Harry had a restless night, partly because he couldn't shake off the topic they had discussed the previous evening. Although he knew he couldn't guess what Voldemort was up to, he couldn't help but let his imagination run wild. The other reason for his sleeplessness was Ron, who also seemed to have trouble sleeping.
Perhaps due to his excitement about the World Cup, Ron kept tossing and turning in bed, causing his iron bed frame to creak and squeak, keeping Harry awake.
It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the noise subsided, but then Harry started dreaming again. This time, the dream was nothing out of the ordinary and had nothing to do with Voldemort; instead, it was a jumble of random events.
First, he dreamed that he had returned to Hogwarts, where Professor McGonagall was very displeased with the quality of his summer homework. She threatened to make him clean the bathrooms for an entire year unless he could ensure Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup for the next few years.
As Harry was arguing with Professor McGonagall, the scene suddenly shifted, and he found himself on a huge Quidditch pitch. The grass beneath his feet was a vibrant emerald green, trimmed to perfection. Towering stands surrounded the pitch, their colorful banners whipping in the breeze. The air was electric with excitement, filled with the chatter and cheers of thousands of spectators.
Harry looked down to find himself dressed in the crisp white and red uniform of the England National Quidditch team. As he mounted his broom, ready to kick off, Harry's eyes scanned the crowd. He spotted familiar faces from Hogwarts scattered throughout the stands - Dean and Seamus waving a giant English flag, Luna wearing her characteristic lion-head hat, and even Snape, looking as sour as ever in the teachers' section. But it was one face in particular that caught Harry's attention. Cho Chang, her long black hair rippling in the wind, was leaning over the railing of the nearest stand. Her dark eyes locked with Harry's, and he felt his heart skip a beat. Then, clear as a bell despite the roar of the crowd, he heard her voice:
"If you win the match, I'll go on a date with you, Harry. Otherwise, I'll go with Cedric!"
"That's not fair!" Harry shouted angrily. He was about to protest to Cho, frustrated that Cedric could easily get a date with her while he had to win a match. But as he jumped off his Firebolt, instead of landing on the grass, he crashed onto the floor of Ron's cramped bedroom.
Outside the window, the world was shrouded in the inky blackness of early morning. The room itself was dim, illuminated only by a thin sliver of light seeping through the crack beneath the door. As Harry's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out the familiar shapes of Ron's cluttered room - posters of the Chudley Cannons Quidditch team barely visible on the walls, stacks of comic books wobbling precariously on the nightstand, and Ron's snoring form still sprawled across his bed.
The sound of soft footsteps approaching drew Harry's attention to the door. It creaked open slowly, revealing Mrs. Weasley's kind face peering into the room. Her eyes widened slightly as she noticed Harry on the floor.
"Having a nightmare, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice gentle and motherly. She took a step into the room, the floorboards groaning softly under her weight.
From his bed, Ron stirred at the sound of his mother's voice. "What's not fair?" he mumbled groggily, his words slurred with sleep. He yawned widely, completely oblivious to the fact that his restless tossing and turning had kept Harry awake for most of the night.
Harry felt a rush of heat creep up his neck and into his cheeks as he recalled the details of his dream. The thought of explaining why he had been shouting about fairness - especially the part about Cho - was mortifying. He silently thanked the darkness of the room for hiding his burning face.
"Oh, I dreamed I was in Potions class—" Harry lied quickly, grasping for a plausible explanation. His mind raced, piecing together a story that would satisfy Ron and Mrs. Weasley without revealing the embarrassing truth. "Snape was making me clean the classroom all by myself," he added, hoping the details would make the lie more convincing.
Ron, still half-asleep, latched onto this explanation with unexpected enthusiasm. "Oh, you should've punched him right in the nose, don't hold back, Harry," he said, his voice growing clearer as he woke up more fully. "Smash it like Dumbledore's—"
"Don't talk about Dumbledore like that," Mrs. Weasley interrupted sharply, her tone carrying a note of disapproval. She shook her head slightly, then seemed to remember why she had come in the first place. "Hurry up, Ron," she urged, her voice taking on a more businesslike tone. "Your father's already waiting downstairs!"
With that, Mrs. Weasley bustled out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway as she went to each room to wake everyone up, constantly urging them to get ready quickly.
Despite Mrs. Weasley's efforts, it still took nearly half an hour for everyone to dress, freshen up, and gather in the living room. The air was thick with the mingled scents of soap, toothpaste, and the faint mustiness of sleep-warm bodies. Yawns punctuated the shuffling of feet and the rustle of clothes as the hazy-eyed group assembled.
Mrs. Weasley, looking stressed but determined, swept into the room with a canvas bag in her hands. "No time for breakfast, Arthur," she said, tossing the bag to her husband. Mr. Weasley caught it with a slight fumble, looking both grateful and apologetic. Mrs. Weasley leaned in to plant a hasty kiss on his cheek. "Remember to get something for the children to eat when you get there," she added, her eyes scanning the group to ensure everyone was present.
As they marched out of the house into the pre-dawn earth, the chill of the early morning air hit them like a physical force. It was a shock to the system after the warmth of the Burrow, causing involuntary shivers and prompting several of the children to pull their jackets tighter around themselves. The moon, a pale silver disk, still hung high in the sky, casting an ethereal light over the landscape. Only to their right, a faint gray-green tinge on the horizon indicated the approaching dawn.
The youngsters were all too sleepy to talk, with only Mr. Weasley and Sirius leading the way, chatting at the front.
"--Ludo got me the tickets," Mr. Weasley was saying, his breath visible in the cool air. "He's been in a foul mood these past couple of months, probably due to the stress of organizing the World Cup. It's only been these past few days that he's started to seem more like himself." Mr. Weasley paused to navigate a particularly tricky part of the path, his wand providing a faint light to guide his steps. "Honestly, I think he should take a few days off, as long as he doesn't go missing too."
Sirius, who had been silent up to this point, perked up at the mention of someone going missing. "Who went missing?" he asked, curiosity evident in his voice. Despite his years away from the wizarding world, Sirius still had a keen interest in the goings-on at the Ministry. "Did someone from the Ministry disappear?"
Mr. Weasley nodded; his expression serious even in the dim wandlight. "Someone from Ludo's department," he explained, slightly out of breath as they began to climb a steeper section of the path. "You should know her, Sirius, given your age. It's Bertha Jorkins."
At the mention of the name, Sirius's brow furrowed in concentration, as if trying to place a face to the name. Mr. Weasley continued, "She requested leave from the Ministry to go on holiday in Albania, and there's been no word from her for over a month now."
Sirius's eyes widened in recognition. "I do know her—" he said slowly, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and concern. He was silent for a moment, lost in thought as he went through memories from what felt like a lifetime ago. "Yes, she was a bit scatterbrained," he finally said, "but had a remarkable memory for gossip. She was also keen on prying into others' private affairs and spreading rumors."
A wry smile crossed Sirius's face as he added, "I guess you lot wouldn't have liked her much, but hasn't the Ministry sent anyone to look for her? Albania isn't exactly the safest place."
"I think I've heard that name before--" Harry suddenly frowned, "but I can't remember where."
Mr. Weasley glanced back at Harry, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe Percy mentioned her when he was talking about old Barty," he suggested casually. "Bertha used to work for Barty, but was later transferred to work under Ludo. It's not surprising; she's changed departments quite a few times over the years, never staying in one place for too long."
As Sirius and Remus moved on to other topics, their voices fading into the background of Harry's thoughts, as he continued to ponder the mystery of where he'd heard Bertha Jorkins' name. He was certain he hadn't heard it from Percy, but he just couldn't place where. Yet, his instincts kept pushing him to ponder this question.
Climbing a mountain at night wasn't exactly a pleasant activity. Their feet were constantly tripping over hidden rabbit holes or slipping on dark, slimy leaves. Mr. Weasley and Sirius soon ran out of breath for talking and focused on navigating the path ahead.
In contrast, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins maintained steady breathing and a stable pace, unconsciously pulling ahead of the others. By the time Harry stood at the mountaintop gazing at the dawn, Mr. Weasley and the others were still several hundred feet behind.
"Oh, my goodness, children, you've really surprised me," Mr. Weasley said, panting as he wiped the fog from his glasses after finally reaching the summit. "Have you had professional mountain climbing training?"
Sirius, who was bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, managed a wry smile. "It's Bryan's physical education class—" he explained, straightening up and wiping sweat from his brow. "These kids have been receiving physical training from Bryan all along."
"Oh, is that so!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed, clearly surprised. But then he noticed that his youngest son, Ron, seemed equally out of breath.
"What's the matter with you, Ron?" Mr. Weasley asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and mild disappointment. "You haven't been skipping this class regularly, have you?"
Ron's face, already red from exertion, deepened to a shade that rivaled his hair. He lowered his head, unable to meet his father's questioning gaze. "No, Dad," he mumbled, scuffing his shoe against the rocky ground.
"I don't think you'd dare skip Bryan's classes," Mr. Weasley chuckled. "Then you should step up your training."
Apart from Mr. Weasley, everyone else knew that Ron had long since given up on this class, but no one wanted to tell Mr. Weasley the truth to spare Ron the embarrassment.
Harry had expected to run into his Hogwarts classmates at the World Cup, but he hadn't anticipated meeting someone before even setting off. To make matters worse, it was someone he wasn't particularly eager to see at the moment.
It was Cedric, along with his father.
Initially, Harry had been curious about Cedric's father, as his first name was same as Professor Watson's middle name. However, when this colleague of Mr. Weasley's, a red-faced wizard with a short brown beard, started talking to him, Harry's mood soured.
Mr. Diggory was particularly keen on boasting about Cedric's excellence. He brought up the Quidditch match from last term that Harry had lost due to the Dementors, as well as Cedric's outstanding performance in Professor Watson's physical education class. But everyone knew the truth: if the Dementors hadn't interfered in that match, the outcome could have gone either way. As for Professor Watson's class, while Cedric's training results were indeed excellent, he was also the oldest, giving him a big advantage.
They left Stoatshead Hill behind, making their way through the misty morning towards their destination.
As they approached the Portkey - an old, worn-out boot lying inconspicuously in a small clearing - Harry felt a flutter of nervous anticipation in his stomach. This would be his first time using a Portkey, and he wasn't quite sure what to expect.
"Right then," Mr. Weasley said, clapping his hands together. "Everyone gather 'round and place a finger on the boot. Make sure you're touching it when the time comes."
Harry approached the boot with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He'd never traveled by Portkey before, and the idea of being whisked away by touching an old shoe seemed both ridiculous and slightly unnerving.
As he placed his finger on the boot, joining the circle of people around it, Harry felt a sudden jolt of anticipation. The world around them seemed to hold its breath for a moment, and then—
It happened in an instant. Harry felt as if a giant hook had suddenly latched onto his navel, yanking him forward with incredible force. His feet left the ground, and the world became a whirling kaleidoscope of color and sound. Wind roared in his ears, drowning out any attempts at speech. He was vaguely aware of the others spinning alongside him, their bodies just blurs in the chaotic vortex.
Just when Harry thought he couldn't take any more, the dizzying journey that tried to empty the contents of his stomach, stopped. His feet slammed into solid ground with jarring force, sending him stumbling forward. Only his quick reflexes, honed by years of playing Quidditch and PE class, kept him from falling flat on his face.
As Harry regained his balance, blinking to clear the spots from his vision, he became aware of their new surroundings. They had arrived in what appeared to be a misty marshland. The ground beneath their feet was spongy and damp, giving slightly with each step. A thick fog hung in the air, obscuring anything more than a few feet away.
"Everyone alright?" Mr. Weasley's voice came through the mist, sounding slightly breathless but cheerful. "All limbs accounted for?"
There was a chorus of groans and muttered affirmations as the group took stock of themselves. Harry noticed that he wasn't the only one looking a bit green around the gills. Ron, in particular, seemed to be having a hard time staying upright.
"Blimey," Ron muttered, swaying slightly. "Is it always like that?"
"More or less," Mr. Weasley replied, helping Ginny to her feet. "You get used to it after a while."
As they began to move through the mist, following Mr. Weasley's lead, Harry found himself pondering his previous experiences with wizarding transportation methods. There had been the heart-stopping, gut-wrenching sensation of Apparition with Professor Watson - a feeling akin to being squeezed through a very tight rubber tube. Then there was the dizzying, sooty journey through the Floo network at the Burrow, which had left him disoriented and covered in ash. And of course, he couldn't forget his two hair-raising rides on the Knight Bus, with its breakneck speeds and erratic movements that had nearly sent him flying out of his seat more than once.
"I think I prefer flying," Harry muttered to himself, earning a nod of agreement from Ron.
It wasn't until they parted ways with Cedric's family and entered the misty marshland that Harry's mood began to lift.
As they trudged through the misty landscape, the fog began to thin, revealing glimpses of their destination. Slowly, like a curtain being drawn back, the spectator campsite came into view. As they stood there, taking in the magnificent sight, everyone's breath seemed to catch in their throats. Even the usually talkative Weasley twins were struck momentarily speechless.
Mr. Weasley, however, seemed to have been anticipating this reaction. His face split into a wide grin, a hint of pride twinkling in his eyes. He spread his arms wide, as if presenting the scene before them like a ringmaster introducing the main act of a circus.
"Well, children," he said, his voice brimming with pride and excitement, "welcome to the fruits of half a year's labor by the Ministry of Magic!"
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