A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. The story was planned and written before season 2 (but incorporating elements of thereof as much as possible). Readers beware!
Chapter Forty Seven: Multitudes of Mayhem
About a week after Isaac Lestrade survived his birth, and the day before the Quidditch World Cup finals, Ron and his parents travelled to Baker Street to pick up his best friend Harry. To save time, they used Floo-powder instead of the car. His mum and dad went first, saying "Baker Street!" as they stepped into the fire. Ron followed suit.
Ron thought something must've gone wrong when he stopped spinning, because he tumbled into a brightly-lit, sparsely furnished basement flat that was definitely not 221B. But his mum and dad were there as well, and a black-haired, pale-eyed man wearing a white T-shirt and black jeans held out a hand to pull Ron to his feet like he was expecting him.
"Where am I? And who are you?" Ron asked as he straightened up.
"221C Baker Street," replied the man. "And the name's Black; Sirius Black."
Recognition dawned on Ron as soon as he heard the name. Sirius Black looked very different from Ron's memory of him. When he'd seen him inside the Shrieking Shack several months ago, Sirius's face had been gaunt and sunken, surrounded by a quantity of long, black, matted hair. The hair was short and clean now, Sirius's face was fuller, and he looked younger and a great deal more handsome.
"So you really live downstairs," said Ron, looking around. The flat was decidedly Muggle; none of the black-and-white photographs or posters moved, the mirrors only reflected and all the lights ran on eclecktricity (they were either white tubes or transparent bulbs that had wires inside). The only hint of magic was the tall glass jar that contained glittering powder on the mantelpiece.
"You've done a fine job making your flat look like a Muggle one," Dad said, peering around admiring the décor. "What is it like, living here?"
"I'm never bored," said Sirius, shrugging.
"What have you been doing?" asked Mum.
"Helping Sherlock, mostly," Sirius replied. "Just recently he locked me in a quarantined room at a Muggle Hospital and made me conjure baby toys. He wanted to see if conjured items had germs."
"What are germs?" Ron asked.
"Microscopic life forms that can cause diseases; they're too small for the naked eye to see, but Muggles have special instruments that let you see them. Anyway, that was the least interesting thing I've done so far and it was far from boring."
Sirius then led them upstairs, hands in his pockets. He entered first floor flat without knocking.
The familiar sight of 221B greeted them. Harry was sitting in the leather armchair by the fireplace, reading a novel, and John was lying sideways on the leather couch.
"The Weasleys are here, M'lady," said Sirius, bowing deeply. "Where is his Highness Holmes?"
"His Lordship is out bothering Lestrade," John replied, peering at the door over the couch's armrest. "Hello, Arthur, Molly and Ron. Good to see you."
"Hello, John. No, stay put, stay put," said Mum, bustling eagerly over to the couch and smiling. "And hello, Harry, dear. Have you got your trunk ready?"
"It's upstairs," said Harry, grinning back as he set his novel on a side table.
Everyone gathered around the couch where John was at. The bags under John's eyes were more pronounced, both feet looked very swollen and John's stomach was so big it looked as though one of Hagrid's Halloween pumpkins was growing in there.
"So when are you due?" asked Mum, touching John's stomach adoringly.
"Estimated delivery date is September 3nd," said John. "But he'll probably be late. First ones usually are."
"Have you decided his name?"
"Yes. Jeremy Benedict Holmes— Jeremy after Sherlock's favourite great-uncle; Benedict after no one in particular. It might change, though. Sherlock wants to add either Edward or Littlejohn in memory of great-uncle Jeremy's best friend Dr. Edward Littlejohn. I've vetoed Littlejohn because no kid deserves that. Sherlock doesn't understand why; he deleted Robin Hood."
"Jeremy Edward Benedict Holmes, that's quite a mouthful," said Dad fondly.
"Not as bad as Jeremy Oswald Necropolis Æthelbert Holmes or Mycroft Ian Rathbone Tantamount Holmes." Then John suddenly froze. "…Ohmygosh, I think I know how the Holmeses name their children."
"How do they?"
"Sherlock's middles names," said John, looking perturbed, "Are Ignatius and Gregory."
There was a disturbed silence as everyone lined up all the first letters of Sherlock's full name.
"…Right, the plague ends here," said John at length. "No funny initials for my kids."
Dad and Sirius left to retrieve Harry's trunk shortly after this. Ron and Harry stayed behind, and listened to Mum and John talk about Jeremy Benedict (after calling the yet-born baby 'Benedict' for so long, it was hard to call him just Jeremy).
"I'm kind of hoping he'll come out early, preferably before term starts," said John. "If I give birth in September, Harry won't get to see JB in person until he's three months old."
"Yes, that would be rather sad," agreed Mum. "And considering what going to happen in Hogwarts this year … perhaps you can ask Professor Dumbledore if Harry can visit during the weekends. Bill did when I had Ginny."
"What's happening in Hogwarts this year?" asked Harry.
"You'll find out at the start-of-term feast, I expect," said Mum, smiling. "It's going to be very exciting— mind you, I'm very glad they've changed the rules, it almost nearly didn't—"
"What rules?" asked Ron and Harry together.
"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you … oh, there you are, Arthur."
Dad and Sirius finished settling Harry's wheeled trunk on the floor next to the fireplace.
"I'll meet you tomorrow at the campsite with Remus," said Sirius, squeezing Harry's shoulder, as Dad pointed his wand at 221B's fireplace and lit a fire there. "Save us a good spot."
"Yeah, see you," said Harry, giving Sirius wide grin and a side-hug.
"You first, Harry," said Dad, stepping away from the fireplace, which was now roaring with high, emerald green flames. "Take hold of your trunk."
Harry nodded. He swooped down and gave John a quick hug, and then he walked over to his trunk, grabbed the handle and stood in front of the flames.
"Bye, John! And Benedict, don't come out when I'm not there!" he shouted.
Then he walked right into the fire, saying "the Burrow!" and vanished.
-oo00oo-
"Did he eat it?" asked Fred excitedly as soon as Ron made it back home.
Ron shook his head. "Sherlock wasn't there. What is this, anyway?"
He held up a big, fat toffee in a brightly coloured wrapper. Fred and George had given it to Ron with instructions to feed it to Sherlock before he left for Baker Street, as their mum (wisely) didn't allow them to join.
"A Ton-Tongue Toffee," said Fred, looking disappointed. "George and I invented them, and we've been looking for someone to test them on all summer. I guess you couldn't have given it to John."
"If I did, you'd have to dig me up later, because Harry would've killed me. Anyway, what is it supposed to do?"
"Remember the name, dung-brains: it's a Ton-Tongue Toffee. It's supposed to make your tongue grow a ton."
Everyone in the kitchen laughed. Then, before any of them could say anything else, there were two faint popping noises, and Mum and Dad appeared out of thin air at George's shoulder. Fred quickly took the toffee in Ron's hand and stuffed it inside his trouser pocket.
Unfortunately, Mum didn't miss the action.
"What did you just put inside your pocket, Fred?" said Mum sharply, her eyes narrow with suspicion.
"Just a sweet, Mum," said Fred in a jaunty, winning sort of voice.
"What kind of sweet?" Mum pressed. "If it's got anything to do with the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes—"
"Now, now, Molly," mumbled Dad. "I'm sure it isn't—I mean you've already cleaned out their room of anything suspicious…"
Just then two girls appeared in the kitchen doorway. One, with very bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth, was Ron and Harry's friend, Hermione Granger. The other, who was small and red-haired, was Ron's younger sister, Ginny. Both of them smiled at Harry, who grinned back, which made Ginny go scarlet—she had been very taken with Harry ever since their first visit to 221B.
"Turn out your pockets," Mum ordered, marching over to Fred and George, "both of you."
"Aw, c'mon, Mum," said Fred, edging away from her with a reproachful look on his face.
"Why don't you show Harry where he's sleeping, Ron?" said Hermione from the doorway.
"He knows where he's sleeping," said Ron, "in my room, he slept there last—"
"We can all go," said Hermione pointedly.
"Oh," said Ron, cottoning on. "Right."
"Yeah, we'll come too," said George.
"You stay where you are!" snarled Mum.
Ron and Harry edged out of the kitchen, and they, Hermione, and Ginny set off along the narrow hallway and up the rickety staircase that zigzagged through the house to the upper stories.
"What are Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?" Harry asked as they climbed.
Ron and Ginny both laughed, although Hermione didn't.
"Mum found this stack of order forms when she was cleaning Fred and George's room," said Ron quietly. "Great long price lists for stuff they've invented. Joke stuff, you know: Fake wands and trick sweets, loads of stuff. It was brilliant; I never knew they'd been inventing all that…"
"We've been hearing explosions out of their room for ages, but we never thought they were actually making things," said Ginny. "We thought they just liked the noise."
"Only, most of the stuff—well, all of it, really— was a bit dangerous," said Ron.
"And you were going to feed Sherlock something that might be dangerous," said Harry, raising an eyebrow.
"I didn't know it was dangerous!" Ron protested. "Anyway, they were planning to sell their stuff at Hogwarts to make some money, and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren't allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the order forms… She's furious at them anyway. They didn't get as many O.W.L.s as she expected."
"And then there was this big row," Ginny said, "because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do is open a joke shop."
Harry snorted.
"Joke shop, huh? Well that definitely suits them better than a government desk job. And I'm sure Sherlock would've eaten the toffee even if you told him it was dangerous — for Science, if nothing else."
They started off upstairs again. As Harry, Hermione, and Ginny followed Ron up three more flights of stairs, shouts from the kitchen below echoed up to them. It sounded as though Mum had found out the true nature of the toffee inside Fred's pocket. Ron shrugged as he opened his bedroom door.
"Fred and George are in here with us, because Bill and Charlie are in their room," Ron told Harry as he edged his way between two of the four beds that had been squeezed into his room. "Percy gets to keep his room all to himself because he's got to work."
"Is Percy enjoying work?" asked Harry as he sat down on one of the beds.
"Enjoying it?" said Ron darkly. "I don't reckon he'd come home if Dad didn't make him. He's obsessed. Don't mention anything about Abroad while you're here unless you want the pants bored off you, and don't get him onto the subject of his boss. According to Mr. Crouch…as I was saying to Mr. Crouch… Mr. Crouch is of the opinion… Mr. Crouch was telling me…They'll be announcing their engagement any day now."
"Have you had a good summer, Harry?" said Hermione. "Did you get to spend time with Sirius?"
"Yeah, lots," said Harry. "He's doing better every day. I don't think he's ready to face the Wizarding World, though. Whenever Mr. Lestrade invites him for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron, he always says no, sorry, no. Going to the Quidditch World Cup is a big step for him."
"What about Lupin? Is he—" Ron began, but the look from Hermione reminded him there was a full moon last night and so he fell silent. He also remembered that there had been two full moons since the summer holidays started, and Lupin wouldn't have had access to the Wolfsbane potion.
"As well as you can expect," said Harry sadly. "We don't know anyone who's up to making the only Potion that helps and is willing to brew it, so… well … it's hard."
There was a pause.
"How is Isaac doing?" said Ginny, to cover the awkward moment.
"He's fine," said Harry. "Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade are just waiting for his brain test results. They think there's nothing wrong with him, but they want be absolutely sure. Now what about you three? How are your summers so far?"
"I've been working with Mr. Jeremy all summer," said Ron immediately. "The MMN is going international, mate!"
"How?" asked Harry.
"It started like this: A lot of people want to watch the World Cup, but not everyone can go," said Ron. "We couldn't have afforded to, if Dad couldn't get tickets from work. Then there are people like John, who can't because they're Muggle, and Mr. Lestrade, who just had a baby. When I found out Miss Jackie was making something that would let Mr. Lestrade watch the game like Muggle film, I figured a lot people would want to use it too."
"Brilliant," said Harry admiringly. "So Miss Jackie made something that lets her broadcast the game, and you saw its business potential— the perfect collaboration."
"Isn't it?" said Ron, beaming. "Anyway, I convinced Miss Jackie we should let all MMN users have access to it, too, for a small fee. Mr. Jeremy negotiated a deal with the Ministry. They granted us early access to the entire stadium in exchange for three percent of the profits. We've also set up an MMN stand at the campsite to sell the phones to foreign witches and wizards. The revenue we made from the project is phenomenal. I reckon it's going to triple by the time the Quidditch World Cup finals starts!"
"Ron's been as bad as Percy when it comes to the MMN," Ginny whispered loudly to Hermione.
"Shut up," growled Ron. "I'm not obsessed. Anyway, Miss Jackie would sack me on the spot if I started working as much as Percy…"
"Well, I have a feeling this is going to change the world," said Harry seriously. "I reckon the Daily Prophet will want to run an article on you soon: The Magical Mobile Network's Business Director."
Ron felt himself go pink. Harry could say the most embarrassing things sometimes. But … Business Director, he really liked the sound of that…
"I think they've stopped arguing," said Hermione, who had a wry smile on her face. "Shall we go down and help your mum with dinner?"
"Yeah, all right," said Ron. So the four of them left his room and went back downstairs to do just that.
They found his mum alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered.
"We're eating out in the garden," she said when they came in. "There's just not room for eleven people in here. Could you take the plates outside, girls? Bill and Charlie are setting up the tables. Knives and forks, please, you two," she said to Ron and Harry, pointing her wand a little more vigorously than she had intended at a pile of potatoes in the sink, which shot out of their skins so fast that they ricocheted off the walls and ceiling and then fell on the floor. Then she jabbed her wand at the cutlery drawer, which shot open. Harry and Ron both jumped out of the way as several knives soared out of it, flew across the kitchen, and began chopping the potatoes, which had just been tipped back into the sink by an enchanted dustpan.
"C'mon," Ron said hurriedly to Harry, seizing a handful of cutlery from the open drawer, "let's go and help Bill and Charlie."
The first thing they met out in the garden was Hermione's bandy-legged ginger cat, Crookshanks, who came pelting out of the garden, bottle-brush tail held high in the air, chasing a gnome. The gnome's horny little feet pattered very fast as it sprinted across the yard and dived headlong into one of the Wellington boots that lay scattered around the door. Ron heard it giggling madly as Crookshanks inserted a paw into the boot, trying to reach it. Meanwhile, a very loud crashing noise was coming from the other side of the house. Once they entered the garden, they found Bill and Charlie, both with their wands out, and they were making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to knock the other out of the air. Fred and George were cheering, Ginny was laughing, and Hermione was hovering near the hedge, apparently torn between amusement and anxiety.
There was a clatter from overhead, and they all looked up to see Percy's head poking out of a window on the second floor.
"Will you keep it down?!" he bellowed.
"Sorry, Perce," said Bill, grinning. "How're the cauldron bottoms coming on?"
"Very badly," said Percy peevishly, and he slammed the window shut. Chuckling, Bill and Charlie directed the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, with a flick of his wand, Bill repaired the tables and then threw tablecloths over them.
By seven o'clock, the two tables were groaning under dishes and dishes of Mum's excellent cooking, and Ron and his family, Harry, and Hermione were settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky. Fred, George, and Charlie immediately started talking about the World Cup. Mum argued with Bill about his fang earring, which Ginny approved of. Harry, who lived on Muggle takeaway when at Baker Street, listened rather than talked as he helped himself to chicken potpie, boiled potatoes, and salad.
At the far end of the table, Percy was telling Dad all about his report on cauldron bottoms.
"I've told Mr. Crouch that I'll have it ready by Tuesday," Percy was saying pompously. "That's a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he'll be grateful I've done it in good time. I mean, its extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We're just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman—"
"I like Ludo," said Dad mildly. "He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favour: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble—a lawnmower with unnatural powers—I smoothed the whole thing over."
"Oh Bagman's likable enough, of course," said Percy dismissively, "but how he ever got to be Head of Department … when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I can't see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what's happened to them. You realise Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now? Went on a holiday to Albania and never came back?"
"Yes, I was asking Ludo about that," said Dad, frowning. "He says Bertha's gotten lost plenty of times before. Though must say, if it was someone in my department, I'd be worried…"
"Oh Bertha's hopeless, all right," said Percy. "I hear she's been shunted from department to department for years, much more trouble than she's worth … but all the same, Bagman ought to be trying to find her. But Bagman just keeps laughing and saying she probably misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of Albania."
Percy heaved a sigh and took a deep swig of elderflower wine.
"We've got quite enough on our plates at the Department of International Magical Cooperation without trying to find members of other departments too," he said. "As you know, we've got another big event to organize right after the World Cup. You know the one I'm talking about, Father." He cleared his throat significantly. "The top-secret one."
Ron rolled his eyes and muttered to Harry and Hermione, "He's been trying to get us to ask what that event is ever since he started work. Probably an exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons."
"And it's imperative that the event goes smoothly," Percy went on. "The entire Ministry's been under a lot of pressure and criticism since the Sirius Black case. I'm by no means saying it was a bad thing the truth about Peter Pettigrew came to light, but the case gave Mr. Crouch a lot of heartache and unnecessary difficulties. The way Shin June Hu handled Pettigrew's arrest really didn't help matters. If he followed proper procedure, none of this would've happened."
"Sirius Black's case was going to end badly for Crouch no matter what," said Dad, frowning more deeply. "And I think Grandmaster Shin was giving Crouch an opportunity to salvage his reputation when he told him about Pettigrew. They used to work under the same department, you know, when You-Know-Who was active. I don't think they were friends, but they respected each other a great deal. Crouch relied on Shin when the he had to deal with Oriental wizards and Shin consulted Crouch when he needed an expert in languages."
"Yes, I heard about that," said Percy, positively writhing with excitement. "And no wonder— Mr. Crouch speaks over two hundred languages! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll…"
"Anyone can speak Troll," said Fred dismissively. "All you have to do is point and grunt."
Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look, before continuing:
"All the same, Grandmaster Shin has every reason to feel remorseful. His falling out with Mr. Crouch is due to his mistake, after all. You have no idea how much his actions hurt Mr. Crouch—he won't even look at Shin in the eye!"
"Isn't it Mr. Crouch who's taking it too personally?" Hermione argued. "It's not like Mr. Shin was trying to hurt him. In fact he was he was trying to help him!"
"Yeah, if he's that upset, he could just slip some dragon dung in Mr. Shin's in-tray and get even, eh, Perce?" said Fred.
"That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!" said Percy, going very red in the face. "It was nothing personal!"
"It was," Fred whispered to Harry. "We sent it."
-oo00oo-
The evening of the Quidditch World Cup finals, John and Sherlock went to the Lestrades' flat. When Lestrade let them in, he noticed John was bursting with excitement and Sherlock looked as though he was under extreme duress.
"Humouring the wife?" asked Lestrade.
Sherlock glowered at him fiercely. The sight warmed the blackened cockles of Lestrade's heart.
"I've wanted to see a Quidditch match for years," said John as she waddled over to the sofa to join Ellen and Isaac, who was snoozing on top of his mummy's chest. "Sherlock, stop sulking and get over here. Greg, how are we watching the game?"
Lestrade lifted up his new MMN phone, which a pure white owl delivered to him last night.
"Thus sayeth the note from Jacqueline Shin: just turn this on and it should be obvious."
Lestrade waited for Sherlock sit down on the sofa (next to John, naturally), and then pressed what he assumed was the home button.
A holographic image of a desktop about the size of a Tablet PC projected above the MMN phone. The only icon on the desktop had the label: Quidditch World Cup Viewer. Not knowing what else he was supposed to do, Lestrade poked a finger at the icon.
The holographic image changed to show a menu screen. The title on the top read: Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup Viewer. Please select your viewing mode by tapping one of the options below. Lestrade checked the options. There was basic mode ("see the view from the top-box!") costing two Galleons, high definition mode ("High quality images from multiple viewpoints, plus zoom-ins, slow-motions and subtitles!") costing four Galleons, and full immersion mode ("You'll feel like you're there!") costing ten Galleons. All the buttons next to the options were greyed out, and the green button on the button right hand corner said: 'Purchase'
"Of course it's not free," Lestrade muttered.
"What is this?" said Ellen, pointing the gold card that served as Jackie's note. It was now jumping and flashing the message: 'Pick Me Up!'
Lestrade picked up the card. Upon contact the card displayed a new message: 'put me over the phone!' Lestrade did so, and on the next blink all of the display options on the menu became available and the purchase button vanished. The card displayed the winking emoticon and wrote: 'enjoy!'
"Nice," said Lestrade, grinning.
"Let's try everything! Do the basic mode first!" said Ellen excitedly.
Lestrade poked a finger on the virtual button.
A second holographic image appeared above the menu one and expanded to fill the entire length and height of the living room. Once it stopped growing, they saw an HDTV-worthy footage of a crowd of magic-people talking, laughing, and roaming around buying souvenirs. Most were dressed like Muggles, but very inexpertly. John and Ellen giggled for over a minute when they spotted an old man wearing a flowery summer dress under a tweed suit with pink thigh-length galoshes. Salesmen were teleporting every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes— green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria— which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of fancy-looking broomsticks that really flew, and collectible figures of famous Quidditch players, which strolled across the palm of people's hands, preening themselves.
"How is this not High Definition Mode?" Lestrade wondered as he stared, mesmerized.
"Try the HD mode, then, and see what the difference is," said John.
Lestrade selected the option. The footage immediately turned 3D and the image quality became so clear it made reality look dull in comparison. The live footage first showed them the Irish supporters' campsite, all who seemed to have covered their tents with a thick growth of shamrocks so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. The footage then showed them the Bulgarian supporters' campsite. The tents there weren't bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.
Then two men abruptly appeared.
"Hellooooo, Magical Mobile Network!" cried Jeremy Shin, beaming hugely at the camera. "The Quidditch World Cup finals will commence in a few short minutes, and I'm sure everyone is as eager to watch the game as I am! I now have Mr. Ludo Bagman, head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, here to give us a brief word!"
Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person they'd seen so far, including the old man walking around in a flowery summer dress and pink galoshes. He was wearing long robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly. His nose was squashed, but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.
"Ahoy there!" Bagman said happily. He was bouncing as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement. "What a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements… Not much for me to do!"
Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.
"That's Gilbert Wimple," said Lestrade, pointing at the Ministry wizards. "He works for the Committee on Experimental Charms. He's had those horns for as long as I've known him. The bloke next to him is Arnie—Arnold Peasegood. He's an Obliviator—member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. And that's Bode and Croaker. They're Unspeakables."
"They're what?" said Sherlock.
"From the Department of Mysteries," said Lestrade. "I had lunch with them once, when Grandpapa Shin took me to the Ministry canteen. They're very hush-hush. I have no idea what they do at the DOM…"
Meanwhile, Bagman was still talking.
"…Don't know when I've had more fun! It'll be sad to see it end… Still, it's not as though we haven't got anything to look forward to! For instance, at Hogwarts—"
"You're commenting this evening, aren't you Mr. Bagman?" said Jeremy, sounding like he was intercepting.
"Oh, yes! From the top-box, with both Ministers present—" Bagman was starting to say.
A deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.
"That would be the signal!" shouted Bagman, bouncing again.
"Indeed it is! Thank youuu, Mr. Bagman!" Jeremy turned to the camera. "We will now switch POVs to the stadium!"
And with that, the holograph changed sceneries to show a lantern-lit trail inside the wood. As the camera went down the path, they could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around: shouts and laughter, and snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious; Lestrade couldn't stop grinning.
The camera emerged from the wood, and a gigantic stadium made of gold walls came to view. As everyone stared, thunderstruck, the camera appeared to rise up to the air, covering the entire length of the wall. A floating subtitle/commentary box said the stadium seated a hundred thousand before disappearing.
Finally the camera stopped rising at some point high above the stadium, giving them a birds-eye view of the interior. They could see the stairwells carpeted in rich purple. Tiny dots of people were climbing up those stairwells, and then moving to the left and right to take their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their vantage point. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high, according to the comment box; right opposite them was a gigantic blackboard very similar to the one Lestrade had seen in a magic bowling alley except it was larger. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant's hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again.
The camera lowered itself inside a small, open-ceiling box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and the cameraman appeared to sit down on the middle chair. A second commentary/subtitle box appeared on the corner and said, 'A display from the team mascots will precede the match.'
"Let's try full immersion," said Lestrade, snatching the phone away from Sherlock, who was stabbing a finger at the options furiously to no avail.
Lestrade tapped the virtual button. Immediately the projected image started to expand even more. The sound of rushing wind echoed in his ears as he was fell into the image at frightening speeds. Lestrade let out a silent yell as the swirling tunnel of light and colours blinded him and then…
… He found himself sitting in a purple-and-gilt chair, his ears ringing with the roar of a crowd. He looked around, and realised to his shock that he was in the Quidditch World Cup stadium—right inside the top box, in fact. He looked down and saw the hundreds upon thousands of witches and wizards in the stands bellow. His skin felt the summer night heat, and when he touched it, he could feel the texture of the chair he was sitting on.
"Blimey," murmured Lestrade, overwhelmed. Then he looked around, calling out: "Are you guys here?"
No one answered. As he wondered about this, Lestrade noticed the other people inside the box. There was Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, and several foreign dignitaries. Next to Fudge was Malfoy Sr., his son and a woman who was likely his wife. Arthur and his seven children were seated at the opposite side of the box. Harry, Neville and Julia, Jason and Jeremy with Martin, Rupert and Elise, and Black and Lupin were with them. No one appeared to have noticed a middle-aged man in a white T-shirt and jeans had fallen into their mist.
Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.
"Everyone ready?" he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. "Minister— ready to go?"
"Ready when you are, Ludo," said Fudge comfortably.
Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and said "Sonorus!" and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands.
"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the two hundred and twenty-sixth Quidditch World Cup!"
The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans - A Risk With Every Mouthful!) and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!" Bagman bellowed.
The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.
"I wonder what they've brought," he heard Arthur saying. "Aaah!" Arthur suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. "Veela!"
"Huh, what?" said Lestrade.
But a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the field, and Lestrade's question was answered for him. Veela were women… the most beautiful women he had ever seen… except that they couldn't be human. No human could make their skin shine moon-bright or their white-gold hair fan out behind them without wind … but then the music started, and Lestrade stopped worrying about them not being human— in fact, he stopped worrying about anything at all.
The veela had started to dance, and Lestrad's mind had gone completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that he kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen.
And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half-formed thoughts started chasing through Lestrade's dazed mind. He wanted to do something very impressive, right now. He just couldn't think of what, though. There seemed to be some kind of discord between what he felt and what he wanted to do…
Then the music stopped. Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn't want the veela to go. Lestrade felt cold sweat beading on forehead as he realised what had happened to him.
He quickly brought the phone in his hand to his mouth and shouted: "Stop Immersion Mode!"
On the next second, he was back in his flat.
"That was freaky," Lestrade breathed, wiping his sweaty forehead.
"That was awesome," John disagreed, sharing a wide-eyed look with Sherlock. "I wonder how Jack managed it."
"You can ask her later. I'm switching back to HD right now."
Then Lestrade and did just that, much to Sherlock and John's disappointment.
The Irish national mascot turned out to be leprechauns. The thousands of tiny little creatures that looked like bearded men with red waistcoats, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green, first circuited around the stadium like a green-and-gold comet before dividing into two, one comet at each long end of the stadium. A rainbow arced suddenly between the two balls of light, before the balls forming a single, giant shamrock that showered the entire crowd with gold coins.
"Irish wizards don't seem to mind the stereotype," John remarked.
"Why the hell would they?" said Lestrade, looking jealously at the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.
After the presentation came the introduction of players. Bagman introduced the Ireland team first. Quidditch was apparently a co-ed sport; three of the Irish players were women and the rest were men.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen," Bagman screamed, "kindly welcome— the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — Dimitrov!"
A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.
"Ivanova!"
A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out.
"Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand— Krum!"
"Keep an eye on Victor Krum. He's some kind of Quidditch prodigy from what I've heard," said John, indicating Bulgarian Player in question.
Lestrade studied him. Krum looked a bit like an overgrown bird of prey with his dark and sallow skin, a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He was clearly internationally famous, though, because the whole crowd went wild when he flew out into the open.
"How hard is it, playing Quidditch?" asked Lestrade. "How do you play it, anyway?"
"The basic rules of Quidditch are pretty simple," said John. "Three Chasers tries to throw a red ball through one of the hoops at the either end of the field and score ten points; a Keeper stays around the hoops and blocks incoming balls; Beaters use their bats to whack iron balls bewitched to hit anyone to disrupt opponent play; game ends when one of the Seekers catches the Golden Snitch. The team that catches the Snitch gains a hundred and fifty points."
"…How can you have a functional game with that kind of scoring system?" asked Lestrade incredulously. "If catching the Snitch awards you a hundred and fifty points, isn't it essentially a match between the two Seekers?"
"Not necessarily. Quidditch is always played in a series. It's the team that has the greatest number of total points that win." Then John pointed: "Whoa, just look at those Irish Chasers!"
Lestrade turned his attention to the game. Then he just stared. Though he knew a little better than nothing about Quidditch, he could see that the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another's minds as they positioned themselves. The Bulgarian Chasers could barely keep the red ball in possession because their Irish counterparts were so fast. Commentary boxes appeared inside the holograph and explained all the moves. The camera crew, whoever they were, expertly zoomed-in, zoomed-out, provided separate slow-motion frames and even fancy circling shots whenever there was a pause in play to show just happened in greater detail.
About fifteen minutes of play, the one hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the centre of the Chasers so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes.
"One of them saw the Snitch!" John exclaimed.
"No, they didn't," said Sherlock, squinting. "It's a feint!"
As soon as he said so, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiralled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.
"It's time-out!" yelled Bagman, "as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!"
A small frame appeared inside the holographic image. WRONSKI DEFENSIVE FEINT— DANGEROUS SEEKER DIVERSION read the shining purple lettering on the bottom of the frame, and the close-up footage showed Krum's face contorted with concentration as he pulled out of the dive just in time, while Lynch was flattened. Sherlock was correct: Krum hadn't seen the Snitch at all, he was just making Lynch copy him and was using the time while Lynch was revived to look for the Snitch without interference.
"Damn, he can fly," whistled Lestrade.
"And he's only eighteen or something," John marvelled.
Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his broom, and kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland was leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten.
And that was when things got really dirty: The requisite in-game rioting started—by the mascots. The leprechauns gave the veela the finger when the referee awarded Ireland two penalty shots after the Bulgarians questioned his call. The veela threw balls of fire at them in response as their faces elongated into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings burst from their shoulders. Ministry wizards entered the field to restore order, but had little success. One of the veela actually set the referee's broom on fire when he wasn't looking.
While chaos reigned in the field bellow, the match above continued at its furious pace. Beaters from either team were swinging their bats menacingly, apparently unconcerned if it was a ball or a human being they were hitting. Then the Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum. Krum didn't duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face.
There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum's nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere.
"Time-out!" yelled Lestrade. "Oh, come on, he can't play like that, look at him—!"
"Look at Lynch!" screamed Ellen suddenly, jolting Isaac awake.
They looked. And soon realised the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, and Lestrade was quite sure that this was no Wronski Feint.
"He's seen the Snitch!" Lestrade shouted. "He's seen it! Look at him go!"
Half the crowd seemed to have realised what was happening. The Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming Lynch on. But Krum was on his tail. How he could see where he was going, Lestrade had no idea. There were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again—
—and for the second time, Lynch hit the field with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.
"The Snitch, where's the Snitch?" John demanded, who was practically leaping off the sofa whilst sporting fever-red patches on both cheeks.
"Krum got it— it's all over," said Sherlock, who was pulling John back.
Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, rouse gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand. The scoreboard was flashing "BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170" to the crowd, who didn't seem to have realised what had happened.
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman roared, who seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH— BUT IRELAND WINS— good lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"
There was a short pause. Then slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.
"I can see why wizards are crazy about this game," said Lestrade feverishly as he clapped.
"I wish I could play it," said John enviously before punching Lestrade's bicep with far less force than usual. "You're lucky; you can."
"Ummm, why do think it's a good idea for him play a sport that requires you to fly a hundred feet in the air without any safety nets when he gets into enough scrapes playing football?" asked Ellen, who was consoling a squirming and keening Isaac.
"I do prefer to keep my feet on the ground," Lestrade agreed.
"Your insistence to NOT realise all your opportunities is highly irritating," huffed Sherlock.
"Oh, shut up," Lestrade and Ellen retorted.
The camera was now focusing on Krum, who was surrounded by mediwizards that wanted to fix his broken nose. He looked very surly and refused to let anyone mop him up. His team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected. A short way away, the Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots.
"And as the Irish team performs a lap of honour, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!" roared Bagman's voice.
"All the awards, Jack, all the awards," Lestrade murmured as he watched two panting wizards carry a vast golden cup into the top box and handed it to Cornelius Fudge (who looked very disgruntled), "Never thought I'd get to see something like this."
John raised a glass. "Hear, hear."
-oo00oo-
John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street after the game ended because Sherlock point-blank refused to linger for what he termed: the tiresome social exercise of ruminating over collectively known facts ad nauseum, i.e. post-game reliving. Normally John would've told him he can go back home by himself, but John had been making an effort to humour Sherlock's (often terrible) husbandly efforts since Ellen chided her for disregarding them. As Sherlock using the word 'tiresome' instead of 'hateful/boring/tedious/futile' hinted that he making such an effort, John followed along.
Later, John had to wonder if there was more to Sherlock's insistence to leave early than mere petulance and paranoia. She remembered getting into the cab, feeling a bit tired, and no memory whatsoever of afterwards. The next moment of consciousness was the morning after inside the bedroom.
"Did I pass out?" John asked aloud.
"Your powers of deduction are as spry as ever. Isn't it patently obvious?" said Sherlock's voice.
John ignored the tone. "Did you predict it?"
"A collapse was definitely within my calculations," said Sherlock imperiously. "You always disregard tremors on your leg as a ghost of your old psychosomatic limp. Though it is true for the most part, tremor plus an elevation in body temperature following strenuous physical/mental activity usually signals an imminent collapse."
"But I didn't feel feverish."
"The temperature elevation wasn't enough to warrant a trip to the A&E, but you were certainly heating up."
John sighed. "I better schedule an appointment with Noel, then, just in case."
"You have one in twenty minutes."
"Of course I do," John deadpanned. "Now help me up, I need to get dressed."
Sherlock left the bed immediately.
He returned a few seconds later with a pair of colourful socks, and started putting them on John's swollen feet with determination. It was kind of adorable in a way, John mused. Ever since the inevitable edema happened, John wore flip-flops all the time, much to Sherlock's annoyance. Apparently Sherlock regarded the footwear as evil because he never stopped complaining about them, and would secretly burn them in a fire. John was lucky they were cheap, because the cost of buying a new pair every other week was adding up.
"I don't have shoes that fit me comfortably," John said once Sherlock was done.
Sherlock waved a pair of trainers that looked a size bigger than John's other shoes.
"Crazy prepared aren't you?" said John; then went ahead and searched for clothes.
John and Sherlock left the flat in ten minutes. A black sedan was waiting for them at the curb. John eyed it suspiciously. Why was Mycroft trying to kidnap them right now? For some reason, Sherlock got in without complaint, so John got in too.
The car stopped at their obstetrician's office with two minutes to spare.
"I suppose this is Mycroft's idea of being thoughtful," John remarked. "Can you tell him he came off as creepy?"
To John's very great surprise, the driver saluted.
"Is there something going on?" John wondered.
-oo00oo-
While John submitted to Dr. Tulipan's examinations, Sherlock waited in the lounge. As it was often the case, he pored over his phone to pass time.
Except the phone Sherlock was poring over wasn't a regular mobile phone, but an enchanted one. The passerby and fellow visitors didn't realise this, and merely assumed he was texting on a black mobile phone like any other. They also assumed he was relaying news to friends and family. Again, they were not quite right. The text-exchange on Sherlock's mobile phone screen would've shown them this:
August XX, 20XX, 6:37 AM
Harry Watson
Am fine. Don't believe Daily Prophet headline.
Use MMN viewer to see what really happened.
Have just reviewed DP and MMN viewer.
The 'bodies' DP is referring to, are
they the victims Dr. Shin is rescuing?
SH
Harry Watson
Probably. he stopped the spell that was levitating camp manager & family.
perps disappeared as soon as someone shouted 'It's Grandmaster Shin!'
Disappeared = disapparated
Were they traced?
SH
Harry Watson
No. Mr. Weasley says can't track disapparated person. :(
I see.
Don't tell John. Had fourth collapse last night.
No need to exacerbate condition with upsetting news
SH
Harry Watson
OK
-oo00oo-
Harry returned to Baker Street as soon as he could when he heard the news about John. He didn't have to work to hide what happened at the World Cup, because John kept falling asleep abruptly, waking up hours later without a clue as to how long she'd been out. When it happened the third time, Harry laid his cheek on John's stomach and made a quiet plea.
"Benedict," he whispered. "Stop giving our mum such a hard time. I don't care if you're late. Just come out without any problems. If you do, I'll find a way to take you to Hogwarts, I promise."
As though he'd understood, Benedict made a series of taps from the inside.
The following day John stayed awake all morning, but as cautionary measure, remained in bed.
"I haven't had this problem since the Baskerville case," John remarked.
"This happened before?" asked Harry in surprise.
"I started having this sleeping problem after returning from Afghanistan," John explained. "It's not narcolepsy. I'm alert during the day, but then one second I feel a bit tired and boom: I wake up hours later. It gave me a load grief—the Blind Banker case wouldn't have ended the way it did if I didn't pass clean out."
"…Are you telling me the Chinese mafia only managed to kidnap you because you were asleep?"
"Yes," said John, looking a bit mortified. "Not my best moment."
Harry disagreed. From what he understood, John had knocked out several members of the Chinese mafia before spearing the murderous acrobat with the crossbow contraption that was set to kill her— all whilst tied to a chair.
"Anyway, I'm okay now," said John. "You can go back to Ron's."
"But —" Harry started to protest.
"Hovering doesn't help," Sherlock interrupted.
Harry shut his mouth. He knew Sherlock wasn't intentionally being hurtful, but he couldn't help but feel deeply hurt. Because it was true; all he could do was hover, and hovering wouldn't help, not for this situation. This situation called for someone who had expertise in Potions, and Harry's potion making skills were mediocre at best. He didn't need a reminder that he was of no use when it mattered. Nor did he need to be reminded that his Potions Professor was out to get him, setting him up for failure at each class, and delighted in every wrong move he made. He already knew.
"FINE!" Harry roared. "I'll go back to the Burrow! Call Snape and ask him for help! You always do! I'm useless anyway!"
Then he stormed off, much to Sherlock's apparent astonishment.
-oo00oo-
Hermione was definitely feeling the end-of-summer gloom by the last week of August, which was unusual because she'd always looked forward to the new classes. Hermione had a feeling the people around her were affecting her own mood; they certainly weren't uplifting.
Harry returned to the Burrow two days after the World Cup fiasco. He tersely reported John recovered from her strange bout of illness and then stayed indoors for the remaining days of August, often sullen and uncommunicative. Fred and George had a similar story; they were frequently found sitting in a corner, quills out, talking in whispers, and their heads bent over a piece of parchment with an uncharacteristically serious looks on their faces. Mr. Weasley and Percy, on the other hand, weren't at home much. Both left the house each morning before the rest of the family got up, and returned well after dinner every night—a constant reminder that the debacle at the Quidditch World Cup wasn't over.
"It's been an absolute uproar," Percy told them importantly the evening before they were due to return to Hogwarts. "I've been putting out fires all week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don't open a Howler straight away, it explodes. Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill reduced to cinders."
"Why are they all sending Howlers?" asked Ginny, who was mending her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of the living room fire.
"Complaining about security at the World Cup," said Percy. "They want compensation for their ruined property. Mundungus Fletcher's put in a claim for a twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi, but I've got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping under a cloak propped on sticks."
Mrs. Weasley glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. As a time tracking device it was useless, but otherwise it was very informative. It had nine golden hands, and each of them was engraved with one of the Weasley family's names, and instead of numerals, the clock had descriptions of where each family member might be. "Home," "school," and "work" were there, but there was also "travelling," "lost," "hospital," "prison," and, in the position where the number twelve would be on a normal clock, "mortal peril." Eight of the hands were currently pointing to the "home" position, but Mr. Weasley's, which was the longest, was still pointing to "work."
Mrs. Weasley sighed.
"Your father hasn't had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You-Know-Who," she said. "They're working him far too hard. His dinner's going to be ruined if he doesn't come home soon."
"Well, Father feels he's got to make up for his mistake at the match, doesn't he?" said Percy. "If truth be told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first—"
"Don't you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!" said Mrs. Weasley, flaring up at once.
"If Dad hadn't said anything, old Rita would just have said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry had commented," said Bill, who was playing chess with Ron. "Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts' Charm Breakers once, and called me 'a long-haired pillock'?"
"Well, it is a bit long, dear," said Mrs. Weasley gently. "If you'd just let me—"
"No, Mum."
Hermione took a pause from reading her copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4. Rain was lashing against the living room window. Charlie was darning a fireproof balaclava. Harry had his Potions textbook open and was writing notes on a generic Muggle notebook. He also had the Daily Prophet article by Rita Skeeter on his lap; the headline was:
SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP
The black-and-white photograph under the headline showed the Robertses floating high in midair, underneath a crowd of hooded and masked wizards who were pointing their wands at them, as tents burned and blew off to the edges.
Hermione shuddered as she remembered the scene in the photo. It had been a sickening sight. There was screaming everywhere, people fleeing from a growing group of masked wizards, who were laughing and pointing up at four floating, struggling figures that were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air. Occasionally, a wizard blasted a tent out of his way with his wand. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder, and so did the drunken laughter and jeers. Then a burning tent illuminated the levitating figures. Hermione recognised one of them: Mr. Roberts, the Muggle campsite manager. The other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down to reveal her underwear and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee. Hermione had to turn away when she caught sight of the smallest Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top, sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side.
"Oh your father's coming!" said Mrs. Weasley suddenly, looking up at the clock again.
Mr. Weasley's hand had suddenly spun from "work" to "travelling"; a second later it had shuddered to a halt on "home" with the others, and they heard him calling from the kitchen.
"Coming, Arthur!" called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room.
A few moments later, Mr. Weasley came into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looked completely exhausted.
"Well, the fat's really in the fire now," he told Mrs. Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the hearth and toyed unenthusiastically with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. "Rita Skeeter's been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups to report. And now she's found out about poor Bertha Jorkins going missing, so that'll be the headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago."
"Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks," said Percy swiftly.
"We're lucky Jeremy broadcasted the incident on the MMN," said Mr. Weasley irritably. "At least people can see what really happened…"
"I thought we were all agreed that, as a Ministry of Magic contractor, Mr. Jeremy Shin shouldn't have released the footage to the public without first clearing it with Mr. Crouch," said Percy hotly.
"If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky Mr. Jeremy didn't reveal how he acted at the World Cup to the public!" said Hermione angrily. Because really, Mr. Crouch's behaviour had been atrocious! He completely disregarded the Robertses Grandmaster Shin caught gently in midair and accused him of showmanship in front of the other Ministry people for failing to apprehend the marchers … as if it was his fault! The marchers Disapparated the moment someone shouted the Grandmaster was approaching; Mr. Shin barely had enough time to stop the Robertses from hitting the ground!
"Now look here, Hermione!" said Percy. "Mr. Crouch had every right to be angry. The Magical Mobile Network has foreign customers, and as the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Mr. Crouch deserves to know all matters that have international repercussions so he can decide the proper course of action—"
"He didn't care about that at all!" said Hermione passionately. "All he did was attack Grandmaster Shin for acting on his own, when he saved all those poor Muggles!"
"I think you'd all better go upstairs and check that you've packed properly!" said Mrs. Weasley, breaking up the argument. "Come on now, all of you…"
Hermione reluctantly closed her book and went back upstairs with Ginny. The rain sounded even louder at the upper stories of the house, accompanied by loud whistling and moans from the wind, not to mention sporadic howls from the ghoul who lived in the attic.
Hermione was organizing her books in alphabetical order when Ginny made an appalled noise behind her.
"What is this supposed to be?"
She was holding up something that looked like a pink chiffon dress, with white and orange skirt panels under ruffled pink ones. The fabric looked a bit moldy and there was a tear on the seam that connected the torso to one of the pink panels.
There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Weasley entered, carrying an armful of freshly laundered Hogwarts robes.
"Here you are," she said, sorting Ginny's into a pile. "Now, mind you pack them properly so they don't crease."
"Mum, why did you put this on my bed?" asked Ginny, still holding up the dress.
"That's for you. Dress robes."
"What?" said Ginny, looking horror-struck.
"Dress robes!" repeated Mrs. Weasley. "It says on your school list that you're supposed to have dress robes this year… robes for formal occasions."
"But why did it have to be pink?" Ginny wailed. "I have red hair! Pink never goes with red hair!"
"Because… well, I had to get yours secondhand, and there wasn't a lot of choice!" said Mrs. Weasley, flushing.
Hermione looked away. Money was a very sensitive subject to both Ginny and Ron. At least Ron was coming to his own on the subject, because his job at the MMN gave him independent means. Ginny didn't have that.
"Was there really nothing but pink?" Ginny wailed again.
"I suppose I could've gotten the maroon velvet one," said Mrs. Weasley angrily. "It had lovely lace on the collar and cuffs…"
Ginny was so appalled she was driven speechless.
"See, this was the best!" snapped Mrs. Weasley. "So stop complaining and pack it in!"
And with that she left the room, slamming the door behind her.
Almost immediately they heard Ron make a loud noise of disgust upstairs.
"MUM!" he howled. "WHY DID YOU BUY ME THIS DINKY LITTLE OWL? IT'S RUBBISH!"
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: Quidditch World Cup, check. Triwizard tournament hints, check. HRH turning into angry sensitive teenagers … check. Phew. I worry about GOF. It's so long. I don't want it to turn into a monster spanning thirty chapters. And when I consider the length of years 5, 6 and 7… (BOC headdesks).
Sirius has been watching a lot of Bond movies with John, can you tell?
Ginny and Ron should not let their mum do their shopping.