Journal Entry:

We've arrived at the campsite for the World Cup. Dad and I met the Weasleys (and guests) at the base of the hill on which the Portkey sat. The Weasleys are as always: freckle-faced, red-headed, and plentiful. Fred and George's glares betrayed their obvious grudge over me after the last Quidditch match, which is a shame. Hermione Granger was there with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. I only know the former two by name because of their friendship with the famous Harry Potter. I've never actually met Harry outside the Quidditch pitch, and I've never stopped to get a good look at him. He's gotten quite... old. I mean, he's grown up. He's not the scrawny little kid I used to see him as. He's a fourth year, I believe, and already I can tell he's going to be handsome.

I shouldn't think about this stuff, I know. I try not to. But sometimes, I can't help it. I feel no guilt or disgust, though I'm sure that others would, so I keep my dangerous thoughts safely in my mind and in my journal.

Leaving for the game soon. Go Ireland!

Signed: Cedric.


Journal Entry:

Couldn't even concentrate on the game. Something's bothering me, but I can't determine what it is. Dad asked if everything's alright, and I said yes. Of course everything's alright. Everything's always alright. How could anything not be alright with his perfect little Quidditch star?

I don't feel like celebrating with everyone else. I'm going to lie down.

When I close my eyes, I see a face. A beautiful face. I don't know whose it is, but I love it.

Sweet dreams.

Signed: Cedric.