Harry Potter

He found this letter in the envelope with the documents Andromeda had given him. Wood's hasty, sprawling handwriting read: "Harry, if you're reading this, it means Plan Dragon didn't work in our favor. Don't look for me, I'm already on my way to get the Snitch. Just kidding, of course. It's a stupid habit—making jokes before you die."

Harry clutched the parchment so tightly it cracked. Downstairs in the living room, Mrs. Weasley was sorting through the things that had arrived with the baby. Y/N Wood. Two years old. All

"Darling, come here," Molly's muffled voice reached him.

Harry came downstairs. Y/N stood in the middle of the room, clutching a child's racing broom, eyeing the unfamiliar old lady with suspicion. Seeing Harry descending the stairs, the child stepped forward and, to everyone's surprise, handed him the broom.

"Want to play Quidditch with me?" he asked, a familiar, Woodian hope flickering in his eyes.

It seemed to Harry that Oliver himself had just entered the room.