Aila looked around and found that 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 while his colleague wore a kilt and a poncho.

“Morning, Basil,” Arthur said, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Aila could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.

“Hello there, Arthur,” Basil said 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,” Arthur said, and he beckoned everyone to follow him.

They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. Aila gripped onto Cedric’s hand for support as she pulled her jacket closer to her. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, Aila 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 bid goodbye to the Diggorys, with Aila giving Cedric one last hug before they approached the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Aila 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!” Arthur said 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 one night?”

“That’s it,” said Mr Weasley.

“You’ll be paying now, then?” said Mr Roberts.

“Ah, right…certainly…” Arthur quickly 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?” Mr Roberts asked as Arthur returned with the correct notes.

“Foreign?” Arthur repeated, puzzled.

“You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money,” Mr Roberts said, scrutinising Arthur closely. “I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago.”

“Did you really?” Arthur said 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?” Arthur responded, 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?” Arthur said anxiously.

“It’s like some sort of…I don’t know…like some sort of rally,” Mr Roberts commented. “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. Aila recognised the symptoms of one who had just had his memory modified.

“A map of the campsite for you,” Mr Roberts said placidly to Arthur. “And your change.”

“Thanks very much.”

The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr Roberts, he muttered to Arthur, “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,” Aila piped up, confused. “He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near muggles, shouldn’t he?”

“He should,” Arthur said, 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, bell-pulls, or weather-vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Aila could hardly be surprised that Mr Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with a birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

“Always the same.” Arthur smiled thoughtfully. “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 there was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read ‘Weezly’.

“Couldn’t have a better spot!” Arthur said 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?”

From the look on Harry’s face, Aila guessed that he had never been camping before. Aila was a little miffed that Arthur had not asked for her help, especially since she had the most experience camping or was the only one there with any experience. However, she must admit that it was more amusing to watch Harry and Hermione work out where most of the poles and pegs should go, while Arthur tried to help but ended up being more of a hindrance, because he got thoroughly overexcited when it came to using the mallet. After a while, 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, Aila thought. The only trouble was that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, they would be a party of eleven. Hermione seemed to have spotted this problem too; she gave Aila and Harry a quizzical look as Arthur 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.”

Aila bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and blinked in surprise. She had 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.

“Well, it’s not for long,” said Arthur, 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.”

“Do you know where he bought this?” Aila asked as she sat on one of the beds.

“Not sure…but I can ask him for you,” Arthur said absent-mindedly. 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 them 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, Aila and Hermione go and get us some water then,” Arthur 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!” Arthur said, 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, Aila and Hermione set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.

“Why do I have to go,” Aila grumbled under her breath, trailing behind the trio. Then she got an idea. She pulled the hood of her jacket up so that it covered most of her face. Quietly, she leaned in between Ron and Harry and whispered, “Boo!”

“Ah!” Ron screamed, dropping the saucepans he was carrying. Aila and Harry laughed heartily while Hermione looked at them disapprovingly.

“Get up, Ronald. Harry, Aila, that was not funny,” Hermione lectured, picking up the saucepans that Ron had dropped and handed it back to him.

Aila rolled her eyes but said nothing.

Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around.

Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.
“How many times, Kevin? You don’t touch Daddy’s wand! Yeuch!”

She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them in the still air, mingling with the little boy’s yells, “You bust slug! You bust slug!”

A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron, Aila 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 that read ‘The Salem Witches’ Institute’. Aila caught snatches of conversation in different languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though they spoke in different tongues, the tone of every single voice was excited.

“Uh, 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 who had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.

“Harry! Ron! Hermione!”

It was Seamus Finnigan, a 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?” Seamus said, grinning. “The Ministry’s not too happy.”

“Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colours?” Mrs Finnigan said. “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, Aila and Hermione beadily. When they had assured her that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again, though, as Ron said, “Like we’d say anything else surrounded by that lot.”

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

“Let’s go and have a look,” said Harry, pointing to a large patch of tents upfield, where the Bulgarian flag — white, green, and red — was fluttering in the breeze.

The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.

“Krum,” said Ron quietly.

“What?” said Hermione.

“Krum!” said Aila. “Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!”

“He looks really grumpy,” said Hermione, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at them.

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

There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Harry, Ron, Aila and Hermione 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 was clearly a Ministry wizard. He was holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation.

“Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You can’t walk around like that, the muggle at the gate’s already getting suspicious–”

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

“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these, “ the Ministry wizard said, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers.

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

Aila and Hermione were overcome with such a strong fit of giggles at this point that they had to duck out of the queue. Hermione only returned when Archie had collected his water and moved away but Aila had wandered off to explore the campsite.

She was stopped by a French part-Veela named Fleur Delacour who recognised her as a fellow part-Veela. She and Fleur had connected instantly and would’ve gone on talking if it wasn’t for her little sister, Gabrielle, wanting to explore the area.

As Aila walked on, here and there, she also saw more familiar faces — other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old Captain of the Gryffindor House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged Aila over to his parents’ tent to introduce her and told her excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team. Next, she was hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on Cho waved her over. They talked until Harry and the others passed by before Aila rejoined them.

“Who d’you reckon they are?” Harry asked, pointing to a group of teenagers they had never seen before. “They don’t go to Hogwarts, do they?”

“‘Spect they go to some foreign school,” said Ron. “I know there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Bill had a pen-friend 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 pen-friend got all offended when he said he wasn’t going and sent him a cursed hat. It made his ears shrivel up.”

“You’ve been ages,” George said when they finally got back to the Weasleys’ tents.

“Met a few people,” Ron said, setting the water down. “You haven't got that fire started yet?”

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

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

“Oops!” he said as he managed to light a match and promptly dropped it in surprise.

“Come here, Mr Weasley,” Hermione said kindly, taking the box from him, and showing him how to do it properly.

At last, they got the fire lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Arthur cordially as they passed. Arthur kept up a running commentary, mainly for Harry’s and Hermione’s benefit. The others knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested.

“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 — a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know…and that’s Bode and Croaker they're Unspeakables…“

“They’re what?”

“From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to…“

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

“Just Apparated, Dad,” Percy said loudly. “Ah, excellent, lunch!”

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Arthur jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them. “Aha!” he said. “The man of the moment! Ludo!”

Ludo Bagman was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.

“Ahoy there!” Bagman called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.

“Arthur, old man,” he puffed as he reached the campfire, “what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming…and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements…Not much for me to do!”

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.

Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently, his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.

“Ah, yes,” Arthur said with a wide grin, “this is my son Percy. He’s just started at the Ministry and this is Fred, no, George, sorry. That’s Fred, Bill, Charlie and Ron. My daughter, Ginny, my niece, Aila, I’m sure you remember her from last year, and Ron’s friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.”

Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he heard Harry’s name, and his eyes performed the familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Everyone,” Arthur 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 said eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. “I’ve already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first — I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in years — and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a week-long match.”

“Oh.…go on then,” Arthur said. “Let’s see…a Galleon on Ireland to win?”

“A Galleon?” Ludo Bagman looked slightly disappointed but recovered himself. “Very well, very well…any other takers?”

“They’re a bit young to be gambling,” said Arthur. “Molly wouldn’t like–”

“We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts,” Fred said as he and George quickly pooled all their money, “that Ireland wins but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh, and we’ll throw in a fake wand.”

“You don’t want to go showing Mr Bagman rubbish like that,” Percy hissed, but Bagman didn’t seem to think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared with laughter.

“Excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing in years! I’d pay five Galleons for that!”

Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

“Boys,” Arthur said under his breath, “I don’t want you betting…that’s all your savings…your mother–”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Arthur!” Ludo Bagman boomed, rattling his pockets excitedly. “They’re old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance…I’ll give you excellent odds on that one…we’ll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we.“

Aila laughed as Arthur looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins’ names.

“Cheers,” said George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it away carefully. Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Arthur.

“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.”

“Mr Crouch?” said Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. “He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll…“

“Anyone can speak Troll,” said Fred dismissively. “All you have to do is point and grunt. And Aila can speak quite a few herself.”

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

“Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Arthur asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass beside them all.

“Not a dicky bird,” Bagman said comfortably. “But she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha…memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She’ll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.”

“You don’t think it might be time to send someone to look for her?” Arthur suggested tentatively as Percy handed Bagman his tea.

“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” said Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, “but we really can’t spare anyone at the moment. Oh, talk of the devil! Barty!”

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short grey hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush moustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were very highly polished. Aila could see at once why Percy idolised him. Percy was a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr Crouch had complied with the rule about muggle dressing so thoroughly that he could have passed for a bank manager.

“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,” Ludo said brightly, patting the ground beside him.

“No thank you, Ludo,” said Crouch, and there was a bite of impatience in his voice. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box.”

“Oh, is that what they’re after?” said Bagman. “I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.”

“Mr Crouch!” Percy said breathlessly and sunk into a kind of half-bow that made him look like a hunchback. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh,” said Mr Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild surprise. “Yes, thank you, Weatherby.”

Aila, Fred, George, Bill and Charlie choked into their own cups. Percy, very pink around the ears, busied himself with the kettle.

“Oh and I’ve been wanting a word with you too, Arthur,” Mr Crouch said, his sharp eyes falling upon Arthur. “Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.”

Arthur heaved a deep sigh. “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 Artefact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?”

“I doubt it,” Mr Crouch said, accepting a cup from Percy. “He’s desperate to export here.”

“Well, they’ll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?” said Bagman.

“Ali thinks there’s a niche in the market for a family vehicle,” said Mr Crouch. “I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve but that was before carpets were banned, of course.”

He spoke as though he wanted to leave nobody in any doubt that all his ancestors had abided strictly by the law.

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

“Fairly,” Mr Crouch said dryly. “Organising Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.“

“I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over?” Arthur said. Ludo Bagman looked shocked.

“Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun Still, it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organise, eh?”

Mr Crouch raised his eyebrows at Bagman. “We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details–”

“Oh details!” Bagman said, 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,” Mr Crouch said sharply, cutting Bagman’s remarks short. “Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.”

He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.

“See you all later!” he said. “You’ll be up in the Top Box with me. I’m commentating!” He waved, Barty Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them Disapparated.

“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” Fred asked immediately. “What were they talking about?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Arthur, smiling.

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

“Oh shut up, Weatherby,” everyone chorused, excluding Arthur, Hermione and Harry.

Once they were done with their tea, Aila grabbed Bill and Charlie. “Come on,” she said, pulling them along.

“Where are you going?” Arthur called.

“Some…errands,” Charlie said.

Aila watched smugly as Bill and Charlie ran around and fought against other wizards to get the autographs from both the Ireland and Bulgarian Quidditch players. “Thanks, boys,” she said as they handed her back her autograph book. She decided to find some of her friends and skipped off as Bill and Charlie returned to their tent.

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 pretence disappeared: The Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.

Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes — green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria — which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved. There were also tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectable figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

“Been saving my pocket money all summer for this,” Ron told Harry as they and Hermione strolled through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Though Ron purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a large green rosette, he also bought a small figure of Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walked backwards and forward over Ron’s hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him.

“Wow, look at these!” said Harry, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except that they were covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials.

“Omnioculars,” said the saleswizard eagerly. “You can replay action…slow everything down…and they flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. Bargain — ten Galleons each.”

Aila browsed through the stalls until she spotted a certain Hufflepuff boy. She sneaked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Aila!” he exclaimed, turning around.

“Hey, Ced.”

“What are you doing here all alone?” Cedric asked in concern.

Aila shrugged. “Just browsing about then I spotted you.”

“You do support the Irish, right?” he asked anxiously.

“Yep,” Aila responded, popping the ‘p’.

“Good.” Cedric bought a green and white scarf and wrapped it around her neck. “There,” he whispered.

Aila smiled shyly and looked down. Cedric gently brushed a few stray strands of hair away from her face and hooked it behind her ears.

“Thanks, Ced,” she said, playing with the scarf as she looked back up at his face, but his eyebrows were slightly furrowed as he stared down at her. “Ced? Hello? Earth to the badger! Cedric? Cedric!”

“Y-yeah?” he stuttered, finally snapping out of whatever daze he was in.

“Is everything alright? I think you blanked out for a moment,” Aila said, concern lacing her words.

“I’m fine,” he said with a small smile. Taking her hand, he added, “Come on, I think it’s time you returned to your family before they think you’ve run away again.”

Aila laughed and let him lead her through the crowd. They stopped just outside the Weasley’s tent. She turned and said, “See you later, Ced. Or if I don’t see you later then see you on Hogwarts’ express.”

Cedric gave her one last hug and left.

Aila entered the tent. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were all sporting green rosettes and Arthur was carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold.

A few minutes later, Ron, Harry and Hermione returned.

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

“It’s time!” said Arthur, looking as excited as any of them. “Come on, let’s go!”