They trudged down the dark, dank lane towards the village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as they made their way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. Harry’s hands and feet were freezing. Mr Weasley kept checking his watch.
They didn’t have breath to spare for talking as they began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tuffets of grass. Each breath Harry took was sharp in his chest, and his legs were starting to seize up when at last his feet found level ground.
‘Whew,’ panted Mr Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater. ‘Well, we’ve made good time – we’ve got ten minutes …’
Hermione came over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side.
‘Now we just need the Portkey,’ said Mr Weasley, replacing his glasses and 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, 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!’ said Mr Weasley, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed.
Mr Weasley was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding a mouldy-looking old boot in his other hand.
‘This is Amos Diggory, everyone,’ said Mr Weasley. ‘Works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?’
Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He was captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff house Quidditch team at Hogwarts.
‘Hi,’ said Cedric, looking around at them all.
Everybody said ‘Hi’ back except Fred and George, who merely nodded. They had never quite forgiven Cedric for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first Quidditch match of the previous year.
‘Long walk, Arthur?’ Cedric’s father asked.
‘Not too bad,’ said Mr Weasley. ‘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 …’ Amos Diggory peered good-naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione and Ginny. ‘All these yours, Arthur?’
‘Oh, no, only the redheads,’ said Mr Weasley, pointing out his children. ‘This is Hermione, friend of Ron’s – and Harry, another friend –’
‘Merlin’s beard,’ said Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. ‘Harry? Harry Potter?’
‘Er – yeah,’ said Harry.
Harry was used to people looking curiously at him when they met him, used to the way their eyes moved at once to the lightning scar on his forehead, but it always made him feel uncomfortable.
‘Ced’s talked about you, of course,’ said Amos Diggory. ‘Told us all about playing against you last year … I said to him, I said – Ced, that’ll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will … you beat Harry Potter!’
Harry couldn’t think of any reply to this, so he remained silent. Fred and George were both scowling again. Cedric looked slightly embarrassed.
‘Harry fell off his broom, Dad,’ he muttered. ‘I told you … it was an accident …’
‘Yes, but you didn’t fall off, did you?’ roared Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. ‘Always modest, our Ced, always the gentleman … but the best man won, I’m sure Harry’d say the same, wouldn’t you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don’t need to be a genius to tell which one’s the better flier!’
‘Must be nearly time,’ said Mr Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again. ‘Do you know whether we’re waiting for any more, Amos?’
‘No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn’t get tickets,’ said Mr Diggory. ‘There aren’t any more of us in this area, are there?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Mr Weasley. ‘Yes, it’s a minute off … we’d better get ready …’
He looked around at Harry and Hermione.‘You just need to touch the Portkey, that’s all, a finger will do –’
With difficulty, owing to the bulky backpacks, the nine of them crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory.
They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke. It suddenly occurred to Harry how odd this would look if a Muggle were to walk up here now … nine people, two grown men, clutching this manky old boot in the semi-darkness, waiting …
‘Three …’ muttered Mr Weasley, one eye still on his watch, ‘two … one …’
It happened immediately: Harry felt as though a hook just behind his navel had been suddenly jerked irresistibly forwards. His feet had left the ground; he could feel Ron and Hermione on either side of him, their shoulders banging into his; they were all speeding forwards in a howl of wind and swirling colour; his forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling him magnetically onwards and then –
His feet slammed into the ground; Ron staggered into him and he fell over; the Portkey hit the ground near his head with a heavy thud.
Harry looked up. Mr Weasley, Mr Diggory and Cedric were still standing, though looking very windswept; everybody else was on the ground.
‘Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,’ said a voice.
— CHAPTER SEVEN —
Bagman and Crouch
Harry disentangled himself from Ron and got to his 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.
‘Morning, Basil,’ said Mr Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Harry could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can and a punctured football.
‘Hello there, Arthur,’ 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 … Weasley … Weasley …’ 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. Diggory … second field … ask for Mr Payne.’
‘Thanks, Basil,’ said Mr Weasley, and he 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, Harry could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field towards a dark wood on the horizon. They said goodbye to the Diggorys, and approached the cottage door.
A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Harry 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!’ said Mr Weasley brightly.
‘Morning,’ said the Muggle.
‘Would you be Mr Roberts?’
‘Aye, I would,’ said Mr Roberts. ‘And who’re you?’
‘Weasley – two tents, booked a couple of days ago?’
‘Aye,’ said Mr Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. ‘You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?’
‘That’s it,’ said Mr Weasley.
‘You’ll be pay
ing now, then?’ said Mr Roberts.
‘Ah – right – certainly –’ said Mr Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry towards him. ‘Help me, Harry,’ he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. ‘This one’s a – a – a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now … so this is a five?’
‘A twenty,’ Harry corrected 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 …’
‘You foreign?’ said Mr Roberts, as Mr Weasley returned with the correct notes.
‘Foreign?’ repeated Mr Weasley, puzzled.
‘You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money,’ said Mr Roberts, 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?’ said Mr Weasley nervously.
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?’ said Mr Weasley, 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.’
‘Shouldn’t he?’ said Mr Weasley anxiously.
‘It’s like some sort of … I dunno … like some sort of rally,’ said Mr Roberts. ‘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. Harry recognised the symptoms of one who had just had his memory modified.
‘A map of the campsite for you,’ Mr Roberts said placidly to Mr Weasley. ‘And your change.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Mr Weasley.
The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them towards 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 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 Disapparated.
‘I thought Mr Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports?’ said Ginny, looking surprised. ‘He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn’t he?’
‘He should,’ said Mr Weasley, 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.’
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, or bell-pulls, or weather-vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Harry 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 further on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent which had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial and fountain.
‘Always the same,’ said Mr Weasley, smiling, ‘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 ‘Weezly’.
‘Couldn’t have a better spot!’ said Mr Weasley happily. ‘The pitch is just on the other side of the wood there, we’re as close as we could be.’ He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. ‘Right,’ he said excitedly, ‘no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we’re out in these numbers on Muggle land. We’ll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be too difficult … Muggles do it all the time … here, Harry, where do you reckon we should start?’
Harry had never been camping in his life; the Dursleys had never taken him on any kind of holiday, preferring to leave him with Mrs Figg, an old neighbour. However, he and Hermione worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr Weasley was more of a hindrance than a help, because he got thoroughly over-excited when it came to using the mallet, 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, Harry thought, but the trouble was that once Bill, Charlie and Percy arrived, they would be a party of ten. Hermione seemed to have spotted this problem, too; she gave Harry a quizzical look as Mr Weasley 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.’
Harry bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt his jaw drop. He had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three-roomed flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs Figg’s; there were crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs, and a strong smell of cats.
‘Well, it’s not for long,’ said Mr Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. ‘I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t camp much any more, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.’
He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. ‘We’ll need water …’
‘There’s a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us,’ said Ron, who had followed Harry inside the tent, and seemed completely 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 handed 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,’ said Ron, ‘why can’t we just –?’
‘Ron, anti-Muggle security!’ said Mr Weasley, his face shining with anticipation. ‘When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors, I’ve seen them at it!’
After a quick tour of the girls’ tent, which was 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 could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; he had never really thought much about those in other countries.
Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; Harry had never seen witches and wizards this young before. 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 – yeuch!’
She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, ming
ling with the little boy’s yells – ‘You bust slug! You bust slug!’
A short way further on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks which rose only high enough for the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron and Hermione, 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 which read: The Salem Witches’ Institute. Harry caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn’t understand a single word, the tone of every single voice was excited.
‘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 which had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.
‘Harry! 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, when Harry, Ron and Hermione had gone over to say hello. ‘The Ministry’s not too happy.’
‘Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colours?’ 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 Harry, Ron and Hermione beadily.
The Goblet of Fire Page 7