XXXI. Dramatic
Exciting or impressive.
Over the summer, Harry has had an exciting change. He has his own room, a much larger and more personal than the cupboard or bedroom at the Dursleys. While at the Darkmore Manor, Harry's crush on Jayla has not subsided. Not one bit. In fact, it has grown. He spends most of his time in the gardens with her and Flora, the sweetest House-Elf he thinks he will ever meet in his entire life. Jayla even took him into the forest surrounding the vast land belonging to the Darkmore family with Mason, who kept trying to jump-scare him while they were in the dense, dark trees. They didn't see many magical creatures roaming the forest; they saw a unicorn, which made Jayla cry, and Harry held her tightly, knowing how much it still affected her after their first year. Even Draco and Narcissa Malfoy came around a few times. The boys played nice for the sake of the others. That's the first half of the summer; the Darkmores still have another few weeks till they have to get ready for Hogwarts, with Jayla and Harry entering their fourth year and Mason starting his first year.
At the moment, Harry is sitting at his desk in his new bedroom finishing the last of his homework while Mr Darkmore and Jayla are out in town because the young Heiress' eyes have been unfocused or blurred, and she's been getting constant headaches lately. Mrs Darkmore and Sirius are at the old Black Manor in London to see how the renovations are coming along since no one has lived there since before Harry was born. Downstairs, Yazmin and Mason are with Dobby as Flora prepares their dinner.
It's late afternoon when Sophia and Sirius return; the pair happily greets the children, teens, and House Elves, but they do not see Daniel or Jayla back. Flora comes out and announces that dinner is ready, and they are beginning to get ready for dinner, sitting at the dinner table, which surprises Harry every time at how grand it is around the Darkmore Manor. "We're home!" Daniel calls into the house as he closes the front door as they return from town.
"Dinner!" Sophia announces, helping Flora and Dobby with the bowls of food. Harry anxiously looks at the bowls, wondering what they've made today. He's never eaten as much delicious food as he has since living with the Darkmores and Sirius. Harry marvels at the big bowl of pasta bolognese with a plate of garlic bread. Jayla and Daniel step into the room. Jayla quickly sits in her chair, her head down, not looking at anyone, and Daniel greets his wife with a sweet kiss and sits down at the head of the table. "Jayla, Sweetheart, head up, please," Sophia requests, looking at her oldest daughter, who is hanging her head on the table. "Sweetheart, what did the Orthoptist say?" Jayla answers by raising her head off the table and showing everyone the glasses she has to wear. She pouts a little. Harry can't help but think that Jayla suits them and looks adorable with the tiny pout.
"Hey, we have another glasses-wearing teen," Sirius jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and the younger ones giggle.
"It's not funny," Jayla grumbles, folding her arms with a huff. "I have to wear them because I have an astigmatism in both eyes. That's why I've been getting headaches and blurred vision."
"I think they suit you," Harry assures her, smiling, and she looks at him with a soft smile.
"Thanks," She mutters and piles on the food. "So, who's excited for the Quidditch World Cup?"
"Don't change the subject, Jayla," Daniel warns her, smiling. "You have to wear them for a few weeks before going back to the opticians."
"We can't take her, Daniel?" Sophia reminds him. "We have work starting earlier because of what happened when we were suspended."
"I'll take her," Sirius offers, looking at the Darkmore parents, wanting to help out more around the Manor while they let him and Harry stay there till his old house is livable again.
"Are you sure, Sirius?" She asks, looking at him.
"I don't mind. We can make a day of it. It'll be around when they have to get their stuff for Hogwarts won't it?" He argues, earning a look.
"Oh, I didn't think of that, Daniel, we won't be there to help Mason," The Darkmore Matriarch panics, looking at her husband.
"We knew this was going to be a problem, My Love," Daniel assures her. "Why don't we get off work early after Jayla's eye appointment. It's midday anyway, plenty of time. We spend the afternoon getting everything for school."
"That sounds good," Sophia sighs, feeling her anxiety lessen. "I don't mean anything by your offer, Sirius. I just really want to be there for Mason, it's something every parent should be there for."
"I get it, don't worry, Sophia. I think it's a good idea. I can see about maybe getting a job when school starts," Sirius suggests, wanting to return to everyday Wizard life after twelve years in Azkaban.
"What did you want to do when you left school?" Jayla asks, digging into her food.
"Auror, both James and I did," he answers with a fond smile. "I doubt I could be now, though."
"I don't know. Though you could work in the Law Enforcement Office," She suggests. "There are loads of departments other than just the Auror office."
"How do you know that?" Harry asks her, figuring he still has loads to learn about the Wizarding World.
"Professor McGonagall asked me what I wanted to do once I left school. I wanted to work in the Law Enforcement Department. Auror would be good, but Hit Wizards sounded interesting, too. Though my main focus is becoming the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor," The Darkmore Heiress replies, earning looks from her parents. "It's good to have a good life plan."
"Indeed, but do you have to say it as if becoming an Auror is easy?" Daniel questions, seeing the fear and panic in Sophia's eyes.
"I mean, I've helped Harry the last three years at school with all sorts of things. I think being an Auror would be playing safe," Jayla jokes, earning a snicker from Harry, which gets a glare from the adults at their attitude towards the near-death experiences they've faced in the past school years. "Sorry."
"Sorry," Harry repeats.
"This year might not be as quiet either," Sophia announces, making the teens and Mason look at her, growing worried about what she saw.
"What?" Jayla asks, looking at her Mother. "What did you see?"
"Darkness. Harry, I want you to remember that everyone is here for you. No matter what," She tells him, making his stomach drop to the floor. Something terrible is coming, and it's nothing like they've ever seen before.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
It's the beginning of August, Mason receives his Hogwarts letter along with Jayla and Harry, and they plan their venture into London for their school supplies trip. Jayla's eye appointment comes and goes, and she is unhappy about it. She scowls the whole way in the car as they drive into town, with Sirius driving and Harry trying to distract her, but it isn't working. Thankfully, it was a short trip as Jayla complained about the glasses, but the orthoptist told her she still had to wear her eyeglasses for longer and needed to book another appointment. Jayla doesn't mind the glasses; she couldn't care less, really, but it's the blurred vision and headaches she can do without when she doesn't wear them.
The Darkmore family, Sirius and Harry, finally arrive in London after the appointment. Sirius finds a parking place for the car, though he grumbles about how much parking is around London and how impossible it is to find a parking space. He plans to stay longer as Daniel and Sophia take the children home while he talks to Amelia Bones about getting a job in the Law Enforcement Department since he knew her at school, and she was very vocal during his recent trial.
Sirius shepherds the children into the Leaky Cauldron, which goes almost deadly silent at the appearance of Harry with the former Azkaban Prisoner. Sirius just ignores it as he walks through the pub to the back with the children behind him, knowing how much it must hurt the man after all those years inside Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. "It's good to see you, Black," Tom says, surprising them, and the tension in Sirius's shoulders weakens.
"It's good to be back, Tom," Sirius replies with a small smile before opening the back door and letting the kids in. Harry taps on the brick wall with his wand, allowing them inside Diagon Alley.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
Sirius looks around, seeing the familiar streets from what feels like another life. "Where are Mummy and Daddy?" Yazmin asks, looking around, clinging to her big sister as Mason marvels at everything with a new shine in his eyes.
"They are meeting us at Gringotts," Sirius tells her, walking calmly. Inside, he's beaming at the familiar sights from when he was younger.
"Bring back some memories?" Harry asks him, seeing the sparkle in his Godfather's eyes.
"Yeah, your father and I would come here for all our things, we'd make a day of it. My old house wasn't far from here," he replies.
"When are you moving out?" Mason questions, earning a nudge from Jayla. "I mean, not that we don't like having you, but I was wondering where the Blacks live."
"Another week apparently," The Black Heir announces, and Jayla looks at Harry, going to miss him for the next couple of weeks before they go to the Quidditch World Cup Finals.
"It's going to be weird without you, Uncle Siri," Yazmin remarks, looking at him as they come to Gringotts to see Sophia and Daniel walking outside, getting the money for their shopping trip.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
The Darkmores, Harry, and Sirius walk around Flourish and Blotts, getting the teens their new books. Mason already has most of his, as he has Jayla's old ones that she just so happened to scribble in notes. Mason smiled when he learned this, loving his older sister even more. "I love this part," Sirius beams, the family walking into Ollivander's for Mason and Jayla.
"Well, well, it is good to see so many familiar faces," Ollivander remarks, looking at the Darkmore family, Harry and Sirius, as they enter the shop.
"We have two customers for you," Sophia announces, moving Mason and Jayla towards the counter.
"I'm really sorry, Mr Ollivander, I accidentally snapped my wand," Jayla explains.
"That's quite alright, Miss Darkmore, accidents happen. Now, who would like to go first?" Ollivander questions, looking between the siblings.
"Mason," she replies, pushing her brother in front. He looks back at her but smiles as Ollivander begins measuring and asking questions about the boy.
"Now, this is much like your sister's original wand, Yew Wood with a Unicorn hair core, 11 inches," he informs the boy, handing it over to him. Mason holds it, moving it around, but nothing happens. "Doesn't seem so." Ollivander takes it back and hands him another one: "Apple Wood with a Dragon scale core, 10 ½ inches." Mason takes it, waves the wand, and things crash around them.
"Reminds me of my first time," Sirius mutters.
"Same," Harry mumbles back, the pair sharing a smile.
"Never mind," Ollivander laughs, handing another one over. "White Pine Wood with Thestral tail hair core, 10 ½ inches." Mason takes it and feels a connection, smiling. "It seems we've found the one."
"Thank you, Mr Ollivander," Mason smiles, looking at his wand in wonder.
"If you use that before school, Uncle Sirius might have to arrest you," Daniel jokes and Mason looks at Sirius in horror.
"That's if I get the job," Sirius laughs.
"Now, your turn again Miss Darkmore," Ollivander says, and Jayla steps forward as he gets out another set of wands. "I'm afraid the wand I gave you was the only one I had."
"I am sorry about snapping it, Mr Ollivander," Jayla apologises again.
"That's quite alright, accidents happen," he assures her and hands her the first wand. "Now this is Willow Wood, Unicorn hair core, 11 inches." She takes it and waves the wand around, but things start crashing around the shop.
"Sorry, sorry," She gasps, placing the wand on the counter.
"It's all good. Now this is Cherry Wood with Dragon scale core, 10 inches," The Wand Maker announces, placing it in her hand. Seeing the smile spreading across the young Heiress's face is answer enough. "I believe that is the one."
"Cool. Matches your Patronus," Harry remarks, looking at his long-time crush.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
The day before the Quidditch World Cup Final, Harry has everything packed to go to the Weasleys with Sirius, the pair having moved into the Black House only last week, and already he's going back to Hogwarts before settling into his new home. Sirius likes the latest renovations to his old house, but he will miss his Godson while he's away, as he's starting his new job in the Law Enforcement Office as a Hit Wizard, which was more than he could ask for from Amelia Bones. "Have you got everything, Harry?" Sirius asks, stepping into the boy's new bedroom.
"Yeah, it's weird, I almost don't want to go," Harry remarks, making Sirius smile.
"You do really, your friends will be there. And Jayla," He replies, spotting the growing blush on his Godson's cheeks.
"I don't know what you mean," Potter retorts.
"You're better at hiding your feelings than your father was," Black smirks, and they hear a commotion from downstairs. "That must be the Weasleys." The pair head downstairs to the living room with the fireplace and most of the Weasleys.
"Hello, Harry," Mr Weasley greets the boy. "Hello, Sirius."
"Hello, Mr Weasley," Harry greets him.
"Hello, Arthur," Sirius replies, giving Harry his trunk full of clothes for the last week of summer before he goes to Hogwarts and another to Arthur with all Harry's school things as the two won't see much of each other with Sirius beginning his new job.
"Are you ready?" Arthur asks Harry, who nods.
"Yeah," Harry says, turning to Sirius, the pair hugging goodbye.
"I'll see you for Christmas," Sirius promises, unaware that is unlikely with the events happening at Hogwarts this year.
"See you then," he replies, breaking away from the hug. The twins smirk, moving towards Sirius and muttering something before handing him a sweet. Harry steps into the fireplace and looks at Sirius one last time before disappearing in green flames.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
Harry spins faster and faster, elbows tucked tightly to his sides, blurring fireplaces flashing past him, until he starts feeling sick and closes his eyes. Then, when he finally feels himself slowing down, he throws out his hands and comes to a halt in time to prevent himself from falling face-first out of the Weasleys' kitchen fire. "Do you think he liked it?" Fred wonders, stepping out of the fireplace with his brother and holding a hand to pull Harry to his feet.
"Like what?" Harry asks, remembering them handing Sirius something before leaving. "What was it?"
"Ton-Tongue Toffee," He replies brightly. "George and I invented them, and we've been looking for someone to test them on all summer…" The tiny kitchen explodes with laughter; Harry looks around and sees Ron and George sitting at the scrubbed wooden table with two red-haired people Harry has never seen before, though he knows immediately who they must be: Bill and Charlie, the two eldest Weasley brothers.
"How're you doing, Harry?" the nearer of the two asks, grinning at him and holding a giant hand, which Harry shakes, feeling calluses and blisters under his fingers.
This has to be Charlie, who works with Dragons in Romania. Charlie is built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who are both long and lanky. He has a broad, good-natured face, which is weatherbeaten and so freckly that he looks almost tanned; his arms are muscular, and one has a large, shiny burn on it.
Bill gets to his feet, smiling, and shakes Harry's hand. Bill comes as something of a surprise. Harry knows that he works for the Wizarding Bank, Gringotts, and that Bill was Head Boy at Hogwarts; Harry has always imagined Bill to be an older version of Percy: fussy about rule-breaking and fond of bossing everyone around. However, Bill is - there is no other word for it - cool. He is tall, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. He is wearing an earring with what looks like a fang dangling. Bill's clothes will not look out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry recognises his boots to be made not of leather but of Dragon hide.
Before they can say anything else, there is a faint popping noise, and Mr Weasley appears out of thin air at George's shoulder. He looks a little angrier than Harry has ever seen him. "That wasn't funny, Fred!" he shouts. "What on earth did you give Sirius?"
"I didn't give him anything," Fred replies with another evil grin. "We just wanted his opinion on something."
"Don't do that again!" Mr Weasley roars.
"Why not?" George wonders, looking at his dad.
"Because he ate it!" He snaps, and the twins beam. "You did that on purpose!"
"How big did his tongue get?" Fred asks eagerly.
"It was four feet long before he let me shrink it for him!" Harry and the Weasleys roar with laughter again. "It isn't funny!" Mr Weasley shouts. "That sort of behaviour seriously undermines us as parents! I don't understand what possessed you to give him something like that!"
"We gave it to him because he's a fellow prankster," George explains. "Isn't he, Harry?"
"Yeah, he is, Mr Weasley," Harry assures him earnestly. "He won't have eaten it if he didn't want to."
"That's not the point!" Arthur rages. "You wait until I tell your mother -!"
"Tell me what?" A voice asks behind them. Mrs Weasley has just entered the kitchen. She is a short, plump woman with a very kind face, though her eyes are presently narrowed with suspicion. "Oh, hello, Harry, dear," She says, spotting him and smiling. Then her eyes snap back to her husband. "Tell me what, Arthur?" Mr Weasley hesitates. Harry can tell that, however angry he was with Fred and George, he didn't intend to tell Mrs Weasley what just happened. There is a silence while Mr Weasley eyes his wife nervously. Then, a girl appears in the kitchen doorway behind Mrs Weasley. It's Ginny, Ron's younger sister, the same small and red-haired, who smiles at Harry, who grins back, which makes Ginny go scarlet - she has been very taken with Harry ever since his first visit to the Burrow. Still, unfortunately for her, he doesn't have eyes for her; he only has eyes for Jayla Darkmore. "Tell me what, Arthur?" Mrs Weasley repeats in a dangerous sort of voice.
"It's nothing, Molly," Mr Weasley mumbles, "Fred and George just - but I've had words with them -."
"What have they done this time?" She questions. "If it's got anything to do with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes -."
"Why don't you show Harry where he's sleeping, Ron," Ginny suggests from the doorway.
"He knows where he's sleeping," Ron argues, "in my room, he slept there last -."
"We can all go," She retorts pointedly.
"Oh," He says, catching on. "Right."
"Yeah, we'll come too," George agrees.
"You stay where you are!" Mrs Weasley snarls. Harry and Ron edge out of the kitchen, and they and Ginny set off along the narrow hallway and up the rickety staircase that zigzags through the house to the upper stories.
"What are Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?" Harry asks as they climb. Ron and Ginny both laugh.
"Mum found this stack of order forms when she was cleaning Fred and George's room," Ron explains quietly. "Great long price lists for stuff they've invented. Joke stuff, you know. Fake wands and trick sweets, loads of stuff. It was brilliant; I never knew they'd been inventing all that…"
"We've been hearing explosions out of their room for ages, but we never thought they were actually making things," Ginny remarks. "We thought they just liked the noise."
"Only, most of the stuff - well, all of it, really - was a bit dangerous," He explains, "and, you know, they were planning to sell it at Hogwarts to make some money, and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren't allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the order forms… She's furious at them anyway. They didn't get as many O.W.L.s as she expected."
"And then there was this big row," She adds, "because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do is open a joke shop." Just then, a door on the second landing opens, and a face pokes out wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a very annoyed expression.
"Hi, Percy," Harry greets him.
"Oh hello, Harry," Percy replies. "I was wondering who was making all the noise. I'm trying to work in here, you know - I've got a report to finish for the office - and it's rather difficult to concentrate when people keep thundering up and down the stairs."
"We're not thundering," Ron argues irritably. "We're walking. Sorry if we're disturbed the top-secret workings of the Ministry of Magic."
"What are you working on?" Harry asks him, though he later wishes he didn't.
"A report for the Department of International Magical Cooperation," Percy replies smugly. "We're trying to standardise cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign imports are just a shade too thin - leakages have been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a year -."
"That'll change the world, that report will," Ron retorts sarcastically. "Front page of the Daily Prophet, I expect cauldron leaks." Percy goes slightly pink from the insult.
"You might sneer, Ron," he snaps heatedly, "but unless some sort of international law is imposed we might well find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow-bottomed products that seriously endanger -."
"Yeah, yeah, all right," the younger brother grumbles, starting off upstairs again. Percy slams his bedroom door shut. As Harry and Ginny follow Ron up three more flights of stairs, shouting from the kitchen below echoes up to them. It sounds as though Mr Weasley has told Mrs Weasley about the toffees.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
The room at the top of the house where Ron sleeps looks much as it did the last time Harry comes to stay: the same posters of Ron's favourite Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, whirling and waving on the walls and sloping ceiling, and the fish tank on the windowsill, which previously held frog spawn, now contains one gigantic frog. Ron's old rat, Scabbers, is here no more, but instead, there is the tiny grey owl that delivered Ron's letter to the Black House. It's hopping up and down in a small cage and twittering madly. Fee is also snoozing again in her new tiny home in the corner by the bed. "Shut up, Pig," Ron mutters, not wanting to wake Fee up and edging his way between two of the four beds that have been squeezed into the room. "Fred and George are in here with us, because Bill and Charlie are in their room," he informs Harry. "Percy gets to keep his room all to himself because he's got to work."
"Er - why are you calling that owl Pig?" Harry asks his best friend.
"Because he's being stupid," Ginny retorts. "It's proper name is Pigwidgeon."
"Yeah, and that's not a stupid name at all," Ron says sarcastically. "Ginny named him," he explains to Harry. "She reckons it's sweet. And I tried to change it, but it was too late, he won't answer to anything else. So now he's Pig. I've got to keep him up here because he annoys Errol and Hermes. He annoys me too, come to that." Pigwidgeon zooms happily around his cage, hooting shrilly. Harry knows Ron too well to take him seriously. He moaned continually about his old rat, Scabbers, but was super upset when Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, appeared to have eaten him.
"Ron said you got a new pet, Ginny?" Harry questions, looking at her.
"Yeah, I got a cat," Ginny replies, beaming. "She's only a kitten, her name is Lady Red because of her ginger hair. She's adorable. She's in the garden, I expect. She likes chasing the gnomes."
"Percy's enjoying work, then?" He asks, sitting on one of the beds and watching the Chudley Cannons zooming in and out of the posters on the ceiling.
"Enjoying it?" Ron retorts darkly. "I don't reckon he'd come home if Dad didn't make him. He's obsessed. Just don't get him onto the subject of his boss. According to Mr Crouch…as I was saying to Mr Crouch…Mr Crouch is of the opinion…Mr Crouch was telling me… They'll be announcing their engagement any day now."
"Have you had a good summer, Harry?" Ginny asks, not having seen him much as well as Ron.
"Yeah, it's been good. I spent most of it with Jayla at her house. I only moved into Sirius' old house last week," Harry explains. "Sorry, we couldn't go to Diagon Alley together, but it was a little short notice."
"That's okay, we understand," Ron assures him. "How was it, spending time with Sirius?"
"It was great. He's starting his new job today. He and Mason had to be taken out of one of the shops for causing a disturbance," he tells them, laughing.
"Sounds like Mason," the younger Weasley son mutters, thinking of his experience meeting Mason.
"Don't forget he's coming to Hogwarts this year," Potter reminds his best friend. "He got a cat, too. Named him Loki. Jayla said he fits the name perfectly."
"I think they've stopped arguing," Ginny announces, looking at her brother and crush. "Shall we go down and help Mum with dinner?"
"Yeah, all right," Ron agrees, and the three of them leave his room and go back downstairs.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
They find Mrs Weasley alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered. "We're eating out in the garden," she informs them when they arrive. "There's just not room for eleven people in here. Could you take the plate outside, Ginny? Bill and Charlie are setting up the tables. Knives and forks, please, you two," she tells Ron and Harry, pointing her wand a little more vigorously than she intended at a pile of potatoes in the sink, which shoots out of their skins so fast that they ricochet off the walls and ceiling. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she snaps, now directing her wand at a dustpan, which hops off the sideboard and starts skating across the floor, scooping up the potatoes. "Those two!" She bursts out savagely, pulling pots and pans out of a cupboard, and Harry knows she means Fred and George. "I don't know what's going to happen to them, I really don't. No ambition, unless you count making as much trouble as they possibly can…" Mrs Weasley slams a large copper saucepan on the kitchen table and waves her wand inside it.
A creamy sauce pours from the wand tip as she stirs. "It's not as though they haven't got brains," Mrs Weasley continues irritably, taking the saucepan over to the stove and lighting it with a further poke of her wand, "but they're wasting them, and unless they pull themselves together soon, they'll be in real trouble. I've had more owls from Hogwarts about them than the rest put together. If they carry on the way they're going, they'll end up in front of the Improper Use of Magic Office." Molly jabs her wand at the cutlery drawer, which shoots open. Harry and Ron jump out of the way as several knives soar out of it, flying across the kitchen and begin chopping the potatoes that have just been tipped back into the skin by the dustpan.
"I don't know where we went wrong with them," Mrs Weasley says, putting down her wand and pulling still more saucepans. "It's been the same for years, one thing after another, and they won't listen to - OH NOT AGAIN!" She picks up her wand from the table, and it emits a loud squeak and turns into a giant rubber mouse. "One of their fake wands again!" She shouts. "How many times have I told them not to leave them lying around?" She grabs her real wand and turns around to find that the sauce on the stove is smoking.
"C'mon," Rom mutters hurriedly to Harry, seizing a handful of cutlery from the open drawer, "let's go and help Bill and Charlie." They leave Mrs Weasley and head out the back door into the yard.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
The boys go only a few paces when Ginny's new ginger tabby cat, Lady Red, comes pelting out of the garden, tail held high, chasing what looks like a muddy potato on legs. Harry recognises it instantly as a gnome. Barely ten inches high, its horny little feet patter very fast as it sprints across the yard and dives headlong into one of the Wellington boots that lies scattered around the door. They can hear the gnome giggling madly as Lady Red inserts a paw into the boot, trying to reach it.
Meanwhile, a deafening crashing noise comes from the other side of the house. The source of the commotion is revealed as they enter the garden and see that Bill and Charlie both have their wands out and are making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to knock the other's out of the air. Fred and George cheer below, and Ginny laughs. Bill's table catches Charlie's with a huge bang and knocks one of its legs off. There is a clatter from overhead, and they all look up to see Percy's head poking out of the window on the second floor. "Will you keep it down?!" Percy bellows.
"Sorry, Perce," Bill replies, grinning. "How're the cauldron bottoms coming out?"
"Very badly," he says peevishly and slams the window shut. Chuck, Bill, and Charlie direct the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, with a flick of his wand, Bill reattaches the table leg and conjures tablecloths from nowhere.
By seven o'clock, the two tables groan under dishes and dishes of Mrs Weasley's excellent cooking. However, Harry can't compare to the marvellous food from Mrs Darkmore, and the nine Weasleys and Harry settle themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky. Though he doesn't want to compare meals between the two best mothers, he loves the diversity of the meals as it is paradise, and at first, Harry listens rather than talks as he helps himself to chicken and ham pie, boiled potatoes, and salad. At the end of the table, Percy tells his father all about his report on cauldron bottoms. "I've told Mr Crouch that I'll have it ready by Tuesday," Percy says pompously. "That's a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he'll be grateful I've done it in good time; I mean, it's extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We're just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman -."
"I like Ludo," Mr Weasley remarks mildly. "He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favour: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble - a lawnmower with unnatural powers - I smoothed the whole thing over."
"Oh Bagman's likeable enough, of course," He agrees dismissively, "but how he ever got to be Head of Department…when I compare him to Mr Crouch! I can't see Mr Crouch losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what's happened to them. You realise Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?"
"Yes, I was asking Ludo about that," Mr Weasley comments, frowning. "He says Bertha's gotten lost plenty of times before now - though I must say, if it was something in my department, I'd be worried…"
"Oh Bertha's hopeless, all right," He remarks. "I hear she's been shunted from department to department for years, much more trouble than she's worth…but all the same. Bagman ought to be trying to find her. Mr Crouch has been taking a personal interest, she worked in our department at one time, you know, and I think Mr Crouch was quite fond of her - but Bagman just keeps laughing and saying she probably misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of Albania. However -" Percy heaves an impressive sigh and takes a deep swig of elderflower wine. "-we've got quite enough on our plates at the Department of International Magical Cooperation without trying to find members of other departments too. As you know, we've got another big event to organise right after the World Cup." Percy clears his throat significantly and looks down towards the end of the table where Harry and Ron sit. "You know the one I'm talking about, Father." He raises his voice slightly. "The top-secret one."
Ron rolls his eyes and mutters to Harry. "He's been trying to get us to ask what that event is ever since he started work. Probably an exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons."
In the middle of the table, Mrs Weasley argues with Bill about his earring, which seems to be a recent purchase. "...with a horrible great fang on it. Really, Bill, what do they say at the bank?"
"Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure," Bill argues patiently.
"And your hair's getting silly, dear," Mrs Weasley retorts, fingering her wand lovingly. "I wish you'd let me give it a trim…"
"I like it," Ginny says, who sits beside Bill. "You're so old fashioned, Mum. Anyway, it's nowhere near as long as Professor Dumbledore's…" Next to Molly, Fred, George, and Charlie are all talking spiritedly about the World Cup.
"It's got to be Ireland," Charlie states thickly, though a mouthful of potato. "They flattened Peru in the semifinals."
"Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though," Fred argues.
"Krum's one decent player, Ireland has got seven," He retorts shortly. "I wish England had got through. That was embarrassing, that was."
"What happened?" Harry asks eagerly. Regretting more than ever that he wasn't keeping up, he was moving house at the time.
"Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten," Charlie replies gloomily. "Shocking performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg." Harry has been on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team since their first year at Hogwarts and owns one of the best racing brooms in the world, a Firebolt. Flying comes more naturally to Harry than anything else in the Magical World, and he plays as Seeker on the Gryffindor House team. At the Darkmores, he was happy to go flying with Jayla and Mason, who was complaining about having to keep his broom at home.
Mr Weasley conjures up candles to light the darkening garden before they have their homemade strawberry ice cream, and by the time they have finished, moths are fluttering low over the table. The warm air is perfumed with the smells of grass and honeysuckle. Harry feels extremely well-fed and at peace with the world as he watches several gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing madly and closely pursued by Lady Red.
"Look at the time," Mrs Weasley says suddenly, checking her wristwatch. "You really should be in bed, the whole lot of you - you'll be up at the crack of dawn to get to the Cup. Harry, if you leave your school list out, I'll get your things for you tomorrow in Diagon Alley. I'm getting everyone else's. There might not be time after the World Cup, the match went on for five days last time."
"Wow - hope it does this time!" Harry jokes enthusiastically. "And there's no need to get my things. We already went, I've got everything." Molly looks at him, smiling and nodding, knowing he was with the Darkmores and Sirius; she knows Sophia and Daniel have been working a ton because of the trouble with the Ministry.
"Well, I certainly don't," Percy retorts sanctimoniously, making everyone look at him. "I shudder to think what the state of my in-tray would be if I was away from work for five days."
"Yeah, someone might slip Dragon dung in it again, eh, Perce?" Fred questions, looking at his stuck-up older brother.
"That was a sample of fertiliser from Norway!" He argues, going very red in the face. "It was nothing personal!"
"It was," Fred whispers to Harry as they get up from the table. "We sent it."
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
In Little Hangleton, the villagers still call the house on the hill overlooking the village 'The Riddle House', even though it has been many years since anyone from the Riddle Family has lived there. Some of the windows are boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over its sides. It was once a fine-looking manor and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around; the Riddle House is now damp, derelict, and unoccupied. The Little Hangletons all agree that the old house is 'creepy'. Half a century ago, something strange and horrible happened there, something that the older inhabitants of the village still like to discuss when topics for gossip are scarce.
The story has been picked over so many times and embroidered in so many places that nobody knows the truth. Every version of the tale, however, starts in the same place:
Fifty years before, at daybreak on a fine summer's morning, when the Riddle House was still well-kept and impressive, a maid entered the drawing room to find all three Riddles dead. The maid ran screaming down the hill into the village, rousing as many people as possible. "Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!" The police were summoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr and Mrs Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse. All the villagers cared about was their murderer - for plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night.
The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a roaring trade that night; the whole village seemed to have turned out to discuss the murders. They were rewarded for leaving their firesides when the Riddles' cook arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce had just been arrested. "Frank!" Several people cried. "Never!"
Frank Bryce was the Riddles' gardener. He lived alone in a rundown cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. Frank had returned from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud noises and had been working for the Riddles ever since. There was a rush to buy the cook drinks and hear more details. "Always thought he was odd," she told the eagerly listening villagers after her fourth sherry. "Unfriendly, like. I'm sure if I've offered him a cuppa once, I've offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn't."
"Ah, now," said a woman at the bar, "he had a hard war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That's no reason to —"
"Who else had a key to the back door, then?" barked the cook. "There's been a spare key hanging in the gardener's cottage far back as I can remember! Nobody forced the door last night! No broken windows! All Frank had to do was creep up to the big house while we was all sleeping. . . ." The villagers exchanged dark looks.
"I always thought he had a nasty look about him, right enough," grunted a man at the bar.
"War turned him funny, if you ask me," said the landlord.
"Told you I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of Frank, didn't I, Dot?" said an excited woman in the corner.
"Horrible temper," said Dot, nodding fervently. "I remember, when he was a kid . . ."
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the Riddles. But over in the neighbouring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was innocent and that the only person he had seen near the house on the day of the Riddles' deaths had been a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale. Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and the police were quite sure that Frank had invented him. Then, just when things were looking dire for Frank, the report on the Riddles' bodies came back and changed everything.
The police had never read an odder report. A team of doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, suffocated, or (as far as they could tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Riddles all appeared to be in perfect health — apart from the fact that they were all dead. The doctors did note (as though determined to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look of terror upon his or her face — but as the frustrated police said, whoever heard of three people being frightened to death? As there was no proof that the Riddles had been murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, and their graves remained objects of curiosity for a while. To everyone's surprise, and amid a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. "'S far as I'm concerned, he killed them, and I don't care what the police say," said Dot in The Hanged Man. "And if he had any decency, he'd leave here, knowing as how we knows he did it."
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
But Frank didn't leave. He stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Riddle House and then the next — for neither family stayed long. Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, which started to fall into disrepair in the absence of inhabitants. The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these days neither lived there nor put it to use; they said in the village that he kept it for 'tax reasons', though nobody was clear what these might be.
However, the wealthy owner continues to pay Frank to do the gardening. Frank is nearing his seventy-seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but he can be seen pottering around the flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds are starting to creep up on him, trying as he might to suppress them. Weeds are not the only things Frank has to contend with either.
Boys from the village habitually throw stones through the windows of the Riddle House. They ride their bicycles over the lawns Frank works hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they break into the old house for a dare. They know that old Frank's devotion to the house and grounds amounts almost to an obsession, and it amuses them to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them. Frank, for his part, believes the boys torment him because they, like their parents and grandparents, think him a murderer. So when Frank awakes one night in August and sees something very odd up at the old house, he assumes that the boys have gone one step further in their attempts to punish him.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
Frank's lousy leg wakes him, paining him worse than ever in his old age. He gets up and limps downstairs into the kitchen with the idea of refilling his hot water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he looks up at the Riddle House and sees lights glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knows at once what is going on. The boys have broken into the house again, and judging by the flickering quality of the light, they have started a fire. Frank doesn't have a telephone, and in any case, he has a deep mistrust of the police ever since they took him in for questioning about the Riddles' deaths. He puts down the kettle at once, hurrying back upstairs as fast as his bad leg will allow, and is soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing a rusty old key from its hook by the door. He picks up his walking stick, which is propped against the wall, and sets off into the night.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
The front door of the Riddle House bears no sign of being forced, nor did any of the windows. Frank limps around to the back of the house until he reaches a door almost completely hidden by ivy, removes the old key, puts it into the lock, and noiselessly opens it. He lets himself into the cavernous kitchen. Frank has not entered it for many years; nevertheless, although it is very dark, he remembers where the door into the hall is, and he gropes his way toward it, his nostrils full of the smell of decay, ears prickling for any sound of footsteps or voices from overhead.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
He reaches the hall, which was a little lighter owing to the large mullioned windows on either side of the front door and starts to climb the stairs, blessing the dust that lays thick upon the stone because it muffles the sound of his feet and stick.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
On the landing, Frank turns right and sees at once where the intruders are: At the very end of the passage, a door stands ajar, and a flickering light shines through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Frank edges closer and closer, grasping his walking stick firmly. He can see a narrow slice of the room beyond several feet from the entrance. The fire, he now sees, has been lit in the grate. This surprises him. Then he stops moving and listens intently, for a man's voice speaks within the room; it sounds timid and fearful. "There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord if you are still hungry."
"Later," says a second voice. This, too, belongs to a man — but it is strangely high-pitched and cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that voice makes the sparse hairs on Frank's neck stand up. "Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail." Frank turns his right ear toward the door, the better to hear. There comes the clink of a bottle being put down upon some hard surface and then the dull scraping noise of a heavy chair being dragged across the floor. Frank catches a glimpse of a small man, his back to the door, pushing the chair into place. He is wearing a long black cloak, and a bald patch is on his head. Then he goes out of sight again. "Where is Nagini?" asks the cold voice.
"I — I don't know, My Lord," the first voice nervously replies. "She set out to explore the house, I think. . . ."
"You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail," demands the second voice. "I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly."
Brow furrowed, Frank inclines his good ear still closer to the door, listening very hard. There is a pause, and then the man called Wormtail speaks again. "My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?"
"A week," says the cold voice. "Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over." Frank inserts a gnarled finger into his ear and rotates it. Owing, no doubt, to a buildup of earwax, he hears the word 'Quidditch', which is not a word at all.
"The — the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?" Wormtail stutters. (Frank digs his finger still more vigorously into his ear.) "Forgive me, but — I do not understand — why should we wait until the World Cup is over?"
"Because, fool, at this very moment, Wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait." Frank stops trying to clear out his ear. He has distinctly heard the words' Ministry of Magic', 'Wizards', and 'Muggles'. Plainly, each of these expressions means something secret, and Frank can think of only two sorts of people who would speak in code: spies and criminals. Frank tightens his hold on his walking stick once more and listens more closely.
"Your Lordship is still determined, then?" Wormtail asks quietly.
"Certainly I am determined, Wormtail." There is a note of menace in the cold voice now.
A slight pause follows — and then Wormtail speaks, the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he is forcing himself to say this before he loses his nerve. "It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord." Another pause, more protracted, and then —
"Without Harry Potter?" breathes the second voice softly. "I see . . ."
"My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!" Wormtail squeaks, his voice rising squeakily. "The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another Witch or Wizard — any Wizard — the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while — you know that I can disguise myself most effectively — I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person —"
"I could use another wizard," says the cold voice softly, "that is true. . . ."
"My Lord, it makes sense," explains Wormtail, relieved now. "Laying hands on Harry Potter would be so difficult, he is so well protected —"
"And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a substitute? I wonder . . . perhaps the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing more than an attempt to desert me?" the cold voice questions calmly.
"My Lord! I — I have no wish to leave you, none at all —"
"Do not lie to me!" hisses the second voice. "I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me. . . ."
"No! My devotion to Your Lordship —"
"Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?"
"But you seem so much stronger, My Lord —"
"Liar," breathes the second voice. "I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. Silence!" Wormtail, who has been sputtering incoherently, falls silent at once. For a few seconds, Frank can hear nothing but the fire crackling. Then the second man speaks again, in a whisper that is almost a hiss. "I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail — courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort's wrath —"
"My Lord, I must speak!" says Wormtail, panicking in his voice now. "All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head — My Lord, Bertha Jorkins's disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder —" And the second man's voice changes. He starts making noises that Frank has never heard before, hissing and spitting without drawing breath. Frank thinks he must be having some sort of fit or seizure.
Then, Frank hears movement behind him in the dark passageway. He turns to look and finds himself paralysed with fright. Something is slithering toward him along the dark corridor floor, and as it draws nearer to the sliver of firelight, he realises with a thrill of terror that it is a gigantic snake at least twelve feet long. Horrified, transfixed, Frank stares as its undulating body cuts a wide, curving track through the thick dust on the floor, coming closer and closer — What was he to do? The only means of escape is into the room where two men sit plotting murder, yet if he stays where he is, the snake will surely kill him —
But before he has made his decision, the snake is level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it passes; it follows the spitting, hissing noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had vanished through the gap. There is sweat on Frank's forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick is trembling.
Inside the room, the cold voice is continuing to hiss, and Frank is visited by a strange idea, an impossible idea. . . . This man can talk to snakes. Frank doesn't understand what is going on. He wants more than anything to be back in his bed with his hot water bottle. The problem is that his legs don't seem to want to move. As he stands there shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice switches abruptly to English again. "Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail," it announces.
"In-indeed, My Lord?" asks Wormtail.
"Indeed, yes," said the voice. "According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say." Frank doesn't have a chance to hide himself. There are footsteps, and then the room door flies wide open. A short, balding man with greying hair, a pointed nose, and small, watery eyes stands before Frank, a mixture of fear and alarm on his face. "Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?"
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
The cold voice comes from the ancient armchair before the fire, but Frank can't see the speaker. On the other hand, the snake is curled up on the rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet dog. Wormtail beckons Frank into the room. Though deeply shaken, Frank takes a firmer grip on his walking stick and limps over the threshold. The fire is the only light source in the room; it casts long, spidery shadows upon the walls. Frank stares at the back of the armchair; the man inside it seems smaller than his servant, for Frank can't even see the back of his head. "You heard everything, Muggle?" questions the cold voice.
"What's that you're calling me?" asks Frank defiantly. Now that he is inside the room, the time has come for some sort of action; he feels braver; it has always been so in the war.
"I am calling you a Muggle," replies the voice coolly. "It means that you are not a Wizard."
"I don't know what you mean by Wizard," Frank says, his voice growing steadier. "All I know is I've heard enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You've done murder and you're planning more! And I'll tell you this too," he adds, on a sudden inspiration, "my wife knows I'm up here, and if I don't come back —"
"You have no wife," the cold voice states very quietly. "Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows . . . he always knows. . . ."
"Is that right?" Frank questions roughly. "Lord, is it? Well, I don't think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn 'round and face me like a man, why don't you?"
"But I am not a man, Muggle," says the cold voice, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. "I am much, much more than a man. However . . . why not? I will face you. . . . Wormtail, come turn my chair around." The servant gives a whimper. "You heard me, Wormtail." Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would instead have done anything than approach his master and the hearth rug where the snake lies, the small man walks forward and begins to turn the chair. The snake lifts its ugly triangular head and hisses slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug. Then, the chair faces Frank, and he sees what is sitting in it. His walking stick falls to the floor with a clatter. He opens his mouth and lets out a scream. He is screaming so loudly that he never hears the words the thing in the chair speaks as it raises a wand.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
There is a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumples. He is dead before he hits the floor. Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter wakes with a start. "Harry!" Hermione snaps, seeing the flustered and panicked look. "Are you alright?"
"Hermione…" Harry mutters, looking at her, the vivid nightmare still on his mind. "Bad dream. When did you get here?" He asks, looking around Ron's room as he's staying at the Weasleys the night before the Quidditch World Cup.
"Just now. You?" She wonders, looking around the small, orange bedroom.
"Last night," He tells her, sitting up. "Sirius had to go to work early," He explains, and Hermione steps over to Ron's bed, needing to wake him up.
"Wake up. Wake up, Ronald!" The teenage Witch shouts, waking the redhead, who bolts up, seeing her in his room.
"Bloody hell," Ron curses, holding his blanket over himself.
"Honestly," Hermione scoffs at him. "Get dressed, and don't go back to sleep." She moves to the door. "Come on Ron! Your Mother says breakfasts ready."
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
After breakfast, the Weasleys, minus Bill and Charlie, who are making their own way there later, Harry and Hermione walk through the grassland some ways away from the Burrow. "Where are we actually going?" Harry asks his best friend.
"Don't know," Ron replies. "Hey Dad! Where are we going?"
"Haven't the foggiest, keep up!" Arthur tells them, walking ahead.
"Arthur! It's about time, son!" Amos Diggory shouts, spotting them as they wait at the top of the cliff with his son, Cedric, leaning against the tree not far away, looking sombre.
"Sorry, Amos. Some of us had a bit of a sleepy start," he replies, looking behind him at the younger teens. "This is Amos Diggory everyone, he works with me at the Ministry. And this strapping young lad must be Cedirc, am I right?"
"Yes sir," Cedric says respectfully.
"Merlin's beard, you must be Harry Potter," Amos gasps, spotting the bespeckled teen.
"Yes sir," Harry replies.
"Great great pleasure," He says, shaking hands.
"Pleasure to meet you too sir," Potter greets, not seeing the glare Hermione is throwing Cedric's way, and they walk up the hill to the top.
"That's it sir, just over there," Arthur announces.
"Shall we? We don't want to be late," Amos suggests as they stand around a manky old boot in the overgrown grass.
"Why are they all standing around that manky old boot?" Harry asks, crinkling his nose in disgust.
"That isn't just any old manky boot mate," Fred argues cheekily.
"It's a Portkey," George adds, and Harry remembers Jayla mentioning it once. Everyone is in a circle, putting their hands on the boot.
"Time to go. Ready?" Amos asks around.
"Wait. what?" Harry questions, looking at the adults.
"After 3. One… Two…" He announces.
"Harry!" Arthur shouts, and Harry rushes over and puts his hand on the boot, not wanting to get left behind.
"Three!" Mr Diggory shouts, and there's a white flash. Suddenly, they're all flying through the air, and everyone cheers.
"Let go kids!" Mr Weasley tells them.
"What?" Hermione questions, looking at him in shock.
"Let! Go!" Arthur repeats, letting go of the Portkey, with the others quickly following suit.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
Harry, Hermione, and the younger Weasleys crash to the ground with a thump, while Arthur, Amos, and Cedric come down more gracefully, walking on air almost. "I bet that cleared your sinuses, eh?" Arthur remarks. Harry disentangles himself from Ron and gets to his feet with Cedric politely helping him, though the Hufflepuff doesn't like the younger teen as much, considering Harry's partly why he and Jayla broke up last year.
"Thanks," Harry says, smiling nicely at the older teen. They have arrived on what appears to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them is a pair of tired and grumpy-looking Wizards, one 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 wears a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho. "Morning, Basil," Mr Weasley greets them, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted Wizard, who throws it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Harry can see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.
"Hello, there, Arthur," Basil replies 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," Mr Weasley replies, beckoning everyone to follow him. They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage beside a gate swims into view. Beyond it, Harry 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. "Harry!" They hear across the way and turn to see Jayla with her family jogging towards them. "Hey, guys, Mr Weasley, Mr Diggory," She looks around at the large group. Harry sees the smile on Cedric's face as he looks at the Darkmore Heiress; he can't help but feel a deep jealousy bubbling in the pit of his stomach. "Cedric…" She looks at her ex-boyfriend, who she can honestly say she has no remaining feelings for after they broke up.
"Parting of the waves I think old chap, Jayla dear, see you at the match," Amos says, pulling Cedric behind him.
"See ya later Cedric," Harry mutters, looking between the older Hufflepuff and Jayla, noticing something is going on between them.
"Hello, Arthur," Daniel greets him, the men shaking hands.
"Hello, Daniel, I'm surprised you're down here, I thought your tent was further up," Arthur remarks, looking at the Darkmore family.
"Mason wanted to grab a few souvenirs before the game," Sophia explains. They look at Mason, his face painted with Irish green and a chequered green and white scarf around his neck.
"Trust me. He's going light. He wanted to buy more," Jayla mutters, looking at her friends, who laugh at the eleven-year-old beaming back at them.
"We should be getting to our tent," Daniel announces. "See you at the game."
"Of course," Arthur replies, the group moving away. Jayla hugs her friends, lingering with Harry a little longer before they leave, heading further away from the cottage. They approach the cottage door after saying goodbye to the Diggorys and Darkmores. A man is standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Harry knows at a glance that this is the only real Muggle for several acres. When he hears their footsteps, he turns his head to look at them. "Morning!" Mr Weasley greets him brightly.
"Morning," the Muggle replies.
"Would you be Mr Roberts?" He questions, looking at the man.
"Aye, I would," Mr Roberts retorts, eyeing the group. "And who're you?"
"Weasley - two tents, booked a couple of days ago?" Arthur replies.
"Aye," He says, consulting a list tacked to the door. "You've got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?"
"That's it," Mr Weasley agrees.
"You'll be paying now, then?" Mr Roberts questions.
"Ah - right - certainly -," Arthur says, retreating a short distance from the cottage and beckons Harry toward him. "Help me, Harry," he mutters, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and peeling the notes apart. "This one's a - a - a ten?" He shows it. "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…" Mr Weasley says, a little too loud.
"You foreign?" Mr Roberts asks as Mr Weasley returns with the correct notes.
"Foreign?" He repeats, puzzled.
"You're not the first one who's had trouble with money," Mr Roberts says, scrutinising Mr Weasley closely. "I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago."
"Did you really?" Arthur questions nervously. Mr Roberts rummages around in a tin for some change.
"Never been this crowded," he muses suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. "Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up…"
"Is that right?" Mr Weasley replies, his hand holding out for his change, but Mr Roberts doesn't give it to him.
"Aye," Mr Roberts 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?" Arthur wonders anxiously.
"It's like some sort of . . . I dunno . . . like some sort of rally," Mr Roberts says, not listening to Mr Weasley. "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, the man's eyes slide out of focus, his brows unknit, and a look of dreamy unconcern falls over his face. Harry recognises 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," Arthur replies. The Wizard in plus-fours accompanies them toward the campsite gate. He looks exhausted: His chin is blue with stubble, and deep purple shadows are 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," Ginny wonders, looking surprised. "He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn't he?"
"He should," Mr Weasley replies, 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."
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
They 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, bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there are tents so obviously Magical that Harry 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, they pass a tent with three floors and several turrets, and a short way beyond that is a tent with a front garden attached, complete with a birdbath, sundial, and fountain. "Always the same," Mr. Weasley says, smiling. "We can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us." They reach 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 read 'weezly'. "Couldn't have a better spot!" He announces 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?"
Harry has never been camping in his life; the Dursleys have never taken him on any kind of holiday, preferring to leave him with Mrs Figg, an old neighbour. And this summer is no different, though it's mainly been because of the move and getting used to being around Sirius. However, he and Hermione work out where most poles and pegs should go. Though Mr Weasley is more of a hindrance than a help because he gets thoroughly overexcited when using the mallet, they finally manage to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.
All of them stand back to admire their handiwork. Harry thinks nobody looking at these tents will guess they belonged to Wizards, but the trouble is that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrive, they will be a party of ten. Hermione also seems to have spotted this problem; she gives Harry a quizzical look as 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." Harry bends down, ducking under the tent flap, and feels his jaw drop.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
He walks into what looks like an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with a bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it is furnished in exactly the same style as Mrs Figg's house: Crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats. "Well, it's not for long," Mr Weasley tells them, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds 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," Ron announces, who follows Harry inside the tent and seems utterly unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. "It's on the other side of the field."
"Well, why don't you, Harry, and Hermione 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," He argues. "Why can't we just —"
"Ron, anti-Muggle security!" Arthur reminds his son, his face shining with anticipation. "When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I've seen them at it!"
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
After a quick tour of the girls' tent, which is slightly smaller than the boys', though, without the smell of cats, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans, now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they can see the city of tents that stretches in every direction. They make their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It is only just dawning on Harry how many Witches and Wizards there must be in the world; he has never really thought much about those in other countries. Their fellow campers are starting to wake up. First to stir are the families with small children; Harry has never seen Witches and Wizards this young before, apart from Yazmin and Mason.
A tiny boy no older than two crouches 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 they 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 treads on the giant slug, which bursts. Her scolding carries 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 see two little Witches, barely older than Kevin, 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, and Hermione, 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, conjured fires with their wands; others are striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure it won't work.
Three African Wizards sit in earnest 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 read: the Salem Witches' Institute. Harry catches snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they pass, and though he can't understand a word, the tone of every single voice is exciting. "Er — is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?" Ron questions. It isn't just Ron's eyes. They walk into a patch of tents covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, making it look like 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 them, they hear their names. "Harry! Ron! Hermione!" It's Seamus Finnigan, their 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?" Seamus asks, grinning. "The Ministry's not too happy."
"Ah, why shouldn't we show our colours?" Mrs Finnigan wonders. "You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland, of course?" she adds, eyeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione beadily.
When they assure her they are indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again, as Ron says, "Like we'd say anything else surrounded by that lot."
"I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?" Hermione muses, looking at the others.
"Let's go and have a look," Harry replies, pointing to a large patch of tents upheld, where the Bulgarian flag — white, green, and red — is fluttering in the breeze. The tents here haven't been 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.
"Krum," Ron says quietly.
"What?" Hermione asks, not hearing clearly.
"Krum!" He repeats. "Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!"
"He looks really grumpy," she replies, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at them.
"'Really grumpy'?" the Weasley boy asks, raising his eyes to the heavens. "Who cares what he looks like? He's unbelievable. He's really young, too—only 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, and Hermione join it, right behind a pair of men who are having a heated argument. One is a very old Wizard wearing a long, flowery nightgown. The other is clearly a Ministry Wizard, 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," the old Wizard argues stubbornly. "Muggles wear them."
"Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these," the Ministry Wizard retorts, and he brandishes the pinstriped trousers.
"I'm not putting them on," old Archie indignantly says. "I like a healthy breeze 'round my privates, thanks." Hermione is overcome with such a strong fit of giggles that she has to duck out of the queue, and she only returns when Archie collects his water and moves away.
"That's an interesting choice of clothing, Mr Archie," They hear behind them and see Jayla with Yazmin, holding a bucket. "It looks nice, I like the flowers."
"Thank you, Miss Darkmore," Archie replies smugly, looking at the Ministry Wizard, who scowls back at him.
"Don't encourage him, Miss Darkmore," The Ministry Wizard grumbles, looking at the Darkmore Heiress.
"Sorry, it's nice seeing you both. See you at the game later," Jayla replies, smiling before seeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Hey, funny seeing you guys here. Get sent to get water, too?"
"Yeah," They mutter, smiling at their friend.
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
After seeing Jayla and Yazmin again, they walk more slowly now; because of the weight of the water, they make their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they see more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old Captain of Harry's House Quidditch Team, who just left Hogwarts, drags Harry to his parents' tent to introduce him and tells him excitedly that he's been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team. Next, they get hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on, they see Cho Chang, a beautiful girl who plays Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waves and smiles at Harry, who waves back a little, careful not to spill any water. More to stop Ron from smirking than anything, knowing that Harry is madly in love with only Jayla, and any other girl doesn't even blip on his radar. Harry hurriedly points out a large group of teenagers he's never seen before. "Who d'you reckon they are?" He asks. "They don't go to Hogwarts, do they?"
"'Spect they go to some foreign school," Ron suggests. "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." Harry laughs but doesn't voice the amazement he feels at hearing about other Wizarding Schools. He supposes, now that he sees representatives of so many nationalities in the campsite, that he's been stupid and never realises that Hogwarts can't be the only one. He remembers Jayla and Sirius discussing a school in America called Livermony, which Mr Darkmore and his sister attended. Harry glances at Hermione, who looks utterly unsurprised by the information. She has undoubtedly read about other Wizarding schools in some book.
"You've been ages," George remarks when they finally return to the Weasleys' tents.
"Met a few people, ran into Jayla again," Ron replies, setting the water down. "You not got that fire started yet?"
"Dad's having fun with the matches," Fred tells him. Mr Weasley has had no success lighting the fire, but it isn't because of a lack of effort. Splintered matches litter the ground around him, but he looks as though he is having the time of his life.
"Oops!" he says as he manages to light a match and promptly drops it in surprise.
"Come here, Mr Weasley," Hermione offers kindly, taking the box from him and showing him how to do it properly. At last, they 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 they wait, however. Their tent seems to be pitched alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members keep hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr Weasley cordially as they pass.
Mr Weasley keeps up a running commentary, mainly for Harry's and Hermione's benefit; his own children 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 asks, thinking he's heard the name before.
"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to. . . ." At last, the fire is ready, and they just start cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy come strolling out of the woods toward them.
"Just Apparated, Dad," Percy announces loudly. "Ah, excellent, lunch!" They are halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr Weasley jumps to his feet, waving and grinning at a man striding toward them.
"Aha!" he exclaims. "The man of the moment! Ludo!"
Ludo Bagman is easily the most noticeable person Harry has ever seen, even including old Archie in his flowered nightdress. He wears long Quidditch robes in thick, horizontal, bright yellow and black stripes. 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 has not had in the days when he played Quidditch for England. His nose is squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, Harry ponders), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion make him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.
"Ahoy there!" Bagman calls happily. He walks 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 a magical fire sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air. Percy hurries forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently, his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman runs his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.
"Ah — yes," Mr Weasley grins, "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 Harry Potter." When he heard Harry's name, Bagman did the smallest double takes, and his eyes flicked 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 asks 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," Arthur agrees. "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," Mr. Weasley argues. "Molly wouldn't like —"
"We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts," Fred adds as he and George quickly pool 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 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," Mr Weasley mutters under his breath, "I don't want you betting. . . . That's all your savings. . . . Your Mother —"
"Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!" Ludo Bagman booms, 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 jot down the twins' names.
"Cheers," George says, 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?" Percy asks, 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," Fred grumbles dismissively. "All you have to do is point and grunt." 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 them.
"Not a dicky bird," Bagman replies 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?" He suggests tentatively as Percy hands Bagman his tea.
"Barty Crouch keeps saying that," Ludo retorts, 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 their 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 grey hair is almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush moustache looks as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes are very highly polished. Harry can see at once why Percy idolised him. Percy is a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr Crouch has complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that he can have passed for a bank manager; Harry doubts even Uncle Vernon would have spotted him for what he really was. "Pull up a bit of grass, Barty," Ludo encourages him brightly, patting the ground beside him.
"No thank you, Ludo," Crouch replies, 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?" Bagman questions. "I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent."
"Mr Crouch!" Percy says breathlessly, sinking into a kind of half-bow that makes him look like a hunchback. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Oh," Mr Crouch mutters, looking at Percy in mild surprise. "Yes — thank you, Weatherby."
Fred and George choke into their own cups. Percy, very pink around the ears, busies himself with the kettle. "Oh and I've been wanting a word with you too, Arthur," he says, 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 Artefact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?"
"I doubt it," Barty remarks, accepting a cup from Percy. "He's desperate to export here."
"Well, they'll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?" Bagman questions, looking at them.
"Ali thinks there's a niche in the market for a family vehicle," Mr Crouch argues. "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 have abided strictly by the law.
"So, been keeping busy, Barty?" Ludo asks breezily.
"Fairly," Mr Crouch replies dryly. "Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo."
"I expect you'll both be glad when this is over?" Mr Weasley questions.
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 organise, eh?"
Mr Crouch raises his eyebrows at Bagman. "We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details —"
"Oh details!" Ludo exclaims, 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 —"
"Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know," Barty says 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 shouts. "You'll be up in the Top Box with me — I'm commentating!" He waves, Barty Crouch nods curtly, and both of them Disapparated.
"What's happening at Hogwarts, Dad?" Fred asks at once. "What were they talking about?"
"You'll find out soon enough," Mr Weasley replies, smiling.
"It's classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it," Percy adds stiffly. "Mr Crouch was quite right not to disclose it."
"Oh shut up, Weatherby," Fred teases his older brother. As the afternoon continues, a sense of excitement rises like a palpable cloud over the campsite. By dusk, the still summer air itself seems to be quivering with anticipation. As darkness spreads like a curtain over the thousands of waiting Wizards, the last vestiges of pretence disappear: the Ministry appears to have bowed to the inevitable and stops fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere. 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 collectable figures of famous players, which stroll across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.
"Been saving my pocket money all summer for this," Ron tells Harry as they and Hermione 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 backwards and forward over Ron's hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him.
"Wow, look at these!" Harry exclaims, 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," the saleswizard says 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."
"Wish I hadn't bought this now," Ron grumbles, gesturing at his dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at the Omnioculars.
"Three pairs," Harry states firmly to the Wizard.
"No — don't bother," He mutters, 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 did.
"You won't be getting anything for Christmas," The bespeckled teen tells him, thrusting Omnioculars into his and Hermione's hands. "For about ten years, mind."
"Fair enough," The younger Weasley boy replies, grinning.
"Oooh, thanks, Harry," Hermione gushes. "And I'll get us some programs, look —"
⒴⒠⒜⒭ ⑷
Their money bags are considerably lighter, so they return to the tents. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny also wear green rosettes, and Mr Weasley carries an Irish flag. Fred and George have no souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold. And then a resounding, 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!" Mr Weasley announces, looking as excited as any of them. "Come on, let's go!"
