Harry and Danny disentangle themselves from Ron and get to their feet. We have arrived in what appears to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of us is a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom is holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both are dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly; the man with the watch wears a tweed suit with high-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho.
"Morning, Basil," says Mr Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who throws it in a large box of used Portkeys beside him; I can see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can and a punctured football.
"Hello there, Arthur," says 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 consults 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," says Mr Weasley, and he beckons everyone to follow him.
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 swims into view. Beyond it, I can just make out ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field towards a dark wood on the horizon. We say goodbye to the Diggorys, and approach the cottage door.
A man is standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. I know at a glance that this is the only real Muggle for several acres. When he hears our footsteps, he turns his head to look at us.
"Morning!" says Mr Weasley brightly.
"Morning," says the Muggle.
"Would you be Mr Roberts?"
"Aye, I would," says Mr Roberts. "And who're you?"
"Weasley - two tents, booked a couple of days ago?"
"Aye," says Mr Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. "You've got a space up by the wood there. Just one night?"
"That's it," says Mr Weasley.
"You'll be paying now, then?" says Mr Roberts.
"Ah - right - certainly -" says Mr Weasley. He retreats a short distance from the cottage and beckons Harry and Danny towards him. Mr Weasley mutters something, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart.
Danny seems to correct Mr Weasley on something, looking uncomfortable. Mr Roberts is trying to catch every word.
Mr Weasley says something else.
"You foreign?" says Mr Roberts, as Mr Weasley returns with the correct notes.
"Foreign?" repeats Mr Weasley, puzzled.
"You're not the first one to have trouble with money," says Mr Roberts, scrutinising Mr Weasley closely. "I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago."
"Did you really?" says Mr Weasley nervously.
Mr Roberts rummages around in a tin for some change.
"Never been this crowded," he says suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. "Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up..."
"Is that right?" says Mr Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr Roberts doesn't give it to him.
"Aye," he says thoughtfully. "People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There's a bloke walking round in a kilt and poncho."
"Shouldn't he?" says Mr Weasley anxiously.
"It's like some sort of...I dunno...like some sort of rally," says Mr Roberts. "They all seem to know each other. Like a big party."
At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appears out of thin air next to Mr Roberts's front door.
"Obliviate!" he says sharply, pointing his wand at Mr Roberts.
Instantly, Mr Roberts's eyes slide out of focus, his brow unknits and a look of dreamy unconcern falls over his face. I recognise the symptoms of one who just had his memory modified.
"A map of the campsite for you," Mr Roberts says placidly to Mr Weasley. "And your change."
"Thanks very much," says Mr Weasley.
The wizard in plus-fours accompanies us towards the gate to the campsite. He looks exhausted; his chin is blue with stubble and there are deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr Roberts, he mutters to Mr Weasley, "Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman's not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security. Blimey, I'll be glad when this is over. See you later, Arthur."
He Disapparates.
"I thought Mr Bagman was head of Magical Games and Sports?" says Ginny, looking surprised. "He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn't he?"
"He should," says Mr Weasley, smiling, and leading us through the gates into the campsite, "but Ludo's always been a bit...well...lax about security. You couldn't wish for a more enthusiastic Head of the Sports Department, though. He played Quidditch for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had."
We trudge up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most look almost ordinary; their owners have clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but slipped up by adding chimneys, or bell-pulls, or weather-vanes. However, here and there is a tent so obviously magical that I can hardly be surprised that Mr Roberts is getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stands an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little further on we pass a tent that has three floors and several turrets; and on a short way beyond that is a tent which has a front garden attached, complete with a birdbath, sundial and fountain.
"Always the same," says Mr Weasley, smiling, "we can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us."
We have reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here is an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that reads "Weezly".
"Couldn't have a better spot!" says Mr Weasley happily. "The pitch is just on the other side of the wood there, we're as close as we could be." He hoists his backpack from his shoulders. "Right," he says excitedly, "no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we're out in these numbers on Muggle land. We'll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn't be too difficult...Muggles do it all the time...here, Harry, Dathaniel, where do you reckon we should start?"
I don't doubt that Harry and Danny have never been camping in their life. However, they, Hermione and me work out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr Weasley is more of a hindrance than a help, because he gets thoroughly excited when it comes to using the mallet, we finally manage to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.
All of us stand back to admire our handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belong to wizards, I think, but the trouble is that once Bill, Charlie and Percy arrive, we will be a party of thirteen. Harry, Danny and Hermione seem to have spotted the spotted this problem too; me and Hermione give Harry and Danny quizzical looks as Mr Weasley drops to his hands and knees and enters the first tent.
