A.N.: I liked rewriting this chapter to include some of my own creations—well, not technically: things I think should have gone into the book!
Wizards' Camping
They had arrived in a meadow, or deserted moor, or something of the sort—she couldn't really tell, as a blanket of early-morning mist covered the ground so that she could only see twenty feet in front of her. A wizard holding a long scroll, tired and grumpy-looking, ticked them off, while the man with the golden pocket-watch clicked it shut. Harriet couldn't help but stare at their outfits; Mr Weasley, a Muggle-lover, was probably the best-informed at how to fit in with Muggles. These two gentlemen wore the oddest assortment of garments Harriet had ever seen; the man with the watch wore a tweed suit with knee-high fishing galoshes, and the other wore a kilt and a bright multi-coloured, crocheted poncho. Harriet caught Hermes' eye and they both bit their lips and smirked.
"Morning, Basil," Mr Weasley said briskly, smiling, as he picked up the boot that had fallen a foot from where Harriet's head had been seconds before.
"Hullo Arthur," the wizard named Basil said wearily. "Not on duty? Alright for some—you'd better get outta the way, all of you—we've got a big party heading in from the Black Forest at five fifteen. Hang on, I'll find your campsite…Weasley…Weasley…"
"Oh yeah! The Black Forest!" Harriet smiled, glancing up at Cedric. "Are the wizards you met there coming to the match?"
"Should be—I dunno if I'll see them, though," Cedric smiled happily. "Dad reckons the stadium seats a hundred thousand." A hundred thousand! Harriet gaped, and Cedric chuckled appreciatively. "I'll be amazed if no one gets lost!"
"A hundred thousand!" Harriet gaped. "Where's the Ministry putting everyone?"
"Well, that's the crux, isn't it?" said Mr Diggory, shaking his head and sighing; he stood very close, and Harriet got the impression he might have been eavesdropping. "There just isn't anywhere in Britain to hold a hundred-thousand wizards. Can you imagine that number trying to squeeze onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters? No…Lucky we found this moor, really—we've used so many anti-Muggle precautions, we had the whole Ministry working on the stadium!"
"Mightn't it be dangerous, with a hundred thousand wizards all together like this?" Harriet asked, and Mr Diggory chortled amusedly.
"Mind thinks the right way, girl, I'll give you that," he said, hoisting his backpack higher. "And, yes, you're quite right—things could turn nasty, but we've had our Department of International Magical Co-Operation working overtime to ensure there'll be no illegal duels or foul-play amongst the fans." Harriet was thrown back to her second year at Hogwarts, to Gilda Lockhart's abysmal Duelling Club—where the intention had been to teach them all to Disarm, yet somehow Harriet had managed to show the entire Hall that she could speak Parseltongue!
"At least it's not a grudge-match," Cedric said, grinning. "Can you imagine if it was England versus Ireland?" Harriet, who had been hearing of the trouble in Ireland from Aunt Petunia's radio over the summer, imagined there must be the same animosity between the Irish wizards and the English.
"There'd be mass-riots," Mr Diggory said, shivering, then he grinned. "Looks like we're off." Harriet glanced over towards Basil, and saw that Mr Weasley and the others had started walking off; Mr Weasley waved over his shoulder, and they hurried to catch up.
"All this walking can't be good for me," Harriet panted, clutching the stitch in her side that had redoubled in intensity now. Cedric chuckled softly, strolling along with perfect ease; she cursed her parents for giving her so little height, and therefore, so little leg.
"So…Ced tells me you've never seen a proper Quidditch match before," Mr Diggory said, striding on Harriet's other side. "You're in for a treat, Harriet."
"I hope so," Harriet grinned.
"How long have you been flying for Gryffindor?" Mr Diggory asked.
"Since my first year," Harriet said, and Mr Diggory's eyebrows rose.
"How many Quidditch Cups have you helped win?"
"Well—in my first year, I was unconscious for the last game of the season," Harriet sighed, shaking her head as she remembered Quirrell. "And then, in my second year, they cancelled the tournament. But we won last year."
"Even though Ced did beat you," Mr Diggory conceded, and Harriet caught Cedric rolling his eyes.
"Well—Cedric is a really good flier," Harriet said. She would much rather have Mr Diggory like her than not. "Especially that match—it was the worst storm of the year. I thought I'd be blown off course, you know, 'cause I'm so little. Cedric had the advantage there," she narrowed her eyes up at him, noticing again how much taller he was; he grinned bashfully.
"But you fell off your broom," Mr Diggory said pointedly.
"Dad—"
"Yeah, well, there were Dementors," Harriet shrugged. "When I came too, though, everyone said how Cedric had caught the Snitch, but wanted a rematch when he saw I'd fallen."
"Always the gentleman," Mr Diggory grinned.
"Professor Dumbledore said so too," Harriet said, and Mr Diggory practically clicked his heels when he grinned. "Me too—I don't think anybody else would have played that honourably."
"Are you planning on playing professionally, after Hogwarts?" Mr Diggory asked interestedly; complimenting his son seemed to him to be the best way of gaining his approval.
"I…I don't know. I've never really thought about after Hogwarts," Harriet said blankly, raising her eyebrows at the mossy grass as they crossed the moor. "I suppose…it would be really cool."
A small stone cottage with neat little windows on the other side of a large cattle gate emerged out of the mist, and further on Harriet could see hundreds of tents rising up the gentle slope of a large field—a dark forest bordered the horizon, slightly eerie-looking in the half-light. A man stood in the doorway of the cottage, and Harriet knew by looking at him that he was the only real Muggle for several miles.
Whilst Hermes assisted Mr Weasley, Harriet had to help Mr Diggory with the Muggle notes to pay for their pitch for the night; Mr Diggory couldn't tell what value the notes were, so Harriet had to pay for him, and Mr Roberts, the Site manager, asked some funny questions, questions that appeared as if he knew something was going on. Mr Diggory and Mr Weasley exchanged uneasy glances, and a wizard in plus-fours Apparated right beside Mr Roberts, his wand trained on him, and in a bored tone said "Obliviate" and Harriet saw the unmistakable signs of someone who was having their memory modified.
"A map of the campsite for you," said Mr Roberts, his eyes still slightly out of focus, "and your change."
"Been having a lot of trouble with him," said the wizard in plus-fours, as they moved away from the cottage. "Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy—and Ludo Bagman isn't helping—trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his lungs! Not a worry about security! I'll be glad when this is all over. See you later, Arthur, Amos."
"What's Bagman playing at, talking about Quidditch near Muggles?" Mr Diggory growled, shaking his head disapprovingly as they walked off towards the tents.
"Ludo's always been a bit…well…lax about security," Mr Weasley said. "We couldn't wish for a more enthusiastic Head of Department, though, could we, Amos—and he was a great Quidditch player in his time." He glanced at Harriet. "Ludo was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had—and he played for England himself."
"Oh, I remember that last World Cup!" Mr Diggory said, his eyes glazing over as he beamed happily. "England beat Botswana four-hundred and ninety to twenty. It was the cleanest game I've ever seen, too."
While Mr Diggory filled everyone in on the last Quidditch World Cup game the English had ever reached the finals in, Harriet couldn't help glancing around, trying to see everything, as they made their way through the campsite. Most tents were normal, Muggle, but some wizards had ruined the effects of normalcy by adding bell-pulls and chimneys; scattered around the campsite were tents so extraordinary that Harriet didn't wonder Mr Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood a palace of striped silk, with several beautiful peacocks tethered outside the entrance. One tent had three floors and turrets; another had a front-garden attached complete with blooming flowerbeds, birdbath, sundial and fountain.
"We can't resist showing off when we get together," Mr Weasley chuckled, shaking his head at the robins twittering happily in the birdbath. "It's always the same." Mr Weasley and Mr Diggory stopped them at the very edge of the wood, where two small pitches stood side-by-side and empty between a lilac-satin tent sponsored by Madam Primpernelle's Salon with three very beautiful witches sipping raspberry-coloured tea from delicate tulip-shaped tea-glasses, and a sky-blue tent spangled with gold and silver starbursts, over the entrance of which fluttered a banner for Witch Weekly, with a woman and a man both scribbling furiously on long pieces of parchment; they called hellos to Mr Weasley and Mr Diggory, who grinned genially—the woman caught sight of Harriet and began a fresh sheaf of parchment. The tents opposite their pitch were for Gladrags Wizardwear—the witch and two wizards grinned at Mr Weasley, waving, all three bedecked in fabulous shamrock-green robes—and Quality Quidditch Supplies, the displays of which the boys all gazed at longingly.
"Sponsors," Mr Weasley said, waving to the Gladrags wizards. The sign hammered into the grass into Mr Weasley's pitch read WEEZLY, the Diggorys, DIGEREE. "The stadium is just the other side of the forest there—we couldn't ask for a better spot!" Mr Weasley grinned. "We're as close as could be." Grateful that, finally, they had reached their destination and could catch their breath, Harriet and Rhona and the twins and Hermes and Cedric dropped their luggage to the ground and stood panting. She glanced around, and Harriet had to blink, sure her contacts had starting playing up—
"Er…is it just me, or has everything gone green?" Rhona asked, and Harriet breathed easy, knowing it wasn't just her. A patch of tents absolutely covered in thick growths of shamrocks, so that each tent looked more like a miniature hill than anything else, stood to the side of the Quality Quidditch Supplies tent, the only disillusioning thing about them being the open flaps, revealing grinning faces. It was then that they heard their names—"Harriet! Rhona! Hermes!" Out of the sea of green, Harriet squinted, then grinned, recognising the sandy hair and grinning face of Seamus Finnigan, one of the boys in Hermes' dormitory. Seamus was sitting outside his shamrock-covered hillock eating sausages and beans, with Dean Thomas, also a fourth-year like them, and a sandy-haired woman who could only be Seamus' mother. They went over to say hello; Seamus grinned, showing off the shamrocks, which were actually very real.
"Why shouldn't we show our colours?" Mrs Finnigan scoffed. "We haven't had national exposure like this in decades. Anyway, you should see what the Bulgarians have got spread all over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland." Mrs Finnigan didn't look the sort of woman to disagree with.
"Absolutely!" Harriet grinned. "If we didn't, Seamus would never let us forget it!" Mrs Finnigan chuckled, appeased.
"Hey—Harriet, why do you look so…weird?" Seamus asked suddenly, and his mother smacked him round the back of the head, rolling her eyes exasperatedly.
"I got contact-lenses," Harriet said, blushing furiously, and glancing at Dean, who raised his eyebrows appraisingly as he examined her face.
"You actually look like a girl without those ugly great glasses you used to wear," Dean remarked, and Mrs Finnigan just shook her head, rolling her eyes.
"Er…Thanks?" Harriet said sardonically, blushing again with embarrassment.
"Well, you do, Harriet, you look a lot prettier without them," Hermes agreed soothingly.
"Harriet! Rhona! Hermes!"
"Oh, sorry, we'd better get back," Hermes smiled.
"It was nice to meet you, Mrs Finnigan," Harriet smiled, and they had to drag Rhona away from Seamus, discussing Quidditch tactics of the Irish National Team.
"Right," Mr Weasley beamed excitedly, "no magic allowed, strictly speaking—Ministry orders, not when we're gathered like this on Muggle land. We'll be putting our tent up by hand! Shouldn't be too difficult…Muggles do it all the time…here, Harriet, where do you reckon we should start?"
Hermes, who had been a Scout before Hogwarts, had a better idea of what needed doing, considering Harriet had never been on holiday in her life before, (she didn't like to count the weeks she spent at Mrs Figg's house when the Dursleys went away) but together they managed to figure out the instructions—though Harriet had to banish Mr Weasley to the corner of their pitch to talk to Mr Diggory (while Cedric put up his and his father's tent) because he got thoroughly overexcited about the mallet—and together they managed to erect a very rudimentary two-man tent.
Harriet and Hermes both stood back to admire their handiwork and exchange worried looks. While Harriet was very small and wouldn't take up much space (and wouldn't mind sleeping under the stars), by the time Bill, Charlie and Percy arrived, they would be nine in number. And Rhona was so tall her feet would probably stick out the tent-flap if she lay down. Mr Weasley dropped to his knees and entered the tent first.
"We'll be a bit cramped," he called, "but it's only for one night."
Harriet shuffled into the tent next, on her hands and knees, and when she glanced up, her jaw dropped. "WHOA!"
It was something out of Arabian Nights: there were silks draped everywhere, little ante-chambers for bunk-beds and a full dining-area, a fully-working kitchen complete with stove and a full china service, a bathroom with a large bathtub and working shower, and a sitting-area complete with squashy sofas and floor cushions. Someone nudged her and Harriet staggered to her feet, gazing around. She caught Hermes' eye and they both laughed, shaking their heads.
"If my tent when I was with Scouts was anything like this, I might've actually enjoyed camping," Hermes chuckled, grinning, his overlarge front-teeth flashing in the light of the Moroccan lantern hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Mr Weasley picked the lid off the dusty teapot and frowned.
"We'll need water," he said quietly.
"There's a water spigot on the map the Muggle gave us," Rhona said, emerging into the tent and looking completely unimpressed by the sheer luxury of the tent.
"Well, why don't you, Harriet and Hermes go and collect some water," Mr Weasley suggested, handing over several large saucepans and the kettle. "We'll gather some wood for a fire."
"But we've got a stove—"
"Anti-Muggle precautions, Rhona," Mr Weasley said, his face shining with excitement. "When real Muggles camp, they eat off fires outdoors, don't they Hermes?"
"Yup," Hermes nodded, glancing at Harriet and rolling his eyes amusedly. Banging their saucepans together, Rhona with her nose in the map of the campsite, and Hermes swinging the kettle happily, they made their way through the campsite. Harriet had slung her camera over her neck so she could document things, like Sirius had asked, as if he was with them. Dawn had passed them by while they'd put up the tent, and in the early-morning sunlight (it was a clear blue sky, no sign of clouds anywhere, and it was already getting warm) the mist had evaporated, revealing a city of tents as far as she could see. As they walked, Harriet noticed that most people—people with young families to take care of—were waking; a little toddler was squatted down, poking a wand at a slug, which was growing in size to the proportions of a salami: his harassed-looking mother, in fluffy slippers and a dressing-gown, came out of the tent and promptly stepped on the slug, bursting it to her disgust all over her slipper; "You don't touch Daddy's wand, Kevin." The air was punctuated several tents afterwards by little Kevin's wails of "You bust slug! You bust slug!"
Two little witches, maybe three or four, were hovering around the guy-ropes of their tent on miniature toy-brooms. As Harriet, Hermes and Rhona approached, one of them fell off her broom and started to wail. A Ministry wizard was bustling his way towards the girls, looking very scary. Harriet handed her saucepans over to Hermes and approached the crying girl.
"Hullo," she said gently, crouching down to smile at her. The little girl's face was shining with tears. "Have you got an owie?" The girl whimpered, and her sister dismounted; Harriet lifted the crying girl (who had two bloody knees) onto her hip, and the second girl carried the brooms back to the tent-flap, calling "Mummy!" Harriet poked her head around, saw the girls' parents having a cup of tea on their sofa, listening to the Wizarding wireless, and smiled bashfully.
"Sorry—your little girl's fallen off her broom," she said, carrying her into the tent. Their mother tutted and came to collect her daughter; she caught sight of Harriet's scar (which she'd always tried to hide with her hair) and started fussing so much that her daughter's injuries were forgotten—at least until after her husband had caught several photographs of their twins with famous Harriet Potter.
She couldn't get out of the tent fast enough, flushed; Rhona and Hermes exchanged a look and rolled their eyes; Hermes grinned, chuckling, correctly interpreting her considerably long absence. As they walked on, more wizards were emerging and starting fires for their breakfasts; Hermes had a few shining moments, aiding the wizards who were trying to stick to the anti-Muggle precautions by using matches, showing them how to use them properly; most wizards conjured fires with their wands after checking no Ministry representatives were lurking around.
Three African wizards in startlingly white robes sat in serious conversation, roasting a rabbit on a bright purple fire; the Salem Witches' Institute a few tents away were a group of young American witches gossiping excitedly—most unfortunately, Harriet tripped over with a loud clang of her saucepans and, laughing loudly, Rhona snorted, "You're such a numpty, Potter," which the witches all heard, glanced over to see what the commotion was, and saw Harriet's scar. She was subjected to fifteen minutes' chattering with the witches, had her photograph taken at least fifty times by the overexcited youngest witch, and when Harriet ran off, walking very fast with her shoulders hunched, Rhona giggling madly as she and Hermes followed.
The red, green and white flag of Bulgaria flew high over the tents a few paces away—evidently they had chosen their pitches a safe enough distance from the shamrock-bedecked Irish tents that there wouldn't be any foul-play amongst supporters—and Rhona led the way over, wondering aloud what the Bulgarians had decorated their tents with.
"You know," Harriet said, sighing softly as she glanced around at the tents as they passed, "I reckon I could live in any one of these tents, and be perfectly happy for the rest of my life."
"Definitely a step up from the cupboard under the stairs," Hermes smiled, hooking his arm around her neck, and Harriet's eyes widened when they approached the Bulgarian tents. Posters had been draped everywhere, always with the same subject; a heavy-lidded, dark-haired teenaged girl with a surly expression. All the posters did was blink and glare.
"Krum."
"Huh?"
"Viktoria Krum," Rhona said, gazing around at the tents. "The Bulgarian Seeker."
"She looks miserable," Hermes remarked, and Harriet agreed. If she was England's starting Seeker, well, she'd probably have been white and green and trembling all over at the prospect of a hundred thousand wizards turning out to see her get her arse handed to her, but still…she'd have shown a little enthusiasm.
"'Miserable'!" Rhona blurted. "Hermes, she's only the best Seeker in the International League—which means the world! She's unbelievable—you'll see, tonight; she's a genius. Only just eighteen or something, she's fantastic. And since when do you care what people look like?"
"I don't," Hermes said indignantly. "I was just saying…she couldn't smile? Harriet always smiles, even if she's feeling really awkward."
They reached the water spigot, by which was now a small queue, but Harriet and Rhona had to duck out of the line, overcome with hysterical giggles that made tears stream down their faces, due to old Archie wearing a floral fluffy dressing-gown—with nothing underneath, and the Ministry wizard trying desperately to get him into a pair of pinstripe trousers. They carried the saucepans slowly and carefully from the spigot, and on the way back to the tent met several more people they knew.
Oliver Wood dragged Harriet over to meet his parents, who were ecstatic to finally meet the girl Oliver always talked about synonymously with Quidditch: he had been signed to the reserve team of Puddlemere United. Next, Ernie Macmillan hailed them over to meet his parents and his younger siblings: Ernie had once accused Harriet of setting a dirty great Basilisk on the students of Hogwarts, due to her ability to speak Parseltongue and lack of evidence to suggest it was anyone else making the attacks; he had apologised when Hermes had been attacked, knowing Harriet would never have set a Basilisk on her friend. Munching on homemade shortbread, after a quick cup of tea from Mrs Macmillan, they passed Cho Chang's tent—she was the very pretty, very popular, very talented Ravenclaw Seeker, and introduced Harriet, Rhona and Hermes to her parents, who beamed, not in the least bit annoyed that Harriet had beaten their daughter every time they'd come to a head on the Quidditch pitch.
Further on, when Harriet was just beginning to feel like they might get back to the tent by lunchtime, she heard her name being called and a loud whistle: she glanced to her right and grinned when Cedric waved from amid a large group of teenagers she had never seen before. He waved them over, grinning, and Harriet was introduced to the German students Cedric had met in the Black Forest, who all spoke very good English and were very excited to meet her; Cedric had told them about playing Quidditch against her at Hogwarts, and everyone wanted to know what the Firebolt felt like, riding it. Their breakfast was already spread out on a picnic table covered with a red-and-white check tablecloth, a basket of brötchen, dishes of unsweetened yoghurt, muesli, platters of cold meats and pots of jam and marmalade and honey, and they were all eating on little cushions, and encouraged them to grab plates and help themselves. Hermes, who had been brought up by parents who spoke several languages, was trying out his German on several pretty witches who smiled and helped him when he couldn't find the right word; meanwhile Rhona was getting into an argument over the odds for the match with two good-looking wizards, one of whom was very tall and was looking at her with particular interest. One of the wizards Harriet was talking to had a Transylvanian aunt and gave her a blow-by-blow account of how abominably the English team had played against them, having been to see the match with his cousins.
When Cedric left to return to his father's tent, they joined him, thanking the German witches and wizards with the titbits of their language they had been told by Hermes to say 'thank you', grinning, and Cedric helped carry a few saucepans to the Weasleys' tent, but disappeared into his own before the twins could see him.
A.N.: Yes, Krum is now female! Otherwise how would I pair Hermes Granger with him/her! And the tall German who Rhona was talking to will be back!
