 Bathes in Maple Syrup | Dancing Lobster | Moy Pomidor | Seneca's Beard | That Is So Fetch!
Nikolaos' eyebrows lifted. Careful opening doors?
His eyes flicked toward the telephone box, then to the entirely unobstructed pavement surrounding it, and finally back to the man who had chosen the one place directly in front of its door to contemplate whatever existential crisis had apparently occupied him.
"Ahh, of course." Nikolaos nodded slowly, as though he'd just been offered some particularly valuable advice. The Greek's expression remained perfectly serious. "Next time, I knock first."
He should have left it at that. Already he'd spent far longer in the Ministry than he'd intended, and he had other things to do before heading back to Banchory for practice. More importantly, the man had turned away, which ordinarily would have been enough of an invitation for Nikolaos to continue on his own way. Except—
There was still something irritatingly familiar about that face, and then there was the accent. British? No. His brow furrowed as he listened back to the few words in his head. Australian, perhaps? He'd spent enough time around international Quidditch players to hear a fair assortment of accents, though identifying one from a single sentence wasn't exactly his greatest talent.
The combination of the accent and the face then stirred something in his memory. Not a name, exactly. More like the vague recollection of seeing that face somewhere before while one of his former teammates had made some sort of comment about the man attached to it.
What the comment had been, Nikolaos couldn't remember. Knowing the teammate, there was a reasonable chance it hadn't been especially useful.
"You know where to go?" he suddenly asked, the question delivered with an almost careless nonchalance. His gaze returned to the man, one eyebrow aslant. "Or you plan to stand in front of more doors?"
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