"Just do me a favour and put your trousers on, Archie!"
"Aren't I already wearing them? I bought these trousers in a Muggle shop!"
"Those are women's trousers."
"Aren't all Muggle clothes the same?!"
"Of course they're not! The Muggle at the gate is about to leave—put these on so he doesn't get suspicious, all right?"
"I'm not wearing them! I like letting the healthy breeze blow across my arse!"
In a clearing at one corner of the Dartmoor slope campsite, two wizards were chasing each other in a ridiculous manner. One was an elderly wizard in a ladies' floral nightdress; the other was clearly a Ministry employee, clutching a pair of pinstripe trousers and looking both exasperated and amused.
Nearby, in front of an Egyptian-pyramid-shaped tent, a toddler squatted on the ground holding his parent's wand. He was poking a slug on a blade of grass; under the influence of magic the slug slowly swelled until it was thicker than a hot-dog sausage.
The little boy showed no fear at all—he clapped his hands in delight.
"How many times have I told you not to touch your father's wand!"
The boy's mother rushed out of the pyramid tent, stomped on the enormous slug with a wet splat, and sent yellow-green juice spraying everywhere.
The toddler's mouth twisted and he began to wail.
Similar magical farces were playing out all over the campsite.
Children rode toy broomsticks, skimming low so their toes brushed the dew-covered grass.
Every so often an adult wizard would emerge from a tent to prepare breakfast, stare helplessly at dew-soaked matches, glance around furtively, and finally pull out a wand.
Wizards from the African school of Uagadou had lit a barbecue fire whose flames were a vivid, unnatural purple—nothing that ordinary firewood could ever produce.
Bagman and Melvin stood at the edge of the campsite, listening to the two wizards' chase, admiring the eye-searing outfit of the old man in the nightdress, and occasionally chatting about the match arrangements and the tens of thousands of witches and wizards arriving from all over the world.
Bagman shamelessly praised the young professor's wisdom: it had been a brilliant decision that morning to send Mr Roberts away; if they had dragged their feet any longer, who knew what trouble might have broken out in the campsite.
Melvin, who had been touring the site, said nothing. He was instead observing the wildly varied magical tents with great interest.
The slope campsite was now packed with thousands upon thousands of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had read the joint Ministry and Organising Committee spectator handbook carefully and done their best to make the tents resemble Muggle ones.
A few wizards had gone overboard, adding chimneys, bell-pulls, or weather vanes.
Some had completely ignored the rules and let their magical tents display their true strangeness—palaces, pyramids, towers, even miniature manors complete with birdbaths, sundials, and fountains.
The tents of the die-hard fans were split into two clearly divided zones.
One side belonged to Ireland supporters; every tent was covered in a thick layer of shamrocks so that the slope looked like countless oddly shaped green hillocks sprouting from the earth.
The other side belonged to Bulgaria supporters; Bulgarian red-white-green flags flew from the tent poles and Krum posters were plastered everywhere.
"Those lucky Irish bastards only made the final thanks to the Mirror Club," Bagman said, squatting by the path. His robes hid his paunch, his round blue eyes were wide, and his short golden hair made his face look flushed—like a professional player explaining the inside story.
"What does the Club have to do with it?" Melvin asked, curious.
"Their sponsor made a fortune with the Club's help. The manager waved his hand and bought seven brand-new Firebolts. Firebolts, mind you! With that speed advantage they steamrolled every match before the World Cup. In the semi-final they faced the hot favourite Peru and just blasted them with pure speed tactics."
Bagman chuckled twice. "But their luck ends here."
"What do you mean?"
"Their speed attack is impressive, but they're facing the Bulgarian national team. Those lads have been forged in freezing conditions; their willpower is rock-solid. Their stubborn, ironclad defence can completely shut down Ireland's attack."
Bagman rubbed the nose that had been broken by a Bludger and sniffed. "If the score stays close, the Seeker decides the match. I'm not knocking Ireland's Lynch, but compared to the genius Krum… tch!"
Bagman didn't finish the sentence; he simply shook his head.
"I didn't realise you knew the teams so well."
"That's nothing…"
Bagman waved a hand, a smug little smile on his face. "Fancy a bet on the match, Professor Levent?"
"You've already analysed who's going to win—why would I still bet?"
"Betting isn't only about who wins; there are all sorts of side bets."
Bagman stretched his legs; coins clinked in his pocket—he clearly had plenty of gold on him.
"For example, you can guess which team scores first. Roddy Pontner bet on Bulgaria—he's the chap in plus-fours this morning. Given Ireland's Chasers and their speed attack, I gave him very generous odds."
"You can also bet on how long the match will last. Historically, the shortest World Cup final was half a day; the longest ran three months. Little Agatha Tims has staked half the shares in her eel farm betting the match will last a whole week."
"You could bet on who catches the Snitch—put your money on Krum. The odds are low, but you'd still make a bit."
"You're running the book yourself—if there's an upset, can you even pay out?"
Melvin looked at him with a half-smile. "I seem to remember you once got into debt because of gambling. You couldn't pay it back, so you had to partner with the Club to make money."
"Well…" Bagman scratched his head with an awkward laugh and stopped talking about bets.
It didn't look as if he had taken the warning to heart. Melvin shook his head and didn't press the point. Instead he turned his thoughts to Mr Roberts.
The Quidditch World Cup was the event the entire wizarding world had been waiting for. A hundred thousand witches and wizards were streaming toward Dartmoor. To keep the International Statute of Secrecy intact and prevent any breaches of magic, Mr Roberts might be hit with hundreds of Memory Charms over the next two weeks. Even the most skilled Obliviator could not keep that under control.
Apart from the Memory Charms, the Roberts family would face something even worse after the match. In Melvin's previous-life memories, after Bulgaria's shocking defeat the fans had clashed violently. In that tense atmosphere, young Barty Crouch's Dark Mark had ignited the crowd's negative emotions, triggering panic and a full-scale riot.
The escaped Death Eaters had used the chaos to cover their faces, gathered followers, and turned the Roberts family into playthings for their rage.
Rather than let poor Mr Roberts suffer such misfortune here, it would be better to send the whole family on extended leave for the duration of the tournament.
Still, a certain amount of chaos was necessary.
By the timeline, Mr Crouch was still in New York for the International Confederation of Wizards conference. This year, because of Britain's new trade agreements with Muggles, many matters involved the Statute of Secrecy and required detailed explanation at the conference; the delegation's return had been slightly delayed.
According to Bagman, Mr Crouch had fought hard to come back early, insisting he had to organise the match, but he would still need another two days.
At this moment young Barty Crouch should still be under house arrest at the Crouch residence, watched over by the house-elf Winky. He was only allowed brief periods of lucidity each day, struggling against the Imperius Curse while secretly plotting his escape.
Unlike the slow progress in New York, Wormtail and Umbridge had already met in Albania. If everything went smoothly they had already found Voldemort and, on the return journey, would definitely reach London before 18 August.
They needed a catalyst—one that would let Voldemort learn about young Barty Crouch without disrupting the Mirror Club's broadcast plans.
Listening to Bagman's endless chatter, Melvin pondered for a moment. "Extend the Roberts family's leave until everything is over, then let them come back. Also—have the Portkeys the Department of Magical Transportation prepared been finished?"
Bagman blinked, then remembered.
Once the final venue had been confirmed as Dartmoor, the Department of International Magical Cooperation and the Department of Magical Games and Sports had swung into action. At the time tickets had not yet gone on sale and spectators from around the world had not yet arrived in Britain, so there had been no need to mobilise the Transportation Department. Yet the young professor had already asked them to start making Portkeys.
These were not Portkeys bringing people from all over the world to Britain, nor ones bringing spectators from Britain to Dartmoor. They were Portkeys departing from Dartmoor to destinations around the globe.
The activation time was set for ten minutes after the match ended. Destinations included New York, Paris, Budapest, Romania, Austria—every major location connected to the Mirror Floo Network.
Counting the ones the Ministry itself needed, nearly three hundred Portkeys had been prepared in total. No one knew what they were for; the Transportation Department staff had worked several weeks of overtime.
"The keys are all ready…"
Bagman scratched his head. "But, Professor—what exactly do you need so many Portkeys for?"
…
"…Dear viewers, this is Cecilia Haynes from the Daily Prophet. Today in Dartmoor the sky is clear, temperatures range from 11 to 18 °C. Once the morning mist over the marsh and forest lifts, sunlight will continue to shine on the campsite. We have every reason to believe that the 422nd Quidditch World Cup final will be played in glorious weather with no storms to interfere."
"The entire Irish team has arrived in Dartmoor and begun acclimatisation training. Someone spotted Seeker Lynch outside the stadium… The Bulgarian team is still on the road; according to inside sources, star player Viktor Krum has quarrelled with his teammates and delayed their arrival."
"Let us cheer for the Ministry staff who have stood at their posts for a whole year building a stadium large enough for 100,000 spectators and guiding wizards from every corner of the world safely to the campsite. Thanks to their hard work keeping order, the final can proceed smoothly in Dartmoor."
"The Dartmoor campsite is almost at full capacity. Ticket holders, please head over as soon as possible to secure a good spot for your tent!"
The voice, crackling slightly with static, broadcast from the temporary studio set up inside the Prophet's tent. Cecilia's lovely face appeared in the Mirror. This was the Daily Prophet's World Cup press team.
At night the tent was a hive of activity—reporters verifying facts, editors proofreading copy, photographers fiddling with large-headed cameras.
Outside, on the slope campsite, a festive atmosphere reigned.
The Roberts family had left; no troublesome Muggles remained. With the Statute of Secrecy no longer an issue, the gathered wizards had let loose and were throwing a grand party.
From the edge of the marsh to the slope beyond the forest, a black tide of witches and wizards had converged. Supporters of the two teams streamed in from every direction as though by prior agreement.
It had started with die-hard fans hearing that Krum had arrived and crowding around one tent on impulse. Then Irish fans, seeing the Bulgarian supporters gathering, refused to be outdone. Others were not even true fans—they simply joined the fun.
Hermione stood on the edge of the crowd, staring at the sea of people, her brown eyes wide with astonishment.
There were so many wizards in the world.
She had read rough figures in books before but had never grasped the scale.
The largest gathering of wizards she had ever seen was Gilderoy Lockhart's book-signing at Flourish and Blotts, which had filled the shop and spilled out into the street.
Compared with this, that had been tiny. These wizards could have filled Diagon Alley and still overflowed into Charing Cross Road.
"It's unbelievable…"
A rough, booming song rose into the night sky—different languages, different tunes, loud and chaotic. Wizards on broomsticks darted above the campsite, waving lanterns and torches, laughing wildly.
"Krum!"
Someone amplified their voice with a Sonorus Charm. The crowd erupted in deafening cheers and surged toward the Bulgarian section of tents like a black wave.
Hermione saw Krum posters being torn from the tents and trampled underfoot—one showed a young player with thick black eyebrows and a permanently sullen face who seemed to do nothing but frown and blink.
"Bulgaria!"
"Ireland!"
"…"
The cheers grew louder, the wizards more excited.
Hermione never knew exactly when things turned ugly. Someone's wine bottle must have fallen into a bonfire—bang—an explosion sent flames spraying and set several nearby tents alight.
The blast was not severe and the fires on the tents were quickly extinguished, but the party instantly lost control.
The campsite was on a slope; people who fell in the crush were trampled as those behind them, pushed by the crowd, could not stop. More and more wizards stumbled and were crushed underfoot.
The singing stopped. It turned into screams and sobs. Panicked footsteps thudded across the ground.