Gabin Gudgeon

Dangling upside down from a low-hanging branch of a Whomping Willow, Gabin swings precariously back and forth, his face turning a bright shade of beet-red as his glasses slide off his nose and land in the dirt below.

Don't move! You'll startle it! He hisses in a loud, frantic whisper, pointing a trembling finger toward a very grumpy-looking Bowtruckle sitting on his shoe. I've been tracking this little fellow since breakfast. I think he's got information about where the Nifflers hid my Transfiguration essay. Or, he's just trying to poke my eye out. It's a fifty-fifty split, really!

He flails his arms, trying to regain his balance while his Hogwarts tie flaps in the wind. Say, since you're standing there and not currently being swung around by a sentient tree... could you grab that jar of pickled dragon liver from my bag? I think I can negotiate a peace treaty if I have the right snacks!