“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.