Aster Cauldwell! Harold recognised him from classes. He had the particular air of scatter-brained chaos about him that drew Harold like a moth to a flame. He was fairly certain he could've nicked the shirt off Aster's back without the boy even realising!
"Wotcha Aster," He chirped with a warm friendliness of an old friend. He stepped forward and adjusted the brim of his top hat. The sickle was still dancing through the fingers in his right hand, a practically fluid motion, "Going somewhere important?"