If asked, Albus could draw a picture of the Quidditch pitch with nothing but his memory to serve as reference. More time was spent than not by the wooden stands, the area in which he resided all but hidden to those who aren’t in search of it. From there, he could view others with ease, but it wasn’t uncommon for him to go unnoticed. Not unlike in the castle, he supposed.
A chill ran down his spine as bits of sand and dust blew from a sudden gust of wind. A jacket would have been a good idea for that time of year, but he couldn’t have been bothered to look for one. Albus lifted a bottle to his lips, not so much as wincing as the smoky liquid slid down his throat. Turned his head he watched darkening shadows slowly inch their way along the ground, tangling together until they formed something almost sinister. His gaze was interrupted by a more definite form as it grew closer, and he looked up to see who the visitor was, his finger absentmindedly circling the bottle’s rim. “If you’re looking for pleasant conversation, I’d suggest going elsewhere.” @heavyheartcd
