Hogsmeade Winter Festival
Quidditch Fan Tent
Thursday, December 18
All-the-Live-Long-Day

Activities/Events in the Fan's Tent:

• Quidditch Trading Card Display (Past and Present Players)
• Free youth clinics
• Art of Quidditch
• The Pitch - Game Saving Catch, Shots on Goal, Avoid the Beater
• Collector's Showcase
• Auction/Raffle
• Trophies of Quidditch Informational Display
• Women in Quidditch Informational Display
• World Cup Quidditch Informational Display
• Worlds Largest Quaffle, Snitch, Bludger
• Autograph Stage
• Quidditch Hall of Fame and Museum

Current players and coaches scheduled to appear: Ian Cuddyer (Tutshill Tornados Keeper), Alyson O'Sullivan (Holyhead Harpies Chaser), Dominik Wiedman (Falcons Beater), Laney Irving (Montrose Magpies Seeker), Augustus Snark (Montrose Magpies Coach) more to be added*

Past players and coaches scheduled to appear: Isolee Hanover (French National Team/League), Sophie Han0ver-Cuddyer (French National Team/League), Antoine Cuddyer (French National Team/League), more to be added*

* feel free to pm me to have your players added or they will automatically be added whenever you post

Ian Cuddyer took a deep breath and then let it out as he watched a giddy fan leave his little autograph station at the Quidditch Fan Tent that had been set up at the Hogsmeade Winter Festival. From the outside, the tent looked small and barely capable of hosting the flurry of activities that the Quidditch League had planned to keep the popular sport in everyone's thoughts. Afterall, what avid fan didn't want an autograph or photo with their favorite player?

Of course, while the event was all well and good for the public relations of the sport, it was not doing much to help the comfort level of the shy-of-the-public-eye Ian. He would have been content to live his whole life in obscurity if he thought it would help him to be a better player. But the truth was he was a better player when he met and interacted with genuine fans. He hated the press and those intent on uncovering every detail of his private life. That was the unsavory part of the game he could do without. But the fans--the ones who collected every single one of his trading cards or the ones who had tales of all the posters covering walls in their rooms or the ones who could tell him stories of the games they attended--were who made events like this worthwhile.

Seeing there was a break from the line of fans awaiting his autograph, Ian sat back and abandoned his quill to flex his fingers. He glanced around to see if his grandfather, mother or aunt were anywhere in the vicinity and was happy to see that they had wandered off to other parts of tent, probably mingling with owners, investors and other notable former players of their time. While he loved them and also the legacy of quidditch in the Hanover family, Ian admitted to being overwhelmed by it at times. It followed him everywhere.

He turned his head to the table on the other side of him and spotted some of the Holyhead Harpies players. With a wary smile, he joked to one of them, "So, is your hand falling off yet?"

Autographs were the easy part. Truthfully, it could have been even easier, but Alyson felt that she lost the connection with her fans if she were to use an auto-quill. That was just as cheap as a muggle using a stamp to sign all of their books and photographs. And if one thing could be said about the Holyhead chaser, it was that she wanted to keep her fans happy. Which is why Aly made a point to personalize her autographs each time. Sure, it was more writing for her, but she loved it. It was definitely a lot easier than flying around the pitch while trying to avoid bludgers.

Aly never let her fame get to her head; she had seen enough inflated egos in her life to know that it wasn't something she wanted to portray. But she really did enjoy being there for her fans: signing autographs, posing for photos, talking to inspiring Quidditch players. It was nice to know that she was making an impact, that people looked up to her.

She glanced at her watch, wondering if Tomi was going to come by at any point that day. He was supposed to bring Callie by, if she wasn't throwing a fit or anything. Her last baby teeth were coming in (a little later than usual) so she had been a bit cranky recently. And Aly knew first hand what a pain it was to drag their daughter out to functions such as these when she was in a sour mood.

"So, is your hand falling off yet?"

The question brought her out of her thoughts, and Alyson turned to the younger player, the Tornados Keeper, if she remembered correctly. Oh yes, Cuddyer. Even if Aly wasn't a player herself, she would recognize the name. His family had a history of great Quidditch players, which Aly had to admit to, even if she was a die-hard England fan. But that just goes with the territory of being extremely patriotic. "I think I'll make it a little longer. I'm glad they're giving us a break from these autographs in a bit though; I'm sure my hand'll go numb after a while." Aly smiled at the younger boy, never afraid to be friendly with rival teammates. In a game, she'd be ruthless and determined, but off the pitch, Aly was just as friendly to other players as she was to her own teammates.

 "How's the winter training going?" Any Quidditch player knew what a pain it was to practice and play during the cold, snowy months, even with magical protective gear and the sorts. A person couldn't very well keep every part of their body covered and warm, especially when needing to handle the quaffle.

Ian wouldn't say that he knew O'Sullivan well, but his team had played against her and like many of the Harpies players, he was impressed by their skills and spirit in competition. He considered them all to be friendly rivals. He clearly didn't want them to get any quaffles by him, but he didn't begrudge them a good shot when they made them.

After having sufficiently flexed his fingers, Ian stood up to stretch out the rest of him. Remaining stationary for long was a difficult task for him.  He sometimes wondered if it was just something he was afflicted with or if all quidditch players had to keep moving as much as possible throughout the day. Well, except when sleep beckoned, of course.

Ian chuckled at her joking about hands going numb and he quipped in return, "That's definitely not good. The management will want to keep that from happening. Our hands are prized commodities. You need yours to toss and I need mine to catch." They were jesting, but it was a very real concern for most players to somehow lose the use of their hands. Every position in their sport was vitally tied to it.

Ian grinned and talked about her training question next. "Well, the cold can be a bummer in the morning once training starts, but I find as the workouts go on, it's easier to deal with," he said. "By then, you hardly even notice the frigid temperatures." After a pause, he asked, "So will you be doing any of the other activities around the tent? I think they have me doing the Shots on Goal thing...."

Niobe.  That was the only reason he was bloody doing this.  Bloody Niobe.

He wasn't even allowed to be in the "Dodge a Famous Beater" game in the giant in-door pitch crammed inside the tent by magic.  His new coach thought it would be "bad press" if he mercilessly sent his fans, one by one, to the youth clinic for mended bones.  He had no temper for sportsmanship, no idea he might go easy on the little folks, no warm and fuzzy for the fans codswallop.  And, in fact, that was the very attitude that landed him his fan base.  Let the whimpering fans take a pummeling.  That's what they wanted, that's what they got.

But no.  Not today.  Today Dominik was signing things and standing in front of cameras, something he tried very hard to never do.  He knew it's what she wanted.  She always wanted him to be a big boy and stand up for the cameras.  She wanted to make him famous.  More famous.  Famous for more than being, essentially, a bully on broomstick.  An unconvicted felon.  Blank-whipped by the Ministry with a grudge and no mercy.

If it'd get him more, he'd do it.  But he didn't have to like it.

Dominik wondered for a moment what was worse -- signing one sniveling brat's autograph after the next, or watching the others do it.  All the fans got from Dominik Wiedman with this set up was his presence, his face, and his name scrawled on some "official" scrap of parchment.  He only ever grunted at them.  He did not smile for pictures or listen to stories or praise.  He did not do hugs.  And when his new coach was occupied -- he wandered away.

He lit a cigarette.

Innit this the dog's bollocks, thought Dominik sarcastically, looking at it all beneath a dark, brooding scowl.  Dominik dodged wayward fans and ignored the staring and pointing and excited murmuring.  He merely walked, at a slow pace, already smoking as he went to duck out of the tent.  But his eye was caught by Cuddyer, and he lingered there by the man's sickening banter with O'Sullivan, tempted.  He could feel the fire fuming within.  The smoke escaped his nostrils like the dragon's threat, a dangerous beast on the prowl.

And here's how the story went.  The ponce had had the audacity to threaten Dominik after the game.  Dominik had scored the Falcons a scandalous point by way of sending Ian Cuddyer through the center goal post along with the quaffle and a bludger.  What was off was that they'd never had a chance to... say, work out their differences... since the referee had unceremoniously broken the two of them up.  This was the first time he'd seen him since the game at the beginning of the month.  And every single violent ounce of Dominik Skye Wiedman wanted to up and show this bloke that it was not wise to ask for a rival.  And all this stupid fan fair had him all riled up. 

He pushed him.

"Cuddyer," he said.  "You have something to say to me, mate?"

Ian was happily engaged in his conversation with the Harpie's chaser, minding his own business and with little thought given that there was anything wrong in the world at the moment, or that it the pleasantness was about to be rudely interrupted. As far as he knew, Aly was of the same mind as he: they were friendly rivals and they had nothing against each other personally. Thus why they were able to talk without the rivalry on the pitch getting in the way. Ian considered himself to be quite lucky that he was able to have that kind of friendly rivalry with most of his competitors.

Unfortunately, in the short time that Ian had been part of the British and Irish Quidditch League, he had managed to find one person whom he was not able to maintain a friendly rivalry vibe with. And his eye caught sight of the man just as he approached and subsequently pushed Ian, verbal threats spilling out of his mouth to go along with the actions.

Ian Cuddyer was not a burly guy at all, but he was no weakling either and when he felt threatened or disrespected, he did not hesitate to take action. He straightened to his full height and his usually light features darkened somewhat as he glared back at Dominik Wiedman, the Falcon's beater who had become his nemesis on the pitch after their previous confrontation following the last Tornados vs. Falcons match.

As far as Ian was concerned, Wiedman was a rogue player with a blatant disregard for the courtesy of the game. He was ruthless and he would do anything to win, which usually meant using underhanded tactics that put other players lives in danger. Ian had been on the receiving end of such tactics. Bludgers sent in his direction had not been such an usual occurrence that season, as Ian had suffered an injury by bludger in the Kenmare match. But it was Ian's contention that Wiedman sending the bludger in his direction during their match was hardly an accident. He had done it purposely and Ian had not appreciated it at all.

But the two had not been able to reconcile their differences and it seemed that Dominik wanted to do so now. Ian did not like to fight just as much as he did not like the media. But he was not going to allow his rival to bully him. So he shoved the beater back with surprising force. But Ian had a muddled combination of both his parents statures that made him well suited for the position of Keeper and often had him underestimated in terms of physicality.

"Actually, Wiedman, I'd prefer it if we never spoke to one another," he spat. "It still amazes me that they allow goons like you to play this great sport. You ruin it with the distasteful way you go about it."

Dominik stumbled backward, a little surprised by the kid's strength.  With his silly schoolboy insults, though, Ian Cuddyer was not proving to be very intimidating.  But it was good to know he wasn't afraid to fight back.  Somehow it must have fit in with his beliefs and annoying moral high-ground. 

Dominik couldn't help but stare quizzically at his poorly formed rhetoric, though in some crazed way he was glad for the fact that the punk pushed back, dismissing the idea of sucking up.  There was no subservience to his senior here, to the obviously dangerous Beater with ten years behind him -- which was bad for his resolution to appease Niobe and, good for him.  He liked to fight.  Dominik was finally finding some enjoyment in this event with his gaze leveled on Cuddyer.  This tiresome day?  Just got a whole lot better.

He took a slow drag on his cigarette.

"That it ponce?  Not going to hide behind O'Sullivan, are you?"  He nodded in the woman's direction, advancing again toward Ian, slowly.  His demeaning stare had transformed into a dark, devious smirk as he stepped back up to his challenger, stopping right up next to him so that only the space of a measly inch came between their faces.  There was no mistaking it -- Dom had gone predatory.

"Think you know how the game's played?  Maybe you'd like to show me."

The air thickened with tense, twitchy testosterone -- and for a moment, it was any man's go, guessing movement, with watchful wait.  The calm before the -- 

Dominik took another pull from his cigarette, blew his smoke in Ian's face -- slowly, coolly -- and then, not so coolly, he stuck the red of it into Ian's neck.  Hard.

Ian stood stood with his hands clenched at his sides, itching to do something but also trying desperately to curb his extreme dislike of Dominik. He didn't want to allow himself to stoop down to the Falcon's mentality about life and about the game. That was extremely difficult, however, especially with each insult that the other man tossed in his direction. Ian knew that there was only so much that he could allow to be said before it wore him down. Through clenched teeth, he responded as evenly as he could. "I don't need to hide behind O'Sullivan. Or anyone. I can fight my own battles, Wiedman." He paused. "I would just prefer to not start one here with plenty of people watching. Notably fans."

Ian wondered if he was speaking in a different language. He and Dominik would never get along; that was abundantly clear.

As the beater advanced towards him again, Ian did not back off. With the two of them so close now, he was finally able to note note how much taller he was than Wiedman. Dom had more bulk, it seemed. But Ian's height seemed to balance things out and that allowed him a bit more confidence as he seemed to have a feeling that the altercation was going to escalate.

The moment Dominik jabbed the cigarette in the side of Ian's neck, everyone and everything around them disappeared. It was as if Ian had been swallowed up into a vortex that transported him into a different reality. One where he turned into a crazed lunatic. The burning pain from the cigarette had succeeded in igniting his anger.

A slow rolling growl erupted from Ian's chest, something that would have surprised even him if he was of sound mind to observe it. But in that moment, he had no concept of his surroundings and certainly no concept of how it would look.

Ian first shoved Dominik away from him and reached up to swat any remains of the cigarette. For the briefest of moments he covered the burn at his neck while he registered that the action had indeed happened. Then, Ian Cuddyer regrouped and drew back his arm, curling his hand into a fist before he hauled off and popped Dominik in the jaw.

“Move.”

The word came out in a hiss, the love laced into it not at all audible to the human ear. Only Dom would know she wasn’t asking for a punch in the face. She just wanted to sit next to him. Merlin knew he was the most entertaining person of the lot-- and she could smoke with him without being cast scandalized glances from pussies who worried after secondhand lung disease.

Laney took her seat, kicking her boots into the roots of the table so that she could cool her unnerve onto its hind legs. She leaned into the back support, the curve of the seat cradling her lithe figure like a school desk in forfeit.

“Cuddyer.” She nodded. “Did your mum keep your baby curls the first time she hacked them off?” She grinned, tilting her head a bit, eyeing Dom, and finally looking back to Ian.

“Come on boys, there’s plenty of room and attention for all of us... no matter the size of your quaffles.” She chose the word carefully, stressing it with intention. Boys would be boys, whatever age, team, or alma mater. The fans would have to put up with it. Hell, Merlin knew it was half the reason they hero-worshiped the big, cuddly fools. Laney mightn't have their anatomy, but she planned to make herself equally infamous. And what better way than to have Dominik Weidman as a mentor? Reaching behind her ear, where one might find a quill for autographs were one staring at George Carter in his delusional daydreams, she drew a cigarette of her own, and pushed it toward the one fastened to Dominik’s lips for a bummed light.

Only it wasn’t there.

Laney’s brows nearly met one another for a lover’s tryst as they tried to work out what was happening. Cuddyer's neck, prime lovebite real estate, desired and ripe for acquisition by every a delusional school girl ages twelve to eighteen, was an ashtray. Dom could be a brash oaf when he wanted to be, but if she was taking sides, Laney knew who she was going to blame for the provocation.

And he wasn’t a charcoal painter in beater’s clothing.

Tossing her cancer stick to the ground, she drew her wand like lightning, brandishing it in a sharp, stormy billow toward Cuddyer’s fist. “IMPEDIMENTA!”

Augustus had been following not far behind Laney. Being oddly protective over the only female player on his team, Augustus had taken to staying within close proximity of her during 'work hours'. Not that she couldn't take care of herself, of course - Laney could probably sort out the whole of the first team and the substitutes (along with himself) in one fell swoop - but Augustus knew what the boys could get like when they were feeling especially competitive; afterall, he used to be one himself.

And once again, his instincts had not failed him. Augustus arrived at the tent just in time to see one of the Tutshill Tornados players try to sock the beater from Auggie's late team. "You always manage to arrive in time to be right in the midst of trouble, Laney." Augustus raised an eyebrow, and his tone leaked a mocking disappointment.

"Cuddyer - Wiedman. Enough." Augustus rolled his eyes. They were wizards, dammit! And these kids were fighting with their fists like common muggles! Had they attended wizard preparatory lessons before Hogwarts with overly-wizardish parents?

James wondered whose brilliant idea this was.  While James knew he could use the publicity, he thought there were better ways to get it.  Afterall, he felt more like an animal in a zoo than a professional wizard.  Whatever his thoughts were on the subject matter, they were diverted when  he noticed Cuddyer and Wiedman almost start a fist fight.

In front of a large amount of fans.  Though James would have happily joined in a fight, apparently Snark and Irving broke it up.  James did not know Wiedman that well, but it did not surprise him that he would be willing to start a fight in this place.  James could not exactly blame the beater, since he was getting fed up with the constant asking for autographs...and James was not nearly as swamped as the other two.

"So...did you steal his girlfriend?" James asked, clearly amused at the entire situation.  He sincerely doubted Cuddyer did anything to warrant Wiedman's wrath, and every quidditch player knew that beaters were naturally violent.  He had the distinct feeling that a fist-fight might yet break out.  It would be a relief from whatever idiocy their PR person came up with. 

Ian was breathing heavily, as the interruption to his and Wiedman's little argument could not have been timed better. If something wasn't done swiftly, they were going to be headed for a duel. But it was clear that they were not opposed to solving the problem between them by means most usual for athletes, muggle and magical alike--with fists.

Ian backed off away from his adversary and stepped closer to his teammate and friend, James Forrester. But it was clear the Tornado's Keeper was still upset by the encounter and what was more, his neck was protesting from the spot where Wiedman's cigarette had been put out.

"I didn't do anything to him," Ian responded in an annoyed tone. "If anyone should have cause to be angry, it's me. Wiedman's an animal on and off the pitch."

"I know that.  I thought you just wanted to fight.  Not sure this is the best venue for it, but you should know I am always up for a bit of a rough and tumble.  Speaking of which, are we going to jump them after this event, or do you have something else in mind?" James asked, rolling his eyes. 

He would leave the baby-sitting to the PR agents, he knew Cuddyer could handle himself.  Even if he couldn't James had no doubt that a massive brawl would be good fun.  Wondering if he should shoot that by the PR guy sometime, James considered it for a moment.  It was doubtful that the females in the sport would be appreciative of it, but James thought it might be worth considering.  After all, if their coach had wanted them to do all sorts of insane $#!* in the name of training, James thought a little bit of fighting would not be somewhat welcome way to relieve stress on the pitch. 

"You think we can get the rules modified to include fighting?" James asked his teammate, somewhat curious of what he thought.

With a well-directed focus on his hatred for the target, Dominik hardly registered the voice of reason to be found in his good mate Laney.  It was all a blur from the moment he stuck the hot end of his cigarette into the young man's neck and when he was pushed backward, then run at -- but it was a blur only to the outside observers, who were by now used to such outbursts, perhaps.  For the participants, however, no matter how accustomed they may have been to this brand of behavior, everything was slowed down in a play-by-play reaction. 

Dominik was shoved backward with the brute force of emotion, or perhaps it was simple pain response; but in those slow-mo moments he was just able to keep to his feet, maintaining balance as Ian rushed forward with a right hook to his jaw.  Laney's voice boomed over the chatter of fans and the desensitized murmurs of nearby colleagues who appeared disgruntled as the cameras flashed and Cuddyer's fist slowed down five notches, colliding with Dominik's face in five eternally long frames. 

He half fell, but managed to hold himself half-upright, his hand coming up to his mouth as he slowly righted himself by Irving with a wide grin -- and zoom -- everything from that moment on occurred for him in ordinary time.  Like a thousand voices coming into view from the perspective of an awakening psychotic. 

He truly appeared pleased with himself, but he didn't retaliate as James paired with Ian and Laney appeared at his side with Snark somewhere in the middle, interfering lackadaisically.  He threw his arm over Laney's shoulder and sucked in his lip, still smiling stupidly.

"Eh coach," he said.  "Don't get your knickers in a twist."  Another wide grin.  He could taste a little bit of the blood in his mouth.  Laney was warm under his arm and the short fit had him satisfied enough.  The reporters were going wild.

Oh yeah.

Augustus Snark was like a father. Or a cool uncle. Who was slightly dorky. But still rather brilliant. Laney pushed back the telltale signs of the smile that threatened to glow stupidly at the man's every word of approval-- Merlin knew she had a cheeky reputation to keep up, and that she had also had her fair share of getting into Very Unprofessional Shenanigans Indeed. But, really, who were they kidding? it was one of the best parts of being a big league player.

Dom leaned into her, like a giant teddy bear who regularly wielded bats, and she splayed one slender arm round his back for support.

"Oh, come off it, Cuddyer, you don't want the blokes who hero-worship you to think you're secretly a little girl whose pet pink unicorn has died?" She rolled her eyes, pulling out two fresh cigarettes with her free hand, one for Dominik, who had bravely sacrificed his own, and one for herself. She lit them in one go, a quick flame of her wand while the smokes sat perched on her lips, and took a double drag, handing off one to Dom, whose bleeding lip probably needed less nicotine and more medical attention.

Compromise. Tobacco was some sort of herbal remedy. Everyone knew it. Besides, he had Laney to lean on. Literally.

Forrester was easier to ignore. If Laney didn't want to take away from Dom's moment of glory, and her cohort-in-training reputation, she'd have to keep her mouth shut. But really, the man irked her. Everyone knew he wanted her job.

She offered up only a single, seething glance at his words. Smartarse.