Right Now Could Last Forever

I disentangled myself from George and got to my feet. We had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of us were a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom as 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; I could see 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 Mr Roberts. Diggory... second field... ask for Mr Payne.”

“Thanks, Basil,” said Mr Weasley, and he beckoned 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 swam into view. Beyond it, I could just make out the 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 said goodbye to the Diggorys, and approached the cottage door.

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

“Morning!” said Mr Weasley brightly.

“Morning,” said the Muggle.

“Would you be Mr Roberts?”

“Aye, I would,” said Roberts. “And who’re you?”

“Weasley – two tents, booked a couple of days ago?”

“Aye,” said Roberts, consulting a list tacked ot 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 Roberts.

“Ah – right – certainly –“ said Mr Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry and I over. “Help me,” he muttered, pulling out a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. “This one’s a – a – a ten? A yes, I see the little number on it now.. so this is a five?”

“A twenty,” Harry and I corrected him in an undertone; I was 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 Roberts, as Mr Weasley returned with the correct notes.

“Foreign?” repeated Mr Weasley, puzzled.

“You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money,” said 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?” said Mr Weasley nervously.

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 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 around 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 Roberts. “They all seem to know each other. Like a big party.”

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

“Obliviate!” he said sharply, pointing his wand at Roberts.

Instantly his eyes slid out of focus, his brows unknitted and a look of dreamy unconcern fell over his face. I recognised the symptoms of one who had just had their memory modified.

“A map of the campsite for you,” Mr Robert said placidly to Mr Weasley. “And your change.”

“Thanks very much,” said Mr Weasley.

The wizard in plus-fours accompanied us towards the gate of the campsite. He looked exhausted; his chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out fo earshot of 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.”

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 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 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 bell-pulls, or weather-vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that I 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 further on we passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond was a tent which 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.”

We 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 pitch 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, Hermione and I worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr Weasley was more of a hindrance than a help, because he got thoroughly over-excited when it came to using the mallet, we finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.

All of us stood back to admire our handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to wizards, I thought, but the trouble was that once Bill, Charlie and Percy arrived, we would be a party of ten. Hermione seemed to have spotted this problem, too; she gave me a quizzical look as Mr Weasley dropped to his hands and knees and entered the first tent.

“We’ll be a bit cramped,” he called, “but I think we’ll all squeeze in. Come and have a look.”

I bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt my jaw drop. I had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three-roomed flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen.

“Well, it’s not for long,” said Mr Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. “I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.”

He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. “We’ll need water...”

“There’s a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us,” said Ron, who had followed me inside the tent, and seemed completely unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. “It’s on the other side of the field.”

“Well, why don’t you two, Harry and Hermione go and get us some water then –“ Mr Weasley handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans, “- and the rest of us will get some wood for fire.”

“But we’ve got an oven,” said Ron, “why can’t we just-?”

“Ron, anti-Muggle security!” said Mr Weasley, his face shining with anticipation. “When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors, I’ve seen them at it!”

After a quick tour of the girls’ tent, which was slightly smaller than the boys’, though without the smell of cats. Harry, Hermione, Ron and I set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.