The Quidditch Player
Chapter 3
Monday, 17 July 2006
Hermione was late. And the one thing she hated above all else was being late. With the green flames dying in a whisper behind her, she rushed out of the gilded fireplace and sprinted across the atrium to the lift bay. She decided to abstain from greeting people she didn't care much about, thus avoiding needless conversations, and ignored the blue ceiling overhead that flashed a series of complicated letters and numbers related to the Ministry of Magic and goblin economy stock exchanges, similar to the London Stock Exchange in King Edward Court. She joined what she believed was the shortest queue, cursing the lifts for being so damn slow.
Helpless to restrain herself from bouncing on one foot and then the other, she momentarily wondered if rogue employees she failed to bid a good morning to had decided to enact a bout of revenge, casting the Dancing Feet Spell on her. No doubt those twits were having a good snicker behind her back if this was true. Then again, it was Monday morning. Getting out of bed and journeying to the Ministry of Magic was a mighty challenge unto itself. Anything to lighten the dour mood was a positive sign for the long day ahead. Clearly, someone pegged her as the scapegoat for such foolish shenanigans. Or maybe her paranoia was in full bloom, a meadow that was teeming with suspicion.
A loud jangling sound was heard, and the lift came into view. When the golden grille slid back, chaos ensued. Like a running of the bulls, the once orderly line turned into something that resembled a riot, akin to the 1996 Trafalgar Square Riots when Muggles went on a rampage after the English National Football team lost to Germany at the UEFA European Football Championship. Even worse, delinquents stabbed a Russian student in Brighton after attackers thought he sounded too much like a German.
An elderly woman who had the misfortune of being at the front of the line was shoved into the far wall. Her glasses took flight. A man elbowed his neighbour in the ribs. Losing his balance, he felt into someone holding a peacock. The peacock hopped atop a bald man's head, batting its wings like a curtain in a strong breeze. It started making a high-pitched screaming sound, a cross between a baby and cat.
"Someone who was a working brain put a Silencing Charm on the damned thing!" a man yelled, only adding to the havoc. "What're you all, Muggles?"
Another man charged forward in a battle cry, the morning's edition of the Daily Prophet rolled up like a flimsy mace. He swiped at the peacock, missing each time.
"Stop it, you cold coot!" cried the owner. "He's just frightened! Stop it, I say!"
Hermione, at the mercy of the rioting crowd, was pushed forwards and backwards like one of those wobble dolls. She encountered the back of a large man in front of her, who, tripping over his own feet, grabbed the shoulders of a skinny woman close at hand to try and keep his equilibrium. This failed, and the three of them collapsed instantly. On the floor, she spotted a man's watch and a woman's heel next to it. The items could pass for discarded accessories people chucked off them so they could have a quick shag. Feathers from the wild peacock spiraled down in lazy twisters. Reaching for her wand, she took aim at the peacock who shifted his attention to a woman wearing too much lipstick, some of it having gone on her front teeth. She screamed at the top of her lungs, sounding worse than the peacock, and cowered against one wall.
"It's going to kill me! It's going to kill me! It's going to kill me!" she yelled, over and over, shielding her face with her hands. "Someone, help me! Please, help me! Please!"
Hermione first silenced the woman, her repugnant voice giving Hermione a splitting headache, and the peacock after. His owner rushed at him with his wand at the ready but not before jinxing the old coot's shoelaces, turning them into small snakes. When they ringed his ankles, the old coot yelped, doing a funny dance and falling onto the floor. But the owner of the peacock stepped over him, unconcerned. He waved his wand so that a pink light flashed from its tip. The peacock suddenly stilled, flopping into the owner's outstretched arms like a stiff board. Jostled by the crowd, he cooed at it lovingly, a stark contrast to the filthy looks he threw at the old coot who was now being attended to.
"I've done my hip in!" he howled, clearly in pain.
As the mayhem slowly subsided into irritable grumblings, the golden grille slid shut, and the lift disappeared from view.
Hermione missed her ride.
Nearly barreling down her door, Hermione strode into her office in a foul mood, making the pile of parchment on her desk tidal wave against the wall. She groaned, waving her wand at the window so the curtain separated in the middle. A view of Place Cachée welcomed her. After practically slamming her satchel atop her desk so hard that the drawers rattled, she collapsed atop her chair in exhaustion.
The War of Lifts, as she was apt to call it, during the early morning rush hour tired her out so much that it felt like she already put in a full day's worth of work. Not only that, but since Hermione came in later than she normally did, she would have to make up her hours. If not, her work log wouldn't match that of last week's. The mere thought bothered her greatly! Sighing, she watched shoppers in Place Cachée absentmindedly, doing so for longer than was necessary. She tried her best to will her temper to subside before Mr Bagman came in and stir the already choppy waters that simmered inside her as he usually did.
Eyeing the parchment on the floor, evidence of just how hard Hermione could open a door when frazzled, she waved her wand so they floated back onto her desk in a neat pile. She turned around in her chair to sort through them when she stopped and stared at the opposite wall, her mouth falling open. Very little caught her off guard, even though a few things managed to slip through the cracks every now and then. This was one of those times where she was taken by surprise, immensely at that.
Every inch of the wall was covered in colourful Quidditch posters of famous players, all of whom were posing with their equipment in flashy mannerisms. All thirteen teams were represented, from the Chudley Cannons to the Pride of Portree and even the Wigtown Wanderers. One acted as if his broomstick was a tightrope, walking across it with his arms stretched out to the sides for balance. Another was using her broomstick like a sledgehammer, destroying an innocent makeup kit that somehow ran her afoul. A third was bouncing the Quaffle up and down on his knee like a footballer, reminiscent of Thierry Henry, her dad's favourite Arsenal player.
But it was Harry's Quidditch poster that had Hermione staring. He was using his broomstick like a pull-up bar, disposing of his Quidditch robes as if they were more of a burden than anything else. His abdomen glistened as rivers of sweat were like strong currents down his chiselled body, the perspiration dripping off his hardened nipples. The Golden Snitch zoomed around his head like a furious bird. She noticed this particular poster was different from the ones he signed for the girls in Diagon Alley on Saturday. They probably would've fainted if they saw this, the pumpkin-shaped girl causing a small earthquake.
"How do you like it?" a voice from the doorway asked. Turning her head, she saw Mr Bagman beaming at her, his doughy cheeks bright red.
"Mr Bagman," Hermione said, standing to her feet. "Good morning."
His blue eyes swiveled from her to the wall of Quidditch posters, pointing at the collection.
"Nice, eh? And look, some of them are signed!"
"You didn't do this, did you?" she asked. Though childish in many ways, especially when it came to Quidditch, she couldn't imagine Mr Bagman, her boss, breaking into her office merely to pull of this kind of heist on a Monday morning.
"Me?" he asked, palming his large belly. Hermione silently wondered if he meant his chest and missed. "Of course not!" he chuckled.
"Then who did?"
Mr Bagman stared at her curiously, "You don't like it?"
"Well," she stammered, attempting some semblance of a smile. "I preferred to how my office was before."
"It was rather plain, my dear."
"But I work well in that type of environment," Hermione said. "I can't begin to imagine trying to get through an entire day with all of these players," she continued, flapping her hands at the Quidditch posters, "staring at me. Honestly, it's more than distracting."
"Not all of them will," Mr Bagman countered. He nodded his head in the direction of one Quidditch player who decided his time was better spent taking a kip on his broomstick, hovering in the air. Frankly, Hermione thought he was dangerously close to rolling right off the side of it. "And if you ask me, your office now fits the mold with the rest of the department. You were the only one who didn't have any Quidditch memorabilia."
"I know that-," she began but was interrupted.
"And how about that! He provided you with books, too!"
Hermione saw a shelf hanging on the wall, filled with various tomes. She unquestionably missed this when entering her office prior, but that was probably due to her lateness. Frowning, she walked over and saw all of the books were related to Quidditch: A Study of Quidditch: How it Helped Cure the Black Cat Flu, Dragon Pox, and Scrofungulus; How Quidditch Helped Me Defeat Quintapeds on the Isle of Drear; and The Benefits and Consequences of Daydreaming About Quidditch Whilst at Work.
She took down the first book, opened the cover, and saw a message there.
To Hermione,
Some books I thought you'd enjoy from Flourish and Blotts.
- H
Putting the puzzle pieces together, Hermione asked, "Harry did all this?"
"Came by just this morning," Mr Bagman confirmed proudly.
"How did he get in? I lock my office every evening when I leave."
"I let him in," Mr Bagman answered. "Actually, I had to call for a bloke from Magical Maintenance to unlock the door first. That's quite the spell you have on your office!" he declared, wagging his finger at her. However, he didn't seem to be upset.
"Why?" was all Hermione could come up with, turning in a full circle and searching for anything else she might've missed.
"He wanted to express his appreciation for answering questions he had about the British and Irish Quidditch League. Speaking of which, have you come up with any revisions to the proposal before I appeal? Perhaps in terms of funding?"
Hermione stared at Harry's Quidditch poster. He decided to take a bit of a break, downing the rest of his water. Finished, he brushed his arm across his head to get rid of the sweat gathered there and smiled at her. The strenuous activity left him breathless, his pectorals heaving. She'd be lying if he didn't look fanciable in his Puddlemere United trousers, just as she suspected. In fact, Hermione supposed he would look fanciable in anything. Dress robes, perhaps? And like lightning striking a weathervane, it came to her: a gala. Dress robes would be a requirement, no ands, buts, or ifs about it. Harry technically owed her since he decided to decorate her office without permission.
"I believe I have something that'll help," Hermione said. The details were slowly emerging in her mind the way shadows do when the fog dissipates. "But I'm trying to work out the specifics."
"How much time do you need?"
"Only until the end of the week."
"Good," Mr Bagman nodded. "Some of these Quidditch players are breathing fire down my neck! They don't seem to understand these sorts of things take time! And when you consider how important the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex is! It's like they can't properly function given there's a real possibility they might get their own pitches!"
"Isn't the season over?" Hermione asked. "The Quidditch World Cup is next month."
"Yes, but there's always room to practice for the next Quidditch World Cup," Mr Bagman said.
"That's in four years, isn't it?"
"The International Quidditch Tournament is every two. Not to mention, there's a number of different things to account for, captain replacements, team changes, and tryouts to name a few. Then there are the latest broomstick models to appraise and experiment with. Downtime for Quidditch players is very limited, more so when one's part of a team that often makes it to the semifinals and finals of the Quidditch World Cup."
Hermione opened her mouth to reply but stopped when an interdepartmental memo flew inside her office and collided with Mr Bagman's head. It was in the shape of a paper aeroplane with the Ministry of Magic's logo stamped along the edge of one of its wings. He jerked to the side, grabbing the memo with a scowl.
"I'm afraid I've been summoned to Stump's office," he glowered. "What that cock-sucking prig wants is anyone's guess. Have your revisions for the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex on my desk by Friday morning," he instructed. "We'll discuss it over a spot of lunch to ready the proposal for Monday. Have to ever been to Rules on Maiden Lane in Convent Garden? The oysters are delicious. My treat."
"Of course," Hermione said.
As Mr Bagman left her office, he waved at Harry's Quidditch poster with a large smile. Harry saluted his response, returning to the pull-up bar.
The United Kingdom, including a good portion of the Continent, was in the midst of a brutal heat wave. Forecasters believed July would be the warmest month on record since official measurements began. To avoid the soaring temperatures, Hermione hurried through the wooden gate and up the pathway, hastily knocking on the front door. Harry's cottage in Godric's Hollow was quintessentially British with its narrow roof and rough stone walls. The thrumming waters of a nearby ford only adding to the charm.
"Hermione?" Harry asked when he answered the door, clearly surprised.
"I thought I might have a word," she said. "If you're available, that is."
"Sure," he stood aside to let her in. "I didn't expect to see you."
"Sorry-," she started.
"You don't have to apologise," he cut across.
"Are you busy?"
"I'm making dinner in the kitchen," he said, waving his hand and inviting her to follow him. She appreciated the strong Cooling Charms over the home. "Want anything to drink?" he asked, passing the dining room on the left and the sitting room on the right.
"Tea, if that's okay."
She watched Harry fill a kettle with water, waving his wand to bring it to a boil. He deposited Earl Grey teabags from Twinings into mugs, letting them steep for several minutes.
"What're you making, by the way?"
"Bubble and squeak," was his answer, going to the stove and shaking the frying pan around a bit. "Molly sent me home with potato, cabbage, and carrot leftovers after the Weasleys had a roast yesterday. What better dish to make with those ingredients, yeah? Here, take a seat." He pulled out a chair for her at the small kitchen table. "Couple of minutes before it's done. Do you want some?"
"I shouldn't," Hermione said. "Snuggles will be waiting for me."
She thought Harry looked a little disappointed when mentioning Snuggles but suspected it was her imagination working overtime.
"Your boyfriend, I assume?"
She laughed, "Named Snuggles? No, he's my cat."
He paused and stared at her, his green eyes electric behind his glasses. Hermione felt drawn to them, caught in the crosshairs between dueling facilities of sight.
"And you eat with Snuggles every night, do you?"
"Not every night," she said.
"He won't miss you for dinner then?"
"I'll have you know that Snuggles loves me very much. I don't know what he'll do if I don't go back home."
Harry snorted, "I never said you couldn't go back home, just that you should stay for dinner."
"I didn't feed him yet," Hermione replied. "The poor thing might starve." Considering Snuggles was nearly two stone, she didn't think this was likely.
"Then we'll eat at your place."
Now it was Hermione's turn to snort as she said, "Do you think it's acceptable to invite yourself over?"
"What other choice do we have? Snuggles will be hungry."
Normally, Hermione would've found such back-and-forth to be incredibly annoying, adding nothing to her life except maddening impatience. But she didn't seem to mind it so much with Harry. And dare she admit she somewhat enjoyed their current dialogue?
"Maybe Snuggles will be fine for a little while-,"
Great!" Harry interrupted, grinning. "You're staying!"
"Excuse you, but I said no such thing!"
"You were making your way there," he shrugged. "Besides, I can't be all that bad to have dinner with, can I?"
"Unless your eating habits are like a dragon feasting on a hide of raw meat, you should be fine."
He laughed and said, "You know, one of Ron's brothers works with dragons."
"The one who lives in Romania. Charlie, is it?"
"Ginny told you already?" Harry guessed, leaning against the counter.
"Just a bit. Didn't go into any details though."
"That's strange," Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest. Hermione tried very hard not to stare at his biceps because Merlin, he had biceps alright. "Charlie's her favourite brother."
"Not anymore," Hermione replied, wanting her tea. She was nearly panting, wondering what Harry's biceps looked like when he was maneuvering around the Quidditch pitch on his broomstick. "She told me that it was Bill."
He rolled his eyes, "She alternates between them. Can't seem to make up her mind."
"That's not very nice."
"The truth rarely is."
"So, you wouldn't be angry if I told you the truth about how I feel with all those Quidditch posters in my office?"
"You don't like them?" he asked.
"I told Mr Bagman they were distracting."
"Distracting?" Harry repeated. "I guess you won't be happy to learn I put a Permanent Sticking Charm on them."
"Please tell me you're having a go."
"There was barely anything in your office anyway," he defended. "Dry as a desert, really."
"I happen to think my office was perfect the way it was. Obviously, the logistics have since gone to the dogs."
"It's not that bad, is it? Took me an arm and a leg to put everything together."
"The books are nice, even if they are Quidditch related. Something you did on purpose, I'm sure."
"You like to read," he said. "I thought you'd appreciate the books all the same."
"I do," Hermione responded. "Thank you."
"You need anything else, just let me know." Harry turned around and fished out the teabags. He finished by adding a splash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar.
"There is one thing. If you believe in quid pro quo, I think I came up with an idea for funding the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex."
"Really?" he said, sitting down in the chair across from her with two steaming mugs of tea.
"I'm still adjusting the ins and outs, but I was thinking the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters could host a gala."
"What?" Harry asked.
"It's like a fundraiser," Hermione explained quickly. "A social event of sorts where many people are invited. There'll be food, of course, and dancing for whoever wants to. I'll probably have to invite a guest act to perform."
"Like the Weird Sisters? You know who they are, right?"
"They're a bit juvenile. I don't believe children will be in attendance, at least not when alcohol is present."
"The kids will stay at home?"
"A gala is meant for adults," she said. "Children would be bored senseless."
"Who are you going to invite?"
"Everyone," Hermione said.
"Muggles, too?"
"You know what I mean," she smiled, gently nudging him with her foot under the table.
Smirking at the contact, he asked, "Where were you thinking about holding this thing? Sounds like you're going to need a big place for it."
"Mr Bagman's Bewley Common manor in Wiltshire seems like a good fit with the ballroom he continually brags about. I can't imagine he would refuse."
"He lives there? I thought he was still paying off the debts he incurred from all of his gambling."
"I helped him with those," Hermione replied. "The goblins, in particular, were happy to finally receive their respective gold from the 1994 Quidditch World Cup and the Triwizard Tournament. They were about ready to put a bounty on his head."
"He bet on the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Apparently, he placed the odds on you winning so he could pay back the goblins he borrowed from to finance his avid gambling addiction."
"He did offer to help me out," Harry said, his eyes lost in a distant memory. "Now I know why." He drummed his fingers on the table before getting up to check the bubble and squeak. When he did, his dark jeans slipped down a little and Hermione saw him wearing navy-blue boxer briefs. Her heart started racing. What a coincidence for him to wear boxer briefs in her favourite colour!
"Think this'll work?" he asked, pulling up his jeans.
Damn! she thought.
"It all depends," Hermione said, mentally quashing her raunchy and runaway conscience.
"On what?"
"If approved, the gala will most likely be held shortly after the Quidditch World Cup. Because the English National Quidditch team is representing the British and Irish Quidditch League-,"
"We have to win. The English National Quidditch team has to win the Quidditch World Cup," Harry finished for her.
"If only to prove the credibility of the British and Irish Quidditch League and, by extension, the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex," she added. "I know it isn't the most ideal situation, but we have to work with what we got."
"What happens if the English National Quidditch team loses?"
Hermione sighed, "It's best not think about it."
A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.
