CH85 - A Peculiar Shimmer

Bringing his right hand up to his head, Edmund tugged on his shortened locks sulkily. His fingers tangled in a few strands of hair, which he extended downwards as far as possible. Angling his pupils upwards, he could barely catch a glimpse of where they ended just above his eyebrows—a far cry from the shoulder-length mane he possessed merely a few days prior.

Even as he inwardly grumbled in frustration, he could not help but admit that the new look suited him. 'If I style it to the right in my other forms, though, Dumbledore would probably have a heart attack,' he thought wryly. His resemblance to Marvolo grew by the day, and his new cut only accentuated that. To counter the issue, he had adopted a wilder look for his day-to-day life, keeping his curls messy and dishevelled.

'Better safe than sorry,' he reminded himself.

Cynthia clucked her tongue from beside him as she unsuccessfully sought to groom the unruly mop on his head. "Stop messing with it! Edmund!" she scolded as he ducked out of her grasp.

"Haha!" Jeremy crowed, happy to have his mother's attention diverted from himself for once.

Edmund scowled, tensing his back foot in preparation to lunge at his far too happy friend. But there was no need for him to do so... For with his next step, Jeremy stumbled over a half-buried boulder, his arms shooting outwards to break his fall.

Taking pity on him, Edmund grabbed him by the forearm, barely keeping him up.

"Thanks," Jeremy grumbled under the reproachful gaze of his parents, immediately giving Edmund the middle finger when they looked away. He, in turn, rolled his eyes at the gesture.

Rather than respond to Jeremy's taunts, he took the opportunity to observe the hilly outcrop the four were climbing. The wind was blowing steadily, oddly pleasant in its harshness. Birds could be heard chirping from all around them, but their exact location was indistinguishable by sound alone. This soon in the morning, their surroundings were obscured by the early-day mist, shrouding the land like a fluffy blanket. He could barely see past ten feet of the deserted moor they were walking along. In the distance, a tractor chugged by a single-lane road, its frame relegated to a vague, blurry silhouette.

"Where exactly did you say that we were?" Edmund inquired.

"I didn't, actually," Cynthia replied. "Should be on the edges of Dartmoor, though, if I'm not mistaken."

"In Devon?" he asked rhetorically, his thoughts turning to the only other resident of the area that he knew of.

'Are you out here somewhere too, Flamel?' he pondered absentmindedly.

"Stop," Albert called out from in front of them, coming to a halt in front of an amiable-looking man who had emerged from the fog.

"Ah, you must be the campsite manager! Mr. Roberts, was it?" Albert asked courteously.

"Got it in one!" the man, now identified as Mr. Roberts, said cheerily as Albert retrieved the entrance fees from his wallet. "Nice to see some decency around here! Do you know what kind of event is happening here? Because I have never seen stranger fellows in my life. I tell you, one of them even tried to pay me in some antique-looking gold doubloons!"

Albert, Cynthia, and Jeremy listened to the man's tale with polite interest, trying to keep the grimaces off their face. Edmund, however, had his sights pinned to a location just right of the man, where his mind sense was detecting another human presence—an invisible one at that.

"And believe me, I'm not a bad man by any means, but who turns down free gold!" the man continued. "So I took the strange coins from the man and then... then..."

Mr. Roberts scratched his head, his features morphing from animated to confused before settling on horrified. "Why?... Why can't I remember?! Oh god, what's wrong—"

The invisible presence finally shifted as the tip of a wand emerged from nothingness—an invisibility cloak, Edmund noted—and glowed an ominous blue colour. "Obliviate," a voice muttered as Mr. Roberts' face went blank.

"Move along, folks. We'll handle it from here," the Obliviator directed from under his cloak.

Cynthia bristled angrily at his casual tone. "How dare you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Repeated obliviation causes brain damage, especially in muggles—that's the first thing the ministry teaches Obliviators! How many times have you erased this poor man's memory today? Would it have been too much effort to knock him out and fill in the gaps in his memory at the end of the day? Do you care so little—"

Albert tugged her along, silencing her as best he could. "I understand, darling, I do, but this isn't the way to go about it. Come on, don't let it spoil your mood, will you."

Cynthia continued to mutter under her breath, turning to give the hidden Obliviator one last glare of defiance.

'Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup, I guess,' Edmund sighed morbidly as hundreds of tents came into view.

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- (Scene Break) -

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From far away, the campsite could have been dismissed as any other muggle one. However, closer inspection revealed several oddities that could not be explained logically. Water boiled over non-existent flames, chimneys were attached to cloth tents, and kites flew without strings.

Although some were doing their part to remain inconspicuous, it seemed that secrecy had been given up as a lost cause by most.

Weaving through the various lots, Edmund noted the team affiliation of each one with interest. Those that supported Ireland bore overgrown patches of shamrocks, whereas those in favour of Bulgaria had moving posters stuck to them. Funnily, although Ireland was the fan-favourite to win, there were far more images of Krum around the campfires than of any other player—a testament to his immense popularity.

Edmund kept his eyes peeled for familiar faces, and he was graced with several students he knew from Hogwarts and customers he had met on the Knight Bus. However, those instances were far and few between. The Quidditch World Cup was a worldwide phenomenon, and witches and wizards from around the globe were assembled to attend it. Edmund doubted such a gathering of magicals had ever happened before, and the density of the hordes of people milling about proved it. Stalls in the market had their wares listed in a multitude of languages, many of which Edmund could not comprehend. Hawkers were yelling from every corner, peddling overpriced merchandise to any and all willing to buy it.

'French, Gaelic, Hindi, Arabic, Spanish,' Edmund ticked off mentally. 'I think that's Mandarin...'

The day passed rapidly because of the excitement—talking, laughing, and trying exotic foods from the numerous vendors scattered around the field. Soon enough, it was nightfall, and the match was set to begin in an hour.

"Dad! There's still so much time!" Jeremy protested. "Why are we going so quickly?"

Albert snorted. "The Trillenium Stadium has a capacity of 100,000, and seats are oversold if anything. Unless you want to be caught up in the last-minute crowd stuck in the lines, we need to get a move on."

"Your father's right," Cynthia agreed. "You don't want to miss the beginning of the match, do you?"

Jeremy shut up at that, silently following behind them to the seemingly neverending flights of steps leading them to their seats. The trek was monotonous, or it would have been if Edmund had not noticed something odd.

Floppy ears, gray skin, impossibly large eyes, and a short stature draped with an off-white tea towel. A house elf. And not just any house-elf.

'Winky,' Edmund recognized. A peculiar shimmer lit up behind the house elf as she climbed the staircase to the Top Box. 'Which means that must be...'

He shivered with anticipation. "Barty Crouch Jr."