II.
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime.
- Shakespeare -
This is what Ron should be doing, thought Harry irritably.
Twenty-six hours into the emergency, the Auror Operations Room was a picture of barely-controlled chaos, a far cry from what it had been yesterday. Where previously there had been only two or three people besides himself in the room, now a dozen Aurors, Patrolwizards, and Ministry experts from other Departments were jammed in it, each managing their small slice of the search for Rani Chatterjee. This included the Deputy Head of Muggle Relations, because the operation involved Muggle victims; a legal advisor from the Office of Wizarding Law; the Senior H.I.T. Wizard, a burly and grizzled veteran of the Voldemort Wars; talking to his opposite number, the witch currently leading the Auror Reaction Squad, one of Harry's own Senior Aurors…
Conscious perhaps of all the seniority in the room, the duty Aurors were being circumspect in their communications with Aurors and Patrolwizards in the field.
"Savage, you're done with Purs Lane? Move on to Hibis Close… Rowlands, when you've finished the door-to-door at Remedy Alley you can give Indra's team a hand at Diagon, there's a big crowd there…"
Door-to-door. Going from one house or establishment to another, and simply showing photographs of Rani Chatterjee's face, asking if they'd seen her, and telling everyone to be on the lookout for a lost Muggle, or any suspicious activity. Slow, painstaking, and tedious, often yielding good leads, but it gobbled up personnel and public patience like a starving Norwegian Ridgeback. And when the leads came in they had to be checked, and so many turned out not to be anything… but somewhere in the mass of vague "I think I saws" could be the answer to the mystery, and Harry had to make sure his Aurors and Patrolwizards found the needle in the haystack…
"Sir, the Daily Prophet's mustering reporters out in the Atrium, asking for an update," said a Patrolwizard.
On Harry's other side, one of the witches from Muggle Relations asked if the British Airports Authority Constabulary had been informed, in case the kidnappers tried to fly Rani out of the country.
"Tell them the media update is scheduled at eleven o' clock, and will take place then and not before, we're busy," snapped Harry. "And they can bloody well quote me on that if they want." To the Muggle Relations witch, Harry said, controlling his temper, "The airports fall under the responsibility of the British police. We can't order them around, we have to let the Muggles sort out their end in their own way. I have two Patrolwizards undercover who'll tell me how things are getting on there, as you'd probably know…" If you had done your job and looked up the Muggle-Magical Law Enforcement Security Liaison Handbook, he managed not to add. "Control, have the Muggles noticed the girl's disappearance?"
The duty Auror replied, "Wait one… yes sir, Wainwright reports that there's police presence at Rani's flat."
"Thank you," said Harry curtly, and stalked over to the corner of the room, to the large desk he had claimed as his.
This is what Ron should be doing!
Ron had always been better than Harry at this people-herding part of the job, and also at coordinating operations, when it had been his turn to be duty Auror. Harry was more of the hands-on type. He would have much preferred to be out there, preferably in Knockturn Alley, banging on doors and snooping around. Putting the fear of the Law in suspected Dark wizards. Harry would always regret Ron's quitting the Aurors to go into business with George. Who knows what more they could have made of the Auror Office together, if…
Well, that's ancient history, isn't it?
Harry looked down unseeingly at his desk, and focused on the photograph on top of his papers. The Dark Mark, burned in the flesh of what had once been living, thinking, feeling human.
After all these years, all we did, and we still couldn't stamp them out!
A sudden wave of silence passed through the Operations Room, a craning of necks and interludes in conversations; then the chatter picked back up, but at a noticeably lower level. Harry looked up to see Hermione Granger-Weasley walking over to him, her personal assistant following dutifully behind.
"Hi, Hermione."
Harry wondered if the Minister for Magic had dressed in a mood, and hoped it had nothing to do with Ron. Hermione favoured Muggle business attire, and today was in a severe black pantsuit and blouse, lightened only a fraction by the patterned scarf tucked down her front. "Hello, Harry. Any updates?"
"The Metropolitan Police have people at both houses, so it's safe to say the Muggles know and are taking action. The Aurors assigned to Rani's flat have lifted off and are going over their findings here in Headquarters."
"Your search has been officially noticed, of course," said Hermione. "Memos from the Wizengamot are pouring into my office."
Harry shrugged. "You know how we work."
"Yes, of course." Hermione bit her lip. "It's just…"
Harry slid his hand into his pocket, wrapped his fingers around his wand and concentrated. A moment later his wordless Muffliato took effect. "Okay, we can talk privately now."
Hermione rolled her eyes, then continued. "Everyone's going on and on about how 'disruptive and interfering' your Aurors and Patrolwizards have been. One would think they've done more than just bloody ask if anyone's seen this girl."
Harry noted the swear word. When Ron's speech patterns started filtering into Hermione's, it was never a good sign.
"And my own people are asking me what's my political stance on this. All I'm thinking is what this poor thing is going through… if she's even alive still." Hermione picked up the slim case file on Harry's desk containing everything that had been discovered in the past two hours about the missing girl, and opened it. "Rani Verma Chatterjee, born 13th May 1998, graduated University of Warwick, International Relations… she's only twenty-four, for God's sake…"
"My parents were twenty-one years old," said Harry dryly. "Tonks was twenty-five. Fred was twenty."
"Damn it, Harry, you know what I mean!"
"I do." If they hadn't been in public he could have put his arm around her, but instead, Harry patted Hermione's elbow briefly, by way of apology. "Sorry, it's…" He searched for the words.
"So many we've seen, over the years," said Hermione. "I know. It eats in me too."
Before Harry could reply, an Auror waved at him from across the room, and he had to go and give more orders, make more decisions. It was several minutes before he could rejoin Hermione in the corner. "Stick around a few minutes longer, Susan's going to give me an update," said Harry.
"Okay. Thanks, Harry." The corner of Hermione's lip quirked upwards. "Is there really no other anti-eavesdropping spell the Aurors taught you?"
Harry grinned. "There are a couple, but I like this one. Just makes me feel young again, I guess… brings me back to when I was snooping around Hogwarts, or nattering with you and Ron in Flitwick's class."
Susan gave Hermione a quick smile of greeting when she appeared, then turned back to Harry to make her report. "We've completed Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and Tara, the major commercial high streets, and are moving on to the smaller residential lanes. Jenny's squad is still ploughing through Knockturn - you know that's always a mess - but she sent me her top lead. Someone's been buying up notable amounts of Class B Controlled Goods and Class C Non-Tradeable Substances. Sopophorous beans, Ashwinder eggs, and Atlantean fireflies."
Sopophorous beans. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. The beans were used in a number of potions, but most commonly as ingredients in Dreamless Sleep Potion - and the Draught of Living Death, which could induce a coma. The Draught was used for medical purposes, but also perfect to subdue a kidnap victim.
But still…
"Not much to go on, I know," said Susan. "But it's also who's been doing the buying. They tried to spread out the purchases, but the apothecaries talk amongst themselves - and to us. We've collected descriptions and names, and one wizard who's on our watch-list came up quite a few times." She handed over another slim file.
"Oscar Osbert, 33, shop assistant," read Harry. "Young man from an old family. Not Sacred Twenty-Eight, but old. Comes from a branch of the family who may have funded Voldemort quietly, with gold and support. Priors for Muggle-baiting, did counselling and community service - no Azkaban time. Associates of note: Marko Borgin, nephew of Sigerson Borgin." Harry looked up. "Of Borgin and Burke's, alleged to be the biggest underworld purveyors of contraband substances and Dark artifacts."
"And Oscar didn't show up for work today," added Susan. "He works in a magic goods shop in Knockturn. Yes, one of that kind," she said to Harry, meaning the kind that deals in dangerous, controversial and just-barely-legal magic.
"It's not a crime to be friends with Borgins," noted Hermione. "Or take a sick day."
"Well, we don't have much else," said Susan. "That is to say, we have nothing else." She looked at Harry, clearly expecting orders.
Harry sighed. "Sue, this is good work. But it's not enough to have a name. I need a place - where have they taken her, or where they could be."
Susan nodded. "Okay. Then the first place to check is his home. I'll send someone to check where he stays."
"Good. Meanwhile, keep up the door-to-door, and the Chatterjee investigation - and keep me updated."
"Got it, skipper." Susan teasingly mimed a salute, and went away calling for her own subordinates.
Hermione watched her go, then said kindly to Harry, "You'd rather it was you, don't you? Out there doing the legwork, instead of sitting here giving orders."
And Harry was once more impressed how good his best friend was at reading him. She was almost as good as Ginny. "Yeah - yeah, I suppose," said Harry. He sighed. "I never really got the hang of this, not even when I was Head of the Auror Office. And it was simpler then too; I didn't have to worry about the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol's side of things." There were twice the number of Patrolwizards as there were Aurors; the number of Harry's subordinates had tripled overnight, besides the fact that the Patrol had different tasks, responsibilities and procedures he'd needed to accustom himself to. "Ron would have made a better Head."
It was an old argument, and Hermione only shook her head, her just-barely-tamed curls bouncing around her shoulders. "You are a great Auror, Harry, and being Head of Department doesn't change that. It's a different kind of Auror work, that's all. Well, I've got to go, Harry, I have meetings scheduled."
Harry went back to his desk and spent the next hour alternating between paperwork and coordinating with the other Department Heads on the search, until it was time to go down to the Atrium and give the media the daily update. In the lift, Harry thought about Ginny - wondered how she was doing at Holyhead - and the children.
Two sons and a daughter… like the Chatterjees.
"You don't have to make us lunch you know, we can sort ourselves out."
"Oh really? What are you going to do, Albus? Cook? I distinctly recall how your pot roast turned out; Uncle Charlie reckoned even his dragonets might have second thoughts…"
"Did you know the Muggles have vegan pizza now? They put squash and broccoli on it. Pretty healthy, don't you think?"
"Mm-hmm. Somehow, Albus, I doubt you and Lily would really eat a broccoli pizza."
"...depends how much cheese is on it."
After a quick breakfast, Ginny made roast chicken sandwiches and tossed together a salad, then went to get ready. This time she changed into her own exercise clothes, pulling on flying trousers and her borrowed Harpies jersey on top.
"Wow, go Mum!" exclaimed Lily, when she saw Ginny fully kitted out, and insisted on taking a photograph with Ginny striking a pose approximating that of one of her old posters. Her daughter wasn't so impressed however when Ginny declared she had to finish her Transfiguration essay by the time she came back from Holyhead that evening.
Instead of Flooing to Holyhead and flying to the Harpy's Nest, Ginny Flooed directly to the stadium. There was no time now for fun flying - today Ginny was all business.
"I thought you were coming in the afternoon," Gwenog remarked.
"James has the graveyard shift. I want to be around when he's home," Ginny replied.
Gwenog shrugged. "Suit yourself."
As they walked to the pitch, they discussed how Ginny would assist in the day's training, and in the process get to know the players. By a quarter to nine Ginny was ready to warm up. She couldn't help but notice that more of the team had turned up earlier today, drawn perhaps by her presence. Ginny knew better than to be flattered, though; after all these many years of being in the limelight, she knew very well that people went to the zoo to gawk at animals too.
This time Ginny didn't push the warm-up. She rationed herself to half of the exercises the team was doing, and spent more time recovering. There were a couple of knowing glances, but if there was one thing Ginny had learned, over the years, it was to swallow her pride. At least temporarily.
She got her opportunity to talk to the players as she helped them with their training drills.
Chloe Brehaut was tall, had prettily brindled blonde hair that ran the gamut from butter to ash, and was one of the two Beaters on the Harpies' First Seven. She also took the trouble, Ginny saw, to put on a touch of sweat-proof makeup. Looking up at her, Ginny got the impression that Chloe fancied herself a lighter shade of Gwenog Jones, prettier, friendlier, but with the same height and hard-charging determination. Or so she thought.
"Yeah, I love playing Beater," Chloe said, with a look of challenge in her eye. "It's the position with the least number of girls in the League, and everyone always does a double-take when they see me with a bat. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Showing the lads I can hack the Bludgers as well as they can. And looking damn good while I'm at it." The Beater fluffed her hair a bit, and zoomed off on her McCormack Meteor to hit more practice Bludgers.
No, winning is what it's all about, thought Ginny. Nobody actually cares that much about looking good. Especially when your Bludger interception rate is only in the middle of all the League, and more towards the bottom than the middle.
Between the drills, Ginny introduced herself to the girls and chit-chatted with them, trying to feel them out. Her cover story to them all was that she was just here as one of Gwenog's former players to reminisce about the 'good old days', throw around a few balls and sweat it out for old times' sake, and meanwhile, why not get to know the new Harpies who were carrying on the torch of club tradition?
Forget that I'm actually really not that keen on reliving the old days, thought Ginny.
Zara Khan was a bubbly young Chaser with jet black hair, dark bronze skin and delicately full lips that would have been called 'sultry' if they weren't always animated in schoolgirl chatter. "I was in school with James," she blurted, as she and Ginny lobbed the Quaffle back and forth. "Well, sort of. I was in seventh year when he was Sorted. Close enough I guess. But I only said 'hi' a bit, I was busy with studies and all, and playing for the Slytherin team."
"How long have you been on the First Seven?" asked Ginny.
"Three years," said Zara, putting Quaffles through hoops. She didn't miss many, Ginny observed. "We've been a bit down, I guess, but that's the name of the game, isn't it? Just got to keep at it."
Zara was one of the more enthusiastic and outgoing players on the team. With her, Ginny knew she could be a little more direct, and fish for an inside look at the Harpies. "I don't follow the standings any more, but I know it's been a rough time. How are the girls holding up?"
The young Chaser put another Quaffle in, then turned and shrugged. "Well, of course they're a bit in the doldrums about it all, what do you expect? We try our best but it just doesn't seem to work. Playing aggro, playing sneaky, pushing for goals, Snitch-hunting… we must have gone through every formation in the book."
"Not in three years, certainly."
"Well, it's been quite a while, hasn't it? Since the Harpies lifted silver. I read all about it in the papers, and Lisa filled me in when I joined."
Oh, did she now?
Zara looked glum for a bit, which on her irrepressible face looked more philosophical than sad, then brightened up. "Still, we're only just starting the second half, aren't we. If we win all our matches, this year we'll finish in the top four, at least. I'd love to see what that's like…"
"It's not quite all it's made out to be," said Ginny, remembering the tedium of publicity events and on-the-job socialising. But that's old-woman thinking, isn't it? When she'd been a young Chaser herself, she'd enjoyed some of it, hadn't she? She'd found the limelight, the fans of all ages, the canapés and cocktails pretty glamorous, once upon a time. "Alright, maybe there were a few moments… no, yeah, you'll probably have fun."
The Lead Chaser position is very important. The Lead Chaser calls the formations, directs the plays, is usually the most senior Chaser, and thus also often the Captain of the team. The Harpies' Lead Chaser and current Team Captain was Leanne Thompson. Short, muscular, battle-hardened, with an aggressive Harpies set to her jaw, she was a stockier, brunette version of Ginny. The thirty-year-old Chaser eyed her with a mixture of defiance and respect.
And why not, thought Ginny. She actually has more experience than I do, in years at least.
They started off talking about Chaser tactics, and it was clear to Ginny that Leanne at least had a wide breadth of knowledge in this field, though she had no idea of knowing if the Harpies' Captain had actually executed them perfectly. As Leanne warmed to Ginny, she began talking a little about herself. "I joined twelve years ago," Leanne said in her atonal Welsh accent, as they rested and drank freshly-squeezed orange juice, sitting on the edge of the pitch. "Right out of Hogwarts. The Harpies were fourth in the standings then. Lifted silver once, in '14. But since then…" She shook her head. "Bloody nightmare, 'tis."
"You've done your best," said Ginny sympathetically. "Too much of professional Quidditch is luck anyway." I had my ups and my downs too. But you, you poor thing, it's been down and down and ever down for too long, hasn't it?
"Bang on. And when it rains it pours." Leanne sighed heavily. "Think it's too late for a career change?"
The question didn't shock Ginny as much as the earnestness on the other Chaser's face. "It's never too late to do anything," she said cautiously. "But it's a big decision. You ought to think it through."
"I've thought enough about it. I think I left it a bit long, in fact," said Leanne. "I wanted to lead a team to a League Cup, as Captain. I shouldn't've been so greedy. It was enough, wasn't it, that I got my taste of victory, once? I celebrated my thirtieth birthday with me mates earlier this year. I was the only one unattached. Most of them already had a kid, or were expecting. All of them brought their husbands, boyfriends, partners. And there was me."
Ginny thought about a life without Harry, James, Albus and Lily, and felt a deep pang of sympathy for the woman beside her. Yet at the same time she couldn't help but think: In this mental state, you really shouldn't be leading the Harpies. No wonder the team is the way it is, with a Captain this distracted. If I were Gwenog, the first thing I'd do is… But take away her Quidditch career from Leanne Thompson, and what did the poor girl have left?
"Thirty's old for Quidditch," said Leanne, as if reading Ginny's thoughts. She got up and dusted grass off her flying trousers. "Well, I shouldn't bore you with my problems," she said, with a small smile. "Ought to get back to work, shouldn't I? Good chat, Ginny." Leanne's fair cheeks pinked suddenly and she said quickly, like an overgrown schoolgirl, "You were my favourite player when I was growing up. I had three posters of you in my room, and your jersey and stuff."
As the Harpies' Captain mounted her broom and kicked off, Ginny thought, And what good did it do you? and felt complicit, somehow, in Leanne's problems.
"We have a possible location."
The press conference had gone the way Harry had come to expect it. Intrusive, irritating, and insinuating remarks flung at him from all angles, posing as questions from the self-appointed spokespersons of a public with a right to know. Harry seemed to remember a time when he'd thought the news only described happenings, and didn't colour the reportage with an opinion of their own suited to an agenda of their own. He wondered when he'd been properly disabused of that notion - when he met Rita Skeeter, or in fifth year, or in the aftermath of the war? All of the above?
Maybe that childish faith in 'the News', capital N, had just gone steadily downhill since the Triwizard Tournament.
Along with his enjoyment of the sheer magic of Magical Britain.
Harry shook off the thoughts and focused on Susan standing in front of him. "That's great."
"Actually, we have three possible locations," she continued. "One; Osbert's house. We checked with the Wizard Ownership Registry and Leyline Division, and found a property in his name in Tooting. Two; a single Unlocking Charm was detected in a Muggle house in central London. Queen Anne's Gate, bordering St James's Park. It's not really suspicious, except that it's just behind the third possible location: Rani Chatterjee's place of work, Number 50 Broadway. That's actually how we detected it; it was just within range of the Trace spell we'd put on her office."
It was a familiar pattern, and they both knew it, after all their years with the Auror Office. Kidnap a Muggle, and use them to infiltrate somewhere a wizard wants to go. In the past Harry had done something similar, using the Imperius Curse, but these days the methods of mind control were more subtle. Such as some variation of Confundus Charm, perhaps… or some potion concocted of Sopophorous beans. Harry had used Grimmauld Place as a staging ground for his attack on the Voldemort-controlled Ministry; if Oscar Osbert was planning something similar on Rani's workplace, he was probably using that nearby Muggle house in the same way.
Harry opened his mouth, then reconsidered what he wanted to say. "What do you suggest, Sue?"
Susan gestured at herself, mouthed wordlessly, Me?!
Harry nodded. "Yes, you. Some day, you may be the one making the decisions. Which of these three would you pick? What will you do?"
Susan hesitated, then said, "The office tower on Broadway is the most populated, and seems to be their target. I'd put a guard on the office at Broadway and try to catch them red-handed, and before they harm any more Muggles. That's my pick."
"Good answer," said Harry. "But what I want is all three. Have two Aurors knock on Osbert's door in Tooting, with the H.I.T. Wizards backing them up. Put another team on watch inside the Broadway building, with the Reaction Squad ready to assist. Take eight of our best duellists off the door-to-door, and have them meet me and Savage here for briefing - we'll take Queen Anne's Gate. You'll keep the teams coordinated from the Operations Room."
"But that's your - you're going into the field?" Susan scowled. "Harry, you're not supposed to… Merlin's rock, at least take the H.I.T. Wizards with you…!"
"It'll be alright. Queen Anne's may turn out to be nothing after all. The situation in Tooting and Broadway is more complex, they need more wands there to keep the Muggles safe. As for myself, I need to get on the ground and look at the case with my own eyes. I'm too far away from things to get a sense of it." It didn't sound at all plausible, even to himself, but Harry didn't care. He itched to do something personally, and his hand was already in his pocket, on the hilt of his wand.
"Bollocks." Susan threw up her hands. "Harry, if you get yourself killed, Ginny and Hermione are going to kill me, and then I'm going to kill you!" She stalked off towards the Operations Room.
Harry watched her go feeling a little guilty, but also feeling the familiar, exciting spike of adrenaline beginning to drip through his body.
Now, let me do some real Auror work.
Finally, there was the Keeper.
Her name was Lisa McMahon, and after Leanne she was the second-oldest player on the team. Lisa had first began playing for Kenmare, then transferred to Holyhead after two years. She was tall, rangy, and plain-faced with short dirty-blonde hair and bright brown eyes.
In her role as temporary assistant trainer, Ginny threw her Quaffles for a while, ramping up the difficulty as they worked through the familiar drills, until Ginny found herself drenched in sweat and a couple of her throws went nowhere near the hoops. Then she called for a break, feeling every day of her forty-one years. Lisa collected the Quaffle and flew over with a kind smile.
"You're not doing too bad for an old lag," she offered.
Ginny winced inwardly at the word 'old', as she tried to resist the temptation to openly massage her sore arm. "Yeah, I'm doing 'great', I'm just throwing you training balls and I can't even keep up. You're pretty good."
"I'm good enough for the national team," said Lisa, with that matter-of-fact confidence that was the hallmark of a true Holyhead Harpy.
"So why aren't you?" asked Ginny, right before her brain went 'click' and she remembered. "The McMahon affair."
Lisa reddened, and she looked away. "Yeah. I'm that McMahon."
The McMahon affair was really simple, if you got down to the basics and ignored all the rumours that had turned out not to be true in the end. Banchory was hurt particularly badly one season, finishing nearly bottom, and levelled accusations of match-fixing at the League. For once, the Department of Magical Games and Sports decided to take the accusation seriously, and assembled a Commission to investigate the allegations. Attention quickly centred on a handful of Chasers and Keepers. Along with a few others, Lisa McMahon of the Kenmare Kestrels was called in for an interview, and then exonerated, the Commission finding eventually that Banchory was just being a sore loser.
But McMahon had lied. She had given a false alibi to the Commission to prove she couldn't have met the other players accused of getting together on a particular date to discuss the matches to be fixed. She'd lied because on that date, she had been down in the Costa del Sol on a dirty weekend with another one of the accused players. The liaison would seem suspicious to the Commission. McMahon panicked and fibbed, but her lover decided to come clean and owned up to the Commission.
For that lie, Lisa McMahon was suspended for several months, and the Irish National Team committee dropped her name from consideration. Permanently.
And needless to say, Lisa's relationship with the other player was ended.
"Gwenog stood up for you," Ginny remembered.
Lisa smiled ruefully. "That's right. She always sticks up for players, especially if it pisses off somebody in charge. I think she enjoys the fight."
"She loves underdogs," Ginny agreed.
"Mind you, in private she had a go at me for being so stupid as to get myself suspended, because that hurt the team. That's important too, with Gwenog." Lisa looked at her sideways. "Do you remember writing about - about me?"
Too many articles. Ginny shook her head, and mentally braced herself.
"You said the Irish National Team committee was being short-sighted and picky, and it didn't matter if I'd taken on an entire team of players in that hotel room, if I was a good Keeper then that's all anyone should care about. Then Patricia Reeves from Snitch! replied in an article that you might be alright with acting the slut but the Committee had every right to disagree." Lisa cocked her head and said, "Reeves was spotted going round with a black eye a week after that; did you really punch her in the face like they say?"
"No, I didn't." I hit her with a Bat-Bogey Hex, thought Ginny, and it was worth every Galleon of the fine.
"Anyway, so that was me then. Kenmare dropped me like a Dungbomb. No other team would take me on, except Gwenog. After two years Griffiths retired and she made me First Keeper."
"The Committee wasn't fair to you," said Ginny. "At the end of the day, you weren't actually fixing matches. All you did was tell a lie. If that was a bloody crime, we'd all be in Azkaban."
Lisa sighed. "You know, that's what everyone says to me," she said dully. " 'They weren't fair to you.' Which is nice, and I'm forever grateful to Gwenog for giving me this job, and for that I make sure I'm top of my game, always. But you know, I'll never play in the World Cup, ever. I wish I hadn't lied."
Politics had been a big reason why Ginny had quit professional Quidditch, besides the birth of Lily Luna Potter. The narrative they chose to hang on her changed, and they found ways to drag her name in the dirt whichever way it did. One moment she was unfairly squeezing every last drop she could from the Establishment for helping Harry defeat Voldemort, all the way back then; a hustler who was no better than she should be. The next, she was a big player in the post-Voldemort Government, one of the Shacklebolt Administration's shadowy tentacles in the sports world, a kind of Marie Antoinette lording it over the downtrodden others.
It wouldn't have been so bad if her fellow players and the officials in the British and Irish Quiditch League simply ignored the media and got on with the game. But some had capitalised on it, used the articles to attack her. In the end there had been just one smear campaign too many, one petty backbiting attack too many, and with Lily only a few months old, Albus in the 'terrible twos' and James not even five, Ginny resigned from the team.
Gwenog had been furious.
They had argued, loudly. It took her a few years to start up the sporadic letter correspondence that had been the sum of their extant relationship until yesterday.
I suppose I do have friends in high places, Ginny mused. After all, my husband is Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and my best friend and sister-in-law is Minister of Magic. But that came much, much later. Harry's Auror career never mattered that much in Quidditch; he made enemies everywhere as well. Even so, I had a much better career than Lisa McMahon did. At least they let me show the world all that I could do. They didn't cut me off in my prime for something that has nothing, nothing whatsoever to do with playing the game!
Suddenly, Ginny wanted nothing more than to get out of this ageing stadium, and never think about professional Quidditch ever again. She wanted to go home, and tonight maybe make sandwiches for James and then see him off to work; to help Albus put a model sailing ship together and enchant it to fly around the room; to have Lily crawl into her bed and snuggle into her side and tell her all about what she and her friends in Hogwarts had done this term. She didn't want to think about the nine years she'd spent as a Harpy, seven years a sports journalist; the best part of two decades of her life… and all in aid of what?
A game. A school game, puffed up through millions of advertising Galleons and the egos of a few self-aggrandising overgrown children into a monster that consumed the lives of people like Lisa McMahon and Leanne Thompson.
Ginny shouldered her Firebolt Premier, and made her way back through the Players' Tunnel into the peeling, patchy corridors of the Harpy's Nest.
And now here was Gwenog Jones, and Ginny had to play her part a little longer. Because even though the love for the sport had been completely burned out of Ginny, and today's series of disguised interviews had only raked up the muck of the past all over again; for Gwenog, professional Quidditch was still her life's passion. And whatever Ginny herself thought about the sport, she couldn't bring herself to kill that passion.
"So." Gwenog's expression was unreadable, neither nervous nor hopeful. "You've talked to everyone in the First Seven by now. What do you think?"
Ginny ran her hand through windblown, sweat-crusted hair, and sighed. "Your Seeker doesn't fly enough, and needs to stop operating on 'gut instinct' and learn some proper technique. Brehaut needs to spend more time training and less time worrying about how she looks. The rest of the team looks okay, for now, but as you noted, they're not pulling together. Give it a couple more seasons in the pits of the League, and they might fall apart as well. And the Captain…"
"Yes?"
Damn it. Ginny took a deep breath, and spoke evenly, professionally, without emotion and emphasis. "Thompson isn't in the right frame of mind to play well, let alone lead the team. She appears mostly worried about her professional Quidditch career and her personal issues. I can't say for sure from the little time I've spent here, but while she's doing that, she's not likely to be able to set the right example for the team, or enforce standards, or monitor and boost morale, which is what a Captain needs to do."
The manager of the Holyhead Harpies blinked, then sighed heavily, and passed her hand over her eyes. "I should have seen it," she muttered to herself.
Ginny said nothing, just looked at her watch. "I need to go. I may have to stop by the shops and pick up something for the kids' dinners."
"Did you say anything to the team?"
"No, I couldn't think of anything that wouldn't have sounded like a pile of warmed-over platitudes."
At last there was a flicker of fury in Gwenog Jones's eyes. "I asked you to help me motivate them, Ginny."
"For what, Gwenog?" asked Ginny. "For 'the Team'? For the Board? For the League? Your players are burned out, or not that keen on the professional life anyway, Gwen. If that's their decision, let them make it."
"You're running out on me again," Gwenog looked more hurt now, and it was not pretence. With Gwenog, nothing was ever pretence. "After all these years, and you do this again!"
That old story. Memories of a similar argument, right here in this stadium, all those years ago. Ginny, so much younger, juggling two toddlers and a months-old baby girl, in tears as she walked away from her first career and tried not to burn her bridges as she did. But I'm not that poor girl any more! "What made you think it would be any different this time around? What made you think my reasons would be any different this time round?!" snapped Ginny. "I didn't think professional Quidditch worth my time then, and I don't think it is now!"
Gwenog stabbed a finger at her. "Even if you don't think it worth your commitment, you don't have to sabotage the team like this!"
"Sabotage?!" Ginny couldn't help laughing scornfully, even if that did piss Gwenog off even more. "If anything, I'm trying to help them!"
"You can help by helping them win!"
"I won't make those girls sweat blood for a stupid shiny cup!"
Gwenog's eyes bugged out. "What the hell are you playing at, Weasley? What do you mean, a stupid cup?! You know if the Board of Directors cut our funding, that's the end of the Holyhead Harpies! Does that mean nothing to you? We're talking about survival here! You think this is a game?"
Ginny's fraying temper snapped before she could even consciously think, unfortunate choice of words. "IT IS A FUCKING GAME!" she screamed. "A game of seven players and four balls! It's not bloody real life! So let the Harpies relegate, if that's what it takes! Go back to being a club playing for fun! Quit slave-driving these poor girls, quit selling them a crazy dream, and let them get a real life!" And, to put the final touches on the cake, Ginny added, "And my name is Potter!"
Gwenog Jones went for her wand.
Ginny, who knew her former Captain so well, did the same; in a flash, her wand was out of her flying trousers and in her hand. Many players left their wands on the ground when they flew, as there was no real need for a wand up over the pitch, and it might get in the way of flying or snap if they collided. Not Ginny; not a former leader of Dumbledore's Army, not Harry's girlfriend and later wife, mother of his children - her wand was always by her side.
But the blast of unfocused magic that flew from Gwenog's wand was pure frustration, and for all its pain and fury it only slammed into the wall several feet from Ginny, scorching paint and snapping plywood.
"I SHOULD NEVER HAVE MADE YOU A HARPY!" screamed Gwenog.
"MAYBE YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE!" Ginny shouted back.
As Gwenog opened her mouth to yell back, the sound of hurried footsteps filtered through the angry haze of the fight. Ginny looked round; Leanne Thompson was jogging quickly towards them. She clutched a ruffled owl to the chest of her Harpies jersey, its feathers wet from sea-spray. The worried look on Leanne's face deepened as she saw that Ginny and Gwenog had their wands out.
"What are you doing here?! Get out!" Gwenog snarled at her.
But the Holyhead Harpies' Captain looked at Ginny instead. "We received a letter from the Ministry," said Leanne. "They want you at St Mungo's. Your husband. Mr Potter's been hurt."
Oh. Oh no. Oh Merlin, no.
Ginny didn't hesitate; she sprinted as fast as she could for the Floo.
Author's note: Thank you all for reading. Do please drop me a line and tell me what you think of the story as we go - comment box is right there! :D