Chapter Text
Amy and Cedric stared at each other over their clasped hands for another long moment.
“Merlin’s beard,” said Amos Diggory, incredulous, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen over the group. “Soulmates, my Ced and the Amy Potter!”
He blinked around at the Weasleys as if looking for confirmation that they had all seen the sparks fly.
“Dad!” hissed Cedric, flushing hotly.
“Right,” said Mr. Diggory. “Sorry Ced.”
And then all of a sudden Amy and Cedric were being swept together in a tight embrace.
“Dad!” squawked Cedric.
“Congratulations to you both!” said Mr. Diggory. When he let them loose, he was grinning broadly, but also looking a bit misty-eyed. “I remember the day I met my Catherine. Best day of my life.”
“Congratulations, Amy, Cedric,” said Mr. Weasley, who was also giving them a nostalgic smile. “I hope you’ll both be very happy.”
Amy threw a desperate look over her shoulder to Hermione and Ron, who were doing that thing they sometimes did where they both looked at anything but each other and pretended they weren’t holding hands.
Ron looked about as stunned as Amy felt but Hermione was smiling encouragingly, and that was when Amy noticed that her small hand was still clutched tightly in Cedric’s big one. It was about the same time she noticed that she didn’t want him to let go.
It was a very strange sensation.
Amy liked Cedric well-enough. She admired him, thought he was fit, but she didn’t really know him very well. Despite this, the feeling that she could trust him had sprung up, strong, wholesale and out of nothing. To Amy, who had trusted very few people over the course of her life the sensation was more than a bit disconcerting.
“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill?” came an impatient voice.
In front of them stood a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold pocket watch, the other a long roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed in muggle clothing but inexpertly. The one wore a tweed suit paired with muddy thigh-high galoshes and his colleague a kilt and poncho.
“Yes, yes, sorry lads,” said Amos Diggory. “That’s us.”
“Morning Basil,” added Mr. Weasley, bending down to pick up the boot.
He handed it to the wizard in the kilt who tossed it into the large box of used portkeys behind him.
“Hello there, Arthur,” said Basil wearily. “Not on duty, eh? Lucky sod, we’ve been here all night. Best get out of the way, we’ve got a big group coming in from the Black Forest at quarter past.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Weasley. “Just point us in the right direction and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Hang on, I’ll find your campsite,” he said, consulting his parchment list. “Weasley…Weasley...here we go. You’ve got about a quarter of a mile’s walk that way. It’s the first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr. Roberts. Diggory…second field, you’ll want Mr. Payne.”
“Thanks Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned for everyone to follow him.
“Now Arthur,” said Mr. Diggory frowning. “We should try to keep Ced and Amy together, yeah? It’s not fair for them to be separated on their bonding day of all days.”
“No, of course, you’re right Amos,” said Mr. Weasley. “I only booked the site for two tents, but I’ve got old Perkins’ tents, if there’s no space to pitch a third tent we can make do.”
“Excellent!” agreed Mr. Diggory. “Bloody excellent! My son bonded, Arthur! I can scarcely contain myself!”
Hermione and Ginny both gave her significant looks, and as the group set off across the deserted moor, Amy and Cedric fell a little behind the others.
“So,” Amy said trying desperately not to let on how terribly awkward she felt about all this. “Soulmates.”
“Right?” laughed Cedric a little helplessly. “Who would’ve thought?”
“What now?” she asked.
“Well,” he said. “If you listen to every story about soulmates ever, supposedly this is the part where we fall madly in love and live happily ever after.”
Amy snorted.
“Clearly you haven’t heard about Ron and Hermione,” she said.
Cedric quirked an eyebrow at her.
“I haven’t actually,” he said. “I didn’t even know they were bonded. What’s that about?”
“It happened on our very first train ride to Hogwarts,” said Amy. “Hermione barged into our compartment trying to help Neville, er, Neville Longbottom that is, find his toad. Well, they rubbed each other the wrong way straight off, and when their sparks flew, they decided they were going to ignore it. Completely mutual, not a word between them. They weren’t even friends until Ron saved her from that mountain troll Quirrell let into the castle on Halloween.”
“That was Quirrell!”
Amy winced. Right. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge that Quirrell had been possessed by Voldemort and had been half-heartedly making attempts on her life all year, while trying to get at the Philosopher’s Stone.
“Yep,” Amy said.
“And they just go around as friends, not acknowledging their bond, Weasley and Granger?”
“Yep.”
Cedric took all that in, fiddling absently with the writer’s callus on her middle finger.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t think I want to follow their example,” said Cedric, giving her a slightly sheepish shrug.
“It’s not that I mind exactly,” said Amy, because it wasn’t like Cedric was Draco Malfoy or Piers Polkiss or someone else who’d been tormenting her. “It’s just…”
“We don’t know each other,” Cedric said.
Amy glanced up at him, and found that he was looking back at her.
“What I mean is, we know of each other, rumours or stories we heard from other people around school,” he said, clarifying. “And we’ve been around each other, but it’s not like we ever talked.”
“True.”
“So that’s what we do,” said Cedric.
“What talk? And that’s…enough?”
“For the moment anyway,” said Cedric.
“Alright,” Amy agreed. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
“Quidditch?” he suggested, hopefully. “Who’re you cheering for today?”
“Ireland, of course,” said Amy.
“Me too,” said Cedric. “I don’t care if Krum’s the greatest seeker who ever lived, Bulgaria doesn’t stand a chance against Ireland’s offence.”
“What if Krum catches the snitch before the first goal?” Amy teased.
“Would never happen,” said Cedric confidently. “I listened to their whole match against Denmark on the wireless, Mullet scored in the first minute.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, it was brilliant Amy!”
Cedric launched into a play-by-play recounting of the match against Denmark in the quarterfinals, finally letting go of her hand in order to mime out particularly impressive plays.
By the time a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view, Amy’s cheeks hurt from grinning so widely, and she almost didn’t miss the feel of his hand around her own.
“Keep up you two,” called Mr. Weasley. “We’re nearly there.”
The mist was starting to dissipate as the first rays of light crept over the top of the trees, and beyond the gate Amy could just make out the ghostly silhouettes of hundreds and hundreds of tents following the gentle slope of a large field towards a dark wood on the horizon.
A man was standing the doorway of the cottage, staring out at the sea of tents. Amy could tell at a glance that this was the only real muggle for several acres. When he heard their footsteps, he turned to look at them, and there was something familiar about his slightly vacant stare.
“Morning!” said Mr. Weasley brightly.
“Morning.”
“Would you be Mr. Roberts?”
“Aye, I would,” said Mr. Roberts. “And who’re you?”
“Weasley—two tents, booked a couple of days ago? We’d like to make it three if there’s space?”
“Aye, you’ve got a spot right up by the wood there,” said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. “Should be room enough for another tent. You’re thinking it’ll just be the one night still?”
“That’s it,” said Mr. Weasley.
“You’ll be paying now then?”
“Ah, right, yes,” said Mr. Weasley, pulling a roll of muggle pound notes from the pocket of his jeans, and started to peel them apart looking nervous.
“Here Uncle Arthur, let me,” said Hermione, gently prizing the notes from his hands.
“Ah, yes, thank you Hermione,” said Mr. Weasley, before turning back to Mr. Roberts and offering him an innocent smile that made him look just like Fred and George after a particularly successful prank. “My eyesight, you know, need to update my prescription.”
Hermione briskly counted out the proper combination of notes, accepting a crumpled wad from a sheepish Amos Diggory and handing the lot over to Mr. Roberts in a neat stack.
“Good to see locals about,” said Mr. Roberts as he rummaged around in a tin for some change. “It’s all been foreigners. Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up. Would be good for business if they didn’t all try to keep paying in foreign money. Had two blokes not fifteen minute ago try to pay me with gold doubloons it looked like.”
“Is that right?” said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn’t give it to him.
“Aye,” he said thoughtfully, staring out over the moor to the tents. “People coming in from all over. Loads of foreigners, but not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There’s a bloke wandering around out there in a kilt and poncho.”
“Really?” said Hermione. “How gauche. I suppose he’s got socks on with sandals too?”
Mr. Roberts seemed to snap out of it and he gave Hermione a chuckle before handing over the change.
“Nah, nothing quite that bad lass,” he said. “Here’s the map of the campsite. And your change. Keep a sharp eye on your Uncle if you hike out through the woods. It’s deeper than you’d think, easy to get lost.”
“I will, Mr. Roberts, thank you,” said Hermione politely, and Mr. Roberts tipped his cap to her.
“Well done, Hermione,” said Mr. Weasley. “That’s the stuff!”
“You can say that again,” said another voice as a wizard in plus-fours with deep purple shadows under his eyes apparated next to Mr. Weasley. “Wanted to pop over and thank you for that. Been having no end of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman’s no help. Trotting around like a show pony talking about bludgers and quaffles at the top of his voice. Not a thought in his head about anti-muggle security. Blimey, I’ll be glad when this is over. See you later then, Arthur. Amos.”
He clapped Mr. Weasley briefly on the shoulder and disapparated with a soft pop.
“Isn’t Bagman the Head of Magical Games and Sports?” said Ginny. “Shouldn’t he know better then to talk about bludgers in front of muggles?”
“He should,” snorted Mr. Diggory.
“Ah, Ludo’s always been a bit, well, relaxed, about anti-muggle security,” Mr. Weasley admitted. “You couldn’t ask for a more enthusiastic head of the Department though. He played quidditch for England in his day. And he’s still the best beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.”
“He’s a friendly bloke, Bagman, but if it wasn’t for his office he’d’ve caused an international incident years ago from sheer carelessness,” Mr. Diggory said.
They trudged up the misty field between the long rows of tents. Most of them looked almost ordinary, they’d clearly been built to resemble muggle tents as closely as possible, but somewhere along the line some enchanter had slipped and added in things like bell-pulls or weather-vanes. And dotted here and there were tents so obviously magical that it seemed unfair to obliviate Mr. Roberts for being suspicious.
Halfway up the field in a place of prominence was a palatial confection of white and silver striped silk with several live peacocks tethered to the entrance. A little further on they passed a tent that had three floors and several canvas turrets topped with green pennants that fluttered in the breeze.
“Always the same,” said Mr. Weasley, shaking his head fondly at a tent with an attached zen garden complete with koi pond and carefully raked sand. “Whenever we have these kinds of gatherings we can’t resist showing off. Ah, here we are, look, this is us!”
At the very edge of the wood at the top of the field was an empty space with a small sign hammered into the ground that read: Weezly.
“Couldn’t’ve picked a better spot,” said Mr. Weasley happily. “The pitch is just on the other side of the wood there, we’re as close as we can get without being in the wood itself.”
“Lucky devil!” said Mr. Diggory, clapping him on the shoulder.
Mr. Weasley let his big backpack slide from his shoulders.
“Right,” he said excitedly. “No magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we’re out in these numbers on muggle land. We’ll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be too difficult, muggles do it all the time! Here, Amy, where do you reckon we should start?”
Amy had never been camping in her life. Even if her Aunt Petunia could have put aside her dislike for dirt, insects, and nature for half a moment and planned a camping trip, Amy certainly wouldn’t have been invited on the holiday. She would have been sent to stay with Mrs. Figg.
However, she and Hermione were sensible witches, and in short order they had figured out where all the pegs went and managed to erect the slightly shabby pair of two-man tents Mr. Weasley had brought along, and the larger and much less shabby tent with the relatively unobtrusive bell-pull that Amos Diggory had been carrying.
Fortunately, the tents were much larger inside then they first appeared, and when they ducked under the tent flap, Amy found herself walking into an old-fashioned three-room flat complete with bathroom and kitchen.
“It’s an Undetectable Extension Charm,” Hermione muttered to her excitedly. “Ingenious really to use it on a tent. It keeps everything in here as light as the tent itself.”
“I love magic,” Amy declared.
“We’ll be a bit cramped, but it’s only for one night. I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago. We’ll need water,” said Mr. Weasley, picking up a dusty kettle.
“There’s a tap marked here, on the map the muggle gave us,” said Ron, who was completely unfazed by the extraordinary inner proportions of the tent. “It’s on the other side of the field.”
“Right, why don’t you take Amy, Hermione and Cedric and get water, and the rest of us will get wood for a fire.”
“But we’ve got an oven,” said Ron. “Why can’t we just—”
“Ron,” said Mr. Weasley, his face shining with anticipation. “Anti-muggle security. When real muggles camp they cook on fires outdoors, I’ve seen them at it!”
Thinking it best not to argue with Mr. Weasley, who was clearly having the time of his life pretending at being a muggle, Amy picked up the kettle and the largest of the pots, and waved Cedric over to help her.
“But we could just have my dad or Mr. Weasley conjure the water,” he said, even as he settled the pot more firmly under one arm. “The muggles would never know the difference.”
“Mr. Weasley got us our tickets,” said Hermione. “The least we can do is give him a somewhat authentic non-magical camping experience.”
“This is why mum never comes out with us,” Ron said. “She knows he’s barking.”
“And yet she married him.”
“Well, they’re in love and all that rot,” said Ron grinning. “Shameful, but what can you do.”
Amy darted a quick look at Cedric.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were the kind of soulmates that people told stories about. Like her parents, supposedly. Like Mr. and Mrs. Diggory too, by the look of things.
The difference between her and Cedric, and between Ron and Hermione, probably, was that Amy hadn’t grown up with the idea of a perfect match picked out by the gods or fate. Her parents match might’ve been written in the stars but she’d grown up with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.
Her aunt and uncle had many, many, faults, but no one could say that they didn’t love each other. That they didn’t trust each other. They worked hard at their marriage, and they loved their son so much he’d become a spoiled little toad.
She wanted that.
Without the spoiled toad bit, preferably.
But once again, circumstances beyond her control had intervened and now she had a destined soulmate and was supposed to just make the best of it. And it was hard to be mad at the universe or whoever decided these match-ups because it wasn’t like she wouldn’t have picked Cedric Diggory for herself.
She just hadn’t been given the chance.
She was glad for the distraction when they were stopped by Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas, who were drinking tea out of tin camping mugs in front of a tent that had been draped with living shamrocks.
The stopped for a moment to talk with their fellow Gryffindor fourth years, and then detoured over to the Bulgarian side of camp to see that the campers their had their tents draped with the stoic, scowling face of the Bulgarian seeker, Viktor Krum.
By the time they made it over there was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. The four of them joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated argument.
One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard, he had the same slightly frantic, exhausted and harassed look that all the other Ministry employees had been sporting. He was holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation.
“Just wear the deuced trousers, Archie, you can’t be wandering around like that, the muggle on the gate is already getting suspicious—”
“I bought this in a muggle shop,” said the old wizard stubbornly. “Muggles wear them.”
“Muggle women wear them, Archie, and to sleep in, the men wear these,” said the Ministry wizard, brandishing the pinstriped trousers enticingly.
“Well, I’m not wearing them,” said old Archie, indignant. “I like a healthy breeze round my privates, thanks.”
Hermione was overcome was such a strong fit of helpless laughter at this point that she had to duck out of the queue. She didn’t return until after Archie had collected his water and marched off trailing his increasingly distressed Ministry wizard.
“Why is it that wizards have such trouble dressing like muggles?” asked Amy, as they made their way back through the campsite. “Even Lucius Malfoy wears trousers and a shirt under his robes. It’s not au courant fashion but they wouldn’t get more than a few looks.”
“I expect it’s a matter of stubborn pride for the older generations,” said Hermione, pushing a stray curl out of her face impatiently. “Because magical folk tend to have longer lifespans than muggles, they tend to be a bit out of step, but little as they like to admit it, their fashion and architecture generally follows muggle development. I expect Draco Malfoy’s son or grandson will wear denim jeans and think himself very fashionable by pureblood standards in a few decades.”
“I hope I’m around to see it,” said Ron. “Wouldn’t that be a laugh.”