James elbowed Zane away from him, groaning. They both went to the library for study period. Knossus Shert, the Ancient Runes professor, was monitoring the period, his thick glasses and long, skinny limbs in green robes making him look rather like a praying mantis seated behind the library head desk.
Zane was copying Arithmancy theorems, frowning as he worked them out. James, not wanting to disturb him, but equally disinterested in embarking on his own homework, pulled the morning’s copy of the Daily Prophet out of his backpack, where he’d stuffed it at breakfast. He glanced at the lead articles again, pressing his lips together in disgust. Near the bottom of the front page, James was annoyed to see a picture of Tabitha Corsica. She looked like she always did: reasonable, thoughtful, and polite. ‘Hogwarts Prefect Discusses Progressives Movement on Campus’, the headline next to her picture read. Knowing he shouldn’t read it, James glanced at a random couple of lines in the middle of the article.
“Of course, my house doesn’t believe in disturbing the harmony of the school for these discussions, but we respect the members of other houses as they voice their concerns,” Miss Corsica explained, her eyes full of regret for the disruptions of the day, but obviously recognizing the validity of her fellow students’ motivations. “Despite the Headmistress’ reluctance to be clear about the debate schedule, I am confident that we will be allowed to forge ahead with our plan to foster a discussion about Auror practices and policies, and the assumptions those are based on, in an open and free-ranging debate format.”
Miss Corsica, a fifth-year Slytherin, is also captain of her Quidditch team. “I had my broomstick fashioned by Muggle artisans,” she explains shyly. “They had no idea of the magical properties of the wood, and of course, I had it registered by the school as a Muggle artifact. But still, I just thought it would be nice to experience something handmade by our Muggle friends. It also happens to be one of the fastest brooms on the pitch,” she adds, biting her lip modestly, “but I credit that to the hands that made it, as much as to the spells that infuse the wood.”
James picked up the paper and flipped it over angrily, slapping it onto the table and earning a loud hush from Professor Shert. He stared unseeingly at the back of the paper. How could anyone believe such obviously contrived drivel? Tabitha Corsica and her special-order Muggle-made broom were just the icing on the cake, and she knew it. When James had seen her in the courtyard, Tabitha had been giving her interview with Rita Skeeter. James remembered the breathless eagerness on Skeeter’s face as her quill danced across the parchment. Stupid, gullible woman, James thought. Still, apparently she was just being true to herself and her readership. James had been told about his dad’s first encounters with Skeeter, back during the Triwizard Tournament. Aunt Hermione had caught on to the secret that Rita Skeeter was an unregistered Animagus, her animal form being that of a beetle. Eventually, Hermione had captured Skeeter in her beetle form, preventing her, for a time, from continuing her assault on the truth via her articles in the Daily Prophet. This morning, however, Harry had told James that the way to fight for the truth was not to argue with people like Rita Skeeter. Frankly, James preferred Aunt Hermione’s methods to those his dad claimed to espouse these days.
As he ruminated on this, James’ eye roamed unseeingly over the headlines and pictures on the back of the paper. Suddenly, however, one headline caught his attention. He leaned over it, his brow furrowing.
Ministry Break-in Remains a Mystery LONDON: Last week’s burglary of the Ministry of Magic Headquarters leaves Aurors and officials alike baffled, as questions still surface about the burglars’ motives and the possibility of inside accomplices. As reported by this news organ early last week, three individuals of questionable backgrounds were arrested on the morning of Monday, August 31st, related to a break-in and ransacking of several departments of the Ministry of Magic. The three alleged burglars, two humans and a goblin, were found during a search of the surrounding area hours after the break-in was discovered.
Upon the realization that the individuals had fallen under the Langlock jinx, rendering them incapable of responding to interrogation, all thr ee wer e sent under guard to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. A search of the ransacked departments, which included the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the Currency Conversion Office, and the Department of Mysteries, however, revealed no apparently missing objects or moneys. The criminal charges were subsequently reduced to destruction of property and trespassing, and the story, while curious, was dismissed until late last week, when it became known that no amount of counter-curses or jinxes were having any effect on the Langlocked accused.
“These are remarkably powerful curses, involving a not insubstantial degree of dark magic charm work,” said Dr. Horatio Flack, head of the counter-jinx facility at St. Mungo’s. “If we are unable to release the curse on these men by this weekend, I am afraid the spells may become permanent.”
As it turns out, one of the accused, identified to this reporter as the goblin, a Mr. Fikklis Bistle of Sussex, did begin to respond to the counter-jinxes over the course of the weekend. “He was making sounds and grunts, getting rather close to actual words,” reported one of his nurses, who asked to remain anonymous. Shortly after dawn this morning, however, Mr. Bistle was found dead in his room, apparently the victim of a mislabeled medication. This has sparked a wide range of speculation, resulting in a renewed investigation into the break-in.
Quorina Greene, lead investigator for the case, was quoted as saying, “We are now primarily concerned with ascertaining how, exactly, these three individuals were able to gain entry into Ministry of fices. T hes e a r e s ma ll-time crooks, none having ever attempted something of this magnitude in the past. We cannot rule out the likelihood of outside help, or even a Ministry insider. The death of Mr. Bistle, however, while suspicious, is still being ruled as an accident. We can only be thankful,” Ms. Greene added, “that the thieves apparently failed in their efforts, seeing that nothing has apparently gone missing.”
“Come on,” Zane whispered, startling James out of his reading. “I’m gonna sneak out early so I can get in some practice time on the broom. Want to come along? I could use a Potter for good luck.” James decided it would be good to swallow his pride and tag along with Zane. He even thought he might spend a little practice time on a broom himself. He folded the newspaper again and stuffed it into his backpack.
“Think you can show me how to do that hard stop and spin I saw you pulling in Basic Broom class today?” James asked Zane as they pounded up the stairs to change out of their robes.
“Sure, mate,” Zane agreed confidently. “Just don’t show it to Ralph until he can keep his broom under him while he’s floating still.” James felt an ugly pang at the mention of Ralph’s name, but he pushed it away. Minutes later, changed into jeans and tee shirts, the two of them ran exuberantly out into the sunlight of the afternoon, heading toward the Quidditch pitch.
James spent the afternoon on the pitch with Zane, practicing his broom-handling a little, but mostly just watching the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor teams assemble and run drills. When Zane joined his team to grab some quick dinner and get into their gear, James accompanied Ted and the Gryffindors back to the common room as they changed and headed down to dinner themselves. The atmosphere before the first match of the season was always charged with excitement. The Great Hall was raucous with good-natured teasing, shouts and impromptu outbursts of House anthems. During dessert, Noah, Ted, Petra, and Sabrina, all dressed in their Quidditch jerseys, lined up along the front of the Gryffindor table, arms linked and grinning like they were about to perform a show tune. In unison, they stomped their feet on the stone floor, garnering the room’s attention, then launched into a roughly choreographed but enthusiastic Irish jig, singing a tune Damien had written for them earlier that day:
Ohhh, we Gryffindors like to make jokes and have fun,
But the Quidditch pitch with us will be overrun, And we hope that
the Ravenclaws know that they’re done,
When the lion team drops down on them like a ton.
Ohhh, the game can be tough and the body checks harsh,
And you might find your Seeker’s been tossed in the marsh,
But we Gryffindors with our goodwill are not sparse,
So we’ll warn you before we kick you in the— The last words were drowned out by the mingled roars and cheers of the Gryffindors and the boos and catcalls of the Ravenclaws. The Gremlins bowed deeply, grinning, obviously pleased with themselves, and then joined their teammates as they ran out to the Quidditch pitch for final preparations.
The first and last matches of the Quidditch season, as James knew, were always the best attended. At the end of the year, during final tournaments, everyone knew that, whichever teams were playing, they’d be exciting matches. At the beginning of the year, though, people were excited and hopeful for their own House teams. Most matches saw the grandstands filled with students and teachers, decked out in their team colors and waving flags and banners. As James entered the pitch, he was delighted to see and hear the enthusiastic crowd. Students milled and shouted to each other as they filed into their seats. The teachers mostly sat at the tops of the sections dedicated to their houses. As James climbed the stairs into the Gryffindor section, he saw his dad seated near the press box, flanked by the Ministry officials on his right and the Alma Aleron delegation on his left. Harry saw James and waved him up, smiling broadly. As James reached him, Harry orchestrated a complicated rearrangement of the seating that, while only freeing a single seat for James, required nearly everyone in the group to move. James mumbled apologies, but didn’t really mind seeing the look of annoyance on Ms. Sacarhina’s face, masked thinly by her omnipresent plastic smile.
“As I was saying, yes, we do have Quidditch in the States,” Professor Franklyn said to Harry, his voice carrying over the dull roar of the assembling crowd, “but for some reason, it isn’t quite as popular as sports like swivenhodge, grungeball or broomstick gauntlet. Our World Cup team shows some promise this year, though, or so I am told. I tend to remain skeptical.”
James glanced around at the Americans, curious to see who was in attendance and what they seemed to think of the match so far. Madame Delacroix was seated on the end of the row, her face expressionless and her hands folded tightly on her lap so that they looked unpleasantly like a ball of brown knuckles. Professor Jackson glanced at James and nodded in greeting. James saw that his black leather case, with its inexplicable cargo, was sitting between his feet, securely closed this time. Professor Franklyn was dressed in what passed for his dress robes, with a high white collar and a frilly ascot at his throat, and his square spectacles which caught the light cheerfully as he looked around the grandstands.
“Where’s Ralph?” Harry asked James. “I thought I’d see him with you tonight.”
James shrugged noncommittally, avoiding his dad’s eyes.
“Ah! Here we are,” Franklyn announced, sitting up and craning to watch.
The Gryffindor team streaked out of the broad doorway at the base of their grandstand, their red cloaks snapping behind each flyer like a flag.
“The Gryffindor squadron, led by Captain Justin Kennely, is first to take the pitch,” Damien Damascus’ voice rang out stoutly from the press box. The team pulled into a corkscrew formation that tightened as it rose, and then yanked their brooms to a halt as the players formed a large letter ‘G’ right in front of the Gryffindor section of the grandstands. Then the shape dissolved as the players broke formation, dodging around one another in a dizzying bout of aerial acrobatics, and reformed into the letter ‘P’. All the players sat up straight on their brooms, faced Harry and James, and saluted, grinning broadly. The Gryffindor grandstand applauded wildly, deafeningly, and James saw dozens of smiling and shouting faces turning to view Harry’s reaction. He waved and nodded curtly, half standing to receive the accolade.
“You’d think the Queen was in attendance,” James heard Harry mutter as he sat back down.
“And now, here come the Ravenclaws,” Damien called, his voice echoing around the pitch. “Headed by Captain Gennifer Tellus, fresh from last year’s tournament victory.” The Ravenclaw team burst from the opposite side of the grandstand like fireworks, each flyer pulling off into a different direction, weaving through each other and tossing a Quaffle from player to player with speed that defied the eye. After several seconds of spiraling wildly and apparently randomly around the grandstands, the Ravenclaws streaked simultaneously into the center of the pitch, pulled to a sudden stop, then spun on their broomsticks to face the crowd in all directions. Each player raised their right arm, and Gennifer, in the center, held the Quaffle over her head. There was wild cheering from the Ravenclaw grandstand, and cheers of appreciation and respect from the rest.
Finally, Gennifer and Justin flew into position in the center of the pitch, nodding greetings as the teams took up formation behind their captains. Beneath them, standing in the center-mark of the pitch in his official’s tunic, Cabriel Ridcully held the Quaffle under his arm, his foot resting on the Quidditch trunk.
“I want to see a clean match,” he called up to the players. “Captains, ready? Players in formation? Annnnd…” He hefted the Quaffle in his massive palm, arm outstretched. “Quaffle in play!” Ridcully heaved the Quaffle straight up and simultaneously lifted his foot from the Quidditch trunk. The trunk sprang open, releasing the two Bludgers and the Snitch. All four balls shot upwards, merging with the players as they exploded into motion. The grandstands erupted into cheers and wild shouting.
James remembered to look for Zane among the Ravenclaws. His blond hair wasn’t hard to find against the royal blue of his cloak. He spun through a knot of players, executing a surprisingly tight barrel roll, then leaned precariously and backhanded a Bludger as it banked around the group. The Bludger missed its target, but only because Noah ducked and rolled aside at just the right moment. The crowd roared in mingled delight and disappointment.
The heat of the summer evening was unusually fierce. The lowering sun beat down on players and spectators alike. On the ground, both teams had marked out team cool down areas, one at each end of the pitch. Each area held a dozen large buckets filled with water. Occasionally, a flyer would perform a wand signal, alerting the team’s cool down crew. One member of the crew would use his wand to levitate the water out of one of the buckets, so that it floated thirty feet over the pitch like a solid, wobbling bubble. Then, just as the flyer swooped into position, another crew member would point his wand at the levitating ball of water, exploding it into a cloud of droplets just as the player flew through it. The crowd laughed delightedly every time a player emerged from the rainbow-laden mist, shaking water from their hair and joining the fray again, happily refreshed.
Gryffindor took the lead early on, but Ravenclaw began a steady comeback that stretched into the evening. The sun was setting by the time Ravenclaw overtook Gryffindor, and the match took on that feverish, hectic tone that only very close games can sustain. James watched the Seekers, trying to get a glimpse of the elusive Snitch, but he couldn’t see any sign of the tiny golden ball. Then, just as he looked away, there was a flash of setting sunlight on something over the Hufflepuff grandstand. James squinted, and there it was, flitting in and out of the banner poles. The Ravenclaw team’s Seeker had already seen it. James shouted to Noah, the Gryffindor Seeker, jumping to his feet and pointing. Noah spun around on his broom, looking wildly. He saw the Snitch just as it angled down, directly into the melee of circling flyers and careening Bludgers.
The Ravenclaw Seeker lunged as the Snitch streaked past him. He almost fell off his broom, turned the fall into a diving loop, and doubled back toward the match. Ted, one of Gryffindor’s Beaters, aimed a Bludger at Ravenclaw’s Seeker, making the boy duck and weave, but not deterring him from his course. Noah was approaching from the other side of the field, ducking and banking wildly through the other flyers. The rest of the cr
owd caught on to what was happening. As one, the spectators leaped to their feet, shouting and cheering. And then, just at the very height of the action, James saw something else that completely distracted him from the match for the first time since it had begun.
The Muggle intruder was down on the field, standing just to the side of the Ravenclaw cool down area. James could hardly believe he was seeing it, but the man was simply standing, wearing a cast-off cloak from one of the cool down crew, staring up into the match with an expression of total awe and bewilderment. He was holding something to his eye, and James recognized vaguely that it was some sort of handheld Muggle camera. He was filming the match! James tore his gaze away from the intruder and looked up at his dad, who stood next to him, shouting happily at the end-of-game brawl. James yanked Harry’s robes and yelled up at him.
“Dad! Dad, there’s someone down there!” He pointed wildly, trying to indicate the Quidditch pitch through the throng of standing, waving spectators.
Harry looked at James, still smiling, trying to hear. “What?” he yelled, leaning toward James.
“Down there!” James shouted, still pointing. “He’s not supposed to be here! He’s a Muggle! I’ve seen him here before!” Harry’s face changed instantly. The smile snapped shut. Harry stood up to his full height and scanned the field. James glanced back down as well, searching for the Muggle intruder. He was sure he’d be gone and that James would be left looking like a fool, but the man was still there, staring up into the melee above. He had lowered his camera, James saw. It dangled from his right hand. James looked closer and saw that the man had bandages on his upper arm, and smaller bandages taped to two places on his face. He had gotten hurt crashing through the stained-glass window, but apparently not hurt enough to avoid coming back.
Harry was pushing past the American delegation, excusing himself politely but firmly, heading toward the stairs. James followed, trotting to keep up. Together, they traversed the stairs two by two, heading down to field level. James recognized that his dad was in full Auror mode now, not thinking, really, but letting instinct take over. There was no sense of panic or worry or anger, just businesslike purpose and unstoppability. Harry reached the field with James right behind him just as the game ended. There was a thunderous ovation and suddenly people were running onto the field. The cool down crews came out to collect the empty buckets. The teams began to come in for landings, dropping to the pitch like dandelion seeds. Cabe Ridcully strode across the center line, using his wand to summon the game balls. Undeterred, Harry walked purposefully toward the end of the field where he and James had seen the strange man, but now that they were on the pitch, they couldn’t see him anymore. There were too many people moving about, too much noise and confusion. James knew that there were a hundred ways the man could already have slunk away, disappearing into the spreading shadows of the hills and woods beyond the pitch.
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