Tippy! Tippy! Tips our Team Over the Top! (MC)

It was a brisk windy day but a little cold wasn’t going to dampen spirits today. He was out to catch a quidditch game and nothing could ruin that. Pulling his waxed cotton jacket over his grey wool jumper Silas shoved his ticket into the pocket after having passed through the turnstile into the stadium.  It had been quite awhile since he’d been to this stadium so he made his way to the map laying out the grounds. He’d agreed to meet Michael at the team shop closest to the entrance gates at noon.

The grounds were busy. Fans of the Tornados and the Harpies both swarming into the stadium fired up and ready to go. Decked out in their teams colors, club crests, and mascot insignia the crowd was vivacious and spirited, energy already pulsing through the air. Something about quidditch brought that out in people and though he was generally a fairly reserved person this was one of the few environments he felt he could truly let his hair down.

Michael was a few years younger than him but a good mate to have. They’d met at the pub off Diagon Alley, the one that broadcast every European Quidditch game, sometimes simultaneously so you had to crowd around the speaker for your game on opposite ends of the pub. After literally bumping into each other a few times there they’d shared a few pints and a few pies and been mates ever since.

They’d come to this game specifically for Michael, a die hard Tornadoes fan. Silas’ preferred team was the Wimbourne Wasps, a team he’d inherited from his family. For today though he’d donned a green Hollyhead Harpies scarf he borrowed from a co-worker, just to mess with his friend. Quidditch was a serious passion for both of them but Michael was much more serious about his passion for his ‘home team’ than Silas was. He had no qualms with ditching his old Wasps gear for the sake of heckling his friend for one game.

According to the map the team shop was behind him and across from the largest beer counter, convenient. Draping his Harpies scarf around his shoulders he strode off towards the shop unable to keep from grinning. Already he was spotting things he was keen to try in the food kiosks. People were walking past him with frothy drinks and the signature Tuthill snack - a tornado shaped, sparkly candy floss. Sure it was for kids, sure it would probably be so sweet it made his teeth hurt but there was no way in hell he would leave here without having tried it.

The team shop was impossible to miss. The windows were decorated with massive paintings of the team’s signature tornado, the paintings enchanted to spin like some kind of moving picture the muggles had. Not only that the team song was being piped out of massive speakers on the shop front and nearly ear splitting volume. All manner of gear for sale inside and he was tempted to take a peak inside just for the sake of it. Part of him hoped Michael was looking forward to a shopping spree and he’d have plenty of time to poke around the shop and all it’s tornado themed oddities.


He wondered if there was any chance an actual tornado would ever interrupt a Tornados game. Smirking he leaned against the wall of the shop wondering if he could somehow will that into being. So far he’d only done a little work on air and weather manipulation with his experimental magic so a real tornado would be impossible but it was amusing to think about anyways. A little one, nothing to harm anyone. Instantly his mind started to wander over how to magically make such a thing happen and wondered if he could rope Michael into working on it with him - for the sake of his beloved team. Even here he couldn’t escape his constant ideas for experimental magic. However that thought process was short lived. Walking straight towards the shop was the team mascot, a costumed jester of sorts tottering through the crowd in a massive conical tornado costume. He couldn’t help but laugh watching the poor sod in the costume wave to all the passersby. A small child called out to the mascot running after it screaming ‘Tippy! Tippy!’ as her parent followed her camera in hand.

Checking his watch he turned his attention to the crowd scanning the crowd for his friend. He debated going and getting his tornado candy floss now but immediately knew he had to drag Michael with him for that purchase.

Michael would not have picked this match to attend. Aside from the sociocultural effect that the Harpies had, and the consequent guilt he felt rooting against them, he had been (obviously with limited success) attempting for five years not to attend functions at which Ginny Weasley would be. And, of somewhat more consequence, the Harpies (simply put) were going to win. He’d been a faithful Tornadoes supporter for going on fifteen years now, but he could admit to himself that Tutshill strategy had taken a hideous blow when Lyle and Grossman had retired in ‘99, and had yet to recover itself.

The Tornadoes had always had untalented players -- Michael would have gone so far as to say that moderate untalent was a hallmark of their team -- but these days, they didn’t know how to use it. They were still trying to use the same manoeuvres they’d had to compensate for Lyle’s tendency to throw wide, which went as well as could be expected when Butler’s tendency was to throw high.

With better leadership, the Tornadoes of today could be -- well, not good, but better. But Michael wasn’t terribly optimistic. Their team strategy had started to look pretty desperate.

But the tickets had been free, courtesy of Hewlett in the club, and his weekend had been free, courtesy of his direct supervisor, and so had Silas’s, presumably courtesy of being employed by a blood relative, so Michael was attending the game anyway.

It was bloody cold and windy, which were not good game conditions, but would probably make it more entertaining -- Michael, wind-ruffled and bundled up (thank God eighty percent of Tutshill merchandise was knitwear), squinted with some difficulty around Section 19 for -- aha. Green scarf, naturally. He wondered sometimes if Silas had principles or values that weren’t rooted in taking the mickey.

“Oi! Hi!” he said loudly, waving one arm over his head, but there was too much hubbub for this to be noteworthy to anybody, so he gave up and jostled through a rowdy bunch of Tutshill fans until he was within shouting distance. “Hi,” he said again, slightly less loudly, “Hell are you wearing? This crowd’ll eat you alive.”