𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. fred weasley

𝚒. 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜 & 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚜

✦✧✦

Crescent thinks that Cedric probably wants her to die, or something. Back at the beginning of summer, when her older brother asked her to accompany him and their father to the Quidditch World Cup, Crescent had agreed, although she was hesitant at first. She thought, okay, no big deal, it'll be fun, because it's Quidditch, and who doesn't love Quidditch? But now, as she listens to the excited shouts from her brother from outside of her room, she kind of wants to die, herself.

"Cress!" Cedric shouts for, like, the hundredth time, and Cress shoves a pillow over her head with a groan. "Cress, we've gotta leave in like an hour!"

Finally managing to squint her eyes open, Cress expects to be blinded by the sunlight and is highly disappointed when she looks out of her open curtains to see that it is still dark. She groggily blinks the crust out of her eyes and angrily throws the blankets off of her before slipping out of bed and stomping over to the door, slamming it open and narrowing her eyes at the sudden light intruding her vision.

Cedric stands there, already dressed in casual clothes, with his hand raised as though he was about to knock once more. Cress isn't amused. She says, "When I agreed to go to World Cup with you, I didn't think it meant that you'd wake me up in the middle of the night to leave."

"It's not the middle of the night," Cedric scoffs, then sheepishly rubs the back of his neck when Cress sends him a glare. "It's only two!" he says as though it would make up for everything he's put her through in the span of five minutes.

"Die," she deadpans and attempts to shove her door shut, but Cedric slams his foot down and pushes on it.

Crescent fights back, she truly does, but she would just like to point out that she was going against like two hundred pounds of pure muscle, and really, it wasn't a fair fight to begin with. So, Cedric ends up in her room, flipping her light switch on and making her sneer, because she never agreed to this. She agreed to go watch Quidditch with her family and have a fun time, not to get up before the arse crack of dawn. She sends Cedric a glare. He smiles brightly, and Cress almost gags; it's that stupid, dumb smile, and it is always followed by wide eyes and pouts, and Crescent is not going to fall for it.

"Cress," he whines in that nasty voice of his, and Crescent turns her head away, not giving in. He taps her shoulder. "Cress, come on. I told you at least fifteen times that we were leaving early — at either two or three in the morning — and every time you nodded your head and said that was okay. What changed?"

Cress opens her mouth to answer, but finds herself stopping short. Truth be told, each time Cedric had mentioned the Quidditch World Cup, Cress had, kind of, maybe, blanked out for the duration of every babble and rant and nodded when she needed to. But she hadn't been expecting her mistakes to come bite her in the bum.