Announcement: You yelled, you swore, you sent me threatening emails, you threatened to set my dog on fire, you… did absolutely none of that. Nope. Not a one. You were all polite and nice and amazingly supportive. I'm just scum. Guilt-ridden scum. Ah well. I'm guilt-ridden scum who's updating, so that's something I suppose.
Here's your new chapter. Which will be closely followed by another chapter which I'm taking a break from writing so that I can post this one. But I'll get right back to doing that again, while I continue sip my Hot Chocolate and listen to Alkaline Trio… er… I mean, while I continue to flagellate myself for not updating and survive on nothing but stale bread and water... yeah that's what I mean. Ahem. Anyway.

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I am naught but a mindless drone, loitering on the World Wide Web with a story to tell and a suitable forum to tell it in...

Harry had stopped reading. He hadn't done so for any particular reason, other than the fact that he wanted to check a few things. First off, whether Sofia Ivanova was really on the Bulgarian Quidditch team. It didn't sound like much but it was bothering him. Had he stood in the top box at the Quidditch World cup, mere metres away from the girl that his father referenced so fondly? Was his father, in fact, responsible for her being there? Had he really been within a hundred yards of someone who knew his father and HADN'T felt the need to comment on the resemblance?

Harry needed to know.

And so he rummaged around in the bottom of his trunk, searching for the Programme Guide he'd purchased at the World Cup. He knew it was in there after all… somewhere.

He also knew that Hedwig was a week late from returning from Ron's, and that his Daily Prophet subscription wasn't arriving. But since he was more aware than most, just how paranoid Order Members and Aurors were, he wasn't too concerned. If he wasn't getting incoming mail by the end of the week then he'd throw a strop. Similarly, if Hedwig wasn't back by the end of the week he was fairly certain she'd claw someone's eyes out.

It was nice having a pet who understood and emulated you, he'd decided.

After about half an hour of rifling around in the deepest darkest recesses of his trunk, Harry finally found the Guide. He'd also found Lockhart's (still not even attempted) homework assignment on Cornish Pixies, three paperclips (which they didn't use at Hogwarts so how they'd got in there was entirely beyond him) and, much to his bemusement, a plectrum. But none of that was important.

Flicking through the guide, he paused on Krum's page. Surprisingly, none of the players were wearing their Quidditch Robes, but instead were clad in what he assumed were their 'day-to-day outfits'. Krum, for example, was in his Durmstrang robes and scowling quite magnificently into the camera. He leant against the edge of the photograph with his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. It was quite amusing.

Next to him was a basic run down of his life, his family, his game statistics and any comments players wanted to share with the world. Krum's personal comment was "Vot does it matter vot I do or don't say? I play Quidditch. That is all. Now go." Harry found this pretty apt for Viktor's character.

He turned a few more pages before he came to Sofia Ivanova's entry.

She was standing staring directly at the camera with one hand on her hip, and the other dangling at her side like a model. She was abnormally skinny and wore dark grey, tweed trousers and a black polo-neck with ice-pick heels that were actually quite frightening. Her jet-black hair hung down to her waist and gleamed brightly while her skin was a sallow, pale colour not unlike Snape's. Her face was more given to angles than curves, with thin lips and sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were large, and dark looking almost black from a distance.

Her features were arranged in an expression of measured disdain, but as she saw Harry the figure in the picture cocked her head curiously. Her expression did not change, however.

Harry wondered, vaguely, why she wore muggle clothing. Looking at her, she would not have been out of place on a London High Street. She was the only person in the entire booklet who wasn't wearing robes of some kind. She was also, now that he looked, the only female player on the Bulgarian team.

Harry turned his attention to the information on her right. It didn't say much. She was the top goal scorer for the Vrasta Vultures and had been their star Chaser since the age of nineteen. She had been on the Bulgarian National Squad for seven years, which -since she was still only in her mid-twenties- was apparently quite remarkable. She was noted for her speed and skill, often pulling off moves which her team-mates couldn't hope to master and was often thought to be quite noticeably above her fellow Chasers in Bulgaria. At the time of publishing, there was apparently a fairly spirited battle going on between the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, the Vrasta Vultures and the Tutshill Tornados over where she would be going upon completion of her current contract. (Harry could safely say that the Tutshill Tornados had not won that battle, though he still didn't know where she'd gone.)

She had been raised, along with her twin brother Stefan, by her mother and her Aunts. Her father wasn't mentioned. Her unnamed husband, however, was. It mentioned that she was famously unsociable, rarely going out to celebrate with her team mates, even though she had never missed a practise in her entire career and went home to her husband every night.

Her only comment to the interviewer was, "Leave immediately or I'll hurt you." Something Harry dearly wished he'd been able to say to Rita Skeeter without any consequences.

He admitted that he found all this a tad more fascinating than he thought he perhaps should, but he had no way of knowing what had happened to the other members of his father's cabin. Except that, after a quick flick through the programme, that none of them were participating in the Quidditch World Cup. Harry felt oddly cheered by the notion that his father may have, in some way, helped start such a noteworthy Quidditch career.

He was just about to pick up the Notebook once more, when a knock sounded on the door. Harry suppressed a growl.

"Who is it?" he called in the most agreeable tone he could manage.

"Mum says dinner's ready." Dudley told him in annoyance. It was quite clear that Dudley thought himself far above such petty matters as sharing this fact with Harry and felt entirely put upon for having to do so.

Harry grinned. "What we having?" he called innocently.

"Chicken Casserole." Dudley ground out in a resentful way before, quite audibly, referring to Harry as something that - -had Mrs Weasley heard him- - would have probably resulted in a pretty thorough hiding. He then, with equal obviousness, turned and walked back downstairs signalling the end of the discussion. Feeling fairly put upon himself, though for different reasons entirely, Harry got to his feet and followed his cousin downstairs for dinner.

- - -

Harry knew he had to eat. He knew that if he didn't then his mother and father would probably come back from the grave, haunt him and beat the living daylights out of him (or so Sirius had informed him one morning in Grimmauld Place when he'd said he hadn't been hungry). But that didn't change the fact that he'd spent all of dinner dreaming about what was in James' next entry and practically ignoring his plate.

There was only one left before another page of letters, and Harry wasn't about to deny being curious about them too. He wanted to read Sirius's rant again. Maybe some of Lupin's dry humour. Maybe see if Evans… Er, Lily… Er… His Mother, had written another non-hateful hateful letter to his Father. And maybe if James and Peter had figured out something, ANYTHING, to say to one another yet.

But Aunt Petunia seemed rather disinclined to acquiesce his desire to continue reading.

"Clear the table Boy." she snapped irritably.

Out of sheer habit, Harry was about to do as instructed when a thought struck him. Halfway out of his seat, with his hand still reached ridiculously out for the plates, he turned to his Aunt. "Why don't you use my name?" he asked her in a curious tone.

The entire table turned to look at him as though he was off his rocker. Uncle Vernon in particular looked appalled. He articulated the feelings of his family with a very eloquent and engaging, "Eh?"

"My name." Harry repeated. "Harry James Potter. The words by which I am designated and distinguished from others. My title. My appellation. My NAME." he said very slowly, as though explaining something to a group of small children.

Petunia appeared to genuinely consider it for a moment, while Dudley and Vernon just looked at him like he was a lunatic. "I suppose it's shorter." Petunia announced finally. "Now clear the table." she repeated, in a tone which showed no sign of relenting in order to discuss the philosophical ramifications of being unable to refer to someone by their birth name.

With a shrug Harry started to carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen. When the dining room was back in sparkling order he made his way for the stairs eagerly. Then the door rang.

"Bo… Harry," Aunt Petunia corrected herself. "Get the door." Her tone was just as shrill and domineering as ever. But Harry had to give her points for using his actual name for once.

"Yes Aunt Petunia." he called back contritely. Or he was aiming for contrite at any rate. It may have just come across as sullen. With a small, resigned eye-roll he turned away from the banister and moved to open the door. He yanked on it, but it didn't open. With a frown he pulled again, but to no avail.

He realised that the door was still locked, and chose not to think about his luck with opening things lately. When he finally did get it open, he decided he'd liked it a lot better closed anyway.

There, on the other side of the door, was the hulking, purple-faced form of Marge Dursley. Harry felt his stomach drop a few inches and his eyes widen. "Au-Aunt Marge. What… why… what-er… what are you doing here?" he asked in the politest tone he could muster.

"Don't ask questions." she snapped. "Well then, take my things boy. I haven't got all bleeding night. Where's my favourite nephew!" she called past Harry, into the house as she thrust her suitcase at him.

Had Harry not been so shell-shocked, he would have pointed out that Dudley was her only nephew, as he himself was in no way connected with the old bat except by circumstances outside his control. However he was shell-shocked. And, if he were being completely honest, he was also more than a little winded by the suitcase that had just been shoved into his stomach.

He turned slowly to gape speechlessly after Aunt Marge as she waddled confidently into the house. Aunt Petunia had appeared at the bottom of the stairs with her eyes the size of dinner plates. "Marge?" she asked. "I… I hadn't known you were coming for a visit." she commented in brittle voice as she spotted the suitcase in Harry's arms. "Is ah… Is Ripper with you?" she inquired, with much of the same forced politeness Harry himself had just been forced to use.

"No, no. Afraid not Petunia. He's getting old. Not up to travel anymore I'm afraid. I was just at the hospital, thought I drop in by for a few days. Now where's my Ickle Dudders! Where's my Neffy Poo?"

"Oh God. I think I ate too much Chicken Casserole." Harry muttered to himself as a wave of nausea ran through him upon hearing Marge's saccharine tone. Aunt Petunia, who apparently had the ears of a bat, shot him a dangerous glare for the comment. Harry clamped his mouth shut and tried not to say anything else.

"Take that upstairs to the guest room." Aunt Petunia ordered tenaciously. Harry readily did as instructed with visions of his father's notebook dancing through his mind. He swore vehemently under his breath when Aunt Petunia added, "And then come back downstairs! Don't be rude!"

With a heavy heart, Harry took his own sweet time in placing Aunt Marge's things into the Guest Bedroom. When he trudged back downstairs, ten minutes later, it was to be greeted with the sight of Aunt Marge, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and Dudley all sitting drinking tea in the living room. Unsure of whether he was expected to join them or not, Harry hovered by the door.

"Don't just loiter there boy! Let me take a look at you!" Marge bellowed. In some small recess of his brain, Harry wondered why she always felt the need to be so loud. Nevertheless, he did as instructed. As he walked over to her he noted the time on the mantel clock. It was twenty past seven, and he resolved to be barricaded in his room by eight at the very latest.

"Still a scrawny little thing aren't you?" she commented suspiciously. As though Harry were actually greatly substantial and just pretending to be otherwise in order to lull her into a false sense of security.

"Er…" he wasn't sure if it was rhetorical or not, but felt that staying quiet was probably the safest option.

"Still." Marge continued. "A bit more meat on you since the last time I saw you." a spiteful glint appeared in her eyes. "Ran out of here yelling about your good-for-nothing father's honour or some such as I remember it."

"Oh is that how you remember it?" Harry asked, with genuine curiosity as to how the Obliviators had altered her memory of the "incident" three years ago. The cautionary looks he got from the Dursleys was enough to make him swiftly quell any inquiries he had about that particular subject however. "I mean… er… I'm sorry if I upset you at all Aunt Marge." he told her with the most genuine expression he could manage.

The fact that everyone in the room knew he'd love nothing more than the beat Aunt Marge with a large stick until she no longer had the ability to speak, was hardly relevant. They were exchanging (un) pleasantries after all.

"The only thing that upset me, Boy," Aunt Marge snarled at him with narrow eyes. "Was that you came back."

'Such a delightful woman' Harry thought sarcastically. He wondered whether he'd be able to use that comment of hers to make a break for it, but Aunt Petunia had apparently already thought of that.

"Why don't you go and get some biscuits Harry?" she said curtly. "Then come back in and have a seat over there." she waved vaguely towards a chair which was slightly separate from the others in the room. Harry nodded, but sent Aunt Petunia a look of pure venom before he left. Might as well make his feelings known he supposed.

Half an hour later he was ready to smash his head off a wall. He also found himself wishing fervently that the Minsitry had let Marge remember what had happened to her last time she'd got him angry, as she seemed to be doing everything in her power to do it again. Perhaps she thought that if she got Harry angry enough he'd storm out of the house, never to be seen again. And if he didn't understand, with aching clarity, the reasons he had for staying with the Dursleys, then he very well may have.

As it was, he was forced to sit and listen to a speech on eugenics which would have made Mrs Black proud, had it not come from a muggle.

"Wastrels and fools will only produce more wastrels and fools, that's all I'm saying." she repeated for what had to be the eightieth time that minute. Harry glanced at the clock and remembered his earlier promise to himself. He could still keep it, providing he left the room within the next minute, sprinted up the stairs and barricaded very, very quickly.

"Shouldn't let them breed is my way of thinking-"

"Well!" He interrupted quickly. "I'm really sorry to leave but I've got a mountain of homework still to do." he stated. Uncle Vernon appeared to be on the verge of disputing this when Harry sent him a dark look. A look which practically screeched "Remember what happened last time I was in a room with this woman for any length of time!" Uncle Vernon leant back in his chair without a word.

Harry excused himself before Marge could get out another syllable and left the room at high speed. He bolted up the stairs and back into his room as swiftly as was humanly possible.

Feeling quite spectacularly annoyed with the world in general, he kicked his trunk over in front of the door. He debated for a moment whether putting his bed in front of it too would be a little extreme, but eventually came to the conclusion that expending that much energy on Aunt Marge was ridiculous. After all, if she entered his room he could curse her and tell the people at the Improper Use of Magic Office that he thought she was a young Giantess, sent by Voldemort to kill him in his sleep.

Anyone who laid eyes on Marge Dursley would surely understand how easily a mistake of that nature could be made.

With a sour air about him, Harry plonked himself down at his desk. His father's notebook was already open at the page he'd been reading and so Harry was able to forget his own life and slip back into his father's effortlessly…

-

Quidditch Journal
Entry 9
July 21st

Dear Thing,

Update on the war on McLaggen: He attempted to get into our cabin again. We'd already set up defences (D-E-F-E-N-C-E-S pronounced, "Brilliant-ingenious-quasi-dangerous-Booby-Traps-designed-and-installed-by-yours-truly-with-spectacular-suggestions-from-my-diabolical-troupe.") and so that didn't go very well for them. Every kid in cabin is now luminous orange and glows in the dark. It's quite entertaining. Their entire hut is lit up like a Dutch Brothel. Arvid told me there's a boy in his cabin who's afraid of the dark and is now using McLaggen's cabin as a night light. ANYWAY, that's not the point.

The point is I spoke to Sofia today.

As in an honest to goodness conversation. A conversation where she told me all about herself and revealed personal and important details about herself to me… To be fair, she was at wand point. But still, I call it progress.

See, I was in my room and I heard her sneaking out to go for a quick fly when everyone else was getting ready for bed. I re-enforced our protection and then went out after her. I caught her nipping around that compound like nothing on Earth. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen someone move that fast on a broom. Which is surprising because my own broom is actually superior to the one provided for her by the Camp. But there you go.

She spotted me, came in to land (rather than fall off. See? Progress!) and sent me a look which is commonly referred to as a "Death Glare". She then tried to brush past me with her nose in the air. A move patented by Lily Evans in Fourth year, if memory serves. To be fair, Evans would usually give me a quick kick to my shins as well, but that should in no way detract from the dramatic impact of young Miss Ivanova's exit. It really was quite spectacular.

Regrettably, I'm an irritable git. And so I yelled something about her being completely off her rocker (yes, I do spot the irony) and performed a quick Levicorpus on her. Yes! All right? I admit it! I hung a seven year old girl in the air by her ankle. I am a horrible and appalling example of the human race and should be taken out and guillotined for all to see. I know this! But the fact is, I was annoyed with her, okay?

The girl has outstanding talent and makes me look like a bumbling amateur, and she was completely wasting it! And since the only logical reason anyone has put forward for her doing this is that she's done something wrong and feels guilty. This being from Evans, you can pretty much assume that it's accurate since she's practically bloody empathic.

And she wouldn't talk. Or blink. Or… God. ANYTHING! I was annoyed! I'm annoyed now and I'm just thinking about it.

So yes. I dangled her. And yes, she screamed obscenities at me. And yes, I put a silencing charm on her and floated her outside of Camp where I could threaten her in peace. So there you have it, I'm a horrible little piece of stunted scum. Got it? Are we clear? I'm bad person. Now lets move on, shall we?

When I (finally) got her to calm down and stop swearing at me, I sat her down and spoke to her. With the wand still pointed at her head… look, it was still civilized all right? Just not as civilized as, say for example, a tea party at Grandmother's house or something. You know, if I had a Grandmother. Because at the moment a tea party at my Grandmother's house would involve a necromancer. Which wouldn't really be civilised. So really it was more like tea in McGonagall's office. Yes, that's perfectly civilised.

Which this was too, so there. You can't judge me…

…

Oh for the love of God, I'm trying to justify myself to stationary. I'm completely and utterly barking at this point, I must be.

Anyway, I sat her down and started talking to her. She glared at me for a bit and refused to say anything. So I glared back at her and didn't say anything either. She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at me.

I lounged around on a rock and smirked at her. After about half an hour of this, it was actually getting cold and neither of us had made a sound. Told you I could teach lessons on being insufferable. As expected, she cracked first. She did so with the exceptionally original line: "What the hell do you want you bastard?"

I'm not sure why every girl I like, short of my actual mother, feels the need to assume that I'm a bastard. But they do. Similarly, all the girls I don't like just giggle. Maybe I'm glutton for punishment.

So I told her that I wanted to know why she wouldn't fly in front of anyone. She glared and didn't answer. I then told her that I wanted to know why she'd refused to talk for her first few days here. She glared and didn't answer. I told her I wanted to know where she learned to fly. She glared and… well, I suppose you can guess her reaction by this point. So then, being the sarcastic git that I am, I asked her what her favourite colour was. She gave me a look which makes me suspect that if she'd had a wand then I would have been subjected to at least one Unforgivable. Maybe two.

Deciding to place my trust in the hands of the delectable Miss Evans, I asked her to tell me about what she'd done wrong. While she still didn't answer, it has to be said that the look I received was the furthest thing from a glare I've ever witnessed. She paled to such an extent that she very closely resembled the paper on which I'm writing. Her eyes went as big as the moon and she honestly looked as though I'd just stabbed her through the heart with a letter-opener. It was upsetting. I won't deny it.

But hey, I can get around that. Just stand around and smirk. I'm good at that. I'm thinking of writing a book about it. (Interesting side question: Does writing this count as writing a book? Hmm.)

So I just stood. And I smirked. Shocking, I know. She started babbling. Mostly in Bulgarian so I was rather nonplussed by that part. I might end up asking Remus to lend me his Bulgarian dictionary. Not that I know for sure he actually has a Bulgarian dictionary, but I don't doubt he'd know where to get me one on fairly short notice. Could get Sirius to pay for it out of my moneybag too.

Er… where was I?

Right. She was ranting in Bulgarian. It was a bit worrying after about five minutes so I told her to sit down, calm down and explain in English.

And that, dear reader, (whoever the hell you are) is how I ended up spending four hours sitting outside in the middle of the desert around a conjured campfire, in conjured armchairs, drinking conjured tea and talking to the incomparable Sofia Ivanova.

See the thing she did wrong, was show up at the Little Champions International Quidditch Training Camp. She was never supposed to be here. She was supposed to be in Perthshire with one of her innumerable Aunts (she told me all about them, it's truly horrifying how many of them there are. Who has fourteen Aunts I ask you?). Her twin brother, Stefan, was supposed to come here and become their little hero since he's the first boy born into their family for heaven-knows-how-long.

The only downside being, that Stefan can't play Quidditch to save his life. He's a rather talented Chess Player though, according to Sofia. And he's forever inventing things. But flying isn't his thing. So, when one of his more open-minded Aunts (the Scottish one) started taking him to Quidditch lessons she was a bit upset. But when Stefan came home from the lessons, gave Sofia his broomstick and started telling her everything their instructor had told them then the Aunt saw her potential. Sofia has been attending Stefan's Quidditch lessons ever since without the knowledge of her mother or any of her other Aunts.

But when Sofia found out about this hell hole… er… that is to say, this Training Camp, she wanted to come. Her Scottish Aunt arranged it so that her mother would think she was staying with her in Scotland while Stefan came to this thing and everyone would be happy. Or not.

Since Sofia's mother caught onto the whole thing about five minutes before Sofia left and was so not amused. So Sofia's mother and Aunt had a bit of a set-to over it all. Sofia assures me that there was a lot of screaming, name-calling and vase throwing. Then her Aunt (whose name is Boyka, by the way. Sofia called me an idiot for finding this amusing) yelled at her to just Floo straight here and forget anything ever happened.

She doesn't want people to see her fly. I asked her why not and she just got this pained expression.

If I were Lily then I'd probably tell you that she felt scared. That she didn't want her mother to hate her and so she didn't want to do the thing that her mother hated. But that since she couldn't help doing it, she at least wanted to do it in private.

I'm not Lily.

I think the girl's a moron.

I told her as much. She glared at me again. I demanded to know why she didn't talk for the first few days.

She looked at me like I was completely clueless and then told me, in a crisp and extremely impatient voice: "Firstly, I didn't want to expose myself. Secondly, most of the imbeciles here are not worth talking to anyway."

I should probably deny laughing at that. But it's true and it's funny, so I did.

Anyway, my current situation is this: I am sitting here in my 'room' at four AM, wondering what Sirius is doing. I realise, that after everything that's happened tonight I probably shouldn't be wondering about that, but I am. Mainly, I think, because after six years my initial instinct, when faced with a situation like this, is to go and find Sirius so he can help me. It's not that I don't want Remus and Peter's help, because I do. But it's not the same. It's about six PM there so he's probably having dinner with my parents. Not that it's really relevant.

Bugger.

I need to write a letter to Aunt Boyka and get her on my side so we can " Coordinate our attack", if you will, on Sofia's mother to get her to understand how truly and spectacularly talented her daughter is. I also need to continue my plot against McLaggen, get Albert to talk to me, get Ping and Iggy healthy, get Sofia to fly in front of other people, get Amy to leave me alone, get Evans to think of me as something other than scum, and do all this without losing my mind.

And somehow, somehow, I also need to sleep at some point. Not now though. I've got my initial draft of the letter to Aunt Boyka to write. And a few more plots against McLaggen to cook up. And a six AM start.

Bloody hell. I never thought I'd die like this. Of exhaustion, in a desert, with no one but Uncle friggin Seth to be held accountable.

Wonder if I could get mum to send me a few stimulating potions. Or at least a couple tons of coffee…