Aunt Marge's Rude Awakening

Disclaimer- aunt marge (and the rest of the harry potter crew) completely and totally belongs to J.K. Rowling and i am not responsible for marge's attitude towards harry in any way- all character personalities belong to her.

Oh, how strangely my sister was blessed-with a perfect angel Dudley and that son of unemployed,

uncivilized weirdoes!

It all started on a perfectly normal August day. The only unusual thing I noticed was the unexpected

stuffiness of the train station, and the people were a bit strange too, whispering about quaffles and some

hero of theirs called Viktor Krum. Must be foreigners.

I stood at the train station, with my camping gear. I asked around and found out there was a camping

ground about a 1/4 mile distance from here. When I got there, though, I was quite surprised. The manager

of the camp, Mr. Roberts, told me that the whole campsite was booked for 1/2 a year. I thought it was

rather strange that so many people would want to reserve some campground without a reputation half a

year ahead of time, but did not say this aloud. Like my brother, I am not fond of finding explanations or

asking questions. Even so, I decided to wander around and see the people who were staying here already.

As I walked toward the campground, I tripped over something silvery. It was a cloak, and I didn't have

one with me. As I looked down at myself I saw...absolutely nothing! I was never one to be completely taken by anything, so I decided that it was a trick of the light, or that I needed glasses. Undaunted, I strolled around the campground and the sight before my eyes was out of the ordinary. The tents were all of the queerest shapes, and it was quite obvious that the people there had never seen a proper campsite in their lives, or a proper clothing catalog for that matter. How often does one see lime green tents with Irish flags floating (no, held up by white string) surrounding it, and a Jacuzzi surrounded by a rose garden in front of it. And how many people are seen in the streets in a kilt- and a poncho, or a slender red robe that refuses to hide a man's huge stomach. Why, I even saw two young ladies wearing red scarves with lions on them, and with bright red swimsuits and bright yellow plaid pants.

It was quite hot, so I finally took off the cloak, and nearly ran into a formidable looking woman in spectacles. "Pardon me," she said, "we have not met. My name is Minerva McGonagall. By the way, o you support Ireland or Bulgaria...

Please Review. I'm new to writing fanfics. And by the way i tried posting this fanfic on another site a long time ago under a different pen name so it is not plagiarism.