February 13th, 1888 — Elias Grimstone's Workshop

Elias Grimstone

He'd been broomless for less than 24 hours and already he felt the loss as if he'd had one of his thumbs removed. It wasn't life threatening, just majorly inconvenient. And awkward. So terribly awkward. He'd flooed home the previous evening once he'd returned the broom — his primary means of transportation previously — but now... now he had to walk anywhere that didn't make sense to floo. This needed to be remedied immediately. Not only for his own wounded pride, but for his new team. Nobody would lend him a broom. Granted, he hadn't asked directly but when he'd mentioned it after he'd first reported, no one had volunteered it. They were likely as happy as he that he'd joined the team.

So, like the plebian he now was, he mumbled something uncomplimentary about muggles and sauntered off to Elias Grimstone's workshop. He'd never ordered a broom before. Even now, he wasn't entirely certain that he had the means for it. He'd find a way. Chudley would regret dropping him once they saw how quick he could be on his new broomstick.

The bell overhead rang as he pushed the door open. He hadn't expected to see the broommaker immediately (albeit he didn't know what he looked like and couldn't be certain that this actually was he) and was taken aback by how tall the man was. Half in the door, he stood frozen for a moment, simply gaping.

  

It was fortunate he'd installed the bell at the workshop door, since he wasn't sure whether he would actually notice anyone coming in otherwise, when he sometimes got too engrossed in an endeavour. That said, at the moment the bell rang today, Elias had only been polishing up a broom nearly set to be sent out; he grabbed another cloth as he stood and began to wipe off the polish from his fingertips.

Most people sent ahead an owl to make an appointment of sorts, at least the first time they visited, though he had never minded customers coming by unexpectedly, and certainly didn't mind now. It made his job easier, sizing up a broom for someone face-to-face rather than being sent information by owl.

He paced towards the entrance, but didn't recognise the young man in the doorway at first glance - there was perhaps some familiarity in his face, but not enough to pin down anything more about him. More notable, in any case, was the strange look on his face; upon seeing it, Elias sent a bewildered look over his shoulder, but he couldn't spot anything behind him that looked amiss. Nothing was on fire, at any rate. Bemused, he turned back to the visitor, not entirely convinced that he could presume him to be a new client when he looked so surprised to have found himself faced with the workshop. Perhaps he'd knocked at the wrong door? Oh, right, not so - he hadn't knocked.

"Morning," Elias offered (although he hadn't checked the clock in a fair while, so perhaps it was already afternoon). "Everything... alright?"

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The other man had said something. He seemed friendly enough. He'd never heard anything about Grimstone being a arse, but then again he'd never heard a word about the man being taller than the door-frame either. Declan shook himself just in time to catch the question that was offered up. Oh. Oh how embarrassing. He'd been caught staring.

He cleared his throat as his ears reddened, "Er.. yeah. S'fine. Are you uh... are you Mr. Grimstone?" Had he been aware that Elias also had a brother, he would have used his full name. In the quidditch world, a Grimstone broom was well-known and coveted by the local teams. Couldn't get much more local than a broommaker in Hogsmeade for a Hogsmeade player.

Unable to restrain himself, he found the next few words tumbling out anxiously, "Y'see, I need a broom — not jus' any broom, I need one that's bloody fas'."

  

"That's me," Elias answered easily, feeling far more unruffled by this encounter so far than his visitor looked. "Elias," he affirmed, stepping forward and about to extend a hand to shake the stranger's, though thought better of this plan upon realising he hadn't managed to get all the polish off. "It's a..." pleasure, he had begun to say, but he trailed off as his visitor got straight down to business.

Ah, so he was here for a broom!

"Oh?" He echoed, tilting his head a fraction and beginning to survey the lad in more interest. "You on the run?" He added with a bit of a grin. Not that he often started off joking around with customers he hadn't met before, but on this occasion he hadn't been able to help himself. (Actually, come to think of it - between bloody fast and the young man's urgent tone and sudden entry, maybe that theory wasn't necessarily such a stretch?)

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"What?" His brows knit in confusion, "On the ru-" The comment clicked just a moment too late for him to save face. Elias Grimstone was joking with him. Declan had been so intent on his purpose that he hadn't even realized how his request had sounded. His cheeks warmed, "Oh, no it's nothin' like that. I'm no criminal, I swear." It dawned on him that a statement like that is exactly what a criminal might say.

He awkwardly hurried on with, "I've got nothin' ta run from, 'cept my mum's backhands." He winced inwardly. Did he really just bring up his mother to the famous broommaker? Merlin, this was going bloody well. He may as well have skipped in and asked if Mr. Grimstone had any sweeties in the back.

"I'm a chaser for the Can-Howlers—" He corrected with a pained wince, "And the broom I was usin' was uh.. confiscated. So I'm in need of a new one. A better one."

  

Once the poor boy's confusion had worn off and he'd hastily cobbled together an answer, Elias let his chuckle slip out at last, waving a breezy hand to say he didn't really think he was face to face with a criminal. Anyway, the workshop probably wasn't the best place to rob, anyway. Expensive as brooms were, there didn't tend to be many finished brooms laying about, and before they were finished, they were just... rather large sticks.

(To someone else, of course. The finest imported mahogany timber would never be just a stick! The idea made him rather sick.)    

"Best be thankful they're not with a frying pan," Elias murmured wryly, in response to the bit about his mother's backhands. Not that his own mother was the most violent in the family; no, it was usually Rue one had to be frightened of. Rather than elaborating, though, his attention was rather caught by his customer's actual situation. Aha - a quidditch player, then, professionally.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said with a wince, about the confiscated broom - and potentially the team move, if what he gleaned about the wound's freshness was true. Chasers from the Cannons, hmm. Elias considered the young man a moment more before he'd narrowed down the options. "Mr. Wood, is it, then?" He was well-versed enough in players' names, though hadn't yet heard about Mr. Wood joining the Howlers; it must be new, then.

"Well, the Howlers could use some fresh blood for next season," Elias offered, not inclined to be a downer about it. The Howlers had done worse than the Cannons in these playoffs, admittedly, so he wasn't sure how pleased Mr. Wood would be about the move; nor whether the chaser would be much help bettering the Howlers' chances. Perhaps the broom would make all the difference, though! Elias thought optimistically. "And we can do that, certainly."  

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Declan nodded, "Aye, that's me." Fresh blood. What a positively refreshing way to look at it. In his own mind, he'd been stewing over the fact that he'd royally mucked up and the team had promptly ditched him. Nobody else had wanted him except for a lesser team, who was desperate for fresh players. He didn't think it improved their chances much to be grabbing a novice Chaser for the new season, but who was he to complain? At least he wasn't out of a job and a paycheck.

"Great, what's it I need to do to get an order goin'?" He asked eagerly, never having had his own broom before. He suspected this would be pricey, but it would be worth it. He needed something decent to get himself taken seriously again.

  

The more he thought back on last quidditch season, the more he remembered the individual matches: the Cannons hadn't had a good run of it, in the end, especially not in their last game. Not that he was to judge Mr. Wood here, 'course; everyone had a bad day of it, sometimes. (Elias was sure he'd have been dreadful, playing professionally, in all that limelight.)

"Easy enough," Elias said brightly - for the customer, anyway. "This here's a catalogue of what I make -" (though none of them would be new to a professional quidditch player, he suspected) "and working from those, we can try out some customisations to make the model suit you better. Take measurements, and so on," he said, gesturing at a charmed tape measure that sat on a stool across the room. "See if we can't make something speedier than what you had."

Then came the question of payment, a question Elias found much less exciting than all the rest. Wood looked young, and his name wasn't one that screamed wealth, but in professional quidditch, a good broom wasn't optional. "Then I'll give you a quote; pass it on to your team sponsor, if you have an arrangement there - if not, you're welcome to pay in instalments." (Much as he relied on the type of client who had the income to just buy a top-tier broomstick on the fly, he couldn't say liked how little they thought of the expense.) "How does that sound?"

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Declan nodded as he listened. It seemed easy enough. Expensive likely, but easy. Mr. Grimstone had a laid-back way about him that the younger man took an immediate liking to - especially when the payment plan was suggested. There was no trace of judgement there. Elias came from the working class. He understood a thing or two about the struggle of finances. Declan had nearly forgotten that fact.

He nodded again, "Sounds jus' fine. It'll be installments for me. Maybe th' next one'll be a gift from the Howlers after I win the '89 finals for 'em." He grinned cheekily, "But I can't get a head of myself jus' yet." Inside, he felt much less optimistic about his future prospects. If quidditch didn't work out for him, maybe Elias Grimstone would take pity on him and let him help make broomsticks. At least he'd still have a thumb in the proverbial pie.

  

"Now, there's the attitude you want," Elias agreed with a broad smile, well used to hearing that sort of thing from players of any team. He supposed one ought to have that innate confidence about them, or the pressure'd just be too much. That, and the probable fact that a lot of the league's favourite part of their job was getting to talk smack about their many rivals at any event (or flimsy excuse for a party) they found themselves at. He'd been there, seen them all. Mad bunch of people, really.

But fun to be around.

"Any new broom's going to take some getting used to," Elias warned, mostly as an afterthought - and the fact remained true even if the new broom had better stats than his last (Elias didn't know what Wood had been flying, but his job was nonetheless to see the chaser better situated than before, as far as possible) "but I expect you'll have plenty of time to get acquainted before the season proper starts." So maybe he would see the Howlers to victory, who knew?

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"That'll work jus' fine by me," He grinned lopsidedly, "All I travel by is broomstick - no floo or apparatin' for me. It'll be broken in real quick." He liked the wind in his hair and the adrenaline rush the speed gave him. There would be even more of that with his new one, so long as Grimstone delivered on his promises. As for apparition... well, he'd only completed his OWLs and hadn't the schooling for it. His ma had pushed him to go to the classes at the Ministry, but he figured broomstick suited him just fine and he didn't need another means of travel.

We could probably wrap this soon?

  

“Ah, well,” Elias agreed; that’d be plenty of practice to serve him for next season, as long as he didn’t crash it on its first outing or anything.

“In that case, I’ll get to work on it as soon as possible,” he added brightly. It had been a relatively painless meeting, and that always made Elias quietly less begrudging than he might feel towards the finicky, impossible-to-satisfy sort of customer. “Can’t have you stranded for too long, can we?”

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