DellaVie

I apologise for soap-opera style "drama" in this one. But Dean needed to have that conversation. Well, no - Dean needed to be caught having that conversation. It'll be justified in the next part.

[Previously on TYA]

1974 Quidditch World Cup - The Marauder's Fourth Year

There was no ornate lightshow or special effects extravaganza like he'd seen on Terminator. Just a blink, and then Dean Winchester found himself standing in a different room than the one he had a second earlier. Thankfully, he was clothed as well. In Dean's mind that movie had a lot of explaining to do.

As his mind struggled to catch up with the change, he realised that it wasn't a room at all. It was a field.

A rather busy field, if the littering of tents and bustling people were anything to go by. Some sort of hippy/renaissance fair, Dean theorised as he eyed the cloaks passing him. Oh God, not the actual rennaissance, Dean hoped. All that he remembered from vague high school conversations was that the renaissance ended before the Single Action Army was a twinkle in Samuel Colts' eyes.

Amidst all the people coming and going he noticed that one very important thing was missing. That thing being, of course, his brother.

Realising the futility of calling out Sam's name, Dean had his phone open and auto-dialling Sam before his mind calculated that into the pointless column as well. True to form, it beeped, and a glance back at the screen dispassionately told him that there was no signal. A second beep quickly warned that his battery was nearly flat.

Dean pocketed the now-useless technology, and after a quick check to reassure that his gun had survived the trip to wonderland, Dean proceeded in search of someone who might be able to help him figure out where the hell he was. Sorry, when the hell he was. Nair in the shampoo will seem child's play compared to what I'm going to do to Sammy when I find him. Possibly something involving glue, string and a whole lot of duct tape...

He'd made it all of two steps when he stopped in shock as a nearby man waved a stick, causing the little bag he'd put on the ground to erect itself into a two-man tent.

Magic. Had to be.

Dean looked around and found that no one else seemed to be surprised by the little display. It was then that he realised that he was the odd one out, and therefore greatly outnumbered by an encampment of witches/warlocks/whatever.

...and maybe some paint. And feathers, lots of feathers. Sammy's going to rue the damn day he even thought about this.

Dean tried to seem as inconspicuous as possible. He kept his gait relaxed (on the outside, at least), and avoided eye contact as his searching stare became the perusal of a relaxed camper, taking in the activities around him.

He passed by several tents and conversations, instantly picking up on the English accents. Which led him to conclude that he was in England. Which meant that... was that kid flying on a broom?

Dean's mental process went out the window as a small boy no more than ten cut Dean off, flying on a broom. He watched as the kid swerved in an effort to miss him, and ended up colliding into a nearby tent. Loud clangs and shouts could be heard inside, as though he had just knocked down a wall, not a piece of fabric.

A stern-faced woman appeared at the flaps a minute later, and seeing the boy sprawled by the sagging corner, proceeded to give him a stern talking to.

Beneath the dark locks, Dean could make out blue eyes widened in panic. Taking pity on the boy, Dean plastered on a concerned face stepped over.

"Excuse me, is there a problem?"

At the sound of his voice, the woman turned her eagle gaze onto him. "Of course there isn't a problem. Everything is fantastic - I just happen to like ranting about broken shelves for no reason."

Wow, Brits sure can pull out the sarcasm when they need to. Dean blinked. "look lady, I was just offering to help. Way I see it, the damage is done, and the kid's sorry, right?"

The woman's piercing gaze flicked back to the intimidated youth, who swallowed audibly in response. When Dean nudged him with his foot, he nodded slowly.

When the woman continued to glare, Dean added, "And I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate to help clean up any mess he caused," to your shelves...? "but unfortuately he's still got to fix up the mess over at, uhh..." Crap, what's an English name? "Hitching's. If you like, I can send him back later...?"

At this piece of information, the woman let out a frustrated sigh. "That won't be necessary. Just make sure..." her brow wrinkled, "Hitching puts the boy to work. A little discipline would do him good." With one last huff, she turned back into the tent, angry mutterings under her breath.

When he was sure the lady was out of earshot, Dean held out a hand. The boy eyed him warily before taking it. He brushed off his pants before picking up his broom. When he was finished, he turned back to Dean and bit his lip. "Is Hitching the fellow whose stall I knocked over?"

Dean shrugged. "I have no idea. Rule of thumb, kid; adults are less inclined to discipline you if they think you're already going to get it much worse from someone else."

The boy looked up, and when Dean winked he smiled. "Thanks."

"No worries," Dean replied. He inclined his head and they started walking. "I'm Dean," he prompted, hoping the kid would reply. He was getting sick of calling him "boy".

"I'm Regulus."

Dean let out a scoff that quickly turned into a cough. When Regulus cast a glance his way, he quickly changed the topic. "So Regulus, you know what's going on here?"

Regulus' eyebrows disappeared under his fringe. "You don't know?"

"I just got here."

Regulus cocked his head to the side in scrutiny. "From... America?"

"Yeah. So what's going on?"

"It's the World Cup."

"Right, and what time does it start?"

Regulus stopped walking at that. "It's already over."

Years of putting up with his brother rambling on about things Dean had no idea about taught him to to bat an eyelash when he'd let his ignorance show. Instead, he turned back to the kid with his brows furrowed in surprise. "You mean I missed it?"

Though he answered "Yeah," it was clear Regulus was really saying, Duh! "what were you doing?"

"I got here early and went for a drink - the rest is fuzzy after that."

Regulus seemed to accept this answer and nodded. Dean was relieved to know that no matter what time or place he was in, all problems could be explained away by alcohol.

"Firewhiskey?"

"Huh?"

"Was it firewhiskey?" Regulus asked.

"To tell you the truth, I don't really remember." Best to leave it vague, Dean decided. Less details means less likely to be caught out.

"My brother likes firewhiskey," Regulus continued, relaxing a bit more now that he had an avenue of conversation to pursue. "He says it tastes like piss and kicks like a centaur when they can't see the stars."

Dean let out a little laugh, "Can't say I've heard that one before."

"He was drinking firewhiskey when he said it."

"Your brother sounds like my kinda guy."

"Yeah." Regulus grew quiet. "Everyone likes him."

Knowing a chick-flick issue when he saw one, Dean changed the topic. "So what were you doing back there? Is tent-crashing the latest craze?"

"I was practicing," He admitted. "I want to try out for the team this year."

Uh-huh. Yeah. A sport played on broomsticks. "Which team?"

"My house. Slytherin," He added, when Dean looked ready to ask again."

Chancing how much he could ask before he made a fool of himself, he hoped that this sport followed the same basics of most sports. "What position?"

Regulus sighed and murmured something unintelligible.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

Regulus raised his voice by the smallest fraction, and Dean could make out the word, beeder. Or was it beaker? Or beater? ...Beaver?

"Huh?"

The voice went up again. "Beater."

"What?"

And again. "Beater!"

Dean shrugged as if to say he couldn't hear. Which was ridiculous because the kid had returned to normal conversation levels.

Frustrated, Regulus yelled. "I said I wanted to be a BEATER!"

Several people nearby turned their heads at his outburst, and Regulus dropped his head in embarrassment.

Dean ignored the whole thing completely. "Oh, so you want to be a beater, eh?"

Regulus looked up at Dean's flippant tone. There was accusation in his eyes, and the briefest hint of betrayal. Dean tried to figure out if it was because "beater" was some taboo subject, or because he'd made the kid make a spectacle of himself.

He didn't get a chance to ask as Regulus ran off, darting around the strangers who were still eyeing him with curiosity.

Dean cursed under his breath and chased him.

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...LJ just told me that my post was too long, which is a first. So the rest of this part can be found here.