Sunday, 15 July 1979

Lawrence and Sandy both turned 17 at the end of 1978, and they have just finished their sixth year at Hogwarts.
If you'd like to join us at the broom race - just PM me and Milly. Thread title based on number 1 song in the charts that week.

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“Morning Mr Misslethorpe,” Lawrence Musgrave gave a respectful half bow and salute from the top of his head at the sight of the owner of Witch Weekly through the window. If anything, Tobias Misslethorpe looked sour for the greeting from the teenage boy in the back garden of the Oulton Broad house. Lawrence’s mop of brown curls shone in the summer sunshine, but it was one of those brisker mornings where the sun tried to convince you Britain was warmer than it was.

He’d not long gained his apparition licence so Lawrence did a double check of whether all his body parts had made the jaunt from St Albans to Norfolk. All fingers and toes present, and eyebrows - yep, those had got there too. What was he worrying about, it was a breeze. That’s why he’d passed first time.

Lawrence glanced up and about the back of the Misslethorpe abode, trying to eye up where Sandy had got to. They’d agreed to meet in his back garden by ten - allowing for a necessary teenage lie in - before they hung out for the day. It wasn’t Lawrence’s fault that Sandy’s old man made him work at Witch Weekly all summer. They had to seize Sunday by the horns and, well… chat up some Muggle girls at Lowestoft. That was the cover, when actually there was a broom race on down the River Yare. All those lovely meanders, Norwich to Burgh Castle, under a disillusionment charm. Misslethorpe had promised to lend Lawrence his second best broom, and they’d cast the charm on each other. Foolproof.

"Why is Lawrence Musgrave on the lawn?" Sandy's father asked.
"We are going out father." Sandy said. He close the door to the broom cupboard. He got one day a week off in the holidays. Monday to Saturday he had to work at Witch Weekly. For his father. Learning the trade. So he could take over. Sandy did not want to take over. He wanted to be a healer. He had not told his dad.

"We are going to the Gamp's place. Play a spot of lawn quidditch." They were a well to do family. Sandy lied. His dad would never let him broom race. "I will be back by dark."

He went into the garden. It was good weather. He was happy to see his friend. "Morning." He gave Lawrence his second broom. "Promise you will not smash it up." He said. "Where are we apparating too?"

“Not intentionally,” Lawrence replied with a lopsided grin, reaching his left hand out to grasp the handle of Sandy’s broom. “Cheers for the loan.”
“Where are we apparating to?”
“Back of The Nog.” Lawrence replied, and twisted on the front, disapparating with a loud crack of inexperience.

The back of The Squealing Nogtail was a hubbub of voices and laughter. Unseen by the Muggles in the buildings either side, the pub’s garden was filled with clusters of witches and wizards each clasping brooms, some with them propped over their shoulders.

“I’m telling you Enid, it’s all in the broom polish...”

Lawrence smiled ever wider, glad to be amongst wizarding folk. He was part of a pureblood (though not exactly reputable) family. His father worked for the Knight Bus, not just driving it, but he had responsibility, and might make Director before long. Lawrence was always proud of the effort his dad put in. He wasn’t an owner of a famous magazine, but he was something. His mother, meanwhile, subscribed to the Misslethorpe’s publication and dreamed of having her own column in it.

The babble of conversation was preoccupied with comparing brooms, and the daring modifications one might make. One group of wizards a bit older than Lawrence and Sandy wore leather jackets covered in zips, and boots. One had his hair in a bright orange mohican. They were following the Muggle punk scene, and sneered at the teenagers for staring. Lawrence turned away to address his friend, deciding he did not have adequate backup to be cocky.

“I owled Willy and told him to get down here, but he never answers.” Shufflebottom had been their classmate until the other year, when he’d left Hogwarts after their OWLs. Some of his three younger siblings were still at school with Lawrence and Sandy. Lawrence and Willy had been good friends at school, but hadn’t seen each other in months. With the crowd at school thinning out with academic pressure, he had found new friends, and now considered Misslethorpe one of his better ones. He was certainly good for a loan.

“Reckon we can get a drink before the off?” He thumbed towards the back door of the pub. Alcohol at quarter past ten in the morning was perhaps ambitious, but Lawrence was seventeen and foolhardy.

"Do you need courage?" asked Sandy. He laughed. There were many people here. He recognized some. They recognized him. It would get back to his father. But that did not matter. They were of age! The punks were silly looking. Sandy could not imagine having spiked up hair. He would look very funny. "Willy does not know how to write an owl." said Sandy. He did not care for the other boy. They were not friends. William Shufflebottom was not intelligent. He had caused trouble. Sandy was happy he had left school.

He squished through the crowd after Lawrence. Sandy did not want a drink. Not this early. He did not want anything. His stomach was somersaulting. He was anxious. He did not want to have a broom accident. "We should put our names down." said Sandy. "If he is here. He will be on the list."

“Willy does not know how to write an owl.” Sandy retorted, and Lawrence snorted, mostly in amusement, but partly because he agreed. Shufflebottom had never been academic. As much as Lawrence did miss his ridiculous company, he felt he had a better class of company now. Then again, Sandy had never liked Willy, and the Hufflepuff’s distance had allowed Sandy to get closer to Lawrence that year.

“We should put our names down. If he is here, he will be on the list.” His Slytherin classmate proposed a reasonable next step as they squeezed through the busy pub.
“Good thinking,” Lawrence agreed, his hazel eyes eyes sweeping the scene to find the telltale dip in the crowd, rather than making a beeline for the bar.

After a pause to let a pint-sized wizard in a purple bowler hat sign the list and hand over the necessary entrance fee, Lawrence stepped forward boldly, with all the swagger of a teenager pretending to have done this before. A silver-haired witch sat the other side of the small pub table, goggles propped up on her forehead, eyed them both, as if weighing up their age. She seemed to recognise Misslethorpe, and gave a self-satisfied hm before gesturing to a quill.

“I’ll enter us other, you pay the fees.” Lawrence instructed his companion smoothly, before Sandy could protest. “Oh don’t look like that. I’ll pay you back with drinks later…” Lawrence seized a battered quill with his left hand and began to ink their names on the entrant list, taking care not to smudge the ink. He always invested in inkwells full of smudge-preventing ink for school for his own means.

“You need to each sign,” the organiser poked a purple fingernail at the list, “agree that you’ll use disillusionment and you’re responsible for your own necks. You get into trouble, you’re on your own, like.” Lawrence signed without hesitation and held the quill out to Sandy. “The final rules will be announced, like, before we leave.”

Rules like not using charms or curses, not cutting corners or apparating, Lawrence figured. Rough and tumble in the air from bashing into each other was par for the course, like the quidditch pitch.
“And no, he’s not on the list,” Lawrence confirmed, his lips pressing into a straight line in an attempt to hide his disappointment.

"I did not think so." Sandy said. He handed the silver-haired witch with the goggles the money. Paid for both of them. He picked up the quill. He signed. "Thank you." He said to the witch. He was polite. She gave him a map.

Sandy and Lawrence found somewhere to wait. They looked at the map. The pub was full to bursting. Sandy was nervous. They had never taken part in a broom race. If something were to happen his father would hex him.

The silver-haired witch climbed on a table. Everyone stopped talking. Sandy paid attention. She said the rules. No this. No that. Definitely not THAT. The course was down the River Yare. The start was Whitlingham Great Broad. On an island. Then follow the river to Reedham. Take the New Cut to St Olaves and finish at Oulton Broad.

It was time to race!

Lawrence studied the map with the same intent he would Defence theory before a test. He was blessed with adequate intelligence which would one day help him establish a career of an auror. However competitive the Gryffindor could be against his fellow students, here they were, two youngsters in a field of experienced broom racers. Lawrence predicted he’d do better than Misslethorpe, but he was unsure of leaving his good friend behind on the off chance his broom ditched him in the river.

When the witch from earlier ran through the rules, he felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with an uneasy stomach from anxiety. He’d be better once they were out there and on their brooms. Fresh air, getting on with things. The waiting was the worst. He was a wizard who preferred to act than wait.

“Let’s side-along,” he suggested to Misslethorpe, keen not to get separated. The crowd was thinning out, a symphony of pops and cracks as competitors and brooms left The Squealing Nogtail. He grasped Sandy’s right forearm, “One, two, three…”

The pub turned inside out and upside down. In the blink of an eye they were packed onto a soggy island and the silver-haired witch with the goggles was calling them to the start line. Around them, competitors were vanishing into something else, blending in with the grass and trees as if they were made of glass or water.

“Quick, disillusionment!” Lawrence muttered to Sandy, trying not to make it obvious they’d never taken part in one of these. As agreed, they hastily cast at each other. Lawrence let out a goofy laugh when he saw the results on his classmate and then looked down at his own body. But there was no time to giggle - the silver witch was calling their names!

With the efficiency of someone who was counting today’s race as one of hundreds run, she flicked her wand at their heads, adorning numbers to their disillusioned backs. The numbers shimmered like sunshine on moving water. Lawrence leaned back to look at Sandy’s.

“Is it how they identify the bodies?”

Sandy was very nervous. Lawrence's joke helped. He tried not to laugh. It made it worse. This was like the back row in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall should be here. To tell them off.

"I will fall off my broom if you say that stuff." Sandy said. He could not see Lawrence very well. The disillusionment charms were working. Another competitor banged into him. It was one of the punk wizards. He was wearing a leather jacket. Lots of zips. He had spiked hair. He had not used a disillusionment charm yet. Sandy wished he would. He was very intimidating.

The silver haired witch blew a whistle. They were off.

Sandy kicked off. It was hard to fly when you could not see the other competitors. It was like a game of quidditch with invisible players. "Lawrence!" He shouted. "Where are you?"

They were giddy with nerves and excitement. Two giggling school boys quite literally. The moment did not last long as they were soon commanded into the air and off for the race. There was no hope in hell that either of them would place anywhere significant. They were too young, inexperienced and unfamiliar with the route.

The air was a blur of disillusioned bodies until the pack made it up and out across the river. Lawrence and Sandy were separated in the scrum. Somewhere over to his right he heard his name, and he shouted back in the wind.
“Here, Sandy! Keep mo-“

THWACK. Someone had flown right into him. This disillusionment lark had a lot of drawbacks already.

Lawrence did an unprepared barrel roll on Sandy’s second best broom, gripping the handle tight and trying not to close his eyes in alarm. He did not want to end up straight in the drink! “Bastard!” He had no idea who it had been and it was probably too late now.

This was harder than it looked. But you could not look. They were all invisible. Nearly. That was why. He could hear Lawrence. Where was he?
"Lawrence?" yelled Sandy. "I am going left." Sandy flew straight into someone. "Ow!" He bounced off someone else.

SPLOSH! Someone landed in the water. SPLUSH! Another. Sandy flew up. He did not want anyone to land on him. SPLOSH! A third person went in the river. It was hard to guess. Maybe that was two together. There was lots of yelling. The water frothed up.

Sandy found his wand. He held it tight. He made some birds with magic. "Lawrence! Up here!" How did you race invisible people! Sandy wanted to live!

This was utter mayhem. The water below churned and splashed, some of the other competitors taking an early bath. Lawrence looked up instinctively, sure he heard Sandy and someone was conjuring birds. He pulled up on the broom, aiming to gain some height and out of the scrum. Perhaps they could fly high and stay out of it. Neither of them would be making any records on the time given this poor start.

“Sandy!” Like two bats squeaking at each other, the boys found each other above. Lawrence clapped a hand to what he thought was Sandy’s shoulder, but turned out to be his head, “Arse - sorry!” He found Sandy’s shoulder quickly after his error.

“Let’s just keep this altitude and stick together.” Lawrence suggested without question, instinctively knowing Misslethorpe would go along in lieu of a better idea he’d had. “This is crazy, right?” Lawrence laughed, “But bloody fun. Come on!”

Sandy was happy they were together again. He was worried his second best broom was in the drink. He laughed. Relief!

On they flew. Sometimes they heard other people. It was impossible to race people you could not see well. The wind made Sandy's eyes run. This was faster than quidditch. They flew above the river. The sun was shining on it. It was worth it just to get to fly there. Sandy's dad would never let him fly on Muggle ground. Only at the houses and estates of wizard friends. Sandy liked quidditch. But he liked this better. Quidditch was like rugby. You got bumped and bruised. The start excluded this was fun.

"Wohoo!" Sandy yelled. "Oops I keep forgetting I am faster than you!" Best broom. Not second best.

There was a certain ellict thrill in taking part in this race. They were both hideously inexperienced against the people who did this often, but they were here without the knowledge of those who ruled over their houses, and he was flying a broom better than any he’d ever afforded. They’d have to come fly this alone another Sunday, really enjoy it without having the fear that someone would -

“WAHOOO!”

Someone’s arm clapped Lawrence round the back of the head. He saw stars and pitched forward on the broom. He had no time to warn Sandy as the idiot drove straight into them both.

“Fuuuuuu-!” Lawrence grappled the broom for balance, careering straight for a tree on the river’s embankment.

It was very lucky the charm still held. Sandy groaned. He had fallen off his broom. They were in a big tree. He had bounced down a few branches. Landed in a very painful place. Astride a low branch. He wiped the tears from one eye. Maybe he would still have children if he was lucky. He might not sit down comfortably for a day.

"Loz?" Sandy called. He thought he could hear his Gryffindor friend. "Is my broom alright?" Asked Sandy. "I mean. Are you in one piece?"

Lawrence’s mouth opened to reply to Sandy, but no words came out. He’d landed stomach-first over a branch and was now draped, arms and head one side, and legs and backside the other. Any wind he’d had in his lungs had been knocked clean out of him. He reached out an arm to clasp the branch and try to haul himself up, rather than dropping down. His feet flailed a moment to try and find some purchase with his boots against the trunk or another branch.

“Fuck!” Lawrence exclaimed, genuinely annoyed. He had wiggled himself up and over to sit astride the branch, though he lay forwards, hugging it, eyes screwed shut while his sense came back to him. “Utter-!” The next few chosen expletives would make a grandmother shriek. He was somewhere below Sandy judging by the direction his voice had come in. Lawrence sat up and gingerly rubbed his stomach with his right hand. The branch was covered in bird poo. His head swam and he was probably going to have an egg on his forehead by the time they got down.

“Think so,” he called up to Misslethorpe, not specifying which of the questions he was answering. “Some idiot flew into us both. Might as well take the disillusionment off and figure out how to get down.” He didn’t fancy his chances of apparating out of a tree given his lack of experience doing it from tree branches at height. Sandy’s second-best broom had to be here somewhere too.