Title: The Potterwatch Chronicles
Rating: T (so far).
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: While the Trio struggles to find the horcruxes the former Gryffindor Quidditch team is reunited in their quest to fight Voldemort's reign. Witness them get re-acquainted, build up Potterwatch and stir up trouble of any kind! Vive la résistance! During DH. Centers around the team, the resistance, Lee Jordan and assorted Weasleys. Will culminate in the fight of Hogwarts.
A/N: Yes, I do realize that there's an incredibly long expose but bear with me please, 'k? It's important to get you into the mood of the story. I promise there'll be a lot more of our favourite Quidditch team soon (with a special emphasis on Oliver, because he's cute ;) ).
Also, explanations and translations for phrases as well as a list of resources used in this chapter can be found at the bottom. Now go and enjoy the story!!!
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Prologue or The One Where Oliver Wood Gets Into Trouble
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Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione.
(Latin for: I'm not interested in your dopey religious cult.)
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If things had been up to Walden McNair, which unfortunately they weren't as he would tell everyone who had the misfortune of crossing his path, they would have done this differently. He was, as a rule, a man who didn't like to draw too much attention to himself, preferring to work from the sidelines or – even better – let others do the dirty work for him.
However, due to circumstances he was in no position to decide these things and consequentially found himself placed next to Thorfinn Rowle, a man who – in Walden's opinion – was as stupid as he was tall. Walden frowned, eyeing Thorfinn's concentrated expression. Rowle was very tall. And very stupid.
At least that's what McNair would have told them. If anyone cared to ask. Which they didn't.
The Death Eater sighed and blinked up into the sky where dozens of tiny figures were whizzing around on their broomsticks, doing death-defying stunts in the name of capturing the small golden Snitch. Walden had never understood how a person could put themselves at risk for the sake of something as frivolous as a ballgame but apparently most of the Wizarding World seemed to disagree as they braved the summer heat of the sweltering early August sun to watch the much anticipated match between the Ballycastle Bats and Puddlemere United. The audience had gotten used to the presence of the dark-robed Ministry officials at Quidditch games for some time now as the routine of surveying the matches had been introduced almost immediately after the Dark Lord's unofficial rise to power. Consequentially, after a short period of grumbling and gossiping no one paid too much attention to them anymore which was exactly what McNair wanted. It would make their plan so much easier.
Wiping his sweaty forehead, the Death Eater took a weary look at his watch, then sighed. Still ten more minutes to go before "The Plan" was set in motion. He sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the muscles in his legs were slowly but surely cramping up from sitting and then standing for too long a time. The game had started some solid twelve hours ago and even though the sheer brutality sometimes inherent in the sport still held a mild fascination over Walden he couldn't quite see the point of it. Of course, he thought with a smirk as a Bludger found its victim high above his head, there'd been some intriguing moments such as in the second hour when Thaddeus Ubbly, Puddlemere's Keeper, was fouled rather nastily and had to be carried off the pitch. The player had to be replaced by the reserve, a young man by the name of "Wood" who was positively brimming with a barely contained manic sort of energy.
Walden shook his head again. They were all mental.
"McNair?"
An elbow found its way into Walden's ribs and he scowled. "What is it?"
Rowle grinned and pointed at his watch. "Five minutes."
A surge of adrenaline rushed through McNair and the tall man smiled, his eyes glinting in anticipation. "Is everyone on their spot?" he whispered and Rowle nodded, silently pointing to their colleagues who were getting into position. McNair's smile deepened. He liked to be in control and he liked it when things went according to plan. As it were, this one was an exceptionally well-though out plan and though Walden disliked its blatant flashiness, he had to admit that it was bound to work out beautifully.
All over London's Quidditch stadium, cleverly-disguised with a Muggle-repellent charm, Ministry-officials took their assigned positions. Unbeknownst to the spectators the stadium was sealed up methodically and small, quiet spells and incantations were muttered. The connection to the Wizard Wireless Network was prepared and without anyone noticing the Quidditch commentator was exchanged.
Walden and Thorfinn exchanged a rare, secret smile as the game continued. Two more minutes.
Finbar Quigley, the charismatic Captain and Chaser of the Ballycastle Bats seized the Quaffle. The crowd cheered wildly, never noticing that the commentator was now starting his introductory programme on the Wizard Wireless Network. It was going to be special. Another step of the Dark Lord's propaganda machine.
Quigley came into scoring-proximity of Puddlemere's goalhoops and the young Reserve Keeper leant forward on his broom in an almost predatory crouch. Quigley drew back his arm to throw. The Keeper's muscles flexed in anticipation and the crowd held its collective breath.
Then the clock struck twelve.
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Walden McNair's face twisted into a sick smile as "The Plan" was set into motion. The Ministry's Decree on "Blood-Purity in Professional Quidditch" was released punctually at twelve o'clock. The Snitch, the Bludgers and the Quaffle vanished with a loud popping sound and Quigley and the Keeper, both thoroughly surprised, narrowly avoided a collision as the Ministry officials herded the reserve teams onto the pitch, quietly dividing them into two groups. The teams and the crowd went wild; demanding to know what in Merlin's name was going on. Little did they know that by now they were effectively trapped in the stadium and were experiencing history in the making. Walden's smile deepened.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The new commentator's rich baritone filled the stadium. "This is Berthold Chauncey speaking for the Wizarding Wireless Network. We're interrupting your regularly scheduled programme for a special feature from London's Quidditch stadium. The match "Ballycastle Bats versus Puddlemere United" will be temporarily interrupted until the Ministry Decree Number 20, which has recently been released, has been fulfilled."
Ominous silence filled the stadium as the players descended and joined their comrades on the grass of the pitch. Almost immediately they were surrounded by Ministry officials who made them join the two groups as Chauncey went on.
"In order to show the appreciation of this great sport and for the sake of increasing the quality of Quidditch in the British League the Ministry of Magic – in association with Q.U.A.B.B.L.E., the Quidditch Union for the Administration and Betterment of the British League and its Endeavours - released Decree Number 20."
Below, using the confusion of both the spectators and the teams, a team of vicious-looking Ministry officials silently led one group of Quidditch players off the pitch, silencing their protests quickly and effectively with a few well-aimed (and highly painful) spells as Chauncher talked.
"Quidditch," he said in an enthusiastic voice, "Quidditch is the noble sport of the warlocks! And do we want to keep it noble? Of course we do! And how do we achieve this honourable goal?" He made a rhetoric pause and just as the spectators were about to break their stunned silence, he continued. "By making sure that only players worthy of the game keep participating!"
Hushed whispers broke out in the crowd and were quickly beaten down by the Ministry officials whose number had suddenly increased in the past few minutes. McNair felt a shiver of pleasant anticipation run down his spine as he walked onto the pitch, approaching the remaining group of confused Quidditch players.
"From now on," Chauncher intonated in a meaningful voice. "Quidditch will return to what it is supposed to be: a game played by the elite. By Purebloods."
Walden caught Puddlemere's Reserve Keeper's eye for the fraction of a moment and the young man balled his fists. McNair's eyes narrowed and yet Chauncer went on.
"And now, to show that we all support this wise and generous decision all the players you can see on the pitch right now – yes, ladies and gentlemen! – these Purebloods worthy of playing Quidditch will enforce the Decree by swearing the oath of Blood Purity and Loyalty to the Ministry together right here in front of our eyes – and ears," Chauncer added, remembering that he was broadcasting this all over Britain via the Wizard Wireless. "Mr. Thorfinn Rowle – are you ready down there?"
Rowle nodded and gave Chauncer a thumbs up. Everything was going according to plan and yet, something was bothering McNair. Something was making him nervous and for at least the hundredth time the man wished that the Dark Lord hadn't insisted on turning this into a public spectacle. One that was broadcasted live, nevertheless. McNair's eyes strayed back to the Reserve Keeper, Wood, and he frowned. Something was about to go wrong. He could feel it in his guts.
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"This is incredible. Outrageous! Utterly imp- Ow!"
Thaddeus Ubbly's legs gave in and the Keeper would have fallen if it hadn't been for Finbar Quigley's quick reaction. The Chaser slung an arm around the other man and with the help of the Reserve Keeper he almost collided with earlier, gently lowered Ubbly to the ground.
"Yer may want ter be careful wi' dat leg," Finbar said, crouching down next to the wounded man.
Thaddeus, a man known as much for his jovial humour as for his stubbornness, shook his head in protest, then paled as a wave of dizziness washed over him.
"Ye may want tae be careful with that concussion, too, Thad," Oliver Wood, his reserve and protégé, reminded him with a lopsided smile.
"That'll be the least of our problems, Ollie," he growled and allowed the two men to drag him up into a standing position, supporting his weak body from both sides. Efficiently and methodically the remaining Quidditch players were herded into the middle of the pitch where the man that had been introduced as Thorfinn Rowle stood on a hastily erected podium.
"Now listen up, you lot." A Ministry official with a thin, sallow face informed them. "Rowle will read out the oath. You repeat it after him and then the game can continue." For a moment the official's eyes locked with Oliver's and the Keeper felt instinctively felt his hands curl into fists. This was wrong. The mere thought of banning people from Quidditch was an infringement against human rights as far as Wood was concerned. Fortunately, at that moment Ubbly staggered again and Wood had his hands full keeping his friend in a somewhat upright position, which effectively prevented any kind of reckless reaction the Scottish Keeper was bound to come up with.
Instead, the strange congregation of him, Ubbly and Quigley half-staggered toward the podium and took their places, too preoccupied with their own confused thoughts to pay any attention to the other players whose faces bore looks varying from confusion to anger to fear to open delight at the unexpected news.
The Ministry official told them to get out their wands and point it at their hearts when Charlene Pincer, a Beater in her mid-thirties suddenly spoke up. "Oi! What if we don't do it?"
The official pressed his lips together then – with a gesture that seemed to cause him physical pain – forced his mouth into a thin smile. "Then, Miss –" he consulted a piece of parchment in his hands before addressing her again, knowing full well that he now held the undivided attention of all the Quidditch players. "Miss Pincer, you will lose the right to fly. You will not be allowed the use or the ownership of a broomstick." He chuckled in a way that made the fine hairs on the back of Oliver's neck rise with disgust, then continued in a smug voice. "I have been told that it is extremely difficult to play Quidditch without a broomstick."
The Quidditch players paled almost simultaneously and Oliver felt his knees go weak. No more flying? Never again? He swallowed nervously as his throat had suddenly run dry and the world was staring to spin. No more flying. No more flying. No more – a smart slap on his back brought him back to the present.
"Wood?"
His eyes focused on Stevens, their team's Chaser. "Huh?"
"Snap out of it, kid. It's only if we don't swear their oath," Stevens reminded him. "We've got nothing to fear. All of us here-" He indicated the remaining group of Quidditch players, "Are Purebloods."
Oliver nodded, though he did not feel better about the situation. So it was either sell his soul or lose Quidditch. For a long moment Oliver seriously contemplated what to do. What was left of his soul without Quidditch anyway? It was just one tiny little oath, right? He wasn't hurting anyone. Right?
"Everyone ready?" The Ministry official asked and Oliver, along with the rest of the players, nodded automatically. The official raised his wand and a small fanfare was played as all players pointed their wands at their hearts.
Rowle grinned, cast a Sonorus Charm and a moment later his raspy voice filled the stadium. "And remember, this is a live broadcast – speak clearly, will you, mates?"
Then he seemed to notice that everyone had heard his last words and cleared his throat nervously. "Er…anyway, repeat after me.
I solemnly swear by Merlin, Circe, Mopsus and the Lady Morgana…"
Oliver's heart beat rapidly as he repeated the words, desperately trying to fight down the feeling that this was fundamentally wrong. What had happened to the other group of Quidditch players? The group, as he now realized, that consisted of Muggleborns and Half-Bloods?
"…that I will hold up the noble cause of Blood Purity and will not taint it with the filth that is…"
Oliver stopped and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could. He'd lose Quidditch if he didn't keep this up. He –
He suddenly blinked in surprise when he heard his own voice, no longer shaky and insecure but strong and determined. The young Scot wasn't aware of making the conscious decision but at some point he'd emerged from the mass of Quidditch players until he faced the podium, only dimly aware that the Sonorus Charm now extended to include his own voice which was broadcasted to every Wizard Wireless in Britain.
"Don't call them 'filth'. These are livin', breathin' human beings you're talkin' about, an' there is absolutely nae difference between Muggle-Borns or Pure-Bloods or Half-Bloods or whatnot, ye miserable, prejudiced, cowards!"
By the time Oliver's mind caught up with his mouth, the young Scotman had succeeded in insulting the authorities with a seemingly unending string of profanities in English and Gaelic that would have made his mother faint if she heard her baby talking like that, before finishing his tirade with some choice words Oliver had recently learned from a particularly eloquent friend from Transylvania.
A ringing silence followed his outburst as everyone – including Oliver – seemed to be too shocked to react. Suddenly realizing that hundreds of eyes were fixed on him, Oliver started fidgeting and blushed.
And then all hell broke loose.
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Translations:
Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione. - I'm not interested in your dopey religious cult. ( From Handy Latin Phrases)
Yer may want ter be careful wi' dat leg. – You may want to be careful with that leg.
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A/N: If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I'm disgustingly grateful for reviews (and they make me update sooner ;) ).
Preview: The Weasley twins are speechless! Remus is annoyed! Molly Weasley is shocked! Katie Bell is...um...there...and Oliver is in a world of trouble.