Love at First Sight (Harry Potter)

The Dark Mark

|ALEXANDRIA WEASLEY'S P.O.V|

"Don't tell your mother you've been gambling," my father muttered beneath his breath to Fred and George, glancing around as though ready for the woman herself to jump out and start screaming, as we began to descend the purple-carpeted stairs.

Adrenaline from having watched the match still zapped through my veins. Despite it being late into the night now, I was completely awake. I was looking all around at everyone, all of the foreign witches and wizards who were leaving their seats. The only identical attribute to them all was the grins on their faces.

"Don't worry, Dad," said Fred gleefully, having an evil exchange with his twin, "we've got big plans for this money. We don't want it confiscated."

Our father paused for a moment, lips parted. It appeared as though he was going to ask what these 'big plans' were, but seemed to decide, upon reflection, that he simply didn't want to know. For he shook his head of the thoughts, shut his mouth, and led us forward.

We became trapped within the crowd now flooding out of the stadium and back to the campsite. The Irish were singing, cheering — yelling about their victory. Those adorned in Bulgarian red kicked their feet; some were quiet and sullen, but others were simply angry. The angry ones were loud enough to be heard over the Irish, at times, although the joy of the Irish was not something to be competed with. As we walked, we past a group of Irish supporters facing off against a group of Bulgarian supporters. The sides of red and green were bickering, creating blockades in the crowd that made people around them stop in annoyance.

The men dressed in red were spitting fiery rage as they pointed, screaming at the Irish — who were laughing and spinning around in circles, locked at their elbows.

Leprechauns were soaring over our heads in the night sky. I could hear them, cheering squeaky "YIPEE!"s. It had made me very amused as the white of the stars was replaced with shimmering greens, oranges, pinks, and purples. Little rainbows would appear every so often, or bursts of gold that would shoot as though a fallen star.

Once we had finally reached the tents, no one wanted to sleep. Fred and George were chanting in front of the roaring flames in the fireplace, which our father had started with magic this time rather than matches, while Ron, Harry, Hermione and I sat on one of the large couches as their audience. It was incredibly loud outside; although muffled in the family room, the sheer heaviness of the noise was making the tent vibrate.

The couch was trembling beneath us. My arm had been rested on the edge and I kept glancing at it, amazed at how my fingers shook due to the level of noise and energy happening on the campsite.

My father had not expected for us to sleep during that. Rather, he agreed that we could each have one cup of cocoa before turning in. This did not end pleasantly, unfortunately. Our conversation morphed into our own full, bothered argument regarding the match's finish.

Even my father was drawn into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, after spending the best part of forty minutes trying to calm us all down. Ron was the most angered of all; he had taken to standing in front of our couch, making claims of how Krum was cheated out of a win.

"Are you not an Irish fan?" I spat out at him, waving to the hat atop his head. He glowered and ripped it off, discarding it somewhere on the floor to his left. I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, that's done it — changed who you decided you were rooting for since before we arrived! Have you not an ounce of loyalty?"

Ron gasped in dramatic offence. He leant back slightly and away from us, as though my words had wounded him. "I? Loyalty?" He shook his head. "Has his team had no loyalty? They left him to die out there!"