I scramble to my feet, quickly brushing the dirt and grass off my clothes and going around to help the others up. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Fred and George had all fallen when the Portkey stopped, but Bill, Charlie, Mr. Weasley and the Diggorys somehow all managed to stay standing, a fact that I was extremely jealous of.

Once everyone was sorted, we bid goodbye to the Diggory's – thank Merlin – and made our way over to the sign-in area.

"Morning!" Mr. Weasley chirps to the registrar, way too cheerful for this early in the morning.

"Morning," a very Muggle looking man responds. He looks a bit confused, but that was a fairly normal reaction when confronted with Arthur Weasley for the first time. "Who're you?"

"Ah, Weasley…booked two tents a few nights ago?"

The Muggle checks a piece of paper in his hands. "Yep, here you are. That'll be thirty-two pounds, please."

Mr. Weasley pulls a wad of paper notes out of his pocket, staring at them dumbly for a moment before looking around in bewilderment. "Um, Hermione, can you-"

I step forward and hold out my hand instead, taking the wad and counting out the right amount, handing the Muggle a twenty, a ten, and two singles, handing the rest back to Mr. Weasley.

The Muggle accepts the money, giving us a long look. "You foreign?"

"What?"

"You're not the first person that's had trouble with the money today. A few moments ago, a woman tried to pay me with coins the size of hubcaps, she did…"

"Did she, now?" Mr. Weasley replies anxiously, sounding like he didn't have a clue what to do. I didn't blame him.

"Yes," the Muggle nods, a faraway look entering his eyes. "There are so many people here…why, I saw a bloke in a poncho and kilt. It's like a rally…one giant party…"

Suddenly, a business-like wizard pops out of nowhere and points his wand at the Muggle. "Obliviate!"

The man's eyes glaze over momentarily before he pleasantly says, "Have a good day," and walks off to help the next group.

"Terribly sorry about that," the wizard – he was wearing a Muggle business suit but carried the air of importance that all Ministry officials did – apologizes. "We'd get a wizard, but with security concerns and all…"

Next to me, Hermione nods. "It must be a nightmare, having this much magic in one place."

The wizard nods, as if pleased that someone finally understood. "It is. Now, here's a map of the campsite. Enjoy."

Using the map, we find our way to a little spot on the very edge of some dense woods, marked with a little sign that read WEEZLEY.

"Here we are!" Mr. Weasley announces, handing Bill a large bag and Hermione a slightly smaller one. "Now, does anyone know how to set up a tent…without magic?"

Hermione immediately nods, taking our bag, presumably a collapsed tent, and laying it down on the ground, opening the bag and beginning to unfold the canvas.

"Look at you, a regular Girl Scout," I tease while making sure we had enough tent pegs.

"Yes, actually," Hermione admits shyly. "My parents wanted me to socialize more. Did the Dursleys ever take you camping?"

"No," I scoff. "Hated me too much."

That kind of kills the conversation, and from then on we work in silence, with Hermione unfolding the canvas and constructing the skeleton while I secured the tent to the ground and Ginny made sure the ground was clear beneath us.

"It's kind of small," I remark once it's up. "Will we be able to fit?"

"If the boys can fit in theirs, we should do fine," Hermione points out, and she was right – the male tent had to hold ten people, and it was only slightly larger than ours.

"We'll be fine," Ginny assures us, pushing the tent flap aside and walking in. "Look."

I follow her in and stop, feeling my jaw drop.

We were standing inside what looked like a small apartment with four rooms: a kitchenette, complete with stove and the wizarding equivalent of a fridge; a bathroom, and a bedroom with two sets of bunkbeds.

"There are times when magic never ceases to amaze me," I mutter quietly, sitting down on a nearby stool.

"I know," Hermione agrees, just as quietly.

We explore the tent for a few more minutes, picking bunks and putting our bags away before Ron pokes his head in.

"Hey, guys, we're going to – huh, it doesn't smell like cats in here."

"…what?"

"Nothing. Anyway, Harry and I are gonna go collect some water, do you wanna come explore the campsite?"

I look around at Hermione and Ginny, who both nod.

"Sounds good," I tell the youngest Weasley boy, leading the way out of the tent and onto the bustling campground.

Apparently, people had camped here overnight, as people were just starting to wake up – children, of course, were the earliest risers, allowing me a look at the youngest witches and wizards I'd ever seen.

At one point, we pass a huge tent with a young boy sitting it the grass, merrily poking at a slug in the grass, making it grow to the size of a salami.

A woman who had to be the boy's mother storms out of the tent. "Kevin! How many times do I have to tell you, don't – augh!"

She'd stepped on the massive slug, which had burst and covered everything within a three-foot radius in slime.

Her scolding follows us as we walk away, and I burst into quiet giggles.

"You so would have done that as a kid," Ginny accuses.

"Would have?" I laugh. "I'm thinking up pranks as we speak!"

But a thought makes my heart twist – I wonder what kind of baby I'd been. Had Dad reacted like that mother had? I resolve to ask him, and also tell him of the pranking opportunities, in my very first letter home.

"Harry, Ron, Hermione!" a voice calls, and I look to see a figure clad in a maniacal amount of green approaching from a shamrock-covered tent.

It quite matched everything else in the area – everything had gone green, and I had noticed.

I turn my attention back to the speaker, whom I identify as Seamus Finnigan, fellow Gryffindor and obviously huge supporter of the Irish National team.

"Hey, guys," he greets us excitedly. "Fancy seeing you all here. Supporting Ireland, I hope?"

"Yeah," I reply, waving to Seamus' mother and best friend, Dean Thomas, who was also in Gryffindor. "We aren't suicidal."

"Good. Well, I'll see you at the match, then?"

We all agree and say our goodbyes, continuing through the campsite. They aren't the last students we run into, however; others include the Diggorys, who had found their site, and Cho Chang, a fifth-year Ravenclaw.

Harry stuttered and stumbles his way through a simple 'hello', and I lean over to whisper in his ear. "Someone's got a cru-ush," I murmur in a sing-song tone.

"Shut it," he hisses, elbowing me in the ribs. I only laugh at him.

We were at the watering spout now, and Ron quickly collects the water, apparently for Mr. Weasley to try and cook on. We amble our way back through the Bulgarian section, which was decked out in red and black. We had to pause for a moment when Ron spots Viktor Krum, his idol and totally-not-man-crush.

"He doesn't look too pleasant," I comment, craning my neck to look at the renowned Quidditch star.

"'Doesn't look too pleasant'?" Ron asks incredulously. "Who cares what he looks like, Ori? He's bloody brilliant! Been on a pro team for a year, and he's still in school! You think I can get his autograph?"

I resort to grabbing the back of his shirt and forcibly dragging him away, making water splash everywhere as I did so. "Not right now, lover boy. Your dad's expecting us back at the tent."

We make it back to our site with no more incidents, and I set the water down in the boys' tent before heading back outside and spotting Mr. Weasley finally manage to light a match, only to drop it in shock.

I kneel down next to him, holding out a hand. "May I?"

He gladly relinquishes the matchbox, and I talk as I light the match; explaining how to strike it and how to make sure the firewood caught.

"You look like you've done that before," he comments as I hand the matches back, a fire now roaring.

I just give him a shrug and explain that this was how things were in the Muggle world – not a drop of magic to be found, except for in fairytales.

"Arthur!" someone shouts. "Arthur Weasley!"

I barely glance up before going back to what I was doing. There as apparently a path through the forest than ran right alongside our site, and Ministry officials had been coming and going all day.

Mr. Weasley looks up at his name being called. "Ah, there's the man of the moment. Mr. Ludo Bagman! Children, come here for a moment, will you? Mr. Bagman is the reason we got such good tickets."

He proceeds to begin instructions, starting with his own family and then moving on to Harry, Hermione, and I in age order, which meant I (a month younger than Harry and eleven younger than Hermione) was last.

Mr. Bagman eyes me with a small amount of suspicion, as all law officials were apt to do, but shakes my hand anyways.

`He looked like he had once been a prime athlete – as was evident by the yellow-and-black Quidditch robes he was wearing – but he had also let himself go, because I don't think he was sporting that 'beer belly' when playing for the Wasps.

"Everything's going smoothly," Bagman explains. "A cloudless night ahead of us, and there's barely been a bump in the plans-"

"Except for the Muggle," I mutter under my breath.

"-and so there's not much for me to do, really. Say, Arthur," Bagman continues, a shrewdly interested look crossing his face, "fancy a wager on the match?"

"Gambling?" Mr. Weasley asks dubiously, but nods. "Alright, a Galleon on Ireland, then."

"Only a Galleon?" Bagman asks with a frown. "If you say so." He produces a small notepad and jots down the numbers. "Any other takers?"

"They're a bit young to be gambling, don't you think?"

"We'll put one down," Fred cuts him off, and George and I push to the front of the crowd to stand by his side. "Twenty-three Galleons and five Sickles on Ireland winning, but Bulgaria catching the Snitch. Oh, and we'll throw in a trick wand designed by the one and only Miss Black over there…"

Percy makes his displeasure at this known with a hiss, but the twins hand over one of the fake wands anyways. Bagman laughs, loud and deep, when it turns into a rubber chicken under his fingers.

"That's amazing, I haven't seen one this good in years! I'd pay five Galleons for that."

Percy gasps. "Mr. Bagman, you can't-"

"Thank you," I say, giving him a charming smile. "Some of my best work." Actually, that title belonged to the Animagus transformation, but that was illegal. "I'd like to bet as well – fifty Galleons on a tie game, please."

"Oh ho!" Bagman laughs. "You want to bet big, then? Alright. Fifty Galleons. Anyone else?"

No one else steps forward, and Bagman puts away the notepad and hands me the rubber chicken. "Have a good day, then, and I'll see you all at the match." With that, he walks off into the woods, presumably heading for the pitch.

"Speaking of the match, we should probably go now, if we want to beat the crowds," Mr. Weasley announces. "Does everyone have everything?"

"One minute," I call, turning back to the girls' tent. I quickly duck inside and grab a small leather money pouch that Dad had given me – apparently it drew from the Black vault and Gringotts, but had spending limits set on it; I had access to enough money to buy a new trunk, my school supplies for next year, and a few souvenirs while I was here.

I rejoin the group as we follow the majority of the campsite, which was traveling in the general direction of the stadium.

Once we reach the queue, Mr. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, and Percy agree to wait in line, letting the rest of us roam around with an agreement to check in every fifteen minutes.

Fred and George disappear almost immediately, going off to Merlin-knows-where, and Ginny spotted some of her year mates in the crowd and went off to talk to them, leaving Harry, Ron, Hermione and I to wander among the souvenir stands.

I pick up various Irish gear, including a green-and-white striped scarf, a shamrock-covered hat, and a pin that was the winged shamrock logo of the team.

"Hey, what're those?" I ask Hermione, pointing at a busy stand a few feet away.

"Omnioculars," Ron, the tallest of the group, reads the sign with a wistful sigh. "I've always wanted a pair."

"What are they?"

"I've read about them," Hermione predictably interjects. "They're kind of like a cross between Muggle binoculars and a video camera – they allow you to view things normally, but also rewind, slow down, and fast-forward what you're seeing," she recites.

I mull over this for a moment before nodding. "Sounds cool. Come on, I'm buying you one," I announce, not giving Ron a chance to argue as I drag his towards the stand.

"What? Ori, no, I'm not going to let you buy me a pair of Omnioculars – they cost ten Galleons!"

"Trust me," I sigh. "I can afford it. If it makes you feel any better, Harry and I will split it. Won't we, Harry?" I ask with a pointed look at my god-brother, who nods.

Ron hesitates for a long while before grudgingly nodding, and Harry and I make our way up to the salesperson. "Four pairs, please," I request as I hand over fifteen Galleons, as Harry does the same – Hermione had stubbornly refused to let us pay, citing that her parents had just gotten a raise which allowed her to splurge a bit.

I just roll my eyes and step out of her way, handing Ron his Omnioculars with a grin. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it? And think of it this way: now you don't have to put as much effort in for a Christmas present."

He gives me a small smile. "If you say so…thanks, Ori."

"No problem," I smile. "That's-"

I'm interrupted by a shot a blue light landing at my feet, and before I can get my wand out it forms into an antelope and speaks with Bill's voice. "Guys, we're almost at the front of the line! Fred, George, and Ginny already came back – hurry up!"

It bursts into a cloud of blue-white fog, and I sprint back the way it came. We cut back through the crowd and into the queue, quickly finding the majority of the Weasleys, all decked out in some fashion of Ireland gear.

"We've never looked more like Slytherins in our lives," I quip, looking down at my bright green sweater with shamrock pin.

"Bite your tongue," George admonishes good-naturedly. "Although it is a contradiction, I guess."

"Ooh, big words," I tease, laughing as I run up the stand stairs and out of his reach. I stop at our box, nearly at the top.

"Wow," Harry breathes.

Wow, indeed. We were about a thousand feet above the pitch, which looked smooth as glass from this high up. From our seats, we could see hundreds of thousands of people filling the stands. Directly across from us, there was a massive scoreboard, messages scrolling across it like they were being written and erased on a giant chalkboard.

In the box to the left of us, there was Minister Fudge – a fact which made me a bit nervous – and the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, who apparently spoke no English. Fudge didn't speak Bulgarian, so listening to the two of them communicate was a bit like watching two mimes in an old comedy.

"Blimey, Dad," Ron breathes, looking down, "how far up are we?"

"Let's put it this way," a silky-smooth voice drawls. "If it rains, you'll be the first to know."

I close my eyes, grimacing before I step around Ron to lean against the landing to look down at the Malfoys, junior and senior.

"Father and I are in the Minister's box," the younger Malfoy calls up. "By invitation of Cornelius Fudge himself!"

"That's great," I return. "Idiots should enjoy the company of other idiots."

Mr. Weasley puts a hand on my arm in warning, and Mr. Malfoy whacks at his son's feet with his snake-topped cane. "Don't boast, Draco. You don't need to with these…people."

I take a deep breath, hardly wanting to believe that I was related to these people – Mr. Malfoy had married my father's cousin, making him my cousin and Malfoy the younger my second cousin.

I turn away, but Mr. Malfoy stops me with a whack of his cane against my right hand, the black cane hitting my ring with a metallic clink.

"Do enjoy yourself," Malfoy drawls. "While you still can."

I narrow my eyes at the ominous tone, but he just sweeps away with a flick of his cane beckoning his son away.

While I hadn't been looking, the stands had filled up, and I watch Bagman step forward.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!" he calls, his amplified voice echoing around the stadium. "Welcome to the 422nd Final of the Quidditch World Cup!"