My eyes flew open. The bright white pierced my pupils, stabbing tiny pinpricks of light into my eyes. I didn’t care. Today is the day; the day of the Quidditch world cup final. Excitement tore through me like a racing car around a track. My palms were sweating and my only thoughts were of Quidditch. I thundered downstairs like a herd of elephants, excitement stealing all elements of self-control I may have had. Bacon was frying on the stove, its fragrant odour reached my nostrils and I inhaled the god like sent. I pulled the worn chair from the table and sat down with an ominous creek. I placed the bacon in my mouth and my taste buds exploded. The salty sweet taste erupted – it was heaven. I continued my divine breakfast, worshipping each mouthful as though the Holy Spirit was contained within. I finished my glorious breakfast and raced back upstairs, my state of euphoria returning after my brief period of composure. I brushed my teeth in a matter of seconds, the cool minty taste washing away any lingering tastes of bacon, then rinsed out my mouth where the icy water created a small inferno in my mouth. My breath coming out in small puffs of steam like a fluffy clouds on a summer’s day, I raced into my room (though admittedly at a slightly slower pace). Pulling my dark red sweater over my head I was soon dressed. The jumper, though itchy, showed my adoring support for Bulgaria. Back downstairs in record time I threw open the front door and stepped out into the morning. My Father trailed behind, at a slightly slower pace, laden down with bags; I raced on in front the grass glistening and each individual drop of dew shining in the sunlight like stars in the night sky.
I slowly began to clamber up the hill, my stride becoming shorter and shorter and my excitement waving in the face of the task ahead. But when I eventually reached the top it returned in full force. I looked out into the distance where the village I’d left looked like a tiny ants nest. I felt like a god, lording over the mortals below. I looked around on the crest of the hill and spotted it. The portkey. It was less significant than I’d imagined: merely a worn, faded boot sitting innocently. However this was my saviour. This insignificant item was my journey home to the Quidditch ground. I knelt and place one figure on it. It was icy cold to the touch and soaked through from the night’s rain. Then it activated… and we were off.
I was thrown into a swirling vortex of colours; spinning round and round at a million miles an hour. A thundering roar met my ears as I inhaled the stifling air. Then the world became defined once more as I hit the world with an uncomfortable thump! Immediately I was overwhelmed by new sights, smells, sounds. The fresh, green grass tickled my nose as the sounds of new voices met my ears. We had arrived. The heat was stifling; a warm bead of sweat slowly trickled down my neck like the first raindrop on a window. I moved slowly, taking in the new sights. Brightly coloured tents were everywhere, all decked with moving posters of the international Quidditch players. As I plodded through a section of burgundy canvas, a sulky Victor Krum scowled down at me. My excitement returned tenfold. I eventually made my way to our campsite, my Dad having left me behind long ago and looked at our tent in awe. It was a mansion? The outside was nothing special – though I made my distaste known for the bright orange – I was most definitely not a supporter of the Chudley Cannons. But the inside… With three tastefully furnished bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a lounge I never understood why some muggles hated camping. After a few minutes exploring the house that was in fact a tent, I made my way back outside. A quickly spotted a stall full to the brim with merchandise and speedily made my way over. I pulled out my money bad where the delightful jangling of hundreds of bronze knuts, silver sickles and gold galleons met my ears. I grinned as I picked up as much as I could carry and exchanged it for the appropriate amount of money. Then a foghorn blew, summoning up a multitude of emotions that began to course through my body. It was time.