A/N: Thank you for all your reviews!

May 5

Ministry Of Magic

My brother, Holden, dropped by this afternoon. He claims that he wanted to "talk to me," but I think this was a weak cover-up to eat the entire contents of my refrigerator. Although I'm glad Holden is quickly recovering from the mental aftermath of The War, he has not managed to realize I'm not seventeen anymore. He thinks that because he's three years older, he has the all the answers to life's problems.

I was in a rush for work, so his presence created additional stress to my already hypersensitive nerves. I flitted about the kitchen, shoving my heels onto my feet and magically shoving random food into a paper bag, for that day's lunch.

Holden, looking as though he'd just fallen out of bed, worked his way through a box of Krispy Kremes, witnessing my neurotic theatrics. Somehow or another, we started talking about the starting roster of the Manchester United and then Kates and Lee's wedding. Don't ask me how, but he's a master at that sort of trickery.

"So, let me get this straight. You're dying to go to Katie's wedding. Yet you're scared you're going to run into that Weasley kid," he recapped.

I frowned, rummaging through a pile of papers on the countertop, attempting to locate the ten page report I had feverishly finished the previous night. After majoring in Criminal Justice at Manchester and graduating with honors, I desperately wanted to play professional Quidditich.

I had tried out for a few teams, but sadly was not recruited due to "lack of experience." Whatever that means. Alas, I was forced to get a day job and make some real money. I didn't want to add "homeless" to my lengthy list of negative attributes. Anyway, my Dad pulled some strings and I landed a job at the Ministry.

I work in the Department of Minor Misdemeanors and Wizardly Infractions. In simplistic terms, I file a lot of papers, review a bunch of cases concerning petty crimes (i.e. stealing, local burglaries, etc) and make endless pots of coffee for my Department Head.

However, a secure place of employment has not thwarted my dreams of Quidditich fame and glory. I landed a try-out with Arsenal, England's professional Qudditich team; number two in the national division league. The date is June 22nd, a few days after Katie's wedding. I'm more so anxious than downright nervous; I've been training about 3-4 times a week, if work allows.

Although Holden's a decent player, he's definitely too relaxed and soft to really consider a challenging training partner. So, I dropped a note to Hogwart's MostPsychotic Quidditich Captain (Ever), Oliver Wood, and requested his excellent teaching skills. He gladly accepted and I've been popping over to his house for practice sessions. Ollie bought a house in the country, so he would have a lot of acres for a Quidditich pitch.

He proudly told me that he tries to practice at least 4 hours a day, whether it be running drills or creating new defensive and offensive tactics for his team, Puddlemere United Reserve.

I smiled, patted his shoulder and serenely said, "You really need a girlfriend."

He twisted his face into sour disagreement, and then started spewing complaints about his last girlfriend, a sports journalist named Jade. Apparently, Ollie still doesn't understand the reasons to their messy breakup; Oliver forget their 6 month anniversary due to a coinciding semi-finals tournament.

Nice to know some things never change.

My back was turned away from Holden, but I could practically feel the warmth of his smug smirk.

"Correct. And would you stop calling him that Weasley kid. You know his name," I tensely ordered.

Holden chuckled, spraying bits of chocolate éclair on the table.

"Lina, you're absolutely nutters. Last time I talked to you, Fred was a…what was it? Oh yes, he was an immature git, who didn't have the heart or brain power to think about anyone but his fat-headed self."

I whipped around, glaring. All right, maybe I had insulted Fred. But couldn't he tell I was undergoing extreme emotional turmoil? You can't coincidentally bump into your ex-boyfriend and pretend that the situation isn't awkward enough to make your skin itch.

"First of all, I didn't call him a git. I called him a wanker. Second of all, I had just thrown a ten pound chocolate cake at his face. And finally, wankers have names too, you know."

I didn't know why I was defending Fred. He didn't even deserve a fair trial. Holden considerably perked up at the mere mention of cake.

"Cake? Why'd you go and waste a nice cake on that poor sod?" he teased, though sincerely curious.

His rich, cappuccino colored eyes flickered with brotherly affection, though at the moment, I found it downright annoying.

I sighed, hoping to block out the oncoming flood of memories. I could still smell the misty evening and drink in the sight of the half-moon painted against the startling blackness of the sky.

We'd been young and foolish back then, running past the possibilities of the present and searching, greedily grasping for the idealistic rendezvous of the hazy future. The war threatened to smash through our glass surface; The Daily Prophet was usually smeared with gory headlines about startled victims, incinerated by Death Eaters.

The entire wizard community was hanging by their teeth and nails, forcing fake smiles of confidence, when their initial reaction was to lock themselves in their houses and bolt the doors. And then, of course, there was Fred.

Though his great escape from Hogwarts had reformed his appetite for courting adventure, he still believed that his imperceptible, flimsy cape of adolescent invincibility was enough to protect him from the dangers of the real world. It was the beginning of sophomore year and I thought I possessed all the answers.

In all actuality, the only thing I had were a bunch of pretentious assumptions. The candles burned with vengeance on the buttery plane of my birthday cake. I was turning 21 and would finally be considered an adult; yet I clung to the relics of my youth, pretending to flaunt wisdom like a toddler indulges in their mother's wardrobe and favorite lipstick.

Everything had been fine, up until the breaking point. Fred planned a surprise party at his flat. Presents were exchanged, laughs floated above the chatter of old friends and old acquaintances, kisses were stolen when the audience wasn't looking. And I felt like I was sixteen again, falling in love with Fred Weasley for the first time.

Around midnight, the party settled to a slow broil and one by one, the guests left, taking their bubbly grins and conversational phrases. We were cleaning up, when our discourse ventured into unspoken territory. Fred boldly stated that in three weeks, he would be packing up and heading out to basic training.

In three weeks, Fred was going to officially join the war.

I honestly felt like I had been pummeled by a metal baseball bat. He had failed to inform me of his decision and I was already walking a dangerously small tightrope. Holden was gallivanting around the English countryside, heartily engaged in the war effort. His letters were far and few; my parents donned shaky hands to display their anxiety. The world was collapsing, devoured by flames and Fred had suddenly decided to throw himself into the fire.

Naturally, we got into a row. Naturally, I said some things I never meant and he issued witty insults that I still haven't forgotten. Trapped in my state of rage, I picked up the remainder of my birthday cake and chucked it at his head.

He ducked and without a word, marched out the door. I didn't bother to make amends the following day; I was content to stew in my malice and spite. However, two more days passed without any word from Fred and I began to get worried. The war was escalating with violent fury; The Ministry was pleading for new volunteers.

That night, like an ode to Guy Fawkes, there was a failed bombing at The Ministry of Magic. Word spread fast; troops were skipping basic training and being immediately sent to the front lines. An alarm sounded in my gut and I knew that I had to apologize to Fred as soon as possible. I popped over to his flat and found out he was gone.

We haven't spoken since.

Our relationship started with a bang; it's no surprise that it ended with a cosmic fulmination.

It hurts to know that I never got the opportunity to explain my reasoning or issue an apology; what's even more painful is to uphold the knowledge that he's still out there, living each day to the fullest, his thoughts of me forlorn and abandoned; cobwebs in the archives of his mind that have been cleaned out with a vacuum.

But I've kept my sentiments to myself; bide them goodnight and secured them in their protective blankets. As far as I know, Fred has never mentioned me or expressed concern about my whereabouts; it's much easier to ignore his existence, than wishing he'd notice mine.

I would have let this spill out, because Merlin knows it was nearly driving me crazy. But Holden only knows the general terms of our breakup; the cut and dry version without the tears and the confusion. So I looked at him and shrugged.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

His smirk was swapped for a puzzled line.

Though he didn't say it, I knew he didn't believe me.

May 7

My Flat

All right, so I honestly think I've been blind for the past twenty-three years.

Went over Oliver's after a short shift at The Ministry and I nearly choked on my own drool.

Let's just say that Oliver's obsession for Quidditich has nicely translated into the dependent language of his arms...

And his abs...

And his legs...

And those shoulders...!

Wait...

Oh. My. Zeus.

I have just admitted to fully checking out Oliver Wood's new and improved body like a slab of beef on display.

I think being single has polluted my mind. I need to get a date...and fast. Who knows that I'll say or do next? Maybe this is karma's way of punishing me for rejecting Xander's offer to grab a coffee. I mean, he's a nice bloke and all, but every time he talks, I can't help but notice his teeth.

They resemble husks of California corn growing out of genetically mutated stalks. And that's putting the description in poetic terms.

I almost started to accept, out of sympathy, when I realized that I would have to endure a possible thirty minute interval of being captivated by his jagged bicuspids.

So before Xander could launch into his stint about the wonders of Japanese anime, I quickly declined his proposition, explaining that I had to go visit my Grandmother in St. Mungo's, who had recently gone into cardiac and emotional arrest due to a recent run-in with her childhood phobia; Alaskan penguins.

I threw in some fancy, anatomy terms, due to that recent marathon of ER.

Sadly, he totally bought it.

Ah...it's official.

I'm totally going to hell.