Unreal

Chp 92 Under a Sky Full of Chaos

The lake gleamed like glass under the afternoon sun, framed by a stretch of grass and clusters of trees that looked like they belonged in a storybook. The water shimmered, little ripples catching the light as a gentle breeze swept through, rustling the leaves like they were whispering secrets. A few birds chirped lazily overhead. It was warm, but not too warm. The kind of weather that made you want to lie on your back and forget time existed.

I stood there for a moment, just taking it all in.

It was perfect.

Not the clean, tidy kind of perfect—but the kind that made your chest feel a little lighter. The air smelled like pine and lakewater. Somewhere nearby, a frog croaked. It was chaotic peace. The best kind.

George sprinted past me with a dramatic yell, Ron right on his heels.

"This patch is MINE!" George shouted, diving dramatically into a spot near the trees.

"Like hell it is!" Ron hollered, nearly tripping over a log as he tried to claim it for himself.

I snorted.

Harry and Fred followed behind, both carrying some of the heavier bags, not even pretending to stop them.

"We're not moving tents if you two pick uneven ground again," Fred warned, sounding half-serious as he balanced two bedrolls on one shoulder.

"Tell that to the tree roots from last year," Harry muttered.

Behind me, Hermione and Ginny had started pulling things out of the car boot, arms full of enchanted pillows and snack bags. I hurried over to help, grabbing the tent bag as Ginny tossed me a grin.

••••

Then came the tent.

Medium-sized. Reasonable enough. Supposedly big enough for all of us. Supposedly.

Fred held one end while George tried to unfurl the canvas like it was trying to escape.

"I think this bit goes there—"

"No, you're twisting it—"

"That's your side—"

"You're literally holding it backwards—"

They looked like two very determined flamingos wrestling a possessed bed sheet. For the fifth time.

I stood off to the side, clutching a folded chair, somewhere between impressed and deeply concerned.

We're going to die in this thing. It's going to collapse in the night and smother us all. They'll find my body under a pile of magical nylon and poor life choices.

"Local teens crushed by sentient tent. One survivor tells the tale," I muttered under my breath.

Ginny giggled beside me. Hermione, on the other hand, let out the kind of sigh that said I've had enough of this nonsense and set her bag down like it was a challenge.

She marched forward, snatched a crumpled instruction scroll out of Ron's hands—how long had he been holding that?—and pointed sharply at the base of the tent.

"Stakes first. Corners aligned. That flap is upside down. No, Fred, you can't just wing it."

To their credit, the twins actually tried to listen. Sort of. Between the eye-rolls and whispered commentary.

But somehow—miraculously—after about fifteen minutes, one jammed wand, and Hermione nearly losing her voice, the tent actually stood.

Lopsided. But upright.