Chapter 92
"Five thirty, from Green Meadow Manor," a voice said.
The Dartmoor Wilderness is a vast, desolate, misty swamp.
In front of them stood two exhausted, grim-faced wizards, one holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill.
Both were dressed like Muggles, but they were clearly out of their depth: the man with the gold watch wore a coarse tweed suit on top, but below he had on thigh-high rubber boots; his colleague wore a pleated kilt like those worn by Highland men and a South American poncho.
"Good morning, Basil," Gareth said, handing the door key to the wizard in the kilt. The man tossed it into a large box beside him, which was filled with used door keys, old newspapers, empty cans, and battered footballs.
"Hello, Mr. Greengrass," Basil said tiredly, "I'm sorry, we're a bit worn out. We've been on guard here since last night and just escorted a large group from the Black Forest in Germany a quarter of an hour ago... Let me see where your camp is..." He searched the list on the parchment, "Oh, you're in the first camp area, just walk over there, the camp administrator is Mr. Roberts."
"Thank you, Basil," Gareth said, signaling for everyone to follow him.
Although Greengrass was low-key, he still needed to assert his status in public, so Gareth had reserved their camp in the first area—its location was the best, closest to the competition site, surrounded by pure-blood wizard families and those of high status. If he guessed correctly, Lucius should also have reserved the Malfoy family camp in that area.
According to Soren's memory of the original story, the Weasley family was also in the first camp area, not because they were extravagant, but because Arthur had helped Ludovic Bagman, the director of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, with some legal troubles, so Ludovic gifted Arthur the best tickets as thanks.
Everyone was in high spirits, laughing as they crossed the deserted swamp, where visibility was nearly zero due to the thick fog. After about twenty minutes of walking, a door gradually appeared ahead, followed by a small stone house, behind which were hundreds of oddly-shaped tents.
They lined the slope of a large field that stretched toward a dark forest on the horizon. A man stood at the entrance, gazing at the tents.
From his expression, he might be the only real Muggle in this vast area; he was Mr. Roberts, the administrator of the site. As soon as he heard their footsteps, he turned to look at them.
The butler, Morgadon, approached him to discuss renting a tent.
Morgadon couldn't distinguish Muggle money and struggled to find the right bills among a large roll of cash, raising doubts in Roberts. Soren quickly stepped forward to help resolve the issue, causing everyone to be suspicious; it was indeed a rare thing for a young master from a pure-blood family to recognize Muggle currency.
A few people passed through the entrance to the field, accompanied by a wizard assigned by the Ministry of Magic to guide them to their camp location. He looked very tired, with an unshaven chin, a sallow complexion, and dark circles under his eyes.
This wizard clearly knew Gareth and Morgadon, continuously complaining about the irritating workload that had been weighing on him lately.
"It's been terrible, Gareth!" he muttered incessantly, "that Muggle has caused me a lot of trouble; to keep him in a good mood, I have to cast the Obliviate spell dozens of times every day. Besides that, a whole bunch of troublesome wizards and issues are waiting for me."
"Are you the only one busy?!" Gareth exclaimed in surprise, "Where are the others?!"
"Don't mention it, Ludovic Bagman is only making things worse. This was supposed to be their department's responsibility, but he just wanders around, loudly discussing Quidditch and Bludgers, completely ignoring the need to keep an eye on the Muggle and ensure safety." He sighed heavily, "Goodness, I just wish this would all end soon; it's simply a torment. See you later, Gareth!" With that, he vanished from the spot in a puff of smoke.
"I thought Mr. Bagman was the director of the Department of Magical Games and Sports," Astoria said in surprise, "He should know not to talk about Quidditch around Muggles, right?"
"Yes, dear!" Gareth said with a smile, "Ludovic has always been a bit careless about safety, but you won't find anyone more passionate than him to lead the Department of Sports. You know, he used to represent Britain in Quidditch; he is the best batsman the Wimbourne Wasps have ever had."
In the wizarding world, Ludovic Bagman is a very famous and popular figure.
However, upon hearing Gareth's words, the usually taciturn Meredith let out a cold laugh, "Bagman's past isn't as glamorous as the rumors suggest; he has been accused of providing confidential information to Death Eaters. However, it cannot be denied that he is a complete fool, and I seriously doubt he knew what he was doing at the time."
Soren nodded; according to the descriptions in the original story, Ludovic Bagman truly is a real fool.
They walked through two long rows of tents, and most of them looked quite ordinary. Clearly, their owners had made an effort to make them resemble Muggle tents as much as possible. However, some had accidentally overdone it, adding chimneys, pull bells, or weather vanes, making them look out of place.
Occasionally, there were a few tents that were obviously enchanted.
For example, in the middle of the campsite, there was one tent that stood out particularly. It was extravagantly adorned with a large amount of striped silk, resembling a small palace, with several pure white peacocks tied at the entrance and a garden in front, complete with bird baths, sundials, and fountains. Soren sighed and thought this style was unmistakable—it was the Malfoy family, as consistently luxurious, ostentatious, and overbearing as ever.
Gareth glanced at Soren with an expression that was half-smile, half-sarcasm, but said nothing further and continued toward their own campsite.
Not far from the Malfoy family's campsite, there was a large, deep green tent set up.
The tent was very rustic and imposing, with a conical top soaring into the clouds, embroidered with the dark golden emblem of the Greengrass family. Although it looked grand, it didn't seem out of place; the entire tent had no frills and was not much different from a Muggle dome tent, just particularly large.
As Soren entered the tent with the others, he couldn't help but marvel at the space and furnishings inside. In the hallway directly facing the entrance, copper pots and other copper kitchenware gleamed with a rosy sheen. The wooden table was polished to a shine. Silver cups and plates were already set out, sparkling in the warm glow of the fireplace. On the side were the dining room and washroom, with a landscape painting hanging on the wall. Everything felt particularly cozy.
The brown-black staircase, covered with thick carpets, extended upwards, probably three stories high. The upper floors were all bedrooms, and like the outside, the space became narrower as you went up, but the decorations were very stylish.
It was hard to imagine that this was actually a tent, not some noble family's vacation villa.
Two house-elves, rushed out to greet them upon hearing the noise and magically transported everyone's luggage to their respective rooms. After enjoying the breakfast prepared by the house-elves, Gareth and McGonagall planned to visit the family tents they were friendly with one by one, engaging in social activities that could foster relationships.
At the curious request of Astoria, Soren and the girls decided to take a stroll around the campsite to see what it had to offer.
This campsite was filled with pure-blood wizard families and families of high status.
There was a tall and grand tent shaped like a castle, with several corner towers erected nearby. The most striking feature was the enchanting fragrance wafting from this tent, making people unable to resist stopping and lingering.
Soren recognized the boy at the entrance—Blaise Zabini. Standing next to him was a beautiful woman.
That was his mother, Mrs. Zabini. Mrs. Zabini was not an ordinary person; she had been married seven times, and each husband died under mysterious circumstances, leaving her a substantial inheritance.
Mrs. Zabini was indeed beautiful, with large wavy golden hair, impeccably delicate features, and a curvy, slender figure. What was most unforgettable was her unique aura, a blend of regal elegance and alluring charm, captivating with every smile and movement, exuding an enchanting grace.
Soren had seen quite a few beautiful women; not counting those he had seen in his past life on television and in magazines, in this life, his mother Narcissa, the recently acquainted sister Giordana, and the vampire princess Elizabeth Bathory were all stunning beauties, but none had given Soren the same visual impact as Mrs. Zabini.
The word "Femme Fatale" involuntarily popped into Soren's mind. This French term represents a deadly woman, meaning a beautiful woman with a lethal attraction that often causes men to become addicted to this dangerous yet enchanting allure, unable to extricate themselves. Other beauties might evoke joy or pity, but a femme fatale often leads to obsession, conjuring thoughts of something indescribable.
"Hi, Soren!" Blaise approached with his mother, greeting Soren.
As he came into close contact with Madam Zabini, a wave of fragrance hit Soren, and he suddenly felt his lips dry, heart racing. He employed mental techniques to suppress his thoughts, regaining clarity in his gaze.
"Blaise, are these your friends? Aren't you going to introduce them to your mother?" Madam Zabini's captivating eyes lingered on Soren for a few seconds. Seeing his calm and composed demeanor, she couldn't help but slightly lift her red lips—what an interesting young man!
Soren looked directly into Madam Zabini's eyes and introduced himself naturally, "Auntie, hello, I am Soren from the Malfoy family. These two are Daphne and Astoria from the Greengrass family, and this is Meredith from the Shafiq family."
"I know your name, Soren, the youngest Sir Merlin... truly outstanding. It makes Auntie very happy that Blaise has a friend like you. You should come over to Auntie's house to play more often..." Madam Zabini's enthusiasm seemed excessive. Soren, who had absorbed everything through his keen observation, thought silently but maintained a neutral expression, neither cold nor warm, as he accepted her invitation.
Afterward, Soren took the three girls to visit the Malfoy family's camp.
Inside the tent was only Narcissa, who was leisurely directing the house elf to carry out various decorations and arrangements inside the tent.
Although Soren knew this tent was only meant for a one-night stay, others were unaware of how long the match might last. The previous semifinal had lasted five days and nights, so Narcissa believed it was essential to make the tent as comfortable as possible.
Seeing her son come to visit her after a week apart, Narcissa was happy and gave Soren a big hug.
Narcissa also warmly welcomed the three girls who came with him, expressing her affection for them both openly and subtly, causing the girls to blush.
"Mother, where are Father and Draco?" Soren asked.
"You know your father recently donated a large sum to St. Mungo's Hospital, so he is dining with several senior officials from the Ministry of Magic, including Fudge. As for Draco, he left early; he said he was going to find Goyle and Crabbe, but who knows if that's true... That boy has been so mysterious all summer; he must have a girlfriend..."
Soren broke into a cold sweat.
Next, they encountered several familiar family tents in the first camp area: the Parkinson family, the Bulstrode family, the Lencohen family, the Nott family...
Soren politely greeted his classmates and their parents one by one.
Finally, he met old Nott.
Old Nott was a stern man in his sixties, but his gaze remained sharp.
Soren expressed his gratitude for the two gifts he received at the end of the last semester and engaged in an equal exchange about alchemy with old Nott. Even with old Nott's experience, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Soren's alchemical skills.
How old was this boy? His alchemy was already nearly on par with his own. Through their conversation, Soren benefited greatly, but old Nott also gained much from it. He believed that even the elder Bock from another prominent alchemical family might not achieve such results in conversation.
He sighed inwardly; in his view, if his son Theodore wanted to inherit the family business and continue to dominate the alchemical industry in Britain, it would not be easy!
*****
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