` roses ` : yr 1 ~ ch 4

Instructions

Chapter Four: You Know How Time Flies (The World Cup part 1) | by Adele Out of place was one word for it, alright. After the stomach-churning ‘ride’ with the Portkey, I was ready to just flop down on this grass and pass out. That was, at least, if the grass had any space. It was the crowd to rival all crowds, shuffling feet covering every inch and corner of the ground. It was quite hard to keep a track on Dad’s bright red-haired head as we followed him to the tent camp, with a bunch of whispered “Sorry!”s and “Excuse me!”s to people we bumped into along the way. But eventually, we did make it. “Perfect.” He breathed, grabbing something out of his bag and unfolding it. It was a tent, old, patched and worn out. Very muggle, and very Dad. He brought out another one of them, and being his muggle-loving self, Dad insisted on pitching the tents the muggle way. He claimed it was to not alert the attention of the muggles, but we all knew it was because he enjoyed it. After pitching the tents in a very sweaty, confusing process, Dad told us (the girls) to choose our tents. We chose one, slipping inside. Good god, it was gorgeous. And big, huge, in fact. Fully furnished, decorated like an old English muggle cottage, complete with a kitchen. Carli and Ginny, of course, immediately scuttled over to the kitchen. Hermione and Jacqueline (one of her sisters), as bookworms, went over to the couch and sat down with books. I glanced over at Isabella (Jacqueline’s twin sister) as she gaped at it, resisting the urge to smile at the scene of her awestruck face. This was peaceful. This was beautiful. And soon we would go to the match. *** After the match, we all went back to doing our own things. Jacqueline and Isabella were talking to each other in whispered, excited voices. Carli was gobbling up something from the kitchen, Hermione had just resumed reading her book, Ginny was off in the boys’ tent, probably going scarlet while gaping at Harry at this very moment. And I was sitting at the desk of the tent, my notebook open in front of me. I tapped my ink pen against the page, skimming over the poem in my head. It read like this: “I can hear him But I cannot touch him I cannot make him go away And leave me alone To wallow in my misery I can feel his hands on me His fingers as they wrap around my wrist And drag me away from my peace I cannot escape him Or preserve my dignity I can see him He should be a protector But I observe only wrath in his eyes I cannot look away Or find my own sanity. The hear but not drive away The feel but not escape The sight but not ignorance This is the holy trinity.”