Harry followed her, a bit numbly, somewhat astonished by the sheer location of where he was. Diagon Alley, even after having been away for years, hadn't astonished him like this; the Ministry hadn't either. Going to both places had been tempered by fear and paranoia, which might have had something to do with it, but they also weren't new places to him. This wasn't completely new either; he'd been to a professional Quidditch stadium before, even if it hadn't been this one. But the memory of the Quidditch World Cup just added to the emotion that filled him at being here, amazement with the slight ache of nostalgia.
Everything, everything associated with Quidditch was good. He had less than positive memories associated with the game, of course - falling from his broom when the Dementors had come to the pitch, losing every bone in his arm thanks to Lockhart - but in retrospect, those memories didn't tarnish his mental picture of his Quidditch-playing days. And those were his days at Hogwarts, too.
His eyes prickled, but not with sadness, as they got inside and he saw the familiar hoops at each end, the grass and the empty stands. He hadn't even flown yet, and this was already overwhelming him; he hadn't realized how much he'd missed Quidditch. "Ginny," was all he could say, his fingers tightening on hers as he turned his head to look around at it all. She came here almost every day, and he - he hadn't even thought about what she did when she went off to practice. "I..."