Chapter 6
Baxter and Clutch
KIARA
I disentangled myself from Chrissie and got to my feet. We had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of us were a pair of tired and grumpy-looking witches, one of whom held a large gold watch, and the other held a thick role of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly; the woman with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; her colleague, a skirt and cardigan.
"Morning, Babs," said Mr Dawson, picking up the Frisbee and handing it to the skirted witch, who threw it into a large box of Portkeys beside her; I saw an old newspaper, and empty drinks can and a punctured football.
"Hello there, Matthew," said the woman called Babs 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 Brown Forest at fifteen. Hang on, I'll find your campsite ... Dawson ... Dawson ..." She consulted her parchment list. "About a quarter of a mile's walk over there, first field you come to. Site manageress is called Mrs Simm. Diggs ... seconds field ... ask for Mrs Pawn."
"Thanks, Babs," said Mr Dawson, and he beckoned us to follow him.
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 swam into view. Beyond it I could 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 said goodbye to the Diggs, and approached the cottage door.
A woman stood in the doorway, looking out at the tents. I knew at a glance that this was the only real Muggle for several acres. When she heard our footsteps, she turned her head to look at us.
"Morning," said Mr Dawson brightly.
"Morning," said the Muggle.
"Would you be Mrs Simm?"
"Aye," said Mrs Simm, consulting to a list tacked to the door. "You've got a space just by the wood there. Just the one night?"
"That's it," said Mr Dawson.
"You'll be paying now, then?" said Mrs Simm.
"Ah - right - certainly," said Mr Dawson. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned me towards him. "Help me, Kiara. I'm not up with Muggle money, not like my kids are, you see," he muttered, as he pulled a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and started 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," I corrected in an undertone, uncomfortably aware of Mrs Simm trying to catch every word.
"Ah, yes, so it is ... I don't know, these little bits of paper ..."
"You foreign?" said Mrs Simm, as Mr Dawson gave her the correct notes.
"Foreign?" repeated Mr Dawson, puzzled.
"You're not the first one who's had trouble with money," said Mrs Simm, scrutinising Mr Dawson closely. "I had two trying to pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago."
"Did you really?" said Mr Dawson nervously.
Mrs Simm rummaged around in a tin for some change.
"Never been this crowded," she said suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. "Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up ..."
"Is that right?" said Mr Dawson, his hand held out for his change, but Mrs Simm didn't give it to him.
"Aye," she said thorughtfully. "People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There's a lass walking round in a skirt and a cardigan."
"Shouldn't she?" said Mr Dawson nervously.
"It's like some sort of ... I dunno ... like some sort of rally," said Mrs Simm. "They all seem to know each other. Like a big party."
At that moment, a witch in a beach dress appeared out of thin air next to Mrs Simm's front door.
"Obliviate!" she said sharply, pointing her wand at Mrs Simm.
Instantly, Mrs Simm's eyes slid out of focus, her brows unknitted and a look of dreamy unconcern fell over her face. I recognised the symptoms as those of one who had just had her memory modified.
"A map of the campsite for you," said Mrs Simm placidly to Mr Dawson. "And your change."
"Thanks very much," said Mr Dawson.
The witch in the beach dress accompanied us towards the gate to the campsite. She looked exhausted; there were deep purple shadows under her eyes. Once out of earshot of Mrs Simm, she muttered to Mr Dawson, "Been having a lot of trouble with her. Needs a memory Charm ten times a day to keep her happy. And Lynn Baxter's not helping. Trotting around, talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of her voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security. Jessh, I'll be glad when this is over. See you later, Matt."
She disappeared.
"I thought Miss Baxter was head of Magical Games and Sports?" said Chris, looking surprised. "She should know better than to talk about Bludgers at the top of her voice, shouldn't she?"
"She should," said Mr Dawson, smiling, as he led us through the gate into the campsite, "but Lynn's always been a bit ... well ... lax about security. You couldn't wish for a more enthusiastic Head of the Sports Department, though she played Quidditch for England herself, you know. And she was the best Beater Lancashire ever had."
We 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, or bell-pulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that I was hardly surprised that Mrs Simms was suspicious. Halfway up the field stood one extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered to the entrance. A little further on we passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent which had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial and fountain.
"Always the same," said Mr Dawson, smiling, "we can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are. Look, this is us."
We 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 "Doorson".
"Couldn't have a better spot!" said Mr Dawson happily. "The pitch 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 ... here, Kiara, where do you reckon we should start?"
I had never been camping before in my life; my grandmothers had never taken me, always preferring the comforts of home to the great outdoors. It was a good thing Sian was with us, for she had bought a book a couple of days before this event, which was a self-help guide to putting up a tent; so she, myself and Mr Dawson worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go - with reference to the book, of course - and though Mr Dawson was more of a hindrance than a help, because he got thoroughly over-excited when it came to using the mallet, we finally managed to erect a pair of shabby, three-man tents.
The three of us stood back to admire our handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would've guessed they belonged to wizards, I thought, but as there was so many of us and Sam, Kat and Perdy would be joining us soon - we would be a party of eighteen. I turned to Sian, who smiled at my surprise as she said to me, "Don't worry, Kiara. They may look small on the outside, but on the inside they're much bigger and comfortable."
"Are you sure about that?" I asked her, quite sceptical at this point.
"Positive," Sian replied, as she turned to her father, who had dropped onto his hands and knees and entered the first tent. "What do you think, Dad?"
"Well, we'll be a bit cramped," he called, "but I think we'll all squeeze in. Come and have a look."
I bent down under the tent flap, and felt my jaw drop when I looked around. I had wlaked into what looked like an old-fashioned three-roomed flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mr Figgs; there were crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs, and a strong smell of cats hung in the air. This tent was the biggest of the three, so this was for Sian, Chrissie, Beth, Kestrel, Merida and I.
"Well, it's not for long," said Mr Dawson, mopping his brow on the back of his hand and peering in as the three bunk beds that stood in each of the bedrooms. "I borrowed this from Wiggins at the office. Doesn't camp much anymore, poor woman. She'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 Chrissie, who had followed me inside the tent, and seemed far less impressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. "It's on the other side of the field."
"Well, why don't you, Kiara, Sian and Chris go and get us some water then - " Mr Dawson handed us the kettle and some saucepans, " - and the rest of us will get some wood for a fire."
"But we've got an oven," said Chris, who had just entered and had been given a saucepan by Sian, "why can't we just - ?"
"Anti-Muggle security, Christopher!" sighed Sian. "Besides, when Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors, like we've seen on TV. Ain't that right, Dad?"
"That's right," he said, nodding at his eldest child in appreciation.
After a quick tour of the boys' and the other girls' tent, which were both slightly smaller than the first girls' tent, though neither had the smell of cats, Chris, Sian, Chrissie and I set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.
With the mist clearing and the light of the newly risen sun working in our favour, we saw the city of tents that stretched in every direction. We made our way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on me how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; I had never given much thought about other countries until that moment (after all, it's called the "wizarding world" for a reason).
Our fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; I had never seen witches and wizards this young before this moment. A tiny girl, no older than two, was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a snail in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As we drew level with her, her father came hurrying out of the tent.
"How many times, Keira? You don't - touch - Mummy's - wand - yeuch!
He had trodden on the giant snail, which burst. His scolding carried after us on the still air, mingling with the little girl's yells - "You bust snail! You bust snail!"
A short way further on, we saw two little wizards, barley older than Keira, who were riding toy broomsticks witch rose only high enough for the boys' toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry witch had already spotted them; as she hurried past Chris, Sian, Chrissie and I, she muttered distractedly, "In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose - "
Here and there, adult witches and wizards were emerging from their tents and were 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 it couldn't work. As we passed three African wizards who were sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, they stopped as they saw me, stood up and bowed. At the time, I thought this was strange behaviour - remember, I didn't know then that I was a Princess - but I politely curtsied to them and walked on. When I turned my head back round to look at them after we had walked a little further on, they were glancing at me and talking very excitedly about me. A group of middle-aged African-American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner that stretched between their tents which read: The African-American Witches Institute. I caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents we passed, and even though none of us understood a single word, the tone of every single voice sounded excited.
"Er - is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?" said Chrissie.
It wasn't just Chrissie's eyes. We 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 which had their flaps open. Then, from behind us, we heard our names.
"Kiara! Chris! Sian! Chrissie!"
It was Zara Finn, our fellow Lion-Heart fourth-year. She was sitting outside her own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired man who had to be her father, and her best friend, Dean Wright, also a Lion-Heart.
"Like the decorations?" said Zara, grinning, when Chris, Sian, Chrissie and I had gone over to say hello. "The Ministry's not too happy."
"Ah, why shouldn't we show our colours?" said Mr Finn. "you should see what the South Africans have over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland, of course?" he added, eyeing Chris, Sian, Chrissie and I beadily.
When we assured him that we were indeed supporting Ireland, we set off again, though, as Chris said, "Like we'd say anything else surrounded by that lot."
"I wonder what the South Africans have got dangling over their tents?" said Sian.
"Let's go and have a look," I said, pointing to a large patch of tents upfield, where the South African flag fluttered in the breeze.
The tents there 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 and a scar that ran down over his left eyebrow and cheek, but missed his eyelid. The picture moved, of course, but all it did was blink and scowl.
"Outsider," said Sian quietly.
"Who?" I said, confused.
"Outsider!" said Sian. "The Kovu Outsider, the South African Seeker! My goodness, Kiara, even I thought that, seeing as you like Quidditch so much, that you of all people would know that! I mean, I don't follow Quidditch much, but even I know who he is!"
"He looks really grumpy," I said, looking around at the many Outsiders that were blinking and scowling at us.
" "Really Grumpy"?" Chrissie raised her 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 just wait until tonight, you'll see."
There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Chris, Sian, Chrissie and I joined it, right behind a pair of witches who were having a heated argument. One of them was a very old witch who wore a long nightshirt. the other was clearly a Ministry witch; she held out a pair of jeans and was almost crying with exasperation.
"Just put them on, Adella, my good friend. 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 witch stubbornly. "Muggles wear them."
"Muggle men wear them, Adella, not the women, they wear these," said the Ministry witch, and she brandished the jeans.
"I'm not putting them on," said old Adella in indignation. "I like a healthy breeze around my private parts."
Chris was overcome with such a strong fit of giggles at this point that he had to duck out of the queue, and only returned when Adella had collected her water and moved away again.
After we collected our water, we made our way back through the campsite, but we moved a lot more slowly because of the weight of the water. Here and there we saw more familiar faces: other Dragon Mort students and their families, such as Olivia Cane, the old Lion-Heart captain of my house Quidditch team, who had just left Dragon Mort (that year), who dragged me over to her parents' tent to introduce me, and told me excitedly that she had just been assigned to the Puddlemere United reserve team. Next, we were hailed by Emily Mack, a Badger-Stripes fourth-year, and a little further on we saw Khan Chan, a very handsome boy who played Seeker on the Raven-Wings team. He waved and smiled at me, which made me slop quite a lot of water down my front as I waved back, and both these things - spotting Khan and slopping water down my front - made me blush. More to stop Chrissie smirking and Chris, who was for some reason scowling at the sky, I hurriedly pointed out a large group of teenagers who I had never seen before.
"Who d'you reckon they are?" I said. "They don't go to Dragon Mort, do they?"
"'Spect they go to some foreign school," said Chrissie. "I know there are others, never met anyone who went to one, though. Sam had a pen-friend at school who lived in Australia ... this was years and years ago ... and she wanted to go on an exchange trip, but Aunt Pam couldn't afford it. Her pen-friend got all offended when she said she wasn't going and sent her a cursed ring. It left the skin on her left hand flaky and the dead skin fell off."
I laughed, but didn't voice the amazement I felt at hearing about other wizarding schools. I suppose, seeing as I saw so many representatives of so many nationalities in the campsite, that I had been really naïve to never realise that Dragon Mort wasn't the only one. I glanced at Chris and Sian, both of whom looked utterly unsurprised by the information. No doubt Crighton had told Sian, and she passed the information over to Chris, Chrissie and the rest of her siblings.
"You've been ages," said Tanya, when we finally got back to the Dawsons' tents.
"Met a few people," said Chris, setting the water down. "You not got that fire started yet?"
"Uncle Matt's having fun with the matches," said Geri.
Mr Dawson 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.
"Ooops!" he said, as he managed to light a match, and promptly dropped it in surprise.
"Give them here, Dad," said Sian kindly, taking the box from him and showing him how to do it properly.
At last, we got the fire lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything on. there was plenty to watch while we waited, however. Our tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the pitch, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr Dawson cordially as they passed. Mr Dawson kept up a running commentary for my benefit, seeing as his own children - including Tanya and Geri - knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested.
"That was Cinders Mocks, head of the Goblin Liaison Office ... here comes Gillian Winders, she's with the Committee for Experimental Charms, she's had those whiskers for a while now ... Hello, Abbie ... Abbigail Appease, she's an Obliviator - a member of the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad, you know ... and that's Dread and Bombs ... 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 we had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Kat, Sam and Perdy strolled out of the woods towards us.
"Just Apparated, Uncle Matt!" said Perdy loudly. "Ah, excellent, lunch!"
We were halfway through our plates of sausages and eggs when Mr Dawson jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a woman who strode towards us. "Aha!" he said. "Just the woman! Lynn!"
Lynn Baxter was easily the most noticeable person I had seen so far that day, and that included old Adella in her nightshirt. She wore long white Quidditch robes with a great red rose splashed across them. She had the look of a willowy woman gone to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly, which she surely had not had in the days when she had played Quidditch for England. Her nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, I thought), but her round blue eyes, long blonde hair and rosy complexion made her look like an overgrown schoolgirl.
"Ahoy there!" Baxter called happily. She walked as though she had springs attached to the balls of her feet, and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.
"Matt, old man," she puffed, as she 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 her, a group of Ministry witches rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that sent violet sparks twenty feet into the air.
Perdy hurried forwards with her hand outstretched. Apparently her disapproval of the way Lynn Baxter ran her department did not prevent her from wanting to make a good impression.
"Ah, yes," said Mr Dawson, grinning, "this is one of my nieces, Perdy, she's just started out at the Ministry - my other nieces, Sam, Kat, Geri - no, sorry, that's Geri - Tanya and my children, starting with my eldest, Sian - I know, before you say anything she looks a hell of a lot like her mother, Susan; she's heard that a lot herself and is getting quite bored of it - and my other children, Chrissie, Beth, Kestrel, Merida, Joe, and Jack, my adopted son, Chris, my two foster sons, Ben and Dave - and Chris, Sian and Chrissie's friend, Kiara Pride-Lander."
Baxter did the smallest of double-takes when she heard my name, and her eyes performed the familiar flick upwards to the scar on my forehead.
"Everyone," Mr Dawson continued, "this is Lynn Baxter, you know who she is, and it's thanks to her that we've got such good tickets - "
Baxter beamed and waved her hand, as if to say that it had been nothing.
"Fancy a flutter on the match, Matt?" she said eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of her white robes. "I've already got Rochelle Points betting me South Africa will score first - I offered her nice odds, considering Ireland's front three are the strongest I've seen in a long time - and little Agnes Lite has put up half shares on her snake farm on a week-long match."
"Oh ... go on then," said Mr Dawson. "Let's see ... ten Galleons on Ireland to win?"
"Ten Galleons?" said Baxter, nodding her head and writing Mr Dawson's bet in a small book. "All right, then ... any other takers?"
"They're a bit young to be gambling," said Mr Dawson. "Susan and Pam wouldn't like - "
"We'll bet fifty-seven Galleons, fifty Sickles and five Knuts," said Geri, as Tanya quickly pooled all their money, "that Ireland win - but Kovu Outsider gets the snitch. Oh, and we'll throw in a fake quill."
"You don't want to go showing Miss Baxter rubbish like that," Perdy hissed, but Baxter didn't seem to think the quill was rubbish at all; on the contrary, her girlish face shone with excitement as she took it from Geri, and when the quill gave a loud hiss and turned into a rubber snake, Baxter cackled with laughter.
"Excellent! I haven't seen one that convincing in years! I'd pay five Galleons for that!"
Perdy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.
"Girls," said Mr Dawson under his breath, "I don't want you betting ... that's all your savings ... your mother and aunt - "
"Don't be a spoilsport, Matt!" boomed Lynn Baxter, rattling her pockets excitedly. "They're old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Outsider will get the Snitch? Not a chance, girls, not a chance ... I'll give you excellent odds on that one ... we'll add five Galleons for the funny quill then, shall we ..."
Mr Dawson looked on hopelessly as Lynn Baxter whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins' names.
"Cheers," said Tanya, as she took the slip of parchment Baxter handed her and tucked it into the front left pocket of her jeans.
Baxter turned most cheerfully back to Mr Dawson. "Couldn't make us a brew, I suppose? I'm keeping an eye out for Bea Clutch. My South African opposite number's making difficulties and I can't understand a word she's saying. Bea'll be able to sort it all out. She speaks about a hundred and fifty languages.
"Mrs Clutch?" said Perdy, suddenly abandoning her look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhed with excitement. "She speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll ..."
"Anyone can speak Troll," said Geri dismissively, "all you have to do is point and grunt."
Perdy threw Geri an extremely nasty look, and stoked the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil.
"Any news of Bernard Jenkins yet, Lynn?" Mr Dawson asked, as Baxter settled herself down on the grass beside us all.
"Not a dickybird," said Baxter comfortably. "But he'll turn up. Poor old Bernard ... memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. He'll wander back into the office come time in October, thinking it's still July."
"You don't think it might be time to send someone to look for him?" Mr Dawson suggested tentatively, as Perdy handed Baxter her tea.
"Bea Clutch keeps saying that," said Baxter, her round eyes widening innocently, "but we really can't spare anyone at the moment. Oh - talk of the devil! Bea!"
A woman had just Apparated at our fireside, and she could not have made more of a contrast with Lynn Baxter, sprawled on the grass in her old Lancashire robes. Bea Clutch was a stiff, upright, elderly woman, who was dressed in an impeccably crisp trouser suit and had a white blouse to go with it. Her long grey hair was tied back in a high bun on top of her head, with not a hair out of place. Her shoes were very highly polished. I could see at once why Perdy idolised her. Perdy was a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mrs Clutch had complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that she could have passed as a business woman; I doubted even Aunt Mavuto would have spotted her for what she really was.
"Pull up a bit of grass, Bea?" said Lynn brightly, patting the ground beside her.
"No, thank you, Lynn," said Clutch, and there was a bite of impatience in her voice. "I've been looking for you everywhere. The South Africans are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box."
"Oh, is that what they're after?" said Baxter. "I thought the woman was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent."
"Mrs Clutch!" said Perdy breathlessly, sinking into a kind of half-curtsey, which made her look like a hunchback. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Oh," said Mrs Clutch, looking over at Perdy in mild surprise. "Yes - thank you, Fans."
Tanya and Geri choked into their own cups. Perdy, very pink around the ears, busied herself with the kettle.
"Oh, and I've been wanting a word with you, too, Matthew," said Mrs Clutch, her sharp eyes falling upon Mr Dawson. "Harry Potter's on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your searching on any Death Eater sightings of late."
Mr Dawson heaved a great sigh. "I sent him an owl about that last week. If I've told him once I've told him a hundred times; if myself - or any other members of the Auror Department, for that matter - have any information on Death Eater whereabouts, we'll inform him when we do find the evidence, but will he listen?"
"I doubt it," said Mrs Clutch, accepting a cup from Perdy. "He's desperate to find some, since it's gone quiet. Says he's tired of being shut up in his office all day."
"So, been keeping busy, Bea?" said Baxter breezily.
"Fairly," said Mrs Clutch drily. "Organising Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Lynn."
"I expect you'll both be glad when this is over?" said Mr Dawson.
Lynn Baxter looked 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, Bea? Eh? Plenty left to organise, eh?"
Mrs Clutch raised her eyebrows at Baxter. "We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details - "
"Oh, details!" said Baxter, 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 all happening at Dragon Mort - "
"Lynn, we need to meet the South Africans, you know," said Mrs Clutch sharply, cutting Baxter's remarks short. "Thank you for the tea, Fans."
She pushed her undrunk tea back at Perdy and waited for Lynn to rise; Baxter struggled to her feet again, swigging down the last of her tea, the gold in her pockets chinking merrily.
"See you all later!" she said. "You'll be up in the Top Box with me - I'm commentating!" She waved, Bea Clutch nodded curtly, and both of them Disapparated.
"What's happening at Dragon Mort, Dad?" said Chris at once. "What were they talking about?"
"You'll find out soon enough," said Mr Dawson, smiling.
"It's classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it," said Perdy stiffly. "Mrs Clutch was quite right not to disclose it."
"Oh, shut up, Fans," said Geri.
A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the vestiges of pretence disappeared; the Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable, and they stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic that broke out everywhere.
Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes - green for Ireland, red for South Africa - which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, South African scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries which played their national anthems as they waved; there were tiny models of Firecrackers that really flew, and collectable figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.
"Sian, Chris and I have been saving our pocket money all summer for this," Chrissie told me, as the four of us strolled through the salesmen, buying souvenir. Sian purchased herself a dancing shamrock hat, Chris a South African scarf, and Chrissie bought a small figure of the South African Seeker, Kovu Outsider. The miniature Outsider walked backwards and forwards over Chrissie's hand, frowning at the green colours above him.
"Wow, look at these!" I said, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except that they were covered in all sorts of weird knobs and dials.
"Omnioculars," said 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."
"Four pairs," I said firmly to the wizard.
"Kiara, you don't have to do that," said Chrissie, shaking her head.
"I insist," I said to her stubbornly. "Besides, how many times are we going to get to treat ourselves like this in our lives?"
"Fair enough," said Chrissie, grinning.
"Oooh, thanks, Kiara," said Sian. "And I'll get us some programmes, look - "
Our moneybags considerably lighter, we made our way back to the tents. Beth, Kestrel, Merida, Sam and Kat were all sporting green rosettes, and Joe, Jack, Ben and Dave had bought South African scarves and flags and Mr Dawson had an Irish flag. Tanya and Geri had no souvenirs as they had given Baxter all their gold.
And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and, at once, green and red lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to the pitch.
"It's time!" said Mr Dawson, who looked as excited as the rest of us. "Come on, let's go!"
