The late afternoon sun shimmered over the paddock like liquid gold, casting long shadows across the track as the young horses were led to the starting line. Ten year old Niki Lensworth stood on her tiptoes behind the wooden rails, her small hands gripping the edge as she squinted into the distance. The too-large camera hanging from her neck bounced against her chest every time she jumped up to see better.

He was out there somewhere—Quinn Umbridge, astride a chestnut colt with a proud gait and an attitude to match his rider.

“Do you see him?” She asked no one in particular, her voice bright with pride and impatience. A nearby stablehand gave her a sideways glance.

She didn’t care.

She was here on official business.

The camera, a clunky old Muggle model her mother insisted she not bring, had been smuggled into her satchel with all the care of a secret mission. She’d spent the whole morning carefully taping a “PRESS” makeshift badge to her lapel and writing interview questions in her best cursive.

Her plaited hair had already come loose in places, and there was a smudge of ink on her chin. She wore a faded navy-blue dress with a too-big sunhat she kept adjusting with dramatic flair, declaring herself “an official reporter on assignment.”

At last, she spotted him—Quinn in his racing silks, helmet snug over his windswept curls, adjusting his gloves like he’d been doing it his whole life. He walked towards her from the other side of the gate, leading his horse to the starting line.

“Stop fidgeting, Quinn!” She said as the boy tried, and failed, to keep his racing uniform tidy. “If you want to look like a real jockey in the paper, you can’t be all... floppy.”

Quinn rolled his eyes but let her reach through the gate to straighten the collar of his white riding shirt. His cheeks were flushed from warm-up laps, a little bit of dirt streaked along one side of his jaw. But his green eyes sparkled.