Lyla felt as though her head barely touched her pillow when she was suddenly being shaken awake by Mrs. Weasley.
"Time to go, dear," she whispered, moving away to wake Arabella.
It was still dark outside. Arabella muttered indistinctly as Mrs. Weasley roused her.
"'S' time already?" said Arabella groggily.
They dressed in silence, too sleepy to talk, then, yawning and stretching, the two of them headed downstairs into the kitchen.
Mrs. Weasley was stirring the contents of a large pot on the stove, while Mr. Weasley was sitting at the table, checking a sheaf of large parchment tickets. He looked up as the sisters entered and spread his arms so that they could see his clothes more clearly. He was wearing what appeared to be a golfing sweater and a very old pair of jeans, slightly too big for him and held up with a thick leather belt.
"What do you think?" he asked anxiously. "We're supposed to go incognito— do I look like a Muggle?"
"Yeah," said Arabella, smiling, "very good."
Ron, Fred, and George entered then, all looking extremely disgruntled.
"Where're Bill, Charlie, and Per-Per-Percy?" managed George, failing to stifle a huge yawn.
"Well, they're Apparating, aren't they?" said Mrs. Weasley, heaving the large pot over to the table and starting to ladle porridge into bowls. "So they can have a bit of a lie-in."
Lyla knew that Apparating meant disappearing from one place and reappearing almost instantly in another, but had never known any Hogwarts student to do it, and understood that it was very difficult.
"So they're still in bed?" said Ron grumpily, pulling a bowl of porridge toward him. "Why can't we Apparate too?"
"Because you're not of age and you haven't passed your test!" snapped Mrs. Weasley. "And where have those girls got to?"
She bustled out of the kitchen and they heard her climbing the stairs.
"You have to pass a test to Apparate?" Arabella asked.
"Oh yes," said Mr. Weasley, tucking the tickets safely into the back pocket of his jeans. "The Department of Magical Transportation had to fine a couple of people the other day for Apparating without a license. It's not easy, Apparition, and when it's not done properly, it can lead to nasty complications. This pair I'm talking about went and splinched themselves."
Everyone around the table winced except Arabella or her sister.
"Er - splinched?" asked Lyla hesitantly.
"They left half of themselves behind," said Mr. Weasley, now spooning large amounts of treacle onto his porridge. "So, of course, they were stuck. Couldn't move either way. Had to wait for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad to sort them out. Meant a fair old bit of paperwork, I can tell you, what with the Muggles who spotted the body parts they'd left behind..."
"Were they okay?" Arabella asked, startled.
"Oh yes," said Mr. Weasley matter-of-factly. "But they got a heavy fine, and I don't think they'll be trying it again in a hurry. You don't mess around with Apparition. There are plenty of adult wizards who don't bother with it. Prefer brooms— slower, but safer."
"But Bill, Charlie, and Percy can all do it?"
"Charlie had to take the test twice," said Fred, grinning. "He failed the first time. Apparated five miles south of where he meant to, right on top of some poor old dear doing her shopping, remember?"
"Yes, well, he passed the second time," said Mrs. Weasley, marching back into the kitchen amid hearty sniggers.
"Percy only passed two weeks ago," said George darkly. "He's been Apparating downstairs every morning since, just to prove he can."
There were footsteps down the passageway and Hermione and Ginny came into the kitchen, both looking pale and drowsy.
"Why do we have to be up so early?" Ginny said, rubbing her eyes and sitting down at the table.
"We've got a bit of a walk," said Mr. Weasley.
"Walk?" said Arabella. "What, are we walking to the World Cup?"
"No, no, that's miles away," said Mr. Weasley, smiling. "We only need to walk a short way. It's just that it's very difficult for a large number of wizards to congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We have to be very careful about how we travel at the best of times, and on a huge occasion like the Quidditch World Cup..."
"George!" said Mrs. Weasley sharply, and they all jumped.
"What?" said George, in an innocent tone that deceived nobody.
"What is that in your pocket?"
"Nothing!"
"Don't you lie to me!"
Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at George's pocket and said, "Accio!"
Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of George's pocket; he made a grab for them but missed, and they sped right into Mrs. Weasley's outstretched hand.
"We told you to destroy them!" shouted Mrs. Weasley furiously, holding up what were unmistakably more Ton-Tongue Toffees. "We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!"
It was an unpleasant scene; the boys had evidently been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the house as possible, and it was only by using her Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley managed to find them all.
"Accio! Accio! Accio!" she shouted, and toffees zoomed from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining of George's jacket and the turn-ups of Fred's jeans.
"We spent six months developing those!" George shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away.
"Oh a fine way to spend six months!" she shrieked. "No wonder you didn't get more O.W.L.s!"
All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as they took their departure. Mrs. Weasley was still glowering as she kissed Mr. Weasley on the cheek, though not nearly as much as the twins, who had each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and walked out without a word to her.
"Well, have a lovely time," said Mrs. Weasley, "and behave yourselves!" she called after the twins' retreating backs, but they did not look back or answer. "I'll send the others along around midday," Mrs. Weasley said to Mr. Weasley, as he, Lyla, Arabella, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny set off across the dark yard after Fred and George.
It was chilly and the moon was still out. Only a dull, greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed that daybreak was drawing closer. Lyla, having been thinking about thousands of wizards speeding toward the Quidditch World Cup, sped up to walk with Mr. Weasley.
"So how does everyone get there without all the Muggles noticing?" she asked.
"It's been a massive organizational problem," sighed Mr. Weasley. "The trouble is, about a hundred thousand wizards turn up at the World Cup, and of course, we just haven't got a magical site big enough to accommodate them all. There are places Muggles can't penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred thousand wizards into Diagon Alley or platform nine and three-quarters. So we had to find a nice deserted moor and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as possible. The whole Ministry's been working on it for months. First, of course, we have to stagger the arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to arrive two weeks beforehand. A limited number use Muggle transport, but we can't have too many clogging up their buses and trains - remember, wizards are coming from all over the world. Some Apparate, of course, but we have to set up safe points for them to appear, well away from Muggles. I believe there's a handy wood they're using as the Apparition point. For those who don't want to Apparate, or can't, we use Portkeys. They're objects that are used to transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time. You can do large groups at a time if you need to. There have been two hundred Portkeys placed at strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that's where we're headed."
Mr. Weasley pointed ahead of them, where a large black mass rose beyond the village of Ottery St. Catchpole.
"What sort of objects are Portkeys?" said Lyla curiously.
"Well, they can be anything," said Mr. Weasley. "Unobtrusive things, obviously, so Muggles don't go picking them up and playing with them ... stuff they'll just think is litter..."
They trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the village, the silence only broken by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as they made their way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. Lyla's hands and feet were freezing. Mr. Weasley kept checking his watch.
They didn't have breath to spare for talking as they began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tuffets of grass. Each breath Harry took was sharp in his chest and his legs were starting to seize up when, at last, his feet found level ground.
"Whew," panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater. "Well, we've made good time - we've got ten minutes."
Hermione came over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side.
"Now we just need the Portkey," said Mr. Weasley, replacing his glasses and squinting around on the ground. "It won't be big...Come on..."
They spread out, searching. They had only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout rent the still air.
"Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we've got it!"
Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.
"Amos!" said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed.
Mr. Weasley was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand.
"This is Amos Diggory, everyone," said Mr. Weasley. "He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?"
Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around sixteen. He was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts and was currently beaming ear to ear at the sight of Arabella.
"Hi," said Cedric kindly, looking around at them all.
Everybody said hi back except Fred and George, who merely nodded. They had never quite forgiven Cedric for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first Quidditch match of the previous year.
"Long walk, Arthur?" Cedric's father asked.
"Not too bad," said Mr. Weasley. "We live just on the other side of the village there. You?"
"Had to get up at two, didn't we, Ced? I tell you, I'll be glad when he's got his Apparition test. Still ... not complaining ... Quidditch World Cup, wouldn't miss it for a sackful of Galleons - and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, it looks like I got off easy. . ."
Amos Diggory peered good-naturedly around the gaggle of teenagers.
"All these yours, Arthur?" he asked.
"Oh no," said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children. "This is Hermione, a friend of Ron's— and Arabella and Lyla, more friends— "
"Merlin's beard!" exclaimed Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. "The Potters? Arabella and Lyla Potter?"
"Yeah?" said Arabella awkwardly.
The two were used to people looking curiously at them when they first met, used to the way their eyes moved at once to the lightning scars on their forehead, but it always made them feel uncomfortable.
"Ced's talked about you, of course," said Amos with a twinkle in his eyes. "Told us all about playing against you last year... I said to him, I said - Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will... You beat Arabella Potter!"
Lyla could tell Arabella was at a loss for words, while Cedric flushed darkly with embarrassment. Fred and George were both scowling once again.
"She fell off her broom, Dad," he muttered. I told you ... it was an accident... It wasn't…"
"Yes, but you didn't fall off, did you?!" roared Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. "Always modest, our Ced, always the gentleman … but the best player won, I'm sure Arabella would say the same, wouldn't you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don't need to be a genius to tell which one's the better flier!"
"Must be nearly time," said Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again. "Do you know whether we're waiting for any more, Amos?"
"No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn't get tickets," said Mr. Diggory. "There aren't any more of us in this area, are there?"
"Not that I know of," said Mr. Weasley. "Yes, it's a minute off ... We'd better get ready..."
He looked around at Arabella, Lyla, and Hermione.
"You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all, a finger will do— "
With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the ten of them crowded around the old boot held out by Mr. Diggory.
They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke. It suddenly occurred to Lyla how odd this would look if a Muggle were to walk up here now ... ten people, two of them grown men, clutching this manky old boot in the semidarkness, waiting...
"Three. . ." muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, "two. . . one. . ."
It happened immediately: Lyla felt as though a hook just behind her navel had been suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. Her feet left the ground; she could feel Ron and Hermione on either side of her, their shoulders banging into hers; they were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling him magnetically onward and then— Her feet slammed into the ground; Ron staggered into her and he fell over; the Portkey hit the ground near her head with a heavy thud.
Dazed, Lyla looked up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric were still standing, though looking very windswept; everybody else was on the ground.
"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill," said a voice.
Arabella disentangled herself from George and Ginny and tried scrambling to her feet. Cedric held a hand out, a faint smirk dancing across his amused face.
"Need a hand?"
"Th-thanks," heaved Arabella as she was pulled upwards.
They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of the misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho.
"Morning, Basil," said Mr. Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Arabella could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.
"Hello there, Arthur," said Basil wearily. "Not on duty, eh? It's all right for some... We've been here all night... You'd better get out of the way, we've got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five fifteen. Hang on, I'll find your campsite... Weasley ... Weasley..." He consulted his parchment list. "About a quarter of a mile's walk over there, first field you come to. The site manager's called Mr. Roberts. Diggory ... second field ... ask for Mr. Payne."
"Thanks, Basil," said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned everyone to follow him.
The group of Weasley's and friends set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, Arabella could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon. They said goodbye to the Diggorys and approached the cottage door.
A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Arabella knew at a glance that this was the only real Muggle for several acres. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.
"Morning!" said Mr. Weasley brightly.
"Morning," said the Muggle.
"Would you be Mr. Roberts?"
"Aye, I would," said Mr. Roberts. "And who're you?"
"Weasley— two tents, booked a couple of days ago?"
"Aye," said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. "You've got a space up by the wood there. Just one night?"
"That's it," said Mr. Weasley.
"You'll be paying now, then?" said Mr. Roberts.
"Ah— right— certainly— " said Mr. Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Arabella toward him. "Help me," he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. "This one's a— a— a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now... So this is a five?"
"A twenty," she corrected him in an undertone, uncomfortably aware of Mr. Roberts trying to catch every word.
"Ah yes, so it is... I don't know, these little bits of paper..."
"You foreign?" said Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley returned with the correct notes.
"Foreign?" repeated Mr. Weasley, puzzled.
"You're not the first one who's had trouble with money," said Mr. Roberts, scrutinizing Mr. Weasley closely. "I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago."
"Did you really?" said Mr. Weasley nervously.
Mr. Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some change.
"Never been this crowded," he said suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. "Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up..."
"Is that right?" said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn't give it to him.
"Aye," he said thoughtfully. "People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There's a bloke walking 'round in a kilt and a poncho."
"Shouldn't he?" said Mr. Weasley anxiously
"It's like some sort of... I dunno ... like some sort of rally," said Mr. Roberts. "They all seem to know each other. Like a big party."
At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next to Mr. Roberts's front door.
"Obliviate!" he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts.
Instantly, Mr. Roberts's eyes slid out of focus, his brows unknitted, and a took of dreamy unconcern fell over his face. Arabella recognized the symptoms of one who had just had their memory modified.
"A map of the campsite for you," Mr. Roberts said placidly to Mr. Weasley. "And your change."
"Thanks very much," said Mr. Weasley.
The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr. Roberts, he muttered to Mr. Weasley, "Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman's not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security Blimey, I'll be glad when this is over. See you later, Arthur."
He Disapparated.
"I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports," said Ginny, looking surprised. "He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn't he?"
"He should," said Mr. Weasley, smiling, and leading them through the gates into the campsite, "but Ludo's always been a bit ... well . . . lax about security. You couldn't wish for a more enthusiastic head of the sports department though. He played Quidditch for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had."
They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible but had slipped up by adding chimneys, bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Arabella could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with a birdbath, sundial, and fountain.
"Always the same," said Mr. Weasley, smiling. "We can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us."
They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and there was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read WEEZLY.
"Couldn't have a better spot!" said Mr. Weasley happily. "The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we're as close as we could be." He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. "Right," he said excitedly, "no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we're out in these numbers on Muggle land. We'll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn't be too difficult... Muggles do it all the time... where do you reckon we should start?"
Together, with the help of Lyla and Hermione, the three managed to work out where most of the poles and pegs should go. Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than a help because he got thoroughly over-excited when it came to using the mallet. Finally, they managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents. All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to wizards, but the trouble was that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, they would be a party of ten. Hermione seemed to have spotted this problem too; she gave a quizzical look as Mr. Weasley dropped to his hands and knees and entered the first tent.
"We'll be a bit cramped," he called, "but I think we'll all squeeze in. Come and have a look."
Everyone bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and Arabella felt her jaw drop. She had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with a bathroom and kitchen.
"Well, it's not for long," said Mr. Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. "I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn't camp much anymore, poor fellow, he's got lumbago."
He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. "We'll need water...
"There's a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us," said Ron, who had followed everyone inside the tent and seemed completely unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. "It's on the other side of the field."
"Well, why don't you, Lyla and Arabella go and get us some water then—" Mr. Weasley handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans— "and the rest of us will get some wood for a fire?"
"But we've got an oven," said Ginny. "Why can't we just -"
"Ginny, anti-Muggle security!" said Mr. Weasley, his face shining with anticipation. "When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I've seen them at it!"
After a quick tour of the girls' tent, which was slightly smaller than the boys', Ron, Lyla, and Arabella set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.
Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on Arabella how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; she had never really thought much about those in other countries.
Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; Arabella had never seen witches and wizards this young before. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.
"How many times, Kevin? You don't— touch— Daddy's— wand— yecchh! "
She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them in the still air, mingling with the little boy's yells "— You bust slug! You bust slug!"
A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls' toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past the small group, he muttered distractedly, "In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose— "
Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn't work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: THE SALEM WITCHES' INSTITUTE. Arabella caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn't understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited.
"Er— is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?" asked Lyla.
It wasn't just Lyla's eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.
"Arabella! Ron! Lyla!"
It was Seamus Finnigan, a fellow fourth-year student who attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas.
"Like the decorations?" said Seamus, grinning. "The Ministry's not too happy."
"Ah, why shouldn't we show our colors?" said Mrs. Finnigan. "You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland, of course?" she added, eyeing the small group beadily.
When they had assured her that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again.
"Like we'd say anything else surrounded by that lot," said Ron with a fervent glance behind them.
"I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents," said Arabella.
"Let's go and have a look," said Lyla, pointing to a large patch of tents upfield, where the Bulgarian flag— white, green, and red— was fluttering in the breeze.
The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.
"Krum," said Ron quietly.
"What?" asked Lyla.
"Krum!" said Ron loudly. "Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!"
"He looks really grumpy," surveyed Arabella, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at them.
"'Really grumpy?" Ron raised his eyes to the heavens. "Who cares what he looks like?! He's unbelievable. He's really young too. Only just eighteen or something. He's a genius, you wait until tonight, you'll see."
There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. The group of three joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated argument. One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation.
"Just put them on, Archie, there's a good chap. You can't walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate's already getting suspicious—"
"I bought this in a Muggle shop," said the old wizard stubbornly. "Muggles wear them."
"Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these," said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers.
"I'm not putting them on," said old Archie in indignation. "I like a healthy breeze 'round my privates, thanks."
Arabella was overcome with such a strong fit of the giggles at this point that she had to duck out of the queue and only returned when Archie had collected his water and moved away.
Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, they made their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old captain of Arabella's House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged the three teenagers over to his own tent and introduced them to a middle-aged couple who looked to be his parents. As they eagerly greeted the famed Potter twins, a fourth dark figure shifted into view, and none other than the former captain of the Slytherin House's Quidditch team came into full focus. As casually as though he were reaching for a cup of tea, he slithered one of his large arms across the other boy's waist and pressed a soft kiss to the side of Oliver's face. It was the most gentle Lyla had seen the boy ever be, and she felt absolutely stunned to witness such affection from him.
"Surprised?" Marcus Flint chortled.
"Anyways," Oliver said, flushing. "I've just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team. And Marcus just got signed to West Ham two weeks ago!"
Next, they were hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang with Cedric, who both waved wildly as the group passed by. Arabella, forgetting she was holding the kettle, slopping quite a lot of water down her front as she waved back. More to stop Lyla from smirking than anything, Arabella hurriedly pointed out a large group of teenagers whom she had never seen before.
"Who do you reckon they are?" she asked. "They don't go to Hogwarts, do they?"
"'Spect they go to some foreign school," said Ron. "I know there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Bill had a penfriend at a school in Brazil ... this was years and years ago ... and he wanted to go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn't afford it. His penfriend got all offended when he said he wasn't going and sent him a cursed hat. It made his ears shrivel up."
Lyla laughed but didn't voice the amazement she felt at hearing about other wizarding schools. She supposed, now that she saw representatives of so many nationalities in the campsite, that she had been stupid never to realize that Hogwarts couldn't be the only one.
"You've been ages," griped George when they finally got back to the Weasleys' tents.
"Met a few people," said Ron, setting the water down. "You've not got that fire started yet?"
"Dad's having fun with the matches," said Fred in a low voice.
Mr. Weasley was having no success at all in lighting the fire, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Splintered matches littered the ground around him, but he looked as though he was having the time of his life.
"Oops!" he said as he managed to light a match and promptly dropped it in surprise.
"Come here, Mr. Weasley," said Arabella, taking the box from him, and showing him how to do it properly.
At last, they got the fire lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr. Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for the sisters and Hermione's benefit; his own children knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested.
"That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office... Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he's with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he's had those horns for a while now... Hello, Arnie ... Arnold Peasegood, he's an Obliviator - member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know... and that's Bode and Croaker ... they're Unspeakables..."
"They're what?"
"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to..."
At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy came strolling out of the woods toward them.
"Just Apparated," said Percy loudly. "Ah, excellent, lunch!"
They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them.
"Aha!" he yelled. "The man of the moment! Ludo!"
Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person Lyla had seen so far, even including old Archie in his flowered nightdress. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.
"Ahoy there!" Bagman called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.
"Arthur, old man," he puffed as he reached the campfire, "what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming ... and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements... Not much for me to do!"
Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.
Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. His disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.
"Ah— yes," said Mr. Weasley, grinning. "This is my son Percy. He's just started at the Ministry— and this is Fred— no, George, sorry— that's Fred— Bill, Charlie, Ron— my daughter, Ginny and Ron's friends, Hermione Granger and Arabella and Lyla Potter."
Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he heard the Potters name, and his eyes performed the familiar flick upward.
"Everyone," Mr. Weasley continued, "this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it's thanks to him we've got such good tickets—"
Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it had been nothing.
"Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?" he said eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. "I've already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first— I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland's front three are the strongest I've seen in years— and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a weeklong match."
"Oh ... go on then," said Mr. Weasley. "Let's see ... a Galleon in Ireland to win?"
"A Galleon?" Ludo Bagman looked slightly disappointed but recovered himself. "Very well, very well ... any other takers?"
"They're a bit young to be gambling," said Mr. Weasley. "Molly wouldn't like—"
"We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts," said Fred as he and George quickly pooled all their money, "that Ireland wins— but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh, and we'll throw in a fake wand."
"You don't want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish like that," Percy hissed, but Bagman didn't seem to think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared with laughter.
"Excellent! I haven't seen one that convincing in years! I'd pay five Galleons for that!"
Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.
"Boys," said Mr. Weasley under his breath, "I don't want you betting... That's all your savings ... Your mother—"
"Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!" boomed Ludo Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. "They're old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum'll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance... I'll give you excellent odds on that one ... We'll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we..."
Mr. Weasley looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins' names.
"Cheers," said George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it away into the front of his robes. Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley.
"Couldn't do me a brew, I suppose? I'm keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number's making difficulties, and I can't understand a word he's saying. Barty'll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages."
"Mr. Crouch?" said Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. "He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll— "
"Anyone can speak Troll," said George dismissively. "All you have to do is point and grunt."
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