The Hogwarts Graduate, or Here's to You, Madame Hooch

His eyes are open. Oliver Wood is trying to remember something.

The 1953 Holyhead Harpies stare down on him as he lays sprawled across his tiny twin bed.

One of them, Gwendolyn Morgan, winks at him and wiggles her shoulder so her robes slip, exposing the musculature underneath her uniform. The Harpies have been playing such tricks with him since he was thirteen and now that's he's a grown man (as his father likes to tell him), the sight of a thigh or the hint of a breast is not enough to induce a frantic evening alone behind a locked bedroom door.

Besides, what would his parents friends say? The friends and faculty, all gathered downstairs, over canapés and cocktails, gossiping about his future, no doubt. What would they think about his -

His future! That's what he was trying to remember. His future.

Right.

His door opens and the voice of Madame Trelawney drifts up from the below in the same odd way Trelawney's voice has always traveled through the ether. "Quidditch captain in his fifth year, champions in his sixth. I predict great things for this boy!"

The bedroom door shuts with finality and his father says, "What's the matter?"

Oliver opens his mouth to offer something, then closes it again, thinking the better of his planned response.

"The guests are all downstairs, Oliver. They're all waiting to see you." Mr. Wood sounds exasperated.

"Look, Dad...could you explain to them that I have to be alone for a while?”

"These are all our good friends, Oliver - and your faculty. Most of them have know you since - well - since you put away your Wimbourne Wasps Underoos."

Oliver doesn't move. If he does, his father will know he's alive and force him to go down to the party.

Mr. Wood tries to show mercy. Or at least pity. "What is it, Oliver?"

"I'm just -"

"Worried?"

"Well -"

"About what, son?"

"Well - about my future."

This is ridiculous to Mr. Wood, but he continues to play the understanding =

wizard and father. "What about it?"

"I don't know. I want it to be - "

"To be what?"

Oliver takes a breath and says quietly. "Different."

The bedroom door opens again and Mrs. Wood lets herself into the room.

"Is anything wrong?" she asks.

Mr. Wood shakes his head no. "No, we're just on our way downstairs."

He stands up and picks up his son's dress robes off a chair where it's been lying, wrinkling, all afternoon and evening.

"The Weasleys are here!" Mrs. Wood says anxiously. Whether or not her tone indicates nerves or a fear of being eaten out of house and home by that brood is unclear.

"They are?" Mr. Wood turns back to Oliver and drapes the distinguished black dress robes around him. "Come on."

"They came all the way from Romania!"

Mr. Wood smiles. "It's a wonderful thing to have so many devoted friends."

The Woods step out of the bedroom. Unfortunately, Oliver is caught between them and can’t escape.

As they are going down the stairs, the Jordans, Mrs.and Mr., are going up.

”Hey, there’s Gryffindor’s game-winning player, eh?” Mr. Jordan shouts.

“We’re all very proud of you, Oliver,” Mrs. Jordan says.

”Thank you, Mrs. Jordan.”

“Is that the new broom out there in the hall? The little hardwood Kraut job?”

”That’s Oliver’s graduation present,” Mr. Wood informs them.

Mr. Jordan is impressed. “Won’t have much trouble picking ‘em up on that, eh?”

“Sir?”

”The girls. The witchlings. The teeny charmers.”

”I think Oliver has gotten beyond the teeny charmers – haven’t you, Oliver?” Mrs. Jordan winks at him. Oliver, uncomfortable, attempts a smile and a weak wink back.

“Yes, ma’am.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Oliver senses escape. “Excuse me, I think I’d just like to check on my broom for a minute – “

He goes to open the front door for relief in the cool night, but it’s already open. Ludo Bagman steps into the house and grabs Oliver’s hand.

“Here’s the Quidditch star himself! How are you, Quidditch star?”

This meeting between players should be an honor and exciting. Oliver feels like a trapped rat. “Just fine, Mr. Bagman.”

Mr. Bagman closes the door and pushes Oliver back down the hall.

“I want to get a drink and then I want to hear all about that thing I bet you’d win. The Hufflecuff.”

Mr. Bagman turns and goes into the dining room. As he fiddles with through the Woods’ liquor selection, he spots a game of wizards poker (actual clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades) going on in the corner and forgets all about Oliver.

Again, his path is clear. He can escape. He’s free!

Madame Trelawney appears behind him. Literally. “Oliver.”

He turns around. “Madame.”

She smiles conspiratorially and with pride. “Oliver.”

Madame Trelawney takes Oliver’s arm and maneuvers him out, through a sliding glass door, and into the yard. There is an eerily lit grotto outside, lit by a hundred day glo fairies. A mermaid, rented for the occasion, sits sulkily in a small pool of water, thinking about her paycheck. Two teenage gnomes are gawking at her from the bushes and a naked house elf is taking a leaf smoking break.

”Oliver, I just want to say one word to you – just one word,” Trelawney whispers.

”Yes, Madame.”

”Are you listening?”

”Yes, Madame. I am.”

“Spastics.”

”Wha?”

”I see a great future in spastics. Think about it. You will think about it?” Madame Trelawney asks gravely.

“Alright.”

”Okay. Enough said.”

Madame Trelawney drifts back into the house. Oliver follows her, although from a respectful distance, so she won’t turn around and talk to him again.

With only a few nods and grunts and muttered greetings, Oliver stumbles back into his room. If he can’t get out of the house, at least he can be alone. His sanctuary. His safety.

Gwendolyn looks as if she’s about to suggest something naughty which she might be coerced into doing with her broom when the door opens. It is Madame Hooch.

”Oh. I guess this isn’t the bathroom, is it?”

”That’s down the hall.”

They stand there, in his bedroom, staring at each other.

”How are you, Oliver?”

”Fine. Thank you. The bathroom is at the end of the hall.”

Madame Hooch ignores him. She steps further into the room, past him, and sits down on his bed.

”Look, Madame Hooch, I don’t mean to be rude, but – “

Madame Hooch digs into her evening dress robes and pulls out a Dutch clay pipe. She lights it.

“Is there an ashtray in here?”

”No.”

”Oh – I forgot. The Quidditch star doesn’t smoke.”

She blows out the match with which she lit the pipe and lays it carefully down on the scarlet and gold bedspread. Oliver, fearing fire or a stain not of his own doing, walks over to the bed, picks up the match and throws it in the trash can.

”Is it a girl?”

”Is what a girl, Madame Hooch?”

“Whatever you’re upset about. Angelina Johnson, maybe, or that little bush-headed girl, Hermione Granger.”

”No, no.”

”Or a boy? Or boys? The Twins – “

”Oh, no! I’m just sort of disturbed about things.”

“In general.”

Oliver nods. “That’s right.”

Madame Hooch continues to smoke her pipe, staring at him and not speaking. Oliver holds her gaze only because he’s afraid of what she’ll stare at if he breaks it.

”Oliver, I want to ask you something.”

”What?”

”Will you take me home?”

“What?”

”Professor McGonagall took my broom. Will you fly me home?”

Oliver opens his closet, pushes the monster back in, and holds out an old Firebolt to Madame Hooch. “Here. Take it.”

Madame Hooch looks at him and shakes her head.

”No?” He asks, knowing the answer.

“No.”

At least if he takes Madame Hooch home, he can get away from the party and the noise and his parents’ friends. “Let’s go, then.”

* * * * *

 

His eyes are open. Oliver Wood is trying to remember something.

The 1953 Holyhead Harpies stare down on him as he lays sprawled across his tiny twin bed.

One of them, Gwendolyn Morgan, winks at him and wiggles her shoulder so her robes slip, exposing the musculature underneath her uniform. The Harpies have been playing such tricks with him since he was thirteen and now that's he's a grown man (as his father likes to tell him), the sight of a thigh or the hint of a breast is not enough to induce a frantic evening alone behind a locked bedroom door.

Besides, what would his parents friends say? The friends and faculty, all gathered downstairs, over canapés and cocktails, gossiping about his future, no doubt. What would they think about his -

His future! That's what he was trying to remember. His future.

Right.

His door opens and the voice of Madame Trelawney drifts up from the below in the same odd way Trelawney's voice has always traveled through the ether. "Quidditch captain in his fifth year, champions in his sixth. I predict great things for this boy!"

The bedroom door shuts with finality and his father says, "What's the matter?"

Oliver opens his mouth to offer something, then closes it again, thinking the better of his planned response.

"The guests are all downstairs, Oliver. They're all waiting to see you." Mr. Wood sounds exasperated.

"Look, Dad...could you explain to them that I have to be alone for a while?”

"These are all our good friends, Oliver - and your faculty. Most of them have know you since - well - since you put away your Wimbourne Wasps Underoos."

Oliver doesn't move. If he does, his father will know he's alive and force him to go down to the party.

Mr. Wood tries to show mercy. Or at least pity. "What is it, Oliver?"

"I'm just -"

"Worried?"

"Well -"

"About what, son?"

"Well - about my future."

This is ridiculous to Mr. Wood, but he continues to play the understanding =

wizard and father. "What about it?"

"I don't know. I want it to be - "

"To be what?"

Oliver takes a breath and says quietly. "Different."

The bedroom door opens again and Mrs. Wood lets herself into the room.

"Is anything wrong?" she asks.

Mr. Wood shakes his head no. "No, we're just on our way downstairs."

He stands up and picks up his son's dress robes off a chair where it's been lying, wrinkling, all afternoon and evening.

"The Weasleys are here!" Mrs. Wood says anxiously. Whether or not her tone indicates nerves or a fear of being eaten out of house and home by that brood is unclear.

"They are?" Mr. Wood turns back to Oliver and drapes the distinguished black dress robes around him. "Come on."

"They came all the way from Romania!"

Mr. Wood smiles. "It's a wonderful thing to have so many devoted friends."

The Woods step out of the bedroom. Unfortunately, Oliver is caught between them and can’t escape.

As they are going down the stairs, the Jordans, Mrs.and Mr., are going up.

”Hey, there’s Gryffindor’s game-winning player, eh?” Mr. Jordan shouts.

“We’re all very proud of you, Oliver,” Mrs. Jordan says.

”Thank you, Mrs. Jordan.”

“Is that the new broom out there in the hall? The little hardwood Kraut job?”

”That’s Oliver’s graduation present,” Mr. Wood informs them.

Mr. Jordan is impressed. “Won’t have much trouble picking ‘em up on that, eh?”

“Sir?”

”The girls. The witchlings. The teeny charmers.”

”I think Oliver has gotten beyond the teeny charmers – haven’t you, Oliver?” Mrs. Jordan winks at him. Oliver, uncomfortable, attempts a smile and a weak wink back.

“Yes, ma’am.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Oliver senses escape. “Excuse me, I think I’d just like to check on my broom for a minute – “

He goes to open the front door for relief in the cool night, but it’s already open. Ludo Bagman steps into the house and grabs Oliver’s hand.

“Here’s the Quidditch star himself! How are you, Quidditch star?”

This meeting between players should be an honor and exciting. Oliver feels like a trapped rat. “Just fine, Mr. Bagman.”

Mr. Bagman closes the door and pushes Oliver back down the hall.

“I want to get a drink and then I want to hear all about that thing I bet you’d win. The Hufflecuff.”

Mr. Bagman turns and goes into the dining room. As he fiddles with through the Woods’ liquor selection, he spots a game of wizards poker (actual clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades) going on in the corner and forgets all about Oliver.

Again, his path is clear. He can escape. He’s free!

Madame Trelawney appears behind him. Literally. “Oliver.”

He turns around. “Madame.”

She smiles conspiratorially and with pride. “Oliver.”

Madame Trelawney takes Oliver’s arm and maneuvers him out, through a sliding glass door, and into the yard. There is an eerily lit grotto outside, lit by a hundred day glo fairies. A mermaid, rented for the occasion, sits sulkily in a small pool of water, thinking about her paycheck. Two teenage gnomes are gawking at her from the bushes and a naked house elf is taking a leaf smoking break.

”Oliver, I just want to say one word to you – just one word,” Trelawney whispers.

”Yes, Madame.”

”Are you listening?”

”Yes, Madame. I am.”

“Spastics.”

”Wha?”

”I see a great future in spastics. Think about it. You will think about it?” Madame Trelawney asks gravely.

“Alright.”

”Okay. Enough said.”

Madame Trelawney drifts back into the house. Oliver follows her, although from a respectful distance, so she won’t turn around and talk to him again.

With only a few nods and grunts and muttered greetings, Oliver stumbles back into his room. If he can’t get out of the house, at least he can be alone. His sanctuary. His safety.

Gwendolyn looks as if she’s about to suggest something naughty which she might be coerced into doing with her broom when the door opens. It is Madame Hooch.

”Oh. I guess this isn’t the bathroom, is it?”

”That’s down the hall.”

They stand there, in his bedroom, staring at each other.

”How are you, Oliver?”

”Fine. Thank you. The bathroom is at the end of the hall.”

Madame Hooch ignores him. She steps further into the room, past him, and sits down on his bed.

”Look, Madame Hooch, I don’t mean to be rude, but – “

Madame Hooch digs into her evening dress robes and pulls out a Dutch clay pipe. She lights it.

“Is there an ashtray in here?”

”No.”

”Oh – I forgot. The Quidditch star doesn’t smoke.”

She blows out the match with which she lit the pipe and lays it carefully down on the scarlet and gold bedspread. Oliver, fearing fire or a stain not of his own doing, walks over to the bed, picks up the match and throws it in the trash can.

”Is it a girl?”

”Is what a girl, Madame Hooch?”

“Whatever you’re upset about. Angelina Johnson, maybe, or that little bush-headed girl, Hermione Granger.”

”No, no.”

”Or a boy? Or boys? The Twins – “

”Oh, no! I’m just sort of disturbed about things.”

“In general.”

Oliver nods. “That’s right.”

Madame Hooch continues to smoke her pipe, staring at him and not speaking. Oliver holds her gaze only because he’s afraid of what she’ll stare at if he breaks it.

”Oliver, I want to ask you something.”

”What?”

”Will you take me home?”

“What?”

”Professor McGonagall took my broom. Will you fly me home?”

Oliver opens his closet, pushes the monster back in, and holds out an old Firebolt to Madame Hooch. “Here. Take it.”

Madame Hooch looks at him and shakes her head.

”No?” He asks, knowing the answer.

“No.”

At least if he takes Madame Hooch home, he can get away from the party and the noise and his parents’ friends. “Let’s go, then.”

Madame Hooch throws the broom back to him. He catches it with his right hand.

Downstairs, Oliver calls out to his father, who is busy chatting with Mr. Weasley. “Dad – Madame Hooch needs a ride home. I’ll be right back.”

Mr. Wood pats Oliver on the shoulder and goes back to some fascinating talk about plugs. Madame Hooch walks ahead of him, but as they pass through the front door, she pauses.

”Wonderful party.”