Cameron glanced over at Calla, who said everything he expected she or Maddy or Sloane to say at some point. They were quidditch players, so in their minds they likely thought every girl was born to fly. Greta wasn't. She was his little sister and he knew her, and he was still entirely unconvinced that she would do any better on a broomstick than any average first year. (Not that he thought she'd be good for nothing—he thought she'd be powerful with jinxes once she learned a few.)

"The Bells are a quidditch family," he reminded, always feeling compelled to make the distinction. Greta may have never known their father, but Cameron had, and he was adamant that he would never be a Bell. It didn't matter how affectionate Ambrose could be towards him, nor that Greta had started calling him father; there was a relationship between father and son that could never exist between father and step-son. It was fact. Little Oak—who at the moment was parked at his father's side—was proof of that. "And I'm a quidditch player. And don't you worry, Greta will get her time on a broom." He looked down at his sister with a forced smile, and then looked back to Calla. "She just doesn't need her own."

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