The Other Potter. Book Four.

At the camp-site

As I looked around, away from Bella, I realised we had 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, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho. 

I laughed, because I’m Willow, and that’s what I do.

“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.

 “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.

“BYE BELLA!” I shouted over my shoulder.

“I HATE YOU!” Cedric shouted back.

“And Willow is making friends.” George smirked.

“Like a boss.” I nodded. Hermione snorted, because unlike all of these uneducated Wizarding Folk, she has some background knowledge of the epic muggle world.

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 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 our footsteps, he turned his head to look at us. 

“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 toward him.

Mr. Weasley was struggling to count the money, and I was struggling to restrain my laughter.

I have a feeling I looked like someone having a hysterical breakdown.

“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.” 

“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley 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…”