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"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
- Edmund Burke
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23rd August 1999
Sunday finally rolled over bringing the first rays of Monday light, which fought against black heady clouds to illuminate the Hogwarts grounds. The dew clinging to the wild grass sparkled and twinkled whilst a cold, sharp gale from across the barren moors rustled heather, heath, and the four houses' fabric banners, making them beat rhythmically upon the solid wooden stands of the large quidditch pitch.
Madam Hooch looked proudly upon the sight. Although the ancient stadium would never again be the same since the Battle of Hogwarts, she and the teachers had restored it to the best of their ability; the new grand oaken rooks had each been given a fresh fabric pelt courtesy of the small army of house-elves that remained in the castle, Filius Flitwick had recharmed the new set of quidditch balls – opting for a slightly less violent set of bludgers, as the last set, when last released, had tried to cave the skull in of anyone in the vicinity of their case, apparently taking the side of Voldemort during the siege – and Pomona Sprout had taken care of the grounds by patching up the veldt as best she could, at times a losing battle judging by the many mole-sized mounds of earth that littered the sward in constellation like patterns.
But all things considered, it still looked as regal and impressive as it ever had.
"Mornin' Rolanda."
Madam Hooch looked about at the sound of her name to see the large game keeper walking towards her across the hill, black hair and beard whipping maniacally in the raw air. An equally large dog trotted by his side, tongue lolling.
"Good morning, Hagrid, " she called over the howl.
With his great strides, Hagrid was beside her in moments, clutching under one arm what appeared to be a large furry sack, and smiling broadly. "You're up sharp, usually just me n' Fang out 'ere first thing of a day."
The boarhound sniffed around Madam Hooch's feet for a moment, panted satisfactorily, then rolled onto a hind leg to scratch gawkily at an ear.
"Just giving the place one last look over before the hoards arrive," she said, indicating to her left. "The storm really packed a wallop last night, I just wanted to check that we still had a pitch to play on come today."
"She was a fierce one righ' enough," said Hagrid. "A ruddy bad wind we're 'avin'; I've done nuthin' but clear branches up since Saturday. Mind you, they're coming in 'andy for patchin' up the 'oles they made in me hut roof in the firs' place." The half-giant grunted out a laugh. "And we'll not be runnin' out of firewood anytime soon, I can tell ye that."
"As long as the school broomsticks are not included in that collection," she added with a raised eyebrow. "Although saying that, perhaps it wouldn't be a terrible idea to dispose of them while we can. I've most definitely seen woodlice in increasing number hanging around those brooms on more than one occasion."
"S'why I'm 'ere – o' sorts – to suss out a critter problem, on Professor Sprout's orders. Apparently the nifflers are causing havoc again, poor woman's at her wit's end with the green."
"There's always something," said the coach apparently thinking out loud. "But I wouldn't bother yourself, Hagrid," she went on, offhandedly, "if it were up to Pomona every spare inch of grass in Hogwarts would be meticulously preened and watered within an inch of its life. Pristine grounds are not a necessity in a flying sport, you'd only be wasting your time."
"I'm jus' sort of curious more n' anything, funny place to find an infestation. But y'know, I'll bet it's the metal screws from the original stands they're after, from when the wood burned down las' year. Soil mus' be full of 'em."
The gale began to blow harder and Hagrid had to bellow to be heard over the roar. "Although, underground is probably the bes' place for 'em righ' now, s'not too safe on the surface for any small critter."
"I'm to assume these are a few casualties, then," said Madam Hooch, her piercing yellow eyes landing on the swaying furry bundle which she now realised was a collection of small woodland animal carcasses; a few rabbits and small rodents, but mainly, birds.
The gamekeeper nodded and almost looked a tad solemn. "That's righ', keep findin' the poor mites scattered abou', particularly round the Willow – bloody menace. Thought I'd skin 'n pluck 'em 'n give the meat to the thestrals, afore the owls get 'em all, no point goin' to waste 'n all that."
Icy rain soon joined the bitter gust and Madam Hooch raised her arm to protect her eyes from the furor. When it died down, she pulled her robes around herself more tightly and sniffed.
"Well, everything looks in order to my eyes, but I certainly don't envy those practising in this." She glanced down once more at the string of game. "Hopefully those fodder carcasses are the only type you'll be peeling off the ground before the day is through, Hagrid."
Hagrid gave out another gruff laugh. "If those kids can play in the middle of an ice storm with abou' thirty dementors curlin' round 'em, n' still manage to stay on their brooms at the finish, I reckon they'll be jus' fine with a bit o' bracin' weather," he said, emphasising the last part with a fist pat to the chest. "Made of tougher stuff than us, most o' them lot."
"Evidently," said Madam Hooch, beginning to turn slowly towards the castle when the rain began to beat down harder, "as I've barely been out here ten minutes and all I would like to partake in right now is a hot cup of tea and a crumpet."
"Get yerself inside, Rolanda, no sense in freezin' out here when ye don't have to be. I'll see the pitch keeps upright…As long as the niffler's haven't seen fit to chew the bolts from the new scaffoldin' yet, o'course," he added as an afterthought.
"Better you than I," said the referee beginning to walk away, "because if Oliver Wood arrives here with his team in a few hours and finds a pile of timber where a stadium once stood, not even Potter will be able to save us from that particular storm."
And she huddled up the trail towards the castle, whilst Hagrid gambled after Fang in the direction of the pitch, laughing over the wuthering squall.
Professor McGonagall made her way up into the cool Great Hall in preparation for breakfast, finding some of her colleagues already present in their flanking positions on the staff table. The Hall echoed slightly with every shuffle and scrape of chairs, each sound heightened with the lack of sufficient background chatter usually provided by a room full of pupils; still early, it was usually expected that very few staff would be present for the earliest part of the morning meal, most taking advantage of a lie-in while they still had the chance.
The headmistress had certainly had her work cut out since her appointment at the culmination of the Battle; leading the colossal team of volunteers which turned the castle around in just over a year, offering as much support as she could to the Ministry in the crack down against free-roaming death eaters, and now planning and hosting a quidditch tournament on top of everything. She had ignored the numerous suggestions to 'calm down' and 'let someone else do that' by her friends and fellows over the past months, which only appeared to've exonerated her more in the eyes of some as the perfect choice for the job.
Professor Flitwick nodded curtly to her whilst biting into a piece of toast. "Good morning, Minerva."
"Good morning, Filius," she said, sitting heavily with a sigh in the centre seat. "Pomona, Poppy," she nodded to each, who returned the greeting.
"Oh my bones, another chilly Hall," groaned the headmistress pulling her robes about herself more tightly before pouring a cup of tea. "I may take to wearing ear muffs for breakfast should this endure."
"Rolanda said the same thing; you just missed her, by the way," said Flitwick.
Professor McGonagall cupped the hot china in her hands and looked over. "Oh? She'll not be joining us?"
"She informs us that the quidditch pitch is in working order, although she, 'can't comment on its sturdiness should this bloody wind keep up," said Professor Sprout with a smile, leaning forward slightly to be seen from down the table.
"She's been out in this? Already?" said McGonagall aghast, indicating to a window behind her where the rain was now bombarding the glass, and the wind was whistling strong through the small gaps between the panes and the stonework. "She couldn't have waited?"
"She didn't stay too long to divulge much, said something about, 'going off to thaw out,' and promptly left again," said Sprout, beginning to chop banana into a bowl of porridge.
"Silly woman, she's probably caught her death out there," remarked Madam Pomfrey with a disapproving expression. "She's not going to be much good to anyone If she's pneumonia-riddled during this quidditch tournament."
"If it goes ahead," said Sprout, apparently thinking out loud. "But I wouldn't bother yourself, Poppy," she went on, offhandedly, "if it were up to Rolanda there'd be 9am quidditch matches every Sunday during term, with compulsory attendance to boot, no matter the elements. We'd all be catching our death then."
There was a small cracking sound and a few house elves appeared in the hall next to the large blazing fire, seemingly to tend to it. It had taken some time for the elves to accept the new equality regime, that they were allowed to be seen during the day time by witches and wizards when seeing to their duties; many still refused, a lifetime of conditioning proving too much to overcome. But little by little they seemed, at least, to be getting more accustomed to the idea, especially when an individual or two led by example; no one would've ever assumed that Kreacher would've taken on such a role, as he prodded the embers with an iron poker, waved pleasantly to the staff, and encouraged his uncomfortable brethren to do the same unfortunately by poking them. At least he was taking baby steps.
"Speaking of quidditch matches, I notice that we're on page 2 of the Prophet," said Flitwick brandishing his copy of the paper at McGonagall. He squinted at the headline peevishly, and shook his head. "Although, how the Minister's hat-knocking altercation with the supreme Mugwump is more fitting for page 1 than the grand re-opening of this school, I shall never know."
"If you think that's ridiculous you should read what they were arguing about," scoffed Sprout as McGonagall took the copy from the charms professor and began to read. "But I don't know what a Sasabonsam is, nor why Mr Akingbade feels Kingsley's mother should resemble one."
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HOGWARTS SCHOOL RE-OPENING – OFF WITHOUT A SNITCH
By Andy Smudgley
'Not a single quaffle thrown, not a single snitch caught, but already the upcoming quidditch inspired grand re-opening of Hogwarts has generated quite the super charged atmosphere worthy of the World Cup itself.
The newly refurbished school - which underwent herculean restoration efforts all through 1998/99 led by newly appointed headmistress, Professor Minerva McGonagall, successor of the late cherished Headmaster Albus Dumbledore - will soon be playing host to an exciting, alumni-led quidditch tournament in order to kick off the new unmarred chapter in Hogwarts' history.
Participants in the event will include names like Roger Davies, 22, - reserve chaser of the Montrose Magpies, and Oliver Wood, 22, – reserve keeper for Puddlemere United; the two teams which will be going head to head in the November finals for the British and Irish Quidditch League. But of course, a celebrity tournament would not be complete without newly appointed Auror, and wizarding world hero, Harry Potter, 18, who will be reprising his role of Seeker for the Gryffindor team.
Potter had this to say, "I think it's a fantastic idea, what better way to turn the page than with something that everyone loves – quidditch, y'know? And I think I speak for everyone when I say I didn't want my last memory of being at Hogwarts to be…what it was. When [Oliver] Wood approached me about it I knew I couldn't say no…but to be honest he didn't give me much choice in the matter. Told me that nothing I'm doing right now is more important than this tournament and to, 'get my, er, behind on my Firebolt and get practising again'. He can get pretty crazed about quidditch, a little bit unhealthy I think…but don't tell anyone I said that."
In the months leading up to the opening, the school's ancient pitch – reduced to a pile of smoking embers following the attacks in May – was meticulously rebuilt, reclothed and resewn in preparation for the big event. But with hundreds of volunteers prepared to give up their time to revive the loved school, work was completed in record time.
However, even with the giant load of planning and preparations on her shoulders, as well as the task of rebuilding a school, headmistress McGonagall still had time to rustle up a few surprises for the teams.
"[…] I won't give it away, but I will say that there's going to be other prizes in store for outstanding players in the tournament, apart from the glory of winning the house cup."
The finals will be expected to take place on Tuesday the 7th of September, but all are welcome to attend all aspects of the games.
"You can place your bets at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes of 93 Diagon Alley, London," says Potter. "Just don't accept their quill to fill in the parchment, apparently it turns into an eel if you do."
[Hogwarts Restored; Continued on Pages 4, 5 and 6.]'
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"You kept that one quiet, Minerva," said Sprout, leaning over Flitwick to glance at the page. "Care to share these surprises?"
Professor McGonagall put down the paper, looking a tad indifferent. "To be honest it wasn't even my idea. It was Bagman's."
"Oh lord," said Flitwick with a grimace. "He's not going to be joining in is he?"
"Thankfully not," said McGonagall, not exactly hiding her relief. "No, he approached me whilst I was at the Ministry to meet with the Head of the Transportation Dept, I was interested in maybe setting up some apparition points incase we're inundated with spectators. But anyway, Ludo came up to me as I was leaving, and said he thought it'd spice up the contest a bit to give a guaranteed place in the try-outs for the reserves of the English National Team to the most outstanding player."
"That's quite a prize," said Flitwick slightly taken aback. "And Bagman suggested it?"
"I smell a sweep," said Sprout.
"That's what I told him," said McGonagall, eyebrow raised. "But he was adamant that he'd play no part in the gambling and just thought it'd make a more interesting competition. I couldn't find any reason why not so I told him he could sign away as long as kept his nose out of the bookies."
"He's definitely up to something," continued Sprout, without looking up.
"Maybe he has learned his lesson," mused Madam Pomfrey. "Spending 6 months on the run from goblins is bound to change one's priorities."
"Well, I shan't be holding my breath," said McGonagall shrewdly, picking up the Daily Prophet once more and turning a few pages.
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NOTT SO INNOCENT AFTER ALL?
By R. Almeidus
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ANOTHER KETTLE OF FISH – NEW DEVELOPMENTS TIP THE SCALES
By A. Fenetre
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OCCAM'S RAZOR SLICES INTO MUGGLE POULTRY FARMING
By Andy Smudgley
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A SNAKE IN THE GRASS? OR JUST A DARK HORSE? – THE CURIOUS HUNT CONTINUES
By E. Limus
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"Sometimes it feels as though Voldemort is still running around, with all these investigations," frowned McGonagall. "Mysterious goings on, disappearances, people you think you knew showing their true colours…"
Professor Flitwick glanced over his teacup at her with a knowing look. "You're referring to…?"
Professor McGonagall pointed at a particular headline, and the charms professor nodded solemnly.
"I thought as much," he said, taking a sip of tea. "Yes, read it earlier. Of all the hare-brained-"
The headmistress became a bit ruffled. "I mean, all things considered, I'm not entirely surprised, it's well within character. It's just…I mean…surely you would at least have the sense to keep a low profile - especially if you'd attained that level of experience!" she said slightly incredulous. "Not that I'm defending the practise…"
"And then not turning up to your own hearing," said Sprout joining in with a tut. "By the sounds of things there was no warning, Magical Law Enforcement just landed and raided the place; no-body home, but found all sorts…But saying that, had I been in the same situation I might've done a runner too."
"Aptly put," said Poppy.
Sprout raised her glass in acknowledgement of the inside joke.
"Definitely sounds like a tip off," Flitwick stated. "The MLE don't just turn up without a good reason."
"Considering they reported talk of the hearing in the paper 2 weeks ago, suggests they've known of something for quite some time," said McGonagall.
"Suppose Lucius Malfoy knew something?" pointed out Sprout. "He's made it pretty clear that he's not afraid to drop anyone in the dung heap these days, if it means he stays out of the slammer."
"If that's true then that just raises more questions than answers," said McGonagall, critically.
The plump witch nodded. "Thankfully it's not our job to answer them."
"The Magical Law Enforcement say they found 'years worth of experimentation," said McGonagall, aghast, as she read further on. "It really makes you think on what the motives were when you get to numbers like that. Was it for research or something darker?"
"Who can say?" said Sprout. "But if I had to guess I'd go for morbid curiosity and the thrill of the danger of it. Like Hagrid and his bloody skrewts."
"And the local chicken farms getting involved…"
Flitwick let out a mirthless laugh. "Definitely not a coincidence. Pure carelessness in my opinion."
"Dear Merlin," sighed McGonagall poring over the text.
"The part that get's me is where they say 'signs of spell damage to the inside," said Sprout buttering a crumpet. "Almost as if there'd been a struggle."
"Yes, that certainly never bodes well, and especially in these circumstances, it bodes even worse," pointed out Flitwick. "If one is firing stunning spells at the walls then it either means you're trying to keep something out, or trying to keep something in."
"Or you're under the influence of something," said Pomfrey knowledgeably.
All cocked their head in admittance.
"Well I hope for all our sakes that it's the last option," said the headmistress, putting down the paper. "A drunken individual is a damn sight more favourable to deal with than an unhinged one, as we all know."
The atmosphere took on a slightly more grave quality as she muttered these words. Although the events of the last year had already seemed so long ago, certain sights and sounds would forever be pressed into the memories of the staff. The defeat of Voldemort had come with a hefty price to both life and lot.
"On the subject of sight, you aren't looking yourself this morning, Minerva," said Pomfrey with a critical eye, peering over her cup at her.
McGonagall waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing to worry about Poppy, I can assure you. Just a bad night's sleep is all; I'd be surprised if anyone was fully rested this morning with the howling we were at the mercy of last night. Just after I'd finally managed to get to sleep, a huge bird flew noisily into my window around 4 o' clock this morning," she divulged, grimacing slightly. "I near had kittens, no pun intended."
There was a sudden gasp at the other side of the staff table, shortly followed by the sound of the trophy room door closing shut, and a cacophony of metal objects colliding with one another, as if someone who was prone to wearing wrist bangles had placed their hands to their mouth in fright.
McGonagall jerked around at the sound. "Oh! Professor Trelawney, I didn't even see you come in."
"Speaking of drunken individuals…" muttered Sprout under her breath.
Professor Trelawney, however, did not return the greeting, but rather continued to look horror struck at the headmistress. Her magnified eyes appeared even larger than usual under her thick spectacles, and a skeletal hand gripped her heart as she began whispering to herself. "The seventh sign, it has occurred…"
"…Professor Trelawney?"
"Minerva – my dear – was it living? Or did it meet its demise? O-of what kind was it? A rook? A lark?"
McGonagall blinked. "I'm afraid you've lost me, Sybill."
The crazed-looking woman shuffled slightly along the table, stumbling over a chair in the process. "My dear, 'if the bird in fleeing the tempest should perish upon the pane, great turmoil will befall the house of its passing," she recited, ghostily.
A couple of the teachers rolled their eyes.
But Trelawney went on, not seeing them. "Tis one of the oldest omen's of death in the world! The demise of the crow family is the worst of all, foretelling of dark happenings to come, and great danger."
The fire gave out an especially loud snap.
"No, I'm afraid that I didn't manage to catch the particular species, Sybill," said McGonagall dryly. "But I'm sure the creature flew away just fine."
The old occultist hadn't mellowed much since the war, if anything, becoming a bit more gung ho with her various predictions and mystical gossipings since learning of her prophecies about Harry Potter. Just over the past six weeks alone, she had claimed to've predicted profound future events of 16 people, and seen no less than 27 omens of misfortune pertaining to each member of staff at least once. To be fair, the faculty hadn't found this too distressing, since many of them had placed bets on the various outcomes within the British and Irish quidditch league; since 3 of the teams had already been pulled due to several blatant acts of sabotage – such as cursing the beater's bats of opposing teams to strike the holder around the head and neck every time they were swung – and possession of physically enhancing substances like Niffler Retina Concentrate – which when taken gives the recipient highly keen vision for metallic objects – many felt that their quota of 'misfortune' had been met with the loss of their gold.
"Won't you sit and have some breakfast?" said McGonagall a bit more chipper, indicating to the chair next to her.
Professor Trelawney began to wring her hands, but her voice gained more strength as if she was steeling herself. "I had only planned to descend this morning with the intention of passing on a message, Headmistress. The concerns I came to you about are unwavering, and I would urge you more than ever to heed the signs before it is too late."
Professor McGonagall put down her cup, and looked over her glasses. "And I recall telling you I cannot cancel this competition when all manner of checks have been made to ensure that it runs like clockwork, and nothing has been revealed. I have had Rolanda check the pitch umpteen times since its renewal, and all of the teachers have been extra vigilant in concerns to sabotage-"
Pomona coughed slightly and turned a page of The Daily Prophet.
"-and there is nothing out of the ordinary to suggest any sort of foul play," she finished.
Professor Trelawney inflated slightly. "Each time I draw the cards: The Moon, The Devil and The Seven of Swords! Plot, obsession, and stealth. Each time I read the leaves: The Toad, The Claw and The Serpent! Deceit, scandal, and a spiteful enemy."
Her mouth went incredibly thin for a moment, almost rivaling similar expressions by Professor McGonagall, before continuing. "I approached the Headmaster with these same concerns before the events of the tower. He also chose to ignore the warnings."
The table went quiet save for the gusts of wind and water against the castle.
"He did not ignore you, Sybill," said McGonagall, gently. "Just as I am not ignoring you, now."
Trelawney became less gesticulative for a moment, and looked towards the windows sulkily. "Even…the nag proposes caution after reading the heavens. Not that I would take the word of one of his ilk over my own, but some manifestations are even visible to those with the poorest sight."
Professor McGonagall took on an unreadable expression for a moment. She had not seen Firenze for a long while, not since the centaurs had opted to let him return to the forest. As the divination teacher had always spoken ill of the being, she was slightly confused how they'd apparently been in contact. But then remembering who she was talking to, she decided not to dwell on the accuracy of the claim. "Thankyou Sybill, once more, I shall keep all that in mind."
The headmistress kept finding herself uncharacteristically wary these days whenever she heard of one of the divination teacher's foreboding portents, especially the ones where she would be physically visited by the woman. Were it not for the fact that she had been personally told by Harry of the events leading up to the final battle between himself and Voldemort, and the surprising truth behind the seer's words, she'd currently be turning the other cheek as she would've done months ago.
But before she could ponder anymore on the subject, Mr Filch the caretaker came through the grand doors to the hall looking equal parts baffled and incredulous.
"Yes Mr Filch?" called the headmistress. "Is something the matter."
There was a bustling sound coming from the entrance hall, and a multitude of raised voices.
"Are we expecting a maintenance crew, Ma'am?" said the scraggly man, his jowls aquiver.
"No, why?"
"Because a bunch of rain-sodden cloaked wizards have just turned up with broomsticks, and said they're here to 'give the quidditch pitch a bloody good seeing to," said Filch, as the air outside groaned and roiled around the castle grounds, stripping trees evermore of their branches, and ruffling the feathers of a lone supine, black rook; the unseeing eyes fixed on its grand oaken counterparts from the base of Gryffindor tower.
A/N: Some eagle-eyed readers may find quite the few Easter eggs littered about this story...I'll say no more.
