𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. fred weasley

𝚒𝚒. 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚏

✦✧✦

When Cress finally hits solid ground, her knees wobble for about two seconds before they give out all together and she falls. Luckily, she isn't the only one who fell, for the only people who were standing are Mr. Weasley, Amos, and Cedric. Cress sprawls out on the soft grass beneath her, and decides that she's fine just staying here for the duration of the Quidditch World Cup. Yep, totally fine with her; she snuggles further into the ground, ignoring the morning dew on it.

     "Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill," says someone from farther away. Cress doesn't look up, doesn't really care about who's speaking, but someone kicks her shoulder lightly.

     "Up," they say, and Cress realizes that it is Cedric. She groans loudly, turning her head to squint up at him. "Up," he says once more, that stupid smile plastered on his face. He doesn't look to be effected by the Portkey at all and Cress kind of hates him for it.

     "Ced, I love you, but no," she tells him. "I think I'll take my chances right here. What's the worst that could happen to me?"

     "You could get mauled by a bear?" Cedric replies, like he knows that that's exactly what would happen if Cress stays in the same spot. "Or, you know, snakes could slither up from out of the gro—"

     Cress gives her brother the most withering glare she can muster when she's standing on her own two feet again. Cedric smirks back at her and rests a hand on her elbow to steady her. She snatches it away without even a exclamation of gratitude for his chivalry. Instead, she goes to pick up her bag, because apparently Cedric is only capable of keeping a hold of one sack whilst falling to the earth after coming out of a Portkey. She sends him another glare, and he just shrugs.

     "Stupid wanker," she mumbles, brushing the debris off of it with a pout. "Fucking tosser." Cress swivels to walk over to Amos, only she can't because she's hitting someone's back after she takes just one step. "Son of a bitch!" She grunts, not injured, but a little damaged on the inside, because of course, of fucking course, she runs into the one and only Fred Weasley. Of course.

     He turns around to face her, and Cress pulls her rucksack closer to her chest when he stares down at her. His eyes are soft and brown and beautiful, as always, and Cress can feel her knees shaking at the apologetic look he's giving her. Son of a bitch, she thinks, because fucking shit, Fred Weasley was going to be the death of her.

     "Oi," he says, and Cress has to stop herself from swooning at his melodic voice, "got quite the mouth on you, don't you, mate?"

     Cress fiddles with her hands, cheeks blazing, because yes, she knows she has a bad mouth, and no, she doesn't need Fred Weasley pointing that out, thank you very much. On the plus side, however, he called her mate, and she's counting this whole day as a win. Fuck whoever wins the Cup, Cress wins at life, because Fred Weasley called her mate and that's like eight hundred times better than some Cup.