Friday, July 11th, 2014. 8:45 AM.

  (MINISTRY LOCATION REDACTED - M.O.M. FILE)

  Whitehall, London, UK

  Harry looked up from reading the morning paper, taking a sip of tea as he glanced around the Staff Canteen. Even after a week of James' absence, it still felt unnatural to reach work before the actual workday started.

  Going back to The Prophet, he turned to the Sport Section. The image of Krum in the picture had changed position, now holding his racing broom like a staff. The swept, tapering brush arced above his head, almost framing his face. It was hard to tell with Krum, but his expression seemed to convey indignation and disdainful judgement. Harry sighed, thinking, Well, he's got a lot to be judgemental about.

  The score in the POST-GAME - LOOKING BACK box told the whole story.

  Nigeria 400 - Fiji 160

  I, Krum, am at a loss for words. This game, no, this farce, has no place in World Cup level Quidditch. It is an embarrassment to the sport.

  The Nigerians are blameless. They came out and played the game I expected, and they played it well. It was none of their doing that they were given what amounted to a 'bye.'

  As I feared, the Fijians were not prepared to play as a team. The Chasers were pummeled repeatedly with Bludgers, every attacking formation broken up before they could truly get started. The Nigerian Keeper is to be specially commended for his zeal. Even though he was obviously bored out of his wits, he remained focused, treating every new fiasco as if it was a credible threat.

  The Fijian Keeper, on the other hand, was one of the most pitiful creatures in all creation. He was receiving no support from any of his teammates, and the Nigerian Chasers treated him as one would a tatty lace curtain, blocking entrance to a busy pub.

  The Beaters for the Fiji team were practically helpless at the start. As the match crept into the second hour, however, they threw off their timidity. They were beginning to have success in breaking up attack formations, and were occasionally able to give the Keeper some much needed support. There were signs of a team about to rally, and give back something of what they had been receiving.

  Then, it was over. Joseph Snuka, his team trailing by three hundred and ninety points, with no one near him to threaten the Snitch, apparently decided, unilaterally, after less than two-and-one-half hours, that the game was lost...

  ...and captured the Snitch.

  Against all rules and protocol, Snuka started to take a victory lap with the Snitch held smugly high. He was oblivious to the shocked silence that had momentarily gripped the crowd. I have no idea what he was thinking. Instead of rallying his team, who were down but not out, perhaps he was wanting to, what do non-magical people call it? He wanted to 'spin' the narrative, to portray himself as the tragic star player who could have won, if only his team had supported him properly.

  His obliviousness did not last long. In seconds, he was, quite literally, flying for his life. Curses and hexes were bursting around his head like fireworks. These came mostly from the Fiji supporters, although I did see several security wizards with their wands out, adding to the barrage. Most of the other security personnel were studiously looking anywhere but at the angry Fijians. This was in stark contrast to their behavior during the Norway-Ivory Coast game.

  Even the team's mascot, the Dukuwaqa, was trying to get in on the act. His outsize armored aquarium jumped on its base, as the mostly healed creature pounded and bellowed. Instead of attempting to calm it, the handlers were looking at each other with sullen faces, and an obvious desire to release the beast.

  The Nigerians, of course, had no mascots, the Sasabonsam having been sent home in disgrace.

  I, Krum, trust that the International Committee will scrutinise this incident thoroughly, and take appropriate action. I will not state my opinions farther than I already have.

  Nigeria will face the winner of the Japan versus Poland match.

  PRE-GAME - LOOKING FORWARD.

  Brazil versus Haiti - 12 July 2014

  Another game that may not be as simple as it appears. The Haitian defense is remarkably strong, mostly due to Keeper Lenelle Paraison, who is a talent for the ages.

  The Brazilian offense is also quite formidable. Their Chasers, Alonso, Diaz and Flores are a seasoned, solid team, who sometimes appear to be using Legilimency with each other.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  The teams end up rather evenly matched. My instinct is that the game will turn on fortune, or, rather, misfortune. Otherwise we are in for a "long, bloody slog." I must attribute that phrase to my companion and fellow Quidditch enthusiast, Ronald Weasel... ee? I mean, Weasley. My apologies, translation issues. You know how it is.

  I am not comfortable in calling a winner for this match.

  (Translated from Bulgarian by ProphetLabs Portable Protean Printer, M.P.O. Patent No. JNY867-5309. All Rights Reserved).

  Harry sighed, reassembled the paper and left it on the Canteen table. He also topped up his tea before heading up to the Bullpen.

  Once there, he gave the status board the obligatory once over. Still no notices flashing red. Several of his follow-up taskings were in deep orange, edging up toward red. Again, he sighed.

  "I would rather die a thousand deaths..." he muttered to himself. Taking out his wand, he touched each notice in turn, resetting them to pale orange. That could only be done once per notice, and the color would advance somewhat faster, until the notices were properly cleared.

  Seated at his desk, Harry stared down at his casefile. It stubbornly refused to Vanish. Red block lettering appeared on the cover.

  COME ON, HARRY. It actually came across as sympathetic. GET UP, GET GOING, AND GET IT DONE. YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TO.

  "Yeah," Harry said grudgingly. "Thanks, M.O.M. File." He rose from his chair and picked up the folder.

  SOOO... M.O.M. file went on casually. ABOUT THAT SUBFOLDER THAT GOT SEVERED...

  Harry smiled. “Close Down File, As Per Procedure.”

  OH, COME ON! I WAS JUST ASK...

  Friday, July 11th, 2014. 9:30 AM.

  Malfoy Manor, County of Wiltshire, UK

  Harry could not tell himself he was actually enjoying this walk. He was, however, much more comfortable than he had been the last time he traveled this drive. He wasn't tied back to back with two other people, or being forced to walk backwards half the time, and his face wasn't swollen and painful from a Stinging Jinx...

  All in all, an improvement, he thought. If you add in not having to smell Fenrir Greyback... Yeah, this day ends up in the plus column.

  The intimidating wrought-iron gate was standing wide open, and did not challenge him. From the tiny amount of rust building on the hinges, it was not closed frequently, if at all.

  The road ended in a circular drive, with a somewhat abstract fountain centered in the enclosed bit of lawn. Walking round to the entrance and up the wide, curved steps to the door, Harry turned for a moment to look back over the estate. The hedges were almost plentiful enough to be a maze. Even if not, Harry was sure there were no end of hidden grottoes, cul-de-sacs, and private corners. He wondered if even Draco knew them all.

  He turned back to the door. It had not swung open by itself, as it did on his last visit. The doorknocker fixed at eye level was a bit underwhelming, a bronze rectangle no bigger than a playing card, with a snake-headed bar depending from a pivot.

  Harry shrugged. Catching the striker between his thumb and forefinger, he went, tap, tap tap.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The sound from the other side of the door rattled the diamond-shaped windows, and seemed to reverberate down long halls into the distance.

  "Value for money, I guess," Harry muttered.

  It was barely two minutes until heard the door handle engage the lock, and the door began to slowly open. He thought at first that the door was opening itself, and he looked through into the empty entry hall. Then a voice from below his line of sight spoke.

  "Good morning, sir. May I assist you in some way!"

  Harry managed to not twitch as he looked down, finding a boy roughly the size of Albus, with an unruly shock of white-blond hair.

  "Why, I certainly hope so, young sir.. I represent the Auror Division at the Ministry of Magic, and someone here filed a report describing some... unusual events. I was hoping to speak with them."

  The boy looked at him steadily, the impression of deep thoughts behind his eyes. "I believe it was Mother who sent in the message, but Father was the one who witnessed the... events. Mother is resting, so I will take you to Father." He started to turn, stopped. and addressed Harry again.

  "I must apologise for the informality of your reception. It's the regular day off for Father's valet, and Cook refuses to leave the kitchen for anything."

  "Quite all right," Harry said. "I do not wish to be of any inconvenience. I could wait here, if that would be preferable." What the hell? he thought, Why am I suddenly talking like some stuffy aristocrat?

  "That will not be necessary, but thank you for offering." The pale eyes met Harry's again. "I am Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. Would you follow me, please?"

  Harry realized his error. He cleared his throat as he walked up beside the boy. "Oh. I should identify myself, as well..." Just then, there erupted behind him a loud, harsh, and piercing squawk, interspersed with brassy-sounding honks. Harry turned quickly to look. Beside him, Scorpius said, "My apologies, sir. It's just one of the damnedpeacocks." He ran the last two words together.

  The haughty bird behind him gave out with a scornful look. It was pure white, and the size of a farm-raised turkey. It spread its tail and strutted away, giving out the occasional Honk!

  "Ah, the... damned peacocks...?"

  "Yes," Scorpius gave him a strange look. "I've never heard them called anything else by Mother and Father. Do you not have damnedpeacocks where you live?"

  "I can honestly answer 'no' to that question. And if they are all that obnoxious, I'm quite sure I don't want any!"

  The boy looked pensive. "In all truth, Rajita there is one of the better ones. He just likes sneaking up and scaring people. Some of the others will flail you with their wings as they try to peck you." He gave a small smile. "Father says we are going to get rid of the damnedpeacocks someday, and bother what Grandfather wishes."

  "And there is no need to introduce yourself," added Scorpius, as he turned away to lead Harry. "I am quite familiar with your name, Mr. Potter." He glanced up, and then looked back where they were headed. "If it is not presumptuous, I would ask you a question?"

  "Please, feel free," Harry said quickly.

  "Your first name,'Harry.' Is it short for anything? Like Haralt, or Harold, or Hargreaves?"

  "Why, no." Harry was a little surprised. "Why do you ask?"

  Scorpius shrugged, thin shoulders moving under his shirt. (Buttoned all the way up, Harry noted. He frowned, trying to remember if his boys had any shirts that buttoned at all).

  The boy looked up and smiled faintly. "Oh, it just always seemed such an odd name. I'm not sure why."

  Ah, Harry thought. Scorpius, son of Draco, son of Lucien, son of Abraxas, thinks MY name is odd.

  Harry chuckled, and patted the boy on the shoulder, gently. He might be frail. Then again, he might just be a Malfoy.

  "Scorpius, I could tell you that it's an old family name, and that would be true. In the end, though, I believe it comes down to what you're used to."

  Scorpius smiled up at him, a little more brightly this time. "That must be it, sir."

  They stopped in front of a massive set of double doors. Instead of opening them on hinges, Scorpius seized the two handles and began slowly pulling the doors apart. They slid into the walls, Harry saw. He reached up and surreptitiously gave the boy some assistance. When the gap was wide enough to let an adult walk in comfortably. Scorpius stepped in and scanned the room, gaze becoming fixed off to their right.

  "Father," he said. "You have a visitor."