Ron was talking while pulling out a photograph from his pocket—
On the photo was a very sullen face, with thick, dark eyebrows. Of course, the image was moving, but the face did nothing but blink and frown. At the bottom of the photo, there was a string of golden Cyrillic letters that Harry couldn't understand, but it was said to be Viktor Krum's signature in Bulgarian.
"He looks... so grim, like everyone owes him two hundred pounds."
Just as Mr. Weasley was getting the fire going, Hermione came over, glanced at the picture in Ron's hand, and frowned.
"'So grim'?" Ron lay on the ground, rolling his eyes upward. "Who cares what he looks like? He's amazing! And still so young, only eighteen—an absolute prodigy, as you'll see tonight."
"Hey, Ronnie, are you planning to keep that signed photo?"
Behind the boy, George had stood up. He leaned on Fred's shoulder and asked in a low voice.
"Of course!"
Ron widened his eyes, seemingly perplexed that George would even ask such a question—he said loudly, "This is Viktor Krum's signed photo, didn't you see all the people crowding around him?! Of course, I'll treasure it..."
"But you must have seen just now—"
Fred chimed in all of a sudden, his voice full of temptation, "Many people gave up since the queue was so long, but there were plenty of wealthy folks in that crowd, Ron. If Krum wins the championship, his autographed photo would be worth a fortune—"
"...But, but he's my idol! How could I measure that in money?"
Ron blushed, clutching the photo to his chest, arguing loudly as if by raising his voice, it didn't count...
"But it would definitely be worth a lot—"
"I won't be ensnared by you—"
"...At least, it could be worth around ten Galleons?"
"Gulp—"
Ron swallowed unconsciously, feeling a shameful twinge of greed.
"Ha, idol!"
Hermione and Ginny were huddled together, laughing so hard they nearly toppled over.
Mr. Weasley had already gotten the fire started, and Lupin had set up the pot. Their tent was pitched along a large road leading to the stadium, where many Ministry of Magic officials were busily coming and going. Each time they passed, they warmly greeted Mr. Weasley.
And Mr. Weasley kept making introductions, mostly for Harry, Hermione, and Lupin. His own children were too familiar with the Ministry folks to be interested at all.
"That's Cuthbert Mockridge, head of the Goblin Liaison Office...this one coming over is Gilbert Wimple, he's in the Committee on Experimental Charms. Those horns on his head have been there for a while...and this is... Percy."
In the woods, dressed in relatively proper Muggle attire, Percy was trailing a gray-haired man, walking briskly over.
"Dad—"
Percy was holding a large roll of parchment in his arms. He handed one to Mr. Weasley, who was trying to fan the flames, "This is a list for registration, there are just too many people. We need to confirm it again—"
"Oh, okay."
Mr. Weasley nodded, taking the parchment and glancing up at the middle-aged man walking slightly ahead beside Percy. He was a man in his fifties, standing straight, dressed in a seemingly new black suit, with a tie and a brown fedora hat hiding his neatly styled gray hair.
"Mr. Weasley."
Barty Crouch nodded at Mr. Weasley, making a brief greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Crouch—"
Mr. Weasley quickly nodded back, smiling, "Ah—by the way, this is my son Fred—no, this one is George, sorry—that's Fred over there—there's Ron—my daughter Ginny—and this is Ron's friend, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter."
"Harry Potter."
A gleam seemed to flash in Crouch's eyes as he slowly turned his head, looking at the boy squatting and daydreaming by the fire.
"Oh, hello..."
Harry raised his head somewhat blankly, gazing into the deep, lightless black eyes of the man opposite him.
"This is Mr. Crouch, head of the International Magic Cooperation Department, and my superior—" Percy leaned in, his tone unabashedly excited, whispering, "If you want, Harry, you should understand—if you're considering a future career at the Ministry of Magic, it's vital to be on good terms with him—"
"Barty!"
A call came from the side, and Harry turned his head to see a chubby yellow Old Bee wobbling its way into their camp—well, actually, the person was wearing a Quidditch robe with a large Wasp emblazoned in ink across the middle.
That was the uniform of the Wimbourne Wasps, Harry remembered seeing it in a magazine.
"Ah-ho! And Arthur, old buddy!"
"Ludo! You've come—"
Ludo Bagman came over to the bonfire, he said, panting, "What a great day for weather, huh? Absolutely fantastic! You couldn't wish for better weather! No clouds tonight... everything's prepared smoothly, I've got nothing to do!"
"Seems that's your problem."
Crouch immediately tightened his face and said, as a group of exhausted Ministry of Magic officials rushed by behind Bagman, showing signs of playing with Magic Fire in the distance, with purple flames shooting over twenty feet high.
"Hey, Barty, don't be so serious—the Bulgarian official equivalent to me is being difficult, and I can't understand a word of what he's saying. You can handle that, right? I remember you speak about a hundred and fifty languages—"
"...Where did so many languages come from?"
William, who finished catching up on sleep, came out of the tent and heard this statement; he instinctively paused.
"Including Merpeople, Troll, and even Turkey language, William."
Percy seemed annoyed that William questioned his idol and didn't care that Barty Crouch was present, he immediately spoke up.
"Ah, lucky you're not from the United States—otherwise I can't imagine how you'd get through Thanksgiving."
William shrugged, nonchalantly said, he stretched lazily, sat by the burning fire, and took the teacup passed by Lupin, lightly sipping—hmm, Lupin seemed not to have "researched" this tea thoroughly, safe to drink.
"..."
Listening to William's "joke," Crouch's expression suddenly tightened for some reason, and he instinctively took a step back, which drew a suspicious glance from William, who stared at Crouch's brown wool hat, eyes slightly narrowed.
"Ludo, the Bulgarians want us to add twelve seats in the top box."
Noticing William's gaze, Crouch cleared his throat, pulled a flask from his sleeve, tilted his head and took a sip, and without looking down, faced the approaching Ludo Bagman smoothly.
"Oh, so that's what they meant?" Bagman stared, "I thought the guy was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers, the accent was too heavy."
(In English, "twelveseats" and "tweezers" have similar sounds, it's quite amusing.)
But then, Bagman waved his hand, casually saying, "Let's put that aside for now, just twelve seats—want to place a bet on the game, Arthur?" He turned to Mr. Weasley, jangling the pockets of his yellow-black robe, suggesting they were filled with coins.
"Oh... alright," said Mr. Weasley, "let me think... I'll wager one Galleon on Ireland winning, okay?" He furrowed his nose, realizing their tickets were arranged by Ludo, it's just how it goes.
"One Galleon?" Ludo Bagman looked a bit disappointed, but quickly regained his enthusiasm, "Alright, alright... anyone else want to bet?"
"They're too young to gamble," Mr. Weasley quickly tried to stop them, "Molly wouldn't agree—"
"We're in, thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts," Fred said, he and George quickly took out their money, "betting on Ireland winning—but Viktor Krum will catch the Golden Snitch, oh, and a photo signed by Krum—this should be worth quite a few Galleons!"
Ron, beside them, sadly covered his heart, turning away from Fred's photo.
"Kids," Mr. Weasley said softly, "I don't want you getting into gambling... and that's all your savings..."
"Don't be so uptight, Arthur!"
Bagman jingled the coins in his pocket.
"What's the odds?"
William came over, looking at the parchment in Bagman's hand, somewhat curious.
"Let me see, let me see."
Ludo Bagman squinted, "They think Ireland will win, but Krum can catch the Golden Snitch? Impossible, kids, simply impossible... so I'm offering high odds... sir, would you like to add anything?"
"...No, I'm just having a look."
William squinted, took a bite of Hermione's slightly burnt sausage and fried eggs, and he watched what Bagman wrote on the parchment, nodding—hmm, during the championship, he can set up a bet too.
If not mistaken, this time around, the Magic Institute living comfortably, seems to be agreeing to participate...