 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 their 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 of them grown men,
clutching this manky old boot in the semidarkness, 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 forward. His feet left the ground; he could feel
Ron and Hermione on either side of him, their shoulders banging into his; they
were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his forefinger was
stuck to the boot as though it was pulling him magnetically onward 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.
49
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 thighlength
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 toward a dark wood on the
horizon. They said good-bye 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 paying now, then?" said Mr. Roberts.
50
"Ah - right - certainly -" said Mr. Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the
cottage and beckoned Harry toward 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,
scrutinizing 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 took of
dreamy unconcern fell over his face. Harry recognized 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 toward the gate to the campsite. He
51
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 bellpulls, 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 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 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 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, 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 neighbor.
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 overexcited when it came to using the mallet, they finally managed to
erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.
52
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 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 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
