Dartmoor, slope campsite.
A riot had broken out here the previous week. The British Ministry of Magic and the four magical schools had worked together to quell the crush caused by frenzied fans.
Although a few witches and wizards had been injured and some tents burned, it had not stopped supporters from every corner of the world from streaming in. The Ministry had removed the Muggle manager Mr Roberts and posted extra Aurors from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to maintain order.
With worries about crowd control and Statute breaches gone, the campsite had grown even livelier.
As the sun sank in the west and the match drew near, a wave of excitement rippled across the tents. The quiet summer night air seemed to tremble with anticipation.
The campsite was bustling.
African wizards sang and danced. Eccentric witches and wizards who claimed they were "preventing magical leaks" by wearing Muggle clothes actually used the opportunity to parade their eccentric outfits in public. Children chased one another. Tourists who had just arrived tried to snap photos with players before the gates opened.
The open ground near the main gate had become a marketplace. Every few paces a vendor Apparated in with a tray or pushed a cart loaded with all manner of strange new gadgets, team badges, statues, and posters.
On both sides of the path stood oddly shaped advertising boards. The assistant from Twilfitt and Tatting's wore a Bulgarian jersey; the scribe from Scrivenshaft's offered Golden Snitch-shaped ink bottles; Honeydukes had the largest stall, raining sweets every so often.
Pubs had even set up beer towers outside.
Melvin wore a dancing shamrock hat. He slowed his steps as he passed through the commercial street, accepted a free sample from Honeydukes, and only popped it into his mouth after confirming it was not a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean.
Christine walked beside him, eyes sparkling as she took in the scene. It felt like a grand festival—witches and wizards from around the world gathered here, creating an atmosphere of shared excitement.
Montmorency Street back home grew just as lively during big holidays, yet she had once only wanted to escape it and had never appreciated its charm.
There were even shops specialising in magical sweets. Who knew there were so many flavours of Bertie Bott's and Drooble's…
Christine couldn't help feeling a touch of wonder.
From Paris to Romania and back to Beauxbatons, the events of the past few years had blurred in her memory—except for a handful of vivid moments. Only after deciding to stay in the Pyrenees had her soul seemed to settle, and her perception of the world grown sharper.
Accepting the coconut drop from the sweet stall, Christine gradually smiled.
Students who had come to watch soon recognised them—one the most popular professor at Hogwarts, the other the new professor at Beauxbatons. Meeting them outside school was a rare treat.
The students eagerly gathered round, greeting them with delight and laughing as they offered handfuls of snacks. They told the professors they should have brought proper match-day props. Melvin and Christine answered patiently, exchanging greetings and sweets.
By the time they left the commercial area, Melvin had even gained an orange drop from a little Beauxbatons witch.
The moment the last ray of sunset vanished and the moon rose, a deep, distant gong sounded from deep within the forest. As the note spread, thousands upon thousands of red and green lanterns bloomed among the trees, lighting the path to the stadium.
…
The magnificent stadium stood in the remote woodland. Its walls shimmered with golden light. Even without Undetectable Extension Charms, it was large enough to hold ten churches.
Muggle-repelling charms, Unbreakable Charms, Beast-Repelling Charms, anti-Apparition wards…
A casual glance revealed layer upon layer of protective magic. Ministry workers had laboured for months, applying more than a dozen spells to every inch of the structure. Wild beasts and magical creatures sensed the barriers and stayed far away. Any Muggle who approached would suddenly remember an urgent matter and hurry back the way they had come.
A purple-red carpet ran from the woodland path up the steps and into the stadium foyer. A hundred thousand witches and wizards filed inside and took their seats. The tiered stands rose in an ellipse around the pitch; from a distance they looked like a moving mass of black dots, like ants on the march.
At the door of the topmost private box in the centre of the stadium, Madam Bones stood in black-and-white robes, watching the Weasley family and Harry. Her pale blue eyes held a hint of surprise. Several Department heads stood beside her.
"Arthur, Sirius—you two families have practically claimed all the best seats," Madam Bones said with a faint smile as she counted heads.
This was the finest box in the entire stadium—top level, directly between the scoring hoops, with the widest view and the highest ticket price. In the ticket witch's words, it was a "first-class" seat.
Harry stood on tiptoe and peered inside. It did feel a little excessive.
There were fewer than thirty chairs, arranged in two rows—one gilded, one purple.
A house-elf had already claimed a seat in the corner. The rest of the first-class seats were taken up by their large group.
"Ludo gave me the tickets!" Mr Weasley scratched his head with a sheepish laugh. "Ludo said the Bulgarian Minister was greedy and kept trying to hog the best seats without paying, so he might as well give them to me."
"I bought mine through proper channels—and paid extra!" Sirius clarified at once.
"I'm not blaming you," Madam Bones said with a smile. "This box was going to stay empty if we couldn't return from New York in time… and even if we did, I don't plan to stay until the end. The Ministry has a mountain of work waiting."
Harry quietly observed the witch.
It was clear Madam Bones had fully replaced Fudge as Minister. Compared with that plump, frivolous middle-aged man, the current Minister was far more mature and steady. She did not pander to wealthy pure-bloods or shun anyone associated with Dumbledore or Hogwarts.
Most importantly, she never treated Harry like Gilderoy Lockhart—dragging him out for display at every event and every opportunity.
Harry greatly approved of Minister Bones.
"Enjoy a splendid match," Madam Bones said, stepping aside to let them through. Sirius even leaned in for an elegant (if slightly theatrical) cheek kiss, nearly making Harry and Ron yelp.
…
"Cornflower: the family-friendly broom—safe, reliable, with built-in anti-theft screech alarm…"
"Elegant Wizarding Robes: branches worldwide—London, Paris, Montmorency, Hogsmeade…"
"Three Broomsticks Mead: goblin magic meets Muggle craftsmanship—the art of a new era…"
"Tacklow Lanterns: crafted from rare Hinkypunk essence of the African jungle and Australian dragon-hide—symbol of status…"
The pitch surface was as smooth and glossy as velvet, but the barrier boards around the edges flashed with colourful text and images like neon lights—advertisements for spectators and players alike.
At the centre of the scoring hoops, directly opposite the referee and commentators' box, hung a giant Mirror screen. It cycled through image advertisements—some five seconds, some thirty—priced at a premium.
The stadium was now full. Laughter and cheers crashed like waves against the walls, breaking into a roaring din that made ears ring.
The Daily Prophet photographer found the perfect angle and clicked the shutter. Magnesium flare lit up the entire pitch, freezing the moment.
"Why is there a house-elf here to watch the match?" the photographer asked, pulling the developing photo free and shaking it so the potion could spread evenly. He had noticed the small figure in the corner of the box.
"Let me see, let me see…" The other Prophet staff crowded round.
"There really is one! Whose family is that extravagant?"
"We could crop it out and write a little sidebar, right?"
"To write news you need an interview. That's the top-level box—would those wizards even talk to us?"
Listening to his colleagues' excited chatter, Hermione stared at the familiar figures in the front row of the box, eyes wide in disbelief. She quickly raised her Omnioculars, twisting the dials to focus on the top-level box.
She wasn't sure whether magical Omnioculars differed fundamentally from ordinary binoculars.
The device looked like a pair of binoculars but was covered in strange knobs and dials. For ten Galleons it was worth every Knut: it could zoom, replay, and examine missed details.
The magnified image had slight edge distortion, but faces and clothing remained clear. It really was the entire Weasley clan.
"I know them—they're my friends!"
"Then it's yours!"
"Mm!"
Intern reporter Hermione Granger accepted the assignment, cheeks flushed. She had been at the Prophet for a month, sorting files and researching, yet not a single article of hers had made print or appeared on the Mirror—not even a voice-over script.
The match had not even started, but Hermione already felt the trip had been worthwhile.
"Harry and Ron in the top box—and they brought Dobby too…"
As an intern, Hermione had only obtained a ticket because Mr Goode had done Professor Levent a favour. Her seat, like the other staff members', was the best compromise between price and view—mid-level box.
She raised the Omnioculars again, watching the scene from afar.
Bill, Charlie, Ginny, George, and Fred were all there. Percy was probably on crowd-control duty. Everyone except Molly had come.
Ron wore a grass-green Ireland supporter's hat, a green-rose badge pinned to his chest, and a little Krum figurine perched on his shoulder. The miniature Krum frowned at the Ireland colours Ron was sporting.
Harry was far more restrained—no obvious team merchandise, just a pair of Omnioculars hanging round his neck.
Perhaps the lenses caught the light, or perhaps he sensed her gaze. Harry looked in her direction, realised he couldn't see clearly with the naked eye, and lifted his own Omnioculars.
Their eyes met across the entire stadium. Harry's face lit with surprise. He stood up, leaned over the railing of the box, and waved enthusiastically.
Hermione couldn't help smiling.
Remembering she was still an intern reporter, the young witch turned her Omnioculars aside and focused on the house-elf.
Something was strange. Harry sat at the very edge of the front row, with an empty seat directly behind him. The house-elf sat beside that empty seat.
Deep brown eyes, a tea-towel wrapped round its body like a loose robe, little feet swinging back and forth above the floor.
Not Dobby?
Hermione was certain of it. Dobby would never abandon the socks he had bought with his own wages, and he certainly would not wear only a tea-towel as clothing.
The intern reporter was not a Quidditch fan and did not care who won between Ireland and Bulgaria. Compared with the World Cup trophy, she cared far more about whether her news would make the paper.
For the rest of the time she ignored the match and kept her Omnioculars trained on the house-elf instead.
…
"I clearly bought a first-class ticket. Why am I sitting here with you?"
"Maybe because you're the Club's technical advisor?"
Melvin and Wright sat side by side in a mid-level box. The view was excellent; they could watch every corner of the stadium.
Christine had returned to the seats reserved for the Beauxbatons staff and students. This enclosed box held only two spectators and had been specially modified at Melvin's request:
The rear seats had been removed and replaced with heavy black velvet curtains that sealed off a private space behind them.
The Club had set up more than a dozen boxes throughout the stadium, but none of the others had curtained-off areas.
Each box also contained professional observers—or photographers—who would witness the entire match with their own eyes so they could provide comprehensive highlights once it ended.
Every box was further equipped with expert editors skilled in Memory Charms and False Memory Charms. Their job was to compile the match memories and ensure the recorded footage was ready in the shortest possible time after the final whistle.
"Your plan is watertight. You don't need an extra technical advisor," Wright grumbled.
"Then just stay here while I carry it out and keep any unrelated people from barging in."
"You're treating me like a security guard?"
Melvin smiled and patted his shoulder. He glanced at the countdown on the screen, stood, and stepped behind the curtain into the partitioned space.
The already cramped box had been further divided. A small square table sat in the enclosed area, making it feel even tighter. The items on the table were split into two groups.
On the left lay a crystal ball containing a memory and a gold chain with an hourglass pendant.
On the right lay an assortment of junk:
Slightly cleaner pieces included worn clothing—a pair of boots with the heels coming off, a pointed hat with an ugly patch, and skunk-skin gloves that no second-hand shop would buy.
Dirtier items included a chipped, paint-flecked old pipe, a cracked and mouldy wine jug, and a yellowed rubber toilet seat.
There were even banana peels, fish bones, and an old witch's comb…
All of them were the Portkeys supplied by the Department of Magical Transportation—around thirty or forty in total. Every one would depart from Dartmoor and arrive at Ministries in Budapest, Romania, Paris, Austria, and other locations.
Activation time…
Now.