Note: Thanks to my roommate who, upon reading this, will be then watching Game 2 of the ALDS playoffs on October 5. Thanks to my unnamed friend who inspired Lillian Turner in a semi-oblique way. Thanks to the Boston Red Sox who continue to inspire me! Oh, and many thanks to my patient ex-roommate who helped me come up with names for the Wizarding equivalent of the Curse of the Bambino.
CHAPTER 3
There are some beautiful things in the world. The Snitch at the end of a Gryffindor-Slytherin game for one. Hogwarts at sunrise for another. That Muggle palace in London isn't too bad either. Harry definitely makes the list.
There is, however, nothing to compare with the Cannons' Quidditch stadium. Sure, the entrance to the stadium, lined with orange marigolds and black cobblestones is nice. The stands aren't too bad for comfort either. Malcolm, the bloke who's been selling pasties my entire life, is always good for a laugh.
There is a kind of friendship in the stands, though. It always seems as though it's us against the world and we stand united. We know who to cheer for and that all refs will be idiots when it comes to fouls.
The best, though, is the section for the season tickets. We all have a different story about what brought us there. With me, it was Uncle Bilius and the need for something that wasn't passed down through the Weasley brothers.
Maggie Llwellyn fought for two hours for custody of her two kids and six days for the season tickets when she and Mr. Llwellyn split. In the end, she got to keep the kids and the tickets and she now alternates taking Elsie and John to the games.
Then there are the Markses. We scoffed at the fact that Lilian Turner never took the same man to a match twice, but she reckoned that she had to keep trying until she found someone who was just as avid about the Cannons as she was. She had even been engaged to a Cannons fan before took a liking to the Wasps and confessed to falling in love with her flatmate. In the end, she ended up marrying John Marks, the quiet widower from the Muggle Liaision Office who had sat on her left for ten years. I was her bridesmaid.
And then, of course, there are the ten seats reserved for the Darymples. They have passed down those tickets from father to son since the first season of the Chudley Cannons' existence. You're never sure if Charlie, the dad, will cast an orange spell on his eyes or Transfigure his head into a cannonball, but he's always entertaining to watch. He is on his third marriage now, but his first wife still comes to every game with someone in the family. That might be why he's on wife number three. It's never clear. As it is, the Darymples are guaranteed to be the loudest pack in the stadium, if nothing else from sheer size.
What I like best about this lot has nothing to do with their stories, even though those are entertaining enough. It's that they treat the Cannon fan's existence as a sacred thing and are always willing to welcome converts.
Tonight, of course, we got there half an hour before the match started. That was out of self-preservation and common courtesy. Self-preservation because no one wants to be caught in the middle of the mass Apparation that happens about ten minutes before the whistle blow. Common courtesy because there is no sense in visiting surrogate family if you don't make time to stop and chat for a good six hours. We like to get a head start in case the game runs short.
"A new one, eh, Weasley?" John Marks teases. "I was wondering when you'd start noticing that there are males outside of the Weasley family."
"Quiet, you," Lil scoffed, cuffing him on the shoulder. "Don't listen to this mutton-head."
"I never do," I lie—Marks knows more about Quidditch history than McGonagall and is dead useful at times. "This is Harry."
As I suspected, no one took a second glance at his scar. Immediately, the Llwellyns leaned over for a better look and Jean Darymple pinched Harry's bicep.
"Looks like a Seeker," she said approvingly.
"I was," Harry informed her, not bothering to be embarrassed by the attention; the Boy Who Lived had forgotten how to mind being stared at eventually. "Six years on the Gryffindor Quidditch team."
"Good man," Charlie smirked. "I was a Ravenclaw Chaser myself and met Jean here after she Bludgered me in the mouth during a Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game our fifth year. It was love at first concussion."
Mary, his current wife, glowered through the whole recitation. She didn't seem too chuffed about being here tonight. My guess is that she'll straighten out or get out by the end of the season.
"So, Ginny," Charlie commented as we squeezed past his massive belly to get to our seats, "what do you think of Gryffindor's chances this year?"
"We've got a good team," I told him frankly. "More brains than brawn, but that hasn't hurt us in the past."
"Ah, good," Marks said approvingly. "It works for our Cannons and if those rumors about the new Gryffindor captain are true, I think they'll do well."
"It had better," I commented. "We don't want to break our winning streak."
"Hear, hear," Maggie called.
Frank, Charlie's youngest and dumbest, suddenly frowned at Harry as if he had done something terribly wrong. This was impressive, since Harry had said all of two sentences, but Frank liked to pick fights.
"Here," he muttered. "You look like...uh..."
Oh, here we would go again. We had been stopped enough by people who wanted to shake Harry's hand or talk his ear off on the way in and just when we were settling down for an exciting match, Frank was going to ruin it.
"You look like a Tornadoes fan."
Harry blinked and I could tell that he was cottoning on to the fact that this was either a more talkative version of Gregory Goyle or a less daft version of Dudley Dursley. After all, he was wearing an orange t-shirt, black trousers and the Cannons hat that Ron had given him years ago.
"Really, how could you tell?" he deadpanned.
Frank's expression darkened and luckily, Jean intervened or Frank might have taken a swing. "JOKING," she bellowed. "He was JOKING, Frankie. Settle down, now. Mummy's bought you some butterbeer."
Of course. Harry was more famous than the Minister of Magic and no one minded as long as he supported the right team. He seemed to be enjoying that anonymity.
"Listen," Frank said stubbornly as he settled down with a butterbeer and six pasties. "Gin's my girlfriend. Has been for ages. If you come near her, I'll hex your nose off."
"I look forward to it," Harry said smoothly.
"So, what do you do, Harry?" asked Jean, obviously eager to change the subject before Harry decided to point out the obvious to her son.
"I'm an assistant professor at Hogwarts," Harry replied with a grateful look. "Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Job for nutters if you ask me," Maggie interjected. "You hear what happened to the others?"
Well, he was there in first year when his teacher turned out to have Voldemort sticking out of his skull. He was around when Lockhart lost his memory in second year. Third year, Lupin resigned after going all furry in front of him. Fourth year, Moody could have killed him. Fifth year, Umbridge got chased out of the school. Sixth year, the Defense teacher murdered the Headmaster and had to do a runner. Seventh year...well, that's when things got a bit interesting...
"Someone might have mentioned it," Harry said simply. "You believe in superstition?"
"Come on," I laughed. "These are the people who believe in the Curse of the Dodger the same way the Pope believes in God."
At that, every other person within earshot spit on the floor and crossed their fingers, the usual ward against such bad luck. Harry just looked vaguely confused.
"The Curse of the Dodger?" he repeated.
"What, Ron hasn't told you?" I asked.
"Probably," Harry admitted. "I like playing Quidditch better than hearing about it."
"It's got a whole appendix on it in Flying With the Cannons," Charlie added.
"Stop giving him a bibliography," I snapped. "I'll explain it."
"Thank you," Harry responded, squeezing my hand much to Frank's disgust.
"About eighty-five years ago..."
"Eddy-fix," Frank corrected stubbornly around a pasty.
"Fine," I said smoothly, "eighty-six years ago, the Cannons were managed by a man named Lothario Lydecker. He was brilliant—they won the League five years running and were all set to go for a sixth when he fell in love with the Keeper. Daphne Dodge.
"She thought he was a brilliant manager, but had no interest in him. In fact, she was quite taken with one of the Chasers. They were planning to get married once the season was over and Lydecker wanted to stop that in any way he could. He sold Dodger to the Tornadoes mid-season and this was back in the day when they were practicing in Wales because that was the only town that would still sponsor them after losing five seasons to the Cannons.
"Dodge was too much of a lady to hex him outright, but she told Lydecker that the Cannons wouldn't ever win the League without her. And they haven't."
There was a long moment of silence as if I had just mentioned a close friend's death.
"In eighty-six years," Harry repeated. "I know I've heard of them being in the League finals before."
"Of course you have," Charlie sighed. "They've had rotten luck, they have. Five years ago, they lost after a three-week game."
"I remember that," I said reverently. "Mum had to keep owling food parcels to me. She and Dad took turns staying the night with me and they raffled off the right to watch days of the game. One man died right over there by the third hoop and they took a five-minute break the next day to have a funeral there. They reckoned he would have wanted it that way."
"And then, when they were finally up by 140, Kenmare's Beaters gave our Seeker a broken leg and before she could recover, their duffer of a Seeker copped the Snitch," Charlie concluded. "Another time, they lost the finals in the first five minutes. Shortest finals match in history."
"They come close every time," Jean explained, "but there's always something."
"Not this year," I asserted. "It's a new world and time for a new League champion."
"Oh, I agree," Harry said hastily. "That's why you're not the only one who's made a wager."
Yet again, I was reminded of #73 on my list of reasons why I loved him: He supported my craziness and then added a little of his own for good measure.
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah," he said. "Hestia thinks they won't win the League—she's a Harpies fan—and if they do, all of her students are getting full marks on their end-of-the-year exams."
"Well done," Charlie grunted, slapping him hard on the back. "Have a butterbeer and tell us what you have to do if they lose."
From the look on Harry's face, it was guaranteed to involve him naked and being the staff table's end-of-the-year centerpiece. He recovered quickly and just grinned.
"I won't," he insisted. "They're not going to."
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I wish I could say that the Cannons flattened the Tornadoes that night, but it was actually the only tie of the season so far, since Knightley caught the Snitch when the Tornadoes were still 150 ahead. Still, it was much better than losing and that was something to celebrate.
"Eet was too hot there," Fleur complained, fanning herself gracefully with one of the programs. "I don't think I would like to go to the next one."
Honestly, she said the same thing about every place I liked. There were too many people. The stadium was too hot. The food was too fattening. The ruddy musicians skipped a measure. My dear sister-in-law had about as much humor as a constipated Snorkack.
"It's all right, dear," Bill said soothingly. "Mum will be happy that you gave it a go even once."
Mum was more likely to say something along the lines of "I told you so," but I didn't say that.
"Did you have a good time, Harry?" Bill continued as we walked to the Apparation point.
"Brilliant," Harry said honestly. "Best six hours I've spent all season."
He had gotten into the spirit of things, wagering with Frank to break the ice, arguing with Maggie over a foul and even letting the Llwellyns pour butterbeer over him when Knightley caught the Snitch. I wasn't sure if he was doing it for my sake or his, but it was good to know that he could still make a complete fool of himself when the situation warranted it.
"Well, I hope you're hungry," I said. "Fleur made bouillabaisse and I'm starving."
"Great," Harry sighed, sliding an arm around my shoulders as Bill and Fleur turned on the spot and vanished. "Did you have a good time?"
"I did," I promised.
He turned and his hand came up to cup my chin, tilting it so he could kiss me slowly. I wrapped my right hand around his warm neck and leaned eagerly into it, forgetting for a moment that we had promised to follow Bill and Fleur immediately. They were newylweds. They would understand the need for romance.
"I came for you," he murmured as he pulled away and released me, "but after tonight, I'm doing this for myself as well."
