Harry Potter 04 - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

when they finally got back to the Weasleys’ tents.
    ‘Met a few people,’ said Ron, setting the water down. ‘You not got that fire started yet?’
    ‘Dad’s having fun with the matches,’ said Fred.
    Mr Weasley was having no success at all in lighting the fire, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Splintered matches littered the ground around him, but he looked as though he was having the time of his life.
    ‘Oops!’ he said, as he managed to light a match, and promptly dropped it in surprise.
    ‘Come here, Mr Weasley,’ said Hermione kindly, taking the box from him, and starting to show him how to do it properly.
    At last, they got the fire lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the pitch, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for Harry and Hermione’s benefit; his own children knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested.
    ‘That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office … here comes Gilbert Wimple, he’s with the Committee on Experimental Charms, he’s had those horns for a while now … Hello, Arnie … Arnold Peasegood, he’s an Obliviator – member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know … and that’s Bode and Croaker … they’re Unspeakables …’
    ‘They’re what?’
    ‘From the Department of Mysteries, top-secret, no idea what they get up to …’
    At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie and Percy came strolling out of the woods towards them.
    ‘Just Apparated, Dad,’ said Percy loudly. ‘Ah, excellent, lunch!’
    They were halfway through their plates of sausages and eggs when Mr Weasley jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding towards them. ‘Aha!’ he said. ‘The man of the moment! Ludo!’
    Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person Harry had seen so far, even including old Archie in his flowered nightdress. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal strips of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, Harry thought), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.
    ‘Ahoy there!’ Bagman called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet, and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.
    ‘Arthur, old man,’ he puffed, as he reached the campfire, ‘what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming … and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements … not much for me to do!’
    Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire which was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.
    Percy hurried forwards with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him wanting to make a good impression.
    ‘Ah – yes,’ said Mr Weasley, grinning, ‘this is my son, Percy, he’s just started at the Ministry – and this is Fred – no, George, sorry – that’s Fred – Bill, Charlie, Ron – my daughter, Ginny – and Ron’s friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.’
    Bagman did the smallest of double-takes when he heard Harry’s name, and his eyes performed the familiar flick upwards to the scar on Harry’s forehead.
    ‘Everyone,’ Mr Weasley continued, ‘this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it’s thanks to him we’ve got such good tickets –’
    Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it had been nothing.
    ‘Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?’ he said eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow and black robes. ‘I’ve already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first – I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in years – and little Agatha