A Tale of Two Brothers

--A Tale of Two Brothers--

The boy was kneeling behind the hedge, the same position he took nearly every day. He gazed wistfully through a small hole in the branches at the people who frolicked on the other side, where he was too afraid to go. Inexorably he found himself drawn closely to the happiness that radiated from the small enclosure, though he drew back frightened, staying where he was. The boy was not willing to take the step forward and join the people within, instead content to sit and watch silently.

The sound of laughter filtered through the thick hedge, where a taller man, the boy's father, and his tousle-headed son were separated by a few feet, though they faced each other. You would not have guessed the two boys were brothers, the brown-haired one inside the enclosure and the younger, blond-haired one outside looking in. The older looked to be around eleven, the younger around six.

The casual passerby would have viewed a very strange scene had he or she been able to look inside the hedged in area. The boy within was standing for the most part stock still, with only his arms moving. These, however, moved like lightning. Darting every which way, the fingers on each hand clasping wildly, his hands seemingly groped at thin air.

The boy's eyes, however, moved similarly fast, and the younger son could follow the movements of a small, walnut-shaped object zooming around his brother's head. Every time the boy grasped with his hand, the golden object stopped, though when released it rocketed away just as quickly as before.

"That's my boy," the father exclaimed, beaming after a particularly hard catch. Paunchy and approaching fifty, he obviously did not possess the reflexes that made the younger boy's feats possible. Still, though, he treated every success as his own, and his grin stretched from ear to ear.

"Am I doing all right, Pops?" the boy questioned. He kept his hands moving, though, never stopping them in their pursuit of the whizzing golden ball.

"You most definitely are, Peter," his father replied. "You do your father and family proud...I just wish that I could be out there with you, on the Quidditch pitch once again."

"Why's that?" the boy questioned, never taking his eyes from the ball.

"Because," his father answered, his eyes gazing off into the distance, his voice taking a wistful tone, "there's something in that game that is more beautiful than anything else on this earth. It's hard to pin down sometimes, but surely you feel it yourself when the wind whistles on your face while you're forty feet above the ground and you can nearly taste the excitement in the air. The emotion, Peter, the purest you've ever felt when you haul in that winning Snitch to end the game. It's the feeling that seems to well from somewhere deep inside of you, the inescapable knowledge that what you've done, what you are doing, is right, and that it has made someone else happy. You've never felt anything like it."

He strode across the grass following this declaration, clapping his eldest son on the shoulder. The boy made a final grab and kept his arm outstretched, gazing at the fluttering object encapsulated in his fingers. The younger son, still gazing through the hedge, could see that it was indeed a small gold ball, perfectly formed, with wings on either side of it still fluttering weakly. Closing his fist on it, the son turned to regard his father.

"I'm good enough to play, aren't I, Dad?...I mean at Hogwarts there is supposed to be a lot of competition for spots on the house teams, and what if..."

"Put it from your mind, son," his father declared. "You've played for me for what now, five years? And I dare say that's a lot more than some kids have got. Look, the first thing you've got to do when you get to Hogwarts is..."

The young boy took this opportunity to rise from his kneeling position, brush himself off, and begin to walk back to the house. He had heard the same lecture many times before, about his father's old friends, and how Peter's future was ready-made. All Peter had to do was talk to the right people and all would be well. It always seemed unfair to the little boy that the world would work that way, and that so much attention was showered upon his older brother as a result. Consequently, very little was given to him, though he was not given to complaining and for the most part held his peace.

Pushing open the gate to the garden that surrounded the house though, he did feel somewhat resentful; a simmering anger which, although not strong, bubbled gently in his chest asking to be let out. This feeling stuck with him as he wiped his muddy boots on the mat on the inside of the doorway before depositing them nearby and stepping into the kitchen.

The room he entered was snug and cozy, having a homey feeling about it. The boy's mother stood by the sink, absently twirling her wand so that a scrub brush washed a frying pan. Her gaze, however, was placed firmly in the latest issue of Witch Weekly magazine, which she held with her other hand. The front cover bore the face of a handsome wizard who beamed at the boy as he stepped into the room, though he made a point of not smiling back.

"Is that you, Oliver?" the woman said, not taking her eyes off of the magazine. "Back so soon, are you?...I thought you had gone over to play with Timmy Ravenswood." The question demanded an answer, and the boy, whose name of course was Oliver, shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor before answering.

"Uhhh...Timmy didn't want to play," he said sullenly, "so I came back home." He turned and started towards the stairs, thinking to retreat up to his room and ponder his thoughts by himself, alone with his feelings.

"Oh really," his mother replied, tossing her magazine down on the table where it slid a fair distance before coming to a stop, the wizard on the cover still beaming and winking at Oliver. "Somehow I don't think that's the whole story. Come here and tell it to me fully." She motioned Oliver over into a chair, which he sank gratefully into. It was time now to pose a question of his own.

"Why doesn't Dad care about me?" he asked frankly, searching his mother's face for answers.

"Now that's a harsh thing to say," she chided gently. "Why would you think that?"

"Well," Oliver answered, a bit miffed at having his question turned on its head, "he always spends so much time in the sheep pen with Peter, and yet he never offers to take me in as well."

It was his mother's turn to look aghast, and she took a deep breath before continuing. "Now, Oliver, what you need to understand is that both your father and I love you and Peter very much, and I for one would never try and treat the two of you differently. Neither of you are better then the other. Your father, however..." At this she paused, wringing her hands in her lap.

"Yes," Wood persisted, leaning forward in his tall chair.

"...Your father has for a long time waited for this year, this particular year, and do you know why?" Oliver shook his head no, allowing his mother to continue. "This year your brother will leave for Hogwarts, and all your father's goals will be so close to being achieved."

"He's mad for Quidditch, that father of yours." She shook her head slowly before continuing. "He poured his whole life into it, and once he himself could go no further took to impressing his own dreams on your brother. Your father, Oliver, believes that Peter will be the savior of British Quidditch, the one person who will save what he views as the noblest of sports."

She flung her arms into the air in exasperation, nearly wholeheartedly overcome by emotion. "He's delusional I tell you, to think that any son of his will become more than he was, a half-rate player and even worse coach. What I'm trying to tell you is to leave your father be, let him have his dreams of glory, and hope that they will be short lived."

"But where does that leave me?" Oliver questioned again. "Why can't I play as well? I'm as good as Peter is at most things." His mother shook her head sadly, opening her arms to Oliver, who got up from his seat to be encapsulated in them.

"That, dear, I still cannot understand." She relinquished her hold on him after a long pause, and held him out at arm's length to gaze back into his eyes. "Try and put it from your mind, it...it's nothing much. I mean you have tons of other things to do, such as playing with your friends and all."

What friends? Oliver thought, though he didn't say it, not wanting to upset his mother any further. He could see already that moisture was gathering at the corners of her eyes, and unspoken words of comfort bobbed visibly in her throat, seemingly unable to move any further.

"You going to be okay Oliver?" Snapping out of his brief reverie, he nodded before turning to go up the single staircase that led to the room he shared with his brother. Still brooding, he stepped heavily on each step, not enough to make an audible noise, but a sign of his anger. Upon reaching his bedroom he opened the door in a huff, flouncing down on his bed by the window. The room seemed to be almost split in two, so different were the two sides. They were utterly divided by an invisible line that ran through the dark blue rug in between. On one side the wall was covered in posters of Quidditch teams and players, some holding broomsticks, while others whizzed around wildly waving to their fans. A riot of colors and shapes, the wall itself could barely be seen.

The other side was a testament to cleanliness and order; its wall was mostly bare. Tacked to the wall were two enlargements of book covers, one entitled The Slaying of Ancalagon the Black, the other The Raising of the Westfold. Both were first-rate fantasies that had been enormously popular, being written by the esteemed wizard-author named J Ronald Rule. His wrinkled face winked out from a photograph on the nightstand. Oliver had tucked the letter from the esteemed writer in the drawer under the night table for safekeeping, though he now took out the well worn scrap of parchment, which was no longer creased from the many times he had handled it. He knew the lines by heart, but it still invigorated him to see them again on paper.

My dearest Fan Oliver,

It was so great to get your letter of July the seventeenth. Too often my readers do not write me, and so I am left without any criticism with which to improve my work. I am glad to hear that you enjoyed my books, and hope you enjoy the enclosed posters as well. The great detail and passion you put into describing how much you want to live in the time of my books moved me deeply. Of course you must know that the lands that I depict are not real, but your imagination still astounds me. Stick to your dreams, my lad, and you'll never know where they might take you. Until next time:

Yours Truly,

J Ronald Rule

Oliver put the letter back in its drawer rather sadly. Every time he took it out he hoped to see that more words had appeared, though none ever did. Leaning backwards, he swung his feet up onto the bed, twisting so he lay onto his stomach. Gazing up at his wall he could see the figures moving around in the pictures affixed there. The small people fought an endless battle, dying every once and awhile, though their bodies decomposed only to spring out from the sides of the frames once again. The landscape might change with the seasons, but the battle always raged, and from this Oliver sometimes took comfort. In the world of the pictures there were no problems but the war, and the figures in it were brave and chivalrous, never given to wrong deeds. They were heroes, albeit ones that never lived in real life and could not leave the page.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see his father and Peter coming up the walk to the house, passing through the garden while laughing amicably. They walked with brooms thrown over their shoulders casually, the father at least exuding confidence and a masculine swagger. Peter still held the fluttering golden Snitch in his hand, its wings beating, trying to escape. Oliver rolled back over, looking up at the ceiling. Sometimes he felt like that Snitch, beating forever at the hand that encircled him and held him in a place where he couldn't escape. He wanted to fly away, or to take the train to Hogwarts, but couldn't because he was too young.

Throwing his feet over the side of the bed he rousted himself gamely and headed for the door that led back down the stairs Moments before his mother called up for him.

"Oliver, supper time." Heeding his mother's command, he reluctantly headed downstairs to answer the call.

At supper, which the family took sitting around the small table in the kitchen, Oliver did not say much, instead pushing his food around his plate before taking any bites of it. Instead of talking, he was more then content to lose himself in his own thoughts, as he did most of the time. Surprisingly, his mother did not talk much either, her head down as well. Oliver could still hear his father and brother though, prattling on excitedly about the big day tomorrow.

Oliver endured the gaiety for as long as he could before excusing himself from the table. Getting up, he deposited his dishes in the sink before starting up the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his father and brother similarly push back their chairs, only they instead leaned back in them while stretching and continuing the conversation. The two of them were content to let the mother take their dishes, bearing them, in addition to her own to the sink.

Back up in his room Oliver sat down on the bed, not knowing exactly what to do. It was at times like these when he felt a great connection to the rest of the world around him. The colors of the sunset poured in through the single window, casting shadows on the many objects strewn on his brother's side of the room. Oliver's, by comparison, was tidy, with everything in its assigned place.

Bending down, Oliver untied his shoes, feeling the warmth of the early evening sun on his neck. Finished, he stowed the shoes under his bed, careful to arrange them just so. Lying back on his bed, he gazed out the window. This was something he was good at, looking out over the little patch of world that was all he had ever known. Wordlessly he took in the sights and sounds, reveling in even the smallest of changes. It was like his own little theatre was spread out before him in the garden, and he was sitting in a balcony seat in he front row. The rolling hills off in the distance provided the only needed backdrop.

He stayed silent for a good hour or so, until the sun had truly disappeared and the streaks of color that filled the sky were slowly turning into the deep purple that precedes the onset of night. Content with today's show, he turned away from the window, busying himself with the task of getting ready for bed. Oliver liked to do this early, for then he could block out a solid hour and a half for reading. He changed into his pajamas, brushed his teeth in the small bathroom down the hall, and clambered into bed, sliding down between the covers.

Pulling out his most recent book, he looked at the cover for a while. The heraldic writing proclaimed it The Obstinate Toy Soldiers, written by Louis Stapleton. Here was yet another esteemed writer well known for his ability to distill the meaning of childhood simplicity into prose that was as easily understandable to Oliver as it was to those many years his senior. The boy treasured the volume, as it had been a gift from his now deceased grandfather, and he could take comfort in its words, for they made him feel like he was holding a friendly conversation for the author. Oliver especially loved books because they allowed him to speak, metaphorically of course, to many diverse and interesting people who he could never hope to meet. Best of all, in Oliver's opinion, the book did not argue back, which he could appreciate.

So engrossed was he in his reading, that he would not have noticed his brother's arrival in the room had Peter not announced himself loudly.

"Jeez Oliver, what are you doing up here with the window open? It's freezing in here." With this pronouncement the older boy walked over and shut Oliver's window with a resounding slam. Now the two brothers were actually good friends and generally got along very well, although as the younger brother Oliver did at times resent his elder roommate. Oliver chose not to respond to his brother at this time, instead focusing his gaze solely on the book. A little irked, Peter turned and began getting ready for bed, not desiring the same time to read that Oliver so enjoyed.

Changed into his own pajamas, Peter opened the door and left the room, heading down the hall towards the bathroom. It was only now that Oliver raised his gaze up from his book, gazing at his brother's receding back. Oliver did love his brother very much, despite how much older Peter was, and the way he sometimes treated him. Peter returned from the bathroom and climbed into his own bed. Snuggling in, he turned to regard Oliver.

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about little brother?" he questioned Oliver, who now raised his head again, still holding his book.

"No."

"I mean...with me going away and all you're going to have the house to yourself, except for Mom and Dad of course." With this Peter looked around to regard the room around him, the posters, the mementos, the cozy homeliness. "I'm going to miss it all, you know, mum, Dad, my room, and you Oliver. What if I don't like Hogwarts? What if I don't make many friends at all? What if..." The last question trailed off, and Oliver laid down his book on the bed sheets, so that the cover lay up flat and the pages caressed his knees.

"You'll do fine Peter, I'm sure you'll find plenty of friends. Hogwarts is supposed to be a fun place. Haven't you listened to any of Dad's stories?" Peter nodded that he had, and so Oliver continued. "Besides, Peter, with you being such a good Quidditch player and all, I'm sure you will be popular." At this Peter gave a weak smile.

"I am good at Quidditch. Dad has trained me well...at least I hope he has." Seemingly satisfied, Peter rolled over to his other side. Thinking the conversation over, Oliver started to pick up his book again. Peter, however, unexpectedly whirled around, twisting over in his bed. His brown eyes came to regard Oliver's blue ones, and Oliver thought that in the brown pools he could see glistening moisture.

"You don't know what it's like, do you, to always have expectations thrown at you, great weights loaded on only your shoulders and not on anybody else's." The words were not spoken out of malice, but frustration, though they still the cut at Oliver, striking a chord deep inside of him.

"Our father is a good man...one who has fought hard through life. All he wants is for me to be great...and I will be. I'll be one of the best--the very best--and show them all who I am, what I can do." At this point Peter's voice seemed about to break, though he reigned in his emotions, saying blankly, "You don't know, Oliver."

Peter reached up and switched off his bedside light. Oliver watched in amazement as his brother's shoulders shook for a few minutes before subsiding as Peter slipped off to sleep. Oliver tried to keep reading, but couldn't. Shutting his book, he put it in its place of honor on his bedside table before reaching up and turning off his own light. His brother's breathing was rhythmical now, and it seemed to Oliver as if Peter had forgotten the whole incident, so quickly had he dropped off to sleep.

Oliver, though, could not go to sleep, tossing and turning while thinking about his brother's words. Inside Peter there was as much angst and pain as Oliver himself held in, and yet he had not realized it. The clock beside Oliver's bedside gyrated, the gears moving to readjust to the new time. The large grandfather clock downstairs struck nine softly, the reverberations barely reaching Oliver's ears. Turning towards the window, Oliver shut his eyes and tried to relax, though he was surprised to find that he could still hear voices coming from downstairs. His interest piqued, he strained, trying to hear what seemed to be an argument.

"What you're doing is wrong Silas and you know it." That was his mother's voice.

"Miranda look, we've been over this before, how I raise those boys is my business, we agreed on that from the beginning."

"It's not even necessarily what you are doing, Silas, it's what you're not doing that also worries me." Oliver heard a scraping sound and envisioned a chair being moved across the floor. "Oliver came to me earlier today and he was very upset." His mother's voice was one of abject concern and worry, though his father though tried to shoulder it off nonchalantly.

"So what, boys his age are always upset about something, a hurt toe, lost button, who knows." At this dismissal of his feelings Oliver bristled, though stayed quiet.

"Silas, you're missing the point. Oliver spends all of his time outside the sheep pen, staring at Peter and you practicing Quidditch everyday, I've seen him at it from the kitchen window. The boy...all he wants to know is why you don't spend that much time with him, Silas, why you treat the two of them differently."

"He's younger, isn't he?" his father continued in a gruff voice. "I can't be teaching Peter all I know with Oliver hanging on now can I? The boy doesn't even know how to fly a broomstick."

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Oliver's mother's voice sounded exasperated. "If only you'd teach him, he'd be just as good. Oliver's got spunk and a heart bigger than you know. That's something even you can't teach a boy."

"No means no Miranda, and that's my final answer. I'll teach that boy nothing. I've got more then enough to worry about, what with Peter entering school and all. I've got enough on my plate as it is, no way."

With that statement Oliver knew that the conversation was finished, and upon hearing his father's heavy feet clomp up the stairs knew he had been right. His mother's soft steps came along later, seeming to glide across the hard wood steps. Oliver thought he heard her pause at the top of the stairs, near the entrance to the brothers' room, but a snort from Peter caused her to keep on moving. Oliver had a hard time getting to sleep that night.

The first the Wood family heard of Peter's achievements at Hogwarts was a letter they received three days after they had dropped him off at platform 9 and 3/4. It was a brief note, stating that he had arrived at Hogwarts safe and sound, and was now engaged in settling in to his new surroundings. Reading the letter Oliver couldn't help but feel a small twinge of jealousy deep down in his stomach. Peter had always had a way with words, a talent he had cultivated before discovering Quidditch, or rather before having it forced at him by his father.

The letter had been read initially at the breakfast table, before Oliver had spirited it away up to his room to store it in the same drawer as the reply from J Ronald Rule. The owl had soared in the open window, nearly knocking over the milk pitcher, though eventually coming to a stop on the mantel over the fireplace, perching between two family portraits, one of the parents, the other of the two brothers.

The owl had stared at them with great big yellow eyes expectantly until Silas spoke at last. "Well don't just sit there, go and take the letter my boy." Oliver did not want to get any closer to the great large bird that was now preening with the letter still firmly clenched in its beak. Nevertheless, he stammered an affirmative reply to his father and got up, moving around the table to confront the bird. Approaching it hesitantly, he reached for the letter. Tugging lightly on it, he was surprised to have it come loose fairly easily, the bird letting go with what seemed to Oliver to be almost a cheeky sort of yawn. Having fulfilled its duty, the bird spread its wings stately and glided, a little more gracefully this time, to go roost in its spot in the barn.

"Bring it here now," Oliver's father commanded. "You see Oliver, there is nothing to be afraid of about owls. I mean sure they'll peck you if you rile them up, but they're mostly good tempered." Handing over the letter, Oliver returned to his seat.

"I've always admired owls you know," he said to no one in particular. His mother, however, leaned forward to regard him with greater interest.

"Really now," she countered, "after putting it up such a fuss sometimes about getting the mail?"

"Yes," Oliver replied, "it's just their beaks and talons that I don't like, I watch them from my window sometimes at night, soaring around, looking for mice. They're very majestic with their wings spread while they fly around."

Almost as an afterthought, he added, "I wish I could fly." At this statement his mother swiveled to regard his father, who peered up over the top of the letter, which he had opened. Peering up briefly, he glanced back down, voicing an intangible murmur of disgust. "Shh now, listen to Peter's letter." Oliver's mother's head sagged briefly, and Oliver thought he saw a small light go out in her eyes. Still though, she listened to her husband.

"All right now."

Dear Family,

I arrived at Hogwarts last night after a long ride on the Hogwarts Express, nearly six hours if you can believe it. I met some nice guys on the train though, and am good friends with most of them already. We made the journey across the great lake in the boats, and we almost flipped, a little scary of course, but we made it across all right...

"He's doing alright then?" Oliver's mother questioned. "He's safe?"

"Of course he is," her husband said exasperatedly, "it's a school, for crying out loud, they wouldn't let them into those boats if it wasn't entirely safe. Anyways..."

Then came the sorting, which I must admit I was a little frightened of, but no sweat, my friends and I all got into the same house, which was great...

"Funny though, he doesn't say what house he's in."

"Oh come on Silas, it doesn't really matter, does it?"

Oliver's father continued though, not answering his wife's question.

My classes have been going fine; I like pretty much all my teachers. Would you believe it, they've even got a ghost teaching History of magic. Anyways, life is going great, our common room is right down by the kitchens....

"Wait a minute." Silas had stopped reading. "A common room by the kitchens, but that would mean..."

"Come on Silas, it doesn't really matter...please darling, Peter is happy, and why can't you be as well?" Oliver's father, though, had already thrown down the letter and stormed out the front door, his face turning bright red.

"Go up to your room please Oliver," his mother said calmly, following his father out the door. Oliver, however, paused to pick up the dropped letter before heading up the stairs. Even at the top landing he could hear his father's explosion of rage.

"I didn't raise my son to be a friggen' Hufflepuff!!!!!" Choosing to ignore the outburst, Oliver went up to his room, flopping down on the bed. Reading more of Peter's letter he discovered that there was lots more in it then his father his had read, so he began to lose track of the time himself.

Reading about the beauty of Hogwarts Oliver could almost imagine himself there. He could nearly see the sweeping majesty of the Scottish glen in which the school was located, the great lake beside it, towering green hills all around bearing witness to the school. The school itself, rising up out of the large granite slabs dotting the landscape and towering over the large grassy sward that led down to the lake, being overshadowed in turn by the surrounding hills.

Turning to look out the window, he could see the hills that made up the only world he had ever known. The view, while spectacular, was dimmed in his mind's eye, as surely it could not be as magnificent as the one from the top of Hogwarts' highest tower. How Oliver longed to be there, where the stories were like the stuff of dreams, only better. Hearing his bedroom door creak open, he turned around to see his mother enter. She came and sat at the foot of his bed, idly smoothing out the creases in the yellow sheet.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Oliver," she said, a catch in her throat. "Your father and I don't fight very often, but when we do..." Her voice trailed off, the joy she had had in hearing from her faraway son had left her during the argument, sapping her strength and leaving her frail and weak.

"It's okay Mom," Oliver answered to fill in the silence, hopping up smartly and leaping into his mother's arms, hugging her tightly. "I'm still here, and Dad will get over it." His mother gave a weak smile before releasing him.

"Alright then you...now what are you doing inside on such a fine day? Off with you." She stood up slowly, rather stiffly and disjointed, but shooed Oliver gamely out the door and down the steps, through the kitchen and out into the sunshine.

True to Oliver's word, his father grudgingly came to accept what he viewed as a failure on the part of Peter. His fatherly pride was restored, somewhat, upon receiving Peter's second letter, in which the son confided to his coach and mentor that all his hard work had paid off. Peter had made the team. This news caused Silas to jump up from the table and dance around the room gleefully. A bemused Oliver and Miranda were left to watch his antics.

With the good news joy returned to the Wood household. Miranda whistled while she worked, and Oliver played happily. Silas, however, spent long stretches of time leaning against the gate to the road, conversing with his wizarding neighbors.

"I always knew the boy had it in him, a regular chip off the old block, eh?" At this he would puff his chest out in pride. "Youngest seeker in Hufflepuff history, and you know what, the result wasn't even in doubt." He then would lean in as though confiding in the neighbors. "I heard from people inside the castle that young Peter is the best flyer at the school...from any of the houses!" With this final pronouncement he would always lean back expectantly, hoping, of course, to hear the admiration of his neighbors. They, however, would normally stalk off, muttering to one another about their irritable neighbor, the one with his head in the clouds, so much so that he tripped over his own feet.

Oliver, however, was rarely around to hear these lectures. Instead, he took every opportunity available to him to leave the house and yard of his family and wander the hills, searching for hidden glens and burbling mountain streams. On his travels one day he discovered a secluded grove of chestnut trees on the other side of the hill on which his family's home was situated. He returned there often, liking the shade it offered, and the closed quarters where he could be truly alone.

One afternoon his father and mother left to go meet some old friends, leaving Oliver alone at home.

"Now Oliver," his mother cautioned, "you stay within the yard and don't go looking for trouble." His father, however, glanced irritably at his watch.

"C'mon Miranda, we're going to be late." With this he moved out the front door. Oliver's mother gave him a final squeeze before turning to leave as well, though called back over her shoulder.

"Clean the garden if you could Oliver," she yelled, before linking arms with her husband and disappearing with a loud pop. Grumbling, Oliver crossed his arms and stomped outside into the backyard, thinking to explore the garden shed for some useful implement to weed the garden per his mother's directions. Throwing open the door raised a cloud of dust, although once it cleared he could see leaning up against one wall maybe fifteen or twenty broomsticks.

"Wow," he breathed. Surely he could never remember having seen these before. He took an old broom from the ungainly pile, smoothing out the twisted twigs at its end. Clutching it tightly to his body, he carried it out into the sunshine.

Here, out in the open, he mounted it quickly, not stopping to think of the consequences. Kicking off from the ground, the broom rose four feet into the air and there it hovered, not rising any higher. Oliver gazed down at the ground in amazement. He could not believe what was happening. He was flying! Leaning forward, the broom lurched forward, before settling into an easy pace, though one which Oliver found to be delightfully thrilling. Leaning his body from side to side he found he could turn the broom, controlling where he was going.

On a whim, he directed the front end of the knobby broomstick towards his chestnut grove, flying amidst the trees with reckless abandon. Whooping loudly, he took both hands of the broom, steering only with his knees. The wind coursed freely through his short hair, trying to stretch his facial features back. He had never felt this alive, this free. With a start, though, he was jerked back to earth as overbalanced he pitched head first over the front end of the broom. Landing spread-eagled on the ground, leaves drifted down around him, as did the broom. Having stopped when he fell off, it now settled gently, landing in the soft grass by his side. Finding a hole in the trunk of a nearby tree, Oliver stowed the broom there before returning to be told off for failing to weed the garden.

Every day or so Oliver attempted to get out to the chestnut grove, where he would spend lazy afternoons twisting in it out of the trees at faster and faster speeds. He was away from home most days, therefore, when \ news came from Peter, such as how he was doing superbly in classes, and had won the first Quidditch match for Hufflepuff in over a decade. It was autumn now, and Oliver while whizzed in and out of the trees in his grove the wind would blow chestnuts off of their branches, and they would fall from the trees. Oliver would dive to catch them in his fist.

Soon though, winter came, and Oliver returned his borrowed broom to the garden shed. His brother Peter returned for the Christmas holidays, self assured and cocky, more fit than Oliver had ever seen him before. Oliver endured the holidays with stoic silence, as his brother and father prattled on and on about Quidditch, different techniques, different brooms, tactics. Oliver resented his brother's knowledge somewhat, though he listened intently, determined to soak it all in. His brother returned to Hogwarts and life returned to normal at the Wood household. Oliver continued to explore around him on skis, for the woods took on a whole new appearance when covered with a white blanket. When spring came, he began flying again in earnest.

Soon enough, the summer holidays began, and Peter returned home for the summer. Oliver caught his first glimpse of him striding up the path in bright new yellow robes with the name 'Wood' emblazoned on the back in solid black lettering. Running down the stairs from his room, Oliver burst into the kitchen and enveloped his brother's waist with his arms. They barely fit around. He nuzzled into the rearing badger on the front of the robe, before turning his head to look at the sleeve where a black-bordered crescent was stitched on. The writing read Quidditch Cup Winners 1982.

"Like it little brother?" Peter asked, sensing where Oliver's gaze was directed. Oliver, however, murmured an unintelligible answer before twisting his head around again. "The whole team got them," Peter continued, talking to his father now. "Professor Sprout bought us them herself, since we're the best team she's ever had. First win in twelve years, and the first time we've brought home the cup itself in fifty-seven. Not since the good old days of the Huntington Five back in the twenties has Hufflepuff won the cup, and mind you, they were all siblings."

Oliver released his older brother now, turning to look at his father, who stood off to one side beaming. "And I'm sure you'll be remembered for just as long," he said proudly, his whiskered mouth breaking into a large grin.

To little Oliver the words seemed almost prophetic, as for the subsequent years it seemed that every summer Peter returned home with a new crescent sewn onto his sleeve. Both boys grew, Wood into a medium sized yet stocky child, and Peter into a tall, lanky, mop-haired giant. Peter, of course, spent most of the year at Hogwarts, returning only for the vacations, which left Oliver plenty of time to train on his own. Every summer Oliver tried to bring up the courage to ask his older brother to practice with him, though each time he held back, fearing a rejection. Still though, he grew steadily stronger and faster, his reflexes grew better and better, and on windy days he would hover beneath the chestnut trees, and not a nut would hit the ground.

When Oliver was ten, he began practicing with Timmy Ravenswood from across the valley, though now of course his boyhood friend went by the name of Timothy.

"Hey Oliver, you know that you're pretty good." This admission came as the two boys cruised a few feet above the ground in the enclosed area of the Ravenswoods' apple orchard.

Laughing, Oliver zoomed by. He had caught every throw Timothy had whipped at him. The large quaffle was easy after chestnuts. "Course I am, I wouldn't be here if I wasn't, now would I?"

"Don't laugh now," Timothy responded with a chortle of his own. "We both know that you need the practice as much as I do." With this he launched a shot that nearly took Oliver's head off, he however gracefully sidestepped it with his broom, leaning out to catch it in his fingertips. He relished these times with Timothy, playing against a person added a whole new wrinkle. Timothy, unlike chestnuts, fought back.

For the next year or so Oliver went over to play with Timothy. The two of them were fairly evenly matched, as Oliver had better reflexes and hands, while Timothy could throw a lot harder then he could. It was these times that Oliver cherished above all others, where it was just him, the broom, and the ball. He could focus on a single goal, catching it. Around him his life, though, was getting busy. Oliver turned eleven in March, and that meant he would be entering Hogwarts the following autumn. Peter had turned seventeen in January, and had graduated from Hogwarts.

Peter had also been signed by the Wimbourne Wasps as their new seeker, and so he dutifully turned in his old yellow Hufflepuff robes for the new golden and black striped robes that the Wasps played in. Before Peter was to join the team, however, he returned home for a brief visit. Oliver was the first in the family to see Peter's triumphant homecoming, as his older brother walked down the road past the Ravenswoods' home. Hearing the shouts and laughter coming from the orchard, he decided to investigate, as the Ravenswoods were old family friends.

He stood off to the side in the shade under a large tree for a while before Oliver noticed that he was there and came gliding over, dismounting at a run. Oliver was now borrowing Timothy's spare broom, as it was much better then any that his own family owned. Any misgivings Oliver might have had about his brother discovering him playing Quidditch were instantly forgotten upon seeing the wide grin that spread across Peter's whole face as he opened up his arms. Breaking into a sprint, Oliver leaped into his brother's arms, which twirled him around effortlessly. Oliver could feel the bunched, corded muscles that rippled beneath the skin, although Peter soon set him down, holding him at arm's length.

"Look at you, Oliver, you must have grown a good inch and a half since I last saw you." Still though, Oliver could still easily fit under Peter's chin, with no danger of his head scraping.

"Yeah," Oliver replied gamely, "it's given Mom fits though, having to re-hem my robes every month or so, instead of the year it used to take." At this Peter gave a small laugh, before turning serious and gesturing off to the small field.

"I never knew you could fly, let alone play Quidditch at all."

"Well," Oliver said sort of sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders, "I thought with Timothy and I starting at Hogwarts this year, we might as well give it a shot." While speaking he had motioned Timothy over to stand next to him, which he did? "We both figure to try out for the house team, and see what happens."

"I think it's a great idea," Peter said, astonishing Oliver.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Peter responded, with a shrug of his own shoulders. "Quidditch has become sort of a family tradition at Hogwarts, and I had a great time playing there." Glancing up at the sky, however, he turned back to Oliver. "Looks like a storm coming, brother, we'd better get home."

Bidding Timothy goodbye, Oliver received a less then savory reply, though he forgot it quickly. His brother was home, and that alone had put him in a good mood. The rain started to come down as they neared home, and so the two brothers pulled their coats up over their heads and sprinted the last few strides through the garden. Entering the house, they hung their coats up on the pegs in the small hall before walking into the kitchen. Their mother turned from the stove and gave a small squeak of surprise before hurriedly wiping her hands on her apron and bustling over to give each of the boys a big hug.

"Oh it's so nice you're home Peter," she said, rubbing her hand in circles on his back.

"It's good to be back, Mom," he replied, leaning into her bony shoulder. "I wish I could stay longer, but I only got two weeks before the season starts." Giving Oliver a quick squeeze, their mother turned back to the stove and the sauce that was beginning to smoke.

"Well, your father should be home soon..." Her words trailed off as the door banged open to admit him, shaking off the rain that had now become a downpour outside. Peter jumped up from the seat at the table he had taken only seconds earlier. He bustled over to his father, wrapping him up in a hug, though it was one as given to an equal.

"Father," he said, "it's good to see you."

"And it's great to see you as well," his father sighed, collapsing into a chair. "Tough day at the ministry," he said, turning to regard his eldest son. "You've heard I took a position in the department of magical sports and games haven't you?"

"Yes," Peter answered, pulling up another chair. Oliver sat down quietly as well. "I got your owl the day of graduation."

"Really now," his mother said, laying pots down on the table. "And how was your graduation?"

"It was great," Peter said, leaning back in his chair. "I wish all of you could have been there. They set out about five hundred chairs out on the grounds by the Great Lake, and each of us was presented with our diploma in turn." Leaning forward as though confiding something he continued. "James O'Flaughtery got kicked out of the ceremony for shooting off fireworks while leaving the stage, which everyone enjoyed, except the teachers though."

The dinnertime conversation continued with the rehashing of the end of Peter's Hogwarts career, and all of the people sitting around the table agreed that James O'Flaughtery did not have much sense. Oliver sat silently at the opposite end from his brother and father, waiting for the inevitable shift in conversation. It finally came as his mother was bringing the dessert, a delectable pear crumble, to the table, and when his father leaned back ever so perceptibly in his chair before hunching his shoulders forward to regard Peter intently.

"So, Peter," he began, a steely glint in his eyes, "have you given much thought to the starting situation at Wimbourne?" Peter glanced up from his plate, fork in mouth, though he quickly removed it, letting it drop with a clatter.

"No I haven't Dad, I mean with me just out of school and all I can't expect that much time on the pitch at all. I'm just happy to get a contract. Fifty galleons a week is nothing to sniff at, and none of my teammates got given any contracts."

"That's because you're better then them," his father countered, banging his fist lightly on the table. "You've got talent my boy, and it's time for you to use it at a high level."

"You know who has got talent," Peter stated frankly, busying himself over his plate again, "is Oliver. I saw him and Timothy Ravenswood playing Quidditch in the orchard, both of them were pretty good." Oliver had stopped eating, his fork halfway to his mouth. His father, however, had continued to eat, not glancing in Oliver's direction. More surprising to Oliver, though, was the way his mother's head immediately sagged. So she had known where he was going, Oliver thought, and didn't try and stop him.

"I don't remember ever giving Oliver permission to go play Quidditch," his father said brusquely, "seems to me we've got enough Quidditch players in this household already." Now he turned to regard Oliver intently. "I prohibit you from playing." Feeling as though a great weight had just dropped on his back, Oliver felt a lump form in his throat. Rising, he turned to regard his mother.

"May I be excused?"

"Yes dear," his mother replied, seemingly in shock. Tears coming unwanted to his eyes, Oliver whirled and stalked up the stairs, feeling his brother's eyes on his back the whole way. Reaching his room, he threw himself down on the bed, crying with great wrenching sobs that shook his whole body, very nearly rattling the bed-frame. He muffled the noise in his large pillow, feeling tears soak the thin cotton.

All his dreams were wasted, he thought, and he let the pent-up emotions flow out of him for a few minutes in a wild catharsis. The heaves coming more intermittently now, he could hear raised voices downstairs.

"Just give him a chance, for Pete's sake!" That was his brother's voice, and his father's angry tones answered clearly.

"I've said it once and I'll say it again, he's not going to play. I've gone through too much agony and worrying over your career to not help you through it now. I've got more important things to do then worry about Oliver as well."

"He loves you father," Peter said more calmly now, "and it's a shame that you at least will not help him reach his dreams."

The next few days Oliver spent avoiding his father, staying in his room mostly, reading books and thinking about his upcoming school year. On August fifteenth an owl arrived with the letter inviting him to come to Hogwarts. Peter immediately volunteered to take him to London to pick up his school things, and his mother readily agreed.

It was four days later that Oliver found himself walking down Diagon Alley with his older brother beside him, carrying many large packages. His brother carried a similar load, a cauldron hung over his shoulder and books tucked under his arm. "All right then Oliver, it looks like we've got almost everything, just one thing left to buy." Oliver nodded in agreement, still remembering the large ice cream Peter had bought him at Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor. Seeing a brightly colored shop out of the corner of his eye, however, he looked up at Peter. Sure enough, Peter was steering him directly towards what was undoubtedly a Quidditch supplies shop.

"B-B-But Peter," he stammered, "I've already got everything on my list, and anyways," he added upon looking through the window, "first-years aren't allowed their own brooms."

"I know," Peter said with a smile, "I had to use a school issued one my first year. Not a broom then. Besides, I had something else in mind." They strode to the back of the shop, stepping into a section that was painted a brilliant yellow that was so bright in fact that Oliver almost needed to shield his eyes. At this Peter gave a small chuckle, walking over to a bin on the wall and pulling out what looked to Oliver like a t-shirt of some slippery fabric. "Excellent," Peter exclaimed, "the right name and everything." He turned around, handing the shirt to Oliver. "Well, go on, see if it fits." Oliver eagerly laid down his packages, and wriggled into the shirt, seeing that it had seven horizontal stripes along the bottom edge, and a black wasp embroidered on the pocket on the right side. The line drawing buzzed menacingly, jabbing its stinger in all directions.

Stepping in front of a long, full-length mirror, Oliver admired the shirt from every angle, turning around and twisting his head so that he could see the name emblazoned boldly across the top of the back in spiky lettering. It read WOOD. "It's...It's..." He struggled for words.

"Better than vanilla ice cream squashed between two oatmeal cookies and dipped in chocolate?" Peter supplied, laughing.

"...Perfect," Oliver finished, breathless from laughing so hard.

"Look," Peter said in a calm, and serious voice, "I want you to have it so you can remember me by, when you're on that train that's taking you up to Hogwarts. And when you lie awake at night, sleepless, because you're afraid, just hold it in your hand and know that I miss you, brother, for I know I missed you when I went away for the first time."

"Know this little brother," he said, grabbing Oliver's hand and moving it over his heart, "that this is where your dreams truly lie," and moving the hand to his head, "and in here. The spirit does not lie inside of the body, but out there somewhere in the wide-open world, maybe even beyond this world. But dreams, Oliver, in dreams we can soar to places we can never imagine, do things we never thought possible, reach stars that were previously unreachable. Hold tight to your dreams, little brother, and never let anyone take them away from you, or let anyone tell you that something cannot be done. Do that and remember me, alright?"

Oliver nodded his head in assent, before picking up his packages, taking his brother's hand, and walking back out into the sunlit morning.

24