“You know, I think I hear laughter from over there,” Gus murmured to Billie’s upside-down face, gesturing vaguely across the ice, though from where she was lying flat against it she really couldn’t see all that much. “Really, I’m fine,” she assured, grinning at the girl to say no need to bump ‘em, I promise.

Used to injuries from quidditch, these dull aches were nothing, though she probably was going to come out in a fantastic set of bruises tomorrow - like a leopard’s spots, only black and blue - or big lumps that would make her look like an egg. Or a potato. Gus chuckled to herself at the thought for a moment, but supposed she should get up before they thought her any stranger. Luckily Mr. Ollivander offered a hand, which she slapped her palm into and gripped tight, just long enough to hoist herself up securely. She dug her skates in as he said and returned the grin he was attempting to suppress; she didn’t mind a bit if he was amused.

“I’m no reflection on your teaching, I swear,” she told them both, ruffling Billie’s hair as she found herself upright again - and before the girl could skate away again. “You’re both very good. Patient as saints, the pair of you. Oh, my hat!” Gus exclaimed, leaning forwards to - very unbecomingly - scoop it up where it had fallen, so she might jam it on her head again to hide her horribly mussed hair.

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