Oliver Wood had one rule.
ONE RULE.
You can mess with Gryffindor. You can mess with Hogwarts. You can even mess with his breakfast (though he wouldn’t recommend it).
But you do *not*, under *any* circumstances, mess with the Quidditch pitch.
So when the war started, he was ready to fight, until he looked at the quidditch pitch and saw nothing but a *smoking crater* where the field used to be, he snapped.
Like, full-on, broomstick-breaking, Quaffle-throwing, *psychopath* mode snapped.
"Those damn death eaters..."
Nobody answered. The first-years trembled. The ghosts fled. Even Peeves, sensing the incoming disaster, whispered a solemn “oh bugger” before floating off to find a safer place to haunt.
Then McGonagall appeared behind him, "I get that you are angry Wood, but please don't do anything reckless... we are doing everything we can to stop all of this for once and all."
Oliver’s eye twitched. “But they, they burned the Quidditch pitch.”
“Yes.”
“And *no one* stopped him?”
“We were a bit busy, dear, you know, we have got a bigger problem on our hands than the quidditch pitch tonight.”
Oliver clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. “Right,” he said, voice eerily calm. “Well, I’ll handle it.”
McGonagall squinted at him. “Oliver, dear, he’s the Dark Lord. You’re a Quidditch player.”
But he was already gone.
—
Voldemort had just finished delivering a dramatic speech about his inevitable victory when Wood landed on the hill with his broom.
A bludger whizzed from behind him, clocking Bellatrix Lestrange straight in the face. She collapsed immediately.
“What the—” Voldemort turned just in time to see Oliver Wood, Quidditch robes billowing, standing behind him, bat in hand, and looking absolutely unhinged.
“YOU BURNED MY FIELD.”
The Death Eaters stared. Lucius hesitated. “Uh. Who is this?”
“Wood,” Rosier muttered. “Gryffindor Quidditch captain. He’s—”
“YOU BURNED MY FIELD!” Oliver screamed again, throwing a Quaffle so hard it knocked Macnair through a window.
Voldemort frowned. “Wait, is this about Quidditch? Because I—”
Oliver *charged*.
Dolohov tried to hex him, but Oliver dodged like an absolute *legend*, smacking the spell away with his Beater’s bat. A second later, he launched a Bludger at a tree near by, which came crashing down, knocking out Nott and Goyle Sr.
Panic set in.
"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!" Voldemort shrieked, backing away as Oliver took out Death Eaters like they were *Slytherin chasers on a bad day*.
One by one, they fell. Rabastan tried to block with his wand—Oliver *broke it in half* with a well-aimed Quaffle. Yaxley attempted to run—Oliver *tackled* him through a table. Lucius tried to Crucio him—he caught the curse in his hands, *threw it back*, and knocked him out cold.
“HOW—WHAT—THAT'S NOT—” Voldemort sputtered, stepping backward.
Oliver grabbed the last remaining Bludger, spun it in his hands like a professional baseball pitcher, and narrowed his eyes.
“Riddle,” he growled. “This one's for my *team*.”
With the strength of a man whose entire existence revolved around one singular sport, Oliver hurled the Bludger straight at Voldemort’s *face*.
It hit him square in the forehead.
There was a *crack*. A horrible, skull-crushing sound. And just like that…
Voldemort collapsed.
Everything went silent.
Oliver took a deep breath, adjusted his Quidditch robes, and dusted his hands off.
“Right,” he said. “Now to fix my bloody field.”
And with that, he left.
Hogwarts would never forget the day Oliver Wood single-handedly ended the Second Wizarding War.
McGonagall was *so* proud.