There were, he had been repeatedly assured, no wolves in this town, for all that it was called Wolfville. Town was, perhaps, generous, for all that it boasted a (very small) harbour, but apparently the magical denizens dwelling just outside of the community had developed a new broom sport that they wished to demonstrate—to his local counterpart, not Fitzroy in particular, but he was along for the ride.

Shame. Wolves might have livened the place up.

The demonstration had gone... surprisingly intriguingly. The game involved not a traditional broomstick, but two smaller ones with platforms affixed for standing. The game itself was, it was explained to him, was similar to muggle ice hockey which he knew existed but did not understand in the slightest, so that explanation afforded no illumination. In action, though—Fitz doubted very much the game would fly back in England, but it had been far more entertaining to watch than he had anticipated.

And yet, grown wizards trying to balance standing on broomsticks while hitting what amounted to a small bludger to one another was not the strangest thing Fitz had seen today.

No, that honour belonged to one of the locals who had turned out to watch as well.

He was older, of course, and sported a moustache, but Fitz could have sworn it was him—a face he had sat across the dinner table from many times, had shared a quidditch box, a bottle of brandy, numerous conversations with. A man who was supposed to be dead.

Their eyes met, and Fitz opened his mouth, the name Gallivan on his lips.

Then the man disapparated.