Professor Muggle and the Toffees

by TLX

Sometimes, even with good planning, things can go wrong. Without planning, it's a whole other ball game. Written as part of the Teachers Lounge Holiday Exchange for MuggleBeene by respitechristopher.

"Professor Boyd, I understand the need for ever more challenging lessons for your NEWT-level students, but think of the logistics, please. You want to take twenty sixteen- and seventeen-year-old children to Liverpool? Moreover, three days before a Hogsmeade weekend?"

"But Headmaster," I pleaded, "it's part of their heritage as English – er, British people. From what I've seen of Muggle Britain, without a firm grounding in at least the basics of this subject, they'll be spotted as outsiders immediately. I've done as much as I can in the classroom, but there's really only so much one can teach without actual field work."

"Are you certain you can make the arrangements, Professor?" Titus asked.

"Of course I can," I replied, lying through my teeth. "I'll make sure we come back to the castle with at least 90% of the children we left with."

I thought that was funny. Headmaster Titus didn't agree.

"You're a good man, Hank," he said, still frowning. "And I'm giving you a lot of rope here. Don't use it to hang yourself."

I left the meeting with Headmaster Titus a little leery of what I'd planned to do with my NEWT students, but also more than a little excited. My twenty sixth- and seventh-year students were going to accompany me to their first soccer game. I chose Everton for two reasons. First of all, that was the club I'd been following since '08, when I started watching British sports. Cricket was much too foreign, even for a baseball fan, and Rugby, while fun enough to watch, wasn't anything that a bit of downfield blocking and the occasional forward pass couldn't fix. And I wasn't simply going to stop watching sports because I'd moved away from Virginia. So soccer it was. And in '07-'08 Everton was the story of the year in English soccer – er, football. And while Scotland has a perfectly good league of its own, the game in England was just better, and more available on TV, so there you are. Secondly, there was the matter of the best American player in history playing for them on loan. OK, so it was a terribly selfish thing on my part, but I'm a Muggle, and an American, and if I wanted to make a field trip to a soccer game part of the curriculum, then I could certainly do that.

"Class, how many of you have ever seen a football match?" I asked my seventh-years. When the only hand that went up belonged to Peter Sawgrass's younger brother Alan, I knew I was in some trouble.

"Are you talking about proper football, or that tarted-up Rugby you Yanks play?" he asked.

"Right. That's another five points from Slytherin, Mr. Sawgrass. Now, is that none of you? Very well. In three weeks' time both NEWT sections will be headed to Goodison Park to watch a match. Ten points to the first person who can tell me which team plays their home matches at Goodison." Three hands went up.

"Miss Knowles?"

"Would that be Liverpool FC, Professor Muggle?" she replied.

"No, and that's five points from Hufflepuff for giving that particular wrong answer. I'll give you those five back plus another five if you can tell me why that answer was so wrong at supper this evening. Yes, Miss Falkirk?"

"Everton, sir?"

"Very good. Five points to Hufflepuff. Now, how did you know this?"

"From the Guardian subscription you made us get this year, sir. I've been reading the sport pages, too."

Flora Falkirk was our Quidditch captain, and that she was reading the sports section did not surprise me in the least. Gwenog had been scouting her quite heavily for Harpies (for the Harpies. Shit. I'm becoming British already, aren't I?) and she looked a lock to be playing for a living next year and quite a few years thereafter.

"As well you should have. Now, for the next three weeks we will be discussing football, and I will endeavor to call it that, as much as it makes me think of the – how did you put it, Mr. Sawgrass?"

"Tarted up Rugby, sir?"

"And that's another five from Slytherin."

"But that's not fair, Professor Muggle, I was just answering your question."

"And what else isn't fair, Mr. Sawgrass?"

"Life, sir," he answered, quite defeated.

"Very good. That's five points to Slytherin. Right, then. Yes, regardless of my national origin, as this classroom is in Great Britain, we shall call the game football. Now, please break up into two groups of four, because I am going to assign presentations on the subject."

My Hufflepuffs, as they are wont to do, collected together, leaving Mr. Sawgrass, a Gryffindor and two Ravenclaws as the other group.

"Very good. Hufflepuffs, your presentation will be on the 2009-2010 Premier League season. I want to know who's good, who's bad, who's just come up and who looks like they're going down. Tell me who the stars of the league are this season, and which managers are on the hot seat. And for the non-Hufflepuffs, I want you to give me a complete history of the Premier League. I'll want to know how it got started, what teams are historically good, which sides have won the championship in what years, and who the best players have been. Your presentations will be fifteen minutes, and you will present on the 10th of February; the day of the match, in a joint class with the sixth-years. That evening, after supper, we will portkey to Liverpool and then watch a match between Everton and Chelsea, after which we will portkey back to the castle gates. Is that clear?"

I took the silent nodding of heads to mean that my assignment was understood, and then I launched into the first of what would be three half-hour lessons on the history of football, leaving the last half of the double period as time for the students to begin work on their projects.

In my sixth-year section, I handed out three assignments (as there were twelve students in that section); The Laws of the Game, a History of Everton FC, and an overview of international football in Europe. Lavinia was practically vibrating with excitement by the time class ended, so I allowed her to bound up to my desk to greet me after class.

"Hank, this is brilliant! Are we really going to see the Toffees in person? Is Melody coming, too? Can we get good seats? Can I meet Arteta – Merlin, is he fit."

"Breathe, Lavinia," I replied with a chuckle. "No, Melody will not be coming. She's seven months pregnant, and really doesn't feel like being jostled about with 36,000 other people. I have no idea where our seats are, other than they're most certainly not near a firm, but the park isn't so big that we'll have trouble seeing the game. And no, we will not be meeting any of the players, fit or otherwise. Now, as you've been watching Everton play on a regular basis, I expect your group's presentation on the club's history to be exceptional, is that clear?"

"Yes, professor," Lavinia replied, a bit chastened. I smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

"And by the way, Melody thinks he's dreamy, too. Now go, I think you have Herbology next. Tell Professor Longbottom I kept you after class."

That evening, of course, my supper was interrupted by one Miss Knowles, who was very eager to tell me about the rivalry between Liverpool and Everton and the 100-plus year rivalry between them. And that was ten points well-earned for Hufflepuff.

---

"You're serious about this, aren't you?" Harry asked me about a week later. He'd dropped by during one of my free periods, hoping to dissuade me from this particular field trip.

"As a matter of fact, yes," I answered. "How do you expect them to be able to fit in with Muggle society if they don't know the basics of a football match? And if they've never been? And what better way to show them the game than to see it live? To experience the culture first-hand? Besides, they're perfectly safe. There hasn't been a WLF attack in years. "

"Of course," Harry snarked. "And I'm sure unleashing twenty sixteen- and seventeen-year-old witches and wizards into the middle of bloody Liverpool is the height of safety, right?"

"They're well-behaved, Harry, really," I pleaded. "Look, if this doesn't work out, I'll never do it again. Promise."

"Oh, it'll work out," Harry said. "But that's because we'll have the place top to bottom packed with Aurors – Aurors that the Ministry really can't afford to be giving overtime to right now, mind. But we'll be there."

I thought for a second, and then I chuckled. "You had to turn some of your people away for this assignment, didn't you, mate?"

Harry sighed. "You'd've thought they'd never seen a sporting event before. Soon as word got out that there'd be a live football match to patrol, the place went bonkers. Good thing I'd penciled in Ron before it got full; he'd've never spoken to me again."

"Well, I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused your corps, Harry, but as you can see, this will be quite the learning experience. For all of us, I imagine. Now, were you able to score those tickets?"

"They aren't cheap, you know," he replied. "Took a bit of doing, and maybe a wand or two, but I have 25 tickets in two rows for the students, yourself, a couple of chaperones, and me and Ron."

Now I really had to laugh. "This must be some outing if the Head Auror himself needs to patrol. For safety, of course."

"Right. Safety. Chaperones will be Ginny and Arthur. Molly's minding the little ones while we're out. So, all settled, then? There'll be a portkey made that will take everyone to a secure location behind a Chinese restaurant. We'll have the tickets there. From the portkey location it's a quick walk. And do make sure they're dressed appropriately, Hank. No robes or pointy hats or any other wizard-identifying clothing."

"Of course. That's part of their assignment, actually. And that's also why this is limited to my NEWT sections; if they get it wrong, they can transfigure something that's right."

"Excellent," Harry replied. "Oh, and have you thought of the colors? I don't want someone wearing the visitors' colors whilst in Liverpool, you know?"

"Both blue. Isn't a problem."

"Well, I'll be off, then. Looks like you have things well in hand here."

And before I knew it, the day of the trip had arrived. The students, along with Harry, Ron, Ginny and Arthur all assembled in the Great Hall, decked out in blue. I handed five points for each Everton shirt I saw, and docked Slytherin five for Sawgrass appearing in a Chelsea kit.

"Alright, gather 'round everyone. Here's forty pounds apiece. You'll be able to get a bit of something at the park with that, but not much. And no confunding the concession workers to get yourselves a beer; even you lot that's over 18 don't have any ID – er, proof on you. Now, mind the Aurors, and Mrs. Potter and Mr. Weasley. There will be other Aurors watching, so don't go fiddling with your wands during the game, got it?"

"Got it?!" I repeated, after hearing no response.

There was a mumbled reply this time, and I figured that was probably as good as I was going to get.

"Very well then. Portkey leaves in a minute, so everyone grab on to this bicycle tire."

I've never quite gotten used to the feel of a portkey, but there's no denying the convenience. And, just as advertised, it dropped us down just a few hundred yards from the stadium, all lit-up, with fans already beginning to stream in, and a line of cars half a mile long on the motorway trying to make the turn onto Spellow Lane.

"Alright, everyone here? Good," I said before the kids had too long to look around. "Auror Potter has your tickets. We're all sitting together, so just grab one and file along behind me. When we get to the stadium, take a moment to look at your ticket. You'll see a section, a row and a seat number. The section will be marked off in the stadium, then the rows go A-Z upward, and the seat should be fairly self-explanatory. Are there any questions? Yes, Miss Byrd?"

"It's cold out here, Professor," Miss Byrd complained. "Could we use a warming charm so as not to freeze to death in the stands?"

I looked at Harry. Even by this point, the intricacies of the Statutes of Secrecy were not my strong suit.

"If you're of age, and if you can do so discretely, yes. You may use a warming charm to keep warm," he said, using as much gravitas in his voice as he could muster. That seemed to please a number of the students, so I hoped that matter had been settled.

We walked through what may have been a housing project, or Council Houses, as they're known here, and then on to Spellow. From there it was easy to cross the street and walk in a line to the stadium. Even without asking them to, the students followed along in rows of two, and I felt rather like a mother duck leading her ducklings across a highway.

"You know, Arthur," I said when I'd noticed this. "This is exactly why I never taught children back in the States. Never wanted to lead a parade like this."

Arthur laughed. "I suppose, Hank. But even if it's just seven of them, it's good to know where they all are."

"Oi, is that singing?" I heard from the back. "Hope that's not going to be on the test; I can't sing for shite!"

"Language back there," I admonished. "And yes, there is singing at a football match. Ten points to whoever knows what song that is."

There was silence, and honestly I was glad for that, because with the thick Scouse accents, I couldn't make out a word they were singing.

We got to the stadium, and I let them loose to find their own way to the seats. I personally have no patience whatsoever once I arrive at a ballpark, so I went down first, along with Arthur, who was just as excited to see something so incredibly Muggle as a soccer game. Imagine my surprise when the usher looked at me and said

"You're in the wrong section, mate."

I thought perhaps I hadn't understood him correctly, what with the accent and all, so I just kind of looked at him.

"I'm sorry," I said, in my best Virginia drawl. "Didn't quite understand you; what did you say?"

"You're in the wrong section. This is the Chelsea supporters' section," he repeated, and this time his enunciation was such that there was no way I could feign ignorance.

"Son of a – Look, pal," I began, again trying to be conscious of keeping my foreign accent. "I've got 20 kids from a boarding school over here, plus four chaperones, and we're all seated together, all in Everton kits. How can we fix this?"

"You want your money back?" he asked.

"No I don't want the money back," I replied, a bit annoyed. "We came a long way to see this, and are you going to tell 20 kids they can't watch a soccer match?"

"Right. Hold on, then," he said, and Arthur's eyes just about popped out of his skull when he saw the usher on his walkie-talkie.

"Is that a mobile phone?" Arthur whispered. "I've always wanted to see one of those up close."

"No, that's called a walkie-talkie," I replied. "At least that's what we call it back home; no idea if you use the same name for it here."

While we were waiting for the usher to finish his conversation, Ron showed up with a couple of meat pies and a Coke.

"What's going on?" he asked. "What's the holdup? I want to see the pitch – thought that's why we came early."

"We're in the wrong section, Ron," I answered. "We're in the Chelsea supporters' section."

"Brilliant! Some real aggro then? Take it to those –"

I stopped Ron before he could go much further, but apparently the usher, who'd finished his mysterious walkie-talkie conversation, had already heard him.

"He with your lot?" he asked.

"Not if he keeps that up," I replied.

"See that you keep an eye on him, then. It's not 1985, you know. Anyway, someone from fan relations is going to be down in a bit to get this all sorted out. Meantime, if you could just, I don't know, step over there or something. Don't want you causing a riot when the Chelsea fans get 'ere."

I didn't either, so I stepped to the side while Ron and Arthur, who were wearing blue but not necessarily Everton blue, waited for Harry and Ginny by the usher. Eventually the gentleman from Fan Relations did make his way to us; a very salesman-like character in a pinstriped suit and blue tie, with a short haircut and glasses. I'm not sure I'd've bought a used car from him, but he looked as though he'd try to sell me one regardless.

"I see. So it looks as though we've a spot of bother here," he said in as BBC an accent as I've heard outside a television set, and it was all I could do to stop myself from laughing.

"Er, yeah. A spot of bother," I answered. "We purchased 25 tickets, and they all seem to be in the Chelsea supporters' section. Obviously we can't sit there, but I don't see how you could possibly have 25 seats together in any other section."

"Yes, that is a problem. Tell me, when you purchased these tickets, did you say you were with the visiting fans?"

"I don't know. I wasn't the one who bought them. Oh, wait. Here's Harry. He's the one who bought them."

I waved Harry over, and he and Ginny could see there was trouble a mile away, so he picked up the pace and joined us.

"Harry Potter, sir," he said, very officiously. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"It seems, Mister Potter, that the tickets you purchased were for the visiting supporters' section. Is that where you meant to purchase them, sir?"

"I don't think so," Harry said. "She asked me 'home or away support,' and as we're not from Liverpool, I reckoned 'away' would be the right answer. This is the first time I've done this, you see."

"You don't say," the guy in the suit said. "Well, we do have a problem then, don't we? I'm going to speak with the events director; perhaps we can accommodate you in some way."

"Right. Okay, cheers, then. We'll be right here," Harry said, and I could see the defeat in his face.

"Sorry, mate. I know this was a big thing for you and all. Maybe we can plan it better or something, catch another game?"

"Why don't we see what they come up with before we throw in the towel, okay? It might have only been 170 Galleons to you, but that's over 1700 bucks to me, and that's not money a ballclub is just going to throw away."

Sure enough, it only took ten minutes for the stadium director to visit, and he was most apologetic about the mix-up. They were able to scrape up the 25 tickets, although they were spread out all over the park. The director pulled out a map of the park, and showed me that there were five main areas where the seats were located, and if we wanted to spread out our chaperones throughout those sections, that would be best for all.

As most of the kids had arrived, we broke them out by house and year and who was friends with whom as best we could. My seventh-year Hufflepuffs managed to stick together, and I felt comfortable leaving them alone as I waited for the last of the stragglers to appear. By the time the whistle blew to start the game, all but two had arrived, Messers Sawgrass and Phillips. But Phillips showed up four minutes later, leaving only Sawgrass to wait for.

And wait I did. I heard a roar from the Chelsea supporters (who'd given me no shortage of stick as they made their way in) in the 17th minute, as Malouda scored. By the 20th minute, I walked around some of the concessions to see if he was enjoying a beer or something and didn't want to be seen. I happened to be in the bathroom in the 32nd minute, just in time to be able to hear on the PA in there that Donovan's corner kick found Louis Saha's head perfectly to tie up the game. By halftime the score was still 1-1, and I realized that I should probably do something about Sawgrass's absence.

I found Harry and Ginny at the concession stand near the Gwladys Street Stands, waiting in an interminable line.

"Hank! Are you enjoying the match?" Ginny asked. "That American you were talking about is having his way with them out there tonight."

"Is he, now?" I asked, the annoyance quite unnecessarily clear in my voice. "I haven't been able to see any of it. Harry? May I speak with you a moment, please?"

Harry saw my excited, worried look and whispered "Chips and a coke" before walking out of the way of the crowds with me.

"Merlin, Hank, what is it?" he asked.

"It's Sawgrass. He still hasn't shown back up. I've been waiting in front of the Chelsea stands the whole game, and nothing."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose that is cause for concern. But it's not as though he could just leave, right? And besides, he's of age. Worse comes to worst, he'll just apparate back to Hogsmeade. Tell you what, I'll send word to the Aurors cloaked around the stadium to keep an eye out, okay?"

"Please do," I said. "I'm going to hang around where we were there for a bit before heading to my seat, though."

Before I left the Gwladys Street stands, I made sure to apologize to Ginny for snapping at her. And then I commenced with my vigil. I tried to catch as much of the game as I could, sneaking closer and closer to the opening before the usher asked me to stand back. That would happen every fifteen minutes or so, so I got a good look at some of the plays, including Donovan taking a hard tackle in the box and drawing a penalty. My shout of jubilation at that moment was met with jeers by the Chelsea fans nearby, and then some well-earned laughter as Saha put a softball right into the path of Petr Cech. In the 74th minute, I thought I'd be able to give back a bit of what I got when Everton went ahead again, but a stern look from the usher told me otherwise. I watched Everton doggedly hang on from there, as the usher had given up trying to push me back, but my sightlines were limited, and only a stunted cheer from the Chelsea fans alerted me to Drogba hitting the bar with a wicked header.

The game ended 2-1 for the home side, and Goodison Park erupted into "It's a Grand Old Team," and Sawgrass was nowhere in sight. I was happy for the outcome, but my mind was racing with what I was going to say if we came back with 19 rather than 20 students. Of course Sawgrass could apparate back, but from where? Had he been hurt? Could he make it back at all?

My answer came as the Chelsea fans began to solemnly march out of their seats, shooting me dirty looks the whole way.

"Oi, Professor Muggle! There you are!" It was Sawgrass, in the same Chelsea kit he'd transfigured in the Great Hall, getting backslaps and well wishes by what were apparently his fellow Blues fans.

"Mister Sawgrass, where the hell have you been? I was worried sick – you can't just run off like that!" I said.

"Alright then," he answered. "I was here. I got there a bit late, but I made it to my seat. Then I saw I was with the Chelsea fans, so I hit my shirt with a finite, and voilà. Like it's Stamford Bridge. The Muggles were brilliant, too. They taught me all about the game – no way Drogba was offsides there, by the way. And that Yank went down a bit soft, don't you think? Naw, you wouldn't, would you? Anyway, this football stuff's great, innit?"

I wanted to take points away so badly. I was trying to remember if there was a maximum number I could take at once. But Sawgrass did manage to integrate himself into Muggle culture. And he learned a bit about soccer. So, with a brusque "come on, then," I escorted him back to the portkey.

It was about a month later that a rather perturbed Hermione Weasley stuck her head through the floo in my office.

"How could you, Hank?" she asked. "Really, how could you?"

I was quite perplexed, to say the least. "How could I what, Hermione? Oh, and good morning."

"Yes, of course. Good morning. But how could you take Ron to the football with you?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"He was so enthralled with it that he's just bought season tickets to our local team. And he's joined a Supporters' club. And he's completely kitted himself out. It's as bad as with the Cannons, honestly."

"Come on, Hermione," I replied. "It's not that bad. Most sports fans back in the States root for teams in three or four sports."

Hermione scoffed. "No wonder the divorce rates are so high there. But that's not the worst of it. He's supporting our local."

I thought for a moment. I knew these Weasleys lived fairly close to London, in what was called the "Home Counties," but not in the city proper. But for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what team had suddenly captured Ron's heart.

"What team is that, Hermione?" I asked, with a bit of trepidation.

"It's Reading," she replied, sighing heavily. I began to rub the bridge of my nose underneath my glasses.

"Oh. Oh dear," I said. "First the Cannons, now Reading. Some guys can't catch a break, can they?"