Chapter 77: Portkey

Chris, felt she was about to sleep when suddenly she was being shaken awake by Mrs. Weasley.

"Time to go, Chris, dear," she whispered.

Chris barely opened her eyes and saw Hermione was ready to go and Ginny was getting ready.

Chris got up yawning and stretching, she got dressed and dragged her feet downstairs. In the kitchen, Fred, George, Ron and Harry were eating their breakfast with Mr Weasley who was wearing golfing sweater and a very old pair of jeans, slightly too big for him and held up with a thick leather belt. Chris rubbed her eyes to be sure if she saw correctly. Mrs Weasley pushed their bowls of porridge towards them. Chris sat down, but she didn't like to eat this early so she barely ate it.

"Why do we have to be up so early?" Ginny said eating her breakfast.

"We've got a bit of a walk," said Mr. Weasley.

"Walk?" said Harry. "What, are we walking to the World Cup?"

"No, no, that's miles away," said Mr Weasley, smiling. "We only need to walk a short way. It's just that it's very difficult for a large number of wizards to congregate without attracting Muggle atten­tion. We have to be very careful about how we travel at the best of times, and on a huge occasion like the Quidditch World Cup —"

"George!" said Mrs. Weasley sharply, and they all jumped.

"What?" said George, in an innocent tone that deceived nobody.

"What is that in your pocket?"

"Nothing!"

"Don't you lie to me!"

Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at George's pocket and said, "Accio!"

Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of George's pocket; he made a grab for them but missed, and they sped right into Mrs. Weasley's outstretched hand.

"We told you to destroy them!" said Mrs. Weasley furiously, holding up what were unmistakably Ton-Tongue Toffees(which make the tongue a foot-long). "We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!"

It was an unpleasant scene; the twins had evidently been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the house as possible, and it was only by using her Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley managed to find them all.

"Accio! Accio! Accio!" she shouted, and toffees zoomed from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining of George's jacket and the turn-ups of Fred's jeans.

"We spent six months developing those!" Fred shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away.

"Oh a fine way to spend six months!" she shrieked. "No wonder you didn't get more O.W.L.s!"

All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as they took their departure. Mrs. Weasley was still glowering as she kissed Mr. Weasley on the cheek, though not nearly as much as the twins, who had each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and walked out without a word to her.

"Well, have a lovely time," said Mrs. Weasley, "and behave your­selves," she called after the twins' retreating backs, but they did not look back or answer. "I'll send Bill, Charlie, and Percy along around midday," Mrs. Weasley said to Mr. Weasley. Then Mr Weasley, Chris, Ginny, Hermione, Ron and Harry set off across the dark yard after Fred and George.

It was chilly and the moon was still out. Only a dull, greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed that daybreak was drawing closer.

Chris walked to Fred and George.

"You shouldn't have tried to smuggle the toffees like that." Chris said.

"No need to lecture us Chris." George said gloomily.

"Mother always thinks, we'll be respectful enough if only we get a job in Minstry like her older stupid son Percy." Fred said angrily as he kicked a pebble.

"We don't want to be like him," an angry George said. "We're doing what we're good at. Is that a crime?"

"Of course not. I think you two are great Wizards." Chris said smiling. "I mean how many Wizards are here who can say they've invented something so unique just in their sixteen?"

"Agree." George said punching in the air.

"It's just you should've put the toffees in my bag. It would've an easy smuggle." Chris said grinning.

"Urgh. Right. Mom never had doubted you. Big mistake." Fred said. "Chris next time you're going to help us."

"You got it." Chris smiled as Fred and George high-fived with her. "Do you know how are we going to go there?"

"I think we're going to use a Portkey." George answered.

"What's a Portkey?" Chris asked curiously.

"It's like Apparating, but with a little help of a object." Fred explained. "They're objects that are used to transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time."

"They use some kind of objects which are useless to muggles." George said. "But I always thought there was no need to do that. I mean muggles are usually very stupid."

Chris glared at George, he hurriedly added, "Muggles like Durselys... as Fred was saying, dad said, the nearest Portkey to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that's where we're headed."

George pointed ahead of them, where a large black mass rose beyond the village of Ottery St. Catchpole.

They trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as they made their way through the village, its inky black­ness diluting to deepest blue. It was freezing cold.

"Fast! fast." Mr Weasley said as he and Harry crossed the Weasley twins and Chris. He checked his watch again and again as they began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tuffets of grass. Finally they reached the top.

"Whew," panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater. "Well, we've made good time — we've got ten minutes. …"

Everyone gathered around Mr Weasley.

"Now we just need the Portkey," said Mr. Weasley, replacing his glasses and squinting around at the ground. "It won't be big. … Come on …"

"So we've to find a useless, small thing?" Chris whispered.

"You guessed it right." Fred said smiling. "What do you reckon it'll be George?"

"A useless and small thing, I guess." George said.

Chris shook her head smiling and started searching the ground.

"Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we've got it!"

Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.

"Amos!" said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed.

Mr. Weasley was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand.

"This is Amos Diggory, everyone," said Mr. Weasley. "He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?"

Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around sev­enteen. He was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quid­ditch team at Hogwarts.

"Hi," said Cedric, looking around at them all.

Everyone said hi, Ginny and Hermione replied suppressing their grin. Chris just replied with a smile.

"Long walk, Arthur?" Cedric's father asked.

"Not too bad," said Mr. Weasley. "We live just on the other side of the village there. You?"

"Had to get up at two, didn't we, Ced? I tell you, I'll be glad when he's got his Apparition test. Still … not complaining … Quidditch World Cup, wouldn't miss it for a sackful of Gal­leons — and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy. …" Amos Diggory peered good-naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione, Ginny and Chris. "All these yours, Arthur?"

"Oh no, only the redheads," said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children. "This is Chris, friend of my daughter Ginny. That is Hermione Ron's friend — and Harry, an­other friend —"

"Merlin's beard," said Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. "Harry? Harry Potter?"

"Er — yeah," said Harry.

"Here we go again." Chris whispered seeing Amos Diggory's face.

Ginny, Fred and George chuckled.

"Ced's talked about you, of course," said Amos Diggory. "Told us all about playing against you last year. … I said to him, I said — Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will. … You beat Harry Potter!"

Hearing this Chris coughed intentionally.

Cedric looked slightly embarrassed.

"Harry fell off his broom, Dad," he muttered. "I told you … still they won the match..."

"Yes, but you didn't fall off, did you?" roared Amos genially, slap­ping his son on his back. "Always modest, our Ced, always the gen­tleman … but the best man won, I'm sure Harry'd say the same, wouldn't you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don't need to be a genius to tell which one's the better flier!"

Before anyone can react, Mr Weasley checked his watch again.

"Must be nearly time," said Mr. Weasley. "Do you know whether we're waiting for any more, Amos?"

"No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn't get tickets," said Mr. Diggory. "There aren't any more of us in this area, are there?"

"Not that I know of," said Mr. Weasley. "Yes, it's a minute off. … We'd better get ready. …"

He looked at Chris, Harry and Hermione.

"You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all, a finger will do —"

With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the nine of them crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory.

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They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke.

"Three …" muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, "two … one …"

It happened immediately: Chris felt as though a hook just be­hind her navel had been suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. Her feet left the ground; she could feel Fred and Ginny on either side of her, their shoulders banging into her; they were all speeding for­ward in a howl of wind and swirling color; her forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling her magnetically onward and then —

Her feet slammed into the ground; Ginny staggered into her and she fell on Fred; the Portkey hit the ground near her head with a heavy thud.

Chris looked up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric were still standing, though looking very windswept; everybody else was on the ground.

"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill," said a voice.

Chris, Ginny and Fred all were in critical condition, they disentangled themselves and got up.

"That was weird. Very weird." Chris muttered while getting up.

"True. I'm feeling sick," a pale Ginny said.

"It happens for first few times." Cedric Diggory said smiling.

Chris looked around and saw, they had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them 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.

"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; Chris peeked a little and saw an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.

"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 everyone to follow him.

They 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, Chris 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.

"See you." Cedric said to everyone.

"See you." Chris, Ginny, Hermione and Harry replied and approached the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Chris guessed at a glance that this was the only real Muggle for sev­eral acres. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.

"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 and his eyes traveled from Chris to Harry.

Chris went beside him, "Everything alright Mr Weasley?"

"Er... Chris.. help me." he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. "Your father taught me.. but I forgot... This one's a ... a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now. … So this is a five?"

"A twenty," Chris corrected him in an undertone, uncomfort­ably aware of Mr. Roberts trying to catch every word.

"Ah yes, so it is. … I don't know, these little bits of paper …"

"You foreign?" said Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley gave 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. …"

"Is that right?" said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn't give it to him.

"Aye," he said 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 a poncho."

"Shouldn't he?" said Mr. Weasley anxiously.

"It's like some sort of … I dunno … like some sort of rally," said Mr. Roberts. "They all seem to know each other. Like a big party."

At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next to Mr. Roberts's front door.

"Obliviate!" he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts.

Instantly, Mr. Roberts's eyes slid out of focus, his brows unknitted, and a look of dreamy unconcern fell over his face.

"A map of the campsite for you," Mr. Roberts said placidly to Mr. Weasley. "And your change."

"Thanks very much," said Mr. Weasley.

The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr. Roberts, he muttered 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."

"But didn't it effects his brain badly? I mean memory charm ten times a day! Its extreme." Chris said seriously.

The Wizard in Plus-fours looked at her carefully, like examining her, then said with smirk, "Yes it does effect his memory a bit. But we've a job to do. It's important to keep the Wizarding World a secret."

He Disapparated.

"I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports," said Ginny, looking surprised. "He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn't he?"

"He should," said Mr. Weasley, smiling, and leading them 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."

They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Chris could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several tur­rets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

"Always the same," said Mr. Weasley, smiling. "We can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us."

They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read WEEZLY.

"Couldn't have a better spot!" said Mr. Weasley happily. "The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we're as close as we could be." He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. "Right," he said 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, where do you reckon we should start?"

Harry looked very confused by this question. Only Hermione was looking a little bit confident. Chris went camping many times with her father. Her father taught her many things about outdoor living.

"It's easy Mr Weasley. Here." Chris put her bag down and helped the Weasleys to put up the tent. Hermione and Harry followed Chris's lead, though Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than a help, because he got thoroughly overexcited when it came to using the mallet, they finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.

All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to wizards.