A/N: Yes, it's been a long time. More than one and a half months, if I'm right. But it's here now, so read …
Chapter 4: Training
It wasn't until the morning of August the 23rd that Harry realised he had no idea where Nimbus training sessions actually took place. He tried searching frantically for a wizarding equivalent of the Yellow Pages, discovered there was none, spent half an hour reading back issues of The Daily Prophet to see if they gave him any clues, and finally discovered the address in a 1969 edition of Sportswizard's Almanac in a shop for second-hand books in Diagon Alley. Hoping that the address hadn't changed in thirty-odd years, he leapt on his broomstick and arrived, spectacularly fast, fifteen minutes late.
Even if it was at the same address at it had been only two years into Nimbus's existence, the training ground had obviously been revamped so many times and cared for so well that it made no difference. The site was massive, and at first Harry thought it was a wonder that Muggles didn't notice it. Then he realised how cleverly it had been done. The fields over which the practice races took place looked no different from those belonging to real farmers, and the various buildings dotted around the place could easily be mistaken as modern business parks. Roads criss-crossed the fields and woods, but at each and every entrance a permanent 'Road Closed' sign had been placed.
Despite his massive velocity, Harry had no problem taking all this it, a result of eight years as a Quidditch Seeker. He also had no problems finding the other racers: they were grouped round the foot of a large building labelled RAINCLOUD ENTERPRISES, obviously engaging in some kind of warm-up. Harry approached them without breaking, swerved violently to avoid the building, swerved again to avoid the wizards below, and landed perfectly beside them.
The six men and one woman all stopped stretching and stared at Harry, who stood still for a few seconds, wondering what he was going to next. Then Lancelot Draper stepped forward from the group, grabbed hold of Harry and said, "I told you he was good!"
The others nodded and two of the men started to clap. "Er – hello," said Harry. "Sorry I'm a bit late."
"Oh, don't worry about that!" said a man who Harry presumed was Michael Swift, coming forward and shaking Harry's hand. He was dressed in long, rather shabby red robes, in contrast to the sleek black of the racers. "Let me introduce you to everybody – you've met Lance of course."
"Yes," said Harry. "I have."
"Well, this is Deryn Jones –" Swift motioned towards the witch, who had wavy blonde hair and a large smile – "and that's Arlie Travers… Neil Jokes –" Two tall men, one of them wearing glasses, extended their hands; Harry shook both at once – "Göker Rüzgar – he's Turkish –" A short, well-built man nodded – "and Ari Elofssen." The last wizard, a thickset blond man with a ponytail held up his arm in a wave. "And I'm Michael Swift, of course," said the trainer.
"Yeah. I'm – er – very pleased to meet you all."
"Yes, of course," replied Swift. "We were going to ask to see you fly, but I think that's unnecessary, given your entrance."
Several of the surrounding people looked disappointed at this news; Deryn Jones let out a groan.
"Oh boss," she said, in a thick Welsh accent. "Come on. He's excellent. We could all learn something from him."
"But you will see him – in a bit," Swift reminded her. "But first, let's get back to our warm-up."
It became clear that the training sessions were not going to be totally fun and games. They were stretching, bending and jogging for another fifteen minutes before Swift announced:
"Okay, let's get to work. Harry, how much do you know about broomstick racing?"
"I read about it in the Prophet sometimes, and we do some at college – Auror training, you know."
Deryn Jones looked even more impressed.
"Well, it's very simple –" began Swift, before being cut off halfway by Ari Elofssen.
"You haf to cross der line before anyone else does," Ari said, in a slow, deep voice.
"Thank you, Ari. As I say, it's very simple," Swift repeated. "There are a number of different race types, in two main categories, track and distance. There are long track races and shorter distance ones, of course." He smiled. "The particular race you'll be entering – to start with – is the SuperFly. The French SuperFly to be precise. You have two weeks to prepare for it. The SuperFly is the longest of all the track races, at one hundred laps – that's about twenty miles. You can expect to complete it in eleven or twelve minutes, taking corners into account. Right then, better get started."
He walked off round the building, and Harry and the other racers followed. They came to a small shed a few hundred yards down the road, disguised as a barn. The interior, however, was plush and modern, and the racers collected their broomsticks – all specialised versions of the Nimbus 2500 – and crossed the road to a large field. A large oval racetrack had been painted on the neatly cut grass, the inner boundary with the same dimensions as Quidditch pitch. There were eight lanes, with a staggered start.
"This is the track," announced Swift, and the racers stopped talking to look at him. Harry broke off from his conversation with Neil Jokes, who was six years older than him, a former Seeker for Ravenclaw house, and seemed to enjoy similar interests to Harry. Swift continued. "In races such as this some racers will start further forward that others, namely those who are higher up in the SuperFly rankings. It's the same in the World Championship, but of course that's a distance race."
Some of the other racers started talking quietly amongst themselves. They already knew this, naturally. Swift ignored them and continued his explanation to Harry.
"You'll be starting off at the back, as that's where you'll be in two weeks, most likely. Lance – you go to pole position." He pointed to a line a few yards in front of the start. "Deryn, Göker – yes, you – second, third. Ari, Arlie, you go behind them. We only use the first two lanes in practice, you see," he explained to Harry. "And Neil, you're at the back. Sorry, mate. Harry, you go beside him."
Harry walked onto the track, where he mounted his broomstick.
"Okay," said Swift. "The starter will send out a small blast from his wand to tell you to get ready, and a larger one to tell you to go. Don't start too early, you'll be penalised. Don't rise too high, it wastes time. Go your fastest, but remember to slow a bit – the smallest amount, mind you – for the corners. You don't have to stay in your lanes for this race; we'll pretend it's the SuperFly. Okay, just five laps, I think. Ready …" He held up his wand. There was a small bang, more like a pop, and the racers poised for take-off. Another bang, much louder this time, and they were flying.
The speed was amazing. Harry realised he had never gone at full speed while playing Quidditch – yes, he had gone fast, but he needed to keep a lookout for Bludgers, other players and – more importantly, the Snitch. And he had reason to stop – he would be penalised for leaving the pitch. Now he was speeding along, frightfully fast, just inches from the ground. He was already ahead of Neil, but Arlie Travers – glasses dispensed with – was directly in front of him. He zoomed upwards to overtake, but lost a few yards in the process. The first lap was already over – it had lasted just seconds. Now he was past Arlie, and past Ari Elofssen as well, bending into the tightest part of the never-ending curve, speeding on – the second lap was ended, then the third – he raced past Göker Rüzgar, taking advantage as the Turk moved upwards in an attempt to overtake Lance – the fourth lap, and the tingle of a magical bell – going past Lance, seeing the look of surprise on his face – approaching the finish line, gaining on Deryn Jones …
"Without an Omniocular replay, I can't say," said Michael Swift. "A dead heat."
"Photo finish," somebody commented.
"See, I told you he was good," said Deryn.
