For half a century, Quidditch-loving youngsters from all around Norfolk and Suffolk have anticipated their summer holidays with a particular event in mind: the East Anglia Summer Tournament (also known as the EAST), the final match of which always takes place during the second to last week of August.

The EAST is comprised of two separate competitions, the Norfolk Summer Tournament and the Suffolk Summer Tournament. Throughout the summer, teams compete within their own counties. The winners of each county tournament then go on to the final match of the EAST to determine which team is the best in the region. The teams who compete for this title are made up, astonishingly, of teenagers and some younger adults; it's rare to get a player older than twenty or so, according to the Head of the EAST Board of Directors, Clement March.

“It’s a kids’ thing, see, that’s how it’s always been,” he says. “There’s a sort of stigma attached to being an older player. You’re seen as a bit of a bully �“ especially if there’s more than one of you on the team.”

Unlike in the professional leagues, the players must come from the town they play for, or at the very least live near it; there’s a bit of uncertainty over this rule. “It’s just to keep it what it’s supposed to be,” says March, “a local tourney, for local teams. If a player wants to play for the next town over, well and good. We just want to prevent kids traveling all over the country for an amateur Quidditch tournament.”

There’s also a limit of one team per town. For this reason, teams from larger towns often have the advantage in having more of a pool of players to select from. Most small-town teams will draw from other nearby towns to make up a decent team. But small-town teams have their own advantage: they have known their team-mates for most of their lives, which may not be the case for players from larger towns.

This year, the competition will be especially stiff. The tournament has reached its fiftieth anniversary, and the celebrations �“ including a gala dinner (all proceeds of which go towards the Kirley Duke and Meaghan McCormack Foundation for the Aid of Victims of Dark Magic) �“ have drawn attention from several professional teams’ owners, who will be attending the final match in hopes of scouting some promising new recruits �“ most notably, Meaghan McCormack herself and her husband, Greg Cochrane, co-owners of the Pride of Portree.

Says McCormack, “I’ve heard of this tournament, but I’ve never seen it �“ it will be interesting. I think it’s a great idea. There was nothing like that for me when I was that age. The House Cup was the closest I got!”

The final matches of the Norfolk and Suffolk tourneys are both scheduled for tomorrow, the final match of the entire tournament for Sunday next. The match is to be held at Ilkley Moor Stadium, which the British and Irish Quidditch League allows them to use during the summers. Anyone interested in attending any of these events should contact the EAST Headquarters in Norwich.

- The Daily Prophet, Sports Section, Thursday, 13th August, 2009

“Newmarket’s looking good today!” Isobel Jones shouted over the noise of the crowd, trying to keep her blonde hair from blowing into her face. The team in question had just scored a goal against Lowestoft’s Keeper, Henry Moran, who had earned a name for himself this year with a series of rather spectacular saves in the second match of the tournament.

“They haven’t got a chance against Lowestoft, between Moran and that beast of a Beater they’ve got,” replied her best friend, John Wu, as the noise died down and play resumed. They were watching the final match of the Suffolk Summer Tournament, which would determine who would go on to face Norfolk’s best team. “It doesn’t hurt that Lowestoft’s captain really knows what he’s doing. Newmarket’s only got through to the final on the strength of their Seeker; what happens if she’s having an off day?” John shook his head. He hadn’t looked up from the game to speak; his brown eyes were intent on the movements of the players.

“Does she ever?” broke in John’s sister, Julia, admiration clear in her voice. Julia was a Seeker herself, on Ravenclaw’s House team, and had the typical Seeker’s build �“ compact and graceful. “I’ve never seen anyone that good at Seeking. It’s unfair, is what it is!”

“Wait, who’s winning, again?” That was freckle-faced Eleanor, piping up from Julia’s other side. Of the seven wizarding children living in Eleigh St. Mary, she was the youngest at eleven years old, and the only one who had never quite understood Quidditch.

Julia turned to Eleanor to explain. “Lowestoft’s winning seventy to thirty, but Newmarket’s starting to catch up; they’ve just scored again.”

“I got that,” said Eleanor. “What does it matter, anyway, who’s ahead in goals? Isn’t whoever catches the Snitch going to win anyway?”

“Not necessarily,” said Julia, but she broke off to shout “Go, go, go!” The Snitch had been sighted, and the two Seekers were streaking after it, neck and neck. Newmarket’s Seeker pulled ahead, inch by inch, and suddenly the crowd was erupting in noise as she held the Snitch over her head, triumphant.

“Looks like I was right,” Isobel told John.

“You just wait till they’re in the finals. Norwich’s Seeker is just as good, from what I hear,” he replied. “Not that I want us to lose, obviously. I just wish Lowestoft had got through; they’re the better team, really. Oh, hello,” he said as a group of three boys reached their row. “You missed it, Newmarket’s won.”

“We didn’t miss it, we just saw it from elsewhere,” said the tallest and skinniest of the lot, brushing his too-long mousy hair out of his eyes. “Guess Lowestoft’s out of luck this year.”

“Andrew, move your scrawny arse so we can sit down.” A shorter boy, square-faced and burly, elbowed past him clutching several butterbeers. As he scooted past Isobel and the other three, he slopped some on Eleanor. “Sorry, sis. Guess this one’s yours now.” He handed Eleanor the cup and sipped at his own in satisfaction as he sat down.

“Thanks, Cal,” said Eleanor, setting her butterbeer down to mop ineffectually at her skirt. Andrew followed Cal, carefully handing Isobel the water she’d requested on his way past. The third boy, blessed with neither Cal’s bulk nor Andrew’s height but who shared the freckles that marked all of his siblings, handed one of his butterbeers off to Julia just as a panting woman with flyaway auburn hair appeared behind him. This was Mrs Murphy, who was Cal, Art, Andrew and Eleanor’s mother.

“Oh, there you are. Did you catch the end, then? Art, darling, let me past so I can sit down, will you?” Art stepped aside. Mrs Murphy sat next to Andrew and said, “Well?”

“Newmarket’s Seeker caught the Snitch,” Andrew informed her. “It was really close, though. Lowestoft might as easily have won it.”

“Budge over,” said Art to Julia as Cal and Andrew launched into a debate about Newmarket’s odds against Norfolk’s team. Julia scooted over to give Art room to sit down, squishing Eleanor into Cal. Art wedged himself between Isobel and Julia. “Afternoon, ladies. How’s life?”

“Like we haven’t been together all day,” said Julia.

“Yeah, but I was all the way on the other end of the row,” argued Art.

“Heads up, they’ve brought the trophy out!” said Isobel, who’d been craning her neck watching for them.

Everyone turned to watch as the head of the tournament’s Board of Directors handed a gleaming trophy to the beaming captain of the Newmarket team. The man turned towards the stands and said, “The Suffolk Summer Tournament has come to an end, and we have a winning team. Everybody, the Newmarket Newts!” Clapping and whistling erupted from the stands. “They’ll be going on to represent Suffolk in the final match of the East Anglia Summer Tournament. Let’s wish them luck!” A roar rose from the audience, Isobel and the others screaming themselves hoarse along with everyone else. The short, pudgy official waited for the noise to die down before saying, “The final match of the EAST is a week from tomorrow. We hope to see you here!”

After that, the crowd started the filter out of the stands, towards the Floo stations set up for transportation home. “Let’s hang back for a bit,” said Mrs Murphy. “I don’t fancy waiting in those lines.”

“How about a walk?” Eleanor asked. “It’s a nice day.”

Mrs Murphy leaned past Eleanor to inspect them all. “I’m glad no one took this opportunity to wear robes. Let’s go for a walk, then.”

Isobel and John fell behind the others as they left the pitch for the deserted moorlands around it. Up ahead, they could hear Art and Julia begin to bicker playfully again as Cal and Andrew continued to discuss the tournament.

“I want to do this,” said Isobel suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

“Do what?”

“Quidditch. Compete in the tournament.” When John just looked at her questioningly, Isobel continued. “Wouldn’t it be fantastic, to put together a team and get to the finals, and just to know that you are part of the best team around?” She couldn’t quite put into words just how much, all of a sudden, she wanted that. It wasn’t just glory; it was the way the crowd had come together at the end there, with so much warmth and support for those seven players. It was the joy in the players’ smiles as the official had handed the trophy to their captain. It was the determination in their strides as they had left the pitch together, seven people focused on one goal.

“Then why don’t you?”

John’s question surprised Isobel out of her thoughts. “Why don’t I what?”

“Put a team together. Go for the win.”

“You make it sound so easy!” she said, pushing him sideways playfully.

“Well, there are seven of us in Eleigh St. Mary.”

“There are, that’s true.” Isobel retreated back into her thoughts. Could she really put together a winning team?

There was only one possible answer: She could try. And when Isobel Jones tried at something, she wouldn’t give up until she succeeded.

Chapter Two

When they finally Flooed back home an hour or so later, Mrs. Murphy declared herself too tired to make dinner and ordered in huge amounts of food from a little wizarding café in Bury St. Edmunds. Everyone was invited to help eat the food, which Mrs. Murphy said was far too much for her family to eat alone. As they dug into heavenly casserole-style macaroni and cheese and steamed vegetables, Isobel brought up her idea to everyone else.

“Us? Try for the EAST win? But most of us haven’t even played on a proper team!” Andrew protested.

“Not to mention the fact that Eleanor can’t fly to save her life,” Art pointed out. “No offense, El. But you know it’s true.”

“We’ve all been playing for as long as we’ve been able to fly, though,” said John. “And we can always find someone else for our seventh; lots of small-town teams go outside their town for talent.”

“I think we should do it,” said Cal.

“Yeah, but you’re up for anything Quidditch-related,” said Art. “Not to say it’s a bad idea, just that Cal doesn’t really count as a vote for. Personally, I think it sounds like fun.” He shrugged. “What about you, Jules? Up for the challenge?”

“Sure,” she said. “I could use something to occupy me next summer, you all are that boring.” Art rolled his eyes at her, knowing she was teasing.

“Andrew?” Isobel asked.

Andrew thought for a minute or so. “It’s not going to interfere with school stuff, is it?”

“I think you can handle it,” said John. “You’re probably the most responsible person I know.”

“All right, then,” said Andrew. “But if I can’t handle it on top of everything else, I reserve the right to quit.”

“Do you want to play, Eleanor?” John asked.

“Like Art said, I can’t fly to save my life.” Eleanor fiddled with the end of her plait meditatively. “But I’ll help any way I can.”

“Isn’t anyone going to ask John if he wants to be on the team?” Art asked.

“John’s the one who told me we should go for it,” said Isobel. “I figured his being on the team was a given.”

“Well, plus, it’s John. Anything Isobel asks of him, he does,” said Julia mischievously.

“Oh, shut up,” he said. “I’m on the team, are you happy?”

“We knew that,” said Julia.

* * *

Over the next week, Isobel frantically brainstormed ways to find a seventh player. She considered flyers �“ but where would she put them? There were few all-wizarding places in the surrounding towns, and even fewer patronized by the younger set. The only place outside of Eleigh St. Mary where she could think to put flyers was the café in Bury St. Edmunds, so she Flooed over that Wednesday to hang up a notice �“

Seventh player needed to fill out an amateur Quidditch team, with a view to competing in the EAST next summer. If interested contact Isobel Jones, 13 High Street, Eleigh St. Mary, Suffolk.

The sign had been worded by Andrew, who had a knack for sounding official.

She still had another copy to hang when she came home, however, for in Eleigh St. Mary itself there was a place for wizards to gather: The Sign of the White Cat. The hidden room at the back, with a second fireplace hooked up to the Floo network, was a relatively new addition �“ fifteen years old, if that. That was a short time, if measured beside the many generations the pub had been in the ownership of the Murphy family. Mr. Murphy had been a Muggleborn, but after his years at Hogwarts, he wasn’t content with being far from the wizarding world. So instead of abandoning his family’s legacy for London with its many accommodations for wizards, he’d made his own slice of the wizarding world, just a short walk from his familiar old timber-framed farmhouse. More and more wizards had come to the Cat over the years, until its secret room had become more popular than the one in plain sight. Isobel’s own dad worked the bar there. It was as good a place as any to get the attention of a possible seventh player, Isobel thought cheerfully. Probably a better bet than the café in Bury St. Edmunds.

She made sure her wand was hidden securely in the pocket of her jeans and set out to make the walk down the road to the Cat. The village seemed typical enough, she supposed. None of the Muggles ever seemed to suspect it was anything but normal, anyway. It was strange for Isobel to imagine Eleigh St. Mary without the memories of Quidditch behind the Murphys’ house, or the grandfatherly old wizard who ate at the Cat at least once a week and produced flowers out of thin air whenever he saw Julia, Isobel or Eleanor.

She entered the Cat and hurried through the Muggle part, waving hello to her neighbor Ms Winthrop as she passed. The entrance to the wizard bit was much like the entrance to Diagon Alley - it looked like a solid wall in the hallway to the left of the bar that led to the bathrooms. But if you tapped your wand on a certain part (you could tell which part because it looked like the paint had chipped off, leaving a bare grey bit vaguely the shape of the British Isles), you could slip through into a room nearly identical to the one you had left behind.

She did that now, and almost immediately had to duck her father’s hand as he attempted to tousle her hair.

“Hey, sweetheart, how’s it goin’?”

“Good. Can I hang this up?” She held up the notice.

“Sure thing. Why don’t you hang it up over there?” He indicated the wall by the fireplace. “People are sure to see it when they’re leaving.”

“Thanks, Dad!” she said, and he turned back to talk with a skinny wizard at the bar.

* * *

As Thursday passed, and then Friday and Saturday, with not a single answer to Isobel’s signs, she began to worry. It was irrational to expect to have a seventh player firmly landed by then, but to have not a single nibble �“ after all, they only had the rest of that week and one more and then it would be back to Hogwarts for all of them.

Sunday dawned, and with it the day of the final match of the EAST. Everyone gathered early that morning at the Murphys’ house to Floo to the pitch at Ilkley Moor. This time Mr. Murphy and Isobel’s dad joined them in addition to Mrs. Murphy, laughing and wide-awake, in stark contrast to the huddled group of bleary-eyed teenagers.

“Why did they have to schedule it this early?” Julia moaned.

“It’s only seven in the morning. You’ll have to get up this early soon enough anyway,” Isobel’s dad informed her.

“Don’t remind me,” she said disgustedly and took the Floo powder Mrs. Murphy offered her. She threw it into the fire, said, “Ilkley Moor Stadium,” and spun away in a gout of green fire. John followed, then Cal, Art and Andrew in quick succession. Eleanor was next, carrying a picnic lunch Mrs. Murphy had packed. Isobel went after her with a hamper with a Cooling Charm on its lining, filled with little glass bottles of butterbeer. Mrs. Murphy had claimed that the prices at the last game had been “simply despicable,” so they were bringing their own refreshments this time around.

When Isobel had got her bearings after her dizzying trip through the Floo network, she watched as the emerald flames spewed forth her father and Mr. and Mrs. Murphy.

“All right, kids, let’s go find seats,” said Isobel’s father. The lot of them trooped off towards the stands, finally finding an open row a little bit farther down than they’d have liked. Isobel could practically see the expression on the plump official’s face as he moved to the center of the pitch to give his spiel �“ never a good sign.

“Welcome, one and all, to the final match of the East Anglia Summer Tournament! Teams have been competing in games throughout the summer, and these two have come out top in their regions. Representing Suffolk in today’s game, let’s give a round of applause for the Newmarket Newts!” Noise erupted from all sides, boos and cheers mixed, as the Newmarket team walked onto the pitch. The official waited for the noise to fade a little before continuing. “And representing Norfolk, the Norwich Natterjacks!” The noise returned full-force as Norwich’s team made their entrance.

At the official’s instruction, the captains shook hands. A moment later, the teams had taken to the skies. The game had begun.

It quickly became apparent that John had been right during the last game �“ Newmarket’s captain didn’t really know what he was doing. John kept commenting on how much tighter Norwich’s strategy was.

“Not that they’re exactly playing by the rules,” he said to Isobel as Newmarket took their third penalty shot of the game. “But they’re playing well. That last foul was definitely a calculated risk. Their Keeper was in the wrong part of the scoring area and distracted to boot, and Newmarket’s Chaser might well have scored. Now their Keeper’s focused on his job.” One of Newmarket’s Chasers took the shot. Norwich’s Keeper saved it. “See? He’s phenomenal. The captain knew he could trust him to save that, I’ll bet anything.”

As the game progressed, Norwich’s captain seemed to be taking more and more of these “calculated risks.” Newmarket’s Beaters became positively vicious in revenge, and in one particularly spectacular instance, Newmarket’s Chaser scored a goal when the Keeper was distracted by a Bludger nearly taking off his right arm, bringing the score up to 40-80 Norwich.

Norwich retaliated by scoring two goals in quick succession, and the game became even more competitive after that. Newmarket’s Keeper seemed to be losing his nerve, for he let in more and more goals that he could well have saved. Suddenly Norwich was up 130-60, and Newmarket was getting desperate. Their Chasers got sloppy, and Norwich got three penalty shots, only one of which was saved.

And then, Norwich’s Seeker was streaking off across the pitch, the other Seeker in close pursuit. The Snitch hovered, golden and blinking in the summer sunlight, by Norwich’s goalposts. Newmarket’s Seeker strained, flattened against her broomstick, and pulled ahead.

Suddenly a Bludger came, seemingly out of nowhere �“ everyone was too busy watching the Seekers to see who had sent it their way. Newmarket’s Seeker fell behind, doubled over, clutching her stomach and obviously in pain. Norwich’s Seeker darted ahead and grabbed the Snitch, holding it over his head triumphantly. A roar broke out from the crowd, half cheering from Norwich’s supporters, half outrage at the foul play.

“That’s just dirty,” Julia commented.

“It’s perfectly within the rules,” Cal said. “People just don’t normally think to do it because it seems wrong.”

Julia looked at him in disgust. “It’s a wonder you weren’t in Slytherin. She could have been badly hurt.”

“Chasers face the risk of being hit by Bludgers all the time, and no one thinks that’s bad,” Cal said.

“Chasers expect it. Seekers don’t.” Julia turned away and they all watched the drama on the pitch unfold.

Newmarket’s Seeker had got to the ground safely, but was still clutching her ribs and looked on the verge of fainting. Her team’s Beaters were supporting her, each with an arm around her, as she sat down on the grass. A Healer fussed over her, probably casting diagnostic and healing spells.

Several feet away, Newmarket’s captain was arguing with Norwich’s captain, while the referee tried to break it up. Various team members from both sides joined in on the quarrel, until the pair was ringed by a tight group of angry teenagers. It looked as if they would come to blows at any moment.

The pudgy little official appeared on the scene and drew the referee out of the mêlée. They had a brief, intense discussion and then waded in to separate the combatants. More officials came onto the pitch to help.

“I’m off,” said Art, standing up. “I don’t want to stick around to watch them argue.”

“Fine, but meet us back here in ten minutes,” said Mrs. Murphy. “I don’t want you to get lost in all this.”

“Mum. Calm down. I’ll be fine.” With that he walked off, making his way towards the ground. It was obvious that Norwich would come out on top, despite the uproar; if Cal said that hitting a Seeker with a Bludger wasn’t a foul, it really wasn’t. Cal was more Quidditch-mad than all the rest of them put together. With that settled in his mind, there was no reason to keep watching.

And wasn’t this just typical? Suffolk hadn’t won the EAST since the summer between his first and second years at Hogwarts �“ two years ago. It wasn’t for lack of good teams; Norfolk just seemed to have been coming out with better ones. It was fun to watch, but ultimately it was disheartening to lose year after year.

He knew it was probably insane to hope, but it would be great if this team Isobel was putting together �“ their team �“ could win this. Suffolk needed another winner.

He reached the grass at the bottom of the stands and looked around. Other like-minded people were beginning to mill out towards the Floo station, some looking angry, others happy. It was easy to tell who was from Suffolk and who from Norfolk by their expressions.

Suddenly a face stood out from the crowd, unexpectedly familiar. A seventh year at Hogwarts, he realized. A fellow Ravenclaw. He was one of the angry ones �“ so he must be from Suffolk too.

The seventh year seemed to recognize him as well. He walked over, his expression changing to a genial smile.

“You’re in Ravenclaw too!” he called when he’d got closer. “Fourth year, right? Friends with our Seeker?”

“That’s right. What’s your name again?” Art asked.

“Martin Babbitt,” was the seventh year’s reply.

“Art Murphy. So you’re from Suffolk, then? Whereabouts?”

Martin looked taken aback. “How’d you know I was from Suffolk?”

“You didn’t look very happy,” Art said. “I assumed it had something to do with our losing just now.”

“You were right, of course,” said Martin, his smile back. “I’m from Nedging-with-Naughton. You?”

“Eleigh St. Mary,” Art replied.

A look of comprehension dawned on Martin’s face. “Oh, I know where that is �“ my dad likes the pub there �“ the Sign of the White Cat?”

“My dad runs it,” said Art with a touch of pride.

“Really!” Martin seemed quite interested in this coincidence, and they fell into a comfortable conversation, standing there with the crowd moving around them.

Meanwhile on the pitch, the officials had succeeded in separating the rowing Quidditch players. The Newmarket team gathered together �“ sans their Seeker, who had been carried off the field by the Healer �“ around their goalposts, while the Natterjacks remained close to the center of the pitch. The plump official who had been making the announcements renewed his Sonorus spell and cleared his throat loudly.

“Ladies and gentleman, I know there has been some disagreement over the Norwich Natterjacks’ tactics, but by the rules of Quidditch there is no foul and they are thus the winners of this game and the East Anglia Summer Tournament. We’ll bring the trophy out in a few moments, but in the meantime, let’s have a round of applause for the runners-up.”

There was nothing half-hearted about the cheering from the stands, as the Norfolk supporters seemed to think it would be bad form to boo. It seemed to brighten up some of the players on the Newmarket team a little; one of the Beaters even smiled cheekily and waved.

And then another official came onto the pitch with the trophy, and the announcer said, “And now we present the trophy to the winners of the 2007 East Anglia Summer Tournament �“ the Norwich Natterjacks!”

There was screaming and applause from Norfolk’s supporters; many of the people who had come out to cheer Suffolk on sat in stony silence. There were even a few scattered boos.

After that the stream of people moving towards the Floo station thickened. The Eleigh St. Mary group stayed back, waiting for Art. Isobel passed around butterbeers from her basket; the sandwiches in Eleanor’s were long gone.

“So you lot are going to be here next year, is that right?” Mr. Murphy asked as he accepted a butterbeer from Isobel.

“We’re here every summer,” said Julia.

“Competing, though.” That was Mrs. Murphy.

“Yes,” said Isobel. “And we’re going to win.”

“If we can find a seventh player,” said Andrew practically. “And even then you can’t say for sure.”

Julia hit him on the arm. “Stop being such a pessimist. We will.”

“Will what?” Art asked, coming back to the row as promised, with one change:  he’d brought Martin with him.

“Win the tournament next year,” Julia said distantly, distracted by the new arrival. “Aren’t you in Ravenclaw?”

“Martin Babbitt,” he said, holding a hand out. After a moment, Julia shook it. “And you’re our Seeker �“ Julia Wu, right?”

She nodded, and then she and Art introduced everyone else. Martin stayed and chatted for a while. Cal brought up the previous year’s tournament loss, and the conversation turned to griping about Suffolk’s losses, past and present. After much discussion of tactics and players, they came to the consensus that a good portion of it had been luck and both sides had had good teams and Norfolk had just had a lucky streak. Even John, ever a believer in skill over luck, had to reluctantly agree.

“That’s the problem with the tournament’s format,” he said. “It’s so easy to win or lose by a hair, with the outcome decided by whose Seeker is fastest.”

“Hogwarts does it a bit better,” Martin said. “You know, with the whole accumulation of points scheme deciding the outcome of the entire thing, not just who gets to the finals.”

“Sometimes I wonder if they do it for the entertainment value.” Art rolled his eyes. “At the finals you’re always on the edge of your seat watching the Seekers when the Snitch is spotted.” He paused, considering it. “No, it’s probably just that the Board of Directors are idiots.” He shook his head.

“Hey, kids, you ready to head home?” Isobel’s dad called, interrupting the conversation. The adults had been having their own conversation, standing around several feet away, but now Mrs. Murphy was packing up the hampers and the other adults were standing around looking bored and ready to leave.

“You can invite your friend back if you like,” Mr. Murphy added.

“Want to come back to our place?” Art asked Martin.

“Sure,” Martin said.

“Do you have to go find your parents and tell them?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

Martin shook his head. “I was here with friends, and my parents didn’t really expect me back anytime soon.”

That settled, they all began to make their way towards the Floo station. The stands around them were empty but for a few stragglers like them.

At the back of their chattering group, John murmured to Isobel, “I wonder if this guy plays Quidditch.”

Isobel smiled. “You know, I was wondering the same thing.”

When they got to the Murphys’ house, Isobel and the others immediately went out to the overgrown field they called their back garden, taking Martin with them. The back garden had always been their retreat: a place to play and talk, a spot to watch the sunset or the stars, and �“ most often �“ a Quidditch pitch. A wall of trees marked the boundary of the field, also serving the purpose of screening the activities that took place in it from view of the rest of the village, and near the house was a little shed where they kept their brooms. It held Isobel, John and Julia’s brooms during the summer as well; it saved them the effort of carrying them up the street, hiding them from Muggle eyes the whole way.

The eight of them sat down in the grass, and John and Isobel went straight for the attack.

“So you like Quidditch. Do you play?” John asked.

“A little. Well, a lot, really, but nothing serious.” Martin shrugged. “You’re heading for the tournament next year?”

“We want to be, but we’re short of a player,” Isobel said.

“But there are seven of you,” said Martin.

“I can’t play, though,” said Eleanor. “I’m not even a very good spectator of Quidditch. I mean, you learn some by accident, being around these guys, but I couldn’t tell you anything about strategy or anything.”

“What we mean to ask is, would you be at all interested in being our seventh player?” asked John.

“I guess I could try,” said Martin. “I’ll have to think about it. Don’t you want to see if I’m any good before you ask me to be on your team?”

“Of course, that’s why they wanted to come out here so badly,” said Julia. “This is where we play during the summer.”

“You can borrow my broom if you like,” said John. “I can sit this one out.”

“I’ll go and grab them,” volunteered Eleanor. Julia went off with her to help carry them.

“Three-a-side Quidditch, then,” said Isobel decisively. “What position do you prefer, Martin?”

“Keeper,” was his answer.

“Keeper it is, then. Andrew, you be Keeper for the other side. Me and Art can be Chasers on Andrew’s side, Cal and Julia on Martin’s side,” said Isobel.

“Do you guys always let her boss you around like that?” Martin asked Art, amazed.

Art shrugged and smiled. “It’s just what Isobel’s like. She’s always bossed us about, and most of the time, no one really minds.”

Julia and Eleanor came running back with the brooms, and Cal informed Julia, “You’re Chaser on my side. Martin’s our Keeper.”

“Thanks, Cal,” she said. “Here, Martin, this one’s John’s.” She handed him the broom, and then she and Eleanor passed the rest of the brooms they were holding out to their respective owners.

Eleanor tossed the battered old Quaffle to John. “You be referee. I just want to sit and watch.”

Isobel stopped Martin as he was about to take off. “Just remember, we have to fly kind of low �“ there are Muggles out there and the Murphys don’t have the right kind of spells on this place to stop them seeing us if we go above tree level.”

“That’s how it is at home, too,” Martin said, and then he took to the air. The rest of them followed suit. Julia showed Martin the marked trees that served as goalposts, and they all took their places, ready for the game to start.

“Ready?” John shouted from the middle of their makeshift pitch, holding the Quaffle at arm’s length. They all shouted their assent back, and John tossed the Quaffle into the air, letting out a piercing whistle as he did so. He then ran to sit beside Eleanor, deftly avoiding Art’s feet as he dove to claim the Quaffle.

Art threw the Quaffle to Isobel, and Julia darted in to intercept it.

“Ha! That’s what you get for letting a Seeker play Chaser,” Julia taunted. She tossed the Quaffle to Cal, and he zipped over towards Andrew and threw the Quaffle at the tree, hard. Andrew dodged away from it, and then claimed that his survival instincts had taken over.

“This is why you’re not being Keeper when we play next summer,” said Cal as Andrew threw the Quaffle back into play. Isobel caught it, and zigzagged down the pitch towards Art.

She passed it to him, and he sped towards Martin, Isobel close behind, Julia and Cal flanking them. Art seemed to be on a collision course with Martin as he hefted the Quaffle and drew his arm back to throw it, now dangerously close to him �“

�“ And he swerved upwards, less than three feet from Martin’s nose, dropping the Quaffle into Isobel’s waiting hands. She threw the Quaffle towards the tree, grinning, sure that Martin would be too shocked to stop it, only to be surprised when he snapped John’s broom to the left and caught the Quaffle before it could pass him.

Cal cheered. “Good show, Martin! Between the two of us, we’ve got this in the bag!”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Julia asked mock-plaintively as she claimed the Quaffle.

The game continued, Cal’s experience as a Chaser, Julia’s speed and Martin’s deft saves offset by Art’s deviousness and Isobel’s natural skill at Chasing. When they stopped about an hour later, they were dead even, happy and just a little bit tired from the day’s excitement.

“You’re brilliant!” John said to Martin as he and the others came to sit down with him and Eleanor. “Now I really want you on our team.”

“Speaking of the team,” said Art, “have you thought of a name for us yet, Isobel?”

“Me?” asked Isobel, clearly surprised. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suppose I was thinking we would all have a say. It’s our team, after all, not just mine.”

“The Eagles,” suggested Julia.

“The Elephants,” said Art.

“Or the Earwigs.” That was Julia again.

Art seemed quite struck with this. Andrew wasn’t so sure.

“Maybe not.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry, but I’d really rather not be a kind of bug.”

“How about the Eyases?” Eleanor asked. This suggestion was greeted by a puzzled silence. Eleanor flushed and explained, “’Eyas’ is the word for a young hawk.”

“Too smart for us, baby sister,” said Art, reaching over to ruffle her hair. She wrinkled her nose at him. “The meaning’s marvelous, but who’d get it?”

“Does it have to alliterate?” asked Eleanor.

“Alliter-what?” asked Cal.

“Have the same letters at the beginnings of things. Like the Chudley Cannons, the Tutshill Tornadoes, the Norwich Natterjacks. That kind of thing,” said Eleanor. “I suppose it’s traditional, but isn’t it kind of cheesy, too?”

“I guess it doesn’t have to, er, alliterate,” said John. “How about the, I dunno, Heroes?”

“Heroes? Isn’t that overestimating ourselves a little?” asked Andrew.

“How about the Blackshucks?” said Martin, speaking for the first time since they’d started making suggestions.

“What’s a Blackshuck?” asked Eleanor, curious.

“It’s Black Shuck, really. It’s what my gran calls the Grim,” he replied. “Except it’s not always bad. Gran said a cousin of hers had a friend who was out walking alone one night, and a great black dog walked beside her the whole way. They found out later there was some sort of criminal loose on that road, and everyone said Black Shuck had protected her.”

“I like it,” said Julia. “It’s intimidating, but not completely evil.”

“The Eleigh St. Mary Blackshucks,” said Isobel. “It’s a bit of a mouthful, but it would be anyway. I like the idea. How’s everyone else feel?”

It became clear that everyone else felt that it was a perfect name.

“It’s decided, then,” said Isobel. “The Blackshucks it is.”

“So how are we gonna do this, Isobel?” asked Cal.

“Do this?”

“The team. We’ll have to practice, right? I mean, we can’t just…go and play. Not if we want to win.”

“Of course not,” said Isobel. “I thought we would just train when we had time, maybe by the lake or something. Practice different techniques and strategies, that kind of thing. Keep in shape. And then serious training once we get back home for the summer. We’ll need to be in top form for the tournament.”

“We’ve never really all been on one side before,” said Julia. “It’ll be different. Who will be in which position?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Isobel. “I think you and Cal should stick with the positions you’re used to having on your House teams �“ so we’ve got a Seeker and a Chaser. I was on the fence about who to have as Keeper, but Martin’s already demonstrated that he’s really good, so if he doesn’t mind, he can take that position. Do you mind, by the way?” Martin shook his head, and Isobel continued. “I thought John and I could be Chasers, because we’re both good in that position, and Art’s aggressive when he wants to be so he’ll make a good Beater, and that leaves Andrew a Beater as well. Any objections?”

John looked doubtful, so Isobel said, “If you think you might not be good as a Chaser, think again. I know you’re Keeper half the time, but I like having you as Chaser; you think on your feet, and we work really well together. Plus, remember how good Martin was at Keeping?”

John shook his head and smiled. “You’re right. I’ll be fine as a Chaser, and Martin even better as Keeper.”

“Right. So, now that that’s settled,” said Isobel, “let’s go and see if dinner’s almost done. I’m famished.”

Chapter Four

After the day of the EAST final, the last week before they had to return to Hogwarts seemed to disappear all of a sudden, like a rug pulled out from under their feet. Isobel woke up on the morning of the first of September and remembered with a start that in less than twelve hours’ time she would be back at Hogwarts.

Isobel groaned and curled deeper into her bed. No more privacy, no more lazing about, no more freedom. Not that going to Hogwarts could ever be termed boring; it was just that sometimes she preferred the comforts of home and the undiluted company of her best friends in the world.

She went back to sleep for a little, absorbing the last little bit of enjoyment of her own bed at home for that summer, and as a result was woken rudely by her mother’s harried voice yelling her name through the house. She ignored her for a moment, then sighed and rolled out of bed. Her trunk was packed and ready on the floor, her clothes for the day laid out neatly on top. She tied her sandy-blonde hair in a knot to keep it out of her face and slipped into her worn old jeans and t-shirt.

“Isobel!” she heard her mum yell again. “It’s time to leave!”

“Coming!” Isobel grabbed the handle of her trunk and lifted it easily. That was one nice thing about having a Transfiguration expert and all-around impressive witch for a mother – she’d Charmed Isobel’s trunk to be feather-light, no matter what she put in it.

Mrs. Jones looked worried and a little annoyed when Isobel clattered down the stairs in her trainers, but her face softened when she saw her daughter. “I’m going to miss you,” she said.

“Mum,” objected Isobel, her tone clearly stating that she did not want any part in this sappy stuff.

“Being a surly teenager never changed the way mums feel about their children,” her father said jokingly from behind her. “Or dads. C’mere.” He turned her around and hugged her tightly. “There, now your old man doesn’t have to embarrass you in front of everyone else by hugging you later.” She hugged him back for a second and then they moved apart. Her dad grabbed her trunk before she could protest, and he carried it outside for her. The three of them set off down the road to the Wus’. When they reached it, they found the Wus’ old estate car already purring in front of their house, the boot open as Mr. Wu loaded John and Julia’s trunks in it.

He smiled, his stern face warming, as he saw the Joneses. “Good morning!” he said. “Hand me that trunk, I’ll put it right in here.” Isobel’s dad obeyed, and Mr. Wu hefted the trunk and settled it next to the other two.  John, who had been standing on his doorstep next to his yawning sister, waved and came over to talk to Isobel.

The Murphy siblings and their parents arrived shortly after, Andrew wearing his shiny new prefect badge pinned to his t-shirt, and the four of them stowed away their trunks. It was a good thing the Wus had had the car enchanted to be larger inside than out; otherwise, all seven of those trunks would certainly have been unable to fit.

Now it was time to say goodbye. The car might have been enchanted, but it couldn’t fit all of them. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy and Isobel’s parents had to stay behind.

Isobel suddenly found her view of the street blocked by her mother’s curly hair as she was engulfed in a tight embrace. Her mum held on for a minute, and then her dad hugged her again, despite his joking promise not to do so in the street.

When the goodbyes were over with, Mr. and Mrs. Wu settled into the front seats of the car, and the seven of them climbed into the back, where the long, bench-like seat managed to stretch to fit all of them comfortably.

It was a long drive to King’s Cross station; usually about two hours for your average Muggle, it took at least an extra half an hour for Mr. Wu to drive. He might have both a car and a license to drive it, but he was not the world’s best or fastest driver. Better him than Mrs. Wu, though: she had a tendency to jump whenever other cars passed them.

They were at King’s Cross in plenty of time to get on the Hogwarts Express, though; Mr. Wu always started out early, just in case. In case of what, Isobel didn’t like to think. She might not be as nervous as Mrs. Wu, but she had never become entirely comfortable with cars.

They loitered about in the train station for a while, wheeling their carts, until Mr. Wu noticed the time. “It’s nearly eleven o’ clock now! Hurry, let’s get onto the platform!”

The lot of them ran helter-skelter towards platforms nine and ten. They’d attracted a few stares – a couple of Muggle teenagers had laughed and yelled “Run!” at them – so they had to stop and wait for a minute or so before passing onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Once on the platform, they resumed their headlong dash. Cal and Andrew lifted their trunks onto the train while John and Julia exchanged hurried hugs with their parents. Isobel, Art, the Wu siblings and Cal found an empty compartment just as the train began pulling out of the station; Eleanor had broken off partway down the hallway to sit with a friendly-looking group of first-years, saying, “No offense, but I don’t want to start off my year sitting with my brothers.” Andrew had gone to take his place in the prefects’ compartment.

“So,” said Art, catching his breath, “I, for one, am just as happy not to have to deal with Andrew on this oh-so-lovely train ride.”

“And I’m sure he’s ecstatic not to have to deal with you,” muttered Julia. “Now shut up so I can go back to sleep.”

* * *

When they arrived at Hogwarts, the five of them split up at the entrance to the Great Hall. John, Isobel and Cal went to the Gryffindor table. Art and Julia sat down at the Ravenclaw table. Isobel saw Andrew already in place at the Hufflepuff table.

The new first-years straggled into the Great Hall in a long, nervous line. Eleanor looked flushed and shy in the middle of the line. Art and his friends waved excitedly at Eleanor, calling her name, and obviously making themselves obnoxious on purpose. She made a face back at them and blushed even more furiously.

“You better be in Ravenclaw, baby sister!” Art yelled, getting a glare from the Head Girl, also a Ravenclaw, in addition to Eleanor’s. He smiled cheekily at the Head Girl, unrepentant.

Professor Flitwick carried the Sorting Hat and stool in and set them down in front of the line of first years. He cleared his throat, consulting a piece of parchment. “Armstrong, Laura!” he shouted.

The Sorting dragged on for Isobel. Having slept in, she hadn’t eaten breakfast, and she’d had only a sandwich for lunch. Her stomach growled insistently at her all through the first half of the alphabet. And then Flitwick called out, “Murphy, Eleanor,” and she ignored her stomach.

Eleanor sat gingerly on the stool, looking nervous as Flitwick lowered the hat onto her head. It mulled for a minute or so, and then it seemed to come to a conclusion.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” it roared out over the crowd.

“I thought for sure she’d be a Ravenclaw,” said Isobel as she watched Eleanor sit as far away from Andrew as she could contrive.

“The Sorting Hat works in mysterious ways,” said John, shrugging. “I mean, we all thought I’d be in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, right? And here I am in Gryffindor.”

“You put up with having Isobel as a best friend,” said Cal. “That’s bravery enough for anyone.”

“Hey!” protested Isobel, laughing despite herself. “I’m not that bad!”

Just then, the food arrived on the golden plates, and they abandoned the conversation in favor of the feast laid out before them.

* * *

“It’s been less than a week and I’m sick of Trelawney already,” Isobel moaned, throwing herself into a chair in the library. Already at the table were the rest of the Eleigh St. Mary kids, minus Eleanor, who already had her own social life, thank you very much.

“Come on,” Julia said. “Trelawney’s fun, if you can forget she’s being deadly serious the whole time. Besides, you only have to stick with it another year – you can drop it after OWLs.”

“I can’t believe it’s OWL year already,” said John. “The teachers make it sound like the tests are right around the corner. I think they’re purposely trying to scare us into being extra-studious this year.”

“I can’t believe I only have another year till I have to deal with that,” Cal groaned.

Julia said, “Don’t think of it as ‘only a year till we have to do that’ – think of it as ‘we have a whole year to point and laugh while John, Isobel and Andrew suffer.’” She grinned impishly at her brother.

 “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” John informed her.

“I’m glad someone finally had the guts to say it!” Art ducked a quill thrown at him by Julia. “Not that it takes that much guts – you’re a crack Seeker, Jules, but your aim is terrible.”

“Like anyone could throw a quill and hit their mark!” Julia said mock-indignantly.

“You’re just lobbing it, that’s your problem,” put in Cal, picking up his own quill. “You throw it like a dart, see?” He sighted along the shaft of the quill and threw it. It curved in midair and collided gently with Art’s arm instead of what he had been aiming for – namely, Julia’s forehead.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Quills are curved, not straight like darts. Now stop throwing things before Pince sees you and kicks us out. I, for one, would like to retain my library privileges for the night. I have an essay to write. Speaking of which, I really should get working on it.”

John shook his head. “Clearwater’s taken to assigning monsters lately. How can she expect us to write two feet every other time we have her lesson and not go crazy?”

Andrew shrugged, sighed and stood up to head for the Transfiguration section. He nearly ran into Martin, who was on his way to the table. They nodded at one another in greeting and Martin took Andrew’s seat.

“How did I know I’d find you guys here?” Martin asked jokingly. The six of them, often with Martin included this past week, spent a little time in the library every night after dinner. Six friends in three different houses meant that you either socialized outdoors or in the library – and the library was the better bet at night.

“How’s life in NEWT classes?” Julia asked. “Scarier than these OWL classes we’ve been hearing about?”

“So much scarier. You have no idea,” Martin said. “You guys think two feet every other night from just one lesson is bad? Try one and half, from each lesson, practically every single time we meet, and then add Clearwater’s monsters. It’s insane.”

“What classes are you taking, anyway?” John asked.

“Charms, Transfiguration, Defense, and Muggle Studies. None of them are required for what I really want to do – there aren’t really any NEWTs required for that – but I reckon they’ll be useful if I can’t get into the job I want.”

“Which is?” Cal said.

“Journalism – preferably working for the Daily Prophet, but I’ll take what I can get.” Martin smiled. “My mum can’t decide whether to be pleased or disapproving – it’s not exactly the easiest job to get into. There’s not a lot of opportunities. Look, I feel like I’m being interrogated. Let’s talk about something else. Quidditch, maybe. Have we decided what we’re going to do about practice?”

Isobel nodded. “We’re going to just start off with drilling by the lake once every other week – are Saturday afternoons all right for you?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” said Martin. “Do we have Bludgers or anything for the Beaters to work with?”

“Me and Andrew got bats, but Mum wouldn’t let us get a Bludger.” Art pulled a face. “She wasn’t convinced we wouldn’t try and use it at home, and she thinks it’s just too risky to have a magically animated ball loose so close to a Muggle town.”

“Well, with you and Cal for children, who wouldn’t say no to a Bludger?” Julia raised an eyebrow. “Not to mention me as a neighbor.”

“It’s a shame, though,” said Cal. “Neither Art nor Andrew has ever had practice with a Bludger. Maybe we should talk to Professor Clearwater about borrowing one.”

“Why would Professor Clearwater give us a Bludger? She knows what we’re like with rules just as well as Mum does,” Art said. “Not to mention, I’m not sure how many Bludgers this school actually has. Are there more than just the two?”

Julia tilted her head. “You know, I’m not actually sure I know. I feel like I should. I mean, I’ve been on the Quidditch team for how long now?”

“Two years doth not an old-timer make,” Art said.

“All right, enough,” Isobel cut in. “We’ll see how things go first – maybe we can manage to enchant some rocks or something? – and if it’s not enough, we’ll talk to Professor Clearwater, all right?”

“You know, that’s what Bludgers were when they were first invented,” said Cal. “Enchanted rocks. I think it’d work.”

“You know, if you knew as much about everything else as you know about Quidditch, you’d be getting a lot better grades,” said John, amused.

“Now you sound like my mum,” Cal groaned. “I don’t care about anything else as much as I do about Quidditch.”

“This conversation is getting so out of hand.” Julia sighed. “Back to enchanted rocks. I can try it, but I don’t know how well it’ll work. I’m good, but I’m not sure if I’m that good.”

“I trust you, Jules,” said Art.

“Thanks so much,” Julia said sarcastically. “This, coming from the boy who’s probably not even going to take Charms after OWL year. That is just so reassuring.” She smiled at Art, dropping the sarcasm. “You know I love you.”

“This,” said Art, mocking Julia’s sarcastic tone, “from the girl who can’t keep a boyfriend because she has no heart –“

He broke off as Julia hit him in the arm. “That is beside the point!” she said as everyone else dissolved into laughter.

* * *

They all met the next day on a stretch of green grass next to the lake for their first Quidditch practice.

“Well,” said Isobel, looking from face to face, the lake at her back. “It’s nice out, even if the sun’s brighter than is ideal. Lucky we’re not here for a game. Julia, have you got some Bludgers made up?”

Julia, whose messenger bag was squirming rather oddly, squinted into the sun, looking embarrassed. “I…I have, but they’re not very good ones. I can try to make them better. I just didn’t really have all that much time.” She set her bag on the ground, unbuckled it and stepped back. Two very uneven-looking rocks came floating out of the bag, lurching drunkenly. They seemed to be attempting to go fast, but they couldn’t quite generate the force to haul their weight through the air quickly. “I’m not sure if it’s the fact that they were smaller stones originally – I couldn’t find bigger ones, so I had to Engorge these – or if it’s the fact that they’re all lopsided and rough, or if it’s my spellwork…” She shook her head. “I’m sure I can do better.”

“Good,” said Isobel briskly, now fully in captain mode. “These’ll do for now, I’m sure, and you can work on them some more later.” She turned away to talk to Art and Andrew, who both carried their Beater’s bats, about how they were going to practice.

“They’re pretty good, you know,” Cal said. Julia turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, not professional quality, but just think about what would happen if any of the rest of us tried. They wouldn’t even get off the ground. Besides, these slow ones – they’ll give Art and Andrew practice with simply aiming, not having to fight the Bludgers’ force. Our captain has new Beaters practice with Quaffles for the same reason. Don’t worry about getting it right just now.”

Julia smiled. “Thanks.”

“Julia! Get over here! We have to discuss how you’re going to practice!” Isobel shouted from where she was standing with Art and Andrew.

“Gotta go – Miss High-and-Mighty Captain calls.” Julia rolled her eyes and walked across the grass to Isobel, muttering, “Hasn’t she ever heard of saying ‘please’?”

“Does your captain have you do anything in particular to practice being Seeker?” asked Isobel.

“Er…I practice with the Snitch during practice,” said Julia. “But I take it that’s not an option, unless you stole a Snitch from Professor Clearwater.”

Isobel snorted. “No. I did have an idea for you, though – maybe we could set up an obstacle course for you, to keep you nimble?”

“And how are you planning on doing that?” Julia asked skeptically. Isobel was not known for her skill at spellwork.

“I thought maybe you’d have some ideas. You’re the expert.” Isobel smiled at Julia.

“Hmm.” Julia looked up, pondering the possibilities. “I know.” She pulled her wand out and shot a hoop of red sparks up into the air. “I can do more hoops and maybe a few sort of…blobby things to dodge around.”

“No incantation,” said Isobel, impressed.

“It’s just like sending up a cloud of red sparks except you can make it do shapes and stay longer,” said Julia, her face lighting up at the chance to explain. “Art’s friend Skelton explained it to me. He’s kind of a genius.”

“So, basically, this is one of those things I’m not going to be able to understand how to do,” said Isobel.

“Right,” said Julia.

“Just so we’re clear.” Isobel smiled.

“But I don’t mind making obstacles myself,” Julia said. “I can really make it difficult for me.” She grinned. As with spells, so with flying – she loved a challenge.

“All right, since that’s settled, I’m going to go and talk to Cal, John and Martin about how we’re going to practice.” Julia vaguely heard Isobel calling out for her Chasers and Keeper as she left her to shoot more hoops of red sparks into the air, but Julia ignored her captain’s voice and focused on her spellwork. For variety’s sake, she put up a few hoops and an amorphous blob of green.

“Right, so our practice is going to be simple,” said Isobel when her fellow Chasers and Martin were gathered about her. “We Chasers try to throw the Quaffle past Martin. Actually – I just had an idea. Julia!” she shouted.

“Yeah?” Julia replied, pausing as a particularly small red ring rose above her.

“Can you put up three hoops for Martin to defend?” Isobel asked.

“Sure thing!” Julia squinted and three rings of golden sparks the size of real Quidditch goalposts appeared over Martin’s head.

“Thanks!” Isobel yelled, and said to Martin, “Right, so you defend those, and we try and put the Quaffle through it.”

“And we practice some strategies while we do that,” John interjected.

“And we practice some strategies. Yes. We talked about a couple the other day; let’s try them now. You’ve got the Quaffle, Cal?”

Cal hefted the Murphys’ battered Quaffle in one hand. “Right here.”

“All right. Let’s go.”