Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.
Chapter 5- Bagman and Crouch
With a groan I push myself to my feet offering a hand to Ariana, helping pull her to her feet as well. She thanks me quietly brushing some dirt off of herself. We have arrived on what appears to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of us is a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom is holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both are dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch is wearing a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho. Despite my tiredness I manage to snicker at that.
"Morning, Basil," says Mr. Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who throws it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; I can see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.
"Hello there, Arthur," says 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 consults his parchment list. "About a quarter of a mile's walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager's called Mr. Roberts. Diggory . . . second field . . . ask for Mr. Payne."
"Thanks, Basil," says Mr. Weasley, and he beckons everyone to follow him. I make sure to grab hold of Ginny again, for she looks like she's about to fall back asleep on us again.
We 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 swims into view. Beyond it, I can just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field towards a dark wood on the horizon. We say good-bye to the Diggorys, and Ariana (who promises to meet up later) and approach the cottage door.
A man is standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. I know at a glance that this is the only real Muggle for several acres. When he hears our footsteps, he turns his head to look at us.
"Morning!" says Mr. Weasley brightly.
"Morning," replies 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 the one night?"
"That's it," said Mr. Weasley.
"You'll be paying now, then?" said Mr. Roberts.
"Ah — right — certainly —" says Mr. Weasley. He retreats a short distance from the cottage and beckons Harry towards him. "Help me, Harry," he mutters, 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," Harry corrects 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?" says Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley returns with the correct notes.
"Foreign?" repeats Mr. Weasley, puzzled.
"You're not the first one who's had trouble with money," says 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?" says Mr. Weasley nervously. Mr. Roberts rummages around in a tin for some change.
"Never been this crowded," he says suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. "Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up. . . ."
Oh no this isn't going to end well, this muggle is asking too many questions.
"Is that right?" says Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts doesn't give it to him.
"Aye," he says 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?" asks Mr. Weasley anxiously.
"It's like some sort of . . . I dunno . . . like some sort of rally," says Mr. Roberts. "They all seem to know each other. Like a big party."
At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appears out of thin air next to Mr. Roberts's front door.
"Obliviate!" he says sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts. Instantly, Mr. Roberts's eyes slide out of focus, his brows unknit, and a look of dreamy unconcern falls over his face. I recognize the symptoms of one who has just had his memory modified.
"A map of the campsite for you," Mr. Roberts says placidly to Mr. Weasley. "And your change."
"Thanks very much," says Mr. Weasley.
The wizard in plus-fours accompanies us towards the gate to the campsite. He looks exhausted: His chin is blue with stubble and there are deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr. Roberts, he mutters 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 Disapparates. "I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports," says Ginny, looking surprised. "He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn't he?"
"He should," says Mr. Weasley, smiling, and leading us 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."
We trudge up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most look almost ordinary; their owners have clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but have slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there is a tent so obviously magical that I can hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts is getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stands an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on we pass a tent that has three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that is a tent that has a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.
"This is ridiculous. I would think that being wizards and all we'd try and be inconspicuous as possible." I mutter. Hermione scoffs from beside me.
"The ego of all men is shocking, magical or not." She says.
"Always the same," says Mr. Weasley, smiling. "We can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us."
We have reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here is an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that reads WEEZLY. Can't even spell the name right.
"Couldn't have a better spot!" says Mr. Weasley happily. "The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we're as close as we could be." He hoists his backpack from his shoulders. "Right," he says 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. . . . Here, Harry, where do you reckon we should start?"
One look at the dumbfounded look on Harry's face tells me that we could be here for a while attempting to put this tent up. However, he and Hermione work out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr. Weasley is more of a hindrance than a help, because he gets thoroughly overexcited when it comes to using the mallet, we finally manage to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.
All of us stand back to admire our handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belong to wizards, but the trouble is that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, we will be a party of twelve.
Mr. Weasley drops to his hands and knees and enters the first tent. "We'll be a bit cramped," he calls, "but I think we'll all squeeze in. Come and have a look."
I bend down, duck under the tent flap, and feel my jaw drop. I have walked into what looks like an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it is furnished with crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats. Not the best but it will have to do.
"Well, it's not for long," says Mr. Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the five bunk beds that stand in the bedroom. "I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn't camp much anymore, poor fellow, he's got lumbago."
He picks up the dusty kettle and peers inside it. "We'll need water. . . ."
"There's a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us," says Ron, who has followed us inside the tent and seems completely unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. "It's on the other side of the field."
"Well, why don't you, Harry, Hermione, and Jamie go and get us some water then" — Mr. Weasley hands 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," says Ron. "Why can't we just —"
"Ron, anti-Muggle security!" says 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 is slightly smaller than the boys', though without the smell of cats (take that guys!), Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.
"You're dad is really into this whole muggle experience." I tell Ron slightly impressed.
"Tell me about it." Ron groans in response before muttering a few choice words under his breath.
Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, we can see the city of tents that stretch in every direction. We make our way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It seems to be only just dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards there are in the world.
Our fellow campers are starting to wake up. First to stir are the families with small children. A tiny boy no older than two is crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which is swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As we draw level with him, his mother comes hurrying out of the tent.
"How many times, Kevin? You don't — touch — Daddy's — wand — yecchh!"
She has trodden on the giant slug, which bursts. Her scolding carries after us on the still air, mingling with the little boy's yells — "You bust slug! You bust slug!"
A short way farther on, we see two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who are riding toy broomsticks that rise only high enough for the girls' toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard has already spotted them; as he hurries past Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me he mutters distractedly, "In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose —"
Here and there adult wizards and witches are emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjure fires with their wands; others are striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this can't work. Three African wizards sit in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looks like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sit gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that reads: THE SALEM WITCHES' INSTITUTE. I catch snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents we pass, and though I can't understand a word, the tone of every single voice is excited.
This is probably one of the most exciting days of my life! I can't wait for the match! "Er — is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?" says Ron.
It isn't just Ron's eyes. We have walked into a patch of tents that are all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looks as though small, oddly shaped hillocks have sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces can be seen under those that have their flaps open. Then, from behind us, we hear our names.
"Harry! Ron! Jamie! Hermione!"
It is Seamus Finnigan, our fellow Gryffindor fourth year. He is sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who has to be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas, also of Gryffindor.
"Like the decorations?" says Seamus, grinning. "The Ministry's not too happy."
"Ah, why shouldn't we show our colors?" says Mrs. Finnigan. "You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland, of course?" she adds, eyeing us beadily.
When we have assured her that we are indeed supporting Ireland, we set off again, though, as I say, "Like we'd say anything else surrounded by that lot."
"I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?" says Hermione.
"Let's go and have a look," says Harry, pointing to a large patch of tents upfield, where the Bulgarian flag — white, green, and red — is fluttering in the breeze.
The tents here are not bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them has the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture is, of course, moving, but all it does is blink and scowl. I know exactly who that person is.
"Krum," says Ron quietly.
"What?" asks Hermione.
"Krum!" I explain. "Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!"
"He looks really grumpy," responds Hermione, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at us.
"Well that he is." I give her.
"'Really grumpy'?" Ron raises 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 is already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I join it, right behind a pair of men who are having a heated argument. One of them is a very old wizard who is wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other is clearly a Ministry wizard; he is 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," says the old wizard stubbornly. "Muggles wear them."
"Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these," says the Ministry wizard, and he brandishes the pinstriped trousers. There's a chuckle from behind me and Ariana pops up on my shoulder.
"You'd think that adults would be smarter about all the Muggle stuff wouldn't you." She says amusedly. I grin at her not bothering to shake her arm off its perch on my shoulder.
"I'm not putting them on," says old Archie in indignation. "I like a healthy breeze 'round my privates, thanks."
Hermione, Ariana, and I are overcome with such a strong fit of the giggles at this point that we have to duck out of the queue and only return when Archie has collected his water and moved away. Ariana bids us farewell when her pot has been filled to the brim.
Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, we make our way back through the campsite. Here and there, we see more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old Captain of Harry's and my House Quidditch team, who has just left Hogwarts, drags Harry and I over to his parents' tent to introduce us, and told us excitedly that he has just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team.
"That's great Oliver! They're the best team in the business." I congratulate him thankful that my team has gotten another great Keeper on it.
Next we are hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on we see Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who plays Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waves and smiled at Harry, who slops quite a lot of water down his front as he waves back. I can't stop laughing at his misfortune. More to stop Ron and I from smirking than anything, Harry hurriedly points out a large group of teenagers whom we have never seen before.
"Who d'you reckon they are?" he says. "They don't go to Hogwarts, do they?"
"'Spect they go to some foreign school," says 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."
"A lot of foreign schools are good though." I tell Harry attempting to get back on subject.
"You've been ages," says George when we finally get back to the Weasleys' tents.
"Met a few people," I say, setting the water down. "You not got that fire started yet?"
"Dad's having fun with the matches," says Fred.
Mr. Weasley is in fact having no success at all in lighting the fire, but it isn't for lack of trying. Splintered matches litter the ground around him, but he looks as though he is having the time of his life.
"Oops!" he cries as he manages to light a match and promptly drops it in surprise.
"Come here, Mr. Weasley," says Hermione kindly, taking the box from him, and showing him how to do it properly. I watch with wide eyes at the process. Hermione smiles when she realizes how intrigued I am.
"I forget that you know nothing of the Muggle world Jamie. Take Muggle Studies." She tells me ushering me closer to them.
At last we get the fire lit, though it is at least another hour before it is hot enough to cook anything. There is plenty to watch while we wait, however. Our tent seems to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members keep hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as we pass. Mr. Weasley keeps up a running commentary, mainly for Harry's and Hermione's benefit; his own children, Luka and I, know 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?" Harry and Hermione ask.
"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to. . . ."
At last, the fire is ready, and we have just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy come strolling out of the woods towards us. Ugh, I really could have done with some time without Percy.
"Just Apparated, Dad," says Percy loudly. "Ah, excellent, lunch!"
We are halfway through our plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley jumps to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who is striding toward us. "Aha!" he says. "The man of the moment! Ludo!"
Ludo Bagman is easily the most noticeable person I have seen so far, even including old Archie in his flowered nightdress. He is wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp is splashed across his chest. He has the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes are stretched tightly across a large belly he surely did not have in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose is squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion makes him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.
"Someone is stuck reliving his glory days." Luka whispers to me, and I nod my head slightly in agreement. No need to draw his attention on us.
"Ahoy there!" Bagman calls happily. He is walking as though he has springs attached to the balls of his feet and is plainly in a state of wild excitement.
"Arthur, old man," he puffs as he reaches 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 rush past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that is sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air. He really is a special sort of ignorant.
Percy hurries forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman runs his department does not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.
"Ah — yes," says 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 — Jamie and Luka Pendragon who I'm guardian to— and Ron's friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter."
Bagman does the smallest of double takes when he hears Luka's and my name, but even more so at Harry's name, and his eyes perform the familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry's forehead.
"Everyone," Mr. Weasley continues, "this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it's thanks to him we've got such good tickets —"
Bagman beams and waves his hand as if to say it had been nothing. "Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?" he says eagerly, jingling what seems 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 week-long match."
Suddenly I'm pulled back by two sets of hands. I look at Fred and George questioningly. "You brought coin with you correct?" Fred asks me in a hushed voice. I nod my head slowly in agreement.
"Well we're going to place a bet and we need some help. Just think, when we win of all the pranking products that we can make." George tells me grinning. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. I had taken quite a bit of money with me for souvenirs.
"How much?" I ask them. Fred and George share a quick look.
"Fifteen galleons." They say together. I level a long stare at them then sigh. I dig down into my pocket for my money bag. I open it, and count out fifteen out of the twenty galleons that I have. I place them into Fred's hand.
"You better win." I tell them seriously, before turning back and paying attention to the conversation again.
"Oh . . . go on then," says Mr. Weasley. "Let's see . . . a Galleon on Ireland to win?"
"A Galleon?" Ludo Bagman looks slightly disappointed, but recovers himself. "Very well, very well . . . any other takers?"
"They're a bit young to be gambling," says Mr. Weasley. "Molly wouldn't like —"
"We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts," says Fred as he and George quickly pool all their money and mine, "that Ireland wins — but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh and we'll throw in a fake wand."
Oh boy, those idiots better know what they're doing. "You don't want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish like that —" Percy hisses, but Bagman doesn't seem to think the wand is rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shines with excitement as he takes it from Fred, and when the wand gives a loud squawk and turns into a rubber chicken, Bagman roars with laughter.
"Excellent! I haven't seen one that convincing in years! I'd pay five Galleons for that!" Percy freezes in an attitude of stunned disapproval.
"Boys," says Mr. Weasley under his breath, "I don't want you betting. . . . That's all your savings plus more, where did you get it. . . . Your mother —"
"Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!" booms 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 looks on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whips out a notebook and quill and begins jotting down the twins' names.
"Cheers," says George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman hands him and tucking it away carefully. Bagman turns 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?" says 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," says Fred dismissively. "All you have to do is point and grunt." I snicker at that, he's not wrong you know.
Percy throws Fred an extremely nasty look and stokes the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil.
"Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?" Mr. Weasley asks as Bagman settles himself down on the grass beside us all.
"Not a dicky bird," says Bagman comfortably. "But she'll turn up. Poor old Bertha . . . memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She'll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it's still July."
"You don't think it might be time to send someone to look for her?" Mr. Weasley suggests tentatively as Percy hands Bagman his tea. I lean in closer to Luka and tap his leg to get his attention.
"When we become of age, you're dealing with all the politics. I want nothing to do with it." I whisper firmly. Luka gives me a hard look but nods his head nonetheless. I don't mistake the look of excitement in his eye. If either of the last Pendragons is made for politics and wizarding bull its Luka.
"Barty Crouch keeps saying that," says Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, "but we really can't spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil! Barty!"
A wizard has just Apparated at our fireside, and he can not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch is a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short gray hair is almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looks as though he trims it using a slide rule. His shoes are very highly polished. I can now see at once why Percy idolizes him.
I wouldn't be surprised if there is a poster of him hanging up in his room. Percy is a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr. Crouch has complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that he could pass for a bank manager. At least, that's what Harry whispers to us with a firm nod of approval from Hermione.
"Pull up a bit of grass, Barty," says Ludo brightly, patting the ground beside him.
"No thank you, Ludo," says Crouch, and there is a bite of impatience in his voice. "I've been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box."
"Oh is that what they're after?" says Bagman. "I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent." Okay, he's incredibly lax on practically everything, but I have to say that I like Bagman very much.
"Mr. Crouch!" says Percy breathlessly, sunk into a kind of half-bow that makes him look like a hunchback. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Oh," says Mr. Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild surprise. "Yes — thank you, Weatherby."
Fred and George choke into their own cups, while I start coughing violently, my tea having gone down the wrong pipe. Percy, very pink around the ears, busies himself with the kettle. Wow he doesn't even know his last name!
"Oh and I've been wanting a word with you too, Arthur," says Mr. Crouch, his sharp eyes falling upon Mr. Weasley. "Ali Bashir's on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets."
Mr. Weasley heaves a deep sigh. "I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I've told him once I've told him a hundred times: Carpets are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?"
"I doubt it," says Mr. Crouch, accepting a cup from Percy. "He's desperate to export here."
Okay there is no way that I'm getting a job at the ministry when I'm older. There's too much diplomacy, politics, and head bashing to deal with there. Not a place for a restless Jamie to flourish no siree!
"Well, they'll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?" says Bagman.
"Ali thinks there's a niche in the market for a family vehicle," says Mr. Crouch. "I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve — but that was before carpets were banned, of course."
He speaks as though he wants to leave nobody in any doubt that all his ancestors had abided strictly by the law.
"So, been keeping busy, Barty?" asks Bagman breezily.
"Fairly," says Mr. Crouch dryly. "Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo."
"I expect you'll both be glad when this is over?" says Mr. Weasley. Ludo Bagman looks shocked.
"Glad! Don't know when I've had more fun. . . . Still, it's not as though we haven't got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?"
Mr. Crouch raises his eyebrows at Bagman.
"We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details —"
"Oh details!" says Bagman, waving the word away like a cloud of midges. "They've signed, haven't they? They've agreed, haven't they? I bet you anything these kids'll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it's happening at Hogwarts —" What's happening at Hogwarts?
"Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know," snaps Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman's remarks short. "Thank you for the tea, Weatherby."
He pushes his undrunk tea back at Percy and waits for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggles to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.
"See you all later!" he says. "You'll be up in the Top Box with me — I'm commentating!" He waves, Barty Crouch nods curtly, and both of them Disapparate. Well I'm going to miss Bagman's interesting conversation.
"What's happening at Hogwarts, Dad?" says Fred at once. "What were they talking about?"
"You'll find out soon enough," says Mr. Weasley, smiling.
"It's classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it," says Percy stiffly. "Mr. Crouch was quite right not to disclose it." I immediately glower at him.
"Oh shut up, Weatherby," says Fred. I laugh out loud at that only blushing and looking repentant when Mr. Weasley sends a stern look my way.
A sense of excitement rises like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wears on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seems to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spreads like a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last vestiges of pretense disappear: The Ministry seems to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.
My excitement level is through the roof right now. "Honestly Jamie its like you've drunk an entire pot of coffee!" Hermione exclaims. I just tilt my head at her blankly and she sighs in defeat, while Ginny giggles at us.
Salesmen are Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There are luminous rosettes — green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria — which are squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roar, flags from both countries that play their national anthems as they are waved; there are tiny models of Firebolts that really fly, and collectible figures of famous players, which stroll across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.
I am so glad that I have money still in which to buy stuff! "Been saving my pocket money all summer for this," Ron tells Harry, Hermione, and I as we stroll through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Though Ron purchases a dancing shamrock hat and a large green rosette, he also buys a small figure of Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walks backward and forward over Ron's hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him.
I buy dancing Shamrock hats for Harry, Hermione, and Ginny as well so that we each have something to commemorate this event.
"Wow, look at these!" says Harry, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looks like brass binoculars, except that they are covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials.
"Omnioculars," says the saleswizard eagerly. "You can replay action . . . slow everything down . . . and they flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. Bargain — ten Galleons each."
Whoa those are wicked, but I don't have enough money, and Luka gives me an 'over my cold dead body' look about borrowing from him, which looks less malevolent because of the dancing hat atop his head.
"Wish I hadn't bought this now," says Ron, gesturing at his dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at the Omnioculars.
"Four pairs," says Harry firmly to the wizard.
"No — don't bother," says Ron, going red. He is always touchy about the fact that Harry, who has inherited a small fortune from his parents, has much more money than he does.
"Harry I have my own money. You don't have to do this." I tell him.
"You won't be getting anything for Christmas," Harry tells Ron, thrusting Omnioculars into his Hermione's, and my hands. "For about ten years, mind. And Jamie if you want pay me back later." Harry says.
"Fair enough," says Ron, grinning. I glower at my friend.
"Expect reimbursement later." I tell him sourly.
"Oooh, thanks, Harry," says Hermione. "And I'll get us some programs, look —"
Our money bags considerably lighter, we go back to the tents. Bill, and Charlie are sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Weasley is carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George have no souvenirs as they have given Bagman all their gold and a lot of mine.
And then a deep, booming gong sounds somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blaze into life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.
"It's time!" says Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. "Come on, let's go!"
I literally start bouncing with excitement grabbing both Ginny and Hermione by the hand and bouncing along the path behind the boys and Mr. Weasley. This is going to be one heck of a game I can just feel it!