Derek's eyes widened briefly in surprise. He remembered Vinny talked about it from the last of their school days, just mentioning it in idle asides as the prospect of playing professional Quidditch naturally eclipsed the subject of their conversations. "Fuck preseason," he said gruffly. "As a matter of fact, fuck the play-offs. Go now. And take me with you."
Memories from the last few months of their seventh year flooded him, always accompanied by a painful pang of nostalgia that only seemed to intensify as they moved further and further away from 1977. Everything seemed so much brighter, then. Was brighter.
Shaking away the happier thoughts that inevitably brought more brooding, Derek dropped onto the sofa and thought for a moment before saying, "Paris to Brussels. Say you should start in Lisbon," he tapped his finger on the little star next to the capital, "right through Spain," drew his finger right into the heart of the little yellow-coloured country, "then voilà, Paris… Brussels…" he lifted his finger off the map as he trailed off. "Anyway. Good for you, man. You should go."
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