Author's Note: "Harry Potter" and all associated characters are the intellectual property of JK Rowling. All ideas and characters taken from that world are the intellectual property of JK Rowling and her publishers. This is a work of fanfiction, published under the Creative Commons Attribution No-derivatives Non-Commercial license.

American Quidditch

Harry walked through the crowd, staring up at the massive stadium which towered up above them just a few hundred yards away. It was an awe-inspiring sight, certainly equal to the great Quidditch stadiums of the premier professional leagues in Britain. Perhaps this would be worthy even of hosting the Quidditch World Cup, if the exterior of the structure was anything to judge by. Then he noticed the odd, triangular shaped goals that towered up above even the outer walls of the stadium and shook his head.

Americans and their strange ideas.

Harry looked down at his two sons, Albus Severus and James Potter II, and gave them the warm smile that he was now known for the wizarding world over. "Well, boys, what do you think?" he asked them.

"Oh, dad, this is great!" Albus exclaimed excitedly, dashing around the tall stalks of corn that surrounded both them and the stadium with an excited grin on his face. "It's just like Grandma and Grandpa's place, but with a giant stadium!" Albus was enjoying every moment of this trip. He didn't often get to go with his dad on his international missions.

"Why did they put a Quidditch pitch like this out here, anyway, dad?" the older son asked inquisitively. "It's out in the middle of a cornfield."

Harry clasped James' shoulder in a fatherly fashion. "Well, for one, it is pretty far from any Muggle cities. It's easy enough to disillusion the stadium from any passing cars and put up Muggle repelling charms around the area to keep out any strays. But why exactly here, I can't really say."

"Perhaps I can help you out there, Ambassador Potter," a warm voice said from behind them, back the direction of the apparition point where they had arrived just moments earlier. The man quickly came up and shook Harry's hand. "I'm Bruce Russell, from the US Department of Magic's International Relations Division."

"A pleasure," Harry said as he took the man's hand.

"Please, follow me," Bruce said, gesturing towards the stadium. Bruce was a tall man, half a foot taller than Harry, with pale blue eyes and sandy blond hair. He was dressed in a modest suit and wearing a yellow tie that had witches and wizards riding around on brooms flying about for its pattern. The man had a sort of affable smile and casual way of walking and talking that immediately set Harry at ease. After all the stifling formality of British wizarding culture and official governmental protocol, his casual style was a breath of fresh air. Harry got quite enough of formality back home, and even more when abroad on official business.

Bruce gestured to the stadium and surrounding land. "This place began as a cornfield, until sometime in the 1980s when the field owner, one of the latently magical, had something of a vision and turned the place into a baseball field." Bruce saw Albus's confusion and added, "Baseball is a non-magic game similar to cricket." Albus nodded. He had seen a bit of cricket before among the Muggle children.

As the group walked through the cornfield towards the stadium, Bruce continued to give the history of the site. "It turned out that the field owner was unknowingly in contact with a phantom—in fact an entire group of phantoms. The baseball field eventually became a sort of magical focus, drawing the attention of magical beings from all over the area. Once the field was completed it attracted the magically attuned from miles and miles around."

"Excuse me, sir," James interrupted, "but why would a phantom want someone to build a baseball field?"

At this point, Harry stepped in, "To fulfill their purpose in life. You see, a phantom is like a ghost. Some people even call them a sub-type of ghost. But unlike Nearly-Headless Nick or the Bloody Baron, phantoms remain invisible to normal sight unless they find someone whose purpose is tuned to theirs. Most phantoms then try to persuade or trick that person into fulfilling their purpose. Of course some just come right out and directly ask for help, which sounds like what happened here."

"Great way of explaining it, Ambassador," Bruce acknowledged with a nod. "These phantoms were all latent magical folk in America who had a connection to the game of baseball in some way or another. In order for them to fulfill their purpose and cross-over, they needed a chance to play together. The only way to do that would be to gather enough of them that they would be strong enough to manifest physically and to do that they would need a magical location to anchor them.

"Of course, when the government became aware of this, we had to step in. We couldn't afford another visible gathering of magic like that. We have enough trouble with Roswell and Area 51 as it is." Bruce shook his head wearily. "So we warded the place, detained and debriefed all the latent magicals who had no previous knowledge of the magical world, and then repurposed the field for Quidditch."

"Interesting story, that, Mr. Russell," Harry said. "I'm looking forward to seeing how you Americans have managed to balls-up the wizarding world's favorite pastime."

Bruce chuckled. "Well, that's why we're here. Glad you could make it out on your busy schedule. Or 'shedule' as you Brits say it."

Harry grinned back, thinking of some of the boys back at the Ministry he knew who actually did say it that way, and the four began making their way through the corn towards the stadium. As they got closer, they noticed a steady stream of spectators weaving through the rows of corn, laughing and yelling as they got closer to the stadium. Harry and his sons got their first look at typical American witches and wizards and were surprised by their appearance. They looked almost nothing like wizards in Britain. There were no robes or pointed hats. Instead, there were T-shirts, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. If Harry hadn't known the place was warded against non-magicals, he would have thought them all Muggles.

"You mustn't gawk at the riff-raff, Scorpius," a callous voice called just a little too loudly. "Now come along. We have our place in the VIP box to get to and I want to spend as little time among these…Americans….as I can."

Harry shook his head, a faint smile turning his lips. "Draco Malfoy," he muttered to himself.

Sure enough, the familiar platinum blond aristocrat and his son, whose hair matched his own, came into a view a few steps further. A series of emotions crossed Draco's face as soon as he came face to face with the Potters. First there was annoyance and dislike, which quickly gave way to regret, and was followed by a false smile and acknowledgment. It all flashed by in but an instant, but Harry missed none of it.

"Ah, Ambassador Potter," Draco said, stressing the title a bit. "I didn't realize that they had invited you to this event."

Harry had similar mixed feelings about the former Death Eater before him, though he had gotten past their childhood rivalry-for the most part. Draco had a lot to make up for, but his actions since the end of the war had been honorable. Harry's smile was genuine, though not exactly warm, as he took Draco's gloved hand. He respected Draco for who he had become, despite the aristocrat still holding onto many of his old prejudices. Harry's children, however, were openly glaring at Scorpius, and the blond was returning the look with interest.

Draco had dressed himself in a fine wizard's coat, trimmed with white and silver along the front, and a thick cloak, black as coal, trailing behind him. Scorpius was dressed similarly, but without the fancy trim or cloak. It was much different to Harry, James, and Albus, who had dressed in semi-casual Muggle clothing. Where Harry and his children fit in more or less, The Malfoys showed a stark contrast with the casual clothes worn by the locals.

"Draco, Scorpius," Harry nodded as he took the man's hand then shook the hand of the younger Malfoy in turn, "A bit of a surprise to see you out here in 'the Americas'," he said, affecting a faux posh accent and eliciting a chuckle from Russell.

Draco nodded back. "Scorpius and I are along to meet with one of the sponsors of the event. The Blackstone Company. I'm sure you've heard of them, one of the most prestigious of old American magical families. We are looking at a little international trade deal," he drawled, doing his best to seem to not be making a big deal out of it, despite that clearly being his intention.

"Well, good luck with that then," Harry answered amiably. "Draco, this is Mr. Bruce Russell, with the United States government. He's the equivalent of our Ministry's Head of the Department of International Cooperation."

Bruce and Draco shook hands. "A pleasure, Mr. Malfoy. Your first time at an American Quidditch Match?" At Draco's nod, Bruce flashed him a smile. "Well, then I hope you enjoy it. It's Ambassador Potter's-Harry's-first exposure to it, too. We'll probably see you in the box along with the Blackstones," Bruce said with a smile as they reached the entry gates and the long line to get in.

Draco and Scorpius took their leave and pushed their way through to the front of the line that had formed. The sound of jeers about the way Draco and Scorpius dressed and catcalls followed the two purebloods as they ignored the line and went straight to the entrance. Draco snarled at them and lashed out with his own insults.

Bruce flashed a badge and a uniformed security guard quickly escorted Harry and his boys up to the gate, past the Malfoys and the screening checkpoint. They arrived just in time to hear the exchange between the Malfoys and a large, female security guard who was roughly feeling up the blond haired man's breast coat pocket.

"Now see here!" Draco exclaimed, "I am a Malfoy and a guest of the Blackstones! You will not lay a hand on me, you filthy woman!"

"What did you just say?" the woman asked in an angry tone. "I don't work for the Blackstones, whoever you are. Rule is that we inspect everyone who comes through these gates for dark objects and curses, and that includes pompous, overdressed punks like you. Now spread your arms out before I break something you don't want broken!"

"Outrageous!" Draco frothed as he was frisked by the woman.

"See you inside, Scorpius," James said with a smirk as they were waved through without an inspection. As they went through, Harry's oldest son mouthed the words "diplomatic privilege" and gave a cocky wave to his blond schoolmate who was scowling back in the line, waiting his turn to be humiliated.

"James, don't be rude," Harry admonished his son, though he could certainly understand the boy's sentiment. It was nice to see the Malfoys being treated as if they were "common" and watch others get special treatment. Nonetheless, he didn't want his son to act like a Malfoy, even if only towards an actual Malfoy.

"Sorry about the treatment of your countrymen, Ambassador Potter. We're a bit paranoid about security at events like this," Bruce apologized.

"Call me Harry," Harry replied. "And I understand the need for security. We had quite a scare ourselves at the Quidditch World Cup while I was still in school during the war. I'm sure Draco will be fine. His pride can stand for a bit of a ruffling."

The trip up through the stands afforded the group a good view of the pitch. The interior of the stadium was favorably comparable to what he had seen at various Quidditch World Cup events and at the professional Quidditch matches he had seen. It had seating that rose up high into the air, staggered to allow spectators to have a great view of the pitch. The stairways and aisles were spacious, and cleverly spelled decorations flashed and moved all along the stands. But Harry found himself staring open-mouthed at one of the chief differences between the American Quidditch field and the standard Quidditch pitch played internationally.

"You have nets!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Russell gave Harry a puzzled look. "Of course," he replied, "in case someone falls from a broom. Not that we rely on just the nets, Ambassador, we also have placed cushioning charms on the surface. Trust me, it is quite safe. We rarely ever have a serious injury. Why? Not quite up to British standards? What do you use back 'across the pond'?"

Harry muttered something to himself, then skillfully changed the subject. He would be looking into making sure that nets and cushioning charms would be installed on British pitches the minute he got back to London. And Hogwarts would be putting them up before James, Albus, or little Lily would be playing so much as a practice game.

When Mr. Russell and the Potters arrived in the box they were immediately greeted by a number of bowing men dressed in fancy tuxedos. "Mister Russell, sir, Mr. Potter," one of them said. "I am Nate. If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Nate," Bruce said with a smile. "Some Faery Fizz for the youngsters and I think a Salem Scotch for the ambassador and me."

The servers left with something of a bow, which Harry found a little odd considering what he knew of American Wizarding culture. The Americas did not hold with the same class stratification as the British and French, considering bowing and other shows of subservience to be distasteful. The owning of house elves was strictly illegal here, as was any form of slavery; the former colonies had quite the aversion to anything that reminded them of that particular stain on their history. Moreover, Harry was coming to realize that American wizards were much closer to their Muggle counterparts both socially and culturally than Europeans.

The VIP box, however, was closer to what Harry was accustomed to among British wizards. This magically expanded space was luxuriously appointed, a series of rounded alcoves covered in embroidered cushions. The walls and floors were a shining crystal and the room was lit with magically bright candlelight. More importantly, the wizards and witches were dressed in the more eccentric wizarding style that Harry had come to associate with the magical world.

"Ambassador Potter, let me introduce you to what could be considered the cream of American aristocracy," Bruce said, as the various witches and wizards rose to greet them. "This lovely lady is one of the premier witches of America, Ms Wanda Wessley of the San Diego Wessleys." The witch, dressed in a deep red colored formal robe took Harry's hand.

"And with her are Mr. Jonathan Copperfield of New York and Mr. David Faust of Chicago, two of our most illustrious wizards." Harry took their hands and exchanged pleasantries.

"This is Mr. Oscar Diggs, Mr. Rob Jackson, and Miss Anna Taz." The latter was a witch wearing a top hat and a very revealing performers outfit who flashed Harry a very mischievous smile.

Continuing down the line, Harry was next introduced to a stunning blond haired witch named Samantha Stephens and her Muggle husband. The Russo and Spellman families were next in line, followed by the Blackstones, Balthazar Blake, and the Presscotts. Harry spent a minute speaking with Mr. Blackstone, feeling him out on his intentions with the Malfoys.

The door opened to the outside, momentarily letting the sound of the now raucous stadium fill the box. "And these are Ambassador Potter's countrymen, Mr. Draco Malfoy and his son, Scorpius. A very distinguished family in Magical Britain." Father and son made their way into the room, a somewhat harried, and put upon look on the elder Malfoy's face. Bruce Russell gave a charming smile as he included the late coming Brits, for which Draco gave a grateful incline of his head.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy," Blackstone said with a smile. "Glad you could make it."