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.

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