The Harry Potter characters and universe are owned by J.K. Rowling, who graciously allows us to play in her sandbox. I don't make a penny [or you may insert the appropriate currency of your choice/nation here] from this. This is not, I say again [well, write, but it's radio-speak], not canon. Hopefully it will be amusing. If toes are stepped upon, my apologies, no offence is intended.

The Tournament

Harry had the mortal remains of a perfectly good treacle tart in front of him, which he was, as the saying goes, addressing with a will. Hermione nudged him. He ignored the nudge, taking another delicious mouthful of his tart instead.

"Harry." The nudge was repeated. "Harry!"

"Goddammit, Hermione, it's treacle tart. That's important, they only serve it once a week." Harry took another mouthful, and closed his eyes in bliss. This wasn't just sweet, there was a subtle savouriness to it. Vanilla, Harry thought. No, there's something else. Not cinnamon. Harry pondered the flavouring. Mace. That's it, mace and a touch of cinnamon. By damn, I've got it.

A food-stained hand crept toward Harry's dessert. Quick as a flash, a steak knife plunged into the table. Unfortunately, said food-stained hand was betwixt the knife point and the table. There was screaming.


"Shut up, Weasley," Harry said coldly. "I told you the last time there would be consequences," he added. "Do it again, and I'll start cutting off fingers."

"Put the sign on, wog," Neville told Dean Thomas. "You lost."

"Bugger," Dean responded. "You're a cruel, cruel pureblood, Longbottom." A chest-sized placard appeared on Dean's chest and back, reading ARSENAL RULES.

"Thought you were a Manchester fan," Seamus commented to Neville.

"I am," Neville replied. "But the wog here absolutely hates Arsenal."

"Pureblood cruelty again, Longbottom."

Neville sighed. "You lot never get anything right," he said. "It's not pureblood cruelty. It's Viking cruelty. There's a difference, we've been at it longer."

"How so?" Seamus enquired.

"We got the land, the sheep, the cattle, and the women," Neville responded. "The Saxons burnt the land, left the women, and raped the sheep. The Danes weren't much better. You notice they left the North alone."

"Your lot left the Scots and the Welsh alone," Seamus replied.

"And the English didn't," Neville said evenly. "Vikings may have been land usurping, sheep and cattle stealing rapists, but we're not suicidal or stupid."

"The Normans ..." Fred Weasley started.

"Please," Neville said. "They diluted their blood with the French." He looked over at Malfoy. "Look at Malfoy," he added. "Not even a decent Norman, his lot sneaked over during the French Revolution. They're Frogs."


Harry had been about to take another bite of tart, ignoring the struggling, pinned hand next to his plate. He looked at Hermione, annoyance clearly on his face.

"What now, Hermione?" he asked irritably.

"Your name came out of the Cup," Hermione told him. "Professor Dumbledore has been trying to get your attention for several minutes."

"Bugger that," Harry responded. "I'm finishing my treacle, and that's that. Dumbledore can bloody wait." Harry took another mouthful of tart, his face almost shining with pleasure. "Mmmmm."

Madame Pomfrey walked over to the Gryffindor table. "What seems to be the problem here, Miss Granger?"

Hermione pointed to Weasley's struggling hand. He was now groaning instead of screaming.

"Oh. Well, that certainly is off-putting," Pomfrey noted. "Must've nicked an artery," she added. "See, Miss Granger? Note the blood is pulsing, instead of flowing."

"Yes, ma'am. And it certainly is off-putting," Hermione replied.

"Well, can't have that," Madam Pomfrey said. She quickly cast two silent spells. The blood stopped pulsing out of Weasley's hand, and vanished from the table. "There, all fixed." Madam Pomfrey began to walk back to the head table. Weasley's hand was still pinned to the table.

"Thank you, Madam," Hermione called. "And ..."

"Yes, Miss Granger. See me in the infirmary, I'll teach you the spells."