Summary: The Auror Office has gotten wind of dark magic activity affecting Muggle football, and assigns Auror Potter to investigate. So of course Ginny, Ron and Hermione have to tag along.

A fun little romp written for the Hinny Discord Server's 2022 Minor Character March Challenge.

Author's Note: I like best Slim Dusty's rendition of "Waltzing Matilda": watch?v=FqtttbbYfSM, it's the mostly-bouncy camp song version I'd always heard. Much has been written about the meaning of the Aussie slang used in the lyrics, so I won't repeat them here, but if you don't know it yet, I think they're worth looking up.

I love to hear what you liked and disliked or found boring. And come check out my other stories, if you like this one.

0. Prologue

February, 2000

Everybody has their problems, I know.

But by Merlin's beard, it feels like I've had more than most, even if it was all my own fault.

My quill and notepad is out but I'm still looking for a target. The bitch from Snitch! and the Prophet's Sports chappie have already cornered Gwenog Jones and Tabitha Lewis. I really really don't want to talk to Wimbourne. There's nothing they'd like more than to console themselves that they may have lost the afternoon's match, but at least they're not me.

I can't afford Polyjuice Potion – have barely the Galleons for next month's rent – or else I'd save myself the nightmare of openly coming back to my former kingdom as the next best thing to a pauper. Wizarding Britain is like a small Muggle village, only about twenty thousand beings all told, and this – the first Quidditch game of the year – is packed with everybody who's anybody, as befits a major annual event on the social calendar. I'm pretty sure literally everyone knows me, and who I once was.

A lot of people fall from lofty positions and end up begging in the gutter, but not that many have to beg where they used to rule, and from the same people.

There's no hiding; I have to display the Press badge hung round my neck wherever I go. Everywhere I turn I see smirks and double-takes – here's Bartlett, barman at my former favourite pub; Roblin, who tried to get me to advertise her stupid Bludgers For Babies toy – and oh bollocks, that's Brickell the builder and a couple of his construction mates. I'm still paying him off for the utter waste of gold that was my luxury cottage in Stow-on-the-Wold, repossessed now of course – and his team's just gone down 510 to 180.

"You've got solid brass 'uns, showing your face round here," he growls. "Gonna give me my gold anywhere near on time this month, guv'nor?"

"Course I will," I say meekly, "can't talk to you, I'm on the job, cheers mate..."

"I ain't your fuckin' mate." He grabs my Press badge before I can slip away through the crowd. "Hah! A journo for the bloody Macks, that's what you've been up to? How the mighty do fall," he crows. His mates snigger and so do a couple of the watching faces around us – I'm not keen on taking a closer look, I know I'll recognise them. Brickell hoofs me in the arse, friendly-like, by way of goodbye. "Go on, gu'vnor, get out there and earn me my Galleons."

Yes, I got a job writing for Sports Enchanted's International column. America's the only place where my application wouldn't be laughed out of the Personnel office outright. I didn't particularly want to go anywhere near the balls-and-brooms industry, believe me, but when you have a curriculum vitae like mine, there's not much else I can do – it was that or serve sundaes at Fortescue's, and I badly need the extra gold.

I really have to get a few words from someone, anyone. I head for the nearest green uniform I can see. It's a young freckly girl with a long braid of flame-red hair, only a freshly-minted Second Seven Chaser but cheeky, confident, with an aggressive tilt to her posture – exactly as Gwenog Jones likes them. I pin her for an interview before I can chicken out, promising myself a pint of Lilliputian lager – or five – when this is over.

"Hello there, can I have a word or two about the match for Sports Enchanted..."

Oh. A Weasley. Shit. I exchanged favours with her father once, and I still owe her brothers money. Even I wouldn't blame her if she gave me the finger and told me to eat Doxy dung.

But for the first time this evening, those brown eyes are neither condescending nor pitying. Ginevra "No, it's Ginny, please, I insist" Weasley is warm, courteous, listens raptly to my questions and gives me useful answers about the match and herself that are neither too smug nor too falsely humble. She puts me so at ease, I'm unconsciously whistling as I write down and read through her anwers.

Ginny Weasley giggles, and asks: "Is that a Muggle song? Has a nice bounce to it."

I haven't done that for ages. Not since my life took such a disastrous turn. "What? Oh, oh yeah. Sorry." Blast it. If I wasn't more than twice her age, I'd ask her out for a drink – but that's a young man's game, I'm too old and knutless for that now. Still, she's got me charmed enough that I blurt "Good luck" as we say goodbye.

Ginny Weasley says with just the right shade of sympathy, "Good luck to you too, Mr Bagman." And the only genuinely friendly face in this whole sodding shambles scampers away.

I leave and look for that lager so I don't have to think about my life tonight.

I. Soft Touch

August, 2001

"Harry, can I please have a word?"

Half past four on a Friday afternoon is never when you want to be visited by the boss.

Harry Potter sighed, put down his quill, and turned to face Senior Auror Mavis Laird smiling apologetically over a slim case file and a small cardboard box. "Oh no, Mavis..." he groaned. "I just came off the vampire murders and I'm following up on Williamson's robberies, give me a break."

"Sorry for springing this on you, Harry. Robards threw it on my desk thirty minutes ago. I'm putting Rowlands on it when she comes back from Training next week, but it would be really useful if you could do some groundwork for me on this first. This week," she emphasised.

"It's a weekend job?!" Harry nearly whined. He had been looking forward to watching Ginny play Montrose on Saturday, having missed the first two games of August. Ginny was going to go spare.

"It's a Sunday do, I know you'll be off to Holyhead tomorrow," said Mavis. "Please, Harry? It's just one day. I'll authorise replacement leave, I know you've been putting in overtime on the vampires. Oh by the way," she said innocently, "could you ask Andie if I can visit her this weekend or next? The children would love to get in one last round with Teddy before school starts."

Harry knew he was being sweet-talked. Young Teddy loved Mavis's four children, and vice versa; the family would jump at the chance to play with him anytime Harry asked – he was being paid in his own coin. But it's especially hard to turn down your boss when she's a friend. He also knew she could make it an order – as Dawlish or Llewellyn would have – and all this kindly pill-sugaring was just Mavis being Mavis. "Oh, alright," he said. "Pass it over."

Mavis handed him the file, and went on as he scribbled his name on the inside flap: "We received an anonymous tip-off about Muggles being relieved of their cash at some of their sporting events. The Magical Law Enforcement Patrol went round, but the spellwork's too faint for them to pick up."

"Not an Obliviation job, or Confundus?" said Harry absently, flipping through the handful of reports that amounted to basically nothing.

"Something more subtle, probably, so they passed it to us. The informant only hinted rather vaguely, but we think this match, on Sunday, will be the next target," said Mavis, tapping a page. "Just go have a wee keek, see if you can spot anything, and if you don't find anything, write up a report on the ground conditions for the file. What sort of game is that, though?"

"It's called football. The most popular sport in Britain, and probably the world." Harry was suddenly reminded of Dudley Dursley. Wonder what he's doing now.

"Oh aye, I've heard of it," said Mavis, who was no sportswoman but dutifully accompanied her children to every sporting event that took their fancy, Muggle or magical. "Quidditch with no brooms, only one ball, and they can't use their hands, right?"

"More or less," Harry grunted.

Mavis knew when she wasn't wanted. "Thanks again, Harry. Here, help me finish this. I made too much, the kids really shouldn't be having so many sweets."

Harry sighed again after Mavis left. He opened the box – it held thick squares of her famous parkin, another transparent bribe. Yet another six-day week, on the heels of a very long and exhausting case. Never mind Ginny, he felt like throwing a fit. He contemplated the dark-brown treacly spiced cake, and took a bite. Damn it, Mavis really was good at this.

On Saturday Holyhead beat Montrose surprisingly quickly. Harry waited for Ginny to be done with the interviews, had the obligatory post-match pint with the team – they liked having him around, which wasn't often – and then they could get away for a proper dinner.

"Italian? Chinese? Takeaway?" asked Harry, as they headed for the pub's fireplace.

"I'm not that hungry, and a bit sick of eating out," said Ginny. "Why don't we go back to Grimmauld Place and make something simple?"

"Shall I get Kreacher to rustle something up?" Kreacher worked at Hogwarts most of the time, in no small part because Harry felt uncomfortable having the elf in Grimmauld Place – he liked his privacy – but between school terms, Kreacher insisted on serving Harry at home. He'd come to appreciate having Kreacher around to cook and clean, especially when he was deep into a case and racking up overtime.

"No, I think we can manage." Harry knew what that meant; Ginny was in a good mood and wanted to mess around in the kitchen.

They stepped out of Grimmauld Place's Floo to find Ron and Hermione lying on the sofa in the study, a jug of pumpkin fizz and a pile of snacks within easy reach. Hermione was nestled in the crook of Ron's arm. They were reading a book together, and fully-dressed – this time. The four of them had sworn a pact on inadvertent exhibitionism in Grimmauld Place, but oversights happened – as Harry well knew.

"Good read?" asked Ginny innocently. She winked at Harry; they both knew Hermione and Ron's reading sessions often turned steamy – usually very quickly, if it was one of Hermione's guilty-pleasure Mills & Boons.

Ron grunted. "Muggle bloke's lost at sea with some animals. Nice work, Ginny."

"Thanks. Tell me when the beautiful pirate lady with the tragic past shows up."

"Bugger off, Ginny, it's not that kind of book," said Ron, flushing.

Before Ginny could pounce with a question about what other kinds of books the two had read, Hermione quickly said, "Dad and Mum would like to know if you two can drop by for tea on Sunday."

"That'd be nice. Harry?"

Damn, thought Harry. He had hoped to get Ginny fed and watered at least before having to tell her his Sunday was taken up. "Er – I can't, I have field work to do."

Ginny stiffened, and turned around slowly. Her expression was black as thunder. "Excuse me?!"

"I'm sorry, but Mavis pinned me just before I could–"

"You let her get away with far too much, Harry!"

"She's been really nice to me, and to be fair, she was dropped in it herself–"

"The Office has already made plenty of use of you, Harry, you haven't had normal hours for months!"

"I did tell her that, she let me have today off so I could watch you–"

"Oh how bloody kind of them to let you have one bloody day off!"

"She'll give me another day in lieu, we can spend that time together, Ginny–"

"Tchah!" Ginny scoffed. "Probably at Christmas, or paid off in gold; I swear, Harry you are not the only bloody Auror in the Office, if you'd said no they'd just send someone else... I'm bloody starving, I'm going to put on dinner. Do not," she gestured sweepingly to encompass Ron and Hermione, sitting silently on the sofa, "talk to me, anyone!"

She stomped out of the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen – they could hear her angry footsteps going all the way down, and the slam of the kitchen door fairly rattled the house.

Taking off his glasses, Harry slumped down on an armchair and helped himself to Ron's glass of fizz and an open bag of crisps. "Fuck."

"That went well," said Ron. Hermione swatted him on the shoulder. "No, it did, look, he hasn't even got any winged bogeys – alright, alright..."

"Sorry, Harry," said Hermione. "Would you like Ron and I to leave you alone?"

"Please stay, Ginny'll feel better if we all have dinner together. She's right, I am overdoing it," said Harry morosely.

"Nah, mate, you're just a soft touch. What'd Mavis saddle you with?"

Harry dug around in his satchel and handed the file over. Ron eagerly opened it and Hermione immediately started reading over his shoulder – both technically violations of Auror regulations, but Harry had never bothered about that sort of thing. He knew who he could trust. His two best friends were the least likely people he'd ever dream would side with Dark wizards.

"Football, eh," said Hermione, frowning disapprovingly. "They must be swindling hundreds of victims, given its popularity."

"Is that the sport Dean's always going on and on about?" asked Ron. "The one where you can't use your hands – bloody mental – where's the fun in that..."

"There's more skill involved in kicking than picking a ball up and throwing, Ron..."

"If I wanted to see skill I'd watch jugglers, not..."

Harry let the familiar bickering wash over him as he poured himself more pumpkin fizz from the jug, and drained it thirstily. The sound was almost comforting – it reminded him of their schooldays which – although not exactly simpler and happier times, what with Voldemort and all – were beginning to have the rough bits smoothed off by nostalgia. Now that Ron and Hermione could literally kiss and make up, he didn't worry about them throwing a tantrum and stomping off for weeks on end after a spirited debate. Indeed he had a sneaking suspicion the squabbling had become part of their foreplay – ugh.

"...going to do, Harry?"

He looked around, saw Ron and Hermione gazing at him expectantly. "Eh?"

"What's the plan, mate?"

Harry shrugged. "Just head up north and snoop around the stadium on match day, I suppose."

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances. "Ever been to a football match?" asked Ron.

She shook her head. "No, I've only watched matches on TV. Daddy says there's a lot of hooliganism. There can be as many as fifty thousand fans at a match, and lots of drinking, and things get rowdy. People have died in stampedes."

"Hang on..." said Harry.

"Fifty thousand Muggles, sounds exciting. Don't worry, I'll protect you," said Ron, with an air of mock gallantry.

Hermione gave him an arch look. "Do I look like I need protecting, sir?"

"Excuse me just a bit..." Harry didn't like where this was going, but for some reason he was having trouble articulating his objections.

"Only if you command, my lady," said Ron. "You need but say the word, my wand is ever at your service."

"Oooh, Ron, your wand," said Hermione breathily, giving Ron a smouldering look full of meaning.

"Could you please not do that in front of me?!" snapped Harry. "And no, you're not coming! And what the hell is in this pumpkin fizz?" He took a closer look at his two best friends; both were smiling widely, with shining eyes and rosy cheeks.

"Vilenjak Vodka," grinned Ron. "Krum sent us a couple of bottles. Aw, why not, Harry? You know Aurors should never work alone. We can be your backup – unofficially."

Hermione crossed her arms. "I don't want to be Harry's backup," she humphed, then smiled and threw herself sprawling across Ron's lap. "I'd like to go to a football match. What do you say, darling?" She giggled as Ron bent down and pecked her on the tip of her nose.

"No, you can't! And stop doing that!"

"Don't be a spoilsport, Harry," said Hermione, curling up in Ron's lap and sliding her arms around his neck. "You go along and do your Auror stuff. Ron and I'll just – be there. Minding our own business."

"And if you don't find anything, you could even join us and catch some of the game," said Ron. "Wouldn't be a complete waste of your Sunday then, would it?"

"Oh Ron, you are clever... c'mere..."

Harry shut his eyes and covered them with his hands for good measure. "No! No! Terrible idea!"

"I think it's a great idea!"

Harry turned around in his chair; Ginny was standing in the doorway, a few spots of food stains down her shirt, wand run through a messy braid piled carelessly on the top of her head, no longer scowling but still with an obstinate jut to her chin and a dangerous glint in her eye. Petite, fiery, handy with a wand, gorgeous... it was a sight that stirred Harry's blood, he only wished she was angry at someone else, not him...

Wait. He really was drunk, on an aphrodisiac alcohol, no less. Focus! "Ginny, I'm sorry, I was an idiot to take on the assignment, but I don't think you should be present at an Auror investigation. I'll make it up to you and soon, I promise..."

"Who said anything about an investigation?" snapped Ginny. "I'm going to watch legball–"

"Football," said Hermione helpfully, her voice somewhat muffled by her mouth being tucked in the hollow of Ron's neck, round which her arms were also wrapped.

Ginny grimaced, and looked pointedly away. "...football, with Hermione and Ron. Nothing wrong with that, is there, Potter?"

Harry was going to say "yes, there is", but... it couldn't hurt, could it, if she was just coincidentally at the venue while he was there? Ginny had a massive monkey on her back about being left out of things, he would only exacerbate things by saying 'no', not that it would help, he couldn't stop any of the three from doing whatever they liked, and yes, he hadn't seen much of her in weeks, and he did miss her too, very much, he had nearly forgotten how beautiful his Ginny was, no-one would find out, what was the harm really...?

Ginny read all the thoughts flashing through his head and knew she had won. "That's settled then. Come have dinner. I've made chicken fricassée enough for everyone, and there's bread pudding in the oven."

"You're amazing, Ginny," exclaimed Ron, perking up and disentangling himself from Hermione; looking put out, she smoothed down her rumpled cardigan, and followed Ron down to the kitchen.

"And afterwards," said Ginny commandingly, "you can give me a massage, I'm tense all over after the match." She said this with a hint of invitation in her voice that Harry had come to know well.

"...oh, alright."

Ron's right, thought Harry, following obediently as Ginny grabbed his hand and towed him downstairs, I am a soft touch.

A/N: Just posting an old short fic while I'm working on more stuff. As always, your comments are appreciated!