Twisted Fascination

I was having trouble sleeping again, and when I did, I was woken up with the sound of a loud, feminine shriek in my head. I sat up in bed, my heart hammering in my chest, and I gazed out of the window. I slid out of bed and padded over to the window, looking out at the still-dark horizon. I eventually sighed before deciding to get changed into my usual muggle clothes. I made sure to tuck my wand away in my pocket before heading down the stairs.

Mrs. Weasley was bustling about in the kitchen while Mr. Weasley sat in his usual spot, drinking some coffee.

The man immediately noticed my presence, and he asked, “Are you alright, Colton?”

“I'm fine,” I assured him.

He nodded once, looking a bit doubtful.

“Colton, dear, you forgot to put out your list,” Mrs. Weasley said.

“I can do my own shopping,” I assured her, “I have to go to Gringotts anyway.”

She frowned deeply. “But the Quidditch World Cup-”

“If I must, I'll leave early,” I said honestly, “I have no qualms with doing so if it cuts into my schedule.”

The woman begrudgingly accepted my words.

“When do we leave?” I inquired.

“In an hour,” Mr. Weasley replied as he glanced at his wristwatch.

I hummed as I sat down at the table. 

“Would you like some tea, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked as she glanced at me.

“No, thank you,” I denied as I sat back in my seat.

“You look like you haven't slept a wink all night,” Mrs. Weasley said fretfully, causing me to blush.

“I usually don't,” I admitted.

“Why not?” Mrs. Weasley asked curiously.

“I'm a frequent insomniac,” I said, “I haven't had a decent sleep schedule since I was a baby.”

“That's not good at all,” Mrs. Weasley huffed. “Why haven't you said something?”

“My body is well-adjusted to my lack of sleep,” I assured her.

“That's even worse,” the woman said with her hands on her hips, “You could have told someone and been given something to help you sleep peacefully. Don't you know that most of your growth and healing is done when you sleep?”

I chuckled, causing the two adults to look at me in surprise. “I’m not the one who gets injured every school year at least twice. I'd worry more about Harry.”

Mrs. Weasley began to puff up like a bullfrog ready to release a loud croak.

Mr. Weasley put his hand up, causing Mrs. Weasley to stop before she could even begin yelling. He lowered his hand, looking at me carefully. “Sirius was right.”

I remained stone-faced at his words. “Oh?”

“You don't take your health into consideration,” he said, causing me to frown deeply.

“I do,” I argued.

“Only when it benefits you,” the man accused.

I folded my hands together on the table, carefully observing the man. “Your evidence?”

“You aren't denying it,” the man said as he sat straighter in his seat.

“I find it useless to argue with people who have made up their minds,” I said dismissively.

“Then why ask for my evidence if not to tear it apart?” Mr. Weasley questioned.

“I want to understand how you made such an outrageous leap in logic,” I answered.

The man looked quite frustrated. “Colton, how many times a year have you been injured, and how many times have you actively sought help on your own?”

“I'm not going to Madam Pomfrey over every little paper-cut I get,” I replied, “So, I'd say it's a five-to-one ratio.”

He hummed as if he didn't believe me. “And how many times were you threatened and failed to make such a thing known?”

I narrowed my eyes sharply. “I find being a rat highly dissatisfying. I'd much prefer to get even by myself.”

“Plenty, I'd say,” he said, answering his own question.

“Your point, if you will?” I asked shortly.

“My point,” the man said just as shortly, “is that you'll never get anywhere as an adult if you simply sacrifice yourself.”

“I'm not an adult yet,” I pointed out.

“You certainly like acting like one,” he pointed out.

“There were only two ways to fall when you grow up like I have,” I said as my hands clenched together, my eyes surely turning red. “You either sink or float. I floated, and I did so by cutting off a part of myself that was too heavy to be burdened with. I don't have the natural buoyancy that Harry does, so that was my only way to survive.”

Mr. Weasley looked pained. “You didn't have to grow up like that. If you spoke up-”

“You think I didn't?” I retorted coldly. “Do you think Harry fails to trust adults easily because he is naturally distrusting? Do you think I know about how you selfish adults work because it is what really interests me? Do you honestly think that we haven't spoken up to adults we thought we could trust, only to be reprimanded and thrown into a closet under the stairs to think about the consequences of our actions?”

Mr. Weasley looked genuinely ashamed of his words while Mrs. Weasley looked downright horrified.

“There was no escape,” I said as I stared at the two apathetically. “There isn't any escape now, either. Until the day we're actually adults and can leave behind the Dursleys, we're bound to such a fate.”

Mrs. Weasley hesitated before saying, “If Dumbledore knew-”

“Even saints can pray on those weaker than themselves,” I interrupted grimly, “It happens all the time in the muggle world.”

Mrs. Weasley said, “But he would never hurt you.”

“Perhaps not directly,” I agreed, “However, I still find negligence to be a form of abuse.”

“But he couldn't have known-”

“He couldn't have when things happened outside of Hogwarts, maybe,” I agreed. “Inside of the castle walls is an entirely different matter.”

Mr. Weasley paused before a sharp sort of realization filled his eyes. “You don't mean-”

“I do,” I said as I sat back in my seat. “Do you think that he would be totally oblivious, especially after what happened to…?” I trailed off with a heavy sigh. “No, never mind.” I stood up, ignoring the way Mr. Weasley looked beyond mortified. “I'll be back down for breakfast in half an hour.” I then turned heel and left the kitchen, knowing full-well by the look in Mr. Weasley’s eyes that his faith in Dumbledore had been thoroughly crushed.

What that man decided to do next was up to him. He wouldn't get any further guidance from me.

I closed my eyes, and I forced all my emotions down. I then entered Charlie’s room and went over to my trunk. I packed up my various clothes and such before pulling out my grimoire on spell etymology. I continued to read through it, not at all eager to do anything more that early in the morning. I didn't bother taking notes as I read for half an hour. I only stopped when there was a hesitant knock on my door.

“Colton, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked, sounding quite sheepish.

I closed my book and put it in my trunk before closing it. I walked over to the door and opened it, looking up at the woman with an expression of indifference. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley?”

She gave a weak smile as she said, “I’m serving breakfast now.”

“I'll be down soon,” I assured her.

Mrs. Weasley hesitated for a long moment before suddenly wrapping me in a hug.

I initially flinched before tensing up, not used to any form of physical contact.

Mrs. Weasley released me, only to hold my shoulders as she held me at an arm’s length away. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she said, “Colton, I want you to know that you and your brother are safe here. We won't ever try to manipulate you two or anything of the sort.”

“I - I know,” I said, and I honestly meant it.

The entire Weasely family was filled with people that were genuinely too kind for their own good.

She gave a saddened smile as she gently squeezed my shoulders. She then released me and said, “Let’s go have some breakfast.”

I nodded quickly.

Mrs. Weasley turned and headed down the stairs.

I left Charlie's room behind, following the woman while evening out my expression.

Mr. Weasley was still in the same seat as before. The only difference was that he no longer had a cup of coffee before him. Instead, he was checking a sheaf of large parchment tickets.

I sat down, trying to ignore the way that the man seemed to nervously glance at me.

Just as he opened his mouth, Fred, George, Ron, and Harry stumbled into the kitchen while wearing muggle clothing. The man quickly averted his eyes as the four boys yawned and grumbled incomprehensibly. “What d’you think?” He asked, “We're supposed to go incognito - do I look like a muggle, Harry?”

My brother smiled at the patriarch who wore an old golfing sweater and old jeans held up by a thick leather belt. “Yeah, very good.”

“Where’re Bill and Charlie and Per-Per-Percy?” George asked as he failed to stifle a large yawn.

“Well, they're Apparating, aren't they?” Mrs. Weasley asked, heaving a large pot over to the table where she began to serve up bowls of porridge with a ladle. “They can have a bit of a lie-in.”

“So they're still in bed?” Fred realized grumpily as he pulled a bowl of porridge toward the spot he unceremoniously dropped himself into.

His brother pulled a bowl towards himself, looking ready to collapse face-first into it from just how tired he was.

“Why can't we Apparate, too?” Fred grumbled.

“Because you're not of age, and you haven't passed your test,” Mrs. Weasley snapped irritably, “And where have those girls got to?”

“You have to pass a test to Apparate?” Harry asked cluelessly.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Weasley answered, tucking the tickets safely onto his back pocket. “The Department of Magical Transportation had to fine a couple of people the other day for Apparating without a license. It's not easy, Apparition, and when it's not done properly, it can lead to nasty complications. The pair I'm talking about went and Splinched themselves.”

Everyone except Harry and Mr. Weasley winced.

“Er - Splinched?” Harry repeated in confusion.

“They left a part of their body behind,” I answered.

“Exactly,” Mr. Weasley said with a nod as he spooned large amounts of treacle onto his porridge. “So, of course, they were stuck. Couldn't move either way. Had to wait for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad to sort them out. Meant a fair old bit of paperwork, I tell you, what with the muggles who spotted the body parts they left behind.”

Harry looked a bit pale at the thought. “Were they okay?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Weasley answered matter-of-factly, “But they got a heavy fine, and I don't think they'll be trying it again in a hurry. You don't mess around with Apparition. There are plenty of adult wizards who don't bother with it. Prefer brooms - slower, but safer.”

“Charlie had to take the test twice,” Fred said with a grin, “He failed the first time, Apparated five miles south of where he was supposed to, right on top of some poor old dear doing her shopping, remember?”

“Yes, well, he passed the second time,” Mrs. Weasley stated, marching back into the kitchen amid hearty snickers.

“Percy only passed two weeks ago,” George divulged, “Right before you two arrived. He's been Apparating downstairs every morning since, just to prove he can.”

There were footsteps down the passageway, and Ginny and Granger came into the kitchen, both looking pale and drowsy.

“Why do we have to be up so early?” Ginny asked, rubbing her eyes and sitting down at the table.

“We've got a bit of a walk,” Mr. Weasley answered.

“Walk?” Harry parroted. “What, are we walking to the World Cup?”

I held back a groan of disappointment, instead shoving my spoon into my porridge.

“No, no, that's miles away,” Mr. Weasley waved off, smiling, “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-”

“George!” Mrs. Weasley suddenly yelled, causing everyone to startle in their seats.

“What?” George asked in a tone that was far too innocent to mean anything good.

“What is that in your pocket?” Mrs. Weasley asked sternly.

“Nothing!” George lied.

“Don't you lie to me!” Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at George's pocket and said, “Accio!”

Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of George's pocket.

He made a grab for them, but missed every single one.

The objects sped right into Mrs. Weasley’s outstretched hand.

Furiously, the woman yelled, “We told you to destroy them! We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!”

The twins had evidently been trying to smuggle out their lot of what looked like candies.

It was only by Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley managed to find them all. “Accio! Accio! Accio!” She shouted, and the candies zoomed from all sorts of unlikely places including the lining of George's jacket and the up-turns of Fred’s jeans.

“We spent six months developing those!” Fred yelled as his mother threw the candies away.

“Oh, a fine way to spend six months!” She shrieked, “No wonder you didn't get more O.W.L.’s!”

An awkward silence descended, filling the room with an off sort of tension. We finished our breakfast in silence, not eager to cause another shouting match.

Once done, Fred and George headed out first, holding their ransacks on their backs as they refused to look back at their mother.

Mrs. Weasley was still glowering as she kissed her husband’s cheek. “Well, have a lovely time,” she told us, “And behave yourselves!” She yelled after the twins.

The two ignored her, clearly still upset.

“I'll send Bill, Charlie, and Percy around midday,” the woman informed Mr. Weasley.

I set off after the twins, holding a backpack over my right shoulder. I glanced around the dark garden before catching up to Fred and George.

They were both silently brooding, clearly not happy in the slightest with having their carefully produced products thrown into the garbage by their mother.

“How much did it cost to make those candies?” I asked softly.

“It doesn't take a lot of material or money, but it does take time,” George stressed.

“And she just threw them away,” Fred said shortly.

I barely bit back a sigh before saying, “I'll definitely buy that trunk for you soon.”

“Not like it'll help now,” Fred said pessimistically.

“It may not help now, but it'll definitely help when you're at Hogwarts,” I said, “After all, it's not like Filch could take an entire trunk away without proper justification, which he can't provide if he has no idea what's inside.”

Fred and George pondered my words for a moment before perking up a bit.

“Yeah, you're right,” George agreed.

“Still, we'll need new order forms from everyone and a way to keep them all off our backs while we make more products,” Fred pointed out.

I hummed softly before saying, “If I were in your shoes, I would be honest to my clients. I would send a letter to them explaining that there was a delay in the shipment of products due to familial problems. I wouldn't go into further detail, but honesty is always a good policy whenever an error occurs. I'd also add an order form while asking for the clients to once again fill them out. Using this method, it'll get you a bit more time to develop more products while also getting yourself an order form to work from.”

George contemplated my words for a long moment before asking, “Did you want to help us ahead of time?”

I looked at the teenager in confusion. “Pardon?”

“You seem to have thought these things out,” George pointed out. “Does that mean you intended to lend us a hand before our bargain?”

“Not directly,” I admitted, “I only intended to sponsor you, but I'd hate for such potential to be wasted.”

“You think we have potential?” Fred asked in surprise.

“You two managed to get your own business rolling without any outside help,” I stated, “You obviously have potential.”

The twins looked at each other before nodding once. They looked back at me and asked, “Where do you think we should set up our shop?”

“Diagon Alley,” I answered, “It's good to be near competitors so that they can't have a monopoly over the products you want to sell. Besides, it'll allow you more customers year-round when compared to a place like Hogsmeade.”

Before the three of us could continue with our discussion, the others finally caught up.

“Boys, we need to head a bit more southward,” Mr. Weasley said as he pointed to a large hill beyond the village of Ottery St. Catchpole.

“What sort of objects are Portkeys?” Harry asked curiously.

“Well, they can be anything,” Mr. Weasley explained to my brother. “Unobtrusive things, obviously, so Muggles don't go picking them up and playing with them… stuff they'll just think is litter…”

We trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the village, the silence broken only by our footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as we made our way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue.

Mr. Weasley kept checking his watch nervously, as if we were cutting it close to the time of the Portkey moving.

Most didn't have spare breath for talking as we began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes or slipping on thick, black tuffets of grass. It was a strenuous journey, and just when everyone seemed ready to give up, we hit level ground.

“Whew,” Mr. Weasley panted as he took off his glasses and wiped them on his sweater, “Well, we made good time - we’ve got ten minutes…”

Granger came over the crest of the hill last, clutching her side as if she had been stabbed or something equally as dramatic.

“Now, we just need the Portkey,” Mr. Weasley said, replacing his glasses and squinting at the ground. “It won't be big… Come on…”

We spread out, searching for something that stuck out even a little bit. We had only been at it for a couple of minutes when a shout broke the still air.

“Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we've got it!”

Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.

“Amos!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted, causing us all to follow. Mr. Weasley shook the hand of a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby, brown beard, who was holding a moldy-looking, old boot in his other hand. “This is Amos Diggory, everyone. He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric.”

Cedric Diggory was a handsome enough boy around seventeen. He was the Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff Quidditch Team. He was also the Prefect that had protected me from a dementor last year.

“Hello again, Cedric,” I said politely, “I never got around to thanking you for what you did for me last year.”

Cedric looked rather confused as he stared down at me. “I did something for you?”

I felt exasperated as I said, “You ward off a dementor on the train.”

He flushed a bit as he said, “Right…”

“It's nothing to be embarrassed about. I was quite impressed with your use of the Patronus Charm,” I admitted.

“You can do the Patronus Charm?” Mr. Weasley asked, sounding quite intrigued.

Mr. Diggory gave a wide grin as he said, “My boy is pretty special, hm?”

“Dad,” Diggory mumbled, still looking flustered.

“Anyway,” Mr. Diggory said, “Long walk, Arthur?”

“Not too bad,” Mr. Weasley replied, “We live just on the other side of the village there. You?”

“Had to get up at two, didn't we, Ced? I tell you, I'll be glad when he's got his Apparition test. Still… not complaining… Quidditch World Cup, wouldn't miss it for a sackful of Galleons - and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy…” Mr. Diggory peered at our group in a good-natured way. “All these yours, Arthur?”

“Oh no, all but one of the redheads,” Mr. Weasley answered as he motioned to Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny before pointing to the other girl. “This is Hermione, friend of Ron’s - and Harry, another friend-”

“Merlin's beard,” Mr. Diggory gasped, his eyes widening, “Harry? Harry Potter?”

“Er - yeah,” Harry replied, looking rather uncomfortable.

“Ced’s talked about you, of course,” Mr. Diggory said, “Told us all about playing against you last year-”

“Oh, the match where my brother was attacked by a dementor and nearly died falling from his broom?” I asked as I glanced at Cedric, who was clearly looking mortified.

Immediately, the wind seemed to be taken out of Mr. Diggory’s sail. The man looked a bit flustered, but he obviously didn't feel remorse for thinking so highly of his son.

Before the tension could rise even more, Mr. Weasley looked desperately at his watch. “It’s nearly time. Do you know whether we're waiting for anyone more, Amos?”

“No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already, and the Fawcetts couldn't get tickets,” Mr. Diggory replied, “There aren't any more of us in this area, are there?”

“Not that I know of,” Mr. Weasley answered. “Yes, it's a minute off… We'd better get ready…” He looked at Hermione, Harry, and I. “You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all, one finger will do…”

With difficulty, owing to all of our bulky backpacks, the ten of us crowded around the old boot held out by Mr. Diggory. We all stood there in a tight circle as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. None of us spoke.

“Three…” Mr. Weasley counted down as he kept an eye on the watch, “Two… one…”

It happened immediately.

I felt as though a hook just behind my navel had been suddenly jerked forward. My feet left the ground, as well as everyone else. Our shoulders banged into each other as we swirled in the wind, colors passing by so fast it could have made a lesser-prepared person puke. My index finger was stuck to the boot, as though it had been stuck there with a Sticking Charm. My feet suddenly slammed into the ground, and I felt as though I had just landed after jumping off from a swing at its peak height. I staggered a bit before straightening myself up.

The Portkey fell to the ground near Harry’s head.

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” someone said as he looked down at his large golden watch. He wore a tweed suit with thigh-high galoshes.

The other man jotted that down on his parchment with a quill. He wore a kilt and a poncho.

I had to bite back a loud bark of laughter as I realized that our kind would only get away as normal muggles if they used the Oblivion Charm at least ten times a day on the true muggles.

“Morning, Basil,” Mr. Weasley greeted as he picked up the boot and handed it to the kilted wizard.

Said wizard tossed it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him. “Hello there, Arthur,” Basil said wearily. “Not on duty, eh? It's alright 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 consulted his parchment list. “About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site’s manager called Mr. Roberts. Diggory… second field… ask for Mr. Payne.”

“Thanks, Basil,” Mr. Weasley said before motioning for our group to follow after him.

We set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, I could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon.

The others bid farewell to the Diggorys before we approached the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. He was obviously a muggle if his gaze of disbelief was anything to go by. He heard our footsteps, and he looked at us with trepidation.

“Morning!” Mr. Weasley greeted brightly.

“Morning,” the muggle replied.

“Would you be Mr. Roberts?” Mr. Weasley inquired.

“Aye, I would,” the muggle answered, “And who’re you?”

The redhead immediately straightened up. “Weasley - 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,” Mr. Weasley agreed.

“You'll be paying now, then?” Mr. Roberts inquired.

“Ah - right - certainly,” Mr. Weasley agreed hesitantly as he pulled out some muggle money.

“How much is the cost?” I asked Mr. Roberts, who raised an eyebrow. “Our father is foreign, and he only knows the basics of our money system. Good with the language, oddly enough.”

“He is good,” Mr. Roberts complimented before telling me the fee for using the grounds.

I gently took the money from Mr. Weasley and handed over the nearest amount. I then handed the rest of the money back to Mr. Weasley and told him, “Better put it away safely.”

Mr. Weasley nodded as he quickly stashed the otherwise useless muggle money away in his pocket.

“Never been this crowded,” Mr. Roberts said as he rummaged around his tin for the right change. “Nor have I seen this many people have trouble with money before.”

“Oh?” I asked as I looked at the man carefully.

“I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago,” he commented, “Beyond that, there have been hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up.”

“People tried paying you with gold?” I asked in surprise.

“I doubt it was real,” the muggle said dismissively, “Probably counterfeit, trying to get off easy.” He then looked around carefully before looking back at me. “There's lots of foreigners, but there's also weirdos, you know? There's a bloke walking ‘round in a kilt and a poncho.”

“I did see that,” I said with a nod. “Union probably had to give him a job, you know?”

Mr. Roberts made a sour face. “Yeah. Unions will do anything to fight the company nowadays.”

“Unions have their upsides,” I debated, “That's what Mum always says, anyways.”

Mr. Roberts gave what appeared to be a begrudging nod as he handed over the right change to me.

“Do you, by any chance, have a map of the campsite?” I asked as I held the change out to Mr. Weasley, who quickly took the muggle money.

“Oh, yes,” he said before pulling a folded-up paper from his back pocket. He then held out the paper to me, which I gently took.

“Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” I said cheerfully.

“No problem at all, lad,” the man replied with a smile.

I nodded once before motioning for the group to follow after me. I opened up the map as I led the group toward the gate of the campsite.

“You certainly know how to get out of a tricky spot, huh?” Fred asked mischievously.

“I’d be a sad excuse of a Slytherin if I couldn't,” I replied as I led the group to our campsite.

We trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that I would hardly be surprised if Mr. Roberts was suspicious as to what was happening here. 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, we passed a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

“Always the same,” Mr. Weasley commented fondly. “We can't resist showing off when we get together.”

I internally felt such prideful actions would get our world exposed significantly faster than it needed to be. Nevertheless, I came to a stop and looked where there was an empty spot with a small sign hammered into the ground that read ‘Weezley’.

“Couldn't have a better spot!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed happily as we stood at the top of the hill at the very edge of the wood. “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,” he said excitedly, “No magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we're out in these numbers on muggle land. We'll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn't be too difficult… Muggles do it all the time… Here, Colton, where do you recon we start?”

“Let's unroll the tent and lay it flat. While we're doing that, let's get the poles out and separated by length,” I ordered.

Though Mr. Weasley tried to help, he was more of a hindrance than anything, mainly because he got too excited when he was allowed to use the mallet.

In any case, we finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.

Harry and Hermione both looked at the tents awkwardly, as if doubting that a decent wizard would put at least an expansion charm on their tents when said tents would have to house ten people.

Mr. Weasley dropped to his hands and knees and entered the tent first. “We’ll be a bit cramped, but I think we'll all squeeze in. Come and have a look.”

Harry followed Mr. Weasley inside, ducking under the tent flap, only to stall just inside.

I gently urged Harry forward as I followed after him.

The inside of the tent appeared to be an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs. Figg’s house: there were crocheted covers on mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats.

“Well, it’s not for long,” Mr. Weasley said as he mopped his bald patch with a handkerchief, peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. “I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn't camp much anymore, poor fellow, he's got lumbago.” He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside of it. “We'll need water…”

I looked down at the map and said, “There’s a tap marked on the map. Unfortunately, it's on the other side of the field.”

“Well, why don't you, Harry, Ron, and Hermione go and get us some water then?” Mr. Weasley asked as he handed over the dusty kettle to me while giving the other three some saucepans. “The rest of us will get some wood for a fire.”

“But we've got an oven,” Ron said. “Why can't we just-”

“Ron, anti-muggle security!” Mr. Weasley interrupted, his face shining with anticipation. “When real muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I've seen them at it!”

“He's right,” I informed Ron, who looked quite displeased.

After a quick tour of the girls’ tent, which was slightly smaller with the benefit of not smelling like cats, us soon-to-be fourth years headed across the field toward the tap with the kettle and saucepans. As we were walking, all sorts of tents became visible, all with various witches and wizards around and slowly waking up for the day.

The first to stir were families with small children.

One small boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent and holding a wand, which he used to happily poke at a slug in the grass to make it slowly swell to the size of a salami.

As we came closer, a woman came from the tent in a hurry. “How many times, Kevin?! You don't - touch - Daddy’s - wand - yecchh!” She had trodden on the slug, causing it to burst all over her boot. Her scolding carried on as we passed.

The boy, of course, didn't seem too concerned as he changed, “You bust slug! You bust slug!”

A short way further on, two little witches barely older than Kevin were riding tiny toy broomsticks that rose only high enough to allow the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass.

A Ministry worker has already spotted them; as he hurried past us teenagers, he muttered distractedly, “In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose-”

Here and there, adult witches and wizards were emerging from their tents and 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 their attempts to make fire the muggle way wouldn't work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long, white robes and roasting what appeared to be a rabbit on a bright purple fire. Meanwhile, a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: The Salem Witches’ Institute. Every so often, catches of conversations drifted through the air, able to be caught by others, and all of those conversations sounded excited.

“Er - is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?” Ron asked dumbly.

I rolled my eyes as we walked into a path of tents that were all covered in a thick growth of shamrocks, causing them to look like small, oddly-shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open.

“Harry! Ron! Hermione!”

The four of us paused and looked behind us.

There, a Gryffindor in our year by the name of Seamus Finnegan, was sitting in his own shamrock-covered tent with a sandy-haired woman that appeared to be his mother and his best friend (another Gryffindor in his fourth year), Dean Thomas. “Like the decorations?” He asked chipperly. “The Ministry’s not too happy.”

“Ah, why shouldn't we show our colors?” Mrs. Finnegan asked. “You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland, of course?” She eyed us all beadily, as if daring us to say we'd support Bulgaria.

When we assured her that we were supporting Ireland, we were allowed to head off to the next area of the campsite.

“Like we'd say anything else surrounded by that lot,” Ron mumbled as soon as we got away from the Ireland fans.

“I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?” Hermione mused aloud.

“Let's go and have a look,” Harry suggested as he pointed to a large patch of tents upfield were the Bulgarian flag 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,” Ron said as if in revery at the picture.

“What?” Hermione asked.

“Krum!” Ron exclaimed, “Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!”

“He looks really grumpy,” Hermione said, looking around as the many Krum posters blinked and scowled.

“‘Really grumpy’?” Ron rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “Who cares what he looks like? He's unbelievable. He's really young, too. Only just eighteen or something. He's a genius. You wait until tonight, you'll see.”

There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field.

We joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated argument.

One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long, flowery nightgown.

The other, clearly a Ministry worker, was holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying in exasperation mixed with frustration. “Just put them on, Archie, there's a good chap. You can't walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate is already getting suspicious-”

“I bought this in a muggle shop,” the old wizard said stubbornly, “Muggles wear them.”

“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men. They wear these,” the Ministry worker said as he brandished the pinstriped trousers.

“I'm not putting them on,” old Archie said in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ‘round my privates, thanks.”

Granger was overcome with a strong fit of the giggles, so she ducked from the queue and only returned when old Archie collected his water and moved away.

We collected our water and headed back to the Weasley’s two tents, though we moved slower that time. Here and there, we saw more familiar faces pop up.

Oliver Wood, the former Gryffindor Quidditch Team Captain, ended up dragging Harry over to meet his parents.

From there, Ernest Macmillan made himself known by giving a slight nod. Then, a fifth-year Ravenclaw named Cho Chang waved at Harry, who sloshed quite a bit of water down his shirt while waving back.

I rolled my eyes at the obvious crush and kept marching on.

A large group of teenagers who we had never met before were gathered ahead.

“Who d’you reckon they are?” Harry asked even though it was none of his business, “They don't go to Hogwarts, do they?”

“‘Spect they go to some foreign school,” Ron answered, “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 gave a chuckle at the mental image.

When we got back to the campsite, the others were waiting.

“You've been ages,” George said with a raised eyebrow.

“Met a few people,” Ron explained in a rather half-hearted manner as we set all of our water containers down.

“Dad’s having fun with the matches,” Fred said.

Mr. Weasley was having no success at all in lighting the fire, though it wasn't for lack of trying. Splintered matches littered the ground around him, but it appeared as though he was having the time of his life.

“There's not enough kindering,” I criticized as I stared down at all the wood.

“Kindering?” George repeated quizzically.

“Where are the leaves and twigs?” I reiterated.

“You need that for a fire?” Fred asked in surprise.

“To start a muggle fire and keep it burning, yes, you need kindering,” I confirmed as I began to pick up some fallen leaves and twigs that resided near the giant wooden stadium.

“Have you set fires before?” Ginny asked curiously.

“I’m not an arsonist,” I stated as I tucked the leaves and twigs underneath the logs before rearranging said logs to make a better fire. “The matches, please.”

Mr. Weasley pouted a bit as he handed over the box.

I turned to him and showed the stripe on the side of the box. “See this? You have to quickly, but gently, rub the tip of the match against this stripe. If you do it too slow, it will never create enough friction to light it. If you do it too hard, you'll break the match before it could even become lit. Now, watch what I do, and then repeat.” I pulled out a match, struck it across the box, and then produced the lot match in front of me. “See?” I then waved the match harshly, putting it out. I handed the box back to the man, who eagerly took a match and tried his hand at lighting it.

Mr. Weasley managed to light the match, only to drop it in surprise at his accomplishment. “Oh! Oops…”

“Everyone does it their first time,” I said patiently, “Try it again, but this time, put the lit match on the dried leaves under the wood.”

Mr. Weasley eagerly lit another match before carefully putting it on the dried leaves.

“Pull your hand back before it gets burned,” I chided gently, causing Mr. Weasley to quickly retract his hand. I gave the man a smile and said, “Good job. You've made a fire the muggle way.”

The man beamed in pride, clearly happy to have accomplished something in a muggle manner.

The fire took around an hour before it got hot enough to cook food. There was plenty to watch while we waited, however. The tents were pitched right along some kind of thoroughfare to the field, or so it seemed, with several Ministry workers using it to pass by in quite a hurry.

Mr. Weasley greeted and was greeted by several of these people, and he kept a running commentary up for Hermione, Harry, and I, who were genuinely interested in these people. “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 asked.

“They work for the Department of Mysteries. They're forbidden to speak about what they do in that department,” I informed Harry.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“They probably work with temperamental magic,” I answered as I made a mental note about the two Unspeakables.

At last, the fire was ready, and we had just started cooking eggs and sausage when Bill, Charlie, and Percy came strolling out of the woods toward us.

“Just Apparated, Dad,” Percy said in a superior sort of tone. “Ah, excellent, lunch!”

We were halfway done with our plates when Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at the man who was striding toward us. “Aha! The man of the moment! Ludo!”

Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person I had seen so far, including that old man in the flower nightgown. 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 to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large stomach he surely had not had in the days when he played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed, probably broken at one point or another and never properly healed. The man’s round blue eyes, short blonde hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy. “Ahoy there!” He called happily as he walked on the balls of his feet as if he had invisible springs spurring him forward. He was plainly in a state of wild excitement as he reached the campfire. “Arthur, old man, 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 magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.

Percy rushed forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently, his disapproval of the way Bagman ran his department didn't stop him from wanting to make a good impression.

“Ah - yes,” Mr. Weasley said with a grin, “This is my son, Percy. He's just starting at the Ministry - and this is Fred - no, George, sorry - that's Fred - Bill, Charlie, Ron - my daughter, Ginny - Ron's friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter - and Harry's brother, Colton.”

I nodded once in acknowledgement as I watched Bagman do the smallest of double takes at Harry's name, and his eyes flicked up to my brother's forehead to find the scar.

“Everyone,” Mr. Weasley continued, “This is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it's thanks to him we've got such good tickets-”

Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it had been nothing. “Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?” He asked while eagerly jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in what 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 for a week-long match.”

“Oh… go on then,” Mr. Weasley said, “Let's see… a Galleon on Ireland to win?”

“A Galleon?” Bagman asked, looking quite disappointed, though he quickly recovered himself. “Very well, very well… Any other takers?”

“Not unless you're making contracts,” I answered with a dismissive flick of my wrist.

Bagman raised an eyebrow. “Contract?”

“Seeing as how we've never done any form of business with you before, it would be wise to get a contract,” I pointed out. “You could very well be a liability to our funds if you don't conduct proper business.”

The man stared down at me incredulously.

“Will you provide a contract?” I asked.

“Goodness, you certainly are a stick in the mud,” Bagman commented, causing Mr. Weasley to look appalled.

I didn't even blink at the words. “Yes, but I don't want my life savings disappearing because you feel like you ended on the wrong end of the bet.”

“I would never!” Bagman exclaimed.

I gave a simple hum before stating, “If you can't offer a contract, we're not betting.”

Bagman looked around at the rest of the group pleadingly, but no one offered any gold up.

Instead, Harry shrugged and said, “If Colton doesn't trust you with money, then I don't, either.”

Bagman sighed heavily as if we were all lost causes. “Well, fine, I suppose. 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.”

At once, Percy perked up. “Mr. Crouch? He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledygook and Troll-”

“Anyone can speak Troll,” Fred waved off dismissively, “All you have to do is point and grunt.”

Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look as he stoked the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to a boil.

“Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Mr. Weasley asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass besides us all.

“Not a dicky bird,” Bagman replied nonchalantly, “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…”

“And if she doesn't?” I asked as I looked at the man blankly, causing him to look back at me with a startled expression. “Wouldn't it be wise to do something now just in case the worst scenario happened?”

The man snorted, clearly dismissing me as a nutcase. “Look, kid, you don't know Bertha like I do. She'll just show up eventually.”

“Are you sure?” I questioned, knowing that she wouldn't ever show up alive.

The man huffed at me. “You sound just like Barty Crouch, but you have to realize we can't really spare anyone at the moment.”

I barely held back from rolling my eyes, accepting that the man would allow his head to be the one at the chopping block when shit hit the fan.

“Oh - talk of the devil! Barty!” Bagman called out while waving an arm.

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he couldn't have been more of a contrast to Bagman if he tried. This man was stiff and elderly, 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 even highly polished despite the fact he was standing in a bloody field that would get mud and grass stains all over them.

“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,” Ludo said brightly as he patted the ground next to him.

“No thank you, Ludo,” the man replied, a bite of impatience in his tone. “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 asked, “I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.”

I definitely had to hold back the urge to scoff loudly at the man who was definitely a lazy worker.

People like Bagman truly irked me.

Percy began to stand up, but paused as the fire cracked loudly.

Everyone looked at it, and I made a brief mental note to keep my emotions under wrap better.

“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” I asked as I easily grabbed the kettle and poured a cup for him, holding it out lazily.

“Oh,” Crouch said as Bagman looked appalled at my gesture. “Yes - thank you, Weasley.”

“Potter,” I corrected, “My name is Colton Potter.”

The man paused as he looked at me before his eyes snapped to Harry, whose scar was out in the open at that moment. He quickly returned his gaze to me and said, “I apologize, Potter.”

“It's quite alright,” I assured him as he finally took the cup from me.

“What about my cup?” Bagman whined.

“Merlin, you sound just like Sirius,” I commented with slight annoyance as I poured him a cup and handed it over.

“Sirius Black?” Bagman asked at once.

“Do you know of any other living Black?” I asked with a raised brow.

Bagman flushed a bit as Crouch smirked behind his cup.

Crouch dropped the smirk and looked at me carefully. “I heard you had a hand in Sirius Black’s acquittal.”

“I was merely there when he presented Pettigrew to the Minister,” I waved off dismissively. “It was up to Sirius to act like an adult and bring justice to not only Pettigrew, but also himself.”

“However, you knew about his innocence beforehand,” Crouch said in an almost accusing manner.

My eyebrows raised. “I did?”

“What are you insinuating, Barty?” Mr. Weasley asked, the atmosphere growing quite tense.

“I simply wanted to confirm something I heard,” Crouch said as if that was a genuinely good answer.

“I don't know where you overheard it, but there was no way for me to definitively know if Sirius was innocent before that morning,” I said honestly. “I mean, it's not like I saw Pettigrew before then.” I paused before musing, “Well, I saw him, but I thought he was a rat.”

Ron shivered violently, probably recalling how he had slept with Pettigrew on his bed while the man was in his animagus form.

“In any case,” I said as I gave the man a sharp look, “I heard you put Sirius away without giving him a fair trial.”

Harry snapped his head around to look at Crouch in shock. “You're the one who didn't give my godfather a trial?”

“If I could do it over again, I would,” Crouch said as he glared down at his cup of tea. “I can't, though, because magic of that nature is illegal at best, and downright volatile at worst. The most I can do now is move forward with my life and hope to make up for my past.”

I frowned as he stared into the cup like it would miraculously give him answers to trouble he was having. I cautiously reached my magic out, only to quickly pull it back toward me when his head snapped up.

He glanced at me as if suspecting that I had done something wrong before turning his head toward Mr. Weasley. “I’ve been wanting a word with you, Arthur. Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.”

Mr. Weasley sighed deeply. “I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I've told him once, I've told him a hundred times: Carpets are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?”

“I doubt it,” Crouch gave in, “He's desperate to export here.”

“Well, they'll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?” Bagman asked.

“Ali thinks there's a niche in the market for a family vehicle,” Crouch answered, “I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve - but that was before carpets were banned, of course.” The way he said it was as though he wanted no one to doubt that his ancestors had strictly abided by the law.

“So, been keeping busy, Barty?” Bagman asked breezily.

“Fairly,” Crouch answered dryly, “Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.”

“I expect you'll both be glad when this is over?” Mr. Weasley inquired.

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?”

Crouch raised both his eyebrows at the man. “We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details-”

“Oh, details,” Bagman replied, 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,” Crouch cut in sharply, “Thank you for the tea, Potter.” He pushed his undrunk cup of tea back toward me and waited impatiently for Bagman to rise.

I took back the cup as Bagman struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets merrily clinking.

“See you later!” Bagman chirped, “You'll be up in the Top Box with me - I'm commentating!” He waved, after giving the cup back first.

Crouch nodded curtly, and he and Bagman Diapparated.

“What's happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” Fred asked right away, “What were they talking about?”

“You'll find out soon enough,” Mr. Weasley answered with a smile.

“It's classified information until such time as the Ministry decides to release it,” Percy said stiffly, “Mr. Crouch was quite right not to disclose it.”

“Oh, shut up, Percy,” Fred demanded as he waved his brother off.

I finished my cup of tea and asked, “So, when is this game starting, exactly?”

“Merlin, you came without knowing anything,” Ron groaned.

“I know it's Ireland versus Bulgaria and you have a crush on Krum,” I replied bluntly, causing Ron to flush.

“O do not have a crush on Krum,” the boy snapped.

Fred and George openly snickered at Ron, clearly able to see through his bullshit.

“I don't!” Ron cried out loudly, to which Fred and George laughed louder.

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 breaking out everywhere.

Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and push carts full of extraordinary merchandise. They 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 for both countries that played their national anthem as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flee, and collectable figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

I had no interest in the merchandise, so I merely observed the various salesmen and their wares. I stood by and watched from the tent, even as the other Weasleys disbursed to go look at everything there was to offer.

Eventually, Fred and George came back with green rosettes around their necks, and they forced a green one around my neck as well. “For good luck,” they said despite knowing that I really didn't bring any luck at all to their team.

I accepted it, but only because I didn't want to stand out.

“Don't you want any other souvenirs?” Bill asked as he strolled up, a green rosette around his own neck.

“Not particularly,” I denied, “I'd rather save my money for something else.”

“Something else, huh?” Bill mused aloud before shrugging it off.

“We're going to crush Bulgaria!” Charlie exclaimed eagerly as he came back with Mr. Weasley at his side. Charlie, too, was wearing a green rosette while Mr. Weasley held an Irish flag.

Percy returned with Ginny and Charlie following shortly after.

Ginny was wearing a green rosette, as was Charlie.

Finally, Harry, Ron, and Granger returned, all of them sporting Omnioculars and programs.

At that moment, a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed to life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.

“It's time!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed excitedly. “Come on, let's go!”