Chapter 2: Chases and Races
"So what if the Ministry guy said it was –"
"Nothing!" Ron finished Harry's sentence for him. "We left the match for nothing!"
"Ron! You lost anyway! One thousand and ten to thirty! You didn't want to watch that!"
Ron opened his mouth to try to argue, but failed. He picked up his cup of coffee and drained what remained in a single swig. "I suppose so."
They were sitting behind the counter of the Diagon Alley branch of the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare International. The charity had grown from being a small affair to a major international campaign, with outlets in four locations across Great Britain and also in Ireland, Germany and several other European countries. SPEWIN had given up trying to free house elves entirely, but still campaigned for them to have better rights. This involved organising health care, aid for elves who were past work and organisation of better wizard-to-elf relations.
The charity was headed by Ron's girlfriend, Hermione Granger, and received a large amount of financial backing from Rudolf O'Hare, Harry and Ron's friend and fellow trainee Auror at Andros. Due to the immense amount of support Rudolf had given to the society, Hermione was now able to spend more of her time doing other things. With perfect exam grades, finding a part-time job hadn't been hard: she now worked for Gringotts Wizarding Bank four afternoons a week, giving advice on curse-breaking and the like.
Of course, while she was gone she left it to Ron and Harry to run the shop. They weren't the only staff, of course: there was a young, blundering secretary and an elderly witch who worked behind the till. Neither of them was really capable of taking charge of the premises for four hours at a time, so Hermione had instructed Ron to hold responsibility while she was gone. Ron had pulled in Harry to help him, and that was why the two of them now spent what seemed like most of their time answering staff and customers' queries and handing out leaflets.
"What's she going to do when we have to go back to Andros?" asked Ron vaguely as he collected a colourful elf-blanket made of knitted woollen squares: the old witch had fallen asleep. "I hope she doesn't expect to trek down from Staffordshire every weekday."
"She'll sort something out," replied Harry. "She always does. She'd trek to the centre of the earth if it was going to help her save the house-elves." He paused for a few seconds. "I wonder…"
"What?" asked Ron. "You don't think she's going to employ a team of Nifflers to …?" He broke off, obviously unable to think of a way of finishing his sentence.
"No," said Harry. "No, that cave – what do you think it was?"
"Nothing, that's what the Hit Wizard said."
"You think we're going to believe him? He looked scared to death, for goodness sake. No, I was thinking about – Amarenox."
"What? Oh, I see, he doesn't like the light …"
"And he can't use his old cave anymore, so he's built himself a new one," speculated Harry.
"Right next to a Quidditch stadium?" exclaimed Ron.
"Why not?" asked Harry. "At least the Muggles won't notice."
"Um. Do you – er – think we should check it out?"
"Yeah, I do. Wake up Doris and I'll get the broomsticks. We'll Apparate straight away."
"Er –" said Ron. "If we're Apparating, why do we need brooms?"
"In case he tries to escape. He got away last time, remember."
"Fine," answered Ron. He prodded the old witch behind the till with his wand. She groaned drowsily. "Let's go," he said.
It was clearly that, in truth, the Hit Wizard who had come to inspect the cavernous hole had thought it much more than nothing. No less than eight large security trolls were roaming around its entrance, and an important looking wizard in black robes, hat and boots was studying the cave mouth, clipboard in one hand, wand in the other.
"What do you think you're doing here?" he asked as Ron and Harry Apparated next to him, brooms in hand. "This is a Ministry of Magic operation."
"We just came to investigate," said Harry. "It's obvious that we haven't been told the whole truth."
"Oh is it?" inquired the wizard. "And why – what are you doing?"
"Going in," replied Harry. "I hope you don't mind."
"I most certainly do," bumbled the wizard. "You can't go in there, it's dangerous – trolls!"
The brutish beasts turned on the three of them and started to advance in their direction.
"We were told it was nothing," replied Harry. "Have a nice day."
With a glance back at the eerily empty stadium, he and Ron descended into the tunnel mouth. As the darkness engulfed them, they heard clubbing noises, grunts and screams from the direction of the wizard and the trolls.
"Stupid man," said Ron. "Er, Harry – the tunnel ends here."
They had only been walking for about fifty yards.
"Don't worry," said Harry, illuminating his wand. "I'm sure that we can find something if we look." He started to search the cold grey wall.
"Like this?" said Ron, motioning towards a door in the rock.
"Like that," said Harry. "Weird, I didn't see that there."
"Probably one of these things you only notice if you're looking for it," replied Ron. "Let's go in."
"We'll put down our brooms first," instructed Harry. "We don't need to be lugging them around."
"No, we don't," answered Ron, obviously glad that Harry had realised that broomsticks were actually quite heavy. "As long as the trolls don't find them."
After setting his Cleansweep carefully on the ground, he pushed open the dark wooden door. Sitting behind it, obviously deep in thought, was an old man.
"Ahem," said Harry. "May we talk?"
Amarenox looked up, surprised. "Harry Potter! But how – why –"
Harry reached out and grabbed the elderly Dark wizard by his frayed, shabby robes, using his left hand. Unlike his right, this one was purely artificial, due to an assassination attempt against him the previous year, and had magically advanced grip.
"We meet again," said Harry. "And this time, we're prepared."
"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you," replied Amarenox fiercely. "I know magic you will never –" He stopped there. Pulling a makeshift wand from inside his robes, he hit both Harry and Ron with well-placed jinxes. After a moment, Harry realised what had happened. The old man had run out of the door, and leapt onto Ron's broomstick. "You'll never catch me now!" he yelled.
"Unless I just happen to have a broom of my own," said Harry, ignoring Ron's shock at the theft that had taken place in front of his very eyes. He leapt onto his Nimbus 2500, and kicked off, leaving Ron behind.
The broom moved with the pace and power of a rocket; it was the fastest in the world. Harry, as one of the best flyers Hogwarts had ever had, should have had no problem catching the new self-styled Dark Lord. However, it became clearly that Amarenox also knew some tricks with a broom.
To begin with, he zigzagged between the walls of the tunnel, intending to make Harry crash. Only his quick reflexes and pinpoint turning saved him; by the time he had realised Amarenox's aim they were out of the cave, zooming around the heads of enraged security trolls. Harry dodged blow after blow by the stupid, angry creatures, then followed Amarenox into the Quidditch stadium itself. The Dark Lord flew down one of the staircases that led from the seating to the entrances; Harry followed, trying his hardest not to smash into the painted walls. Then they were out into open country, Amarenox turning sharply at every opportunity, Harry tailing him as best he could. He reached for his wand, but Amarenox got there first. The Dark Wizard yelled a word of command: Harry was falling, falling downwards. As he fell, he thought he saw someone else on a broomstick, following both him and Amarenox, but then he saw no more.
"That was quite some flying back there," said a voice. Harry opened his eyes. He was lying in the midst of a field of corn; a young wizard, dressed in sports robes and with short black hair, styled with gel, was standing over him. Harry could see his Nimbus lying a few feet away.
"He got away though, didn't he?" asked Harry, sitting up and wiping his glasses.
"Who, the old guy?" asked the wizard. He spoke in a definite American accent. "Looked like a nasty piece of work."
"He is," said Harry. "I wish I knew a bit more about him – who he was, that sort of thing."
"Well, there's no need to ask who you are," said the man, helping Harry to his feet and glancing at the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. He held out a hand, and Harry took it. "I'm Draper, Lancelot Draper. Professional broom racer. Have you ever considered giving that sort of thing a go?"
"Well, no," replied Harry. "We did a bit at college, I suppose."
"You fly like a pro," said Draper, putting on a pair of shades from his pocket. "Better than me, and I just came second in the British SuperFly."
"You really think so?" said Harry. "I've heard of you – number four in the world, a racer for Nimbus."
"That's me," said Draper. "You should try it some time. Not professionally, you've got more important things to do, but there are plenty of races open to amateurs. In fact, it was an amateur who won the Swedish last time around. Now, you look like a speedy sort of guy, but you could do anything. You'd be amazed at the number of competitions there are. Anyway, I'd better be going. I'll tell my manager about you. See what he thinks."
Before Harry had time to say "thanks", Draper had leapt on his broom and flown off. Surprised at this abrupt departure, Harry took hold of his Nimbus and Disapparated, before the farmer discovered the large, isolated area of flattened crop in his cornfield.
