The Campsite
Harry
Harry felt as though he had barely lain down to sleep when he was being shaken awake by his mother.
“Time to go, dear,” she whispered and left.
Harry sat up groggily. It was still dark outside. He dressed, sleepy still, yawning and stretching, and headed downstairs into the kitchen. Lily was stirring sugar in her cup of tea, while James was sitting at the table, checking a sheaf of large parchment tickets. Jéricho and Lyra were nowhere to be seen, but Effie and Monty were already there, talking in hushed whispers. Regulus was there, too, nibbling on a piece of toast. Sirius was snoring with his cheek propped up on his palm, and Remus was reading the Prophet.
He looked up as the boys entered and smiled. “Morning, Harry.”
"Morning. Where’re Jéricho and Lyra?” Harry asked, failing to stifle a huge yawn.
There were footsteps down the passageway and Lyra and Jéricho came into the kitchen, both looking pale and drowsy.
“Why do we have to be up so early?” Lyra grumbled, rubbing her eyes and sitting down at the table.
“We’ve got a bit of a walk,” James said.
“Walk?” Harry said with heavy sarcasm. “What, we walking to the World Cup?”
“No, no, that’s miles away,” Remus smiled. “We only need to walk a short way. It’s just that it’s very difficult for a large number of wizards to congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We have to be very careful about how we travel at the best of times, and on a huge occasion like the Quidditch World Cup-”
"English, Moony," Sirius mumbled, yawning, having just woken up as James startled him with water to the face. Sirius glowered at James, who just smiled back innocently.
"What Remus meant was that we'll be taking a portkey." Lily offered.
It was chilly and the moon was still out when they left the house, with Regulus in his cat form on Lyra's shoulder. Only a dull, greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed that daybreak was drawing closer. Harry sped up to walk with Lily.
“So where is our portkey, exactly?” he asked.
"Nearby, not far. You know that park you all play in? Near there's an out-of-service old school. Our portkey's at it's entrance somewhere.”
They trudged down the dark street, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as they reached their destination, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. Harry’s hands and feet were freezing. Remus kept checking his watch.
“Whew,” panted James, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater as they walked through the big black gates and near the entrance. “Well, we’ve made good time - we’ve got ten minutes...”
“Now we just need the Portkey,” Remus said, squinting around at the ground. “It won’t be big... Come on...”
They spread out, searching. They had only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout rent the still air.
“Over here, Sirius! We’ve got it!”
Three tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.
“Droma!” Sirius grinned and strode over to the woman who had shouted. The rest of them followed.
Sirius was hugging a tall, angular-faced witch with long, curly black hair and prominent Black features. It was Andromeda Tonks with her family. The wizard next to her, Ted, was holding a moldy-looking old boot in his hand.
"Wotcher," Nymphadora (only Tonks!) grinned. She was pretty cool and a talented metamorphmagus, with a devil-may-care attitude like Sirius. Olive skin, tall height, and short and spiky green hair for the Cup. She five years older than Harry, and was currently in Auror training.
“Hey, Andromeda. Ted. Nymphadora.” Lily smiled pleasantly.
Tonks pouted, her hair turning red. "It's just Tonks, Lily."
"Yeah," Sirius snickered. "Only our dear Remus can call her Nymphadora, I reckon."
Harry looked over in surprise at Remus, who had his eyes narrowed dangerously at Sirius. Tonks was blushing hard, glaring at Sirius.
Andromeda rolled her eyes. "Can you not tease someone for five minutes, Siri?"
"No can do, cuz," Sirius grinned cheekily.
Ted bellowed a hearty laugh. "C'mon, we don't want to be late, do we?"
"No one else, is there?" Lily asked, to be on the safe side.
Ted shook his head. "No, the Malfoys already went two days earlier, and the Lovegoods and the Diggorys have been there for a week already.”
Remus cleared his throat. “It’s a minute off... We’d better get ready..."
"We're not all taking the portkey, are we?" Jéricho asked a little nervously.
"No," Tonks shook her head. "Harry can apparate with me-"
"And Ech with me," Sirius shrugged. "The rest all will have the portkey. You know, 'cause kids can't apparate and all."
Lyra whined, "That's not fair!" But it was no use. Harry grabbed Tonks' hand and Jéricho caught Sirius', and they disappeared.
Lyra
Lyra pouted. She felt a bit disgruntled and jealous of her brother's and Harry's luck, but whatever. It wasn't as if she could do anything about it. The portkey was being taken especially due to the children, and also for Ted, who didn't like to apparate. And Harry and Jéricho would be seventeen soon, anyway.
With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the nine of them - and Crux the cat - crowded around the old boot held out by Ted. They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop.
“Three...” Remus muttered, one eye still on his watch, “Two... one...”
It happened immediately: Lyra felt as though a hook just behind her navel had been suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. Her feet left the ground; she could feel Effie and Monty on either side of her, their shoulders banging into hers; they were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; her forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling her magnetically onward and then...
Her feet slammed into the ground; Effie staggered into her and they fell over; Monty started retching; the Portkey hit the ground near her head with a heavy thud.
Lyra looked up. The adults were all still standing, though looking very windswept. Jéricho, standing at a distance with Harry, Sirius, and Tonks, was grinning mockingly at her.
“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” said a voice.
Lyra disentangled himself from Effie and got to her feet. They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho. Lyra had to resist the urge to laugh.
“Morning, Basil,” James said, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Lyra could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.
“Hello there, James,” said Basil wearily. “Not on duty, eh? It’s all right for some... We’ve been here all night... You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite... Potter...” He consulted his parchment list. “About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr. Roberts. You're with the Blacks, of course. Tonks... second field... ask for Mr. Payne. Oh, and you'll find a Potter already with the Weasleys. They arrived half-an-hour ago."
“Thanks, Basil,” James said, and beckoned everyone to follow him.
They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, Lyra could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon. They said goodbye to the Tonks and approached the cottage door.
A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Lyra knew at a glance that this was the only real Muggle for several acres. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.
“Morning!” James said brightly. “Would you be Mr. Roberts?”
“Aye, I would. And who’re you?”
“Potter and Black - two tents, booked a couple of days ago?”
“Aye,” Mr. Roberts said, consulting a list tacked to the door.
"You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?"
"That’s it," James confirmed.
"You’ll be paying now, then?" said Mr. Roberts.
James turned a bit nervous. “Ah - right -”
"Of course," Sirius intervened smoothly, but it was clear he was trying to stop a snigger. "Forgive my friend, he's foreign and gets confused with the money. Here." Sirius quickly handed Mr. Roberts the money.
Mr. Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some change. "Never been this crowded," he said suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. “Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up..."
"Is that right?" Sirius hummed, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn’t give it to him.
“Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There’s a bloke walking ’round in a kilt and a poncho. It’s like some sort of... I dunno... like some sort of rally. They all seem to know each other. Like a big party."
At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next to Mr. Roberts’s front door.
“Obliviate!” he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts. Instantly, Mr. Roberts’s eyes slid out of focus, his brows unknitted, and a look of dreamy unconcern fell over his face. Lyra recognized the symptoms of one who had just had his memory modified.
“A map of the campsite for you,” Mr. Roberts said placidly to Sirius. “And your change.”
“Thanks very much.”
The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr. Roberts, he muttered to James, “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, James.”
He Disapparated.
“I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports,” Effie said, looking surprised. “He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn’t he?”
“He should,” James scoffed, leading them through the gates into the campsite, “but Bagman’s always been a bit... well... lax about security. You couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic head of the sports department though. He played Quidditch for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.”
They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Lyra could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with a birdbath, sundial, and fountain.
“Always the same,” James shrugged with a smile. “We can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us.” They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read Potter&Black.
“Couldn’t have a better spot!” Remus exclaimed happily. “The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we’re as close as we could be.” He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders.
“Right,” James said excitedly, “no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we’re out in these numbers on Muggle land. We’ll be putting these tents up by hand!”
Lyra had been camping only once in her life; Sirius was quite fond of it. She, along with Harry and Jéricho, worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go. They finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.
All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to wizards, Lyra thought, but the trouble was that once they weren't a small party, and Charles may also be joining them soon. She gave Jéricho a quizzical look as James dropped to his hands and knees and entered the first tent.
“We’ll be a bit cramped,” he called, “but I think we’ll all squeeze in. Come and have a look.”
Lyra bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and her eyes raised in appraisal. It wasn't too cramped, actually. It was what looked like a five-room flat, complete with two bathrooms and a kitchen.
“Well, it’s not for long,” Remus mused, peering in at the six bunk beds that stood in the bedroom.
He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. “We’ll need water...”
“There’s a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us,” Monty commented. “It’s on the other side of the field.”
“Well, why don’t you and Effie go and get us some water then,” Sirius handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans, “and the rest of us will get some wood for a fire? Lyra, Harry, and Jéricho can go get Charles.”
“But we’ve got an oven,” Effie frowned. “Why can’t we just-”
“No!” Sirius exclaimed, his face shining with anticipation. “When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. And whenever Lyra, Ech and I go camping, we do the same!”
James grinned. "Well, I'll admit it's more fun that way..."
Lyra, Harry, and Jéricho set off across the campsite in search of Charles. Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around.
Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.
“How many times, Kevin? You don’t — touch — Daddy’s — wand — yecchh!”
She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy’s yells — “You bust slug! You bust slug!”
A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Lyra, Harry, and Jéricho, he muttered distractedly, “In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose -”
Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn’t work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: the Salem Witches’ Institute. Lyra caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though she couldn’t understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited.
Suddenly, Harry exclaimed. "I'll meet you back at camp in a bit!" He hurried off in the direction of the American witches'. Jéricho rolled his eyes. "Probably going to see his girlfriends."
Lyra's eyes widened in realization. "That... Celina Stacey, something?"
"Celeste," Jéricho corrected. "And her friends."
They found the Weasleys tent minutes later, where Ginny was the first to greet them. "Hey, Lyra! Jéricho!"
"Hi, Gin." Lyra gave the younger girl a brief hug. "Where's Charles?"
"Here I am." Charles exited the tent behind Ginny, smiling at them. "Where's Harry?"
"Gone to greet Stacey, his Anglo-French girlfriend."
"Ah, her." Charles frowned in recognition. "C'mon, let's go exploring for a bit."
Hermione and Ron appeared behind him. "We're ready."
Lyra bit back the small annoyance in her and smiled politely, and they set off again.
Charles
“Er — is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?” said Ron.
It wasn’t just Ron’s eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.
“Charles! Ron! Hermione!”
It was Seamus Finnigan, their fellow Gryffindor fourth year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas, also of Gryffindor.
“Like the decorations?” said Seamus, grinning. “The Ministry’s not too happy.”
“Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colors?” said Mrs. Finnigan. “You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You’ll be supporting Ireland, of course?” she added, eyeing Charles and the others beadily. When they had assured her that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again, though, as Ron said, “Like we’d say anything else surrounded by that lot.”
“I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?” said Hermione.
“Let’s go and have a look,” Ginny said, pointing to a large patch of tents upheld, where the Bulgarian flag - white, green, and red - was fluttering in the breeze.
The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.
“Krum,” said Ron quietly.
“What?” said Hermione.
“Krum!” said Ron. “Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!”
“He looks really grumpy,” said Hermione, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at them.
“‘Really grumpy’?” Ron raised his eyes to the heavens. “Who cares what he looks like? He’s unbelievable. He’s really young too. Only just eighteen or something. He’s a genius, you wait until tonight, you’ll see.”
They also caught a pair of men having a heated argument. One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a pair of pin-striped trousers and almost crying with exasperation.
“Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s already getting suspicious -”
“I bought this in a Muggle shop,” said the old wizard stubbornly. “Muggles wear them.”
“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,” said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers.
“I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks.”
Hermione, Ginny, and Lyra were overcome with such a strong fit of giggles at this point that they had to duck away and only returned when they could breath again.
As they made their way back through the campsite, they saw more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old captain of the Gryffindor House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged Charles and Jéricho over to his parents’ tent to introduce them, and told them excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team.
Next, they were hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Charles, who slopped quite a lot of water down his front as he waved back. More to stop Ron from smirking than anything, Charles hurriedly pointed out a large group of teenagers whom he had never seen before.
“Who d’you reckon they are?” Ron asked. “They don’t go to Hogwarts, do they?”
“’Spect they go to some foreign school." Charles shrugged.
They bid Ron, Hermione, and Ginny goodbye as they started the return journey to the Potters'&Black's tents. Charles was with Lyra and Jéricho this time, promising to meet his friends later on.
“You’ve been ages,” Effie commented when they finally got back.
“Met a few people,” Lyra shrugged. “Harry's here?"
"Yeah, just came back a minute ago," Monty said.
The fire was already lit, but it wasn't hot enough to cook anything, so they had to wait a quarter of an hour. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley, James, and Lily as they passed.
At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs and sausages when James slowly stood up, grinning at a man who was striding toward them. “The man of the moment, Ludo!”
Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person Charles had seen so far, even including old Archie in his flowered nightdress. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, Charles thought, but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very over-grown schoolboy.
“Ahoy there!” Bagman called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.
“James, my man,” he puffed as he reached the campfire, “what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming... and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements... Not much for me to do!”
Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.
Harry stepped forward with his hand outstretched, an easy smile on his face.
“Yes,” James said, “this is my eldest son and heir Harry. He’ll be starting sixth year - and these are Charles, Euphemia, and Fleamont — and my wife, Lily. This is our friend Remus, and you, of course, know Sirius-"
"Oh yes!" Bagman jumped excitedly. "Lord Black! Such a pleasure, such a pleasure..."
Sirius smiled pleasantly. "Mr. Bagman. May I introduce you to my children, Jéricho and Lyra."
Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he heard Jéricho’s name, but otherwise shook the boy's hand with vigor.
“Fancy a flutter on the match, James?” Bagman asked 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 week-long match.”
“Oh... go on then,” James hummed. “Let’s see... twenty-five Galleons on Ireland to win?”
"Forty Galleons that Ireland wins... but very closely matched with Bulgaria," Sirius added.
Bagman seemed pleased. “Very well, very well... any other takers?”
“They’re a bit young to be gambling,” Lily frowned.
“We’ll bet twenty Galleons,” Harry gestured to himself and Jéricho, “that Ireland wins - but the match lasts long and the point gap isn't too big between Ireland and Bulgaria."
James and Sirius grinned broadly, while Lily frowned in disapproval. Charles just rolled his eyes.
Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down their names. "That's fair... I'll give you good odds on that..."
“Cheers,” Jéricho grinned, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it away carefully. Bagman turned most cheerfully back to James.
“Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number is 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.”
James nodded. “Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Mr. Bagman?” Sirius casually asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass beside them all.
“Not a dicky bird,” said Bagman comfortably. “But she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha... memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She’ll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.”
“You don’t think it might be time to send someone to look for her?” Remus suggested tentatively as Lily handed Bagman his tea. Sirius scoffed.
“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” said Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, “but we really can’t spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil! Barty!”
A wizard had just apparated at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short gray hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were very highly polished. Charles could see at once why Percy idolized him. Percy was a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr. Crouch had complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that he could have passed for a bank manager.
“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,” said Ludo brightly, patting the ground beside him.
“No thank you, Ludo,” said Crouch, and there was 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?” said Bagman. “I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.”
“Mr. Crouch,” Lily said politely, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Oh,” said Mr. Crouch, looking over at Lily in mild surprise. “Yes - thank you, Lady Potter.”
“So, been keeping busy, Barty?” Bagman asked breezily.
“Fairly,” said Mr. Crouch dryly. “Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.”
“I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over?” James said.
Ludo Bagman looked shocked. “Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun... Still, it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?”
Mr. Crouch raised his eyebrows at Bagman. “We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details -”
“Details!” said Bagman, waving the word away like a cloud of midges. “They’ve signed, haven’t they? They’ve agreed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these kids will know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s happening at Hogwarts -”
“Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,” said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman’s remarks short. “Thank you for the tea, Lady Potter.”
He pushed his undrunk tea back and waited for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.
“See you all later!” he said. “You’ll be up in the Top Box with me - I’m commentating!” he waved. Barty Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them Disapparated.
“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” Harry asked at once. “What were they talking about?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” James assured, smiling mysteriously.
Sirius pouted. “That's what he's been saying to me too! He's not even told Lily!"
"It’s classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it,” James mocked.
Remus huffed. "As if you've ever cared about that. I bet you're just having fun being the one with a secret for a change."
Ginny
A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last vestiges of pretense disappeared: the Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.
Salesmen were apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes - green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria - which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.
“Been saving my pocket money all summer for this,” Ginny told Amy as they strolled through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. She'd purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a large green rosette. Ginny had been allowed to walk with her best friend.
“Wow, look at these!” Amy exclaimed, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except that they were covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials.
“Omnioculars,” said the sales wizard 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,” Ginny pouted, gesturing at her dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at the Omnioculars.
“Two pairs,” Amy told firmly to the wizard.
“No, don’t bother,” Ginny weakly protested. She wasn't very touchy about the fact that she was poor in front of Amy, who had long since accepted it and because Ginny saved more than her brothers, she usually could buy her own stuff. Still...
“You won’t be getting anything for Christmas,” Amy said with a straight face, thrusting Omnioculars into her hands. “For about ten years, mind.”
“Fair enough,” Ginny grinned.
Their money bags considerably lighter, they went back to the tents. Bill, Charlie, Ron, and Hermione were all sporting green rosettes like Ginny too, and Arthur was carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold when he'd met them.
And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.
“It’s time!” said Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. “Come on, let’s go!"