II. Just Muggles
"We're going for the full football experience," Hermione had declared.
That meant, in her view, Apparating to the stadium right after lunch and strolling around soaking up the atmosphere. Which was fine by Harry, as he did need to have a look around, for the purposes of his work assignment. He just didn't know how to process the fact that Ginny – and his friends – were with him. It wouldn't be the first time Ginny had been on the scene during his Auror work, but that didn't mean he had to like it.
I think I'm having trouble concentrating on the job.
"Is it because I'm distracting you?" Ginny squeezed his hand and smirked.
Despite himself, Harry felt the familiar rush of warmth in his chest that he got whenever Ginny read his mind. "Of course. Just you being anywhere near me, in a room, I wouldn't take my eyes off you," said Harry.
Ginny laughed, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "I'll be as meek as a mouse, I promise. You just go along and do your Auror thing."
Meek. Harry snorted.
There had been the matter of how they were going to explain their total ignorance of football, despite being ostensibly young twenty-something adults in England. Hermione had hit upon the idea of passing themselves off as American tourists, and they'd had fun going around the City of London earlier that morning picking up brochures, maps, and bits of touristy tat to add to their disguises. They wore baseball caps, cargo trousers, hiking shoes, and carried knapsacks festooned with keychains and pins featuring red London Buses, bearskinned Queen's Guardsmen, Big Ben, and mottoes like "I London" and "Keep Calm And Carry On".
Harry had signed for two doses of Polyjuice Potion from the Auror Office's inventory for himself and Ginny, turning them into a young man and woman, both rather nondescript, of average height, with medium-brown hair and eyes. Ron and Hermione had made do with temporary spells that changed their hair and eye colour and, in Ron's case, disguised his freckles.
Ron had gone for sandy hair and amber eyes. Hermione had gone blue-eyed, cornsilk blonde, and was enjoying herself; she turned to them, waving a tourist guidebook, and said loudly, "I'm, like, sooo excited y'all!"
Harry groaned at her exaggerated accent. "Much too much. She's going to get us noticed."
"Oh, let her have her fun," said Ginny, peering around her. "So, this is the most popular sport in the Muggle world."
"Well, not quite the sport itself, yet. Just the stuff around it, I guess."
Large crowds of Muggles ambled purposefully towards the front entrance of the stadium. Most of them were men, men of all ages from youths in their late teens to bent, wizened men in faded flat caps and ancient jackets who might have seen a world war or two. There were a few clerkish types, but most looked like bricklayers, plumbers, electricians – men who worked hard at active jobs with their hands for modest pay all week, out in the sun or in stuffy maintenance spaces, and wanted nothing more than to let loose on a weekend afternoon and cheer on their football team. Almost all of them were wearing team jerseys and scarves; the street was a sea of scarlet.
"Hermione's right," remarked Ginny, "It is a bit rowdier than Quidditch." A troop of young men about their age marched past, chanting something rude about Gary somebody – probably an opposing player. "And there aren't many women, and hardly any children."
That was the key difference they noticed between Quidditch and football stadium crowds. Quidditch weekends were often family affairs, with as many women and children as there were men in the bleachers. Summer friendlies and World Cup matches were favourite family occasions in the wizarding world. This meant the crowd was more restrained, more family-friendly.
Not so in the Muggle world. Women made up perhaps one in four of the crowd filling the streets and streaming towards the stadium, and most of them looked like dutifully supportive wives and girlfriends of the men, or more rarely, packs of groupies on the pull – young women dressed to attract, maybe hoping to land a player at the afterparty. Though most of these would probably end up settling for a fit young fan.
"Didn't you ever go to one of these?" asked Ginny.
The question catapulted Harry back in time. His fists balled without him noticing. "No," said Harry. "Vernon and Petunia took Dudders a few times, though. To this very stadium, actually, and a couple of other clubs too." It was stupid, he told himself, how broken-hearted eight-year-old Harry had been over being left behind. What could a young child appreciate about a football match anyway? And yet... it had hurt. And still did, all these years later.
Without a word, Ginny lifted her hand holding Harry's, and kissed the back of his, long and slow. Then she leaned in and kissed him tenderly on the corner of his frowning mouth. "It's okay," she whispered. "I'm here now."
And it was.
There were a couple of catcalls and someone shouted, "Why don't you giz us yer tickets and fook orf back to Noo Yawk with yer bird, eh mate?"
Harry was in too good a mood now to bother, but Ginny waved cheekily and received more cheers in reply.
You get to know the regulars in short order.
These three Muggles always come together, I think they must be close friends. An untidy young woman about thirty, with inexpertly-applied blonde highlights in brown hair that always looks it needs a wash; a big chap in a gaudy shell jacket, gripping a paper coffee cup and a roll-up; and a thin, long-faced fellow in a tattered orange wool cap.
Polly does it quick, and they hand over their paper tokens – the "cash", as they call it – to me. Usually they don't say anything, other than talk about the match. But this time the woman pipes up.
" 'ere, Brett, maybe you should give it a rest. That's a lot you just put down – and weren't you saying old Mrs Andrews was going at you about your rent?"
"S'my money innit," retorts the long-faced young man. " 'Sides, you dropped as much as I did."
"Did I?" The woman frowns. "I... don't remember..." She looks down at her handbag, and starts to turn back to us.
I shoot Polly a glance. She gives me a don't worry look and gestures wait with her hand.
"Oh, let the kid have a bit of fun," said the big man breezily, slurping from his cup. "C'mon, let's get some pies and drinks."
"Kid," snorts the woman, "he's only two years younger'n us." But she's been successfully diverted, and she take no more notice of us.
"I – I'm not sure I have enough," says Orange Cap. He looks down at his wallet in a mixture of confusion and shame. "Funny. I thought I did..."
"My shout then," says the big man, putting a beefy arm round his friend. "You can buy me a round come payday."
"Bloody typical, 'e'd rather watch footy than eat..." The young woman's voice fades into the bustle of the crowd.
I look down at the fistful of pound notes. I've been at this long enough now that I can figure it easily in my head – it's about fifty Galleons worth. And next week they'll drop about the same amount – it's a lot of money for one week – and these Muggles don't look rich.
In the earlier days, before the Sports Enchanted gig, right after the lawsuits, I'd had to live like a Muggle. Not anywhere near Britain, nor even East Europe, where the long arm of the goblin underworld could reach me. I hid out in a place called Detroit in the USA, working quietly as a Muggle night-shift kitchen-boy. After I'd got the hang of cleaning and repair charms, an hour of hard spell-work every night left the restaurant cleaner than it had ever been, and I got decent money for it.
But I had to scrimp and scrape every knut – every "cent" – because I had to pay off my debts. I lived cheap, in a small rented room; I bought basic Muggle groceries and doubled them – my magic wasn't good enough to make them stretch any further; and did the same with coarse cheap Muggle cigarettes and beer – the only vices I could afford – instead of the fancy Tempering Tobacco and Ogden's Firewhiskey I was used to. And around me I witnessed the lives of the tens of thousands of unfortunates who got by in much the same condition, but without a wand.
Even now, I still live cheap, though within Magical Britain instead of out in the Muggle wilderness. My debts are no longer ruinous, merely suffocating, and I can pay them on an official instalment plan. The point is – I get what it means to be barely getting by. I can see that Orange Cap, Shell Jacket and Little Miss Highlights aren't exactly top of the heap, that these weekly footy excursions are their brief respite from the drudge of the daily grind to make ends meet – and what the fuck am I doing to them?
Fifty Galleons – nearly a thousand pounds – every week – how long can they go till they break? What will they do then to feed the unknown addiction, wiped from their minds? It's all too easy to see Orange Cap begging off family and friends, kindly Shell Jacket blagging little old ladies, pretty Miss Highlights looking away as she turns tricks against the wall down some dripping rubbish-strewn ginnel, hating themselves every minute and not even knowing why.
I feel like I'm peddling dope, except my customers don't even actually get high for their pains.
I look up from the money at Polly, and she's watching me like she knows exactly what I'm thinking. But her eyes are hard and cold – there's not a shred of sympathy in them.
"They're just Muggles," she says. "If it wasn't us, they'd be screwed over by their own kind anyway. That's how the world works. You know this. You've been there – like I have."
"Yes, I have," I say. "And I feel like a heap of shit for doing this."
"Yeah? You're Mister Empathy now, are you? Going to join the Muggletarian Society? Listen up," Polly jabs me in the chest with a finger, hard, and says fiercely, "The world is made up of Fuckers and Fuckees. You and I, we've served our time being the Fuckees. We've suffered enough. This is our one shot at getting something back for ourselves. Our turn at the apple. You want to still be paying off your debts when you're sixty, that it? You want to go back to writing for the Macks and being the butt-monkey of every match-day, Mister Department Head of Sports and Games, that it?"
"No..." Polly knows my financial situation, of course.
"Then man the fuck up. They're just Muggles, keep telling yourself that." She turns to the next victim – the next customer, and does her thing.
They're just Muggles. Right.