While reading Goblet of Fire I realized how curious I was about Charlie and his life in Romania. Considering JKR left it mostly up to interpretation, i came up with this little story. Just some background information that may come in handy later:
*Saoirse, according to my resources, means "freedom", and is pronounced close to "Sheer-sha" or "Share-sha" More according to my laziness than anything else, I gave her the nickname "Shay"
*There are three types of winged horses, not including thestrals. I detail them somewhat in the beginning, but if you're curious the Harry Potter wiki has some information on each.

DISCLAIMER: Almost anything you see in this story actually belongs to J.K. Rowling. The only things that are of my creation are the individual horses, the four living on the farm, Shay's family, and pretty much anyone else with a name you don't recognize.
Also, what you see here I've written just for fun. While critiques are, of course, appreciated, please keep in mind that I won't be taking them entirely to heart. I know this story and the characters and all the rest has (probably enormous) flaws, but that's part of the fun of it.
Take it for what it is, and enjoy!

To the ordinary Muggle's eye, this was no more than a vast sweep of green was nothing more than what it appeared to be: a field for grazing animals, inhabited by a small quantity of the normal inhabitants. A stocky Ardennes horse roamed lazily, nose to the ground. Further up, a small flock of sheep congregated like thunderclouds. As they walked or drove or bicycled down the narrow, curving street that all but came up to the farmhouse's front door, they didn't see the curious tilt of winged horse ears, didn't hear the rush of their wings (although maybe they mistook the sound for a wind they could hardly feel) and they definitely didn't see the bony black horses moving in the shadows of one of the furthest barns crunching on bones they had kept from previous dinners, enjoying the marrow. And if any of the Muggles noticed the smell of single-malt whiskey wafting over the road, they didn't pay it much mind. All in all, it was a quiet little Welsh farm, nestled away and protected by a full range of spells. Spells to make the farm larger than it appeared and to hide the creatures who lived there.

The house was of a good size and white as a cloud. Its garden was circled by a stone wall, broken by a cast-iron gate and teeming with greenery. A sleek white cat was perched on the wall, washing a paw, green eyes squinted closed. To the eye of a Muggle, the only thing out of the ordinary to see of this little farmhouse was the barn owl perched on its rooftop in broad daylight. It was a thing that could easily be shrugged off, unimportant, merely an oddity in an otherwise normal day. They continued on their own little lines, never intersecting with the people who made the farm what it was.

It was five thirty in the morning, and no one passed on the little winding road. The sun was barely awake, peeping above the horizon like a bleary toddler rubbing its eyes over the coming of morning. It cast its rays over the ground, streaming through the windows and into the farmhouse where the smell of coffee and toast mingled with the faint, sweet scent of orange marmalade. In the back hall, a place the sun had yet to find, two small, sock-clad feet slid into a pair of Wellington boots that once had been bright, fire-engine red. Dressed comfortably in Muggle clothes - faded, worn (but never holey) blue jeans, green t-shirt, black fleece - the young woman pressed heavily against the wooden door whose hinges stuck. After a few quick shoves of her shoulder, the thing swung open with a complaining groan. Boots skimming through the dew-wet grass, she cut across to the largest barn, putting the whole of her slight weight into pulling open the large double doors. As if it had been waiting for just this opportunity, the sun pushed past the petite young woman (not much of an adversary, really) and into the shadows.

The barn was a large structure with five spacious rows of stalls pressed to each wall. Stacked on top of these like building blocks were five more stalls, accompanied by no more than a thin wooden walkway enchanted to protect against falls. There were three barns like this, each spaced a good distance from its companions. In each barn, winged horses were waiting, shifting their wings and stomping their hooves, ready for breakfast and flight.

"Morning, my lovelies!" The young woman called into the barns' depths, from which came the responses of the impatient creatures. Perhaps they only knew her as "the strange two-legged thing who brings food," but, hey, if it got her this kind of a welcome she could deal with that. With a flick of her wand (for the girl was, quite obviously, a witch) the doors to all twenty stall doors slid open and twenty Abraxans walked and flew to press close around her, butting her with their noses and shoving their withers against her shoulders.
"Hey, now!" The voice was sharp, commanding, and hardly what one would expect from this particular girl. "Easy, or there won't be breakfast, am I clear? Line up!"The horses turned and pranced off, nipping and kicking in small doses as pecking order was established, the last-in-line standing with his head quite low. At the front, the lead stallion arced his neck, fluttered his wings, and pranced.
"Hallo, Altair. Hold still a moment, you brute, it's coming." Stifling a yawn, she disappeared a moment into a store-room, and emerged again with a large barrel following along behind her. Another wave of the wand brought a long trough up from the floor in front of the horses, whose wings lifted from their backs in anticipation.
"Don't you dare!" Their human caretaker scolded sharply. Their wings folded petulantly, and Altair stretched his neck to nip at a curling lock of chestnut hair. She slapped at the muzzle which jerked away with a snort. "Look, you lot, do you want breakfast or not?"

Altair snorted and seemed to nod his head decisively, pawing at the ground with a fore hoof. The witch's wand flicked, the barrel tipped, and single-malt whiskey streamed into the trough. Altair's head dipped first, followed by the lead mare, and on down the line. Abraxans were big, powerful things who ate only single-malt whiskey: golden in color, but not always at heart with shining, ruby-red eyes. They required a good degree of force, a strength that could combat their own brute force. They were good creatures, really, if only much too aware of their own strength and what it could earn them. Any show of fear, even the slightest tremble, could lose you an Abraxan's respect for ever.

Leaving the horses to their own herd mechanics to sort out the rest of breakfast, the young woman moved on to the next barn (chestnut Aethonans, whom she treated with a much gentler demeanor) and the next (silver-grey Granians). Saving the Thestrals for last was her usual practice: though she loved the rest of the herds, the Thestrals held a special place. They appeared fearsome but, bred from Hogwarts' own herd and given to her by Hagrid himself, the small herd had begun with only a few little foals. Perhaps that was what kept her so attached to them, the memory of little, bony-black things who stumbled over their own wings but could tear into a raw shank of meat with the best of them. They were sweet and gentle with people, when trained correctly, and these ones happily came to meet her when she approached with their bright red raw breakfast.

"Hello, all of you," she whispered, letting their dragon-like faces inspect her with the gentleness of a lamb. They nudged into her pockets, white eyes glittering. Their glossy coats shifted, rippling over the bones beneath, a sight that had made her cringe as a second-year.

"They won' hurt 'ye," Hagrid had said, appearing behind the twelve year old rather suddenly. His voice was low, and she remembered that he kept glancing at her schoolmates. "They jus' look a bit funny, is all."And he had been right, of course. From then on, she'd sneak out some nights, down to the kitchens and then to the forest where she could watch the thestrals to her heart's content. One had become a special companion of hers, a colt who would rest his head on her lap when she stretched out beneath a tree, his leathery wings folded like a baby chick's. It was one of his foals who had started this herd.

"Shay!"

She glanced up from the filly who had been nudging her hands with a sharp nose, over her shoulder to the house behind. A wild, golden-haired head emerged from one of the windows.

"Shay! Mail's here!"

"I'll be right there, Addie!"

Saoirse Abigail Morse (or Shay, as most preferred to call her) was nineteen years old and a full-fledged member of the wizarding world outside of Hogwarts. Petite and slender with curling brown hair and bright blue eyes, she didn't look much the type to handle Abraxan horses or hippogriffs, but she managed just fine despite the fact. She gave each thestral a last scratch behind the ears and turned back to the house, watching as the horses each moved into their own stretches of land. The herds were separated, of course, by magical barriers. These same barriers kept them from flying high enough to interfere with any Muggle airplanes or scampering away into other farmlands. And still there was enough room for them to stretch their wings.

The front door opened easily, and Shay stepped inside, peeling her Wellies from her feet and padding down the sunlit corridor to the kitchen. The day was breaking bright and warm: Shay pulled the fleece off and draped it on a nearby coat hook. The same blonde who had called Shay in from the fields was frying sausages over the stove. She turned in and grinned at Shay.

"Mail's on the table," she said cheerily. "Breakfast?"

"No thanks," Shay replied absently, sorting through the mail. "I already ate."

The other girl snorted. "If you call a puny slice of bread with a bit of marmalade eating…"

Shay chuckled, sliding three envelopes from the pile on the table.

"Addie, you know me."

"Ach, you've hardly got more flesh on you than those thestrals."

"Excuse me!" Shay said with a laugh. "Just because I eat nothing more than toast or fruit for breakfast hardly makes me a thestral."

Addie hummed noncommittally, turning back to her stove. Heavy footsteps thumped down the back stairs, leaping over the last one (a hollow stair where a boggart had taken up residence: a very particular boggart who didn't bother to wake up unless you made his stair creak).

"Morning, all!" a deep male voice rumbled. "What's breakfast?" "Morning, Rob," the two girls chorused.

"Where's Aaron?" Addie asked, prodding a sausage with a fork.

"Asleep. Where else? What's this?" "Breakfast," Addie replied. "Or part of it."

"Where's the rest of it?"

"Yet to be made,"

Shay shook her head, grabbing another mug of coffee on her way out of the kitchen. She entered the shabbily comfortable sitting room, flopping down on the uneven cushions of the sofa and peeling into the two envelopes. One was a letter from her cousin, Oliver Wood, focused mostly on Quidditch, though it fumbled to an awkward close when he asked "How in the world do I decipher girls, Shay? Does she fancy me, or am I making it all up?" Awkward, but endearing. Shay chuckled and set the letter aside, noting that she would have to write Ol back, when she had time to shfit through all of the Quidditch chatter. The next one was significantly thicker, addressed from her parents. Inside, a three page letter and a packet of photos, as if her mother had been so excited by each of them that she just had to have picture after picture after picture.

The letter, like all of those by her mother, was chatty and mid-deep and happy, including several photographs. The letter rambled on, explaining in detail each and every photo until, finally, it came to its "Love, Mum"conclusion. And then, in hurried, slanting scrawl: P.S. Dad got first-rate tickets to the Quidditch World Cup! There's one for you, if you'd like to come

"Hey!" Shay called through the house, receiving two mumbled responses. "Any way you could cover for me a couple of days this August?"

"I don't see why not," Addie called back. "Why, though?"

"Dad got World Cup tickets, and Mum wants me to join them. I haven't seen them in ages, so I might as well."
"Think your thestrals can live without you?" Rob asked. Shay rolled her eyes and walked back to the kitchen, leaning in the doorframe.
"I think they'll be just fine, with Aaron and Addie looking after them. Don't you dare try to, though. You'd end up tossing meat to squirrels."

"Not my fault I've never seen anyone kick the bucket," Rob replied, reaching over as Addie set down the tray of sausages. She swatted his hand away.

"Wait for plates, at least. You're not an animal."

Rob growled, wrinkling his nose, grey eyes sparkling mischievously. Addie set down three plates and sets of silverware, three glasses, three mugs. Shay cradled her own coffee mug in her hands, taking a sip.

"Ireland vs. Bulgaria," she said thoughtfully. "Anyone want to open the betting?"

"Three Galleons on Ireland," said a smooth tenor voice from behind: Aaron had finally appeared, the sharp features of his face shadowed from lack of sleep. He eased his thin frame into one of the wooden chairs, propping his head up with a hand.

"Were you up all night again?" Addie scowled. Aaron shrugged, looking up at his sister with his usual melancholy gaze.

"Just 'til two thirty," he said. Shay sacrificed her mostly-full cup of coffee, sliding it across the rough wood until it touched Aaron's elbow. He nodded his appreciation, moving to cradle the cup in his hands, taking a deep gulp.

"Two thirty when you're up at six is not a good thing," Addie scolded. "Not when dealing with these horses, you idiot."

Aaron took another sip of coffee, set the mug down, and ruffled a hand through his shaggy blonde hair.

"Tell me something I don't know, Add," he said sharply. Then: "How about that bet, Shay?"

"I'll bet," Rob said, "that Bulgaria gets the Snitch."

"Bulgaria?" Aaron asked.

"Krum's a good Seeker," Rob shrugged.

"One good player against Ireland's full team," Aaron replied. "I'd say those are damn good odds."

"All right, everyone," Addie cut in. "Why don't we eat breakfast and forget about Quidditch for all of two seconds? Shay, you sure you don't want anything?"

"Positive, Adds. But thanks."

Shay poured herself a replacement cup of coffee and sat down at the table, letting the day and her friends wake up around her.

The day of the cup arrived, and Shay woke earlier than usual to say her good-byes to the horses: the rowdy Abraxans, the gentle Aethonans, the highs strung Granians and the ethereal thestrals. The morning was silent and chill without the sun: as she walked, Shay drank coffee from a thermos and passed apples to some horses, sugar cubes to others, and strips of beef to the thestrals. Pockets finally empty she made her way back to the house, changed her clothes, ran a brush through her hair and left again with a satchel: she would stay with her family until Catrina left for Hogwarts, and then, finally, she would head back to the horses. The trek to the marked place for Apparition was not a far one, but it was long enough for her to mull over just what she was thinking. Everyone went to the World Cup, if they could. It wasn't an event that was lightly missed in wizarding society, after all. She turned quickly on her heel and with a crack which startled the grazing of some of the horses, vanished into thin air.