Right, the second chapter's up. Thanks heaps to those people that reviewed. I'll be quick coz I have to go.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the plot. But I might one day... mwahahahahaha...
The Secret Diary of Seamus Finnigan
We won! Only by ten points, but still, we won! Not that I doubted for a second. We had to win. So what if the Bulgarians had Krum? We had Connolly and Ryan and Troy and Mullet and Moran and Quigley and Lynch! There's seven good players and they only had one! Ha!
Anyway, I'm too happy to describe the whole match at the moment. It was all too good, and it would take pages and pages to write down the whole thing, and besides, I'm running out of ink. However, before I can't write anymore, there's a weird thing that happened near the end of the match. Or maybe it wasn't so weird, it just seemed weird to me, coz he was looking straight at me.
I was watching Krum through my binoculars – yeah, that's right, ordinary binoculars. I couldn't afford omnioculars – when Krum swung round on his broom, and he seemed to be looking right at me. But he must have been staring at something, coz there was a Bludger zooming straight at him and he didn't even see it till the last second when one of his team-mates called out to him. By that time, though, it was too late. He didn't duck in time and it slammed straight into his nose. I swear I heard the sickening crunch as it hit, only I couldn't have, coz I was too far away.
But anyway, he was staring straight at me! Like, his eyes were looking into mine, except that couldn't happen either, coz he probably couldn't see my eyes as the binoculars were in the way. But if he could've, he would have been.
I swear, he was staring at me. But I've knocked over my drink, so I'll finish writing now.
Anyway, we won! So I'm going clean up my drink and celebrate.
The Secret Diary of Viktor Krum
I saw my true love for the first time today. He was just an ordinary spectator; I thought when I initially noticed him. Just an ordinary Irish spectator. I payed little attention to him; it's not like he was the only Irish supporter there. But as the game went on. I looked at him more and more. There was nothing special about him, but something about him fascinated me. When I was supposed to be watching for the Snitch, I found myself drawn towards his end of the pitch. I watched him closely, trying to understand what had made him stand out. He was just one little green man in a mass of little green men, but the way he jumped and waved his arms and shouted was so elegant, so graceful. It almost looked like a dance move. He was perfect, I thought to myself. I could look at him forever.
Or not. Occasionally I remembered that I was supposed to be playing a Quidditch match, not ogling a random member of the crowd. I was lucky nothing terrible happened. I could have been hit by a Bludger and killed.
In the end, I did get hit. I was staring at my love, whoever he is, when I heard someone yelling at me. "Duck, Viktor!" I looked up. There was a Bludger coming straight towards me. Not enough time to duck, but I tried anyway. It hit me in the face. I broke my nose; it's probably going to be crooked forever now, and my love will never love me the way I love him.
As the Bludger hit me, I heard whoever was shouting at me yelling, "Honestly, how thick are you!" but I wasn't really listening: Lynch had seen the Snitch. For the first time in the whole game, I really tried to focus. I pushed Him out of my mind and followed Lynch. I caught up to him, passed him and got the Snitch, then wheeled round to look at my true love. He was cheering. He looked so beautiful, so… Oh, I don't know. How can I describe him? He's simply perfect. But I don't even know his name, so I can't track him down and find him. Still, I must be blessed to get those glimpses of him during the game.
Oh, one more thing. We lost.
The Secret Diary of Volkov, One of Krum's Team-Mates
I'm worried about Viktor. Ever since we lost the World Cup, he's been strangely, deliriously happy. As if we won. Usually when we lose - not that us losing is a usual occurrence – he gets really depressed. I don't mind that he's happy; that's probably a good thing. I expected him to be close to suicide after we lost. He doesn't take losing well.
Finally, after a day of being completely puzzled by his behaviour, I asked him, "What's so good, Vik?"
"That," he declared happily, "was the best game of Quidditch I've ever played in my life."
I frowned. Maybe he's losing his memory. "Uh… Vik, don't you remember?"
"Remember what?"
He seemed so happy; I didn't want to re-break the news to him. "We lost, Viktor."
Viktor shrugged – shrugged as in "So what?" Like he didn't care.
"But… you— we—" I didn't know what to say. It didn't matter. Vik seemed to understand what I was asking.
"I met – well, saw – my true love yesterday."
There wasn't much I could say to that either. This must be a really true true love if she makes Vik happy when he's just lost the World Cup.
