The Irish fans poured out of the stadium like a tidal wave of green and gold, the echoes of their cheers vibrating across the open Dartmoor night. Every torch, every wandlight, every magical flare contributed to a spectacle of ecstasy. So fans danced in circles, tossing hats into the sky that twinkled with tiny sparks. Others hugged strangers, shouting and laughing as though the entire night was theirs alone. Fireworks streaked through the darkening sky, blooming into shamrocks, stars, and waves of erald that danced with golden sparks. The air slled of roasted at, firewhisky, and the faint scent of scorched pyrotechnics.
Eira glanced down at Fleur’s hand, feeling the warmth in her fingers against her own. "Let’s go," she whispered, leaning close so her words were only for her. "Before the crowd gets too wild."
Fleur’s soft laugh was almost musical. "Oui... let’s go. I don’t want to be trampled in this chaos."
Hand in hand, they began to weave through the crowd, careful not to step on the tails of skirts or the toes of scrambling children. Around them, the jubilation was infectious: Ireland fans cheered, threw their scarves into the air, and shouted songs that made the ground beneath their brooms tremble. So were singing traditional Celtic chants, their voices rising in unison and echoing off the gold walls of the stadium. Others stumbled, arms slung over each other, laughing and shouting.
"This is incredible," Fleur murmured, squeezing Eira’s hand. "Even with the chaos... it is magnificent."
Eira smiled, scanning the crowd. "Yes, but even the best celebrations have a calm side. That’s why I wanted to step aside with you." She brushed a strand of silver hair from Fleur’s face, her fingers lingering on her cheek.
Fleur looked up at her, eyes shimring. "You’re always... thoughtful, mon amour."
Eira’s lips curved, and she gave Fleur’s hand a gentle squeeze. "Did you enjoy it today?" she asked.
Fleur’s grin was radiant, almost shy. "Of course! I told you, didn’t I? Wherever you are, if I am there, I always enjoy it."
Eira felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the firework-lit night. "I’m glad... I’m glad you’re here with ," she murmured.
They walked a little further, hand in hand, past a group of jubilant Ireland fans dancing on top of a magically reinforced tent. A young girl waved a wand in triumph, showering the area with sparks that twirled like fireflies. So boys attempted acrobatic flips in the grass, nearly colliding with an older couple who laughed heartily as they recovered.
"So tonight," Eira asked softly, "you’ll be going back to France, won’t you?"
Fleur’s shoulders slumped slightly. Her blue eyes softened with wistful sadness. "Yes... I have to. I miss Gabrielle, and my mother, my father. I want to spend these last few days with them before Beauxbâtons begins again."
Eira nodded, understanding, though a weight settled in her chest. "You’re right... family cos first. But we’ll see each other soon, yes?"
Fleur tilted her head, smiling faintly, a quiet determination in her gaze. "I am sure we will. I am sure."
Their hands tightened around each other’s, and a soft, shared laughter passed between them, montarily lifting the lancholy. Then, without thinking, Eira pulled Fleur close. Their lips t in a kiss that was tender at first, then grew deeper, more urgent. Every step, every breath was shared, the sounds of the celebration fading into a distant hum.
"I’ll miss this," Eira whispered, breaking slightly, her forehead resting against Fleur’s. "These kisses... the way we’ve been together. I’ve grown so used to having you beside at night. It will be hard, Fleur... so hard not to have you."
Fleur’s lips t hers again, and said with affectionate care. " too, mon amour... too."
Their kiss lingered, full of unspoken words and longing, until a flicker of green light caught Eira’s eye. It reflected in Fleur’s blue irises, strange and unnatural.
It wasn’t lantern fire. It was green.
The reflection glead in Fleur’s wide eyes, unnatural, flickering like ghostlight. Slowly, dread gnawed at Eira’s chest as she turned.
Above the treeline, blazing against the night sky, a colossal skull ford of erald fire leered down upon the camp. From its gaping mouth spilled a vast, coiling serpent that twisted like it was alive.
The Dark Mark.
Eira froze.
Fleur noticed her hesitation. "Qu’est-ce que c’est...?" she murmured, voice trembling. "Why... why is it so strange? So cold?"
Eira’s heart tightened. "It’s... the Death Mark."
Fleur’s gasp was sharp. "The... the Dark Lord’s sign? Here? Now?"
Before Eira could answer, the celebration turned to pandemonium. Screams erupted from all directions—children wailing, won shrieking, n shouting orders. Magical carts overturned, tents toppled under stampeding feet, firework sparks ignited smaller flares in the crowd, and brooms darted frantically across the grass. Chaos reigned.
"Eira!" Fleur’s voice trembled as she clutched her arm, eyes wide with terror.
Eira’s wand was already in her hand. She spun around, assessing the threat. "Stay close to !" she shouted, her voice cutting through the clamor. Her eyes scanned the crowd, seeking any movent that signaled danger.
"Eira..."
The sound of Fleur’s voice stopped her cold.
It was shaking. Fragile. Broken.
Eira turned back—and the world fell out from under her.
Fleur’s face was contorted with shock and pain. Her body trembled uncontrollably. Eira’s gaze fell, horrified, and she saw the blood—dark, vivid red—spreading across Fleur’s robes. Her hands flew to Fleur’s sides as the girl staggered.
"No—Fleur!" Eira’s cry ripped from her throat as she darted forward, catching the girl as her knees buckled.
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