February 8th, 1890 — A Shabby Muggle Pub, London

Spryly had been haunting the pub for three days and was on the verge of hostility with the landlord who resented how little money he was spending. He hadn't been staying there constantly, he had gone away and come back but really the better part of the last few days had been spent there. Finally, his patience paid off and through the door walked Cassius Lestrange. It was a good thing really, he had been seriously starting to contemplate making a pilgrimage to the Chudley Cannons' quidditch pitch and loitering there but that was a lot of effort for someone who couldn't apparate.

He probably could have saved himself a lot of trouble and tried writing a letter but his penmanship was almost as abominable as his spelling and he didn't care to show it off now anymore than he had at school.

"Oi there!" he called out from his dingy corner, waving an arm energetically to catch his attention. He earned himself a filthy look from the barkeep who was likely thinking about how the ale glass in front of him had been finished so long ago the last drops had entirely evaporated.

---

Lestranges were notorious. In school Cash had always tried to be one of the more anonymous members of the family; now that he was a professional Quidditch player, and an actually good one, there was nowhere in the wizarding world he could wear that cloak. People recognized him, everywhere - they talked about him, if his behavior was too weird.

But in muggle dive bars: no one knew him. He could drink enough to slide right up against that boundary of unreality, lean on it for a few hours, and then go home with the press none the wiser. He was overdressed for a bar like this, but when Cash was the only magic user in the vicinity he had no real concern for his safety - he had always been better with hexes than anyone expected, and a muggle with a knife was not much of a match for a wizard, even a drunk one.

The idea was anonymity. So when Cash stepped in and was immediately hailed, he nearly fled - but then he looked up. Eli. Every time, there was a moment where he thought Spryly was a ghost.

"Hello," Cash called, nervous. He looked to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, before walking to the corner. This was going to be a whiskey kind of conversation. Sometimes you just had a feeling about something like that.

---

He'd hardly struck up a close friendship with the other man but Spryly found him oddly approachable for a rich person. Also he had to admit he held a level of respect bordering on admiration for the fellow as a result of his quidditch career. It was that which had caused him to keep vigil the last few days.

Once he was seated, Spryly dug around one of the pockets inside his coat and after a few seconds of rummaging, slammed a dogeared newspaper clipping down onto the table. "I know I ain't on a proper team, not righ' now, not yet, but I was gonna try out 'n them my leg 'appened but I've seen a person 'bout that and it's almost like it was again an' I just 'ave to get on the World Cup team!" He'd been rehearsing the conversation in his head over and over and he realized as finished passionately monologuing that he probably should've eased into it with some of those pleasantries people like him were so keen on. How do you do's and all that.

What was he expecting Lestrange to do about it anyway? Yes, he'd been hoping for some advice and inside information that might help him pursue his dream but it wasn't like he picked players for his team. He groaned, folded his arms on the table and buried his face in them. "Nevermind," came a muffled and decidedly dejected voice. "Don't know what I'm thinkin'. Sorry. Smog's gone to my brain." This was definitely not how he'd imagined this going, he'd made an ass of himself and it'd be a small mercy if he looked up and found Cassius Lestrange had quietly run off to another pub.

---

This was a lot of information at once. Cash did better with things delivered in measured tones; very few people were passionate in his direction, and he was not sure what to make of it when they were. It was sort of intriguing.

He looked confused: his eyebrows were a little drawn together, and it took him a moment to focus on the newspaper clipping. Cash thumbed it before he replied. "You don't need to worry about it," he said, although he was not sure what to say beyond that.

"But I don't even know if I'll be on the World Cup Team."

Did he even want to try out for that? He hadn't thought about it yet.

---

Apparently he hadn't sidled off because he replied. Spryly lifted his head up from his arms. "Course you will!" He'd not really been able to see any quidditch matches since he'd left school but he felt like he from what he'd heard and read that it was a no brainer. "D'you really think I stand a chance then?"

---

Spryly's faith in him, while certainly misguided, was a welcome change of pace. Cash let it slide.

"What position are you trying out for?" he asked, "And how good are you?"

---

"Chaser," he replied quickly. He'd only ever played chaser, not that he was opposed to trying something new but he'd probably be better off sticking to what he knew. Not to mention, there were three chasers on a team which meant he had a better chance aiming for one of those slots. Did this mean he thought it was a real possibility? "I haven't played in a while but I was on the Gryffindor team for a few years and we won the quidditch cup my last year. I've always been a strong flier!" He was sure that after a little practice he'd be back to where he was and ready to get even better. The matter of getting a new broom was secondary, if he couldn't save up for one he'd make his own.

---

Chaser was good - there were six slots available. And if he had played for his house team that meant that he probably wasn't terrible; maybe mediocre. Cash did not remember ever playing against him, but that did not mean that it had never happened - there were a lot of things that he did not remember.

"How often do you practice?" Cash asked.

---

At this his stomach knotted uncomfortably. After losing his broom to the fog and the injury to his leg... He hadn't played since. He'd not really had much opportunity to before that but it had been completely off the cards in the last year or so. If he could just get a broom and get back into the air he was sure it would all come flooding back to him. "Much as I can." Well it wasn't really a lie, he just couldn't confess the truth without making himself look a prize idiot and if Lestrange thought he was deluded and stood absolutely no chance then no one else was going to take him seriously. "Not so easy though. At the moment." There was no need to lead him to a completely unrealistic conclusion.

---

"You need to practice more," Cash said. To be honest, that was what he would have said regardless. "And I'll have to see you play before I say for sure whether or not you have a shot."

To be honest, Cash didn't know why he made the offer. He hadn't planned to until it was leaving his mouth. But he did - and if Spryly didn't take him up on it, then he was stupid.

---

"Really, you'd do that?!" Spryly couldn't believe his luck, all he'd expected at most was some advice this was unprecedented and AMAZING. He was about ready to leap across the tabletop with delight.

---

Spryly radiated so much excitement that it was actually rather overwhelming; Cash didn't know what to do with it. "I'll do that," he agreed. He still wasn't sure if it was a good idea. But it couldn't hurt, could it? "But you have to practice more first."

---

"As if I'll be doing anythin' else!" He didn't have a broomstick right now but that was inconsequential, he'd figure that out later, for now he might actually have a shot at professional quidditch! "You're the best! And you ain't gonna regret it, just you wait!" He smiled absurdly at Cassius, unaware how his enthusiasm might be coming across. He was so pumped he almost didn't need a broom to fly at that moment.

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