Hogwarts Castle felt empty and silent at the end of summer.
Sagres politely declined yet another Quidditch World Cup invitation delivered by owl.
This time, it came from an official in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Games and Sports. The letter was respectfully worded and hinted that it would be a good opportunity to meet influential people.
But he had no interest in it.
For him, chasing a flying metal ball through the air amid the fervent shouts of thousands of spectators was too noisy and meaningless.
He would rather spend that time on the grafting experiments he was about to conduct or on contemplating how to safely unlock the secrets of a Horcrux.
His reply was polite but firm. He declined all invitations—including those from Harry and Sirius—on the grounds that "important magical research was at a critical stage and he could not be distracted."
The Quidditch World Cup venue lay on a vast, flat highland. The early summer wind swept across the grassland, carrying distant clamor and faint cheers from the crowds.
Next to the entrance stood a small stone house—the only Muggle residence in the area.
Mr. Roberts, the homeowner, stood by the door, staring at the cluster of tents that had sprung up overnight on the gentle slope before him. His expression was dazed and uneasy.
"Never… never seen so many people," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over the misty campsite. "I can't believe it. It's like a dream. Hundreds of tents appeared overnight, and people are still arriving…"
"Is there a problem?" Mr. Weasley asked, having come to rent a tent. His tone barely concealed his curiosity.
"Problem?" Roberts seemed to recall something. "Of course there's a problem. People from all over the world have come—not just foreigners, but also many… odd people, you understand? Some are actually walking around in pleated skirts and South American cloaks."
"Is… is there anything wrong with that?" Mr. Weasley asked, a little nervously.
"It just feels like… I can't quite put my finger on it… like they've escaped from a mental asylum." Mr. Roberts lowered his voice.
"Mental… asylum?" Mr. Weasley repeated, seemingly interested in the Muggle term.
Mr. Roberts shook his head. "I mean, they all seem to know each other. It's like a patient support group meeting."
"Patient support group meeting?" Mr. Weasley repeated curiously, pondering the new term.
Just then, a wizard in knickerbockers descended from the sky and landed by the door of the stone house.
"Obliviate!" He raised his wand at Mr. Roberts, his voice weary.
Instantly, Mr. Roberts's eyes glazed over. His tightly furrowed brows relaxed, and a bewildered yet peaceful expression settled on his face, as if nothing had happened.
"Arthur, don't chat too much with this Muggle," the wizard sighed. "I've cast the Memory Charm on him three times today already. Your tent is over there—go get it."
"Oh—alright, thank you, Webber."
Mr. Weasley took the stack of tent fabric and poles, then called Harry, Hermione, and his own children to follow him quickly.
They had only walked a few steps past the stone house when another argument caught their attention.
"Just be a good sport, Archie. Put it on. You can't walk around like that—the Muggle by the entrance is already getting suspicious!"
"But these silk stockings are authentic Muggle goods!"
A white-haired old wizard defiantly tugged at the bright stockings on his legs. "I bought them in London, in a proper Muggle shop! Muggles wear these too!"
"Muggle women wear them, Archie. Men don't! Men should wear these—"
The Ministry wizard helplessly waved a pair of pinstriped trousers, practically pleading.
"I'm not wearing them," old Archie huffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and letting the breeze ruffle his less-than-flattering hem. "I like to let the healthy breeze blow on my backside, thank you very much!"
Hermione finally couldn't hold it in any longer.
She suddenly bent over, covering her mouth, but uncontrollable laughter still escaped. Her shoulders shook continuously.
Ron grinned foolishly beside her, and Harry lowered his head, pressing his lips together in an effort not to laugh too obviously.
After a long while, the three of them barely regained their composure. They wiped away tears of laughter as they continued following the group.
After a few more steps, a sea of tents—like mushrooms that had sprung up overnight—came into view.
This was the temporary accommodation area for the World Cup. The outer tents still looked ordinary, but the deeper they went, the more bizarre and magical they became.
Suddenly, a familiar voice came from behind a nearby inconspicuous black tent. "Looks like the Ministry of Magic's secrecy efforts are 'very thorough,' aren't they, Arthur?"
Sirius Black leaned lazily against a tent pole, dressed in a simple black travel robe, his characteristic smile on his face.
Although he looked a bit tired, the sparkle in his eyes was much brighter.
"Sirius!" Harry exclaimed in surprise, quickly walking toward his godfather.
"Hey, Harry. How's life been at the Burrow these past few days?"
"Very good—I mean… excellent!"
"Did you just arrive too, Sirius?" Hermione asked. She had somewhat recovered her composure, though her cheeks were still flushed from laughing.
Sirius straightened up, clapped Harry on the shoulder, then smiled at Hermione. "I arrived half an hour ago."
He turned to Mr. Weasley. "I've already watched that Memory Charm specialist run back and forth three times. Seriously, can't you at the Ministry of Magic come up with a smarter plan? Like casting a Muggle-Repelling Charm over the whole area?"
Mr. Weasley sighed. "You know, Sirius, the Department of International Magical Cooperation insists on minimizing Muggle attention. Fudge thinks large-scale spellcasting would be more noticeable."
"Yes, because casting the Memory Charm on the same Muggle every hour is so discreet," Sirius said sarcastically, a smile playing on his lips. "But speaking of which, this scene reminds me of the Quidditch World Cup antics I heard about back in Azkaban. One year, the Bulgarian supporters turned the entire campsite into a temporary forest, with all the tents hanging from trees."
He gestured into the distance. "Half an hour ago, the Bulgarians put up a magical dome, and the Irish supporters turned their tents into a moving patch of shamrocks. Just now, I even saw a few Australian wizards flying around on kangaroo-shaped magical devices."
As he spoke, he followed everyone toward the Weasleys' reserved campsite, his black eyes curiously observing the oddly shaped tents around them. "It seems wizards' creativity has only increased over the years."
Before them, hundreds of tents crowded together, yet each was unique—no two alike.
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