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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