Harry Potter books, and all characters therein are belong to J. K. Rowling, © 2001/2002 Warner bros. In short, they aren't mine, so please don't sue.
kkisblpeen@aol.com
As always, I would like to thank my terrific Beta-reader, Seldes Katne, for taking the time to help me.
Once upon a time
By Kirkis
Chapter Six: The Archery Tournament
Ginny awoke with a knot in her stomach. She sat up and glanced around. It took her a few seconds to remember why her insides were turning so uncomfortably. It was the day of the Archery Tournament, and Ron would be competing. But that wasn't what worried her.
There was no danger in the competition itself. The danger began when the competing ended and the winner was announced… and then captured. Ron as Robin, and Harry as whatever character he was playing would have to escape again.
The banquet escape had been frightening enough. Sir Guy had dragged Ginny and Hermione out and neither of them was very happy with him for it. Not that Ginny could've done anything in her costume. She could barely walk in it, much less help in a swordfight.
Ginny shook her head, trying to ward off a wave of fear creeping up her back. In more than one way, the Archery Tournament felt more frightening than the Triwizard Tournament had. It was just Harry then, and even though his life was in danger then, Dumbledore had been there, and there was plenty of magic to help him through. This time, Ron was in danger too, and there was no Dumbledore, or magic to help them.
Harry had already been injured. He'd gotten his shoulder slashed by a Nottingham Guard. It bled so quickly, Ginny remembered with a shudder, staining his forest green shirt. There was no magic to help it heal either, so it would leave a scar. Another scar, she thought, running her hand over the outside of her right thigh.
She did this every now and then when thinking of Harry's scar. She too had a scar, on that very leg. It wasn't special like Harry's. She still remembered falling on the rocks near the far side of the pond at the Burrow. She'd feared getting in trouble and hadn't told her parents about it. By the time they found out, it had healed too much to prevent a scar. So Ginny carried an irregular scar an inch long on her right thigh, which she was now running her finger down absently.
Suddenly, she hopped out of bed and pulled off her makeshift nightgown, hating the thought of having to wrap herself back up in those horribly restrictive clothes. It wasn't that Ginny hated snug-fitting clothes, or even clothes that covered her entire body except her face. It was just that the habit she had to wear had so many layers, and was such a stiff cloth that she could barely move properly. It also got quite hot wrapped up so tight, and Ginny was getting the feeling that she was sweating away half her body weight. Not that that bothered her too much. She was noticing her hips and thighs getting a little fuller. Though Hermione said it was normal for girls their age to fill out a little, Ginny hoped it would involve more vertical filling than horizontal filling.
As she slowly got dressed, Ginny's mind wandered back to the coming tournament and the fear of what would happen when it was finished. She hoped Ron and Harry had the good sense to use the week preceding the Archery tournament to practice archery and swordplay. But she knew them too well to put much stock in that hope. Ron would get bored with it, and Harry was easily distracted from necessary tasks. This was especially true when Ron made the distractions, and with no Hermione there to keep him on track, Harry would probably end up doing whatever Ron was doing.
None of this brought comfort to Ginny as she pulled the stiff hood around her head. She only hoped Hermione's theory that the book might not let the Hero lose, would carry over into also not letting the hero die. Ginny shook off fear and doubt and left her Spartan room, heading up to the fifth floor of the keep, where Hermione's posh medieval room was located.
Around noon, Hermione and Ginny were escorted to the Royal box to wait for the tournament to begin. A red, black and blue awning stretched over the Royal box, blocking out some of the sun. But it was still hot under the thick cloth, and with no breeze to speak of, it was only getting hotter. Hermione knew she was luckier though; her dress was far less restrictive than Ginny's thick white robes. It didn't take long for Ginny to grow very pink against the stiff cloth surrounding her face.
Prince John and Sir Guy joined them, both dressed in lurid tunics and chain mail. Prince John wore his thick crenellated Crown and Sir Guy was draped in a sweeping gold cape. As they settled in, the announcer broke over the hum of the chattering crowd.
"Ladies and Gen'lemen," he shouted eagerly, yelling through a giant red, blue and black megaphone. His voice reminded Hermione of one of the actors from Monty Python's Flying Circus, a television show her father liked.
"Welcome to the No'ingham Archery Tournament! We 'ope you've enjoyed the parade, and invite you to get yourself an ale and se'le down an' enjoy the Tournament! Our contestants will be linin' up in front o' the targets shor'ly! In the mean time, put your 'ands together for 'Orace 'Orner and 'is band of minstrels!" shouted the announcer. Hermione looked in the direction the announcer had waved his arm. The band were six men and what actually looked like two women, all holding instruments similar to the some of the ones the Weird sisters had played at the Yule Ball. A banner overhead read "Horace Horner's band of traveling minstrels", and there was scattered applause as they bowed and began to play. Most of the people in the stands seemed either too uninterested, or too hot to applaud. Hermione applauded absently; Ginny was too busy tugging the cloth away from her chin.
The band played a number that seemed to drag on for ten minutes, and Hermione was forced to endue Sir Guy's endless comments. "When I was a lad I could play the lute, - I once knew a singer from London, - ale is best served with meals, but it tastes good anytime, too." He droned on like that until the song came slowly to an end. The moment they'd finished, the announcer was back with his odd accent.
"An' now the contestants are ready to make their way out onto the field," he said. The announcer named each contestant as they walked out across the field. Hermione listened through the first five, but soon realized Ron would probably use an alias. She wondered if he would be clever enough to use "Ronald Weasley".
"Do you see anyone who looks like Ron yet?" Hermione whispered to Ginny as "Graham Garamond" was announced. Ginny shook her head and continued to fan herself. She looked like she was ready to pass out from the heat.
"Are you sure you-"
"Yes, M'lady, I'm sure. I wouldn't miss it for the world," said Ginny, interrupting her. She leaned in close and whispered to Hermione. "I only wish I could wear some normal clothes." Hermione knew enough not to ask Ginny yet again if she truly wanted to be there. Ginny always said the same thing; "You know I have to come." Hermione always felt a little sorry for Ginny about her feelings for Harry. She did have to come, after all, to the Quidditch matches, and to the Triwizard tasks, even though she ended up chewing her fingernails down to nubs every time. Ginny always said that not knowing was far worse. Hermione suspected she was feeling the same anxiety for Ron.
Hermione shifted her attention back to the contestants making their way across the field one by one. As "Reginald Braybourne III" was being announced, an unpleasant thought wormed its way out of a far corner of her mind.
"I hope he didn't back out at the last second," she said. She and Ginny exchanged the same worried look and returned their gaze quickly to the field, scanning for any sign of Ron.
"Though if he did, I'd imagine Harry might step in," said Ginny without taking her eyes off "Melvin Froop", who was walking jauntily across the field waving to the crowd. Hermione made a small noise of agreement and sat up straight, trying to catch sight of the next contestant as soon as he came out from beneath the registry tent.
"Neville Longbo'om" said the announcer. Ginny and Hermione both had cover their mouths with their hands to keep from exploding with laughter. Neville Longbottom was the last name they were expecting. Ginny leaned toward Hermione and took her hand away from her mouth.
"Why didn't he just use is real name, or Harry's, or Dumbledore's!" she breathed, still smiling. The contestant called Neville Longbottom came out from under the registry tent; he was dressed even more flamboyantly than Prince John. He had a large purple plumed hat, a poufy purple tunic, and white tights on his legs.
"It's Ron," Ginny whispered knowingly. Hermione was just wondering how she knew for a fact that it was Ron, when Ginny told her how without even being asked. "I recognize his walk. No one else carries himself like Ron," she said, still watching him. Hermione hadn't noticed it before, but it was true, now that she thought about it. She couldn't ever imagine anyone walking quite like Ron. She hadn't even been aware that she knew how Ron walked until now.
To add credence that this was in fact Ron, halfway across the field, Neville lifted his hat a little and looked up into the Royal box. On his face was an obviously fake moustache, but some of his flaming red Weasley hair was showing. Even from some twenty yards off, Hermione caught his eye. He looked very nervous, and Hermione wondered if he was feeling the same way Harry usually felt before something big. A second later, he pulled the hat down and looked away from the Royal box.
"The tournament," the announcer bellowed through his megaphone, "consists of two rounds. In the first round, all contestants will show their skill at both hitting a target on center, and shooting an arrow a long distance. The judges will give marks out of ten, then choose the five best contestants to move on to the secon' round. The secon' round is a test of an archer's skill at hitting a moving target, as well as hitting a target while moving. The judges then name the winner. Any ties will be se'led by a combination of all the events: accuracy, distance, and hitting a moving target while moving."
"I'll announce each contestant in turn, they'll have three shots, then the judges will give marks based on all three shots," said the announcer. Hermione settled herself into her seat. Three shots apiece meant that with twenty-one contestants (Ron being number seventeen,), the first round of the tournament would take ages. It was already very hot, and with the sun burning high in the sky, it was probably going to get hotter still.
Somewhere around number fifteen, there was a distraction from the back of the Royal box. Someone had entered and the guard was trying to detain him. Sir Guy stood up and both Hermione and Ginny turned to have a look. At first glance, Hermione could have sworn it was Dumbledore. From under his drab brown hood came a long silver beard that went past his belt, and from around either side of his neck was long wispy-looking silver hair. But it can't be Dumbledore, can it? she thought. A moment later, he spoke and removed any doubt she might have had about his identity.
"I am Friar Tuck, here on Lady Marion's invitation," he said. "As a close friend of her handmaiden," he continued, indicating Ginny.
"Sister Ophelia, is this true?" asked Sir Guy, not taking his eyes off Dumbledore.
"Yes, he knew my father, I asked her Ladyship if she would invite him to join us," said Ginny. With a nod from Prince John, Sir Guy called off the guard and allowed Dumbledore to take a seat beside Ginny. Suddenly, everything seemed a thousand times better, safer even. Dumbledore was here, inside the story. She figured he must've come to the Burrow when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley noticed they were missing. He must've found the book, and got sucked in the same way they had.
Dumbledore leaned in toward Hermione under the pretense of discussing contestants' chances and started to briefly explain the situation. "Whether or not Robin wins the Tournament, stick close to me," he said, pointing out at Melvin Froop, who was just taking aim at the target. Sir Guy leaned toward Hermione.
"I could have competed, my dear, you know," said Sir Guy self-importantly, looking past her and nodding to Ginny and Dumbledore. "But I thought, since I've taken quite a few trophies in my time, I should leave this to someone else- Ohh," he said, wincing slightly as one of Melvin's arrows flew wide and missed the target altogether. "Better hit the target with his last arrow," he said. Hermione was getting tired of his pointless chatter. She might've been able to stomach it better if she hadn't been worried about Ron. "See, no higher than a four, awful, just awful," said Sir Guy.
"Contestant number seventeen, Neville Longbo'om," said the announcer. Ron straightened up at this and Hermione wondered if he'd been asleep. She remembered the many times just a month or two ago that she'd stayed up late helping Harry learn spells that would get him through the third Triwizard Tournament task. She wondered if Ron had stayed up all night learning how to shoot.
Come on, Ron! Hermione thought as Ron drew back his bow to shoot his first arrow. With a low "thung" sound, the arrow shot out and hit the target near the edge. The crowd clapped lightly as Ron set another arrow on his bow. Another "thung" sound and the arrow struck the target further in. Just a little closer to the center, Ron, Hermione thought, watching Ron draw back his bow for the third time. With the same "thung" sound, the arrow shot out, sailed over the target altogether and stuck in the ground a good ten yards away. The applause was minimal, but that wasn't what fouled Hermione's mood the most.
She had thought Ron did quite well for someone who, at best, had only been practicing archery for a week. He had hit the target, half-way in, too. That was more than Melvin Froop had done. But Sir Guy seemed to think he was every bit as embarrassing.
"That poor lad," he said, clucking his fat tongue. "Must not be any good under pressure," he said in an offhand manner. He turned toward Hermione, showing his ugly yellow-green teeth. "That kind could never be a soldier. No bravery whatsoever. He'd probably drop to his knees and cry if someone pulled a sword on him." Hermione felt like slapping him, and from the look on Ginny's face, she felt like slapping him, too.
I'll bet Ron has more bravery in his little toe than your whole family put together! she thought indignantly. Sir Guy, who was still going on about how poorly Neville had done, didn't seem to notice the narrow-eyed glare he was getting from her.
"Shoosh, she said, waving her hand at Sir Guy. "They're putting up his marks!" she finished not bothering to hide her anger. Sir Guy looked slightly put out at being shooshed. The highest score given to Ron was a five, which wasn't bad. The lowest was a three.
"To'al score for Neville Longbo'om; nineteen," said the announcer. "Contestant number eighteen, Ferdinand Herrera."
Dumbledore managed to slip a few more details to Hermione and Ginny over the course of the tournament. There were two possible plans, depending on how well Ron fared, though Dumbledore didn't explain either plan in detail. They knew if Ron scored lower than forty-three, he probably wouldn't advance to the second round. If he did manage to move on, they would have to wait to see his scores for the second round. Even though Dumbledore knew what had to be done in any event, Hermione hoped Ron would come through with a win. Ron didn't have many moments in the spotlight, and even though it was just a book, she knew he'd be thrilled to win.
They sat through another song from Horace Horner's band and then through most of the contestants, waiting for Ron's turn in the accuracy competition. By the time Contestant number sixteen, Melvin Froop, was making his way off the field, Hermione felt every bit as anxious as she had before Dumbledore showed up.
"Contestant number seventeen, Neville Longbo'om."
A knot tied in the pit of Hermione's stomach. She was trying to prepare herself for the worst, but she couldn't help hoping he'd pull through. C'mon, Ron! she thought. Ron set an arrow in his bow, aimed high and let it fly. The arrow fired upward, and arcing, came sailing back toward the ground to land almost five feet behind third place, Denholm Shaw's best arrow.
Hermione and Ginny couldn't help but clap and cheer louder than they had been all morning. Ron loaded up another arrow and fired it into the sky. This one landed about a foot shorter than the first one. The third arrow might make or break him, if he could get above Denholm Shaw's arrow, he would make it into the second round. Hermione sat nearly on the edge of her seat. Come on, Ron, you can do it, she thought, crossing her fingers in her lap. Ron drew back his bow and shot. The arrow flew into the air, wobbling violently. Its arc crested quickly as the wobble worsened and it quickly lost forward momentum. It hurtled straight down sticking in the ground a few inches from Melvin Froop's best arrow.
They'd all been keeping up with the score and it now seemed impossible for Ron to win. He could get no lower than forty-three, and the fact that his last arrow had been so terrible would count against him. Hermione crossed as many fingers as she could, not caring if Sir Guy noticed. Ron's marks would be coming up soon.
One by one the Judges held up cards with numbers on them. An eight. A little higher, please, thought Hermione. A nine. That's better, another nine or a ten, please. An eight. Nines or tens, come on. Eighteen more points, An eight. No! Only a ten now. Come on, ten! And finally, an eight. A slow, slight, numbness spread over her. She hadn't expected him to lose. He had lost at Exploding Snap plenty of times, but… She just couldn't put her finger on it. Ron had done an excellent job, the judges just didn't know he never knew how to shoot. They didn't know he'd only been practicing for a week. It didn't seem fair.
"To'al score for Neville Longbo'om, forty one," the announcer shouted through his megaphone. As reality set in, Hermione realized that they would be following the backup plan. As soon as the tournament was over, the guards would nab the wrong man, and she, Ginny and Dumbledore would slip away unnoticed. But Hermione couldn't help wishing she could've seen Ron win, even though it would've been dangerous.
You're being absolutely silly, Hermione. What did you want, a hero to come and rescue you? part of her mind thought. It was absurd; Ron didn't need to win an archery tournament, that wasn't what she liked about him anyway. Ron was Ron, that's all she wanted him to be. But before she could think about it any further, another part of her mind chimed in. But still, it would be nice to be rescued by my hero once in a while. Hermione knew she was blushing. Had she really consciously thought that? She distracted herself quite well by watching the last few contestants compete in the first round.
Hermione was surprised by how quickly the second round seemed to go. The tasks were more difficult; shooting on horseback, and shooting pheasants out of the sky. But the removal of most of the other contestants had sped things up considerably. In no time at all the last archer was making his way up to the mark to take his three shots. Hermione gave a nervous glance toward Dumbledore. If all went as planned, as soon as the winner was announced, Sir Guy would surely give a signal, and masses of guards would close in. She wasn't sure how much time they would have once it became obvious that the winner wasn't Robin Hood.
Denholm Shaw, having shot all his arrows, was now waiting for his score. Hermione tried to relax herself by taking a few deep breaths.
"To'al score for Den'olm Shaw, for'y-eight!" the announcer shouted enthusiastically. "With all scores in, Den'olm Shaw is our winner!" Denholm Shaw waved both hands vibrantly toward the crowd, and to the Royal box. Hermione half turned toward Sir Guy. She saw him point his finger lazily toward Denholm, who was now facing the opposite stands and waving happily. About twenty or thirty guards seemed to come out of nowhere. From under the registration tent, from trap doors in the ground. Some had been undercover and standing a few feet from Denholm. They surrounded him, and before he knew what was happening, he was being kicked to the ground and roughed up. Hermione tried not to think that that could've been Ron down there getting the stuffing kicked out of him. The Sheriff stepped down a row and rested his hands on the front rail of the Royal box.
"Bring him here," the Sheriff shouted. The guards dragged Denholm in front of the Royal box and pulled him shakily to his feet.
"Wh-what did I-" he started.
"Silence!" roared Sir Guy. He turned toward Prince John and spoke smugly. "I present you, Robin Hood," he said. But Prince John didn't look pleased. Instead, he stood up and stepped down two rows, glaring disbelievingly at Denholm Shaw.
"This is not Robin Hood, you… you…moron!" Prince John grabbed Sir Guy by the shoulder of his coat and forced him down another row to the bottom rail of the Royal box. Almost immediately, Hermione felt a tug at her sleeve as Ginny slipped silently down the row and after Dumbledore. Hermione followed as quietly as she could, all the while listening to Prince John and Sir Guy.
"Does that look like red hair to you?" snapped Prince John. "Does he look tall? Where are those freckles he had at the Banquet?" Sir Guy seemed to be at a loss for words.
They were almost to the door, another few steps. Dumbledore stepped to the side to usher Ginny and Hermione through, keeping his eyes on Prince John and Sir Guy the whole time. As Hermione slipped through the curtain, she heard Sir Guy finally speak.
"He must be here, find-" he was cut off by a sudden roar of the crowd. Hermione, Ginny and Dumbledore headed down out of the stands and away from the field. It was amazing how few people there were around; they must've all gone to see the tournament.
It was just when Hermione thought the plan had gone off without a hitch that it all seemed to go wrong. She had only just become aware of a thunderous sound approaching when Dumbledore, turned and pulled her behind him. She looked around his shoulder to see at least ten horsemen coming their way.
"Say nothing, either of you," he said quickly. The horsemen slowed and surrounded them. They all drew their swords and pointed them straight at Dumbledore. "An escort for her ladyship?" he asked.
"A rescue party," said a sniveling voice from somewhere behind the wall of guards. The Sheriff squeezed between two of the guards, looking smug on his white horse. "Sir Guy will be here shortly. I thought I should come have a little chat with you until then. I did wonder why you took it upon yourself to slip out of the Royal box with her ladyship. At first I though you might be moving them to a more secure location. But you seemed to want to get them out without anyone noticing, which is odd. Unless you were planning on dragging her back to Sherwood, to Robin Hood, so he could hold her for ransom."
"Don't be-" Hermione started, but Dumbledore held his hand up.
"An interesting theory. However, I am more concerned for these ladies' safety than anyone else in Nottingham," he said. Hermione would've shared a look with Ginny if the situation hadn't been so tense. "To that end, I'm sure you'll understand if I ask you to let them out from under these swords, until we can sort this out," he added.
"Lady Marion," called the Sheriff, holding out his hand. She instinctively looked to Dumbledore, who nodded toward the Sheriff. She reluctantly took his hand and started toward him, looking back over her shoulder to Dumbledore. Ginny took a step forward to follow and two guards thrust their swords out, only inches from her face.
"I'm afraid Sister Ophelia won't be keeping Lady Marion company any longer," said the Sheriff. Before Dumbledore could answer, Sir Guy rode up.
"My dear, are you hurt? When I heard…" said Sir Guy, trailing off at the sight of Dumbledore. "Knave…" he muttered under his breath.
"My Lord," said Hermione, thinking it wise to stay in character at this point. "I know they're innocent."
"You are misinformed, my dear. Sister Ophelia has been working with this Friar, and with Robin Hood," said Sir Guy, his voice thick with disgust. "Arrest them!"
"No, wait!" Hermione shouted, turning back to Ginny and Dumbledore. The memory of Denholm Shaw being beaten to the ground and kicked about flashed through her mind. "Wait," she repeated trying to move toward them. Sir Guy grabbed her by the wrist and held her back. "No, they'll beat them! You can't-" she frantically shrieked, interrupted by Dumbledore.
"A true gentleman does not harm a lady," he said, pulling Ginny protectively toward himself. "And as long as she is not harmed, we will go peacefully."
"Whether they're guilty or not, I don't want to see either of them hurt," said Hermione. Sir Guy pulled her close to him and whispered in her ear.
"Of course you don't, my dear, they are your allies, are they not?" he asked. She looked up at him, unsure what he meant. "I know you helped Robin Hood escape from the Banquet," he whispered so softly that only she could hear. He couldn't know, she thought. "I know you were in on this plan today, but…" he trailed off gazing over to Dumbledore and Ginny. "I can't very well execute you, can I?"
"You can't!" Hermione shrieked. She turned away from him, fighting to get free. Sir Guy wrestled her back to his side with some difficulty and whispered again in her ear.
"I may be persuaded to misplace their execution orders," he said silkily. Hermione knew where this was going. It fit with the story so well she wondered why she didn't see it coming the moment they were caught. She was going to be forced to marry Sir Guy.
"I'm listening," she whispered back. An ugly smile broke across his face before he spoke.
"We can discuss the details later," he said to her, then turned his attention to the guards.
"Arrest them," he said again. "Any man who harms a hair on Sister Ophelia's head will be thrown so deeply into the bowels of the dungeon that he'll feel Lucifer's horns under his feet." The guards seemed to get the picture. The few that had been holding their swords level with her head, lowered them almost immediately. "Likewise, as long as he doesn't resist, the friar isn't to be harmed either," he said, then turned his eyes back to Hermione. Satisfactory?" he asked.
Hermione would rather have had Ginny not be arrested at all, but the promise of humane treatment would have to do for now. She nodded, and in one swift movement, she was pulled up onto Sir Guy's horse so quickly she could have sworn it was by magic. They galloped away, Hermione sitting side-saddle in front of Sir Guy.
Please let someone get to Ron and Harry. Please don't let anyone get hurt.
Ron was wearing a path ten feet long in the forest floor. He had been pacing for the past hour, wondering, as Harry had been wondering, where Dumbledore, Hermione and Ginny were. Harry sat practically motionless, leaning his back up against a tree. At each rustle of leaves, each snap of a twig, both of their heads would snap toward the sound, only to find out it was just the wind, or a deer. Each time this happened, it only made their anxiety grow. Harry had a gnawing sensation in his stomach that had been getting worse for the past hour. He couldn't help but think that something had gone wrong, and the fact that Dumbledore couldn't use magic didn't help.
"Where the hell are they?" said Ron, kicking away a small chunk of wood in frustration. Harry wasn't sure. That was part of the problem; he didn't really know what to do next. He supposed they should go to Nottingham in the morning, but if they weren't supposed to and got caught, they'd really be in trouble. He had faith that Dumbledore would send word if he could. He had more or less lost hope that Dumbledore had possibly gotten lost, or that he had stayed behind so Ginny and Hermione could get away and that they were lost. Anything but the gnawing thought that they'd been caught.
"This is driving me mad, I'm going back," said Ron. Harry had just got up to tell him to wait a little longer when one of the Merry Man came tearing out of the thick of the forest.
"Robin," he shouted, slowing down as he saw them. The man stopped in front of Ron and bent over, resting his hands on his knees while he caught his breath. "L-Lady Marion,-" he said, still heaving for air.
"What about her?" Ron asked quickly.
"The men who stayed behind were caught, along with Friar Tuck," he heaved. "They suspect he and Lady Marion's handmaiden were trying to kidnap her. They're all to be executed tomorrow."
To be continued…