Leonard walked onto the pitch with a bat and a school broom, which he dragged behind him unceremoniously. He swallowed. His face was hard with determination, and the knuckles of his hand, wrapped tightly around the bat, were white.

This vagabond summer had fed into a dream of his; it involved Quidditch stardom. More importantly, it involved tons of galleons; So much gold that the pockets of his shorts would rip from the weight of the smooth coins.

If only there was not an obstacle already mounting before him; his thoughts swam between his dreams and his anxieties and the knowledge that he was a lousy flyer. In the pension in Hogsmeade where he spent his childhood clinging to the skirts of whoever would humor him, there had been no thought for honing that sort of skill; there had been no broom that was good for more than brushing away dirt.

Nonetheless, he donned a white cap for beater tryouts and took to the air. He just about managed to stay on course. But he was strong, was he not? He could carry heavy things up and down flights of stairs all day, and when he struck at the boys who lived on Bonham Close and tried to taunt him, they stumbled and scattered. So he hit the Bludgers with all his might and precision and tried his best not to fall off the broom.

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