Author's Note: First I'm just going to advance the plot going around and
checking in with some of the main characters. For the purposes of this fic,
this is a few years after Harry & co. graduate from Hogwarts, but fairly
soon after EC. Okay? Okay. I knew you'd understand! So review, review,
review!
The Quidditch World Cup was madness. Complete and utter madness. People everywhere, shouting, milling, pitching tents, starting fires, placing bets. Muggle security was a nightmare. The Australian Minister of Magic had gone missing. The Portkey schedule had gone amok. Two members of the Peruvian team had come to blows over who got the end locker. Chaos reigned supreme.
In other words, it was a young up-and-coming reporter's dream. There was quite possibly the material here for one to get out of a two-bit sportswriting position at the Liverpool Magic Bee-Inquirer-Observer-Tribune- Citizen-Herald and into the newsroom of the prestigious Daily Prophet.
Ron Weasley was just such a young up-and-coming reporter, with just such a two-bit sportswriting position at the Liverpool Magic BIOTCH. He would dearly love to make it to a paper with better acronym skills. At the moment, however, huddled in the corner of the press box, squeezing the bridge of his nose, all he wanted was for the world to go away. He had a doozy of a hangover after last night's adventures with a sweet young thing from the Los Angeles Wizarding Times who found British accents devastatingly sexy.
Suddenly there was a tapping on his shoulder.
"Go away," he mumbled piteously.
The tapping turned into a flick at his temple.
"Unh," he moaned, and looked up to see his little sister tapping her foot disgustedly.
"Honestly, Ronald," she snapped, "can't you lay off the booze for two consecutive days? You need to come see Percy. He's had a run-in with a Dark Wizard."
Ron cradled his aching head in his palms. "Ginny. My head hurts already. What do I want to see Percy for?"
"Might make a good story."
Ron's energy was suddenly restored. "Let's go," he said decisively.
The Quidditch World Cup was madness. Complete and utter madness. People everywhere, shouting, milling, pitching tents, starting fires, placing bets. Muggle security was a nightmare. The Australian Minister of Magic had gone missing. The Portkey schedule had gone amok. Two members of the Peruvian team had come to blows over who got the end locker. Chaos reigned supreme.
In other words, it was a young up-and-coming reporter's dream. There was quite possibly the material here for one to get out of a two-bit sportswriting position at the Liverpool Magic Bee-Inquirer-Observer-Tribune- Citizen-Herald and into the newsroom of the prestigious Daily Prophet.
Ron Weasley was just such a young up-and-coming reporter, with just such a two-bit sportswriting position at the Liverpool Magic BIOTCH. He would dearly love to make it to a paper with better acronym skills. At the moment, however, huddled in the corner of the press box, squeezing the bridge of his nose, all he wanted was for the world to go away. He had a doozy of a hangover after last night's adventures with a sweet young thing from the Los Angeles Wizarding Times who found British accents devastatingly sexy.
Suddenly there was a tapping on his shoulder.
"Go away," he mumbled piteously.
The tapping turned into a flick at his temple.
"Unh," he moaned, and looked up to see his little sister tapping her foot disgustedly.
"Honestly, Ronald," she snapped, "can't you lay off the booze for two consecutive days? You need to come see Percy. He's had a run-in with a Dark Wizard."
Ron cradled his aching head in his palms. "Ginny. My head hurts already. What do I want to see Percy for?"
"Might make a good story."
Ron's energy was suddenly restored. "Let's go," he said decisively.
