History of the World Volume XX Chapter 11 The Rule of Turpin – Sports Are a Blessed Distraction
Games are a tradition of civilization that allows the exercise of body and mind whilst simultaneously distracting the uneducated and disaffected. Entertainment is a small stopgap to calm the masses. Turpin has long support sports in all forms and has been known to attend Quidditch matches featuring Eastern Europe.
The first buds of spring were not treated to peaceful openings, at least not in one corner of the Grecian wilderness. Organized chaos writhed through the rebel base camp that had only recently settled in this new forest. Tents were coming down; small groups of fliers were being loaded, Disillusioned, and dispatched. Sirius and his exhausted soldiers cut through the departing fliers toward their corner of camp. "Edgar," Sirius said. "Find out where they're going and start taking the tents down."
Gazing at the activities of the other rebels blackly, Sirius didn't help his soldiers deconstruct their tents. He hauled his battle-weary, grime-covered self to their newest admiral's tent in search of answers. For the second time in a rather short period, the rebel's base camp was obviously relocating. Were they under the threat of another curse from the Reapers?
The closer he drew to the Admiral's tent, the thicker the cloud of activity became, until he was elbow to elbow with a dozen other commanders waiting just outside. A grim-faced stout redheaded lieutenant was blocking entry to the tent. "I need to speak with Admiral Potter," Sirius said, ignoring the dozen men who were already waiting.
The redhead visibly relaxed. "Commander Black, we've been holding the briefing for your return. Sirs," he addressed all the commanders and stepped out of their way.
Sirius had been hoping for a moment alone with James to really grill him, but he would accept the general briefing to start. If they had time for briefings this wasn’t the same break-neck evacuation the Reapers instigated a few months back. James was waiting for his Commanders, standing quietly in front of a map of the world that stretched from floor to ceiling. “Gentlemen, Ladies,” James said. “As most of you know, we’re relocating immediately. This order comes from the top, the very top. The forces are being split into three contingents. “Adamson, Berk, Sawyer, you’re taking the lions share of the ground forces south into Africa. You’ll be reporting to Admiral Abdoul Sabieb. He will be taking over primary command from there. Johansen and Williamson, you’ll be taking the bulk of the remaining troops, including the healers, west to South America. Admiral Running Bear is expecting you. Commander Black and I will be taking the special services to southeast Asia.” James took a long breath, waiting for the succinctly stated orders to sink in. While he spoke, Charlie Weasley had passed out detailed written orders to each of the commanders. “Questions?”
Johansen, a sour-faced middle-aged woman, frowned as she flipped through her orders. “I take it this scatter drill is need-to-know only? I’ve always wanted to travel.” She cut her eyes toward Williamson. “Admiral Running Bear? What kind of name is that?”
“It’s a name you’d best get used to using very respectfully,” James said. “Questions people, I want camp deconstructed by tonight.”
The other commanders had questions to ask. They needed to know useless information like the logistics of the move, or whether the new locations were permanent. None of them even strayed close to the most important question. Sirius sat and listened, waiting for the others to finally finish quibbling so that he could deal with James alone. When the last of the commanders had gone and Charlie had been dismissed, James turned to Sirius like a man preparing for a dose of bitter medicine.
“Well,” James said. “I don’t know a word of Vietnamese.”
Sirius shook his head and pushed the sheaf of orders across the table. “We’re abandoning Europe? Why the Hell are we abandoning Europe?”
“You’d think I’d know, but this is from Albus himself. He wants base camp well-removed. He refused to elaborate,” James said. “What can I do?”
“This is my home, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to the Orient to let the Reapers run roughshod over it,” Sirius growled. “You can go. You can take my men. But I’m not going anywhere.”
“And you’re going to save the continent all by yourself. You’re good Sirius, but be realistic. Besides, we’re not abandoning Europe,” James said. “We’re going to keep a Rebel presence alive, but with base set a little farther back.”
“Vietnam, that’s a Hell of a commute. Has the old man finally lost his mind? It isn’t an act anymore, is it? James, someone needs to stand up and say no to this. It’s crazy.” Sirius scrubbed at his stubble-covered chin tiredly. He stared across the table at James' immobile expression. “We’re going, aren’t we.” Sirius leaned forward and reclaimed his orders. Absently he thumbed through the document. “Wait... this says...”
James just smiled. “Don’t worry. The Dog Pack is yours. I’ll be heading east as a member of your team. Which means after this camp comes down, I’ll be taking orders from you.”
Walking back into a second tier Governor’s office was a big step for Melinda. When she retired nearly six years earlier, she hadn’t thought that she’d ever walk through another stiflingly ornate overdone hallway. At least Albus’s section at the top of the tower wasn’t as airless as some she’d been in. The decorations befitted his station, with properly gilt baubles and properly tinted silks, but there was a playfulness to the room, a dash of whimsy in the dangling lights and the motley group of portraits on the wall.
Melinda stopped at the reception desk and waited for the gawky young man behind the desk to notice her. He was writing furiously in an appointment book. After giving him several seconds to look up, Melinda cleared her throat delicately. “I have an appointment,” she said. The young man stopped scribbling but he didn’t look up for a very long moment. Melinda cocked her head to the side, bewildered by the stark terror in his eyes. She offered him her hand, but he just stared. “I’m Melinda Potter, two o’clock?”
“You’re Melinda Potter? I assumed you’d be talking over the mirrors. I mean... really.”
“Percival, could you please send in my appointment?”
Melinda recognized the disembodied voice coming for the ajar office door as Albus'. She frowned at his assistant, confused as to why anyone would want to work with someone quite so unpleasant. She walked forward without waiting for Percival to lead her. It might take him half an hour to stop gasping and gaping impotently. Melinda walked into Albus’s office, confident that she’d written a masterfully crafted bit of sports journalism.
“I brought my first article,” Melinda said. “Would you like to read it?”
Albus nodded from behind his desk and offered Melinda a seat. “Straight to business then,” he said. “I’d love to read it.”
Melinda hadn’t really expected Albus to read the article on the spot, but he set to work pursuing the document immediately. She sat quietly, wondering if he would accept the whole document. She had worked hard to include something more substantial than just a sports article, but it had been hard to slip it in unobtrusively. In the back of her mind, she was counting on Albus’s well-known senility to allow the politics in. Occasionally a smile or a laugh would betray his reaction to the piece, but he didn’t say anything until he’d completed the work entirely. Stroking his beard absently, he smiled, a sparkling mischievous grin. “I’ve never been more enthralled by a discussion of the intricacies of Twiddle Ball. I particularly enjoyed the section where you likened the Peppermint’s fouling repeatedly to the Emperor’s activities in recent months.” Albus stared at her, his expression hardening. “It’s not exactly subtle, is it, Melinda?”
So much for senility saving her... “You don’t have to publish it,” she said stiffly. “I thought you’d read my portfolio. You knew who I was when you offered me this position.”
The smile crept back over Albus’s face, and he nodded. “You’re right, and I’d like to publish this for you. As a matter of fact, I’d like you to write an article for every edition of my newsletter. I am a long-time fan of your work.” He paused and stared into her eyes searchingly. “I consider this a favour between friends, a favour that perhaps someday you’ll be inclined to return.”
Heading out of the office, Melinda felt nothing short of stunned. Albus Dumbledore was going to publish her article, all her articles, not because he was too senile to note the politics either. He had called it a favour that he expected returned. Melinda couldn’t help wondering, what a man like Albus might expect her, a retired public works governor, to do?
The sun was shining, birds were singing, and twenty brooms were lined up like matchsticks on the ground. They were slick-handled and obviously in good repair. It was all Harry could do to hold in his giddy excitement at the sight of them. The group home had half a dozen broken-down brooms that had been donated approximately a million years ago. Though the older kids generally monopolized everything worth having, Harry managed to try his hand at flying a couple of times. Those few minutes on a broom that was incapable of getting more than ten feet off the ground had been enough to convince Harry that flying was going to be amazing. He suspected that it might be his favourite part of magic.
With some effort, Harry tore his eyes away from the brooms long enough to gauge his classmates' excitement. Draco's ever-confident demeanour hadn't been affected by the possibility of flying. Hermione on the other hand seemed decidedly less enthusiastic. She stared at the brooms unblinking as though she thought one might rear up and bite her. Harry leaned towards her and whispered, "It really isn't hard. You'll be fine."
Their instructor, a grey-haired lady with ferocious-looking eyes, stood at the head of the line of brooms, and she motioned them forward. "I am Madam Hooch," she declared. "Today we will go through the basics of flight by broom. I want a show of hands. How many of you have flown on a broom before?"
Almost everyone raised their hands. Hermione, Val, and Lisa were the only completely inexperienced first years. "The three of you who haven't flown, follow me. I have some beginner instructions for you," Madam Hooch said. "Then I'll deal with the rest of you."
Over his shoulder, Harry could hear Neville muttering nervously to Millicent. "My dad taught me to fly this summer, but I'm bloody terrible. I almost killed myself twice before he decided I wasn't going to be playing Quidditch for anyone."
Smirking, Draco turned to Harry. "I can't wait to get up there," he whispered. "I'll be playing Quidditch for Western Europe before I'm out of school, mark my words."
"Really?" Harry said. "What position?"
Draco shrugged, looking rather confident. "As Seeker is really the most important position and I come from a long line of Quidditch players, I think it would suit me. Do you intend to play, Green?
"Of course I intend to play. Who wouldn't want to play? I always fancied being a Beater." Harry thumped Ron lightly on the shoulder and stared at him questioningly. "Hey, what position are you going to play on my Quidditch team?" But Ron just gave him a disgusted look and stared down at the brooms that they were expected to fly. He looked a little green. Probably nervous, Harry thought.
"Your Quiddicth team, Green?" Draco asked. "That's spoken like a man who thinks he'll be captaining the team. I think we both know who the leader in our class is."
"We do? You think I'm a leader?" Harry asked. "Thanks."
Before Draco could retort, Madam Hooch whistled loudly. "Attention!" she called. "Everyone report to a broom. Do exactly as I say and this will be very simple."
And it was fairly simple. Madam Hooch was careful to keep the fliers close to earth, circling languidly. It was enough to drive a guy mad, Harry thought. The first exhilaration of having a broom loft him into the air was the best part of the lesson. Madam Hooch's slow instruction technique had turned the experience mind-numbing. If he spent another moment staring at the back of Draco's head, he was going to lose his mind.
"That's enough for today," Madam Hooch announced. "Land your brooms, carefully!"
Harry just managed to hold in an inappropriate laugh at some of the careful landings. Neville came down too fast and almost tumbled over the end of his broom, while Hermione actually caused a minor mid-air collision with Ron on her descent. Harry had no more trouble getting to the ground than he had getting into the air, and he noticed with a smile that Draco wasn't a complete disgrace on a broom either. Maybe they really would end up playing Quidditch together eventually?
"Listen carefully." Madam Hooch propped her hands on her hips and waited for the students to gather themselves. "The following students will remain for Quidditch orientation: Green, Malfoy, and Turpin. The rest of you can head in to dinner."
"Quidditch orientation?" Harry asked.
Standing forlornly with a dumbfounded expression plastered on his face, Ron answered. "It's not common knowledge but they pick potential Quidditch players on day one flying lessons. Something about judging who has enough natural ability on a broom to bother with training."
"Why didn't you say something?" Harry stared at Ron, stricken that he hadn't shared that bit of important information with him. "We flew in circles for half an hour. How could they tell anything from that?"
Draco sniggered and shrugged. "Obviously, it's a very accurate process. They recognized my brilliance."
"Unrelenting arrogance is a skill, and you are brilliant at it," Harry replied quickly. The rest of the class had started their trek back to the school, but Ron lingered behind. Quidditch was very important to him, and he wasn't on the list of people headed to orientation. Maybe the collision with Hermione had sealed the deal for him? Or maybe he just didn't have the natural flying ability?
"I guess I should go," Ron said. "Good luck, Harry, Lisa... Draco."
Harry didn't know what to say as Ron turned to leave. He was so excited to be headed to Quidditch orientation, but he felt like a complete berk for feeling it while Ron was being turned away. Long before Ron was out of earshot, Draco threw an arm around Harry's shoulders and crowed smugly, "Dry your eyes, Green. Your little friend Weasley just doesn't have the natural flying ability to go in a circle efficiently."
"Do you think you could be any more insensitive?" Harry asked. He turned toward Draco and tried to glare sternly, but he couldn't contain his burgeoning excitement. His stern glare turned rapidly into a glowing grin. "We're going to Quidditch orientation."
"Simply...amazing..." For her part, Lisa managed to look completely disinterested with her Quidditch potential. "So what do we have to do now? I have studying to do tonight."
"You've just been selected for Quidditch training," Harry said. He stared at Lisa as though she had grown another head. "You'd rather go study than play Quidditch?"
"We just proved that we have enough spatial awareness to fly and chew gum at the same time. You really think they're going to put us on the continent's Quidditch team? They're going to train us for a decade and then we'll go out into the world to do our jobs, and Quidditch will be something we wasted three days a week on when we could have been doing more important things." Lisa crossed her arms over her chest and pouted her lips, a picture of royal disdain.
"You'll never make the team with the attitude," Harry said.
Madam Hooch led the three of them to a transportation circle and gestured for them to enter it. "Now, Quidditch Orientation can be a little intense. Just do what you're told and try not to fall off your broom."
Harry noticed that Lisa didn't ask Madam Hooch if they could refuse Quidditch training. Watching her gaze at them all docilely, he wondered how much of the things she said that she really meant. Was the calm compliant face she presented to Madam Hooch real? Did she mean it when she said she wanted nothing to do with Quidditch? It was the first time Harry had really looked at Lisa Turpin more than superficially, and he was intrigued. Who are you? he was tempted to ask, before they were swept away to a new place.
The transportation circle brought them to a Quidditch pitch, Harry realized when he spotted the fifty-foot tall goal posts to his right and left. There were nearly a dozen first year kids here. Class II, III, and IV sent Quidditch hopefuls as well. Harry recognized some of the kids from the group home, and he couldn't help smiling. Apparently Quidditch was an equalizer.
"All right, kiddies," a bushy-browed man said. "My name is Boris Eaton. You can call me Coach Boris. I'm going to put you through your paces today." He looked from one side to the other, where the students had clumped together according to Class. "Bunch up!" he bellowed. "Class I and Class IV don't matter here. Brooms, balls, and goals are all I care about."
After a moment's hesitation, the groups came forward into one conglomeration. Coach Boris was a tall man with dark frizzy hair and a wild-looking moustache. Harry couldn't quite imagine the man getting his bulky frame into the air on a broom and moving at anything but a snail's pace. How did he plan to put them through their paces if he couldn't keep up with the action?
"All right, children, you all know what Quidditch is?" He waited for everyone to nod. "You all probably have a position you think you're going to play? What about you?" He pointed to Lisa, the only student who hadn't acknowledged his questions with a nod or shake of the head.
"Sir," she said, "I expect to make an excellent...Beater."
"Well, I expect most of you don't know what you're good at or why." He pointed to Lisa. "I want you on Chaser to start. You and you, Keepers." He pointed to the kids surrounding him, seemingly at random giving them positions. He declared Draco a Beater and Harry a Chaser. Finally he pointed in one direction. "Give me one Keeper, three chasers, a couple of Beaters, and a Seeker, pronto.
Once a team's worth of players made their way to the right, Coach Boris turned back to the remaining students. "You're short a Chaser. So, play harder." With a wave of his wand he turned the smaller team's robes green. Then he turned to the other group and turned their robes yellow. "Strategize for a second. Then we're starting."
Harry looked down at his green robes and smirked. They would spend tryouts short a man, just his luck. Draco had claimed one of the Beater bats and was brandishing it with obvious annoyance. Harry shrugged at him and turned to Lisa. "You may not be excited to be here, but I want to make a good showing. We're Chasers for the moment and we need to work together. Are you good at throwing a ball? Are you very accurate?"
Efficiently wrapping her long black hair into a braid, Lisa shook her head. "I haven't done this before at all. Have you?"
"Not really," Harry said, "but I'm fairly good at Twiddle ball and there is a lot of throwing accuracy involved. I think I could get a Quaffle through one of those hoops, maybe." They didn't get any more time to strategize. Coach Boris sent them into the air.
"Play!" he bellowed. Bludgers, Snitch, and Quaffle went flying into the air and the inexperienced first years scrambled to cope with their aspect of the game. The Quaffle had risen to their height and was falling again, before any of the Chasers started after it. Harry glanced around at the chaos of nearly two teams of hopelessly inexperienced first years trying to play Quidditch for a moment. Then he dove after the Quaffle.
After three hours of chaos-Quidditch, the two teams were exhausted, bruised, battered, and ready for retirement. Barely seventy points had been scored between them and neither Seeker had made any progress toward finding the Snitch. Coach Boris paced the pitch in front of his assembled players and twitched his nose. He stopped in front of Harry. "How many times did you see the Snitch while you were playing as Chaser?"
How did Coach Boris know he'd spotted the Snitch? Harry flexed his jaw where a stray Bludger had caught him and loosened a tooth. "Two or three times."
"Go get it for me," Coach Boris said. The other balls were tucked safely away but the Snitch was still at large.
Harry didn't argue with his coach, though he was quite sure the man was going to discard the lot of them with they performance they'd managed. He flew straight up and began searching for the Snitch. It was growing late and Harry instinctively flew to keep his back to the sun. The process seemed much easier without the Bludgers and twelve other fliers. He was circling away from the sun again, when he spotted the Golden Snitch. It was fluttering just over one of the goal posts. Anxious to finally just be done with the interminable tryout, Harry chased the Snitch around the goal posts over the pitch and into a short dive.
With the golden ball struggling against his fingers, Harry returned to land and approached the other students. They all had powder-blue Quidditch robes. Harry peered at Lisa's set. They had her name and position blazoned across the back, Turpin Beater. Mouth-agape, Harry watched as Coach Boris adorned another set of robes with his wand and tossed them at him.
Green Seeker.
"How did he choose our positions?" Harry hissed at Draco. "We were flying around like wounded chickens up there."
Draco was staring at his robes that marked him as a Beater. "That's a very good question, Green."
Lisa had already folded her robes. She turned a cocky smile on her classmates. "Legilimency, of course. I felt him nosing around in my head."
"Are you kidding? I'd have felt someone in my head," Draco snarled. "No one read my mind."
"Oh, so you're a trained Occlumens?" Lisa asked. "Please. You're just annoyed that he made you a Beater."
Harry stepped between the two of them and interjected before their argument could become any more heated. "If we didn't feel him in our heads, how did you?"
Lisa rolled her eyes and shrugged. She could try explaining to the boys that Occlumency was a survival skill on the third tier. She could try to explain that she'd been mastering that skill since her mother could detect a spark of magic in her. But she preferred to let them wonder at her innate mental prowess. "Some of us are more self-aware."
Harry hung back with Draco and let Lisa head to the transportation circle alone. "Do you think she's serious? He was in our heads?"
Draco looked up, fury burning in his eyes. Harry felt a sinking in his stomach, and he thought he knew why Draco was angry. Since the first day of school everything had gone Harry's way, and Draco had been systematically denied every goal he had. Draco said that he expected to be a Seeker, but Harry had received that position. "Why are you angry?"
"I'm not annoyed that he made me a Beater or even that he read my mind." Draco shoved his robes under his arm and leaned closer to Harry. "You weren't there when he was assigning the rest of us positions, but he assigned us numbers too, based on relative skill. Chaser one and Chaser two... and he made me Beater three! Three? THREE! Lisa is Beater two, and some nobody from Class IV, Finnigan is Beater one."
"Really?" Harry asked. "They rank everything. What number Seeker am I?"
"Zero," Draco snorted and shook his head. "You're the only Seeker he picked. Congratulations."
A fire was roaring in the first-year's primary study room. Hermione sat quietly in front of the hearth, staring at her Spell Casting homework without writing. To her right Ron was gazing into the fire. He hadn't said more than two words since their flying lesson, and she had a good idea why. Quidditch was important to him, and he hadn't been selected for training. Hermione frowned darkly, wondering if he blamed her for his exclusion. She hadn't meant to hit him when trying to land. It was an accident! Why wasn't he talking to her? "Are you angry with me?" Hermione blurted.
Ron started and turned toward her. "Angry with you? You mean over Quidditch? Nah, I'm not really as upset as I thought I'd be. The two people who would have given me heck for not making it to training aren't here to care." Ron smiled but it wasn't a happy expression. "I guess it just made me think about Fred and George. I wonder where they are, and what they're doing. Did I tell you that George took an apprenticeship?"
The spring mud was sticky and thick. The grass hadn't come back yet, but the winter freeze had released the earth, creating a terrible sucking, pudding consistency on the forest road. George trudged through the muck, his feet carrying approximately two tons of mud with every step. He had accepted Dumbledore's offer of an apprenticeship, and with it the stipulation that he walk to the Master Wizard's dwelling. Apparently Alastor Moody didn't accept magical modes of transportation anywhere near his home.
There was a tiny Muggle hovel just ahead with a steady plume of smoke wafting from its crooked chimney. George stared, wondering if perhaps he'd found Moody's home? Appearances could be deceiving where wizards were concerned, and he was supposed to be close to his destination according to the map he'd been given. Putting on a burst of speed, George trudged toward what might be his new home for a little while.
He reached the door, which seemed to be hanging lopsided in its frame. The wood was grey and rotten with lichen clinging slimly in its crevices. Not for the first time, George wished that he hadn't signed the magical contract binding him to this wizard sight unseen. What if he was mad? George gritted his teeth and marshalled his courage. He raised his hand to pound on the door, but it swung open moments before he would have touched it. Stepping cautiously into the doorway, George peered inside. A warm, orange glow from a roaring fire filled the room. Unlike the dodgy looking exterior, the inside seemed snug, secure, and if not inviting, at least not leaky. Odd trinkets, charms and pendants littered every surface of the cabin. Gadgets that he couldn't identify were propped in the corners. "Hello?" George called. "Is anyone here?"
"Scourgify your boots, young man," a gruff voice called. "Then get yourself out of my doorway. You're letting the cold in."
George hastened to comply, digging his wand out of his pocket. His hand shook a bit from the cold and his nerves, but he managed the spell without exploding his boots. Closing the door behind himself, George turned searching the room for the voice that had invited him in. A stiffly extended leg was all he could see of whoever was seated in a high-backed armchair resting close to the fire.
With a dramatic grunt and heave, that knocked the chair back several feet, the man rose and shuffle-stepped around. George stared uncomprehending for a few seconds. The man's face was a travesty of coursing scars that flowed over his face like haphazard tributaries. His right eye, a dark squinty orb stared at him, and the left, a wildly rotating huge eye seemed to be looking everywhere.
"Mr. Weasley, I've been expecting you. You may call me Professor Moody. I don't subscribe to all the Master stuff, though you have signed your life away until your nineteen," he growled, and shuffled forward another pace. "First lesson, signing your life away to a wizard you haven't even met is a stupid thing."
"I signed my life away because you were supposed to be a link to the rebellion. You're supposed to help me." George shrugged off his pack and stood his ground stubbornly.
"I'm here to teach you. When you're competent enough to face what's out there waiting for you, the Rebellion might have use of you," Moody said. "As is you wouldn't survive a fortnight."
"I don't have time," George snapped.
"You don't have time? Do you remember lesson one?" Moody bellowed. "You signed an enforceable magical contract. You don't have a CHOICE."
Author's Note:
Well, this chapter took a while but it flowed very naturally. If I hadn't rewritten once it would have been out sooner. I feel like a distinct dual trio is developing in this universe. You have the traditional, Ron/Hermione/Harry and the new, Harry/Draco/Lisa. Harry is the hinge between the two. Anyhow, hope that the Quidditch doesn't drag too terribly. Next chapter should find Lily back to work, Sirius having a little fun, and the kids finishing up their classes for the term.