Julie Stone was a regular girl; she lived in an orphanage, had some friends, and every now and then would bang her head against the wall due to stress. . . . Normal!
Anyway, all her life Julie never seemed to quite fit in. She loved it, but her life...
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𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔
────── *•. ⚡︎ .•*──────
Their fellow campers were starting to wake up—which made Hermione scowl; she wanted to wake up now too. First to stir were the families with small children. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.
"How many times, Kevin? You don't—touch—Daddy's—wand—yecchh!"
Hermione snorted.
She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy's yells— "You bust slug! You bust slug!"
A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls' toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron, and Hermione he muttered distractedly, "In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose—"
Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn't work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: the Salem witches' institute.
"Er—is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?" said Ron.
It wasn't just Ron's eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.
"Harry! Ron! Mione!"
It was Seamus Finnigan, their fellow Gryffindor fourth year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas, also of Gryffindor. Hermione grinned and ran to hug her two friends—she had become rather close with them the latter year.
"How are you?" She asked excitingly, "This is awesome isn't it?"
"We're fine! I spent the last week or so in Seamus's," Dean smiled at Hermione, as Seamus and his mom were talking to Harry and Ron, "I can't believe I'm actually in the World Cupp, and it's for Quidditch!" He exclaimed and Hermione smiled.
