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So Much for the Labour Party	By : sinophile Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1850 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-So Much for the Labour Party
- 2-Newsprint Futility
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So Much for the Labour Party

Chapter One: Off the Edge of the World

I guess I had my share of being on top; captain of the Quidditch team is as much as a lug like me can ask. Don't get me wrong, I'm bloody good - for an amateur.

There's no time for that now. The shop, it's in Knockturn Ally, is s a hive of tense activity these days. We're all watching, waiting for something; miracle, sign, whatever you what to call it, I don't care. The men in the street whisper about the Dark Lord's rising. I'm not up with all that; it just pisses me off. The tension gets into my shoulders, makes them stiff. When it comes I'll rush out with the rest. Overrun the Wizarding order; kick it down with my docks.

Something like that, just because I have the Mark doesn't mean I know any more than the next bloke. So far there's only mumblings. The most I know I get from the old men down at the Brass Hind.

They sit drunk as Higgs after a trip to Hogsmeade and somehow always know the way of things. As if through the bottoms of their mugs they can see the world and everything in it. Great, wizened, liver spotted Overlords. When I think of God, not that I do often, that's the image that comes to mind. It probably isn't the mugs themselves that hold the answers, but if these men or even God was lying, I wouldn't know, and I probably wouldn't give a rat's arse either. I just work here.

I roll my knotted shoulders, pushing crates all day has its pains. Six, closing time.

My job is just taking in the deliveries, in Knockturn Ally they come at any time, by men who shuffle quickly away in the hopes that the rats that peer out of the sewers will not notice them, maybe they don't know the rats don't give a damn, and nor do I. In the mornings I'll open the store wait for the bell in the back or the creek of the front door. If this place has a name I don't know it. it's a lousy job, three in the morning, and a walking ball of rags has a box at the door, but a jobs a job, and I'm good, because I don't give a damn.

But tonight they can stuff their grungy boxes and suspicious crates up their robes. Tonight I am going out, I told Mr. Rothberg, the grizzled proprietor that I was going and not coming back, at least not any time soon. He was as always impressed with my vocal abilities, grinning toothily at me. "Enjoy yourself." He always says that. I still don't think I know what deeper meaning he implies. I'd rather not think about it.

He's an interesting old fellow, a good masin ain a slimy sort of way conciliating and a closet supporter of Our Lord. Not one to stick his neck out. No that was my job, fight the good fight against the pigs in power support Our Lord. The only reason I can see why he hired me. Needed the image I guess, but more a man of Malfoy's colours, no loyalty to any save himself. The best of our kind of men, perhaps the best of any, completely objective - save for personal interest.

He had his vices, who doesn't, his made me glad of my bad teeth, and ogre's frame. No one wants to fuck a troll, but long as he let me alone and my pay appeared on time -in cash- I figured it was none of my concern. If no nasty ministry men pounded in demanding to search for a missing person, he could do what he liked. Not that the law would likely descend upon any of us, Knockturn Ally has its owfencfences against the echelons of law-abiding society.

But tonight I was out, I had bought myself a Quidditch ticket at great expense. Good seat; a sort of bimonthly treat. Tonight it was Puddlemere United against the Wadburry Bashers. I didn't have any alliances, good players on both sides, I was only in it for the game. Perhaps it's my way of having dreams.

The game was scheduled to start at 6:30 on the Devon Green, Apparating didn't take long, but Rothberg would be less than lenient should he find I left the store without a proper shutting down. Pulling out my wand, I set the charms carefully. It had taken me forever to get them right. I locked the door behind me, trying it before I left. Apparation is one charm I can do well; really well, in fact. It comes in handy more often then you would believe in my line of work, day job and extracurricular. Apparating to Devon is really nothing if you're used to it.

***

I decided to stop for a pint before the game, many of the games I go to are here, I know the area fairly well. If you are ever in the country the Brown Fox is cheep and not half bad if your goal is only to get pissed or if you don't mind somewhere a little seedy. The pub is always a bit hairy in the pre-game hubbub. It took me a few minutes just to make it too the.
.

"I 'ear their new keeper is a force to be reckoned with. Here's a new fella." A man yelled to his friend a few stools away form where I had settled. I frowned gloomily as the gamester approached me. I am not going to fritter away my money, or become a sucker to some shark.

At 6:20 the pub promptly emptied and we all headed towards the pitch en mass more joining us. I made my way to tower fiver, handing the parchment to the girl taking tickets at the entrance and took my stamp with what might possibly have been a smile. She was cross-eyed but not ugly. I couldn't tell if she was looking at me as she smiled or past me. It wasn't as if I was interested, but it's always nice to be admired.

"Thanks," I mumbled as I passed.

As I mounted the stirs a group of well to do wankers in polo jackets surged past. The world is just bloody excellent at times. I took my seat just as a horn blared for game start.

The announcer introduced the teams; as each player speed out, each on their own shinny new Firebolt. I was too jealous to pay close attention. I've been saving for one since I stared work, and it looks like I'll be infirm before I get it. Either that or worse, they'll be out dated. The futility of my attempts punches me in the gut every time I think about it.

"�Nuttel� Lipton� Wood." The disembodied voice bellows though the arena nearly deafening us. Lousy techs, can't get the charm right.

Blue and orange robes fluttering zoomed around the stadium in their warm up lap and beautifully into position. I think of my own team. They would have wobbled. There was just something beautiful and about a perfect sweeping entrance like cutting with a Sabatier. The two teams hovered, tension humming, I could see them straining for the moment of release, like dogs to hunt.

Thirty yards from my seat I caught the familiar anxious determined posture. The bastard had made it. Lived the dream I has been too afraid to follow. Wood sitting there on his broom stick, I really hate him.

My Slytherin ambition has long since deserted me, frankly I doubt I ever really had it, I'm just a Hufflepuff gone sour. Couldn't have my nasty ways in with all those pure little lambs -sheep. I'm nothing more than a sheep my self, even if it has taken me years to see it. When the day comes I'll be sent to the sacrificial alter along with the rest of my kind. I guess I'm just too dumb to care. I can't be fucking bothered to see any other way. Might as well enjoy my time now.

The tension of the game whizzes over me, however I feel strangely unmoved, remote. But I paid for this! Puddlemere is a great team and I'm bloody well going to pay attention wither I like it or not. It's not sure if I'll be able to get a ticket like this again. The old man's selling out soon.

I fixed my eyes on the game, I will enjoy it, I will. No mistake about it. His style, those stupid exaggerated saves and the fairish way he's flitting between the posts, it's such a waste of energy, not to mention a bloody pain in the ass. The other team doesn't seem all that happy either. There is a great roar around me as Wood bats away the Quaffle with his broom tail - show-off.

I don't wish to want to see the rest of the game. Puddlemere is crushing Wadburry, it's almost too humiliating. Wood hasn't let a goal in this game, and I can feel the tight anger in my stomach. I want to scream, why are these people such fucking losers, they are supposed to be good. They have no pride. I want to go home, but the fact that I paid for the evening holds me in my seat. My mind drifts away form the game whizzing around my head and back to my room, over Rothberg's shop. It's small, pathetic; this is all the mark on my arm has got me. A third rate existence, but what else would I have gotten without it?

No dreams for me. Here I am, take me now! The crowed again rises around me - excited. If only I could be carried away by it, trampled to death. It can't be any worse then any other fate I'm in for. The nothing lying in wait for me will come eventually. Some barbaric uprising, another nameless plebe looking up to a man who probably doesn't even remember that I have pledged myself too him. Rather like Wood, king of the field. I wonder if he knows all these people are screaming for him, each individual. It was so pathetic, caring about individuality, individual problems; I can feel my self wanting to be sick. Yet I can't dismiss my desire to follow these people. They are my saviours because they draw so many. I can find my strength in theirs.

I stayed, I paid so I stayed. I tried to pay attentio tho the skirmishes at the other end of the stadium, but Wood burned like a sty at the corner of my eye; irksome, painful and impossible to ignore, lurking in my peripheral vision. It was full dark when the Seeker, a scrawny Puddlemere United git caught the Snitch - with all the possible show he could draw out of it. It was disgusting.

The crowed cheered and filled out babbling like so many overexcited animals, unaware of the emptiness of the whole game. I stayed, waiting till all was empty. Then leaned over the guard rails, a hundred feet below me I could just see the glimmering of a cushioning charm quilting the ground. Staged drama, nothing real, and nothing brutal to believe in, even that was gone. I spat over the rail, a disgusting habit for a disgusting evening.

***

Actual Ale is stronger than Almost Ale, by about five percent. It's also darker and tastes heavily of , an, an acquired taste. I've had enough of it by now that it only tastes like another type of pigswill but it's cheep, and I'm not a cheep drunk so I have to be sure I'm getting every bit of slam for my sickle. This is my what? fifth? sixth? I couldn't care less, as long as it's working.

I've been on this bar stool since I left the stadium and now I desperately need to take a piss, but I'm torn between going and staying since I don't want to lose my seat. Plus if you'll notice, it's rather rowdy in here. I'd rather not move. Bar fs ars aren't all ways the best thing when you're a Deatheater. A quick run in with the Aurors and you're toast in times like this. Toast with a nice thick layer of raspberry coloured pulp. I'd rather be neither.

The gang in the booth behind me, I can't see them but their shouting is starting to get on my nerves.

"That last catch was ruddy good, saw the way he just dived in there, that Shmoil has some bottom."

"Best Seeker in the league if you ask me"

"No one did Norm."

"Nah'need to get nasty 'arvy"

"I wasn't being nasty, but he's always saying that. Every time you take him to a game."

Someone jostled me form behind. I could turn and break their nose, but I'm sure if he does it again some one else will do it for me. I can at least hope so. A mug is knocked over beside me. I think it might be time for me to take my leave. The ground sways as I stand. It's not as illogical as you think. The man coming this way, is big enough. I move away, unsteadily I grant you. The man who collided with me is now on the floor, in a moment I'm sure he'll be screaming. If I wasn't worried about being arrested I'd stay. I used to love bar fights. They make my blood rush. Alcohol and adrenalin, brutality and recklessness the best combinations.

Outside the air is perceptibly colder. And the sweat that had collected while I was inside cooled leaving me which a sheen of cold, pinching me to my senses. I took a piss against the building. Watching it hit the wall and run down in a perfect parabola, deepening the dark of the shadows covering the cement wall.

It's a long Apparation home. I don't think I can make it just yet. Not safely. Not with out being picked up. They are starting to really crack down on Apparators under the influence. The panic is on any excuse to bring people in and get them rolling up their sleeves. Zipping up my trousers I wander back across the deserted road towards the pitch. My feet aren't tired and I could use the exercise, it's more chilly than I thought. Fucking coat back in my room. I've never been good at transfigurations and summoning is out of the question.

The stadium doors loomed in front of me - locked. What was the sense in a lock, I've always wondered. Pop. I Disapparated to my seat ending up a row ahead and two to the left. Not too shabby. He wondered if he had missed the box entirely wither the plunge would kill him. Falling head fist into a Quidditch pitch what a way to go. I stood hanging overt the guard rails. In the dark he was not sure if the cushioning charm was there or not would they remove it after the game? Holding on to the pole I mounted the railing, feeling the wind on my face, and the tingle in my toes as I realized how heigh I was.

"Fucking World!"

It was great, so fucking great standing here. Brink of death with the chance that the sweat of my palms would allow my hand to slip and oh so accidentally. I would fall; to what? The cushioning charm or nothing. It was exhilarating I could feel the adrenalin pumping. A world cup game's worth of hormone rushes. A Hogwarts championship's game of recklessness all in this dark empty place. Alone my blood racing, I could almost fly. The stars were bright. I wish I had my broom, I was earth bound by only a sweaty hand on a shaky poll. I was tripping. Euphoria, and I let go.

The plunge was only momentary, and I hit the ground, hard, bruisingly hard, even with the goddamn cushioning charm. It had been there all along and I had known it. They don't re-charm a whole stadium every game, it's too much work, I knew it. I lay in the grass and smacked the ground. Cheap. Cheap goddamn dramatics.

The grass was just slightly wet, almost black now that the light is gone. I pick myself up. My back aching, my shoulder feeling as if it were on fire, still it didn't make the fall any less of a pathetic plea for uniqueness in this rotten shit pit world. Minions don't get air time, get over it.

The ground is too perfect. It felt almost like a crime to walk on it. Thinking about it, being there now was probably against somebody's rules. But I can shrug things like that off much easier than a bar fight. Taking off my shoes and socks I run my toes through the grass ripping at it as I walked. All this sodding perfection. Is it our nature to destroy everything or am I just lucky?

At the center of the field I tune and stumble, the grass catches me, easing me down; mother nature, magically tamed. Why do we manipulate her to hug when she wants to slap me, crack the back of my head on some stone. The perimeters of the stadium rose at the corners of my eyes as the vast night of stars filled the sky above me; emeses and impersonal. We can't taint heaven, Wizards or Muggles. We can obscure it with our foul gases or cover it with spells, but the stares still shine on, and somewhere someone can see them. Orion is clear in the sky, I lie down here under him. He'll mount the sky and not give a fuck. A one night stand on repeat. When he fades in the morning who cares? He'll be back. He has that assurance.

I close my eyes and drift. I could be floating. On this unnatural ground I'm sure it's possible. To reassure myself I dig my fingers into the perfect grass, pulling it up in handfuls, eyes closed I bring it to my nose. It smells clean, and fresh, like the dirt under it. The damp is gathering and I can feel the universal film of dew settle over everything around me. Everything is a reaction to something that came before it, like the goose pimples on my arms and the damp back of my shirt. Each blade of grass is unique but we don't notice, neither does the dew. I can feel sleep creeping towards me; I can hear its foot steps.

"Oi, What do you think yer doing here?"

***

Reviewing Made Easy�

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( ) Great work, write more!!! really I can't think of anything else to say!!1! ; P

( ) Marcus is too angsty. (this is about Marcus right?)

( ) I don't need you or your review from, I can make my own. Ha!

( ) I love the part when (enter part here.)

( ) I think you could really improve on (enter suggestion here) *NOTE* if you can suggest something you think I can improve on I'll love you forever.

( ) I really should be doing my homework� but I'm not. If I fail (enter class here) I'm holding you responsible!

( ) I hate cliffhangers : (

( ) Marcus feels really (in character/out of character)

( ) Ooo an obscure paring, yummy!

( ) What are you talking about? OW/MF isn't obscure!?!

( ) You crazy fool. Obscure. Pffff!

( ) Is this slash? I don't like slash�

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So Much for the Labour Party