Outtake – Background chatter
(During chapter 22)
"Do you think we should sit in the front row?" Harry asked, unsure exactly how to behave with the man who had recently been revealed to have been the most loyal friend of his dead parents. Sure, 'Padfoot' was kind and desperately trying to make up for twelve lost years, but he was still a stranger to the boy.
That was why one of the teachers had suggested that Sirius took him to see a proper duelling championship, an event that the boy was eager to witness anyway; neutral enough, yet offering an opportunity for the two of them to talk about anything that came to their minds. Sirius had been on cheering potions for two weeks in the wizarding hospital, but roaming the muggle roads of London helped his mental recovery more. He would still be returning to St Mungo's for the night, and he still read the Daily Prophet in the fifth floor tearoom in the mornings. He sent letters almost every day, and the current Defence teacher had talked a lot about him... But he was still a stranger to Harry despite his best efforts.
"Only if you have reflexes to shield yourself from stray hexes," Sirius replied his godson's question. "The pitch is warded, of course, but accidents happen when the caster puts all her magic into the spell, and these are professionals we'll be seeing. At least I remember a peculiar witch who charred my clothes when I sat there. But maybe it was intentional."
Not quite intent on getting his new trousers burnt, Harry settled in the second row, with his godfather by his side.
The first few duellers were juniors, most of whom he remembered from the club last year. Sirius was eager to hear about them, as most of them had parents whom he had once fought side by side with.
The matches between the adults were fast and mesmerizing. He often found himself asking what spell he had just seen, and after a while Sirius started to tell him even without Harry's prompting. His once-quick reflexes were yet to return to him, however, and some of the most creative jinxes had been created after his imprisonment.
A young man came to their rescue, a sports reporter of the Aspen Journal. He was enthusiastic about the 'nine-sixteen' hex, especially, a recent trick that distorted the opponent's body a tiny bit, impairing their wand-eye coordination just enough that they wouldn't hit their target square in the head with their next jinxes. Some of the professionals had already started training for the new body ratios, claiming it was easier to adapt than to waste time re-transfiguring themselves.
Harry politely thanked the young man for the clarification, and didn't hesitate to ask him the next time his godfather couldn't provide an explanation. The journalist was eager to help.
It was only at the end of the daily programme that the young man realized who he'd been talking to. He never had a penchant for tabloid news, he admitted apologetically. Nor Harry, nor Sirius seemed to mind.
"You made a journalist friend today," his godfather later pointed out. "I know it sounds like Slytherin advice, but keep him close."
"You're right, it does sound like Slytherin advice," Harry mirthlessly nodded, quietly adding there was a Durmstrang who would have most certainly told him the exact same. "But you told me your entire family was in Slytherin. It's all right that they rubbed off a little."
Padfoot replied with that smile of his: wide but still lacking the humour that had been dried out of him during twelve years of dementor exposure. "I'll try to behave more like a Gryffindor," he promised. "I'll try to be the godfather Prongs intended for you."
"Is it true that you and Dad held the record for most detentions in a school year?"
"Who told you that? Moony?"
Harry shook his head. "Professor McGonagall."