The stands of the Quidditch World Pith were beginning to fill as witches and wizards eagerly made their way to their seats, all of them excited for the highly anticipated final match. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were no exception. Harry and Ron analyzed every aspect of their program that they possibly could, which was quite a lot considering the depth to which it provided on. Hermione offered politely interested comments but exchanged knowing looks with Mr. Weasley when the other two looked away.
"Dad, do you know who this special guest referee is supposed to be?" Ron asked, glancing over to his father as they began to ascend yet another flight of stairs on their way to their seats. "It only says that there will be one."
"Yes, that's actually done every year," Arthur answered, hiding a smile. "And I suppose you will have to wait and see, won't you?"
"Why do they have a special guest referee, Mr. Weasley?" Hermione asked once Harry and Ron had returned to their conversation.
"I'm not quite sure why," he admitted, now panting slightly from the amount of effort that they were spending on stairs. "I know it has a lot to do with turnouts. A few years ago a member of The Weird Sisters was the special guest referee and the turnout for that game was bigger than it had been in years. Don't get me wrong, the World Cup always brings in a large amount of galleons. But it's also good publicity for the Quidditch community and the international community alike. I think this year's guest referee will be one even you will recognize Hermione."
He left Hermione to ponder this as they, finally, found their way to their box seats. Corenlius Fudge was there waiting for them along with Ludo Bagman and, to the new arrivals' collective displeasure, the Malfoys. Draco looked over to Harry, Ron, and Hermione and nodded at them. Harry, who had prepared an insult to hurl back at Draco, was left in something of a state of confusion. The three of them nodded in return and then exchanged confused looks.
Luckily Lucius Malfoy was still the jerk they knew him to be. "My heavens, Arthur," he said, "Surely your house wouldn't have fetched the price needed for these seats?"
"Hello, Lucius," Arthur said stiffly, ignoring the remark. He turned to Fudge, who had been arguing under his breath with Bagman, and extended a hand. "Hello, Minister."
"Ah, Weasley," Fudge said, shaking the hand. "You've met Ludo Bagman, haven't you?"
"Of course, of course," he said, shaking hands with the Head of the Magical Games and Sports department. "Doing well, Ludo?"
"I will be so much better when this event is over," Ludo said, sporting his robes from his days as a beater for the Wasps. But then he broke into a childish grin and he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, what am I saying? I live for this. Can't say I haven't been up to my eyeballs in planning though, what with the T-."
"I think I get the picture," Arthur interrupted, throwing a deliberate look towards Harry, Ron, and Hermione who had begun to converse with a house-elf. "I don't want them to know, yet. Surprise them and all that, you see?"
"I suppose that makes sense," Ludo agreed. He glanced back to Fudge and Lucius, both of who were deep in conversation. "I tell you Arthur, I have a very bad feeling about all of this for some reason. Something in the air, I suppose?"
"I think the stress of the event may be getting to you," Arthur laughed. "Ah, is it starting then?"
Mr. Weasley was referring to a small explosion of red light in the center of the pitch. "Yes it is!" Ludo said, his previous unease disappearing.
Far below the stands, in the tunnels that led to the pitch, stood the Ireland national team. They were sitting on benches, awaiting the moment that Ludo Bagman would call them onto the field. Save for one person, they were all there to play. When Bagman's magically amplified voice began to resonate through the area, they all looked up as one and grabbed their brooms. "Line up," their captain, Lynch, ordered. His voice, to his credit, did not shake at all.
The one person in the locker room that was not playing in the match, Dean Winchester, decided to line up behind them. The beaters from the Irish team continually sent him admiring looks until he caught one's eye and smiled back. One of the beaters, Quigley, sidled his way back in line and greeted Dean. "Aye, you're Dean Winchester right?"
"Yeah, that's me," he smiled.
"Mate you're an absolute legend-." Quigley began, quickly getting stopped by Dean with one finger raised.
"Hey man, we can exchange stories later," Dean told him. "But right now you need to get your head right. You are the one protecting these guys, get your mind in the game."
Lynch sent Dean back a thankful look before throwing a leg over his broom and flying onto the field when Bagman called his name. The rest of the Irish team followed soon after, leaving Dean alone in the tunnel. "And now, we introduce to you the special guest referee of this year's World Cup! Quidditch fans, we have a treat for you. This man still holds records that, I personally believe, will never be broken. He was a member of the United States World Champion Quidditch team, ladies and gentleman, I present to you the one, the only, DEAN WINCHESTER!"
Dean felt goosebumps go up his arm and he followed the Irish team onto the field, flying with all the skill of a veteran Quidditch beater. In the center of the pitch the other referee, Hassan Mostafa, was beckoning him over. Flying over there, Dean landed next to the referee and was handed a beater's bat almost instantly by Hassan. "Now ladies and gentleman, we have a treat for you. Many of you must remember how, in the 1990 World Cup, Winchester managed to hit a bludger from beneath his team's goal post all the way over to the other team's Keeper and knock him out! Now, we aren't asking you to do that again, Mr. Winchester, but how about you show these fine folks that you still have some of the old magic running through you?"
Never one to back down from a challenge, Dean Winchester thrust his beater's bat into the air and the crowd exploded in anticipation. "Head to the center of the match, I'll release the bludger at you once you give me a signal." Hassan told him. "Try not to miss."
"No promises," Dean said, rolling one shoulder. He mounted his broom and shot to the center of the arena, all too aware that all eyes were on him at that moment. He swung the bat in a loose arc, and took a deep breath in. He nodded to Hassan and the other referee kicked over the box containing a single Bludger. The murderous little ball made a direct beeline at him and Dean waited. When the bludger was less than a meter away he swung his bat viciously, solidly connecting with the Bludger and sending it flying through one of the far goal posts.
The crowd went wild once more and Ludo Bagman shouted out, "How do you like that, ladies and gentleman? And, to think, he's only rated as the third best beater in history!"
Hassan congratulated Dean on the hit and took the beater's bat back, placing it in a small leather case. "What about the bludger?" Dean asked, looking for where the ball had gone off to."
"Oh, it's probably disintegrated by now," Hassan said dismissively, hefting out the chest containing the official balls of the match. Dean grabbed the other side and the two men flew the crate to the center of the field. "I put a degradation charm on it a few second before I released it."
"Makes sense," Dean agreed. "You good here, or did you want me to stay?"
"No, I have this well in hand," Hassan told him. "My thanks, however. Find somewhere out of the way, but you already know that."
"Well, good luck," Dean said, kicking off the ground and soaring away. He chose to float next to one of the stands, his eyes intent on the field as the match began.
In St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, a very different scene was playing out before Crowley. For his brief time spent with the Hospital Crowley had been given a rather small office, much to his delight. He had immediately placed several charms on the door so that none other than him could enter unless he allowed it. Altogether it was the perfect escape when he simply did not want to deal with any patient or staff member.
He was in that office now sucking absentmindedly on a sugar quill, his favorite part of the wizarding world thus far, and staring down at two patient sheets. The names at the top of the sheets were 'Frank Longbottom' and 'Alice Longbottom'. Since arriving he had taken a special interest in the two long term residents once he had heard their story from another Healer. "Tortured to the point of insanity," Crowley muttered.
He was no stranger to that sort of thing, he had done this to so many souls in hell that it had become something of an art form to him. However those were damned souls. They deserved it, if only to appease the endless boredom he felt while ruling Hell. Frank and Alice Longbottom had been tortured to insanity for defending people. Crowley had researched the last Wizarding Civil War thoroughly, mostly to determine which side he commiserated with. All in all he was disgusted with Voldemort's idealism. Crowley, himself, had come from nothing. That evil bitch Rowena had left him to rot at a young age. It may not have been until after he died, but he had crawled up to rule Hell itself. The idea of one person being better than the other for something as asinine as blood status was completely absurd. If you were going to revolt do it for something logical, like power.
But, looking back to the files before him, he was drawn back into the mystery that was the Longbottoms. Their mental faculties had clearly degraded to some point, but they were still able to walk, eat, and all the more basic functions of the human body. But they were still incapable of speech and other forms of higher thought. Altogether they posed a question that Crowley wanted to answer, if only to set right the karmic justice of the world.
His experience in causing others to go mad was, unquestionably, helpful here as it provided for him knowledge of the process. But he had never had cause to fix someone after breaking them. He typically just threw them away like a broken toy. That was wherein his problem lied. He had tested several theories but each of them had been ineffective. The only result he had gotten was that Alice had actually spoken the word 'please' aloud. But that wasn't necessarily a good step. She had most likely said that word several times during the course of her torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange.
A knock on his door broke him from his reverie and he looked up. Augusta Longbottom was looking at him from his doorway and he beckoned her to sit. She nodded and walked into his office, taking a seat on the chair opposite to his desk. "Hello, Mr. MacLeod, how are you today?"
"Oh, well enough I suppose," Crowley said, tossing the files onto his desk. "Is there something you needed?"
"I understand that you have taken an interest in my son and daughter's case," Augusta said, adjusting her bag and rather strange hat. "I cannot tell you how much I appreciate that, but I also have a favor to ask."
"Let me hazard a guess," Crowley said, "You wish for me to keep this from your grandson?"
"I don't want to give him hope only for it to be shattered," Augusta explained. "We have had other Healers attempt the same thing after all."
"You haven't had a Healer like me on the case, I promise you that," Crowley said, a smile reminiscent of his days as King of Hell flickering onto his face.