As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and set off towards the Quidditch pitch in the dusk. He’d never been inside the stadium before. Hundreds of seats were raised in stands around the pitch so that the spectators were high enough to see what was going on. At either end of the pitch were three golden poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of the little plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles through, except that they were fifty feet high. Too eager to fly again to wait for Wood, Harry mounted his broomstick and kicked off from the ground. What a feeling – he swooped in and out of the goalposts and then sped up and down the pitch. The Nimbus Two Thousand turned wherever he wanted at his lightest touch. ‘Hey, Potter, come down!’ Oliver Wood had arrived. He was carrying a large wooden crate under his arm. Harry landed next to him.