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bait_backup2011-05-23 03:45 am
spindleform.livejournal.com) wrote in bait_backup2011-05-23 03:45 am
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How they love the sporting life
*Looking unpatriotically vampiric dressed from head to toe in red and black - a garish but necessary camouflage - Regulus stares with grave discomfort up at the wooden slats of the Quidditch stadium and the ad painted upon it. The enormous face of Barny the fruitbat, furry entrepreneur mascot of the Ballycastle Bats, grins vacantly out past him and into the empty countryside, holding a draft of foaming butterbeer curled impossibly in his wing. The ad winks. Barely inside the anti-muggle protection charms and he's already regretting this idea.
Though he is firmly of the opinion that the upcoming match ought to draw a scant crowd indeed, at least on the Bat's side of the stands, he has to admit that people engrossed in a game tend to be more focused on who has the Quaffle than the whereabouts of their soul. A game of Quidditch is the perfect bait for a trap. Indeed, a line has already begun to form, a small encampment of the most diehard and unwashed sort of fans wrapped around the outside of the stadium. No Puddlemere supporters have dared to camp out among this lot, so Regulus' costume blends seamlessly in with the line even if he himself does not. He glimpses two women, but the rest of the lot are men of the very broad sort, built perfectly for drinking and shouting slurs at proper teams like the Magpies – who, Regulus mentally notes but tries not to show it on his face, have never sold their sportsmanship souls to advertisement. Every other man has a poster of Barny looking fanged and threatening despite his real life preference for fruit, a few are already dressed in replica robes emblazoned with the scarlet silhouette of a bat, they all smell a bit like fermented grains, and they all sound much too Irish to be safe. Regulus tries not to make eye contact with any of them as he walks gingerly toward the back of the line.
Though a couple raise their eyes in his direction as he passes, noting his much too clean appearance and the tender limp he's trying so hard to hide, his disguise seems to grant him instant acceptance into their midst. He of course hasn't bought tickets to the match as they presume, he plans to be here only for as short a time as he must, and to stay well away from the area when the time comes to declare open season on them all. On any other occasion, he would have liked to take Barty to the match. Puddlemere isn't exactly anything to root for but Barty's finally been up on his feet. True he hadn't said much when Regulus had found him looking tiredly around the music room, but he'd been walking, less lost in the haze that has terrified Regulus since the day of the funeral. He'll take any improvement at this point, and he'll take him to another match, a safer one. He doesn't enjoy his side of this deal with the Dementors, but in this particular instance he admits most of the people at risk won't be a terrible loss. Besides, if anything bad were to happen to the Bats the Magpies are guaranteed a place in Nationals. And Barty will always love Quidditch, even if it's not the Wasps.
Giant, weathered, yet still colourful tapestries draped over the sides flap softly in the breeze, lightly tapping the planks of wood. Regulus leans gratefully against the wall and presses his palm delicately to his thigh, attempting to sooth the weakened muscle, then pulls out some paper and gets to work. He's been inside for matches enough times to know what he's working with, and what kind of security presence to expect, but today he has to plot out just when and where and how to let Dementors in without letting too many people out too soon. As a child he'd felt reassured that even though the faint lights of a muggle town twinkled in the distance, Quidditch was something kept entirely separate and exclusively hidden just for them. Now that he spends most of his time backfiring those security systems, however, his childhood feels much less protected in retrospect.
He stays until dark, not wanting to be remembered for leaving too soon. His scribbling is interrupted five times - three times for forced drinks, once to be asked if he's here with his father (to a chorus of laughter), and once to be given a bullying invitation to join in a rousing, crude song. Regulus' refusals mean nothing, nor does the disgust and fear in his eyes.
By the time he manages to break away toward the unlit back of the stadium to set his discrete little timebomb, he stows his wand away rather clumsily and smells rather like a bat or some other kind of diseased animal simply from waiting in line. He decides that he really doesn't feel guilty. Not this time.*
Though he is firmly of the opinion that the upcoming match ought to draw a scant crowd indeed, at least on the Bat's side of the stands, he has to admit that people engrossed in a game tend to be more focused on who has the Quaffle than the whereabouts of their soul. A game of Quidditch is the perfect bait for a trap. Indeed, a line has already begun to form, a small encampment of the most diehard and unwashed sort of fans wrapped around the outside of the stadium. No Puddlemere supporters have dared to camp out among this lot, so Regulus' costume blends seamlessly in with the line even if he himself does not. He glimpses two women, but the rest of the lot are men of the very broad sort, built perfectly for drinking and shouting slurs at proper teams like the Magpies – who, Regulus mentally notes but tries not to show it on his face, have never sold their sportsmanship souls to advertisement. Every other man has a poster of Barny looking fanged and threatening despite his real life preference for fruit, a few are already dressed in replica robes emblazoned with the scarlet silhouette of a bat, they all smell a bit like fermented grains, and they all sound much too Irish to be safe. Regulus tries not to make eye contact with any of them as he walks gingerly toward the back of the line.
Though a couple raise their eyes in his direction as he passes, noting his much too clean appearance and the tender limp he's trying so hard to hide, his disguise seems to grant him instant acceptance into their midst. He of course hasn't bought tickets to the match as they presume, he plans to be here only for as short a time as he must, and to stay well away from the area when the time comes to declare open season on them all. On any other occasion, he would have liked to take Barty to the match. Puddlemere isn't exactly anything to root for but Barty's finally been up on his feet. True he hadn't said much when Regulus had found him looking tiredly around the music room, but he'd been walking, less lost in the haze that has terrified Regulus since the day of the funeral. He'll take any improvement at this point, and he'll take him to another match, a safer one. He doesn't enjoy his side of this deal with the Dementors, but in this particular instance he admits most of the people at risk won't be a terrible loss. Besides, if anything bad were to happen to the Bats the Magpies are guaranteed a place in Nationals. And Barty will always love Quidditch, even if it's not the Wasps.
Giant, weathered, yet still colourful tapestries draped over the sides flap softly in the breeze, lightly tapping the planks of wood. Regulus leans gratefully against the wall and presses his palm delicately to his thigh, attempting to sooth the weakened muscle, then pulls out some paper and gets to work. He's been inside for matches enough times to know what he's working with, and what kind of security presence to expect, but today he has to plot out just when and where and how to let Dementors in without letting too many people out too soon. As a child he'd felt reassured that even though the faint lights of a muggle town twinkled in the distance, Quidditch was something kept entirely separate and exclusively hidden just for them. Now that he spends most of his time backfiring those security systems, however, his childhood feels much less protected in retrospect.
He stays until dark, not wanting to be remembered for leaving too soon. His scribbling is interrupted five times - three times for forced drinks, once to be asked if he's here with his father (to a chorus of laughter), and once to be given a bullying invitation to join in a rousing, crude song. Regulus' refusals mean nothing, nor does the disgust and fear in his eyes.
By the time he manages to break away toward the unlit back of the stadium to set his discrete little timebomb, he stows his wand away rather clumsily and smells rather like a bat or some other kind of diseased animal simply from waiting in line. He decides that he really doesn't feel guilty. Not this time.*