Imperius Quidditch

Imperius Quidditch
by Alec Dossetor and Teri Krenek

  

Chapter One

 

Among the foothills of the Austrian Alps there is a small and secret valley. It isn’t often that anyone goes there, although many would call it beautiful and unspoiled. Every now and then a holiday-maker or someone on a walking tour will find a path through the woods, or creep over a ridge, and suddenly find himself in a hollow dale, filled with the scent of herbs and flowers, and the pine trees on either side of a grassy bowl. No birds sing there, and except for the humming of insects in summer it is quiet and empty, and generally warm. You might even have a picnic there, for it’s strangely bright, and there’s seldom any wind at all; but there’s something about that place that makes you feel you’re not alone, and you’re much more likely to retrace your steps – which is just as well, because not everyone can find his way back from that valley. If you try to go back another time, it is very doubtful that you’ll find it, and you’ll search the maps for it in vain. The villagers say that it doesn’t exist.

For those who can see it, that valley is full of secrets. Now and again someone is taken there, by a friend who knows the way, and climbing through a narrow gate (that just isn’t there unless you’re invited) he finds his way into a hollow ring. Three rows of stone chairs in a wide circle enclose a grassy arena, and above them there are four shallow terraces of crumbling stone, with wild vines and scraggy olive trees. From the outside, the most you can see are ruined walls and broken pillars, half-smothered in shrubs and long grasses; but once you are allowed inside, you look out across a picturesque and shallow amphitheatre – and wonder why you feel uneasy. 

By then, of course, it will be far too late. For no one finds that theatre, unless they are called.

* * * * *

On a certain evening more than sixty years ago, a young boy had his first look at this mysterious place; but he was far from uneasy. He was tall and dark-haired, about thirteen years old, and as he took his initial glance at the hidden valley, a stunning view from atop a broomstick, he was conscious only of the thrill of anticipation for the trial he would face there, and a little curiosity about the crumbling stones that lay below him. Next to him, flying low across the fading twilight sky, was a weathered, greying man,

Arithmancy professor Abbacus Gryme, who had prepared him for this test for nearly a year, and unknowingly coached him for months before; for his mentor had been the first to uncover Tom’s true potential, within the very first year the boy had arrived at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Now Tom was to be tested, in spite of his youth and inexperience, and he briefly felt a shiver go down his spine.

The spells Tom had learned from Dr. Gryme went far beyond Arithmancy, or indeed anything taught in a reputable school; for Tom soon learned that his mentor was a secret practitioner of arts that had been outlawed in the magical world for centuries, and Tom had learned much of them from the one master who was willing to teach him whatever his eager curiosity craved – and the often cryptic tasks Professor Gryme had set him had tried all of his skill. Once he had been left in a room with seven white mice, and asked to keep them uneaten by the caretaker’s cat, using only his wand and the Imperius Curse. It had taken Tom a week to recover from the strain.

Something in the professor’s mind had understood that Tom, in his own way, was a total perfectionist, and a very apt pupil. His determination to solve a given problem would never be hindered by the cost to others or himself, and he never considered the thought that triumph might change him. Dr. Gryme had dangled before him whatever might be tempting, but even he was startled at the boy’s success.

Arithmancy itself was not, as many supposed from its name, a numerical means of divining the future, but more, in truth, a way of creating it, of carefully calculating extremely precise spells in order to bring an occurrence about. It wasn’t an accident that many schools forbade it to their youngest students, for the control it promised over objects and people could be deeply seductive to some children, if they were suddenly offered this power. And to Tom, who for almost all his life had been helpless, the lure had been all but unbearable.

Now, as he flew in silence over the nearing valley below, Tom Riddle felt a new rush of excitement and anticipation for the trial ahead; even the schoolboy interest in travelling abroad (for this was Tom’s first trip outside England and Scotland) paled in comparison. It had been a long journey. The day before, Tom and Professor Gryme had spent seven hours on broomstick, before they stopped for the night at a Muggle hostelry in Feldhausen on the Upper Rhine. Dr. Gryme had pointed out to him the magical history of the ruined towers – a captivating historical lecture that Professor Binns could never achieve – and shown him the Rhine Maidens disporting themselves in the blue waters. Tom had wondered at the blindness of the Muggle sailors as they coasted by in their ugly steamers, drinking and shouting their sordid jokes, while the maidens sang but a bow’s length away. He shuddered to think that he might have been one of those men.

Now they were forgotten, as he and his mentor swooped down in circles towards the valley, and for a moment even curiosity was set aside before the majesty of the Alpine setting. The green valley shone like a jewel against the splendid backdrop of the mountains, and high forests of dark firs; he was thrilled by the almost Wagnerian atmosphere. Then he pulled himself together, and his curiosity awoke, at what looked like a ruin of the ancient world.

He kept his eye on it, as he circled around, and when he spoke there was puzzlement in his voice.

"It’s a little high up for a Roman encampment, Professor; but wasn’t that once a legionary fortress?"

"It still is, in a way," answered Professor Gryme. "Our master Grindelwald has ruled it for years, but it has always been the site for our… activities. Or almost always."

Tom stole a quick irritated glance over at his mentor. "You still haven’t told me what I’m to do. I don’t understand why you must be so secret about it."

"Most wizards would be quite appalled at what we do, but we find many of our activities most necessary, for the good of our kind. Although, this particular task might be thought rather... inconsequential. You know how to play Quidditch, don’t you, Tom?"

"Of course."

"As it happens, you will be playing a match of Quidditch tonight. But it will be most unlike any game you have ever experienced."

Tom’s eyes widened as he waited breathlessly for Dr. Gryme to continue.

"You see, you won’t be playing as a member of a team, but as the master of a team."

Tom’s mind flicked back to that literal game of cat-and-mouse he had played in the abandoned classroom, and suddenly, it all made sense. "I’m to control seven people with the Imperius Curse, am I right?" he whispered.

"Very good, Tom," Professor Gryme replied.

"And use them, in this place," he indicated the grassy ruins below, "to play Quidditch ?"

"Quite right. But it is not simply ‘Quidditch.’ It is a game of control and skill, and it has been played here for centuries."

They descended even lower, the details of the area becoming more distinct. "But that’s very odd. It’s all but ruined, and quite overgrown. I wouldn’t have thought it easy to play there." He paused. "I suppose it must be very well protected."

"Can you see the amphitheatre?"

"Is there an amphitheatre?"

Abbacus Gryme turned and smiled.

"I suppose, in a way, you could say that there isn’t. It doesn’t appear to exist when you look in from outside; quite possibly it doesn’t take up any space, at least from an exterior view."

Tom was doubtful. "You mean it’s unplottable?"

"I’m not an expert on these matters, but I suspect it’s a great deal more than unplottable – more like some dark counterpart of the Fidelius Charm. There isn’t a way in, if you’re not introduced."

He was curious now. "Is there anyone who could tell us?"

"Legend says that long before our game was played, the spell that hid this place was devised by the Magus, the first Necrophylacos. My colleague Professor Binns might have told you about him."

Tom shivered. Necrophylacos had left no apprentice, and almost all his inventions had thankfully died with him, including the "perpetual Cruciatus." He wondered for what purpose he had used the arena – if it were really there.

They landed softly among the overgrown vegetation and crumbling rocks, and with broomsticks in hand began to walk toward a large mossy stone circle which Tom hadn’t noticed before. He wondered, briefly, if it had even been available to his eyes until a few moments ago; but he could feel as well as see its presence, and he knew, somehow, that something greater lurked behind the ruinous architecture.

Professor Gryme led him around the perimeter of the circle ( Theamphitheatre, Tom supposed) toward a stone construction on the opposite end; it was a post-and-lintel frame, a primitive shape that reminded Tom strongly of Stonehenge .  His professor stopped in front of it, and took Tom’s broomstick from him. Then he withdrew two masks from his robes, and indicated for Tom to step forward through the strange gateway.

"And now, Tom," he said quietly, handing his pupil one of the smooth, dark masks, "I invite you… to join us."

Tom paused, and stared up into the pale eyes of his mentor; his body was quivering faintly with his barely concealed exhilaration and just the slightest touch of apprehensiveness. He reminded himself, once again, that this was to be a test; and despite his age and greenness, failure would not be tolerated.

He took a deep breath, slipped the mask over his face, and stepped forward…

… into total enveloping blackness.

At first, Tom felt a momentary panic. I’ve done something wrong, he thought, and his heart began to pound; the only thing he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. The darkness was so thick it was nearly tangible; he forced himself to walk forward through it, but there was nothing to move toward.

A part of his thirteen-year-old self cautioned him to turn back, to exit the gateway and never return to this place, but that feeling was quickly quashed by his innate curiosity and determination to defeat the challenge before him. Indeed, he was drawn forward as a moth to a candle (although there was no light) and he stumbled blindly along until he reached what he supposed was a barrier. Tom could not feel anything solid in front of him, but somehow he sensed that he had reached the end, and that what he desired lay just ahead, if he could only force the impenetrable blackness to dissolve away.

Open to me , he wished silently.

Somewhere behind him, Professor Gryme’s voice announced, "I present to you, Master Tom Riddle."

And suddenly, the world was flooded with light.

* * * * *

When he could see again, Tom found himself in a wide field of thick grass, sloping up towards the hills on each side like the hollow of an inverted bowl. All around him, three tiers of stone benches surrounded the field in a wide horseshoe; and above them a grassy slope covered with shrubs rose slowly up to the wooded hills. Around the arena were what looked like olive trees and wild vines, at first arranged in terraces, but growing progressively more uncultivated further up into the hills. A raised stone dais stood right in the middle, opposite the entrance, from which the benches curved round to either side, until they met behind him, at the entrance; and there on the dais, behind a row of pillars, were a gilded chair and cushioned seats. On either side of the field, not far from the standard Quidditch goal posts, two stone chairs hovered a few inches in the air.

Above the valley, on every side, were the peaks of mountains, high enough to be covered with snow even in May. The scent of pine trees came from the lower slopes. Tom was motionless, taking in the setting; it was undoubtedly reminiscent of the overgrown ruins he had seen before, but this place, though ancient, was not crumbling at all. And lining all the stone seats were the robed and masked forms of wizards, waiting for something – or someone – that had not yet arrived.

The sky above him was dark, but inside the curving slope of the amphitheatre, everything seemed to glow with a misty light that cast delicate shadows upon the benches, and from the lowest tier (and up among the wilder shrubs of the hill) Tom could see the unblinking eyes of creatures and magical beasts. His eyes strayed back to the gilded chair…

Which was now occupied by a strange, cloaked figure.

All around him, the Dark Wizards rustled and turned their masks toward the high chair, abandoning previous conversations or the food and drink before them. Tom, too, stared up at the being on the seat of honour – man or monster, he was not sure. There was something sinister and frightening and simply not quite right about him, although Tom couldn’t figure out what exactly was wrong. Perhaps it was the strong shape of the face, the high bones and outslung jaw; or perhaps it was the gleam in his eyes, a gleam which Tom could see even from his distance. He was reminded of a monster he had read about as a child, and suddenly wondered if the name of Grindelwald was a coincidence after all.  

He felt a pressure on his shoulder then; Professor Gryme was urging him across the field, to a perfect circle of smooth stones in front of Grindelwald's chair; older stones, Tom half-noticed with the back of his mind, smooth but worn and rounded at the edge, unlike everything else inside the arena. He could sense those cold and disconcerting eyes watching him from the raised platform as he stood, feeling exposed and oddly vulnerable, in the centre of the circle; he was unable to repress the urge to look around at his mentor for reassurance, but Dr. Gryme had already disappeared into the seats with the rest of the crowd, and Tom was alone.

"Tom Riddle," said Grindelwald quietly, but as he spoke, the light chatter all around continued, as though no one could hear those words but Tom himself. His voice was low and gravely, and Tom had to force himself to stop quaking on the spot. "Or, perhaps I should call you… something else?" 

Tom swallowed. "Just Tom."

"So, Tom," Grindelwald said, louder now, and the mumblings of the crowd stopped entirely. "You have come to play the game, have you?"

"Y-yes." He mentally chastised himself for the tremor in his voice.

"And are you prepared?"

Tom lifted his chin in a gesture that was much bolder than he actually felt. "Yes, I am."

He thought that Grindelwald might have smiled. "Good."

The cold grey eyes regarded him thoughtfully. Or were they cold? There was something not quite right about them. In a way, they were wild, almost feral, he thought.

"Then, Tom, I present to you your opponent for the game. Come forward, Heinrich!"

There was an infinitesimal murmuring at the name of Heinrich; then, from one of the stone benches, a little way to the right of the dais, came a short, stocky figure that joined Tom in the centre of the worn stone circle. He was only a few inches taller than Tom was, but his hair was peppered with grey, and he had an air of power and domination about him. Heinrich gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, which Tom returned.

Grindelwald snapped his fingers abruptly, and from either end of the amphitheatre came fourteen men, seven clad in black and seven clad in crimson, each carrying a broomstick – and prodded along magically by two masked figures. With a stab of excitement, as well as unease, Tom knew suddenly that each one of them was under the Imperius Curse. Was that what it looked like on a human being?

Another figure followed behind the crimson team, holding four objects in his hands that looked like Beater's clubs, although longer and pointed at the end, and, with his wand, levitating an open casket with the balls for the game.

Tom looked carefully at the box as the man approached. Yes, there were four balls, just as there ought to be; there was the red Quaffle for scoring goals, and the tiny gleam of the Golden Snitch. The two Bludgers looked rather intimidating, as they struggled against the constraints of the box, as if they were about to escape and attack the players at any moment.

The man walked quickly towards Tom and Heinrich, but stopped outside the ring of stones.

"Your bludgeons, gentlemen," he said (It must be the referee, Tom guessed), and handed them each a pair of the pointed clubs.

In ordinary Quidditch the Beaters would wield clubs, to protect the rest of their team from the manic Bludgers flying around. But why were these wooden clubs called "bludgeons" – a word Tom had never heard used in this sort of context. They were different from ordinary Quidditch clubs. They were longer, and by the feel of them magical. And their point was remarkably like a wand!

The man waited until Tom looked up again. Then he cleared his throat, and spoke loudly:

"The primary rules of this game you will play are those of Quidditch as it is commonly played: that is, you will obtain ten points when your Chaser scores a goal with the red Quaffle, and one hundred and fifty if the Golden Snitch appears, and your Seeker can catch it before it is gone. At this point, as in Quidditch, the game will end.

"You are each allowed the use of the following tools: seven wizards under your control are your pawns in this game; three Chasers to pursue the Quaffle, one Keeper to protect the goal, one Seeker to seize the Golden Snitch, and two Beaters with one bludgeon apiece. You are permitted one wand to direct the game. You may control the pawns only with the Imperius Curse; no other spell is permitted. You may not direct your pawns to physically attack either your opponent or your opponent's team, or myself, or a spectator. Beaters may be directed to use their bludgeons to cast spells; however, no spell that directly affects a pawn's body may be used."

Ah, so that’s what the bludgeons were for! His guess had been right, after all.

"As is usual when Quidditch is played, the game will end when the Snitch is caught. However, if there is mutual agreement, you may request the referee for a pause." He raised his voice.

"Opponents, face each other!"

Tom turned, and followed Heinrich's lead, bowing slightly.

"Choose your pawns."

He looked over at the group of crimson-robed players to the side of him; their faces were slack and drowsy looking, and a few of them wore mild grins. Tom surveyed the men briefly, deciding which positions they should play. Two of the pawns were quite well muscled; Beaters, Tom thought, and he handed them the bludgeons. The two Beaters took the objects with limp grips and dazed glances. Another pawn was short and wiry; the build of a Seeker. Tom chose a tall, burly sort as the Keeper, which left the three Chasers. Tom's gaze flicked over them, and his eyes widened.

I don't believe it.

One of the Chasers, a sandy-haired boy of about nineteen, was familiar to Tom. Quite familiar, in fact. Francois Schmidt had graduated from Hogwarts in Tom's second year, but they had already formed a modest acquaintance. Franz had been quite interested in the Forbidden Arts at school, one of the few reasons Tom had bothered to know him at all.

He wondered what on earth Franz had done to be made into a pawn in this game.

"Are you ready?" asked the referee.

"I am," said Heinrich.

"I am," Tom echoed.

The umpire nodded, and made a motion with his hand; one of the men who had led the pawns in then handed the referee a broomstick, and he lifted into the air, taking the Quaffle with him.

Then, on the command of their temporary masters, the fourteen pawns clambered clumsily onto their brooms as well, and rose in a loose semicircle facing the seats and Grindelwald's chair.

"Players, take your seats."

Heinrich began to amble across the field toward one of the hovering chairs near the goal posts; with a glance behind him, Tom headed in the opposite direction.

He lifted himself gingerly into the stone chair, which then floated upwards, above and behind the golden loops of the Quidditch goal posts. He was level with Heinrich; and as their pawns took their place between them, his heart was beating uncontrollably fast. He felt slightly queasy, now, beneath his excitement.

The two wizards below pointed their wands at the pawns, and the fourteen men all cried at once:

"Ave domine! Te parituri salutamus! "

"Hail master! We who are about to obey salute you!"

Grindelwald nodded, in acceptance of their forced salutation, and said, "Let the game begin."

The umpire held the red Quaffle up above his head; on the ground, the three other balls were released. Taking a long, steeling breath, Tom held out his wand, concentrating deeply on each of his seven players, as he whispered:

"Imperio!"

 

To be continued…