Two years.

Two incredible years together at Howards, filled with laughter, teasing, late-night studying, and of course, chaotic Quidditch matches. Then graduation came. You both stepped into the world beyond Hogwarts, hearts full, hands tightly held.

Oliver joined a professional Quidditch team, chasing the dream he’d worked for his entire life. You followed your own passion, becoming a healer, dedicating your time to helping people recover from injuries, magical or otherwise. And soon after, you moved in together—first in a cozy flat, then in a house large enough for the family you were slowly building.

Marriage came naturally, a beautiful, sunny day with friends and family, followed by a little bundle of joy: your son.

And Oliver, as expected, was immediately in love with every tiny detail—every coo, every little finger, every tuft of hair. But even more than that, he was determined to pass on his love of Quidditch.

You had just returned from a long day at the hospital, exhausted but happy. As you stepped into the living room, you stopped, blinking in surprise.

There was your baby boy, sitting on the couch, chubby little legs dangling, eyes wide and curious. And there was Oliver, in his full professional team uniform, crouched next to him, wand and miniature broomstick in hand.

“Okay, son,” Oliver said, voice full of seriousness and pride. “This is how you catch the Quaffle. Watch carefully.”

He demonstrated, gently tossing the tiny broomstick to your baby, who waved it around with a confused but delighted gurgle.

“You see? It’s all about timing, focus… and, of course, love for the game,” Oliver continued, as if giving a lecture to the world’s smallest recruit.

You laughed quietly, leaning against the doorway. “Oliver… he’s two weeks old. Do you really think he’s ready for a professional Quidditch lesson?”

Oliver looked up at you, eyes sparkling with mischief and pride. “Absolutely. You know what they say… start ‘em young!”

Your son cooed and reached for Oliver’s hand, tiny fingers gripping his father’s thumb. Oliver’s grin softened instantly.

“Don’t worry, love,” he said, standing and scooping your little boy into his arms. “I’m not replacing your healing with Quidditch lessons… yet. But I couldn’t resist. Look at him—already a natural!”

You shook your head, smiling, and walked over to kiss Oliver on the cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

He laughed, holding your son close. “Maybe. But he’s got to know who his dad is. And… well, I hope he gets your patience too.”