"Welcome to the Canadian quidditch challenge, eh. Today's match-up is the Manitoba Moose Jaw Meteorites and the Saskatchewan Flying Sasquatches," comes over a series of amplified loudspeakers that are dispersed around the pitch.
"Remind me why we have to freeze our tailbones off for this?" Hermione Granger asked her not-so-bushy head of curls flying my way. Her eyes were fierce with a fire in them, hopefully not directed my way this time. I still have the scorch marks on my favorite cloak from the last time.
"Warming charms, Granger. You are a witch," I punctuate each and every word of the sentences, not necessarily intentionally, because I admit I am also freezing my left cheek off, but also to prove that I am still the superior wizard.
Doesn't matter that knows she's technically a witch and outranks me at work. I am only the Head for the Department of International Magical Cooperation, usually a job I adore. It is just these few times where I am sent with the Assistant Minister of Magic to the upper regions of Nunavut Canada - someplace I had never even heard of - in the middle of January that I really, really, really hate my job.
"Theo, I have the strongest warming charm on me, plus my thickest jacket and scarf. I just don't think I own clothes that are made for this climate," the strong yet petite witch grumbles. Her teeth are chattering it is so cold. Hell, I completely agree with her - this is probably the most inhabitable climate on the face of the earth. And to think, our next stop together on this stupid diplomatic mission of sporting matches is somewhere in the middle of the Sahara.
I take a step closer, wrapping my arm around Hermione. "For warmth," I say when her glare is affixed my way again. "Something about conserving body heat I read in a muggle anatomy book. Or it could have been that documentary on a K2 exhibition that you drug me to."
She has tried, Merlin knows she has tried hard. She works her cute little tail off to try to mend all the years of broken bridges between the Gryffindor victors and those of us from another house that dominated the side of darkness. I guess it only can come from being in the dungeons for so long, light hurts our eyes.
She has taken me to Muggle art shows, the theatre, the cinema - talk about surprised when I learned the difference between the two. She has taken me around the world to different cultural celebrations.
And what do I take her to in return? The frozen tundra of the North Pole. I swear I can see Santa's village from here. Then I am going to take her to one of the hottest places on the planet. All for my definition of "International Magical Cooperation". Her definition is what brings me to Muggle science and the arts, to food experiments that go so very right, knowledge and beauty that magic can't even replicate.
Merlin help me, Malfoy was right. He said there would come a day that the bookworm that we both taunted in school - he more publicly than I - would make working for the Ministry of Magic something I would dread.
But why am I really dreading it? Is it because of what Granger has shown me? Not really. If I am completely honest with myself it is because of days like today where I am watching half trolls on brooms made from the reused Christmas trees from our Hogwarts days versus a team that is named after animals that have no right procreating. That is something we stumbled upon when we had the honor of meeting the team and their mascots. The Sasquatches weren't bad as human-ape hybrids go. The moose in the midst of 'baby moose making' was something that could be honestly burned from my eyes.
All this and not a drink to be found. Nope. My inherent rotten luck has ever found me. This is the one territory in Canada where prohibition is still prevalent, though from what I heard before the match there are ways to fill that void.
That is if I don't freeze to death beforehand. Part of me hopes I do, only if I can come back as a ghost and see the blasphemous story that the Daily Prophet will ultimately print.
"How long are we expected to watch this farce of a match?" Granger says barely over a whisper. "I honestly can't feel my toes anymore."
"Ladies and gentlemen, that last bludger to the Sasquatch Seeker Turnblote's broom has downed him for the rest of the match. And we will be facing a time out while the officials extricate the bludger from said broom, eh," the announcer recounts. "To remind you all, the score currently stands at the Manitoba Moose Jaw Meteorites with 40 points and the Saskatchewan Flying Sasquatches at 40 points. It really is anybody's game at this point."
"Really," I say snarkily, "I would never have guessed." At least that elicits a chuckle from Granger. Or what I hope is a chuckle and not just her shaking from the near freezing temperatures.
"Monsieur, madame," one of our colleagues on this side of the Atlantic addresses Granger and I. "May I offer you a fur cloak? The temperatures seem to be dropping and we would not like to have such esteemed members of the British Ministry looking down at us like some plebeians with no manners to speak of."
"No worries," I say in response, taking a cloak and draping it over Granger's petite frame. "We have those people at home also. We call them Weasleys."
That earns me a smack from Granger. She is still close to the family, even with her manners and their obvious lack. "Be nice Theodore," she scolds me using my full first name. And blasted if she doesn't sound like my childhood governess. "Much appreciated Monsieur Lefebvre. I was completely unaware of how cold these temperatures really feel. It is one thing to see it on the thermostat, another to be in the midst of it."
"Agreed Madame Granger." He bows when I retrieve the additional cloak from him. "Also if you are so inclined, there are warming beverages of a vast variety in the Prime Minister's suite. If you wish, I could escort you both."
Granger and I agree simultaneously. Anywhere it is warmer than this VIP suite. It should be Very Frozen Person suite.
It is a short walk, yet is sizably lengthened by the black ice that is prevalent throughout the stadium. If one of us isn't doing a stand up job impersonating an ice dancer, it is us dodging someone else as they poorly attempt a camel spin.
Once we finally enter the suite, I notice that the decor is nothing short of a 1700s French trapper trading post. There are furs of every type lining the walls and covering every upholstered surface. There are trophy heads of both magical and muggle beasts hanging in an organized chaos. A buffet table lines the back wall and is flanked by a pair of substantial wrought iron and stone fireplaces, both heavily ablaze. The room is warm, in a neo-Neanderthal, masculine way. I notice that most of the people in the rooms are men, and even the occasional female is not the pureblood princess that we are use to back home. They are more earthy, almost masculine in their features and mannerisms. It is obvious that the harshness of this winter's day is not uncommon to them.
Granger nods to me as her cloak is taken by a servant before she heads to one side of the room to probably talk international politics or some obscure wizard law that she is taking aim at with some members of the international magical community. I understand it is time for me to mingle, one of the highlights of my job. I recognize some of the people that seem to be hiding at one of the smaller tables from the view from my place just inside the door, and I make a bee-line for them.
Come to find out they were hiding some bootleg alcohol, which I pocket enough for the second part of this Salazar forsaken quidditch match. The wizards and I talk sports, we talk politics and business, we talk manly men talk. The only thing missing was hunting, which I honestly don't really appreciate.
It is about 50 minutes after we arrived and I had slipped Hermione a spiked 'hot chocolate' that was about 5 parts spiked to 1 part chocolate and the only heat that came from the drink was the burn of the alcohol.
There was an announcement that the match was finally going to restart and the announcer reminded us of the pittance of a score. "At this time we are resuming activities on the pitch: the bludgers are released and the the quaffle is tossed into the air, eh."
I watch as a wall turns into a perfect view of the pitch and servants arrange seating for the guests. Granger and I sit next to each other, enjoying the lack of sub freezing temperatures that those outside are forced to endure. "What did you talk about Granger? You looked deep in some discussion there with the Minister from Japan," I say with a haughty casualness.
"Nothing much. We were discussing the water rights of the indigenous merpeople of the China Sea. From what he said the Chinese muggles are such gross polluters that the merpeople are getting ill. It is quite a travesty." Her big brown eyes turn away from the match and focus on me. "And you? What did your deep deliberation entail?"
"Quidditch mostly," I say with a slight shrug of my shoulder. "And how to better enforce the tariff guidelines that the African continent has imposed on the import of completed potions. From what I learned they would rather have the potion masters move there and conduct their work closer to the ingredients that they are requesting. I don't see someone like Snape, or Slughorn for that matter, moving to Africa anytime soon though."
"Nor I," she agrees.
Just then the announcer's voice echoes through the halls and in the suite, "The snitch has been caught - in a manner of speaking, eh. Something akin to the famous first year catch of Hogwarts' Gryffindor Seeker Harry Potter, the Meteorites Seeker - 'Bull' Bobby Bergeron - caught the snitch in his nose. Eh, you say? How does that blasted ball get up someone's nose?"
I interrupt the announcer's mundane diatribe. "So Granger, your place or mine tonight?"
"Theodore Nott, when are you ever going to stop using that ridiculous line on me?" Her school girl haughtiness sparks a fire in her eyes that makes my heart stop momentarily.
"When you finally say 'I do' and we can change your last name officially," I say cheekily, rubbing the ring that adorns her left ring finger.
Author's Notes:
House: Slytherin
Year: 7
Standard
Prompt: Moose Jaw Meteorites
Word Count:1840