Cassiopeia Hope Black is the daughter of the crazed mass murderer, Sirius Black.
Follow Cassie through her teenage years where she battles love, drama, and Voldemort.
Get ready for some twists.
I just want to say that I wrote this in the eighth gr...
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Chapter 23: Bagman and Crouch
Cassie bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and smirked with satisfaction at their good work. She had walked into the boy's tent, which looked like an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with a bathroom and kitchen.
Harry followed Cassie in the tent and she could faintly hear him say, "I love magic."
"Well, it's not for long," said Arthur, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. "I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn't camp much anymore, poor fellow, he's got lumbago." He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. "We'll need water. . . ."
"There's a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us," said Ron, who had followed Cassie inside the tent. "It's on the other side of the field."
"Well, why don't you, Cassie, Harry, and Hermione go and get us some water then" — Arthur handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans — "and the rest of us will get some wood for a fire?"
"But we've got an oven," said Ron. "Why can't we just —"
"Ron, anti-Muggle security!" said Arthur, his face shining with anticipation. "When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I've seen them at it!"
After Cassie took a quick tour of the girls' tent, which was slightly smaller than the boys' because there were only three girls and eight boys, Harry, Cassie, Ron, and Hermione set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.
Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction.
They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; Harry had never seen witches and wizards this young before. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.
"How many times, Kevin? You don't — touch — Daddy's — wand — yecchh!"
She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy's yells — "You bust slug! You bust slug!"
A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls' toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron, and Hermione he muttered distractedly, "In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose —"
Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn't work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: the Salem witches' institute. Harry caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn't understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited.
