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It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. Its handle glittered as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved from the golden registration number at the top of the handle, right down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.

¡°But apart from my transformations, I was happier than I had ever been in my life. For the first time ever, I had friends, three great friends. Sirius Black¡­Peter Pettigrew¡­and, of course, your father, Harry ¡ª James Potter.¡±

¡°What! You'd better get a move on, you know ¡ª you can't ride that Shooting Star against Ravenclaw!¡±


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