It was another day in Diagon Alley — the premier luxury shopping district for not only Magical Britain, but also much of mainland Europe, too. Wizards and Witches from all over the world walked the stores, gazing, considering, drooling, haggling.

“Come on, Mum! We’re going to be late!” A random teenage boy, maybe an upper year of one of the lesser magical schools, looked back in frustration as his mother took her time examining a shop filled with the latest fashions.

“We’ve got ten minutes, Sam,” the woman said in a bored voice. “Your brooms won’t care if we’re there early.”

Sulking like only a teenage boy can, Sam turned away from his window shopping mother and dashed away towards the small shop a ways down the alley. He soon arrived and looked up at the sign above the window — Michelle McLaggen's Memories — and below that, stuck onto the inside of the window, was a large table of titles and dates — memory names on the right, viewing times on the left.

One entry in particular jumped out at him. Sam looked at the time beside it and his heart jumped into his throat.

He ran back down the road. “Muuuum! I was wrong about the time! It’s starts in just five minutes!”

A few minutes later, Sam found himself back on the inside of Michelle McLaggen’s Memories. The place was packed. Dozens of other students, mostly wizards—though there were a few witches hanging around, too—filled the small waiting room to bursting.

Sam pulled his brand new pocket watch from the inside of his robes and inspected it. Should be starting round about now.

On the wall, a tiny mechanical house elf shot out of a clock on the wall, announced, “It’s Two and Twenty Five of the Clock!” and then proceeded to rhythmically smash its own head against the clock’s large bell.

When the noise died down, the shop keeper, presumably Michelle McLaggen, called them together and led the small crowd into one of the separate areas partitioned off from the waiting room.

In the middle of the space, on a marble plinth, sat a pensieve. The middle ages woman opened a cabinet, pulled a vial from inside, and poured it into the magical artefact. “One at a time, please!” She announced. “No shoving!”

One by one, the younger wizards and the occasional adult stepped up to the pensive.

Soon, it was Sam’s turn. He bent over the water with just a hint of trepidation. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, but still, when the magical power gripped him and yanked him down into the porcelain bowl, like a monster swallowing him whole, he still couldn’t help let out a little scream.

He fell, fell, fell.

He fell onto the side of a grassy hill in the middle of nowhere.

Two arms hooked under his and dragged him away from the landing spot before the next person arrived. “Thanks,” he said with feeling.

“No trouble, mate.”

Sam then turned his attention to the figure standing in front of the assembled group.

It was a tall man dressed in dragon-hide boots, muggle jeans, a silk shirt, horse-hide leather jacket (probably Abraxan) and hair so stiff and curly, it was practically an afro. It was a figure he recognised.

In front of the man, between him and the crowd, lay a collection of many different broom sticks.

Eventually, the last viewer arrived in the field. A few minutes of milling around after that, the man inspected his watch, clapped his hands together, and rubbed them hard.

The crowd silenced.

Then, in a voice dripping with so much machismo it was a wonder the girls present didn’t get pregnant instantly just from hearing it, the man spoke. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Beremy Larkson.”

He paused.

“Not really,” he continued. “I’m actually Daniel Seemore. But it turns out that this,” he swept his arm down his obviously poly-juiced body, “Isn’t against any rules, so, I thought, why not have some fun?”

There were a few puzzled chuckles from the group, but Sam couldn’t help grinning. He watched muggle television. He got it.

“Anywho,” the man continued, “Time to get. On. As I said, I’m Daniel Seemore, and this—” he paused for dramatic effect “—is Top Broom.”