The Quidditch Payer
Chapter 6
Sunday, 23 July 2006
Harry and Hermione Apparated to a moorland above Porlock Bay in Exmoor. Awash with heather and gorse, the pink and yellow flowers on the clifftop were colourful symphonies amidst the imposing hills of Exmoor National Park, swathed by the Bristol Channel under a cloudless sky. They stood in the shade cast by the lone Quidditch pitch used by the thirteen teams of the British and Irish Quidditch League. Three hooped goalposts stood at both ends, each like individual crows' nests presiding over the tent off to the side.
"What do you think?" Harry asked.
"Different than what I imagined," Hermione replied, looking around. "But it's a beautiful area."
"The sunsets are something else," he agreed.
"Have you gone swimming in the Bristol Channel?" she asked, remembering Harry telling her yesterday at Ron and Lavender's wedding he did the same with the lake behind the orchard of the Burrow.
He grinned, "There's a first time for everything, isn't there? And this heatwave's a bloody nightmare. A couple of days ago, the village of Wisley recorded a temperature reading of thirty-six-and-a-half degrees. That's a little short of the all-time peak from three years ago set at Brogdale near Faversham in Kent."
"I remember the heat wave in 2003," Hermione said. "In France, there were over fourteen thousand deaths because of it. Auxerre, the capital of the Yonne Départment, experienced temperatures of over forty degrees for a week. Prime Minister Jean-Pierre Raffarin blamed the deaths on the families who left their loved ones without care, whilst they blamed Health Minister Jean-François Mattei. It was terribly messy." After thinking about her grandparents, who might've become an unfortunate statistic amongst the scores of heat-related deaths if they hadn't passed by then, she said, "A tour, if you please," gesturing towards the Quidditch pitch.
"Eager for dinner tonight?"
"Not really," she lied. "However, I plan to take notes on what works and what doesn't regarding the current arrangement to make sure everything's ready to go for tomorrow morning." Waving her wand, a quill and scroll of parchment appeared.
"What time's the appeal?" Harry asked.
"Mr Bagman and I have to meet Mr Stump at nine in his office. At most, we should be finished before midday."
"You'll let me know how it goes, won't you?"
"As soon as I have an answer," Hermione confirmed. "But I like our chances. Have you seen the odds England has over Bulgaria going into the Quidditch World Cup?"
"The Daily Prophet is a bit biased on these kinds of things," Harry said. "Because even though Bulgaria lost the last Quidditch World Cup, they've gone consecutively. That is incredibly rare. Not to mention, Viktor Krum, the Seeker for the Bulgarian National Quidditch team, is on a mad streak to win the Quidditch World Cup before he retires."
"Is he really that good? Many Quidditch fans fawn over him despite losing to Ireland in 1994 and then to Egypt in 2002."
"Don't forget that while Bulgaria lost to Ireland, Krum was the one to catch the Golden Snitch. He almost caught it against Egypt too."
"Why did he catch the Golden Snitch against Ireland? Didn't it cost Bulgaria the Quidditch World Cup?"
"Krum caught it because Ireland's Seeker, Aidan Lynch, was about to do so anyway. If he did, Bulgaria would've been embarrassed, losing by over three hundred points. Instead, they only lost by ten."
They stopped just outside the tent and faced each other.
"You think Bulgaria has a good chance of winning?" Hermione asked.
Harry played with the fringe dangling from the bottom of his maroon T-shirt, frowning, "I guess the odds are pretty equal."
"Do you remember what I said about the gala being approved?"
"England has to win," he said at once.
Hermione nodded, "That's likely the only way Mr Stump would allow for it to proceed. That's not accounting for the magical community wanting to donate to the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex, but who would want to if England loses?"
Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans, eyes on the ground. Hermione felt the uncanny need to reach out to him, not for intimate purposes, but support instead. She knew Harry had a lot riding on the Quidditch World Cup because whilst it was just a game to many, it was a lifestyle to many more.
"Look," Hermione said and took the plunge, reaching for his arm. At first, he tensed, and she thought about pulling away. Before she could, he relaxed and took his hand out of his pocket to hold hers. "I know this is a lot and you probably want to play Quidditch because that's what you like to do, but winning or losing is going to come with consequences, good and bad."
"You think it's possible Stump is going to ignore this idea that England has to win in order for the gala to take place?"
"There's a chance," Hermione said slowly, "but I wouldn't count on it."
Harry was quiet for a moment until he said, "Sometimes, I miss it when Quidditch was just a game."
"It still is," she said, "only now, there's a lot more moving pieces involved."
"People from the head of the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters all the way down to his secretary who doesn't even like the game," Harry remarked, gesturing towards her with his head.
"I already told you that even though I don't like Quidditch, that doesn't mean I'm completely oblivious to it."
"I know," he said, pulling her towards the tent. "It's just that part of me thinks deep down, you actually do like Quidditch, but for whatever reason you won't admit as much."
"Trust me," Hermione said, "I don't like Quidditch."
Harry smiled at her. She could tell by the look on his handsome face that he didn't believe her at all.
Though she never used one before, Hermione knew all about charmed tents, having read about them whilst at Beauxbatons. Thus, she was surprised to find the inside of this one to be rather plain and akin to what Muggles used when they went camping on Shell Island in north Wales. Oval paintings hung the walls, jailed in a murky green trim. The floor fared little better, a mess of no less than a dozen oriental rugs sewn together, the result of which was absolutely horrid. She wasn't much of an interior designer, her flat in Godric's Hollow typically average, but even she could see the decor needed an update and badly. Perhaps Parvati could lend a helping hand? She easily imagined Ginny's response to that idea.
"You know, I was expecting a little more," Hermione said, noticing there wasn't any furniture around. In fact, there wasn't much of anything around. "This is definitely small for thirteen teams. Of course, I understand not every team is here at the same time but still," making a face.
Harry chuckled, "You don't seriously think there isn't more here? Have you checked the walls?"
"The paintings, you mean? What do they have to do with anything?"
"Don't tell me you've gone a bit dull," he said, making Hermione stamp her foot on the ground in frustration. "I thought you were bright and all."
"I can still cancel dinner tonight," she threatened, expecting Harry's smile to falter. She was surprised when the opposite occurred.
"I don't think you would."
"Really? Why's that?"
"Just a hunch," Harry said. He led her over to a painting of a female Quidditch player leaning against one of the hooped goalposts on a Quidditch pitch, her broomstick neglected on the ground. She held a Quaffle in one of her large man hands and was punching it with the other. It looked like a relationship gone bad. Her brown hair was in a ponytail that wafted in the breeze, her blue eyes piercing Hermione as she came closer. "Know who this is?" Harry asked.
"No," Hermione said. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say because the female Qudditch player chucked the Quaffle at her head. Though Hermione knew the Quaffle wasn't able to hit her, she nonetheless jumped backwards, nearly tripping over her own feet, her hand ripping out of Harry's in the process. Someone snickered at her antics, and supposing it was the female Quidditch player, Hermione inwardly cursed her.
"This is Joscelind Wadcock," Harry said, giving Joscelind an exasperated look. "She's got a bit of a temper."
"A bit?" Hermione said, incredulous. "Is her temper what managed to get her bloody painting on the wall?"
"She was a Chaser for Puddlemere United, holding the record for the most goals scored in the British and Irish Quidditch League in the twentieth century," he explained. "It was a game against the Ballycastle Bats back in 1931."
"How impressive," Hermione said, although she didn't think it was in the slightest. She might've, that is if Joscelind hadn't thrown a bleeding Quaffle at her head.
Harry, seeming to catch her irony, told her, "It's a good thing you aren't on the Puddlemere United team. If you were, you'd never be allowed in."
"In?"
"Come here," he said gently.
Hermione inched forward, noticing Joscelind eying her with a mounting dislike, a feeling that was very much mutual.
"Behind her are Puddlemere United's chambers. All you have to do is say the password to be granted access."
"That's it? A password is all it takes?"
"You thought it'd be more challenging?"
"What if someone from another team guesses the password correctly?"
"Then they'll be allowed in," Harry said. "But it's not something we worry about too much."
"Why?"
"Because Joscelind will tell us. Something about personal honour and the like."
Hermione, glancing around at the twelve other paintings, asked, "Each team has their own chambers, I assume?" Harry only nodded. "Can I have a look inside?"
"Of course," he replied, leaning forward and saying to Joscelind, "Timothy Blenkinsop's rat tail."
Hermione heard a click before Joscelind's painting swung forward. Harry escorted her down several steps, of which led into a long corridor. Much like outside, heather and gorse covered the ground, thankfully doing away with the ugly oriental rugs, whilst between the windows on the walls, the logo for Puddlemere United glowed navy blue and sunshine gold.
"Care to explain Timothy Blenkinsop's rat tail?"
Grinning, he said, "I'll tell you soon."
"Hopefully it's at dinner tonight because I'd love to hear about vermin while I'm eating," she said sarcastically.
Passing through a flap at the end of the corridor, Harry and Hermione entered into a large space whose middle was made up of tall lockers bunched together haphazardly, closely resembling the many skyscrapers of Canary Wharf in London. On one side was a large chalkboard, riddled with noughts and crosses, squished between arrows pointing in every direction imaginable, as individual changing stalls were on the other side, veiled apart by thick curtains.
"First, we have the changing room," Harry said, as if the lockers weren't a dead giveaway. "And after," he continued, leading her through a second flap, "is the bathroom and water closets on the left, kitchens on the right." They stood at the junction of two long corridors. "Kind of self-explanatory, really."
"Are the bathroom and water closets used often?" Hermione asked.
"After every practice, I presume," he answered.
"How about a quick look?"
He indicated for her to follow him and said, "There's a guy's and girl's area for the bathroom and water closets," indicating two separate doors. "Because neither is allowed in the other, you're going to have to go about it alone."
"I guess it's a good thing I'm more than capable of going by myself then," she replied, almost missing Harry's smile.
"Just so you know, there's a charm inside that makes sure the correct person is using the bathroom and water closets. All you have to do is pass through it."
When Hermione opened the door, she immediately saw what Harry was talking about for a silvery curtain framed a second entryway. Without hesitating, she walked through it, feeling a cool mist on her skin, and saw the inside: oval mirrors, caked in grime, were glued to one wall, hanging above pedestal sinks, while shower stalls were opposite, each separated by screen partitions. Doors were imbedded in another wall, of which led to individual water closets. Hermione poked her head in all of them to be sure.
"Everything in order?" Harry asked her when she came back out.
"Seems to be," she nodded.
"So, to the kitchens?"
Hermione indicated for him to lead the way, and they walked back across from which they came. If she was to be honest with herself, she was surprised at how large Puddlemere United's chambers were, something she had not expected, and supposed it was identical to that of the others. Sure, having one pitch for thirteen teams wasn't convenient for anyone involved, but the accommodations were hardly lacking. She thought it'd be more than manageable to have the same ones in the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex.
"Does the Puddlemere United team usually take to the kitchens?"
"Something quick after practice," Harry said. "But no one sits down for a full meal."
"Is it prepared to handle one?"
"A full meal? I guess, it's just that we can Apparate home and eat there instead. There's not much reason to stick around unless you want to. See for yourself."
Hermione noticed the kitchens were equipped with all of the necessary tools one needed to cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There was a long wooden table, chipped in many places, while the window above the sink provided a perfect view of the Bristol Channel far below.
"Is there more?" Hermione asked after taking notes.
"Absolutely," Harry said.
She followed him beyond a third flap, and when she saw what was inside her eyes went wide. A mammoth-sized hot tub, encased in a charcoal-grey barrier, sat in front of a colossal window that displayed the exquisite vistas of Exmoor. Blue and gold banners hung above them, meeting at a diamond chandelier that sparkled in the sunlight. What was most unusual about the hot tub was the large water feature in the centre. It was of a Quidditch player, evidenced by the broomstick in his hands.
"That's Puddlemere United's team captain, Oliver Wood," Harry said, pointing at the statue. "I mentioned him a few times before. We played together at Hogwarts for the Gryffindor Quidditch team."
As Hermione ran her hand through the water, she asked, "You're not the team captain?"
He laughed, "You thought I was?"
"More like assumed," she said, looking at Oliver. "Is he permanent?"
"The statue's charmed to change into whoever Puddlemere United's team captain is. So, when Wood's replaced, it'll change into the next person in line."
"I take it this is supposed to be flattering?"
"Tradition is how I'd put it," Harry said.
"Would you say this room is used frequently?"
"Probably the most," he confirmed. "It's a good way to end practice, especially since Wood works us to the bone."
"I can imagine," Hermione nodded, thinking of how she'd like nothing more than to sit in the hot tub right then and there, enjoying the peaceful scenery of Exmoor. A plus would be for Harry to join her by ripping off his T-shirt and pushing down his jeans, his navy-blue boxer briefs the sole clothing garment covering his distinct and unequivocal manhood that lurked within the tumbleweed of pubic hair.
"If it's possible," Harry said, interrupting her fantasy for which she was none too happy about, "it'd most likely be for the best if you could include a space for a hot tub in the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex, preferably for each team so we don't have to share one. I can't imagine Stump would be against it anyway."
"He would only for the fact that he'd demand one for himself," she said. "I'm sure anyone at the Ministry of Magic could do with a good soaking after a long day of work."
"You're free to use ours anytime you want," Harry offered. "You know the password to get in."
"I have a hard time believing Oliver Wood and the rest of Puddlemere United would fancy seeing me in a cozzy."
"If that's the case, they can sod right off."
"Are you even allowed to bring guests here?" Hermione asked.
"Sure, unless they're with the Holyhead Harpies."
"Why?"
"At one time, Wilda Griffiths was a chaser for the all-female Quidditch team. She left after feeling underappreciated by Gwenog Jones, not to mention being paid a thousand galleons by Puddlemere United to jump ship. There was so much animosity that Gwenog sent Wilda death threats. Things came to a head when they played each other at Ilkley Moor in West Yorkshire. There were loads of security restrictions, and wands were supposed to be confiscated at the gates after the Ministry of Magic expected crowd violence. Many turned over fakes. The game had gone on for ten minutes when Wilda suddenly disappeared, causing a riot to break out. Because no one witnessed Benjy Williams catching the Golden Snitch, the game was declared a draw. But poor Timothy Blenkinsop was caught in the crosshairs of dueling wizards and ended up with a rat tail."
"And Puddlemere United thought that this was an appropriate password to use?"
Harry shrugged, "Don't feel too bad for him. He has his own premium suite, free of charge. Come to think of it, might've been because people began complaining of a rodent infestation."
"What happened to Wilda?"
"There's been a lot of disagreement on her status. She was never found."
"Still?" Hermione asked, horrified.
"Some people believe she was hit with a Memory Charm and banished to the Far East, most likely by a Holyhead Harpies fan. There's a team of wizards looking for her but so far, no luck. Gwenog was taken into custody for all her troubles, despite claims she didn't have anything to do with the disappearance."
"You don't think she was in on it, do you?"
"Probably not, but controversy always seems to follow her around. It was just last year when she threatened to curse the face off of José Barboza, the manager of the Brazilian National Quidditch team, when he called the Holyhead Harpies a bunch of talentless hags. Ginny was livid, yet managed to persuade Gwenog to forget about the incident."
"Misogynistic, perhaps?"
"Barboza claimed his comments were taken out of context," Harry said. "Turns out, he had a pint with Rita Skeeter not knowing who she was. Unfortunate, but it happens."
"Speaking of Rita Skeeter, I saw an advert in the Daily Prophet for her next book. It was titled The Horrific Legacy of Harry Potter's Lucrative Business Relationships with the Firm in London's East End. Pretty sure she's insinuating your family once colluded with the Kray twins during the Swinging Sixties."
"Fuck's sake," he muttered, shaking his head in aggravation. "I feel sorry for those poor souls who believe her. They must have nothing better to do besides spending their money on rubbish like that."
"I wouldn't worry about it," Hermione said.
"There's no time to, not with our dinner reservations for tonight. Meet me at the entrance to Diagon Alley at half six."
A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.
