Hurrying through the corridor, Tristan tried to listen for quick steps or laughter or something crashing to the ground - Francis rather liked to send things crashing to the ground. Shouldn't they have had ... guards, or something stationed every so often? It was his fault, he knew perfectly well, for letting go of the boy's hand, but some help in fixing his mistake before it got him bawled out or sacked would have been very welcome indeed. He settled for asking a witch who looked as though she belonged here, shooting her an apologetic and slightly nervous expression as he walked by. "You haven't seen a small boy, have you? I'm not quite sure where he's got to - brown hair and an awful lot of freckles?"