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Once A Jolly Bagman | ||||
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Category: Post-Hogwarts Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley Genres: General, Humor, Romance Warnings: Mild Language Story is Complete Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 5 Summary: The Auror Office has gotten wind of dark magic activity affecting Muggle football, and assigns Auror Potter to investigate. So of course Ginny, Ron and Hermione have to tag along. A fun little romp written for the Hinny Discord Server’s 2022 Minor Character March Challenge. Hitcount: Story Total: 903 Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights ? J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work. Author's Notes: I like best Slim Dusty’s rendition of “Waltzing Matilda”, it’s the mostly-bouncy camp song version I’d always heard. Much has been written about the meaning of the Aussie slang used in the lyrics, so I won’t repeat them here, but if you don’t know it yet, I think they’re worth looking up. Reviews and comments are always appreciated; I'd love to hear what you liked and disliked or found boring. |
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Everybody has their problems, I know. But by Merlin’s beard, it feels like I’ve had more than most, even if it was all my own fault. My quill and notepad is out but I’m still looking for a target. The bitch from Snitch! and the Prophet’s Sports chappie have already cornered Gwenog Jones and Tabitha Lewis. I really really don’t want to talk to Wimbourne. There’s nothing they’d like more than to console themselves that they may have lost the afternoon’s match, but at least they’re not me. I can’t afford Polyjuice Potion - have barely the Galleons for next month’s rent - or else I’d save myself the nightmare of openly coming back to my former kingdom as the next best thing to a pauper. Wizarding Britain is like a small Muggle village, only about twenty thousand beings all told, and this - the first Quidditch game of the year - is packed with everybody who’s anybody, as befits a major annual event on the social calendar. I’m pretty sure literally everyone knows me, and who I once was. A lot of people fall from lofty positions and end up begging in the gutter, but not that many have to beg where they used to rule, and from the same people. There’s no hiding; I have to display the Press badge hung round my neck wherever I go. Everywhere I turn I see smirks and double-takes - here’s Bartlett, barman at my former favourite pub; Roblin, who tried to get me to advertise her stupid Bludgers For Babies toy - and oh bollocks, that’s Brickell the builder and a couple of his construction mates. I’m still paying him off for the utter waste of gold that was my luxury cottage in Stow-on-the-Wold, repossessed now of course - and his team’s just gone down 510 to 180. “You’ve got solid brass ‘uns, showing your face round here,” he growls. “Gonna give me my gold anywhere near on time this month, guv’nor?” “Course I will,” I say meekly, “can’t talk to you, I’m on the job, cheers mate...” “I ain’t your fuckin’ mate.” He grabs my Press badge before I can slip away through the crowd. “Hah! A journo for the bloody Macks, that’s what you’ve been up to? How the mighty do fall,” he crows. His mates snigger and so do a couple of the watching faces around us - I’m not keen on taking a closer look, I know I’ll recognise them. Brickell hoofs me in the arse, friendly-like, by way of goodbye. “Go on, guv'nor, get out there and earn me my Galleons.” Yes, I got a job writing for Sports Enchanted’s International column. America’s the only place where my application wouldn’t be laughed out of the Personnel office outright. I didn’t particularly want to go anywhere near the balls-and-brooms industry, believe me, but when you have a curriculum vitae like mine, there’s not much else I can do - it was that or serve sundaes at Fortescue’s, and I badly need the extra gold. I really have to get a few words from someone, anyone. I head for the nearest green uniform I can see. It’s a young freckly girl with a long braid of flame-red hair, only a freshly-minted Second Seven Chaser but cheeky, confident, with an aggressive tilt to her posture - exactly as Gwenog Jones likes them. I pin her for an interview before I can chicken out, promising myself a pint of Lilliputian lager - or five - when this is over. “Hello there, can I have a word or two about the match for Sports Enchanted...” Oh. A Weasley. Shit. I exchanged favours with her father once, and I still owe her brothers money. Even I wouldn’t blame her if she gave me the finger and told me to eat Doxy dung. But for the first time this evening, those brown eyes are neither condescending nor pitying. Ginevra “No, it’s Ginny, please, I insist” Weasley is warm, courteous, listens raptly to my questions and gives me useful answers about the match and herself that are neither too smug nor too falsely humble. She puts me so at ease, I’m unconsciously whistling as I write down and read through her answers. Ginny Weasley giggles, and asks: “Is that a Muggle song? Has a nice bounce to it.” I haven’t done that for ages. Not since my life took such a disastrous turn. “What? Oh, oh yeah. Sorry.” Blast it. If I wasn’t more than twice her age, I’d ask her out for a drink - but that’s a young man’s game, I’m too old and knutless for that now. Still, she’s got me charmed enough that I blurt “Good luck” as we say goodbye. Ginny Weasley says with just the right shade of sympathy, “Good luck to you too, Mr Bagman.” And the only genuinely friendly face in this whole sodding shambles scampers away. I leave and look for that lager so I don’t have to think about my life tonight. * * *
“Harry, can I please have a word?” Half past four on a Friday afternoon is never when you want to be visited by the boss. Harry Potter sighed, put down his quill, and turned to face Senior Auror Mavis Laird smiling apologetically over a slim case file and a small cardboard box. “Oh no, Mavis...” he groaned. “I just came off the vampire murders and I’m following up on Williamson’s robberies, give me a break.” “Sorry for springing this on you, Harry. Robards threw it on my desk thirty minutes ago. I’m putting Rowlands on it when she comes back from Training next week, but it would be really useful if you could do some groundwork for me on this first. This week,” she emphasised. “It’s a weekend job?!” Harry nearly whined. He had been looking forward to watching Ginny play Montrose on Saturday, having missed the first two games of August. Ginny was going to go spare. “It’s a Sunday do, I know you’ll be off to Holyhead tomorrow,” said Mavis. “Please, Harry? It’s just one day. I’ll authorise replacement leave, I know you’ve been putting in overtime on the vampires. Oh by the way,” she said innocently, “could you ask Andie if I can visit her this weekend or next? The children would love to get in one last round with Teddy before school starts.” Harry knew he was being sweet-talked. Young Teddy loved Mavis’s four children, and vice versa; the family would jump at the chance to play with him anytime Harry asked - he was being paid in his own coin. But it’s especially hard to turn down your boss when she’s a friend. He also knew she could make it an order - as Dawlish or Llewellyn would have - and all this kindly pill-sugaring was just Mavis being Mavis. “Oh, alright,” he said. “Pass it over.” Mavis handed him the file, and went on as he scribbled his name on the inside flap: “We received an anonymous tip-off about Muggles being relieved of their cash at some of their sporting events. The Magical Law Enforcement Patrol went round, but the spellwork’s too faint for them to pick up.” “Not an Obliviation job, or Confundus?” said Harry absently, flipping through the handful of reports that amounted to basically nothing. “Something more subtle, probably, so they passed it to us. The informant only hinted rather vaguely, but we think this match, on Sunday, will be the next target,” said Mavis, tapping a page. “Just go have a wee keek, see if you can spot anything, and if you don’t find anything, write up a report on the ground conditions for the file. What sort of game is that, though?” “It’s called football. The most popular sport in Britain, and probably the world.” Harry was suddenly reminded of Dudley Dursley. Wonder what he’s doing now. “Oh aye, I’ve heard of it,” said Mavis, who was no sportswoman but dutifully accompanied her children to every sporting event that took their fancy, Muggle or magical. “Quidditch with no brooms, only one ball, and they can’t use their hands, right?” “More or less,” Harry grunted. Mavis knew when she wasn’t wanted. “Thanks again, Harry. Here, help me finish this. I made too much, the kids really shouldn’t be having so many sweets.” Harry sighed again after Mavis left. He opened the box - it held thick squares of her famous parkin, another transparent bribe. Yet another six-day week, on the heels of a very long and exhausting case. Never mind Ginny, he felt like throwing a fit. He contemplated the dark-brown treacly spiced cake, and took a bite. Damn it, Mavis really was good at this. * On Saturday Holyhead beat Montrose surprisingly quickly. Harry waited for Ginny to be done with the interviews, had the obligatory post-match pint with the team - they liked having him around, which wasn’t often - and then they could get away for a proper dinner. “Italian? Chinese? Takeaway?” asked Harry, as they headed for the pub’s fireplace. “I’m not that hungry, and a bit sick of eating out,” said Ginny. “Why don’t we go back to Grimmauld Place and make something simple?” “Shall I get Kreacher to rustle something up?” Kreacher worked at Hogwarts most of the time, in no small part because Harry felt uncomfortable having the elf in Grimmauld Place - he liked his privacy - but between school terms, Kreacher insisted on serving Harry at home. He’d come to appreciate having Kreacher around to cook and clean, especially when he was deep into a case and racking up overtime. “No, I think we can manage.” Harry knew what that meant; Ginny was in a good mood and wanted to mess around in the kitchen. They stepped out of Grimmauld Place’s Floo to find Ron and Hermione lying on the sofa in the study, a jug of pumpkin fizz and a pile of snacks within easy reach. Hermione was nestled in the crook of Ron’s arm. They were reading a book together, and fully-dressed - this time. The four of them had sworn a pact on inadvertent exhibitionism in Grimmauld Place, but oversights happened - as Harry well knew. “Good read?” asked Ginny innocently. She winked at Harry; they both knew Hermione and Ron’s reading sessions often turned steamy - usually very quickly, if it was one of Hermione’s guilty-pleasure Mills & Boons. Ron grunted. “Muggle bloke’s lost at sea with some animals. Nice work, Ginny.” “Thanks. Tell me when the beautiful pirate lady with the tragic past shows up.” “Bugger off, Ginny, it’s not that kind of book,” said Ron, flushing. Before Ginny could pounce with a question about what other kinds of books the two had read, Hermione quickly said, “Dad and Mum would like to know if you two can drop by for tea on Sunday.” “That’d be nice. Harry?” Damn, thought Harry. He had hoped to get Ginny fed and watered at least before having to tell her his Sunday was taken up. “Er - I can’t, I have field work to do.” Ginny stiffened, and turned around slowly. Her expression was black as thunder. “Excuse me?!” “I’m sorry, but Mavis pinned me just before I could-” “You let her get away with far too much, Harry!” “She’s been really nice to me, and to be fair, she was dropped in it herself-” “The Office has already made plenty of use of you, Harry, you haven’t had normal hours for months!” “I did tell her that, she let me have today off so I could watch you-” “Oh how bloody kind of them to let you have one bloody day off!” “She’ll give me another day in lieu, we can spend that time together, Ginny-” “Tchah!” Ginny scoffed. “Probably at Christmas, or paid off in gold; I swear, Harry you are not the only bloody Auror in the Office, if you’d said no they’d just send someone else... I’m bloody starving, I’m going to put on dinner. Do not,” she gestured sweepingly to encompass Ron and Hermione, sitting silently on the sofa, “talk to me, anyone!” She stomped out of the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen - they could hear her angry footsteps going all the way down, and the slam of the kitchen door fairly rattled the house. Taking off his glasses, Harry slumped down on an armchair and helped himself to Ron’s glass of fizz and an open bag of crisps. “Fuck.” “That went well,” said Ron. Hermione swatted him on the shoulder. “No, it did, look, he hasn’t even got any winged bogeys - alright, alright...” “Sorry, Harry,” said Hermione. “Would you like Ron and I to leave you alone?” “Please stay, Ginny’ll feel better if we all have dinner together. She’s right, I am overdoing it,” said Harry morosely. “Nah, mate, you’re just a soft touch. What’d Mavis saddle you with?” Harry dug around in his satchel and handed the file over. Ron eagerly opened it and Hermione immediately started reading over his shoulder - both technically violations of Auror regulations, but Harry had never bothered about that sort of thing. He knew who he could trust. His two best friends were the least likely people he’d ever dream would side with Dark wizards. “Football, eh,” said Hermione, frowning disapprovingly. “They must be swindling hundreds of victims, given its popularity.” “Is that the sport Dean’s always going on and on about?” asked Ron. “The one where you can’t use your hands - bloody mental - where’s the fun in that...” “There’s more skill involved in kicking than picking a ball up and throwing, Ron...” “If I wanted to see skill I’d watch jugglers, not...” Harry let the familiar bickering wash over him as he poured himself more pumpkin fizz from the jug, and drained it thirstily. The sound was almost comforting - it reminded him of their schooldays which - although not exactly simpler and happier times, what with Voldemort and all - were beginning to have the rough bits smoothed off by nostalgia. Now that Ron and Hermione could literally kiss and make up, he didn’t worry about them throwing a tantrum and stomping off for weeks on end after a spirited debate. Indeed he had a sneaking suspicion the squabbling had become part of their foreplay - ugh. “...going to do, Harry?” He looked around, saw Ron and Hermione gazing at him expectantly. “Eh?” “What’s the plan, mate?” Harry shrugged. “Just head up north and snoop around the stadium on match day, I suppose.” Ron and Hermione exchanged glances. “Ever been to a football match?” asked Ron. She shook her head. “No, I’ve only watched matches on TV. Daddy says there’s a lot of hooliganism. There can be as many as fifty thousand fans at a match, and lots of drinking, and things get rowdy. People have died in stampedes.” “Hang on...” said Harry. “Fifty thousand Muggles, sounds exciting. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” said Ron, with an air of mock gallantry. Hermione gave him an arch look. “Do I look like I need protecting, sir?” “Excuse me just a bit...” Harry didn’t like where this was going, but for some reason he was having trouble articulating his objections. “Only if you command, my lady,” said Ron. “You need but say the word, my wand is ever at your service.” “Oooh, Ron, your wand,” said Hermione breathily, giving Ron a smouldering look full of meaning. “Could you please not do that in front of me?!” snapped Harry. “And no, you’re not coming! And what the hell is in this pumpkin fizz?” He took a closer look at his two best friends; both were smiling widely, with shining eyes and rosy cheeks. “Vilenjak Vodka,” grinned Ron. “Krum sent us a couple of bottles. Aw, why not, Harry? You know Aurors should never work alone. We can be your backup - unofficially.” Hermione crossed her arms. “I don’t want to be Harry’s backup,” she humphed, then smiled and threw herself sprawling across Ron’s lap. “I’d like to go to a football match. What do you say, darling?” She giggled as Ron bent down and pecked her on the tip of her nose. “No, you can’t! And stop doing that!” “Don’t be a spoilsport, Harry,” said Hermione, curling up in Ron’s lap and sliding her arms around his neck. “You go along and do your Auror stuff. Ron and I’ll just - be there. Minding our own business.” “And if you don’t find anything, you could even join us and catch some of the game,” said Ron. “Wouldn’t be a complete waste of your Sunday then, would it?” “Oh Ron, you are clever... come here...” Harry shut his eyes and covered them with his hands for good measure. “No! No! Terrible idea!” “I think it’s a great idea!” Harry turned around in his chair; Ginny was standing in the doorway, a few spots of food stains down her shirt, wand run through a messy braid piled carelessly on the top of her head, no longer scowling but still with an obstinate jut to her chin and a dangerous glint in her eye. Petite, fiery, handy with a wand, gorgeous... it was a sight that stirred Harry’s blood, he only wished she was angry at someone else, not him... Wait. He really was drunk, on an aphrodisiac alcohol, no less. Focus! “Ginny, I’m sorry, I was an idiot to take on the assignment, but I don’t think you should be present at an Auror investigation. I’ll make it up to you and soon, I promise...” “Who said anything about an investigation?” snapped Ginny. “I’m going to watch legball-” “Football,” said Hermione helpfully, her voice somewhat muffled by her mouth being tucked in the hollow of Ron’s neck, round which her arms were also wrapped. Ginny grimaced, and looked pointedly away. “...football, with Hermione and Ron. Nothing wrong with that, is there, Potter?” Harry was going to say “yes, there is”, but... it couldn’t hurt, could it, if she was just coincidentally at the venue while he was there? Ginny had a massive monkey on her back about being left out of things, he would only exacerbate things by saying ‘no’, not that it would help, he couldn’t stop any of the three from doing whatever they liked, and yes, he hadn’t seen much of her in weeks, and he did miss her too, very much, he had nearly forgotten how beautiful his Ginny was, no-one would find out, what was the harm really...? Ginny read all the thoughts flashing through his head and knew she had won. “That’s settled then. Come have dinner. I’ve made chicken fricassée enough for everyone, and there’s bread pudding in the oven.” “You’re amazing, Ginny,” exclaimed Ron, perking up and disentangling himself from Hermione; looking put out, she smoothed down her rumpled cardigan, and followed Ron down to the kitchen. “And afterwards,” said Ginny commandingly, “you can give me a massage, I’m tense all over after the match.” She said this with a hint of invitation in her voice that Harry had come to know well. “...oh, alright.” Ron’s right, thought Harry, following obediently as Ginny grabbed his hand and towed him downstairs, I am a soft touch. * * *
“We’re going for the full football experience,” Hermione had declared. That meant, in her view, Apparating to the stadium right after lunch and strolling around soaking up the atmosphere. Which was fine by Harry, as he did need to have a look around, for the purposes of his work assignment. He just didn’t know how to process the fact that Ginny - and his friends - were with him. It wouldn’t be the first time Ginny had been on the scene during his Auror work, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. I think I’m having trouble concentrating on the job. “Is it because I’m distracting you?” Ginny squeezed his hand and smirked. Despite himself, Harry felt the familiar rush of warmth in his chest that he got whenever Ginny read his mind. “Of course. Just you being anywhere near me, in a room, I wouldn’t take my eyes off you,” said Harry. Ginny laughed, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “I’ll be as meek as a mouse, I promise. You just go along and do your Auror thing.” Meek. Harry snorted. There had been the matter of how they were going to explain their total ignorance of football, despite being ostensibly young twenty-something adults in England. Hermione had hit upon the idea of passing themselves off as American tourists, and they’d had fun going around the City of London earlier that morning picking up brochures, maps, and bits of touristy tat to add to their disguises. They wore baseball caps, cargo trousers, hiking shoes, and carried knapsacks festooned with keychains and pins featuring red London Buses, bearskinned Queen’s Guardsmen, Big Ben, and mottoes like “I ♥ London” and “Keep Calm And Carry On”. Harry had signed for two doses of Polyjuice Potion from the Auror Office’s inventory for himself and Ginny, turning them into a young man and woman, both rather nondescript, of average height, with medium-brown hair and eyes. Ron and Hermione had made do with temporary spells that changed their hair and eye colour and, in Ron’s case, disguised his freckles. Ron had gone for sandy hair and amber eyes. Hermione had gone blue-eyed, cornsilk blonde, and was enjoying herself; she turned to them, waving a tourist guidebook, and said loudly, “I’m, like, sooo excited y’all!” Harry groaned at her exaggerated accent. “Much too much. She’s going to get us noticed.” “Oh, let her have her fun,” said Ginny, peering around her. “So, this is the most popular sport in the Muggle world.” “Well, not quite the sport itself, yet. Just the stuff around it, I guess.” Large crowds of Muggles ambled purposefully towards the front entrance of the stadium. Most of them were men, men of all ages from youths in their late teens to bent, wizened men in faded flat caps and ancient jackets who might have seen a world war or two. There were a few clerkish types, but most looked like bricklayers, plumbers, electricians - men who worked hard at active jobs with their hands for modest pay all week, out in the sun or in stuffy maintenance spaces, and wanted nothing more than to let loose on a weekend afternoon and cheer on their football team.Almost all of them were wearing team jerseys and scarves; the street was a sea of scarlet. “Hermione’s right,” remarked Ginny, “It is a bit rowdier than Quidditch.” A troop of young men about their age marched past, chanting something rude about Gary somebody - probably an opposing player. “And there aren’t many women, and hardly any children.” That was the key difference they noticed between Quidditch and football stadium crowds. Quidditch weekends were often family affairs, with as many women and children as there were men in the bleachers. Summer friendlies and World Cup matches were favourite family occasions in the wizarding world. This meant the crowd was more restrained, more family-friendly. Not so in the Muggle world. Women made up perhaps one in four of the crowd filling the streets and streaming towards the stadium, and most of them looked like dutifully supportive wives and girlfriends of the men, or more rarely, packs of groupies on the pull - young women dressed to attract, maybe hoping to land a player at the afterparty. Though most of these would probably end up settling for a fit young fan. “Didn’t you ever go to one of these?” asked Ginny. The question catapulted Harry back in time. His fists balled without him noticing. “No,” said Harry. “Vernon and Petunia took Dudders a few times, though. To this very stadium, actually, and a couple of other clubs too.” It was stupid, he told himself, how broken-hearted eight-year-old Harry had been over being left behind. What could a young child appreciate about a football match anyway? And yet... it had hurt. And still did, all these years later. Without a word, Ginny lifted her hand holding Harry’s, and kissed the back of his, long and slow. Then she leaned in and kissed him tenderly on the corner of his frowning mouth. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here now.” And it was. There were a couple of catcalls and someone shouted, “Why don’t you giz us yer tickets and fook orf back to Noo Yawk with yer bird, eh mate?” Harry was in too good a mood now to bother, but Ginny waved cheekily and received more cheers in reply. * You get to know the regulars in short order. These three Muggles always come together, I think they must be close friends. An untidy young woman about thirty, with inexpertly-applied blonde highlights in brown hair that always looks it needs a wash; a big chap in a gaudy shell jacket, gripping a paper coffee cup and a roll-up; and a thin, long-faced fellow in a tattered orange wool cap. Polly does it quick, and they hand over their paper tokens - the “cash”, as they call it - to me. Usually they don’t say anything, other than talk about the match. But this time the woman pipes up. “ ‘ere, Brett, maybe you should give it a rest. That’s a lot you just put down - and weren’t you saying old Mrs Andrews was going at you about your rent?” “S’my money innit,” retorts the long-faced young man. “ ‘Sides, you dropped as much as I did.” “Did I?” The woman frowns. “I... don’t remember...” She looks down at her handbag, and starts to turn back to us. I shoot Polly a glance. She gives me a don’t worry look and gestures wait with her hand. “Oh, let the kid have a bit of fun,” said the big man breezily, slurping from his cup. “C’mon, let’s get some pies and drinks.” “Kid,” snorts the woman, “he’s only two years younger’n us.” But she’s been successfully diverted, and she take no more notice of us. “I - I’m not sure I have enough,” says Orange Cap. He looks down at his wallet in a mixture of confusion and shame. “Funny. I thought I did...” “My shout then,” says the big man, putting a beefy arm round his friend. “You can buy me a round come payday.” “Bloody typical, ‘e’d rather watch footy than eat...” The young woman’s voice fades into the bustle of the crowd. I look down at the fistful of pound notes. I’ve been at this long enough now that I can figure it easily in my head - it’s about fifty Galleons worth. And next week they’ll drop about the same amount - it’s a lot of money for one week - and these Muggles don’t look rich. In the earlier days, before the Sports Enchanted gig, right after the lawsuits, I’d had to live like a Muggle. Not anywhere near Britain, nor even East Europe, where the long arm of the goblin underworld could reach me. I hid out in a place called Detroit in the USA, working quietly as a Muggle night-shift kitchen-boy. After I’d got the hang of cleaning and repair charms, an hour of hard spell-work every night left the restaurant cleaner than it had ever been, and I got decent money for it. But I had to scrimp and scrape every knut - every “cent” - because I had to pay off my debts. I lived cheap, in a small rented room; I bought basic Muggle groceries and doubled them - my magic wasn’t good enough to make them stretch any further; and did the same with coarse cheap Muggle cigarettes and beer - the only vices I could afford - instead of the fancy Tempering Tobacco and Ogden’s Firewhiskey I was used to. And around me I witnessed the lives of the tens of thousands of unfortunates who got by in much the same condition, but without a wand. Even now, I still live cheap, though within Magical Britain instead of out in the Muggle wilderness. My debts are no longer ruinous, merely suffocating, and I can pay them on an official instalment plan. The point is - I get what it means to be barely getting by. I can see that Orange Cap, Shell Jacket and Little Miss Highlights aren’t exactly top of the heap, that these weekly footy excursions are their brief respite from the drudge of the daily grind to make ends meet - and what the fuck am I doing to them? Fifty Galleons - nearly a thousand pounds - every week - how long can they go till they break? What will they do then to feed the unknown addiction, wiped from their minds? It’s all too easy to see Orange Cap begging off family and friends, kindly Shell Jacket blagging little old ladies, pretty Miss Highlights looking away as she turns tricks against the wall down some dripping rubbish-strewn ginnel, hating themselves every minute and not even knowing why. I feel like I’m peddling dope, except my customers don’t even actually get high for their pains. I look up from the money at Polly, and she’s watching me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. But her eyes are hard and cold - there’s not a shred of sympathy in them. “They’re just Muggles,” she says. “If it wasn’t us, they’d be screwed over by their own kind anyway. That’s how the world works. You know this. You’ve been there - like I have.” “Yes, I have,” I say. “And I feel like a heap of shit for doing this.” “Yeah? You’re Mister Empathy now, are you? Going to join the Muggletarian Society? Listen up,” Polly jabs me in the chest with a finger, hard, and says fiercely, “The world is made up of Fuckers and Fuckees. You and I, we’ve served our time being the Fuckees. We’ve suffered enough. This is our one shot at getting something back for ourselves. Our turn at the apple. You want to still be paying off your debts when you’re sixty, that it? You want to go back to writing for the Macks and being the butt-monkey of every match-day, Mister Department Head of Sports and Games, that it?” “No...” Polly knows my financial situation, of course. “Then man the fuck up. They’re just Muggles, keep telling yourself that.” She turns to the next victim - the next customer, and does her thing. They’re just Muggles. Right. * * *
Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione made their way through the stadium entrance, where they were frisked briefly by security staff - an anti-Muggle charm prevented the neon-jacketed security officers from noticing their wands. Harry and Hermione explained why, and Ginny and Ron shook their heads in wonderment. Troublemakers were so easily dealt with in Quidditch, the security measure seemed silly. “Top up your Polyjuice,” said Harry quietly to Ginny. She nodded, and they both took small sips from the phials of potion they carried. Hermione picked up a couple of free brochures, and bought a match-day programme. Ginny snorted: “You don’t even know the sport, or the teams, or the players!” “All the more reason I ought to read up on them,” argued Hermione. “Besides, it’ll be a nice souvenir.” “Look, Hermione, the Muggles’ve got food,” said Ron. “I wonder where they get them from.” “Honestly, Ron, we just had lunch an hour ago...” “It’s, uh, part of the full experience, isn’t it? Most everyone’s got snacks. We want to blend in, don’t we?” Hermione gave him an exasperated look, but decided not to pursue the subject. In short order, Ron found the food kiosks, and they joined the queue. There were a lot of customers, but the serving staff worked quickly and the line went at a clip. “Ginny, come here for a bit,” said Harry, putting his left arm around her shoulders. He looked around quickly, drew his wand from his trouser pocket, and with their bodies shielding his wand from view, he began casting the spells Aurors used to find traces of magic, Dark and otherwise. Ron had nearly reached the head of the line, and was eagerly scanning the menu boards. “What’s ‘chicken balti’,” he wondered out loud to no one in particular. Hermione ignored him, her nose buried in Football Culture: The English National Identity. “It’s a chicken curry pie, mate,” said the big man in front of him, turning around. “Bit of a newfangled invention, but it’s not bad. Ain’t you ever tried it?” “We’re from America, uh, buddy,” said Ron, his faked accent slipping in and out unconvincingly. “What else is good?” A younger man in an orange cap, apparently the big man’s friend, spoke up. “I like a good old steak-and-kidney myself, and there’s the cheese-and-onion pasty if y’want a veg option,” he said. “Where in America did you say? You sound almost local.” “New, erm, Devon,” said Ron. “My grandparents are from England, so we’re here for a vacation to see where we came from. Thanks, pal.” “Oh look, Ron,” said Hermione, tugging at his sleeve without looking up from her book, “it says here that this stadium is the biggest team stadium in England, with more than 70,000 seats. I’ll have the cheese-and-onion,” she said, almost as an afterthought. Ron shrugged expressively, as if to say See what I mean? and asked, “So, which team are you supporting?” The big man pointed at the logo on the scarf draped casually round his shoulders, more as a flag of allegiance than for warmth. “Ever since I were a boy,” he said proudly. “Through the fat and the lean, even the 70s and the 90s. Not like them ‘glory supporters’ who don’t even live round ‘ere. S’like, the proper team spirit, innit? Like supporting yer own mates, yeah?” “Yeah, yeah!” agreed Ron - lifelong Chudley Cannons supporter - sensing a kindred spirit, his eyes shining. “Any luck?” whispered Ginny to Harry, who was frowning slightly. “I’m getting a faint trace of some kind of compulsion magic,” said Harry quietly. “But it’s too faint. I thought the concession stands would be a good start. Getting Muggles to spend too much on things, especially food, that’s a tried-and-tested trick to squeeze gold out of them. Especially popular with the Macks - I mean the United States.” He looked up. “This isn’t it. It’s nearby - but this isn’t it.” “Right, let’s go somewhere else then,” said Ginny. Harry made to duck out of the line, but Ginny held on to his hand, looking at the menu over Ron’s shoulder. “After we get something.” Harry snickered. After all, she was a Weasley. * Armed with pies, pasties, bags of crisps and bottles of beer (a Coke for Harry), they climbed the many flights of stairs that led them to the top of the gigantic stadium, where their seats were. All the way, Harry was casting spells to detect magic, and checking small instruments that resembled magical radars, and pretty much were - the tools of his Auror trade. Peering at a device that looked like a button-sized compass with complicated gears, he adjusted some tiny dials, and took a few steps one way, watching the arrow, and a few steps another. “Worse,” he muttered to himself. The stands were filled with the crowds they had seen making their way to the stadium, and now that they were packed in a tight mass the atmosphere became wilder. Though the Family Stands were quieter, with children and mothers sitting sedately or at least not yelling with adult-sized lungs, the rest of the stands were a cacophony of cheers, jeers and songs. Deafening speakers boomed pop music, and sometimes the crowd sang along with a hit favourite, adding their own rude lyrics aimed at the other team. Or even at the audience - somehow, it seemed several thousand fans could pick out four touristy-looking young people all the way across the stadium. From the Away Stand came a distant but clear chant: “You’re so shit your fans are Yanks, fans are Yanks, fans are Yanks; you’re so shit your fans are Yanks, how shit are ya!” Rueful grins from the fans around them, and a lot of glances. It took Harry a moment to realise they were the ones being referenced. Ginny laughed; Hermione rolled her eyes in disapproval; grinning, Ron let them go on for a few choruses before he discreetly slid his wand out and did a Muggle-Repelling Charm. Immediately the fans went back to cursing some hapless player, and the Muggles around them stopped looking around. “So what happens now?” asked Ginny, as players ran out onto the green grass. Hermione looked up from her book. “They flip a coin to decide who kicks first,” she said. “And then they, well, kick the ball around, and try to put it in the big net.” “Mental,” grumbled Ron, again. But he seemed to change his mind when the match began, and the football began soaring back and forth. “Bloody hell, Hermione! D’you see how far they’re kicking it!” “And catching it perfectly, with their feet!” exclaimed Ginny, bouncing on her own in excitement. From the bird’s-eye view they had of the pitch, they could see the formations of red- and white-clad players running and whirling, keeping the ball roughly around the middle, first on one side, then the other. Hermione listed the rules out loud from her book, frowning slightly in concentration as her eyes darted from page to pitch, but Ron and Ginny grasped the idea quickly with their sporting instinct. Similar to Quidditch, players were not allowed to hit each other; they had to find ways to wrest the ball from their opponents using their feet, or intercept a pass. Which suddenly happened - the ball soared from the middle of the pitch, and a lone player in the white jersey of the away team outran the defender marking him, halted the ball with an extended foot, and as it bounced, launched it over the goalkeeper’s head and hands, flying twenty yards perfectly into the middle of the goal. The other team’s fans jumped to their feet and cheered loudly; on this side of the pitch the red-jerseyed home fans let out disappointed shouts with nearly as much volume. It was nothing like Quidditch, where goals came twenty times as frequently. Here, each score was a major victory to be celebrated or loss to be mourned. The game could turn on a single goal. Ginny had to yell to make herself heard over the crowd: “This is brilliant, Harry!” She looked around. “Harry?” She caught sight of him a few yards away, picking his way through the crowded stands, head down. Ginny followed, and caught up with him on the staircase. “Did you find something?” “There’s nothing coming from the pitch, so it’s not the players or the referees,” said Harry, watching his Dark detector device closely. “There’s hardly anything up here in the stands but faint readings, most likely residual magic left on victims. They were cursed before the kickoff - not after. Whatever it is, it must be downstairs. I’ll retrace our steps.” Ginny slipped her hand into Harry’s. “Lead the way.” Harry looked down at her in surprise. “Don’t you want to watch the game?” “I do,” said Ginny honestly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks fun, we should do this again when you’re not working. But right now - I’d rather be with you. That’s what I’m here today for.” Harry grinned. “Let’s go then!” * The Dark detectors were ticking, faintly but steadily. Harry knew he was right. The source was down here, on the concourse. It was like Mavis had said - a subtle compulsion charm, not so strong as to trigger his Dark detectors more violently, but enough to get the targeted Muggle to part with their money. “It’s so weak, it has to be a single-target spell,” said Harry, almost to himself. Ginny nodded along, as they circled around the huge stadium, following the indicator arrow on Harry’s compass-like device. “There are more powerful charms which can work on a crowd, but they’d leave a bigger mark. I can’t say for sure, but I’ll bet it has something to do with the stuff they sell.” “It’s not food, you said,” said Ginny. She flicked the long red hair out of her eyes as she looked around. “Or at least, not around where we bought our pies from,” said Harry. “There are restaurants somewhere else... this place is huge!” The concourse was deserted. The match had been going for just fifteen minutes, 1-0, and all eyes were on the pitch. Nobody was hungry or thirsty or needed the loo. The service staff were taking much-needed breaks in the back rooms and hidden passageways after the frenzy of the past couple of hours feeding and watering the pre-match crowd. Harry and Ginny’s footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. “Those match-day programmes?” she guessed. “Hermione bought one.” “It didn’t work on her. Besides, it’d look odd even to Muggles to be walking around carrying a fistful of magazines,” said Harry. “I checked the souvenir shop, it was clear.” He nudged the Dark detector in his hand. “Hm. Getting stronger...” “Harry, what’s that shop sell?” asked Ginny, pointing at a small kiosk with a bright blue signboard on top, with smoked glass windows and no apparent product laid out or advertised. He looked up. “It’s a betting shop. A bookmaker’s.” One of his Dark detectors suddenly began ticking regularly, like a slow metronome, and Harry fumbled in his pocket for it. Ginny tensed. “Does that man stepping out of the shop look familiar to you?” There were two people coming out of the bookmaker’s, dressed in khaki trousers and blue uniform shirts. One was a scowling square-shouldered, dark-haired woman in her thirties, lugging a holdall bag. The other, around forty-ish, looked like he had been a strong young man now gone to seed, with a paunch and a badly-trimmed beard. His round ruddy face indeed jogged at Harry’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place... The man looked up, locked eyes with Ginny, and his eyebrows shot up. “Miss Weasley?” he blurted. The woman stared at Harry. Her eyes did that familiar, annoying flick upwards to his forehead. Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ginny sweep her red hair behind her ear in confusion, and realised the Polyjuice had worn off. They all went for their wands at the same time. Harry was fastest, but he didn’t attack - his priority was to not let them get away. He laid down an Anti-Apparation Jinx: “Disapparation Inhibeo!” The scowling woman was fast too, with reflexes born out of fending for herself out on the magical streets for years. She dropped the holdall and yelled “Impedimenta!” Ginny had duelled Dark wizards when she was fourteen, and was besides Harry Potter’s girlfriend - it takes a woman of a certain calibre to walk around with a target of that size painted on her back. She blocked the curse with a Shield Charm, and shot back a hex, sending the woman darting back into the kiosk. The familiar-looking man tried to Apparate, winced as he felt the whole-body muscle ache that comes from trying to Apparate through a hindering Jinx slam down on him, and ducked behind the dubious shelter of a pillar. “Ginny, get behind something!” yelled Harry, himself putting a wall corner between him and their opponents. He fished his Auror badge out of his pocket, pressed the button behind it, and said: “Harry Potter to Operations! I am duelling two suspects and need Tactical and Obliviator backup at...” A curse blasted chunks of brick and cement inches from his face, spraying him with brick dust and splinters, and he swore. * Ron shouldered the last couple of idiotic bloody football yobs out of his way; they would have probably punched him for it but the Muggle-Repelling Charm kept them from noticing him so they just kept on cheering, thinking they had been jostled by the crowd. Now out of the stands, he ran down one flight of stairs so he was at least out of sight of any Muggles, took out his Auror badge, pressed the button at the back and barked, “Ron here, where are you Harry?” “On the concourse, west side, near the - will you just bloody well pack it in! - near the souvenir shop. Opposition is one stroppy bitch, brunette, thirties, and I think Ludo Bagman. The place is empty but Muggles may come by any minute. I’m behind cover.” That last part was him signalling that Ginny was safe, Ron knew. Ludo Bagman?! Now there was a name from out of their schooldays. He looked up as Hermione joined him breathlessly. “Harry, Ron, the Reaction Squad is being reserved for another tasking,” said the crisp calm voice of the duty operations controller. “We’re putting together a scratch force from the MLE Patrol and anyone who can come in. Keep the lid on for another ten minutes.” “What shall we do?” asked Hermione. “Not Apparate, for starters,” said Ron. “Harry will have put up an Anti-Apparation Jinx. Harry and Ginny can take care of themselves. If we want to finish this decisively, we ought to - let me think - yes, we should circle round and take them from behind.” “Just a moment,” said Hermione. She rummaged in her rucksack, and extracted a flyer. “Here. There’s a map of the stadium on the back of this.” They unfolded the brochure and pored over it. “Here’s where we are,” said Ron. “And this is where they must be. We can come up from behind them if we go down by, uh, Staircase F.” Hermione checked her watch. “Half-time is in twenty minutes - all the Muggles up there will come down to the concourse for food then.” “So let’s get going,” said Ron grimly. He began jogging down the stairs, slowing a fraction only just so Hermione could keep up. “Did I hear Harry say Ludo Bagman?” “Yeah, you did.” “Will wonders never cease. I thought Bagman was dead.” “If he hurts Harry or Ginny, I’m going to make him wish he was.” * * *
Spellfire blasted through the hallways of a football stadium on a Sunday afternoon. Per Auror Office operating procedures when engaged in a Muggle high-traffic, high-visibility area, Harry had laid down multiple Muggle-Repelling Charms of different kinds so Muggles suddenly found themselves wandering outside for a stroll, engrossed in chit-chat with colleagues, and generally keeping away from the west side of the stadium. CCTV screens went on the blink - high concentrations of magic always interfered with electronics - but security officers merely slapped at the screens, shrugged, and rolled another cigarette. “Give it up, lady!” shouted Harry. “You’re only making this harder on yourself!” “Fuck off, pig!” The woman sent another curse flying down at them. “You’re all so bloody original,” muttered Ginny, rolling her eyes. “Hey!” She brought up a Shield Charm just in time as a Reductor Curse destroyed the pillar behind which she had been sheltering. Harry sent down a series of sparks that exploded loudly but harmlessly in the vicinity of their opponents. “Keep your head down, Ginny,” he said under the cover of the noise, “all we have to do is keep them busy; they can’t get away, and we have reinforcements coming.” She nodded, and sent back another hex. * I’ve never seen Apollonia Sagana so angry, or so mad. She spits out curses in her native Sicilian, and something green and sticky spews out of her wand, covering the floor and walls. Smoke rises up as whatever it is starts corroding the tile and brick, and I shudder to think what it could do to human flesh. “Get up and start fighting, you useless lump!” snarls Polly at me. Yeah, well, I know I was one of England’s best Beaters in my youth, but I broke the mould in more ways than one - unlike say Gwenog Jones, or the Broadmoor Twins, I was never aggressive, either on or off the pitch. I did my job and did it well, but I never committed any violent physical fouls, I was sportsmanlike, and I always stood a round for the other team afterwards. Players and fans alike loved me for that - or used to, anyway. Besides, what the hell is Ginny Weasley doing here?! This is the first time we’ve come face-to-face since that interview in February last year. The last I heard, she’d been promoted to the First Seven after that season ended, an honour which singled her out as a rising star and one of the names to watch out for in the British and Irish Quidditch League. But I gladly stopped following Quidditch news when I fell in with Polly in January, and she convinced me to quit Sports Enchanted and join her caper instead - a decision I began regretting in short order. Did Weasley join the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol or something? And Harry Potter - well, who doesn’t know him? Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, celebrity, Auror. In a way I have him to thank for fucking up my life - no. No, I did that all on my own. I once tried to help him - maybe I should have asked him for help. “Come on, Polly,” I say instead. “They’ve seen us, they’ll know who we are. We can’t possibly hope to get away. Just surrender and take our lumps.” “Like fuck I will!” She whips her wand right and left; Reductor Curses blast away more pillars. I don’t know what’s in her past. Maybe something a lot more sinister than bilking Muggles of their cash. Aggravated assault, Snatching - perhaps even murder. Whatever it is, she’s not willing to surrender. In fact, she’s - what is she doing? Above our heads, there’s a creaking, a series of crackling pops - the stone and steel of the stadium suddenly shifting. Polly backs further down the hallway, blasts another pillar. There’s a louder groan from the structure. Glass windows crack and shatter as they become the focus of humongous forces and the steel frames begin flexing under the pressure. “Hey! Stop that!” It’s Weasley, running out from behind cover, throwing a hex. “Make me, girlie!” Polly blocks it, reduces another pillar to rubble. She’s bringing down the house. I can feel myself blanch. There must be, what, as many as ten thousand Muggles in the stands directly above us, standing, cheering, jumping. Harry gets it the same instant I do. Instead of attacking, Harry begins conjuring, forming big, roughly-hewn blocks of stone in place of one of the pillars Polly destroyed. It’s crude and ugly and like all charmed objects will disappear in a couple of hours, but it’s a quick-fix that’ll stop the roof - and the Muggles in the stands above - from collapsing. Ginny shoots Polly a glare, and turns towards the nearest destroyed pillar, and starts putting it back together with a series of Reparos. That’s probably an even better idea - the crumbled masonry and severed metal rods flies together and begins reassembling itself, growing upward like a concrete tree in fast-forward. They’re distracted, Polly’s got her window of escape now - except she doesn’t choose to escape, and instead aims her wand directly at Ginny Weasley. And purely instinctively - I think - I’m on my feet, and lunging forward, arms spread wide. “NO, DON’T!” Polly yells something in Sicilian. The blast throws me across the concourse, and when I land, the crunch and thud sickens me even as stars explode in my skull and the world turns soggy and fuzzy. * “GINNY, LOOK OUT!” Ron darted out of Staircase F, behind the witch, just in time to see her take aim at Ginny, who suddenly realising the danger, started to duck. Then a big round bloke - oh, he does look like Ludo Bagman, thought Ron - jumped in front of the curse; there was a loud bang! and he went flying something like fifty yards. Ron’s wand was up in an instant, and he snarled, “Stupefy!” The witch barely knew what hit her. Harry came running up. “Ron, Hermione, the pillars, quickly before the whole place falls down!” Working together, they repaired as much of the support pillars as they could, conjured up stone blocks or steel support beams where the curses had caused too much magical damage for a Repairing Charm to put back together. It took them several minutes of frenzied casting, and it would only hold very temporarily, but they were all powerful wizards and witches, and when they were done, they could be sure the stadium was safe until Ministry experts could come in and do a proper restoration. Panting slightly from the effort, Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione exchanged tired grins. “You okay?” asked Harry, putting an arm around Ginny. She nodded, half-smiling, as the post-battle shakes began to make themselves felt. “Situation stabilised,” said Harry, activating the magical communications spell built into his Auror badge. “We’ll still need Obliviators, and a cleanup crew from the Magical Disaster Response And Damage Repair Team. But I guess you can stand down the tactical response.” “Noted, Potter,” said the operations officer dryly. Ron wandered over to pick up the witch’s wand, and checked on her. Out cold. He resisted the urge to give her a kick in the side. Hermione was tending to Ludo Bagman, who was lying in a puddle of blood. “He’s broken one or two ribs, his left collarbone, and probably his arm as well,” she said, as Harry, Ron and Ginny came over. “I cleared up his concussion and splinted his arm, but he’s got a nasty head wound, and all that needs seeing to by a proper Healer.” She had also conjured up a big squashy pillow for Ludo to rest his head on. He looked up at them. “Hello, Miss Weasley,” he said groggily. “Hello, Harry. And you... I don’t know you, but I’d guess from the hair and freckles, another Weasley.” “Right. You were the informant, weren’t you?” Ron guessed. Bagman nodded. “I was.” “Why’d you do it?” asked Ginny. “I don’t know,” said Bagman. He tried to shrug, and winced. “I suppose it got too much - the scrimping and grovelling, being the butt monkey wherever I went. Then here came Polly with her big idea - a spell she’d developed to subtly nudge the Muggles just a bit into spending too much, and us disguised as a betting shop. Easier to get away with than food and trinkets - who wins these things anyway? You’re supposed to lose, gambling. I should know...” “Oh, Mr Bagman, how could you?” chided Hermione. “Got greedy.” Bagman nodded at Polly’s prone, unconscious figure. “She too. Couldn’t stick to the small amounts we took at the start. Wanted all the golden eggs, right then and there.” “I meant, why did you tip off the Auror Office?” said Ginny. Bagman didn’t meet her eyes. “I... well, Polly said think of them as ‘just Muggles’, and that worked for a while, and then it didn’t. I started seeing them as people. As myself. I’m sorry. I’m not proud of what I did - I suppose you’d be justified in throwing the book at me.” “I should,” growled Harry. His grip around Ginny tightened. “You swindled them, and you nearly got a lot of people killed today.” Ginny swatted him lightly on the chest. “Oh, pish. He did call in the tip, didn’t he?” “I guess he wanted to turn himself in,” said Ron. “And threw himself in front of Ginny,” put in Hermione, “and took that curse. I saw. What was that all about then?” Bagman didn’t answer, and looked away. “You did the right thing, Mr Bagman, at last,” said Ginny gently. “We’ll get the Wizengamot to see that.” But Bagman had passed out. And now came a squad of DMLE Patrolwizards running towards them, and Obliviators and Restorers, a whole Ministry task force led by Aurors Mavis Laird and Alex Fawley. Mavis had thrown her red Auror cloak over mum jeans and a baggy old shirt. There were a few streaks of yellow paint down her front. Ron gave her a jaunty wave. “Hello, Mavis! Called you away from the children?” “We were painting Daisy’s bedroom,” said Mavis. “What are you doing here, Weasley? And Miss Weasley, and Miss Granger?” Harry shifted uncomfortably, but Ron said cheerfully, “Came to watch the match, and wouldn’t you know it, we bumped into Harry here, and this lot.” Mavis snorted, but didn’t press the matter. Suddenly there was a roar of sound, and all the wizards looked up in alarm. Thunderous cheers erupted overhead. Someone had scored another goal. “There’s still half a match to go,” said Ron, checking his watch. He took Hermione’s hand. “Come on. I don’t think Mavis will need me,” he said cheekily, “we can write our statements later.” “I’ll need to stay,” said Harry gently. He pulled Ginny into an all-too-brief hug. “Go on up with Ron and Hermione. I’ll be a while sorting things out.” Ginny put her arms around his neck and kissed him, full and deep. “I’ll have dinner waiting when you get back,” she said softly.
At the trial, the Wizengamot makes stacks of hay of my old life, saying a former professional sportsman and Ministry Head of Department ought to have known better, and I should be hanged, drawn and quartered for the public good. Why yes, I do happen to owe a couple of the bastards gold. But the Auror Office sends a memo asking them to go easy since I called in the tip-off, and to make sure the point is made, a couple of observers from the Office of Wizarding Law get up and talk about how the Wizengamot has always gone light on informants, pour encourager les autres, and they should stick to the practice. One of them’s Miss Granger, who says nothing as befits a lowly intern, but is busy as a bee supplying her leader with thick rolls of parchment citing dozens of historical precedents to throw at the enemy. She tips me a wink and a grin as the Wizengamot grudgingly gives me two years in minimum-security Azkaban, the best I could have hoped to get away with. Polly goes down for life on a thousand counts of attempted murder. Azkaban’s changed. There are no Dementors now, thank Merlin, and the amenities have become a bit more humane; insulated cells, better food, owl post. Chaps like me in the minimum-security wing who aren’t escape risks, hard cases or banged up for more serious crimes get to enjoy more time outside of our cells, which we spend in a common-room equipped with books, board games, and a radio. Which of course is tuned to Quidditch matches every weekend, by nearly-unanimous consent. I think I’m the only one who spends more time on weekends in my cell than in the common-room. Come October, I’m playing chess with friendly Mrs Coatsworth who got six months for jinxing her brother “ ‘cos ‘e shouldn’t ‘ave said that about our Reen", as Holyhead go down hard to Falmouth. As my rooks are being forked, the radio broadcasts an interview with Chaser Weasley, apparently well in the running to be picked for England’s team in next year’s World Cup. I prick my ears up as the interviewer asks her how she thinks the team will cope with the Harpies’ continuous tumble down the standings this season. I can almost see her eyes rolling. “The team’s disappointed with today’s match of course, but the season’s not over yet. As I learned recently from an old player - whom I can only hope is listening - it’s never ever too late to turn things around. In life and in Quidditch. Excuse me, I have to dash...” The interviewer moves on to another player, but I can just hear her begin whistling as she walks away. Once a jolly swagman, camped beside a billabong...
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| Reviews 5 |
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