As high noon approached people gathered around the Dragon-Bimp-Whatever monstrosity the American school had flown to Hogsmeade, sitting at the farthest fringe of the little village. There were brooms, lots of brooms, even a Leaf somewhere in the forest of bristles, reminding Sissel how much he still had left to pay on his used model Firebolt. Even used, the things hit your bank account hard.

When lifelong pen pals Sissel Jowd and Jimmy Hart increased their messages back and forth over the summer, it was mostly just saying how cool the upcoming Tournament was going to be and maybe catching a drink on free weekends when they both got time off of work. But after broom shopping with a Gryffindor upperclassman John Kingside Sissel had returned home with an outstanding balance and a notion. A wild, extreme notion that could potentially solve a lot of wants by putting all the eggs in one basket then overturning that basket and break all the eggs to make a giant omelette. Notices had been sent to the various ministry types Sissel had encouraged to come to "informational entertainment" to inspire them to sign up for MoM amateur Quidditch. Getting Jimmy involved also made it a Tournament related event, so Salem's could showcase the preeminent American broom sport.

And so the results of last minute planning (whenever Sissel did plan something it was usually last minute): The Quidditch Vs Quodpot Showoff! All the equipment for each sport was being laid out. On the Quidditch side, with all the gear involved, there were Quaffles, Bludgers being beaten into cages, and Snitches being kept in a giant jar so they didn't fly away. On the Quodpot side, leather Quods being primed to explode and gallons of Quodpot solution poured into baskets, the antidote to exploding leather.

"Sheesh, Quod's looking cheap compared to our sport thus far," Sissel told Jimmy as his eyes continued to scan the crowd for those from the Ministry that answered his summons. "Thinking of having your student teams give us a visualization?"

Jimmy stood with his hand on his hip, and one hand raising his favorite mug to his lips. It was absolutely full of scalding hot coffee with Carnation Instant Breakfast and a healthy swig of Jack Daniels dumped in it. His favorite breakfast. It was one that his wife had always given him so much grief for drinking, and yet still fixed for him on snowy mornings. Here, in the dead dog days of summer, it was slightly less comforting physically, but emotionally it brought him back to where his homesick heart was on that balmy day.

His mug was a sepiatone affair, an homage to John Wayne that had scrawled across it in wooden-looking letters, don't say it's a fine morning or I'll shoot ya.  His wife had fixed his cocoa jack (his affectionate name for his breakfast concoction) inside it one morning the day after he'd dropped his old favorite (which had Elvis on it) on the driveway. And she'd fixed a little green ribbon around the handle.

He took a long, unflinching gulp of the mixture. It burned going down, a white-hot slur of alcohol and boiling heat. The rest of the world felt pleasantly breezy around him after that sort of breakfast.

In truth, he would have been happy to be able to show off a crop of well-oiled cyborgs of athleticism, the way the Durmstrang students seemed, but it would have been a different kind of happiness than what was flitting through his veins at that moment.

No, at that moment, he was bursting with outright pride.

The way he felt when he watched The Bad News Bears or The Mighty Ducks. The other guys might have had more history, more opulence, and more stature...

But in the end, if the lessons film and television had taught him would hold true, it wouldn't amount to a hill of beans when it came up against the overpowering amount of heart he had up his sleeve.

Taking another belt of cocoa jack, Jimmy licked his lips and grinned his boyish grin. "Oh, you betcha. Cheap as crack and twice the ass-kickin'," he affirmed. "But I'll bet you don't have to replace your quidditch equipment anywhere near as often as we've gotta do ours. I'd say it's six of one half a dozen of the other. They oughta sell this stuff in bulk. Why hasn't anybody opened up a wizarding version of Costco?"

He forgot himself for a moment and aimed his mug accusingly at Mark Nichols, one of the techs setting up the equipment. "Hey, Nichols, set that drum of juice down harder next time. Spill a little bit more. That's outstanding. No. For real. Yeah, set it down harder and I'll set my foot down a little harder on the back of your neck. That's better. Thank you." Taking another swig, he refused to break his focus on Nichols. Jimmy had only ever referred to the quodpot solution as "juice" and God help whoever asked him what he was talking about.

Jimmy turned back to Sissel. "Well, yeah, if the other schools will do it. I don't want to look like a show-off-y dick weevil. But it might be good for us to get a little face time with the rest of the schools. I feel like we're late to the party on this one."