❝Give 'em hell kids❞
In which Harry Potter decides he needs the help of a certain troublemaker to make it through his Third Year at Hogwarts.
[The Prisoner of Azkaban - The Deathly Hallows]
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𝐈𝐬𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐞𝐡𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐞, 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝-𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞-𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫
Frankie was walking beside Harry, shoving Draco's coins into her pockets. The game had been enough to make her consider professional Quidditch playing as a career, though she was fairly certain she wouldn't feel the same sense of euphoria sitting on the broom. She preferred being able to scream at the referees and shout at the players, something she couldn't do playing the game.
She was laughing with Harry, shouting over the crowd of roaring excitement about the time she could have sworn she saw a real-life leprechaun flipping her off. The night was pleasantly warm, wrapping her in a hug as the stars dotted the sky, creating intricate patterns and images. It was as if they were the only things alive. The birds were silent, and the only thing replying to their shouts was the swaying trees.
They got to the Weasley's camp earlier than expected, everyone clambering to be the first to get into the tent as Frankie hung behind, unsure whether she should find her way back to her own tent. Harry noticed her apprehension, grabbing her by the hand to pull her into the tent.
"Stay for a hot chocolate. I can walk you back myself," Harry promised, and before long, Frankie relented, letting herself be pulled into the cozy tent.
The tent was so different from her own. The Zabini's was a splash of cool emerald and silver with hints of purple throughout. Every piece of furniture looked as if it belonged to some French perfumer maker. The Weasley's, however, was more mismatched with clashing colours, crocheted covers and messy. It made her feel at home.
Harry kept hold of Frankie's hand as she let him guide her towards the rest of the group, who were already settling around in a circle.
"Frankie!" Fred smiled, beckoning Harry and her over, "How's Rath going? Do you know if she came to the match?"
Frankie sat next to Harry, staring at Fred in suspicion, "Erika told me I'm never to tell you where she is,"
"You'd only say that if she were here," George snapped his fingers, "Where do you think her tent would be?"
"Well, her mother's Polish. I reckon they'd support the Romanians," Fred guessed.
"That makes no sense," Frankie said, shaking her head, "And how do you know her mum's Polish?"
"We know things, Marsh," George said, "We could've been in Ravenclaw, you know,"
