Harry Potter 04 - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

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.’
    Harry bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt his jaw drop. He had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three-roomed flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs Figg’s; there were crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs, and a strong smell of cats.
    ‘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 any more, 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 Harry 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, 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 a 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, Ron and Hermione set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.
    Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; he had never really thought much about those in other countries.
    Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; Harry had never seen witches and wizards this young before. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.
    ‘ How many times, Kevin? You don’t – touch – Daddy’s – wand – yeuch!’
    She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy’s yells – ‘You bust slug! You bust slug!’
    A short way further on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks which rose only high enough for the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron and Hermione, he muttered distractedly, ‘In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose –’
    Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn’t work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents which read: The Salem Witches’ Institute. Harry caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn’t understand a single word, the tone of every single voice was excited.
    ‘Er – is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?’ said Ron.
    It wasn’t just Ron’s eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those which had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.
    ‘Harry! Ron! Hermione!’
    It was Seamus Finnigan, their fellow Gryffindor fourth-year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired