Brighter Than the Sun

Chapter Thirty-Five

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

Our 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 we passed him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.

"How many times, Kevin? You don't - touch - Daddy's - wand - yecchh! " She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on 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 us 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.

I gasped at them. "Oh, Morrigan! The Salem Witches' Institute!"

"Who're they?" Harry asked.

"That's one of the schools in America," I told him. "It's sort of like a college for witches. You can start your education there, but you can also transfer there after your seventh year and take whatever career you're interested in farther. I was hoping to go there after Hogwarts so I can get more training to be a Healer."

"So who're they?"

"Professors, I think," I said. "I kind of want to go and talk to them, but we promised Mr. Weasley we'd get the water."

As we went on, I caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though I couldn't understand a word (except for the Greek wizards and witches), the tone of every single voice was excited.

"Er - is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?" said Ron.

It wasn't just Ron's eyes. We'd 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 that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.

"Harry! Ron! Hermione! Ash!"

It was Seamus Finnigan, our 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?" said Seamus, grinning. "The Ministry's not too happy."

"Ah, why shouldn't we show our colors?" said Mrs. Finnigan. "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, Hermione, and I beadily.

"Of course," I said, pointing at my green Ireland t-shirt. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all hurriedly agreed that they were supporting Ireland.

As we set off, Ron said, "Like we'd say anything else surrounded by that lot."