Early in the morning, everyone in the Weasley house was up, and already at dawn, after a hearty breakfast, they grabbed their things and went to the small forest nearby. Everyone except Mrs. Weasley—she was not interested in Quidditch at all, and she had a lot to do.
We walked through fields, through meadows, through grass with drops of morning dew. At first, the guys actively talked, especially Harry and Ron, sharing their assumptions about how everything will be at the Cup Final, and what the camp for spectators might be like, but soon not the best physical fitness took its toll, and perhaps only Hermione and I moved forward through the clearing without much trouble. In principle, the twins did not lag far behind, but as I know, they are generally hyperactive, and the absence of special fatigue in them is not surprising.
"Could we have gotten here faster somehow, huh?" Ron was indignant.
"Oh come on," Potter waved it off. "It's cool. I've never been hiking."
"Weaklings," Ginny marched briskly past them, catching up with me, Hermione and Mr. Weasley, who, despite a weighty backpack behind his back, walked confidently, did not slow down, although he was obviously tired.
"That's because," Ron pouted, "you have nothing."
"And what is this?" The redhead demonstratively showed a small shoulder bag.
"No idea, but obviously something light."
The redhead picked the moment when Ron would transfer weight from one foot to the other, and threw her bag at him, almost knocking him off his feet.
"Damn it..." Ron staggered. "What do you have there? Hermione's books?"
"Ron!"
"Well, what?!"
"I love hiking," Mr. Weasley smiled.
Soon we saw ahead, among the trees, a group of four wizards, among whom I recognized Cedric. He was communicating with two older redheads, and the fourth, the oldest of them, clearly a peer of Mr. Weasley, stood nearby, listening to the conversation of the guys. It was he who noticed the approach of our company, smiled and waved his hand invitingly.
"And here is Amos," Mr. Weasley smiled, waving his hand. "Oh, and Bill and Charlie are here too."
Greetings began, joyful hugs of some Weasleys with others, in general, the redheads quickly organized their atmosphere. Mr. Weasley introduced Amos Diggory to those who did not know him.
"Are these all yours?" Amos looked at us all in surprise.
"No," Mr. Weasley smiled. "Only the redheads. This is Hermione and Hector Granger, and this is—Harry Potter."
"Oh, Mr. Potter!" Amos was surprised. "Cedric, of course, told about you. How he won last year... I told him: 'Yes, Cedric, you will have something to tell your grandchildren... You defeated Harry Potter!'."
"Dad," Cedric looked at his father with reproach. "Harry fell off the broom, I told you. An accident."
The redheads were no longer particularly happy to meet Amos, and I was ready to laugh at the pettiness of this wizard, albeit so insignificant, not revealing him as a person at all.
"Yes, but you didn't fall!" Amos was amused. "You are so modest, such a gentleman. But the best wins. I'm sure Harry agrees with me. One fell off the broom, the other—didn't. You don't need to be a genius to understand who flies better."
"And also, Mr. Diggory," I smiled. "You don't need to be a genius to compare something else. For example, the fact that Potter fell due to the attack of Dementors subordinate to the Ministry while the Seeker of the opposing team was the son of a wizard working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Of course, all this is not connected in any way, but you don't need to be a genius to guess such a thing, do you?"
"Hector Granger?" Mr. Diggory looked at me, as did Cedric.
"Yes, sir."
"Glad to meet you. Amos Diggory, father of this wonderful young man," Mr. Diggory clapped Cedric on the shoulder, and clearly decided not to focus on the topic raised by himself. "Heard about your achievements. This is very praiseworthy. Cedric claims that if you had a desire, you could make a magnificent career in Quidditch."
"I am more attracted to healing, sir."
"Very worthy goal."
"Let's hurry," Mr. Weasley urged everyone. "Or else we won't make it to the Portkey."
This phrase moved our "hike" from the dead point, and we moved on through the clearing.
"So, ready?" Cedric addressed me.
"No idea what to prepare for."
It was impossible not to notice some coldness between Cedric and Gryffindor players—but it, this coldness, is quite weak and more ostentatious. I noticed something similar on the day of my arrival at the Burrow.
In such an expanded noisy company we moved on. From conversations I learned that Bill and Charlie, the older children of the Weasley couple, were terribly busy at work, and even for this evening "begged off" with difficulty. Bill, the oldest, is dressed in jeans, boots made of dragon skin, if I'm not mistaken, leather too, but ordinary, non-magical jacket, and his hair is intercepted in a tight ponytail at the back of his head. He created the impression of a kind of rocker. In general, the guy had to strain hard in the last two weeks to snatch an unscheduled day off and get here. Charlie, according to him, also has a wild blockage and still a lot of work ahead, but what exactly is the essence—he remains silent, catching up with fog.
Ten minutes later we left the undergrowth and not without difficulty for many climbed to the top of an empty hill—only grass, and a good view of the surroundings. However, the hill seemed empty only at first glance. Here, in the dawn rays, an old leather boot stood lonely. Here, straight, even nothing more to add—a boot on top of a hill.
"So, folks," Mr. Weasley began to gather everyone. "Gather around the Portkey."
"Boot?" Potter was surprised.
"Yes, Harry. But there is no time for stories—a minute left. Gather and touch the Portkey with your hand."
"Dad," Bill and Charlie stood slightly aside. "Charlie and I will Apparate to you later. Need to look in on mom after all."
"You came up with that well," Mr. Weasley nodded and looked at us trying to fit more compactly at the Portkey.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, we touched the boot with only one finger so that others could squeeze their hands in.
"So, what is there..." Mr. Weasley began to speak, looking at everyone with a smile. "Three... Two... One..."
It was as if something pulled me by the center of the stomach down, although there was ground there, and carried so completely up. Not even a second passed as we were spun-whirled, the hand seemed to stick tightly to the boot, and the world turned into a blurred carousel. A moment, and I felt that my feet landed on the ground, although visually nothing could be made out. With great difficulty I stood still, stopping relying on vision in the matter of orientation in space in time. Immediately had to pick up Hermione, stopping her fall. Mr. Weasley, Cedric and his father stayed on their feet, although they looked battered by the wind.
"Wow, Hector," Mr. Weasley showed me a thumb with a smile. "Coped excellently for the first time. I, remember, tumbled over a couple of times and almost knocked down father when we first flew by Portkey."
"Five hours seven minutes from Stoatshead Hill," a male voice rang out from the side, and we turned around.
Two extremely extraordinarily dressed as ordinary people, I would even say, mummers wizards stood and looked at us with a tired look. One was in an old-fashioned and stylish suit, but in galoshes, and the second even put on a kilt and poncho. For the completeness of the image, the latter lacked only a sombrero.
Wildflowers, fog and light-light diffused light in the sky from the rising sun spread around on the sides. True, the fog was thick enough to estimate where east is, it was possible only approximately.
"Good morning, Basil," Mr. Weasley greeted one of the wizards and handed over the boot.
"Yeah, good..."
While those who did not stay on their feet during our journey put themselves in order, adjusted clothes or bags and backpacks that had moved askew, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Diggory gave these two extravagant wizards our tickets, they checked everything and reported where exactly our places are both for the tent and on the stands. Although, for the sake of justice, they said this for us, teenagers, because both Mr. Weasley and Cedric's father knew where they would have to be stationed, since they were involved among other Ministry workers in the organization of both the camp and the match itself.
"How are you, Mr. Granger?" Cedric's father addressed me. "Prefer to stay with the Weasleys already familiar to you?"
"Think it would be logical to go with you, since Cedric invited me to the match."
"Then you are with us," Cedric's father turned to Mr. Weasley and the rest of the company. "See you at the match, Arthur, children, Mr. Potter."
We dispersed and now only the three of us walked through the foggy field—me, Cedric and his father.
"So, Mr. Granger, Hector," Mr. Diggory began to speak. "You want to become a Healer?"
"Correct."
"This is a very difficult path, must note," he nodded with an important and knowing look. "I mean that it is not difficult to become some ordinary specialist, as, in general, in other professions. But..."
Mr. Diggory thought, and far in the fog the outlines of tents began to appear, but they looked like small mountains, and if I didn't know what exactly should be there, I would never have guessed.
"...this requires a special mindset. One familiar wizard told me, they say, it was very hard during his training, during practice."
"What is there so special?"
"Well, how to tell you," Mr. Diggory hesitated, and meanwhile we almost approached a small stone house with a well-groomed facade, a garden and a large bed. "Simply put, then blood, guts, injuries, various curses... Horror."
At the house on a bench sat a simple-looking little man and smoked a pipe. It was with him that Mr. Diggory agreed on something, but I didn't listen—something about paying for the place with ordinary money, and all that. Already in a couple of minutes we moved towards the outlines of tents visible in the fog. Here we take a step, and the fog seems to part before us.
Many different tents, most of which could hardly be taken for ordinary ones. There were simple ones, yes, but with some chimney. Or multi-story. Or here, miniature palaces, with fountains, gardens and other nonsense. Motley dressed wizards scurried everywhere, and the variegation and incompatibility of clothing elements caused a slight nervous tic and twitching of the eyelid. We walked through the rows of these tents, and now and then stumbled upon empty patches of space where miniature carnivals lived their life, fireworks, tinsel flew in all directions, here and there flashed carriers of all sorts of food, and sometimes, by no means traditional English.
For ten minutes of travel through this chaos of people and tents, I met wizards of the most different nationalities and on each was something of their own, unique, inherent only to this or that culture, but everything with some excess.
"Here, our tent," Mr. Diggory pointed to one of the tents, quite simple and quite ordinary, if not for the weather vane. "Although according to Muggle rules rented a place only now, but set up the tent yesterday, when helped in organizational issues."
Mr. Diggory approached the canopy and entered the tent. It seemed small, but something told me that inside it would be larger than outside. So it turned out. When Cedric and I went inside, we found ourselves as if in a large well-maintained apartment with several levels, so to speak, and instead of walls either fabric zoning partitions, or partitions made of furniture, honeycomb shelves and so on. Only instead of a ceiling here was an opaque and slightly glowing dome of the tent. And yes, Undetectable Extension charms were here—it seems that's what such a thing is called here.
"Make yourself comfortable, Hector," Mr. Diggory pointed his hand towards one of the sectors of the tent, where there was a semblance of a personal room. "Is it okay that I use first name?"
"I don't mind at all," I smiled.
"Well excellent. Don't play with magic particularly, at least outside. Ready to bet, Arthur torments his with requirements of anti-Muggle security, heh."
"And you don't adhere to them?" I asked, simultaneously putting my backpack on the bed in the nook allocated to me.
"Within reasonable limits, Hector."
"That's true," Cedric responded, laying out his things in the neighboring nook. "You have softer rules."
"So, and in the tent why not conjure?" Mr. Diggory shrugged, asking a rhetorical question.
Having dealt with things, although there was a minimum of them, and I always carry my minimum in a backpack, we went for a walk around the camp.
"Need to find the others who managed to come to the match," Cedric tried to navigate in tents and wizards, but here, perhaps, can only figure it out by looking from above.
The higher the sun rose, the more active the wizards around became. Everyone, by and large, absolutely didn't care about any conspiracy. They openly conjured, flew on brooms, albeit low, and generally, did all sorts of obscenity. As a result, we just wandered around the camp, huge, it should be noted, simultaneously talking about nothing, or discussing certain wizards who looked too eccentric.
"Far from everyone lives at least close to ordinary people," Cedric explained to me the reasons for such strange clothes while we were already making our way under the midday sun to the shopping rows with a bunch of small covered pavilions, from where aromas of the most diverse food spread.
"Well not to such an extent..."
"Believe me," Cedric smiled. "Exactly to such an extent. Many not that cities or villages—have never seen ordinary people. So they think that Muggles dress not like everyone else. And take off the robe, and the difference will remain at a minimum."
"And if turn on the brain, then in clothing styles will see logic."
"Exactly," Cedric nodded.
We just came out to the shopping rows and first of all went to the pavilion with a bunch of food being prepared right here. To our surprise, it was here that we found Herbert, our Keeper. He was eating something like a kebab and looked absolutely happy, and on his head was a rather ridiculous high hat in the colors of the Irish national team.
"Hi," Cedric clapped Herbert on the shoulder and he literally jumped in place, dropping the remains of food on the ground.
"Come on!" Herbert was indignant, recognizing us and adjusting his hat. "I'm eating!"
"Was eating," Cedric corrected him.
"And thanks to whom is this wonderful action now only in the past?"
Having bought provisions, decided to consume it right there, simultaneously communicating.
"And did you see anyone of ours?" I asked Herbert, but he only waved it off.
"Nah. Here can search until old age, and find no one. Although, saw the Irish camp."
"Team?" Cedric asked immediately.
"No, fans who are Irish themselves. Well there are, of course, a dime a dozen of them there. Foisted a hat, didn't even ask."
"And you?"
"And what 'Me'? I generally don't care who to root for, as long as the game is interesting. Will be for the Irish," Herbert adjusted the green hat. "Saw someone from Eastern Europe. Either Russians, or someone else..."
Herbert suddenly laughed.
"What is it?" Cedric and I asked simultaneously.
"Oh, can't," only having laughed, Herbert began to speak, and passing wizards even squinted at him, although they made noise no less themselves. "Definitely Russians. Well, you know, about each country its stereotypes."
"You bet," Cedric smirked. "We, English, all as one selected prim tea lovers with not very beautiful faces, walk entirely in tailcoats and top hats, simultaneously waving a cane."
"Well yes, something like that," Herbert nodded, which made his hat almost fall off his head. "There, in short, men in shirts, with balalaikas and a bear, transfigured, it seems, drink vodka and scare people. Well, for the sake of laughter, if look closely."
"Yeah," I shook my head. "Nothing for people to do."
"Well, so what? Japanese, look, cut through in these colorful kimonos of theirs, causing misunderstanding of others."
"Yukata."
My correction only caused misunderstanding.
"Whatever."
After an extremely hearty snack, the three of us continued the journey around the camp. As it turned out, the division into three fields does not mean at all that there are three tent camps—it is one. Such a thing happened because three local residents thus share money—each collects a fee for a place in a certain area. One closer to grassy hills, the second to rocky hills, and the third—to the forest.
Did we meet acquaintances? Oh, come on! The fact that we met Herbert—is a great success.
"Here are more than a hundred thousand wizards," Cedric said when we passed near the camp of Indian wizards showing some of their performances there. "Don't break your neck, Herbert."
"Huh? What? No, did you see?" Herbert pointed his hand towards the dancers. "I have never in my life seen simultaneously fully dressed, but also almost completely undressed girls. Damn translucent fabrics..."
Smirking understandingly, we continued to go further, looking out for something interesting.
"So what was I talking about."
"About a bunch of wizards, Cedric."
"Ah, right. So here. I somehow didn't take all this into account myself. Should have agreed on a meeting place earlier. Although, we would hardly be able to get tickets for seats next to each other anyway."
"And that's true."
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