Outfit - The hat & coat = Trent.

Even if Hogwarts was supposed to be a second home to students (and more so an only home to Trent Travis) the freshly graduated student had absolutely no cares in the world. He didn't miss Hogwarts, really. He realized it would be odd to not board the train in September again, but he had ridden himself of that painful feeling when he realized, as he stepped into the school doors for the first time his seventh year, that it would be his last time stepping in for the first time. As redundant as that sounded. He caught the disease that every student developed at the end of their seventh year. The lack of concern and the want to just graduate already. Muggles called it "senioritis" but Hogwarts didn't call their students by names, and it would have probably been confused on how one has an inflammation of their senior.

Most graduating students were already training to become Aurors or whatever the hell. Some were on their way to Quidditch fame; some were opening their own stores; and some were lazing around, doing nothing. The latter, of course, was where Trent had fallen. Trent had always wanted to take photography on as a profession. He could sell his photos to newspapers and live off of whatever he gained from that. He knew he'd be poor, but he was poor his whole life, so that hardly mattered to him. He would be moving out of home soon to live with George in a loft, and he would probably mooch off of his friend as much as he could. He and George would probably not make much money for a while, but they would be together. And that's all that mattered. Bromance was more important than money. Though, Trent wondered if he would have to bear witness to Georgie's sexy escapades with weird girls he found in bars. Or even worse, Waker. Lord help George if he would stoop that low. Trent wouldn't mind walking in on George with some girl. But he would probably force himself to vomit and then thoroughly clean his eyes with said vomit if he saw Waker in bed with him. George deserved better.

Also, he just wanted to see George, naked, period. But that was just a given.

Considering Trent was still living with his adoptive parents, he was still being slightly supported by them. He knew very well they were waiting for him to leave, as they seemed more like babysitters rather than parents at that point. They treated him better than his actual family, but Trent was a nightmare and he realized they could have abandoned him long ago. But they were persistent. And they were patient. Trent had to give them credit for that. When he left, he would be sure to thank them and have his room perfectly clean so they wouldn't have to do it themselves. Five years of putting up with his bullshit. Kudos to them.

Taking advantage of having support, Trent had set out to Diagon Alley to take pictures and be overall creepy and Trent-like. He had settled on a corner, a coffee cup filled with soy milk in one hand, and mindlessly took pictures of people who passed by. He had gotten a rather nice photo of an older woman's cleavage, which he had planned on enlarging and making into a poster for his loft. It was artist, he would say. Even though Trent thought art was bollocks and all he ever wanted to do was take pictures for the hell of it. Trent thought everything was bollocks, so it hardly counted coming from his mouth. If he became famous from his photography, his fans would hate him as a person. He could call them all idiots for liking his trash and thinking it was deep and meaningful. They would say, "this picture of the woman's bosom is gentle with the curves of her anatomy and flatters the feminine body. It shows that men can be loving and that they can respect women. It says, 'there is hope for men'."

To which Trent would reply, "I like to wank off to this whenever I'm about to go to sleep. Thank you, thank you."

He took a sip of his milk, which he had obviously brought out to Diagon Alley from his home. His thin shirt wavered in the breeze, much too big for him and obviously a hand-me-down from one of Trent's more muscular friends. He didn't remember which one, it was simply one of his house mates. Trent snapped another picture of a girl and let the camera thump into his chest for a break. He had a proud, toothless smile on his face. Trent's infamous, creepy smirk. He turned to leave the corner, to freshen his cup, when he ran into someone a lot smaller than him, spilling the contents of his glass out. Trent's eyes widened and he reached out to steady the person, "Shit, sorry!"

It was with a little more purpose than Trent that Gracie was even out in the streets of Diagon Alley right now—though not by much, to be honest. She only really came here if there was some ‘basic need’ shopping that needed to be done for things like school supplies and the like, and at the moment there wasn’t any. But after Liv’s birthday bash and so many familiar faces there, she was restless, wanting to disappear again into that Magical side of things again, even if only for a little while.

Her Muggle friends were great—special, even, in their own way, of course—but ever since she turned eleven and received a certain letter, there had been a rift between them that came from knowing she couldn’t be as open with them as she had been a year before. And so she had been wandering around the Alley for the better part of an hour, not really with a particular reason in mind but not looking for one, either.

That is, until she got a faceful of someone’s shirt and most of his drink splashed all over hers.

“Fuck fuck fuck-” Hurriedly she tried to step away. Seeing that once spotless white sleeve (as well as a great deal of the rest of her shirt) rapidly darken into something decidedly wet, a few more words of the same nature followed. Argh, she’d just bought it last week, too-

A quick pat of her pockets produced nothing to wipe with. Forcing herself not to scowl (–too much, anyway), Gracie looked up... and up... and up, and gave Trent an exasperated look. By the time she had reached his face, her ire had become less about the spill and more for being just too damn tall. “I don’t suppose you’d have a napkin, would you?” she grouched, holding the edge of the dripping shirt away from herself. The very last thing she needed was getting any of the stuff—whatever it was—on her boots.

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