down. He frowned – he could have done better, but he made a pretty good catch! He caught four out of the five, the same as the boy and one less than the girl. She was surprisingly good at playing Keeper; none of his female cousins played Quidditch, and he was... well, he was surprised.

He felt a strange shaky feeling inside of him, and guessed that he was nervous. No, no – he couldn't be nervous. He did great! Oliver had turned halfway through his trial to see Charlie Weasley smiling at him, before he dived down and caught the snitch so close to the ground Oliver was sure he'd hit and crash. Instead he pulled up and grinned before releasing the snitch and chasing after it once more.

It was then and there Oliver knew Charlie as the Great Charlie Weasley.

It was a nickname that he'd remember decades from now (not that he knew that, of course).

Oliver was upset.

His dad said he was good enough to make the team – his dad lied to him.

Oliver sighed. He'd been so excited, so happy. He was sure he'd done great – hadn't Charlie turned at him and smiled?

He walked back to the Gryffindor common room, slumping slightly. The wind was beginning to pick up, blowing a drafty breeze through the castle walls and Oliver shivered, pulling his slightly damp cloak closer to him and dragging the school broom by his side.

He was almost at the common room when footsteps beside him were heard; he didn't look up. He didn't really feel like talking to anyone right now.

"Y'know, mate," started Charlie, and Oliver's head snapped up curiously, looking up at the boy with muscles and bright red hair. He had a merry face, like it was made for laughing and smiling. "There's definitely a spot for you next year on the team. Annie's leaving next year, and the Keeper position will be wide open," he said.

Oliver didn't say anything, just stopped in his tracks and looked up at him curiously. He had many questions, but didn't answer any of them.

"You aren't bad at all, Oliver," said Charlie, "but it's McGonagall's rules, you know. Safety and whatnot, keeping first-years from the team." He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and shrugged.

"Is it because I'm small?" Oliver asked genuinely. He frowned down at himself – so he wasn't tall, like Jane, or muscly, like Charlie, but he wasn't too bad, was he? Maybe he was small, but why should it mean anything?

"No, no," Charlie reassured quickly, "definitely not. We've had smaller on the team, you know." He mumbled the password and the Fat Lady swung the door to the common room open. "You first, future Gryffindor Keeper."

a/n - Thank you, all of you who have followed/favourited/reviewed, for being patient with me. I recently have been recovering from an injury, but everything is good now and I had to take a little bit of unexpected time away. But again, thank you for your patience! WC: 1,067.