Aila Prewett is the only daughter of Fabian Prewett, born to him by the Veela during the First Wizarding War. Both her parents were killed by Voldemort, leaving her in the care of the Weasleys.
As the Triwizard Tournament is held once again, Aila's...
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Aila looked around and found that they had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as muggles, though very inexpertly — the man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes while his colleague wore a kilt and a poncho.
“Morning, Basil,” Arthur said, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Aila could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.
“Hello there, Arthur,” Basil said wearily. “Not on duty, eh? It’s all right for some…We’ve been here all night…You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite…Weasley…Weasley…” He consulted his parchment list. “About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr Roberts. Diggory…second field…ask for Mr Payne.”
“Thanks, Basil,” Arthur said, and he beckoned everyone to follow him.
They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. Aila gripped onto Cedric’s hand for support as she pulled her jacket closer to her. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, Aila could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon. They bid goodbye to the Diggorys, with Aila giving Cedric one last hug before they approached the cottage door.
A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Aila knew at a glance that this was the only real muggle for several acres. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.
“Morning!” Arthur said brightly.
“Morning,” said the muggle.
“Would you be Mr Roberts?”
“Aye, I would,” said Mr Roberts. “And who’re you?”
“Weasley…two tents, booked a couple of days ago?”
“Aye,” said Mr Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. “You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just one night?”
“That’s it,” said Mr Weasley.
“You’ll be paying now, then?” said Mr Roberts.
“Ah, right…certainly…” Arthur quickly retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry toward him. “Help me, Harry,” he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. “This one’s a–a–a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now So this is a five?”
“A twenty,” Harry corrected him in an undertone, uncomfortably aware of Mr Roberts trying to catch every word.
“Ah yes, so it is…I don’t know, these little bits of paper…“
