Yellow Rag Bludgers
Dumbledore sat, narrowly avoiding a crick in his neck, as he leafed through the three small paperwork mountains on his desk. The whirligigs and magical drinking birds adorning his office spun on quietly. The occasional bell chime, emanating from any one of his ward monitors, signaled to the room that the world's impending demise had been postponed until tomorrow evening at the earliest.
The weather outside the tower's windows had even surpassed expectations. The sky had settled on sunny with Rubenesque clouds after threatening sleeting rain all morning. Even the far off shrieking of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students as they tried to sportily slaughter each other in a practice match on the quidditch pitch seemed to carry a jaunty tune.
A soft pop announced the arrival of Winky the house elf with a pot of tea and plate of biscuits to complete his perfect morning. Albus took a moment to watch as the elf enlarged a tea table and plated the mid-morning snack. With a quiet nod of thanks, Albus sent Winky on his way before casting a simple matersera spell to serve out his tea into a cup enchanted with frilly bunnies chasing oversized purple carrots.
Teacup in hand and chewing on a wedding biscuit, Albus turned back to the decidedly less than picturesque problem encapsulated in the 947 Daily Prophet articles strewn across his desk.
Each article had been delicately freed from its newspaper by the Hogwarts house elves over the course of the last 12 years and were annotated with their respective date and issue number in the top left corner. It had taken a quick charm to sort them all into 3 distinct piles, but that's where the real work began.
The first pile covered 1980 until 1990. It was the least important and the largest. It leaned dramatically in the far corner of his desk and was begging to dive onto the floral patterned carpet below. 861 articles all expounding on the miracle that was the then infant Harry Potter, from the moment he slayed the Dark Lord up until a year before his Hogwarts Letter.
The longest articles sat at the bottom and tried to explain from a hundred different angles exactly how an infant could do what no other had done. The Daily Prophet had consulted Healers from the Children's Ward at St. Mungos, runes experts from Gringotts, and old Defense Against the Dark Arts professors that had managed to survive their term. Notable celebrities such as Jabroh Lotfarrow of radio fame, Gilderoy Lockhart of self-acclaimed fame, and Miranda Tosh the retired Auror of Ministry fame all chimed in as well to offer their opinion on the finer details.
Eventually though, the speculators on the miracle in Godric's Hallow ran out of creative ways to string the same sentences together for public consumption. Starting from around Harry's 4th birthday until roughly his tenth, there was a period filled with creative, but somewhat unbelievable, columns in the society pages to fill the content void and attempt to help the public track growing Potter's progress.
Potter Spotted retold reader submitted stories of supposed encounters with the Boy Who Lived. Very few held any accuracy, although Dumbledore had to wonder who the infant spotted on January 15th, 1985 in Sydney, Australia actually was and how it had managed to fight off an alligator at a mere 6 months of age.
The Boy Who Grows announced Harry's estimated developmental milestones and how to celebrate them as a family with recipes and exercises to do with your own children. The potty training advice was solid but it was doubtful Harry had truly mastered the skill before age 3.
Finally, there was the enchanted comics series, Harry's Heroic Hobbies. It was a guilty favorite of Albus and honest obsession of children everywhere. Little else compared to watching a toddler professionally strangle snakes and preform outlandish magical feats while ignoring the infantile adults babbling on the front page.
But by Harry's 10th birthday, journalists had run out of milestones to cover, and it was decided around its 300th issue that there were only so many hobbies a young Harry Potter could have, much to the regret of the illustrator who afterwards received notice she was to cover the illustrations for a new daily column in the Health section: Lumps, Bumps, and Maladies: A Comprehensive Guide to Common Wizarding Warts.
To continue to cash in on Potter Mania, however, The Daily Prophet commissioned a new set of articles that took up the considerably shorter pile next to Albus' inkwell.
Over the course of 76 articles, the Wizarding World had gone to extreme lengths of parchment to prepare for the Boy Who Lived's arrival at Hogwarts. The Prophet spent far too many inches speculating on everything from the brand of Harry's Hogwarts robes to his wand measurement and materials. Suspected personality traits, envisioned haircut, hypothesized hair length, and estimated height also featured prominently.
All of that paled in comparison, of course, to the five page coverage of Harry's trip to Diagon Alley as told through the eyes of various shopkeepers, patrons of the Leaky Cauldron, and local busybodies.
The Regulated Society of Unaltered Odds for Wizarding Amusement had even gotten in on the action. Their shrewd president, Helious Carera, had seized the opportunity to sponsor a column for the 6 months leading up to the main event to advertise the current odds for a betting pool entitled Where to Put Potter?. Readers could mail in Galleons to bet on the results of Harry's eminent sorting.
Admittedly, the whole thing had been a publicity stunt to smooth over rocky ground the Society had found itself on the year prior after the Missing Thestral Racing Scandal. But, the events scale had exceeded even the Sometimes Dishonorable Carera's expectations; few wizards could be found on any of the British Isles that hadn't mailed in a galleon or two.
By September 1st the odds favored Gryffindor 7-2 and the whole contest had created a record breaking kitty of just shy of 1 million galleons.
Albus himself had made a tidy sum off of the whole ordeal.
It was however, the third pile that caused the most concern. Some 46 articles had been written since the start of Term. At first the reporters had been busy announcing the sorting results and publishing every scrap of student first impression's parents were willing to send in. But the more the reporters wrote, the less they started to like the words they were printing.
The student stories didn't paint the picture of a child that had wrestled alligators at infancy or twirled snakes like a rope.
The child was normal. Boring even.
It was quickly becoming apparent that he had no special aptitude for any of his subjects. A whole class of students had arrived at Hogwarts to find that their childhood idol struggled in potions, was adequate in charms, and absolutely abysmal at History of Magic.
The Wizarding World was not impressed.
Already, Dumbledore could see the hints of cynicism leaking through in the latest Potter Gossip column. An article from the week prior even went so far as to dare speculate if his pre-Hogwarts education had been as insufficient as the average muggleborns.
Reporters all across England had been banking on selling Harry's exploits at Hogwarts for top dollar for the next seven years. Instead they received word of a smallish, young boy who seemed a bit lost in the chaos of the Wizarding World. Harry Potter's reserved mild manner wasn't making headlines.
So lacking any honest intrigue, journalists had just started to turn to sensational rumors to secure their paycheck. An accidental collision with a Hufflepuff in the hall had been reported as a possible symptom of a superiority complex. His inability to transfigure a matchstick on the first time attributed to his muggle mother.
All in all, what Dumbledore had before him was a lit fuse line starting to burn its way towards a muggle stick of dynamite. If Harry Potter didn't develop newsworthy superpowers by Christmas, the Wizarding World's love and good graces would explode prematurely into a pile of bitter, unrelenting disappointment.
Dumbledore sat back in his chair and sighed. The boy was having a hard enough time adjusting to his new surroundings as it was. He wouldn't survive a smear campaign.
Something would have to be done. But it wasn't as if he could borrow from muggle comics and feed the boy radioactive spiders. He had considered sending him off to a secret coven over Christmas, but the witches had declined to instruct him on account of his aura being discolored. Twitching his wand he poured a third cup of tea. It was quite the predicament, and not one he was likely to solve anytime soon.
A rap of knuckles on his inner office door broke him out of his musings.
"Come in." he called, trying to recall his appointments for the day.
Madam Pomfery had already been by that morning to confirm the potions she would need brewed for the second half of the term, and Severus wasn't due to stop by and submit his corresponding ingredients list until later this week.
And with most of the student population distracted by the practice quidditch game that weekend, it was unlikely to be some troublemaker come to turn himself in. Perhaps he had forgotten an appointment with Pomona? Or maybe an errant quaffle had crashed into one of the green houses.
Before he could get to the bottom of what exactly he may or may not be forgetting, the door pushed open to reveal a stern faced Minerva, shoulders pulled back ready to wage a war.
"Ah! Minerva! How lovely to see you! I wasn't expecting you was I? I'm afraid I've just eaten the last of the biscuits." If Albus had any shame at forgetting an appointment he wasn't going to let it show. Old age had to be good for something after all.
Minerva blinked but her posture failed to capitulate, "No, headmaster. Our regular meeting to review student progress reports is scheduled for this Thursday."
"Wonderful! As I thought! It's always good to give students that extra moment to progress before discussing them, wouldn't you agree? Gryffindor especially seems to see so many exceptional last minute bloomers." Albus beamed. "What is it I can do for you, my dear?"
The head of house took a moment to digest if her young griffons had just been handed an insult or a compliment before discarding the thought as nonessential.
Refocused, she dove in headfirst, "Headmaster, it has come to my attention that a certain student has been deeply underutilizing their potential"
"Oh? Is that so? Merlin knows we can't have that. Please, do sit, and would you care for a lemon drop?"
Minerva sat, but refused the candy. With a shake of the head and a subtle tut Dumbledore returned the candy bag to its desk drawer.
"So who exactly is this underachieving offender?"
Minerva sat up ramrod straight, "Harry Potter."
At that Albus couldn't help but send a subtle smile to his teacup and the universe at large. This was truly shaping up to be his best morning in over a century.
Minerva however took his silence as doubtful, "Headmaster, I've come here to inform you that if Potter is not allowed to play for his house quidditch team this year it will be an utter waste of his potential and completely damaging to his talent."
She offered a tight nod of resolution and no room to negotiate. It was rare when Minerva saw fit to get her way and only her way, but when determined she was quite a force to be reckoned with. It was always easier to acquiesce when she got her hackles up, especially when the end result was as mutually beneficial as this.
That didn't of course mean that she needed to know that.
Dumbledore took a nice slow moment to stare down at the newspapers clippings spread out in front of him and steepled his fingers.
Quidditch was…not exactly what he had expected to be the solution to this problem. It was better than spiders he supposed, and sport had been used for hundreds of years to distract and tame an angry public. If he was as good as Minerva said, maybe it could work. It wouldn't distract the press for a full seven years, but nothing would.
And who knew, perhaps by second year Harry would secretly reveal some hidden talent for the whole world to see. Being the youngest Quidditch champion in a century should be enough enchant public expectations in the interim.
"Now Minerva, you know as well as any of the students that first years aren't permitted to try out for quidditch."
She opened her mouth to volley some impressively lengthy rebuttal, but Albus cut her off before she could start.
"But, hnm, you do make a strong argument. I suppose that on this occasion, if he really has the talent you say, it shouldn't be too big an issue."
He said with a smile and twinkle in his eye, "There is precedent for it I do believe."
Stupefied, but not complaining Minerva gave a tight smile in return determined to leave before he changed his mind, "I am more than confident he will prove his worth on the pitch, Albus, thank you. Captain Wood and I will make sure he doesn't disappoint. Now, there are matters of his broomstick and other logistics that need to be squared away, so if you would please excuse me?"
Albus dismissed the Transfigurations professor with an idle wave of his hand. "Of course Minerva, it's always a pleasure when you stop by."
But Minerva was already off in her own world, muttering to herself about quidditch equipment, ideal practice times, and the fastest way to get a broom shipped from Diagon Alley.
The door closed behind her with a quiet snap. Leaving Albus alone once more with his now empty pot of tea.
He whistled a tune with the whirligigs as he charmed the three piles of Harry Potter news to march across his desk single file and take a swan dive back into their file. A perfect morning indeed.
Maybe if he dared to work on the gridlocked Unicorn Hair Trade Deal that the Minister had so kindly dropped in his lap the week before between the British Ministry of Magic and the Royal Magician Department of Kenya, the universe would sort that out too.
Perhaps this whole day could be one for the record books.
But looking at the nearly 15 inches high stack of papers that issue entailed, Albus wasn't too hopeful. He called Winky for another plate of biscuits and a spicy pot of Rooibos.
It was fit to be a long afternoon.