"So how does everyone get there without all the Muggles noticing?" Harry asked.
"It's been a massive organizational problem," sighed Mr. Weasley. "The trouble is, about a hundred thousand wizards turn up at the World Cup, and of course, we just haven't got a magical site big enough to accommodate them all. There are places Muggles can't penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred thousand wizards into Diagon Alley or platform nine and three-quarters. So we had to find a nice deserted moor, and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as possible. The whole Ministry's been working on it for months."
"Wow," I said. "What have you been doing?"
"Well, first, of course, we have to stagger the arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to arrive two weeks beforehand. A limited number use Muggle transport, but we can't have too many clogging up their buses and trains - remember, wizards are coming from all over the world. Some Apparate, of course, but we have to set up safe points for them to appear, well away from Muggles. I believe there's a handy wood they're using as the Apparition point."
"What about people who can't Apparate?" I asked.
"We use Portkeys. They're objects that are used to transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time. You can do large groups at a time if you need to. There have been two hundred Portkeys placed at strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that's where we're headed."
Mr. Weasley pointed ahead of us, where a large black mass rose beyond the village of Ottery St. Catchpole.
"What sort of objects are Portkeys?" said Harry curiously.
"Well, they can be anything," said Mr. Weasley. "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 their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as we made our way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. My hands and feet were freezing. Mr. Weasley kept checking his watch.
I was used to walking a lot, but it was absolutely freezing, which made the trek up Stoatshead Hill harder than it should've been. I kept stumbling in hidden rabbit holes and slipping of thick black clumps of wet grass. The cold air I inhaled pierced my chest like a spear made of ice. I did get through it though, and the break itself was rewarding.
"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..."
We spread out, searching. We'd only been at it for a couple of minutes, 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 moldy-looking old boot in his other hand.
"This is Amos Diggory, everyone," said Mr. Weasley. "He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?"
Cedric Diggory was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts.
"Hi," said Cedric, looking around at us.
Everybody said hi back except Fred, George, and I, who merely nodded. We'd never really forgiven Cedric for beating Gryffindor, in the first Quidditch match last 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. "The girls are Aisling and Hermione, friends of Ron's - and Harry, another friend -"
"Merlin's beard," said Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. "Harry? Harry Potter?"
"Er - yeah," said Harry uncomfortably.
"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 remained awkwardly silent. I scowled down at my feet. 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!"
"His flying skills didn't have anything to do with it," I snapped. "Harry fell off because there were Dementors roaming the field, and he was affected by them, and even then, he can fly better than anyone else at school."
Amos Diggory stared at me. "Are you that American girl who is related to Sirius Black?"
I blinked. "What does that have to do with anything we're talking about?"
"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 our bulky backpacks, the ten of us crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory. We all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop.
Nobody spoke. It suddenly occurred to me how strange this would look if a Muggle were to walk up here now ... ten 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: it felt like a hook had suddenly jerked me forward. My feet left the ground; I could feel Hermione and Fred on either side of me, their shoulders banging into mine. It was so weird. I'd taken Portkeys before to pop over from Ilvermorny to Camp Half-Blood, but I'd never done it with anyone. It had just been me. I aimed my feet at the ground so I could land without falling over. My feet registered the ground a few seconds later, and I jerked backwards to avoid Fred falling on me.
I was stunned by the lack of coordination my friends possessed as they all staggered into each other and fell on the ground. I knew Harry and Hermione had never taken a Portkey before, but the Weasleys really had no excuse, especially not Fred and George, who were on the Quidditch team and had to have some athleticism. 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.
I looked around. We'd arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of us 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, Mr. Weasley style. 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. I could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured soccer ball.
"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 us to follow 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. We said good-bye to the Diggorys and approached the cottage door.
A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. I 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.
"Ah - right - certainly -" said Mr. Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry and I toward him.
"Help me, you two," 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.
"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."
"Yeah," I said, strengthening my American accent. I almost cringed at my own voice. I'd accidentally gone too far and now it sounded more New Jersey than New York. "We're from the States. Not used to British 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?" 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."
"It's a fad," I said. "Trying to blend cultures, you know? Earlier we saw this lady in... um... a kimono, wearing a sombrero. Weird, right?"
"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. He'd 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 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.
"Sorry," I said. "I tried to help..."
"You did great," said Mr. Weasley. "Let's go."
"Do you think you could teach us how to do that accent later?" Fred asked softly.
"Why?"
"I dunno, maybe for a future product."
I snorted. "Like what? Lollipops that make you talk in different accents?"
"Little devil, that is a great idea," said George.
"Oh, no," I muttered. "I apologize to the world in advance." I tuned into what Ginny was saying.
"I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports. 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."
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, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that I could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant tent made of striped silk like a miniature palace.
"You've got to be kidding me," I said, pointing at a flock of large birds tethered at the entrance. "Peacocks?"
"And look at that one," Hermione said, pointing at a tent that had three floors and several turrets.
"That one has its own garden," Ron said. "It has a birdbath and everything!"
"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."
We 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. Even my dyslexic self could tell they'd spelled it wrong.
"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, Hermione, and I worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go. Though Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than a help (because he got thoroughly overexcited when it came to using the mallet), we finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.
All of us stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to wizards. But the trouble was that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, we would be a party of eleven. Hermione seemed to have spotted this problem too; she gave Harry and I 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."
We ducked under the tent flap, single file. As I crawled in, my jaw dropped. I'd walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. There were crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats.
Beside me, Harry smiled in awe and murmured, "I love magic."
"My sentiments exactly," I said.
"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 anymore, 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 and I 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!"
His expression reminded me of the Hephaestus kids when they cooked up new ideas for inventions. If Mr. Weasley was trying to start a fire, it was probably a good idea to have lots of water at the ready.
We left to get the water.