The Three Broomsticks was one hell of a place to be alone on Christmas Eve, and Oliver meant that with all due irony. That it had even been open amazed him, but he was not about to question his saving grace.

Rejected. Over the summer, right after he’d finished school, he had tried out for the Tutshill Tornadoes, but they’d declined his services. Considering their organisational depth regarding Keepers, he’d hardly been surprised, but there had still been that glimmer of hope that he would shine like he had in his last game at Hogwarts, walking out of those doors a champion.

Now? Unemployment was his bedfellow and manual labour his breadwinner. The only reason he was here in the first place was because Rosmerta had offered him a room for the holidays if he cleared the snow and cleaned up the bar area. Judging by the general lack of icy build-up or a mess in general, he knew that it had been offered to him out of pity, but he was in no position at the moment to decline; he didn’t have two Knuts to rub together.

As a ‘gift’ to her ‘newest employee’, Rosmerta had bestowed him with a bottle of her signature mead, insisting that enough of a nice Christmas tradition would liven his spirits. Oliver was sure, though, that no such thing would happen, because it hadn’t yet, and the bottle was down to its last inch of depth.

It became uncomfortably warm inside, so he quit the empty, cavernous bar in favour of the blustery outdoors. The fierce wind bit into his cheeks and reminded him of why he had accepted real shelter in the first place in lieu of the tent he typically inhabited. His practical use of a Warming Charm was far too inferior to guard against this sort of weather.

Oliver ruefully thought back to his days at Hogwarts, spent strategising for Quidditch, training for Quidditch, and practising Quidditch until he could do nothing else but pass out every night. How he had eked out three N.E.W.T.s was a miracle in itself, considering his overall lack of interest in schoolwork entirely. And it was because of this malaise that he was cleaning up sick and cleaning toilets.

Shivering, Oliver headed back for the door. No use freezing his bits off out here, regretting nearly every life choice he’d ever made; he could do that perfectly well indoors. He returned to his seat and his nearly empty bottle, which he drained with one hearty chug and disposed of the detritus. Rosmerta would need him up at seven in the morning, so he decided that heading to bed was his best option. Not that he’d sleep, but he could at least pretend that he did. It would make her happy.

* * *

“...And I say, sir, you do pull a good pint!” bellowed the overly-lubricated gentleman whose drink Oliver had just delivered.

The pub was busier than expected due to the Triwizard Tournament traffic at Hogwarts, and Rosmerta had begged Oliver, offering up a few more nights plus a couple Sickles, to help her out until the crowd died down. Considering he knew she was asking out of necessity rather than pity for his plight, he agreed. It had been a good decision, too, because he missed the idea of a brisk pace, which keeping bar offered in spades.

“Thank you, sir,” Oliver replied, almost forgetting the automatic politeness needed for this sort of job. “I do my best.”

His loud client laughed. “Don’t sound so dire, boy! Where is your Christmas spirit?”

“Haven’t drank it yet,” Oliver quipped absently as he poured fresh drinks for the three blokes at the very end of the bar. Meting out a smile, he said, “If you’ll excuse me,” and delivered the beers he’d just pulled.

When he returned from the other well-dressed clients, though, he couldn’t help but notice the rather comedic garb worn by his first customer — a yellow and black, striped, monstrous excuse for a robe that looked like it was thirty years old. He couldn’t help but think them familiar, and he spent the larger portion of the next half hour trying to figure out why before he could finally place it.

“You used to play for the Wimbourne Wasps, didn’t you?” Oliver had no idea who this man was, considering he was at least forty-five and was far too gone in terms of being out of shape to be recognisable as a younger version of himself.

The man beamed. “You, young man, are one of extremely good taste! I am most certainly who you think I am.” Extending his hand, he said, “Ludo Bagman, Beater.”

That’s Ludo Bagman? Oliver thought. This fat, drunken lump was all that remained of the aforementioned franchise’s most prolific Beater? He couldn’t even grasp how the man had become such a pathetic shell of who he’d been before, and it scared the hell out of him that the same might happen to him, a swill-happy has-been who held onto any semblance of past glory.

Bagman was staring at him, waiting for a response, praise, or some other thing. Quickly, Oliver said, “I remember seeing you play when I was a kid. It’s nice to meet you.” It was, in fact, the complete opposite, but he thought better of saying so. Bagman seemed to have deep pockets, considering the number of drinks he was ordering.

For the rest of the afternoon, Bagman regaled Oliver and anyone else who would listen with stories of his exploits in both his own bout in the Quidditch World Cup and as a player for the Wasps, and with each additional drink, the tales became more and more ridiculous. Considering the increasingly boisterous guest was staying until closing, that was quite a measure of said ridiculousness.

Finally, all of the other patrons had filed out, tipping both Rosmerta and Oliver generously for working so hard on a holiday, but Bagman, half asleep and completely drunk, was still at his bar stool, murmuring about Triwizard Tournament odds. He had apparently placed a large sum of money — secretly, of course — on Harry to win, which even to Oliver, who was accustomed to Harry shining under pressure, sounded like insanity.

Oliver thought wryly that, if he’d sunk that many Galleons into the results of a virtual roulette wheel like the tournament, he’d be drinking himself stupid, too. Betting wasn’t like Quidditch; in gambling, there were far too many unaccountable variables, but his game of choice followed rules, strictures, and patterns. Gauging the results beforehand was far more feasible than throwing one’s lot in with a complete stranger in a deadly set of tasks. The tales he’d heard of the dragons was enough to know that much.

Bagman, however, wasn’t interested in talking about that anymore. Instead, he turned his attention to Oliver, who was the only one present whilst Rosmerta tended to the dishes. “So, boy, you ever play Quidditch?”

“A fair bit,” Oliver said noncommittally. The last thing he wanted was sympathy over his failure from Ludo sodding Bagman. “At Hogwarts.”

Nodding, Bagman said, “I had you pegged for a Hufflepuff type.”

Trying hard to resist the urge to bash Bagman over the head with a barstool, Oliver asked through clenched teeth, “And why is that?”

“’Cause if you were playing for any other house, you’d have said so in the first place. A Gryffindor would’ve been proud to say he represented his house, a Ravenclaw would’ve tried to talk me under the table about strategy and all that rot, and a Slytherin... well, I’d just know that much.”

Oliver couldn’t believe that Bagman was so oblivious to how offensive he was being, but on the other hand he could. Judging by the deference in his voice when he’d said ‘Slytherin’, the man was most likely a member of that house, but Oliver decided not to say as much.

Noticing the lack of response, Bagman said, “I’m right. I’m always right about these things. I’d have been ten Galleons you were a Badger.”

“No,” Oliver said quietly, unable to allow himself to be called a badger. “I was a Gryffindor. The Hat didn’t even hesitate, so you, Mr Bagman, would’ve lost that bet.”

With a harrumph, Bagman said, “Well, I’ll be damned.” He pulled out a few Galleons and said, “I’ll buy the next round, then. The finest in the house!”

“Bar’s closed, sir,” Oliver said, really only looking for an excuse to spend as little time with his unwanted companion as possible. “Sorry.”

From the kitchen, Rosmerta emerged, wiping her hands on a towel. “Oh, Oliver, it’s fine. You’ve worked hard today, and just so long as no one else comes in, that’s fine. Mr Bagman has already bought a room for the night anyway.”

If he could have done so without remorse, Oliver would’ve hexed Rosmerta. Now he was stuck with this silly sot.

* * *

As Oliver mimed the graceless fall of Draco Malfoy in his ridiculous Dementor disguise, both men laughed.

Though it had taken nearly three bottles of Firewhiskey between the two of them, most of which was drank by Oliver, the younger man had finally warmed to his boisterous companion, much like someone drinking said Firewhiskey for the first time — bitter and obnoxious at first, but enjoyable in the end.

When the chortling had died down, Oliver added, “You should’ve seen the look on his face. He looked dead ridiculous with his robes around his waist. Harry had to have been the only person on the pitch who thought he was actually a Dementor.”

Slapping Oliver on the shoulder, Bagman said, “Wonderful story, boy! I thought you were a man of good taste.”

Oliver lifted his glass and toasted to Bagman before draining it, the last of the third bottle and, coincidentally, both of their pocket money. “Well, I s’pose I should be heading off to bed. If you want, I can show you to your room.”

“No, don’t be silly!” slurred Bagman. “I can drunk it even when I’m completely find.”

Trying not to smirk at the gaffe, Oliver said, “Then I shall bid you goodnight, Mr Bagman.”

With an attempt of a dismissive wave, Bagman said, “Please, it’s Ludo. I think we’re friends now, so please, call me Ludo.”

“Right, then,” Oliver said before standing on his not entirely steady feet. “’Night.”

However, just before he hit the stairs, Bagman’s voice halted Oliver in his tracks. “Wood! I’ve got a proposition for you!”

Stopping in his tracks, Oliver asked, “What sort of proposition?” he was actually quite tired, and he didn’t want to banter for another four hours with Bagman. He’d been up early and had had quite enough of the site of The Three Broomsticks’ bar. But, as his judgment was not exactly what it used to be, he doubled back.

Bagman smiled. “I bet you that if you write to any team in the league and ask for an audition, I could get you one with a recommendation letter.”

Frowning, Oliver said, “But you’ve never seen me play. How could you recommend someone you don’t know for a professional tryout. Besides, in case you forgot, I didn’t make the roster last time I did.”

“Bollocks!” Bagman said. “You played with Potter and that’s all I need to know. Now, go fetch a quill and parchment.” He stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles as he prepared to write. When he saw that Oliver was still standing there in disbelief, he asked, “Why are you still here?”

Oliver couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he went and gathered the necessary material for composing letters. He would write his request for a tryout first, and if he couldn’t go through with it, he’d not waste Bagman’s time and decidedly dulled reflexes on penning the recommendation.

Quill in hand, Oliver wrote:

To Whom It May Concern,

My name is Oliver Wood, and I have been playing the position of Keeper since I was seven years old and organisationally since thirteen. Throughout the years, my life has been dedicated to becoming a first-rate Keeper and strategist.

With that in mind, I would like to request an audience with management in order to procure a tryout. I believe that my abilities could be beneficial to your fine organisation, and I hope that you feel the same.

Sincerely,

Oliver Wood

Bagman examined the letter for a long while before saying, “Boring, but it’ll do. It gets the point across.” He set it down and beckoned for the quill and ink.

Greetings, Management!

My name is Ludovic Bagman, former champion and eternal Wimbourne Wasp. I’m here to tell you today about a fantastic young man whom I’ve just met today but I feel like I’ve known forever, named Oliver Wood. He’s one of the best Keepers to ever come out of Hogwarts, whom I’ve followed since he was just a third-year starting out. It was great fortune that crossed our paths, but my good luck could be yours, as this once-in-a-lifetime talent is in the free agent market, just waiting for an enterprising gentleman like yourself to snatch up.

Oliver stopped reading there, as Bagman went off on a tangent about his own career, but the letter was finished. Thankfully, he had grabbed his last Straight-Write Deluxe left over from Hogwarts, which is charmed to write evenly and neatly no matter what. He doubted either of them could’ve penned a legible draft of anything at that point.

“So,” Bagman said, scratching his chin, “where are you going to send it?”

“Dunno,” he said, startled by that sort of oversight. “Maybe a bad team that won’t have any choice but to take me, or possibly a team with a lot of older players that’ll be hitting the free agent market or retirement after the season is up.”

Of course, Bagman said, “Well, you could try Wimbourne. I daresay I have pull there.”

Shaking his head, Oliver said, “No, they’re not in the market for a Keeper. Maybe...” After a few moments of thought in his alcohol-addled brain, he said, “You see, Puddlemere is very close to where I grew up, and...”

“Say no more!” Bagman said excitedly as he closed up the letters and sealed up the bundle with excess candle wax from the chandelier above them and his championship ring as a signet. On the front, he wrote ‘Puddlemere United Management Staff’.

Waddling over to the fireplace, Bagman said, “Bring some powder, and I can send this.”

“But powder costs,” Oliver said, not wanting to steal off Rosmerta.

“She’d want you to have it, mate!” Bagman said in encouragement, which in his present state of mental discord, Oliver believed. He could leave her an extra Sickle of his pay in recompense when he received it. Hell, if he got signed, he’d buy her a whole damned case! When he brought the pinch of nicked powder, Bagman said, “I knew you’d see it my way.”

Into the fire it went, turning the flames to a shimmering green. In a surprisingly clear voice, Bagman said, “Puddlemere United Quidditch Office, Care of Philbert Deverill, General Manager.” He poked his head in, dropped the letter on the fireplace, and withdrew.

Still in disbelief of what had just happened, Oliver pulled Bagman to his feet and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. If anything comes of this and you need a favour, please come and find me.” And he meant it, too. He’d grossly underestimated this fellow, and he needed to atone for that.

With that, they parted ways for the night.

* * *

Oliver awoke to a knock on his door, which due to his killer hangover was far louder than could have come from the person on the other side, which turned out to be Rosmerta. Her face was grim.

“I just thought I should tell you that your merry friend paid for all of his services yesterday with fake Galleons.”

The cloud of optimism that had been threatening upon his horizon immediately dissipated with her words. “I’m so sorry, Madam. I should have noticed.” Rather guiltily, he added, “I’ll pay for whatever I can from my earning and work off the rest.”

She shook her head. “Nonsense. I’ll be letting Mr Bagman’s employer know in order to have his wages garnished. Far simpler that way.” Shrugging, she added, “I was just telling you because you seemed taken with him. He was gone before dawn, and I don’t think he’ll be coming back here too soon.”

The day before, Oliver didn’t think he’d have regretted this news at all, and knowing what he knew about Bagman trying to cheat an honest, hard-working businesswoman out of her payment, he still had no idea if it bothered him or not.

Rosmerta left him to his thoughts and to get dressed for the day’s work. He was to wait on tables that day, since his cash-handling mistake essentially ended his career behind a bar before it started. Instead, he would simply deliver what had already been paid for.

As he was putting on his apron, Rosmerta came in from outside, holding an envelope and staring hard at it before holding it out. “This just came for you.”

Though the parcel itself was rather plain, the blue seal was a good sign. He eagerly tore it open and scanned it quickly. All the words jumbled together, so he read it again, mouthing the words to himself.

Dear Mr Wood,

We have reviewed your request for a tryout, and while we are not in the market for a new Keeper at this time, Mr Bagman’s glowing tribute to your work ethic has struck a chord within myself and Coach Peter Pembroke.

With that being said, I would hereby like to offer you a position on the team training staff for the rest of the season, and when we hold tryouts for next season, we will most certainly give you an opportunity to live up to your billing.

Sincerely,

Philbert Deverill

General Manager, Puddlemere United Quidditch Club

Not even cognisant of the fact that, by the second paragraph, he’d been practically shouting out the contents of the letter, Oliver pulled Rosmerta to him in a bear hug and kissed her solidly on the mouth. It was only when she slapped him in the face that he deigned to join her back in reality.

However, she didn’t begrudge him his excitement as she said and repeated her congratulations, which he hardly heard over the sound of his dream, however inauspiciously, coming true.

And it was all because of a silly proposition.