A few rounds around the Pitch, some acceleration up higher into the sky, some speeding plunges back near the ground, and Byron soon grew bored. It was always fun to fly, but nothing beats having a team and a quaffle. People usually seemed to only spend their time at the Pitch when training season begins though.
Of course, that was certain. He almost always flew alone before the call for training was sounded. Even Trent could not be persuaded to take his mind off his own life, to join him at the Pitch. Byron knew his friend had potential. After all, both of his parents played Quidditch for Gryffindor. Trent was just too lazy to work on it. Ever since the beginning of school, Byron had also spent less time alone with Roxi, who seemed bothered recently. It was strange, imagining that his best friend was beginning to experience internal turmoil, whatever it was. After all, she had always looked to be the most carefree one of all. Perhaps, then, he should really find out what was bothering her --- be the friend he was supposed to, not just the wallpaper he felt that had become, as of late.
The weather, in comparison to the first two weeks at Hogwarts, had lost it's warmth. He could feel the stark difference between then and now. Byron regretted his foolish decision to only wear a t-shirt. His jeans certainly kept him sufficiently warm. It was his upper body that began to tremble slightly at the chill in the air, especially since he was travelling at a rush on his broom, higher to where it was colder, and the cold air rushed through his body at every distance he flew. Byron tolerated as much as he could, until it got a little too difficult to bear, and then he hurried down. Grasping his Nimbus 2010 from under his weight, Byron nimbly landed his feet on the ground and hurried to the Broomshed, which promised the warmth that he was desperately requiring, what with the lack of a jacket of any sort.
Once in the warmth of the Broomshed, Byron propped his Nimbus just beside the door, and began to rub his hands together in an effort to return half of the sensation that they had lost earlier, because of the cold. Soon enough, he stopped doing so and crossed his arms at his chest, making sure that his hands were covering his chest through his t-shirt, in an attempt to warm that up too. The Broomshed was dark, and Byron assumed, without a single soul. He sighed, a little more aware than usual that he had been compelled to a lack of company recently. It seemed as if the clique that he usually relied on had become busy, or had their private lives without him. Still, Byron was not one to sulk over something so easily. He merely shrugged and began to sing to himself.
"Here we go ... come with me ... There's a world out there that we should see ..." He sang, as one would usually sing in the privacy of a shower.