❛ THE DARKEST HOUR OF THE DARKEST DAY
COMES RIGHT BEFORE THE DAWN. ❜
in which a certain weasley twin enlists
the help of a hufflepuff prefect.
𝙊𝙉𝙂𝙊𝙄𝙉𝙂
― george weasley x oc
― goblet...
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GREEN AND ORANGE ILLUMINATE THE BLACK SKY. From every direction, the sound of Irish gallantry blares out — drunken celebration swelling the intensity of the campsite to a tenfold. Gaelic tunes ring out from each tent they pass and, one by one, cheers echo in a wave from the very edge of the celebration. Somewhere, somehow, there must be Bulgarian supporters drowning their sorrows. Within all the noise, Wren can't possibly imagine it. The Irish know how to celebrate, even when they do lose. But now they thrive in true victory — and the knowledge of winning despite Krum catching the snitch must be riveting. For the first time in a good few years, she stands on top of the world.
What likely helps that thought is the sensation of Oliver Wood beneath her, holding her up and over the top of the crowds in a piggyback. She stretches out her arms, sacrificing balance for the glee of feeling the bare skin on her arms warm against the summer night's air. When Oliver gallops forward — fuelled by a good few glasses of rum — Wren tighten her grip against his back and squeals as he picks up the pace.
Arran runs alongside them, balancing a basket of cider bottles Oliver had won in a bet with a friend from his year, and sports a large pair of shamrock deely-boppers on his head. The grin on his face might mesmerise any who sees it. Wren could swear she has never seen him smile so much before.
"CHAMPIONS! CHAMP — EE — ONS!" Oliver hails from below, clamoring up some steps that lead to the pitch the Weasley tent lays. "Who are the greatest? The Irish are the best!"
"Who are the greatest?" Wren continues, hollering.
"The Irish stand to test!" Both boys chime, swinging from side to side on beat to the rhythm of their singing.
Wren grips against her cousin a little harder, her nails almost digging into the skin of his neck. With each step, she is certain she'd fall. But, caught up in the moment, falling might feel like flying.
In the distance, the light of the Wesley's tent shines. Charlie and Bill sit outside on little camping chairs, both holding glasses of some alcoholic drink. They smile as Oliver and the two Dunlins draw close.
"Ahoy me hearties!" Oliver bellows. He tilts his head forward in a bow and, without warning, let's his cousin slip seamlessly off his back.
"Is that Oliver Wood?" Charlie jests, standing from his own seat and returning Oliver's gesture with an even larger bow of his own.
Next to him, Bill teases, "No, it can't be. He is to... happy." His ponytail is wrapped in a green and orange ribbon, courtesy of Ginny, and the light from the fireworks glimmers off the silk.
