Gilbert was dressed to impress. For the first time that Gilbert had arrived in Durmstrang, he looked immaculate. His tie was straight, his shirt unwrinkled, his Quidditch robes billowing out in the wind like in a movie. His hair, something he had been chastised for over the past two weeks, looked perfectly in place, its messiness the casual hallmark of a Quidditch player.

Gilbert had never returned his Slytherin Quidditch robes, an outfit he had worn with pride since he'd first been admitted to the team. After all, until a few weeks ago, Gilbert had fully intended on returning to Hogwarts. The memory still stung, but Gilbert brushed it off. If he was exiled to this desert of a school, he'd prove that he could succeed far more than anyone could believe.

He was wearing his team robes now. Why, Gilbert wasn't sure. Perhaps to make a statement. Gilbert didn't mind standing out. It was something he'd always had to deal with, just by virtue of his looks. At one point he had hated it, had desperately wished that he was someone, anyone else. Now he embraced it. If people were going to stare, Gilbert might as well make it worth their while.

Gilbert hoisted his broom over his shoulder nonchalantly as he walked towards the Jord tryouts at the Quidditch pitch. He'd heard there were two or three open positions, and there was no doubt in Gilbert's mind that he would be the one walking away with one of them. He had been the second best Chaser in Slytherin right after his Captain, and there wasn't a Beilschmidt that had made their way through Hogwarts without making their name known somehow. Even if Gilbert was the outcast in his family at the moment, he was still a Beilschmidt. Still a Slytherin. Still the inheritor of centuries of magical tradition and familial pride.

There were whispers as he strode down the hall, but Gilbert largely ignored them. Quidditch was really all that mattered. It was the last sense of stability that Gilbert still had, the one thing his father had not stripped of him, and he'd be damned if it let it slip through his grasp.

The Quidditch pitch was filled with the chatter of dozens of students, eager to prove themselves. Some were first years that had likely never touched a broom in their lives, others hulking seventh years, hoping to steal a spot before graduation. Gilbert caught one girl staring at his robes, her dark hair falling past her shoulders in loose waves. Her eyes met his, and Gilbert couldn't help the casual wink he sent her way. She giggled and blushed, before turning back to her friend.

It was good to see some things still hadn't changed.

Gilbert leaned back and stretched his arms out towards the sky before looking around. The current Quidditch team, visible from their matching uniforms, was standing at the edge of the pitch. Gilbert examined them carefully, mentally betting on who might be a Chaser or Beater. He recognized one or two from the classes he had taken so far, but most of them were unfamiliar.

There was one guy who was taking names from the various people who'd shown up for tryouts and scribbling everything down onto what looked like a schedule. Was he the Captain? Gilbert wasn't so sure...he looked awfully young. Still, it was a pretty big responsibility and it wasn't like the team was just going to let anyone handle it.

Might as well get it over with. Gilbert walked up to the guy, broom still balanced precariously on his shoulder. As he did so, he couldn't help but glance down...god this guy's handwriting was messy. And the chart was terribly disorganized...was this the way all of Durmstrang's Quidditch teams were run?

This really wasn't the time to get distracted. Gilbert flashed the man a confident grin as he caught his eye. “Name's Gilbert Beilschmidt. I'm here as your new Chaser. Nice to meet you.”