After preparing breakfast for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mrs. Weasley hurriedly dashed upstairs to summon George, Fred, and Ginny. Then, following a muffled burst of arguing, a pale-faced Fred and George—who clearly hadn't gotten enough sleep—trudged downstairs with expressions of aggrieved indignation. Trailing behind them was an equally pale and sleep-deprived Ginny, alongside an irate Mrs. Weasley, who was clutching a large sack brimming with miscellaneous junk.
"No, Mum, that's the result of six whole months of research—you can't—" George (or possibly Fred) piped up, attempting to salvage their half-year's worth of hard work from their mother's grasp, while Fred (or possibly George) nodded vigorously in agreement beside him.
However, Fred and George's efforts clearly backfired.
"Six months! Six months spent on this—how splendid!" Mrs. Weasley shrieked. "No wonder your O.W.L.s results are such a disgrace!"
Evidently still fuming after uncovering George and Fred's "little secret," Mrs. Weasley hurled the sack of odds and ends into the kitchen rubbish bin. She then planted her hands on her hips and glared at her two wayward sons, scolding them fiercely. "I've told you before! Your job right now is to study properly! You'll have plenty of time to tinker with this nonsense after you graduate! The next time I catch you slacking off and wasting time on this sort of thing… you'll both be in for it!"
In short, the mood was far from cheerful as everyone prepared to set off. Mrs. Weasley's face remained taut even as she kissed her husband goodbye, while the Weasley twins were in an even fouler temper, slinging their canvas rucksacks over their shoulders and stalking off without a word.
The August night carried a faint chill as the group crossed the grassy terrain, following a winding path through the hills. A bright moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the landscape, while on the horizon to their right, a faint streak of grayish-green flickered in and out of sight.
Noticing that everyone except himself, Hermione, and Ron was starting to pant from the long uphill trek, Harry bent down to pick up a few stones from the roadside. With a flick of his wand, seven lightweight walking sticks materialized in his hands.
"Here, one for each of you—it'll make things easier," Harry said, distributing the sticks among the group.
"Nice Transfiguration, Harry," Mr. Weasley remarked, taking a walking stick and examining it closely. The stick felt metallic to the touch yet was far lighter than he'd expected.
George and Fred were similarly intrigued by the material of the walking sticks, while Ron and Ginny simply found them comfortable to use—questions of craftsmanship were the furthest thing from their minds.
With the aid of the walking sticks, the group's journey became noticeably less taxing.
After skirting around a village and trudging up and down the mountain path for quite some time, they finally reached the summit of a place called Stoat Hill.
"Whew, we've finally made it to the top," Mr. Weasley said, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. "Alright, everyone, spread out and start looking—the Portkey should be somewhere nearby."
"Portkey?" Harry raised his head, puzzled, once again encountering a gap in his wizarding knowledge. "What's a Portkey?"
Hermione, standing beside him, cast a curious glance as well.
"It's a magical object that can transport wizards from one place to another at a set time," Mr. Weasley explained, scanning their surroundings. "As for what it looks like, it's usually something shabby and unremarkable—things Muggles wouldn't bother picking up or messing with."
The seven of them split up to search the hilltop. After about ten minutes, Mr. Weasley found himself staring at a small pile of rubbish amassed before him—plastic wrappers, old newspapers, broken spectacles, a moldy old boot, a milk carton, a lighter, and other assorted debris—feeling utterly stumped.
All the junk from the hilltop was gathered here, but how were they supposed to figure out which one was the Portkey?
Just then, from the other side of the summit, a middle-aged man appeared with a boy of about sixteen or seventeen, stepping into view.
"Hey! Arthur!" called a ruddy-faced wizard with a short brown beard, waving at Mr. Weasley.
"Amos!" Mr. Weasley replied, grinning as he strode over to greet the man. The others followed suit.
The two men shook hands warmly, and then Mr. Weasley turned to introduce the wizard to the group behind him.
"This is Amos Diggory," Mr. Weasley said. "He works in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And this, I reckon, needs no introduction—Amos's son, Cedric. I'm sure you all know him?"
A strikingly handsome boy of about seventeen gave Harry and the others a shy smile.
"Hi, everyone," Cedric said.
As fellow Hogwarts students, they'd naturally crossed paths before—especially since Cedric was the Captain and Seeker of Hufflepuff's Quidditch team.
"That a long walk, Arthur?" Cedric's father asked.
"Not too bad," Mr. Weasley replied. "We live just over on the other side of the village—an hour's walk, give or take. You lot, though—I seem to recall your place is quite a ways off?"
"Up at two in the morning, weren't we, Ced?" Amos Diggory said, clapping his son on the shoulder. "I'll be honest, I can't wait for him to pass his Apparition test. Still, no complaints—it's the Quidditch World Cup, after all! Can't miss that, even if it costs a sack of Galleons. Well, truth be told, I did spend about that much on the tickets, but I managed alright—not too steep a price."
Amos Diggory beamed kindly at the four Weasley children, Harry, and Hermione. "All yours, Arthur?"
"Oh, no, just the redheads," Mr. Weasley said, pointing them out one by one. "This is Ginny, Fred, George, and beside them are Ron's friends, Hermione and Harry."
"Good heavens," Amos Diggory's eyes widened dramatically. "Harry? Harry Potter?"
Harry nodded, by now somewhat accustomed to the shock and curiosity his name—and the scar on his forehead—elicited from people meeting him for the first time. It still irked him a bit, feeling like a rare creature on display, but he couldn't exactly control where other people's eyes wandered.
"Ced's mentioned you," Amos Diggory said. "Second in your year three years running—what a shame you couldn't nab first like our Ced here. Pity you didn't join Gryffindor's Quidditch team—you and Ced could've swapped pointers. Maybe he could've taught you a trick or two about flying. Ced's brilliant on a broom, after all…"
Fred and George both frowned, while Cedric looked faintly embarrassed. Harry, meanwhile, suddenly sensed a growing pulse of magical energy emanating from the pile of rubbish. Intrigued, he stepped closer to investigate.
"Harry doesn't need anyone teaching him how to ride a broom!" Hermione declared loudly, stepping forward. "He's amazing at flying—right, Ron?"
"Er, yeah, absolutely," Ron agreed, his mind flashing back to Harry's performance on the Quidditch pitch. Amazing didn't even cover it—the bloke could've gone straight to the national team! Too bad Harry didn't have much interest in Quidditch.
"Oh, sure, Harry might be a decent flyer," Amos said amiably, clapping Cedric's back again, "but being good in the air's one thing—games aren't just casual jaunts, are they? Our Ced's so modest, though—always a gentleman, top of his year every time, Quidditch Captain and Seeker, and never one to boast…"
"Is being top of the year really that impressive?" Hermione muttered under her breath with a scoff.
"Say, Amos," Mr. Weasley interjected, steering the conversation away from the Harry-Cedric comparison, "do you know what our Portkey looks like?"
"The Portkey? Hang on, let me check," Mr. Diggory said, rummaging through his satchel for a scrap of paper listing the Portkeys in the area. "Aha, got it—let's see… here we are! The Stoat Hill Portkey's an old boot," he announced, folding the paper shut.
"Is this it?" Harry asked, holding up a moldy-looking old boot he'd picked up while Mr. Diggory had been searching.
"Time's nearly up," Mr. Weasley said, pulling out his pocket watch again. "Do we need to wait for anyone else, Amos?"
"Nope. The Lovegoods got there a week ago, and the Fawcetts couldn't snag tickets," Mr. Diggory replied. "No one else from this area, far as I know?"
"Not that I'm aware of," Mr. Weasley said, glancing at his watch once more. "Right, two minutes left… we'd better get into position…"
After everyone except Harry and Hermione—who stood frozen, unsure what to do—gathered around the old boot Mr. Diggory held aloft, Mr. Weasley turned to them belatedly. "Come on, step into the circle! Just touch the Portkey with a finger, like the rest of us…"
And so, in the pre-dawn chill atop the hill, an odd scene unfolded: one man hoisting an old boot high, eight others crowded tightly around it, each extending a single finger to touch the weathered leather. It looked uncannily like some bizarre religious ritual.
Harry couldn't help but recall Percy's report on emerging cults. If anyone stumbled across this spectacle right now, would it spawn some sort of Old Boot Sect?
"Three," Mr. Weasley muttered, one eye on his watch, "two… one—"
Before Harry could blink, it felt as though an invisible hook had yanked him forward from behind his navel with irresistible force. His feet left the ground, and he was airborne. He could feel Ron and Hermione on either side, their shoulders bumping against his as they hurtled forward like a gust of wind, vision blurred beyond recognition. His index finger clung to the boot as if magnetized, pulling him along, pulling, pulling—until—
Harry's feet slammed back onto solid ground. Beside him, Ron wobbled, barely keeping his balance, while Hermione gripped Harry's shoulders tightly with both hands.
Then, with a soft thud, the Portkey dropped to the grass by Harry's feet.
Lifting his head, Harry found himself standing in a vast, desolate, fog-shrouded marsh. Apart from him, Ron, and Hermione, only Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric remained upright—though all three looked disheveled, hair whipped wild by the wind. George, Fred, and Ginny, meanwhile, were scrambling to their feet from the ground.
"Seven minutes past five, from Stoat Hill," a weary, dour-faced wizard announced, clutching a large golden watch. Beside him stood another equally exhausted wizard, scribbling furiously on a thick roll of parchment with a quill.
Both were dressed in an attempt at Muggle attire, though the effort was comically mismatched: one sported a British-style top half paired with South American trousers, while the other had the reverse. The complementary absurdity made Harry wonder if they'd swapped clothes by mistake in the morning rush.
"Morning, Basil, Darke," Mr. Weasley greeted with a smile, bending down to retrieve the boot from the ground and handing it over. One of the wizards took it and tossed it into a large crate nearby. Peering inside, Harry spotted an old newspaper, an empty tin can, and a battered football alongside the freshly discarded boot.
"Morning, Arthur," the slightly more alert of the two wizards replied, while the other merely nodded, his face etched with fatigue.
"No shift for you—lucky sod," the first continued. "We've been here all night… Anyway, you lot better clear out quick—quarter past five, there's a big group due in from the Black Forest… Oh, hang on, let me find your campsite. Weasley… Weasley…" He scanned the parchment rapidly, then frowned, preparing to flip through it again.
"We're with Sirius Black," Harry piped up helpfully.
"Oh, Black! Why didn't you say so sooner?" the wizard exclaimed, pulling a second roll of parchment from his pocket and locating their details in an instant. "You're in the second campsite—about a quarter mile that way. Groundskeeper's a Mr. Roberts. Diggory, you're with Mr. Payne…"
"Thanks, Basil," Mr. Weasley said, leading Harry and the others in the direction the wizard had pointed. They trudged through the mist for a while until a stone-built cottage came into view.
Mr. Roberts, a balding, redheaded Englishman much like Mr. Weasley, greeted them. Since Sirius had already paid the camping fees in advance, they simply gave their names, collected a map from Mr. Roberts, and headed into the campsite.
"I wonder what kind of tent Sirius set up for us," Ron said excitedly. "I've heard the newest ones even have lawns inside!" Magical tents weren't cheap—his family only owned one, and it was over a decade old.
"A lawn inside a tent?" Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, mutual bewilderment reflected in their eyes.
Soon, after passing rows of tents—some mundane, others delightfully bizarre—they arrived at a tent near the center of the grounds, adorned with fiery red Gryffindor patterns. At its entrance, a man in a gray trench coat crouched over a makeshift earthen stove, attempting to ignite a pile of twigs using a method he'd once learned from the Grangers.
"Hey! Sirius!" Harry called out, spotting his godfather and breaking into a run.
At the sound of Harry's voice, Sirius leapt up with a grin, opening his arms wide to envelop Harry in a hearty hug.
After exchanging greetings with the group, Sirius gestured proudly at the tent behind him. "Well? What do you think? Custom Gryffindor-style tent—I had it made special just recently!"
"Must've cost a pretty penny," Mr. Weasley remarked, eyeing the pristine tent.
"Cost? Who cares about that? We're here to have fun—that's what matters!" Sirius waved off the concern with a carefree flick of his hand. Then, lifting the tent flap, he added, "Come on in and rest up—you all look knackered."
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