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╰┈➤ ❝ [𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝑇𝐻𝑅𝐸𝐸] ❞ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
⁺⤾·˚.⃗. [ ᴘᴏʀᴛᴋᴇʏs, ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ sɴɪᴛᴄʜᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ɢᴀʟᴏʀᴇ ] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Village of Ottery St Catchpole
- Devon, England
( August, 1994. )

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊, dank lane toward 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. Mr. Weasley kept checking his packet watch every few minutes.

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 Olympia took was sharp in her chest, and her legs were starting to seize up when, at last, her feet found level ground. She was the furthest from athletic, never had been gifted in it or even desired it.

"Whew," panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his shirt. "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!" greeted Arthur, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed. He shook 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 an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts. And one of, if not the most, popular boy at Hogwarts.

Olympia and Cassie simply could help themselves - as teenage girls often couldn't, and shared a sideways glance to one another at his sight.

"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. Plus, they were a bit annoyed at the Harrington girl's glances at the brown haired boy.

"Long walk, Arthur?" Cedric's father asked.

"Not too bad," replied 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, Olympia, Cassie, Atlas, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. "All these yours, Arthur?" He asked, a glimmer of sheer impressment in his eyes.

"Oh no, only the redheads," said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children with a soft chuckle. "These are the Harrington's lot." He introduced.

"I work with your parents! Splendid people they are." Amos mused cheerfully.

"Then this is Hermione, friend of Ron's - and Harry, another friend -"

"Merlin's beard," exclaimed Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. "Harry? Harry Potter?"

"Er - yeah," said Harry, still not used to his popularity in the Wizarding World. He'd been a part of it for four years and it still took him by surprise that little ole him could be so famous. 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. Petty about their previous loss to Hufflepuff. Fred couldn't help but roll his eyes at the memory. Cedric looked slightly embarrassed by his father's comment. "Harry fell off his broom, Dad," he muttered. "I told you us winning. . . 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!"

Fred's face turned a cherry red, his bottom lip falling agape - words were within seconds of burbling from his tongue before George elbowed him in the gut to tell him to shut up.

"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, who stared curiously at the boot. He occasionally forgets they both come from muggle homes. "You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all, a finger will do." He instructed the two.

With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the eleven 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. "Three. . ." muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, two. . . one. . ."

It happened immediately: Olympia had only traveled by port key a handful of times. She felt as though a someone grabbed her behind her navel and suddenly jerked her forward. Her feet left the ground; she could feel Cassie and Atlas's grip tighten on her own. They were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; her forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling her magnetically onward.

"Let go!" Mr. Weasley instructed.

"Oooo I hate this part!" Cassie cried out, letting go with a terrified scream. They all landed on the cold wet grass with a thud, all except, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric who were still standing, gracefully down gracefully from the sky.

"I hate portkeys." Cassie grumbled, feeling sick as she pushed herself off the ground. Olympia remembered how the last time they traveled by port key, Cassie threw up until noon - poor Cas had ever right to hate them.

Olympia was within seconds of getting herself off the ground before a hand outstretched to her, Cedric smiling down to her. A nervous smile crept along her lips, her face pinking slightly, as she took his hand.

Fred and George pushed themselves off the ground, glancing back at Cedric and his little floating move with annoyed expressions. George's jaw clenched as Cedric helped Olympia up. "What she can't get up herself?" He whispered jealously to Fred, who shared the same expression his twin wore.

"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill," said a voice. They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; but some had added chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. 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 - that one was the Diggory's tent. "Parting of the ways, I think, old chap. See you at the match." Said Amos, stopping at it, Cedric waved the group goodbye before disappearing inside.

"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 a small tent, 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, opening the flap of the tent and holding it open for each of them.

Olympia ducked inward. She was met with the warmness of the tent, a particular Weasley trait. The family could really make anything into a warm, loving area. Fred and George immediately plopped onto the kitchen chairs, placing their shoes upon the table.

"Girls, choose a bunk and unpack. Ron, get out of the kitchen. We're all hungry." Mr. Weasley spoke.

"Yeah, get out of the kitchen, Ron!" Fred and George mocked, their sentence in perfect sync.

Arthur snapped his fingers toward Fred and George, "Feet off the table!"

Fred and George removed their feet before saying, "Feet off the table!" before putting their feet back on the table.

"You two." Olympia rolled her eyes with a soft chuckle, plopping down on the couch across from them.

The Quidditch World Cup
Weasley Campground
- Devon, England
( August 29th, 1994.

A few hours had passed, Fred, George, and Atlas had napped, Olympia and Cassie played a game of cards, and Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny had explored the other tents meeting up with friends.

"You've been ages," said George when they finally got back to the Weasleys' tents. The group exited the tent, sitting outside around the lit fire.

"Met a few people," said Ron, setting the water down. 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 Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed.

Mr. Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for Harry's and Hermione's benefit; his own children and the Harrington's 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 - member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know...and that's Bode and Croaker...they're Unspeakables...."

"They're what?" Harry questioned.

"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to...."

"Ask Atlas, Olympia, or Cassie - their mum is one, head of office actually, and they haven't the slightest idea of what she's up to half the time." Fred pointed out.

Olympia nodded, "he's right, Mum keeps her work top secret. Only father knows of it."

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," said Percy loudly and proudly, "Ah, excellent, lunch!"

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley 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 easily the most noticeable person here so far. He 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 (probably broken by a stray Bludger,) 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," said Mr. Weasley, grinning, "this is my son Percy. He's just started at the Ministry - and this is Fred - no, George, sorry - that's Fred - Bill, Charlie, Ron - my daughter, Ginny and Ron's friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. And then the blondes are the Harrington's children."

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," Mr. Weasley 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 asked 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 weeklong match."

"Oh...go on then," said Mr. Weasley, digging into his pocket. "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?"

Fred and George excitedly scrambled forward, pushing their hands into their pockets. Ludo clasped his hands together excitedly at the sight.

"They're a bit young to be gambling," said Mr.
Weasley. "Molly wouldn't like -"

"We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts," said Fred 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."

Olympia's jaw dropped, thirty seven galleons, fifteen sickles? That was an awfully lot for the twins to just throw away on gambling. "Oh don't be so dim!" She hollered out toward them. They ignored her comment.

"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!"

Fred and George glanced to one another with big lopsided smiles. The possibility of their dream joke shop could very well become a reality.

Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

"Boys," said Mr. Weasley under his breath, "I don't want you betting....That's all your savings....Your mother would -"

"Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!" boomed Ludo Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. Arthur let of a sharp sigh, wishing the twin's would simply listen to him. Molly would surely kill them, there was already talk of putting more restrictions on them. But Mr. Weasley feared if she cracked down on them that it'd only push them away. They were sixteen, he hated the thought of possibly loosing Fred and George the second they turned eighteen.

"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...."

Mr. Weasley 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 into the back of his jean pocket.

Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley. Who was pale in the face. "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."

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?" Mr. Weasley asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass beside them all.

"Not a dicky bird," said Bagman 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?" Mr. Weasley 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 gray hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were very highly polished. It was obvious why Percy looked up to him.

"Pull up a bit of grass, Barry," said Ludo 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!" said Percy breathlessly, sunk into a kind of halfbow 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, uh Weatherby."

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

Olympia and Cassie snickered into their cups. Atlas couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for Percy, he was still his best friend after all. Or was he really?

"Never let him forget this." Olympia whispered to Fred and George.

"Never ever." They replied.

"Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know," said Mr. Crouch 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!" Ludo 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.

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 tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

Bill, Charlie, Cassie, and Ginny were all sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Weasley was carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold, but their faces with covered with brightly colored green paint. Atlas, Harry, Ron, and Olympia all wore Hungarian colors of red and black. Olympia didn't know much about Quidditch, not enough to have an opinion on the sport that's for sure - yet she sported the colors only to annoy Fred and George.

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 Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. "Come on, kids, welcome to the Quidditch World Cup!"