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It wasn’t an unusual sight, seeing Garrick eating— like a lot of young, growing boys, his stomach seemed permanently empty, unless something extremely far from scrumptious was being offered on the table. Dinner may have only been just around the corner, but when he walked into the pitch, figure tall and softened by the shoulder-sway of his nonchalant stride, he handled his broom in one loose hand and a half-eaten pear in the other. For him, the day had been a simple one— classes, a missed unofficial lunchtime practice with a few of his Quidditch team-mates due to his being kept in at Transfig, an obligatory warning about his grades from an unimpressed professor. Regardless of the weather, he wanted to get that practise in; every missed practise was a missed opportunity to improve, after all, and Garrick couldn’t tolerate that.

But still, underneath the hair that he had long given up trying to remove from off his forehead and away from his eyes, the flesh of his eyebrows was furrowed into an absent, unworried frown.

— Crunch. He took a bite of his pear. A large one; Garrick Summerby never ate half-heartedly. The muscles in his jaw knotted routinely as they snapped with each bite, and the sols of his sneakers, safely unbranded by an insignia from any Muggle clothing company, chuffed to a bland halt on the flat ground. Blue eyes peered downward from the sky, which had been where the most of his attention had been focused beforehand, and immediately focused upon the girlish figure in the distance.

Without a change in expression and with a return of his simple onward-march, Garrick raised his broom a fraction higher in a casual wave. “Bones,” he called out, around the mouthful of pear yet to be digested. “How’s it going, huh?”