A/N: Hi! Hope you enjoy my latest foray into the HP verse. It's been a while! For anyone interested, I am still working on a sequel for Serpent Tongue and I'm about halfway through it. That story turned pretty dark, so I wrote this to lighten things up for me a little. I'll get posting that one hopefully fairly soon.

This story is set almost directly after Order of the Phoenix, in the summer between Harry's fifth and sixth years. My take on Harry playing professional Quidditch and going on a journey of self-discovery.

Harry could not believe it had only been two weeks since he'd arrived back in Privet Drive. He could have sworn someone had cast a spell on the clocks in the Dursley household to prevent them moving at a normal speed.

Upon arriving back at the house he hated, Harry had largely entirely isolated himself from everyone else, something the Dursleys were more than happy to accommodate. He lay flat on his back in his bedroom staring at the ceiling, trying and failing not to see the recurring image of his nightmares; Sirius falling backwards through the Veil.

So far, he'd failed miserably.

He had not felt this lifeless for as long as he could remember, unless it had been last year after the traumatic events of the Triwizard Tournament. Long hours holed up in his bedroom were split between crippling lethargy, silent tears and vicious self-loathing. Why did I go to the Ministry? Sirius is dead because of me.

Today was just like every other. He had lain on his bed all night, slowly watching the sky outside turn from black night to a rosy dawn without making an effort to move. The lingering mist of the last couple of weeks pressed up against the windows. His stomach grumbled, but he hardly cared. The emptiness inside him could not be filled with anything as basic as food.

Judging by the sounds from the rest of the house, it was now sometime after breakfast, but he still did not get up. He wondered idly how long he could spend wasting away in this pokey little room. Would there be anything left of him come September?

A clattering at his window drew his attention, and he finally exerted himself to turn his head and see what had caused the noise. Hedwig had swooped in through the open window and had settled herself on his desk, hooting reproachfully at him. A letter was clutched in her beak.

Sighing, but knowing that Hedwig would start making a mess of his room if he did not get up, he dragged himself off the bed and walked towards her. His legs were slightly wobbly as he put weight on them for the first time in hours. She allowed him to take the letter from her beak and then immediately shoved her head against his hand, almost as if she was trying to comfort him.

Harry smiled, and filled the food tray in her cage, removing the water dish and going to the bathroom to fill it up. Hedwig bobbed her head gratefully and began her breakfast in earnest. He was glad of her presence here; it was the only interaction he had with another living thing these days.

Going back to his bed, Harry recognised the handwriting as Ron's. He couldn't feel enthusiastic about it. Ron and Hermione had both written to him several times since the start of the summer, both seeking perhaps to try and comfort him over the loss of Sirius, but their letters were hesitant and a bit timid. They didn't quite understand what he was feeling. He couldn't blame them; neither of them had lost someone. Instead, he tried to feel grateful they were thinking of him. It was making him feel far less alone than he had last year when he thought he'd been abandoned by everybody.

It didn't change the fact, however, that the letters simply didn't make him feel any better. In fact, the effort of replying in as cheerful a manner as he could was draining him far worse than his constant moping.

Harry broke the seal, hoping perhaps that this one would be different. Ron's handwriting was as large and scrawling as usual.

Harry—

Hope you're doing okay. You sounded happier in your last letter.

Mad what's going on, right? Did you get the Ministry pamphlets about protecting yourself? Mum's read them out to us so many times we know them off by heart. I've never seen her so manic. She's got us all on curfews!

Can't wait till you can get here. Fred and George are at their flat in Diagon Alley all the time so they're not here often, and Bill's too occupied with Fleur (did I tell you they're engaged now?) so I'm bored stiff. Hermione's coming next week sometime I think, so maybe you can come then as well?

Anyway, big thing I wanted to say was about Quidditch. I don't know how up to date you are with the European Championship that's been going on, but England made it to the final! I know, I was shocked too. One of the players is even from the Chudley Cannons! They weren't sure if the final was going to go ahead with everything that's happened, but it looks like it is. It's being held in Ireland so maybe they think it's safer from You-Know-Who there (though we all remember what happened last time there was a big Quidditch match). You remember how I said Dad couldn't get tickets this year? Well, he's been promoted and he's got a bit more influence now and managed to get some! You're welcome to come with us again. The final's on your birthday—how great would that be? And I won't have to get you a present. Ha!

Anyway, write back and say if you can come or not. With all the Dark stuff going on I think we'd all like to have a break.

See you soon,

Ron

Harry read this through twice and then set it down, coming to back down on his bed. Quidditch. It seemed like such a normal thing to be doing after everything. Under normal circumstances, he'd be chomping at the bit to go. But now?

He sighed and read through the letter again. He wasn't sure. As Ron said, the last Quidditch match he'd been to had been a bit of a disaster. It seemed like tempting fate to go again, especially now that Voldemort was out into the open. With thousands of wizards all in one place, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to cause mayhem.

As he read, he noticed another piece of paper in the envelope. He pulled it out and saw a clipping from the Daily Prophet. He himself had stopped reading it properly after finding nothing but depressing news, especially the recent reports of the deaths of Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance. He'd glossed over all mentions of the upcoming tournament, not finding any interest in it, remembering Ron mentioning it vaguely during their OWLs and expressing his annoyance at not being able to go.

The clipping was dated from a couple days ago.

EUROPEAN CHAMPIONSHIP TO GO AHEAD

CONFIRMATION FROM IRISH MINISTER FOR MAGIC

It was confirmed late last night by representatives from the Irish Ministry of Magic that the one hundredth and third European Quidditch Championship final would be held as planned later this month, after Minister for Magic, Bernardus Hughes intervened personally in the matter. "Allowing these tragic events to stop us from having fun is letting evil win," Minister Hughes said yesterday. "This competition has been the work of several years planning, and both teams have worked incredibly hard over the last few months to reach the final. Not to have the final would be a travesty."

Ministry representatives were quick to assure sports fans that additional security is being put in place in preparation for the final, which is now scheduled to take place on 31st July after being postponed to allow for a security review, and that there would be no repeat of the carnage of the Quidditch World Cup held in Britain two years ago. Both teams are said to have agreed to the new security measures and are eager to begin training after being kept on standby for the past week as the future of the match was held in doubt.

England manager Theodoric Fowler, (known better to Quidditch fans as Theo "The Fouler" from his days as Puddlemere United Beater) was quoted as saying: "I don't give a damn about Death Eaters or You-Know-Who. Quidditch is Quidditch. Nothing will stop us playing." Swedish manager Helena Karlsson made no statement but snorted loudly when asked if she had any concerns about the safety of her team.

Quidditch fans will be relieved to hear this news, and no doubt soon many thousands will be making their way to Ireland to cheer on the first British team to reach the European finals since 1892.

This article was headed with several photos of various players expected to take part in the final line-up, some of whom Harry recognised from his copy of Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland, which Hermione had given him a couple of years ago,and other articles from the last few years, including the one in flaming orange robes, who Harry deduced to be the Chudley Cannons player, having seen him several times on Ron's extensive memorabilia. Next to them all was a photograph of the manager; a surly looking wizard with a somewhat squashed face.

Harry put this article beside the letter and hugged his knees to his chest as he considered what he should do. He sat thinking for a long time, hearing the Dursleys pulling away in their car after a while, possibly to go to the new theme park Harry had heard Dudley whining about the other day. None of them had bothered to tell Harry they were leaving.

The thought of doing something as fun as going to a Quidditch match was as daunting as it was reassuring. How could he get away with enjoying himself when people were dying?

He was thinking so intently he almost missed the sound of the doorbell ringing. He sat bolt upright, heart hammering before he calmed himself. A Death Eater wouldn't ring the doorbell. Harry waited a few moments, hoping they'd go away; visitors to the Dursley household were never very welcome, and in any case, Aunt Petunia never let him answer the door. When it sounded again, he reluctantly slid off his bed and headed downstairs.

He paused before the door, steeling himself. His wand was stuck in his back pocket and his hand twitched towards it as he slowly pulled the door open and peered outside to see who could possibly want to visit the Dursleys. His jaw dropped open.

Standing on the front doorstep, dressed in muddy but expensive robes, was none other than Theodoric Fowler, the England manager Harry had only just finished reading about.

Fowler raised his eyebrow as Harry gaped at him. "Well, are you going to invite me in, Potter? Or will I have to stand outside all day?"

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! In Rowling's world, there are several hints which suggest that the entirety of Ireland is governed by the British Ministry of Magic, but I've ignored that for the purposes of this fic. I needed the match held in a predominately English speaking country in Europe, and Britain was out since it hosted the World Cup two years before. Therefore, there are two governments, but they are closely linked.

Story is completed, so will definitely not be abandoned. Updates will hopefully be fairly regular.