Thousands of voices on the bleachers above meld into a vibrating hum - the kind you hear near a beehive.
Each of those voices has at least one pair of eyes, they are all looking at you - worse yet - many of those voices are clad in Puddlemere blue and yellow.
Bathed in golden light, blues and yellows glared at yellows and greens.
Good thing they’re all wandless.
"This is it, half-pint," Gwen said, sounding as motherly as Gwenog Jones could probably muster.
With a faint rustle of robes and some coughing, the Harpies set off for the pitch.