Greg! Private Closed

It was seven in the evening on a crisp, cool Wednesday. There was a slight breeze coming from the north, a warning that colder days were to come. Hogwarts had only recently started the 2017 School Year, many of the new students were still trying to find their place in the world and many of the returning students fell back into their routines rather quickly. He was always entertained by the wide eyed expressions many of the first years donned when they saw Howarts for the very first time. To a child accustomed to magic, these days many children are exposed to both mundane Muggle experiences as well as the fantastical benefits of their magical lineage. Seeing such a display, dare one say reliance, of magic was awe-inspiring for most.

"Greg!" A booming voice shouted through cupped hands as a one Solomon Lear called out the name of a lost boy, a friend, it was hard to say. He appeared to be alone of course in this grassy field where the sod was somewhat overgrown and speckled with wilting wildflowers that would soon turn brown as the winter months took hold, it looked like the sort of place one would bring their livestock to graze. There was a rough wooden fence that bordered what might be an acre plot of land, dotted with small trees that had not yet started to change but the fringe of some of the leaves had started to brown. The bushes had already started to shed prematurely, half bald with some dry leaves that continued to hold on. Their twisted, dark branches partially exposed.

"GREG!" Solomon called again. Some might see the middle aged Professor of the Care of Magical Creatures an eccentric, he did not carry himself in the same way as the other Professors. Hardly a conformist he donned tan leather armor that seemed to be in good repair despite being well-worn with evidence that it might have even saved his life a few times considering the deep gashes that characterized the surface. He was not a young man of course, hefty be was about eighty pounds (thirty-six kilograms) overweight and his armor fit snugger than it should but he was still able to don the same armor he wore when he trained his first bicorn, unsuccessfully but it was a valiant effort some would say. He was not able to wrangle creatures like he used to, a part of him wanted to believe they fought back harder these days but he knew the truth even if it was hard to see it whenever he looked into the mirror. Still he was able to recapture some sense of youth here among the young.

"Greg!" Solomon shouted again, no louder than the first, in fact his voice was beginning to grow hoarse. He would sweep his arm through a bush, a distressed starling would fly out crying as it did so. "No, not there," he muttered gruffly to himself out loud as he crouched onto the ground and peered through the bush at ground level. All he saw was those twisted, thorny branches, no Greg. His knees were not what they used to be but with some effort the husky former adventurer was back on his feet with a grunt and perhaps an audible click of his left hip. 

"I know you could not have gotten too far, Greg!" He repeated as he meandered about, occasionally stopping to look behind a rock or a small shrub. He was certainly the type to leave no stone unturned or unlifted for that matter as he lifted one stone to reveal a disinterested salamander that attempted to scurry off before he snatched the small reptile in his bare hands.