Sherlock discovered that the destination they'd reached via the Portkey resembled a vast, desolate marshland.
Dense fog hung like heavy white gauze, permeating every inch of space. The humid air carried the scent of soil and rotting vegetation, bringing with it a bone-chilling coldness as it swept toward them.
Not far ahead stood two wizards, their faces haggard with exhaustion, expressions as gloomy as if water might drip from them.
One clutched a large gold watch, its face reflecting a faint glow in the mist.
The other held a thick roll of parchment, gripping a quill pen with its tip suspended above the page, seemingly ready to record at any moment.
The earlier remark "Six-oh-eight, from the Ministry of Magic" had come from the man with the gold watch, his voice thick with weariness.
It was clear both men had attempted to dress as Muggles, but unfortunately the effect was neither here nor there, making them look particularly comical:
The man with the watch wore a coarse printed suit jacket on top—decent fabric by the look of it—but below he sported a pair of thigh-high rubber galoshes with mud spatters along the edges.
The one with the parchment and quill wasn't much better. He wore a Scottish-style pleated kilt, the hem hanging loosely, covered by a brightly colored South American poncho that fluttered wildly in the wind.
"Good morning, Basil."
As Perkins spoke, he picked up the boot and handed it to the wizard in the kilt.
The man took the boot and casually tossed it into a large open box beside him—filled with used Portkeys.
Sherlock's glance immediately spotted old newspapers, crushed soda cans, a worn soccer ball...
What these items had in common was that they were all everyday objects, each one broken and old, the type that wouldn't warrant a second glance if dropped on the ground.
"Not good at all, Arnold."
Basil said listlessly, rubbing his tired eyes:
"We've been standing guard here all night. You'd better move aside.
According to the plan, a large group will be arriving from the Black Forest at quarter past six.
Wait, give me your names so I can find where your campsite is..."
"No need, Basil," Perkins said with a smile and a wave of his hand. "They're guests of Minister Fudge. I'll take them there personally."
"The Minister's guests?"
At these words, both wizards showed surprise, their eyes instantly widening.
Their gazes swept across the group, easily noticing the exceptionally handsome Sirius.
Even in an ordinary coat, he couldn't hide his rebellious air.
Then they spotted Harry, and both wizards gasped sharply, eyes growing round:
"Sirius Black!"
"And Harry Potter!"
Having entered the wizarding world for his fourth year now, Harry had grown accustomed to people staring at him curiously when first meeting him.
Of course, he was also used to them immediately shifting their gaze to the scar on his forehead.
But even so, whenever this happened, it still made him feel quite uncomfortable.
Sirius appeared completely unconcerned.
"Let's go, didn't you say another large batch is about to arrive?"
"Wait!"
Ginny called out hastily, "Could you help us find where the Weasley family's campsite is?"
"Weasley?"
Basil looked at the four red-headed young wizards—Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny—and immediately understood:
"You're Arthur's children, aren't you? He's not on duty? Sigh, some people have all the luck..."
He complained a bit, then lowered his head, his finger sliding quickly across the parchment, searching for the name:
"Weasley... Weasley... found it!
Go about a quarter mile along this path, and you'll reach the first field up ahead. The campsite manager is Mr. Roberts."
Hearing Basil's words, Perkins turned to Sirius with a smile:
"What a coincidence, the campsite the Ministry arranged for you is also in this area."
"Not a coincidence at all."
Sherlock shook his head, his tone certain. "This is completely intentional."
At his words, everyone realized—this was obviously deliberately arranged because of Harry and Sirius's identities.
They looked at the two men with newfound admiration.
Next, the group followed Perkins through the uninhabited marshland.
The thick fog was like undiluted milk, blurring all the surrounding scenery into a mass. Visibility was extremely low, and the muddy ground underfoot was slippery and difficult to traverse, requiring careful steps.
After about twenty minutes, the fog lifted slightly, and they gradually saw a crude wooden gate appear before them, behind which stood a low stone cottage.
Harry's static vision was the worst in the group. He squinted, barely able to make out that behind the stone cottage were hundreds and thousands of oddly shaped tents.
Some resembled upturned teapots, others colorful mushrooms, and still others curled-up animals.
These tents extended up the gentle slope of the vast field, spreading all the way to the edge of the dark forest on the horizon.
Sherlock's eyesight was much better. With just one glance, he'd taken in the entire layout, his gaze briefly pausing on the distribution of several tents and pathways before comprehending everything.
When they reached the gate, they found a man standing there with his back to them, staring absently at the tents.
He wore an ordinary jacket and jeans, his frame thin. Sherlock, Harry, and Hermione—the three Muggle-born wizards—immediately recognized he was the only real Muggle in this entire area.
The man heard their footsteps and immediately turned around, his face showing wariness and confusion.
"Good morning, you're Mr. Roberts, aren't you?"
"That's right, and who are you?" Mr. Roberts's voice carried a thick local accent.
"I'm Perkins. I reserved two tents for Mr. Black. I need you to tell me where they are?"
"Let me see..."
Mr. Roberts said, consulting a chart posted on the door. "Ah, already paid for. Just go straight along this path, turn right at the second intersection, and you'll see them."
"Thanks, let's go!"
"Excuse me, has a Mr. Weasley been here?" Harry asked.
"Weasley, doesn't ring a bell... Let me check again..."
He looked at the chart once more. "Ah, Mr. Weasley did indeed reserve two tents two days ago, but he hasn't paid. Now there's only a spot by the forest over there. Are you planning to pay and go now?"
"Looks like Dad hasn't arrived yet."
Ron sounded somewhat disappointed.
Fred shrugged nonchalantly. "I bet he'll definitely Apparate here with Bill and Charlie."
"Yeah, he's completely forgotten about us," George joked along.
Just then, a familiar voice called out, "Hey, kids, wait for me!"
"It's Dad!"
Ron and Ginny cried out in delight.
Several of them turned to look and saw Mr. Weasley running frantically from the direction they'd come, his red hair particularly conspicuous in the fog.
He ran up to the group, bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath, saying brokenly:
"I was going to... going to Apparate with Bill and the others... then suddenly remembered... you'd come ahead by Portkey..."
"Arthur!"
Sirius suddenly interrupted Mr. Weasley, giving him a meaningful look.
Mr. Weasley looked at Sirius in confusion, but when he followed his gaze toward Mr. Roberts, he immediately understood.
Oh no, he's a Muggle!
"Ah... ah, I just woke up, I'm talking nonsense, don't mind me. So what's the situation now?"
"Now we just need Dad to pay," Fred said with a smile.
"Thank goodness you arrived in time, so we won't be left without a place to go," George said.
"Not at all, we have plenty of room on our end," Sirius said, greeting Mr. Weasley.
Perkins also laughed. "How have you been, Arthur?"
"Ah, Arnold, you brought them over, that's wonderful!"
"I say, are you going to pay or not?"
Mr. Roberts said somewhat impatiently.
"Ah—yes—no problem—I'll pay right now!"
Mr. Weasley stepped back a few paces away from the stone cottage, signaling Harry to come to him.
"Help me, Harry."
He said in a low voice, pulling out a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and separating the bills one by one:
"This one is—um—um—ten pounds?
Oh right, I see the little number printed on it... so this one is five?"
"It's twenty."
Harry corrected him quietly, feeling uneasy.
Because he noticed Mr. Roberts was straining to hear every word they said.
"Ah, I see... I didn't know, these little paper things..."
"Are you a foreigner?"
Mr. Roberts asked when Mr. Weasley returned with the correct bills.
"Foreigner?"
Mr. Weasley repeated, puzzled.
"You're not the only one who can't figure out the money."
Mr. Roberts said while carefully examining Mr. Weasley. "Just ten minutes ago, two people tried to pay me with gold coins as big as hubcaps."
"Ha~"
Hermione and Ginny laughed simultaneously.
"Really?"
Mr. Weasley appeared somewhat uneasy.
Mr. Roberts fumbled for change in a tin can while saying slowly, "I've never seen so many people—hundreds have reserved tents."
"Is... is there something wrong with that?"
Mr. Weasley hadn't yet realized the problem, reaching out for the change, but Mr. Roberts didn't give it to him.
Mr. Roberts looked at Mr. Weasley thoughtfully:
"I've seen countless foreigners today, from all over the place.
And not just foreigners, but strange people too, you know?
One fellow was even walking around in a pleated kilt and a South American poncho."
Everyone immediately knew he was talking about the Ministry worker Basil they'd just met.
Mr. Weasley clearly still hadn't grasped the issue, asking urgently:
"Ah... is that not acceptable?"
Come to think of it, he'd actually planned to dress that way when leaving home today, but ultimately gave up.
But seeing this Muggle's reaction, it seemed to be a big problem.
"It's like... I don't know how to describe it... or maybe like playing some kind of trick?"
Mr. Roberts mused aloud. "Those people seem to be here for some big gathering, they all know each other, and they..."
Before he could finish, a man suddenly dropped from the sky, landing by the door of Mr. Roberts's cottage.
He wore pantaloons, clearly a wizard at a glance.
"Obliviate!"
After landing, he wasted no words, pointing his wand directly at Mr. Roberts and shouting.
The next moment, Mr. Roberts, who had just been discussing with them, had vacant eyes and relaxed brows.
His face showed a vague, indifferent expression toward everything.
This was exactly how someone looked when their memory had been modified.
The spell the wizard had cast was precisely the Memory Charm that Gilderoy Lockhart excelled at.
"Here's the map of your campsite," Mr. Roberts said calmly to Perkins and Mr. Weasley, then turned specifically to Mr. Weasley, "and your change."
"Thank you very much."
Mr. Weasley quickly accepted the change.
The wizard in pantaloons accompanied them toward the campsite gate.
He looked extremely tired: his chin was unshaven and bluish, with purplish shadows under his eyes.
Only when Mr. Roberts could no longer hear them did the wizard complain quietly to Mr. Weasley and Perkins:
"He's caused me no end of trouble—to keep him happy, I have to cast the Memory Charm at least ten times a day.
Damn Ludo Bagman only makes things worse, walking around everywhere, talking loudly about Bludgers and Quaffles.
He has no sense of security at all, completely disregarding the need to be cautious around Muggles.
Bloody hell, I can't wait for this to be over.
Well, I won't keep you. See you later, Arthur, Arnold."
Having said this, he Disapparated right before their eyes.
"Bagman is the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, right, Arthur?"
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "He should know very well not to discuss Bludgers around Muggles."
"That's true, but..."
Perkins shook his head. "Arthur, you'd better explain."
Mr. Weasley laughed:
"Well... how should I put it, Ludo has always been somewhat careless about security.
But we couldn't find anyone more passionate to lead the Department of Games and Sports.
You should know, he used to play Quidditch for England, and was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had."
"The Ministry is truly full of talented people."
Sherlock remarked as such, and Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, unable to suppress their amusement.
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