About 10:30pm

If asked, Cináed would readily blame the terms of his release for his avoidance of the dark stone halls of Hogwarts' castle.  His assigned Department of Magical Law Enforcement adviser had made it quite clear that this school, as well as other muggle schools were strictly out of bounds.  There were few, if any, to whom Cináed would have admitted that there was a certain emotional hesitation on his part to cross through those gates once more.  But, despite the risks of getting caught in the school, the ten year anniversary of the standoff had, inexplicably, proven to be too strong of a draw. 

It had been a decade, to the day, since Cináed had last stood in the cavernous entrance hall to Hogwarts.  Cináed was a sucker for symbolism and irony and was well aware that he was within an hour and a half from it being exactly ten years.  Ten years since he'd first experienced humiliating, devastating defeat.  Ten years since Ministry officials had broken his wand and escorted him from the school premises.  Even without a hefty dose of alcohol surging through his bloodstream, it would have felt surreal to stare down at the familiar dark stone floor of the Entrance Hall.  But, the firewhiskeys he'd had earlier that day only heightened the feeling.

But, the man standing in the darkened entryway hardly resembled the tall and overly lanky youngster that had once crossed this floor in search of breakfast.  His hair had been long even then, though, at that time, it had only came to his shoulders.  Even in his sixth - and final year at Hogwarts - his face had retained some of the childish butteryness.  Now, the hood of the long, dark, heavy robes offered some concealment to the harshly aged face.  But, in the shadows of the hall, the bright flash of orange that glowed brightly from the end of his cigarette as he inhaled pierced through the darkness. 

The Entrance Hall was for the time being, thankfully, empty.  Back in his school days, the solitude would have been due to students dutifully obeying the curfew.  But, tonight, on this momentous occasion, the people of Hogwarts were scattered around.  Some in Hogsmeade, some - perhaps, indeed, - in their houses and some still sitting in the light of the bonfire sharing pitiful, tearful remembrances. 

Curiosity had drawn Cináed to the darkness beyond the fire's edge for a few moments but the pity-fest had proven sickening.  Sitting around, holding each other's hands, hoping that a quaint little storytime would put their pathetic little hearts and minds at ease.  There had been something about the way the fire flickered off the driveling, tear-stricken faces that would have made Cináed laugh and reveal his location if he'd lingered.  Their memories were not and could not ever be his own.  But, at least, the fire kept the precious little dears occupied, giving him a few moments in which to step inside his own memories in peace. 

The Entrance Hall remained quiet and, with the fag propped in the corner of his mouth, he eased the hood of his robes back off his head and walked across the vacant hall.  His boots rang sharply against the stone through the darkness, a strangely satisfying sound.  His feet traced a path he'd followed so many times, across the hall towards the stairs that led down towards the Dungeon and the Slytherin house.  As he made his passage, though, a myriad of slowly changing colors caught his attention and he turned to face the mural that spread across the wall.  He took a long, deep drag of the cigarette as he watched the self-indulgent picture.  It was, indeed, any interesting interpretation.

Too strange, that was the way it felt. It was night, the halls were empty, the life of Hogwarts cooped up in dorms and on the grounds. The halls, the halls were empty. The halls were never empty. There was always one or two lonely souls creeping through the darkness, hoping not to be found. As Jasper's dark green, almost hazel, eyes scanned the hall, a large figure caught his eye. He was tall, maybe the height of Jasper's dad, Lukas, but built thicker, stronger, meatier. Long hair, longer than Jasper was expecting to see on a guy of that stature, and thick, heavy robes. For a moment, Jasper stared, surprised.

By contrast, Jasper was dressed lightly, jean shorts, a cotton t-shirt with some muggle graphic logo he didn't quite recognize that his mum had bought for three measly sickles (converted into muggle currency, of course), a light cotton, black cloak over his ensemble. It wasn't that cold, not enough to warrant a thicker coat and he wondered how this stranger could bear such heavy clothes. He lingered on staircase for a moment, slowly walking up the steps, taking care to keep his footfalls quiet. Jasper wasn't sure who this stranger was, but he certainly didn't look like a terribly cheerful fellow.

Caution was best in any case, correct? His right hand moved to the wand pocket in the inside of his cloak and he drew it, slowly, staring directly at this man. A bright flash of fire...a cigarette! Jasper's lip curled in disgust. He was close enough that the smoke filtered over to him and drew up into his nostrils. Jasper's mum didn't smoke, he didn't know anyone who was really into them and he gagged on the smell, trying not to make a noise. A small 'ugh-huff-huff' escaped his throat and he frowned, eyes wide and wary, waiting for the stranger to notice him. Hopefully he wouldn't. But he might.

So Jasper needed to be preemptive, right? Well, he could do this. He was a Slytherin - anything he put his mind to, he could do, surely. "Hello." he said clearly, confidently, as though he'd planned to come to the man in the first place. Jasper held up his wand. "Lumos." he blinked, eyes slightly stunned from the sudden light. "How are you, this fine night?" Jasper walked toward the man slowly but surely, as if he had all the time in the world and tried not to scrunch his nose in disgust at the cigarette. How disgusting. But he kept his face calm, blank, confident. Jasper would die before he ever let anyone know how he really felt.

Despite it's relatively quiet nature, in the stillness of the nearly empty entrance hall, the subtle cough echoed distinctly.  But, Cináed was in no rush to acknowledge whoever it was that had disturbed his moment of silent contemplation.  Silent contemplation?  Ha!  That was hardly what this careless smearing of paint warranted.  In fact, come to think of it, by the time the voice spoke up - presumably to him - an excuse to be distracted from the juvenile finger painting was  more than welcome. 

One corner of his mouth twitched up in a grin as he surveyed the youngster, taking a long steady draw off the cigarette as he did.  The boy had, apparently, come up the stairs from the dungeons; he was, presumably, either a Hufflepuff or Slytherin though he was dressed in such a manner as to make it difficult to decipher which.  Unless one read too far into the clearly muggle-like attire - especially on a day such as this.  But, perhaps Slytherins were dressing like muggles just as freely as Hufflepuffs these days.  To his credit, however, the boy had made it several steps across the floor without Cináed having heard him.  The boy wasn't entirely useless.

"Now, son, there's no need for that."  The other side of his mouth finally joined the first in a broader smile as he plucked the cigarette from his lips and pointed it vaguely at the drawn wand, just before it was lit.  The light flooded the corner of the room, blinding Cináed momentarily.  Non-plussed, he lazily lifted the hand that still bore the cigarette to shield his eyes, his sleeve falling back to reveal the myriad of small, shaky, boredom-induced, handmade tattoos that riddled his hands and fingers.  "Do you really think pulling a wand on your fellow wizard is really any way to honor such a memorable day?" 

The initial shock-factor of the sudden flash of light waned some and Cináed was able to drop his hand, after returning the cigarette to his lips.  The light still forced him to squint as he peered across at the younger lad.  The boy was tall, lanky with the distinctly adolescent length to his appendages.  "It has been a touching night, really.  Simply touching.  I was admiring this charming display of memories before I was blinded.  How about you?  Why aren't you out with the storytellers?  Hufflepuff, are you?"

"Now, son, there's no need for that."  the man said, just as the spell left Jasper's lips. His eyes were drawn to the mural on the side of the corridor, over all the hard work. Who had worked on this? Atticus, certainly, and that Hufflepuff girl, Fauna...Probably far more people than he knew - that were artsy, anyways. Music, music Jasper knew. But art, drawn and painted, photographs, were a whole different cauldron. The man lifted his arm, arm robe slipping down showing intricate, tiny designs along his hands. Jasper's eyes widened for a moment, but he caught his surprise. That wouldn't do, not now, not with this man. "Do you really think pulling a wand on your fellow wizard is really any way to honor such a memorable day?"

"Pulling my wand on you?" Is there a reason I should? His voice was polite enough, confident enough, Jasper enough. "Now, why would you possibly think that?" he asked wryly, only half sarcastic. The man dropped his hand.

"It has been a touching night, really.  Simply touching.  I was admiring this charming display of memories before I was blinded." Jasper gave a little smirk, a small huff escaping his lips, a simultaneous tiny shrug, looking away. "How about you?  Why aren't you out with the storytellers?  Hufflepuff, are you?"

The questions fired one right after another and Jasper tried to stay calm. He felt like he was in an interrogation but, no, that wasn't right...He shrugged, calmly taking a few steps closer to the man. "Didn't feel like it. And no," he snorted, him - a Puff? The mere idea was ridiculous. "I'm a Slytherin."

An amused grin flickered across Cináed's face and cocked his head slightly, giving the boy the tolerant and patient nod one might give a toddler who was trying to explain that the dirt and water had somehow managed to find their own way onto the floor together to make a muddy mess.  He waggled the tip of the cigarette vaguely in the direction of the boy's hand.  Cináed wasn't daft - the wand had lingered longer in the boy's hand then it took to say the illuminating charm.  "Your wand's in your hand, son," he said, dryly, bored with that line of conversation.  "It ain't N.E.W.T. level transfiguration." 

Cináed watched the young man's eyes journey over to the painting on the wall.  Arts and music had never really interested Cináed, beyond their inherent entertainment value.  Let someone entertain him - he'd even settle for some poor muggle playing some instrument if it was decent.  Like servants of old providing pleasant background music while the upper class tended to more important matters. 

He didn't feel the need to hide his surprise; he let the emotion slide right across his face as the boy declared himself a Slytherin.  "Really?  You don't say?"  Cináed took a long drag off the cigarette as he sized the boy up again.  "Getting harder to tell the difference these days, isn't it?  You can tell a lot about a man by the way he presents himself."  Cináed began to circle around the young man, clearly taking a closer look at the lad.  "Of course, even from inside a hat, Slytherin can recognize potential.  Even if its a little buried.  What makes you a Slytherin?" 

Dazmond lingered amongst the last traces of the evening.  In the old familiar Hogwarts Entrance Hall, now.  Avoiding, no doubt, the nullifying return to the home of her pet of the day -- which by now she knew wasn't going down in the slightest; this merely for the fact ... that after today, how could she pretend to be anything other than what she was. 

The bold paint strokes, smeared alack as though dead, were as detached from the actual event as she. Dazmond had tried to feel something more than a morbid curiosity; but it simply wasn't doing.  To think that then, in this castle, she spent her short days and long sleepless nights preparing a life she now led by the light of fire beneath cauldron, which was full to the brim of vainglorious romanticism --.  For the legends, that is.  For the mood of the time.  Not the heroes but their counterpart.  A romanticism with the unknown she had never even tried to shake, let alone recognize as vile.

For what was vile was the hypocrisy evident in the mouths of the masses, and for something so wrought with power to the point of decay to bring its bring its presence forth ... to shake the ground beneath their feet, so to say.  Now that was something.  Something worth paying attention to, anyway.

The slow pulling in of night's dark tide brought the question: and the answer.  If she went, she might get off with a chalice or two, those old perfume bottles he kept up on the dresser, made of fine colored glass and begging for their fill of annointing oil, standing empty.  Old relics, useless to the likes of him.  A cringe toward the sentimental sickened her momentarily.  If it meant she had to suffer his ill breath and presence, pretending, once again... no.  Simply not doing.  It had been decided already, long ago even, before night fell.  Wandering through the exhibitions of a past she hardly felt apart of, she thought she would return again to the Sodding Arms Hotel. 

It had been the whole half of a moon since Dazmond had layed eyes on her own husband,  but the unconventional bred such pecularities.  The thought, which had been empty of emotion before its occurance, was settled, declared by her own self inside, kindly.  And with knowing where home was, where he was surely (because it was her will for it to be so, of course), all reason seemed to seap through the strange music, through the strange art and into her, readily.  A knowing.  And she was lighter for it.

In the entrance hall Dazmond lingered thoughtfully although a bit absent in her thoughts, obviously not a part of the congregation at hand yet moving through it with an ease of pace.  She looked without looking, yet watched in a way that her whole presence was present, awash and focused all at once, the culmination of a decade of seeking stature and intrigue rested solely in the calmness of here and now. 

As a natural matter of course, the only movement and tone in the room that was detached from the current spectacle drew her attention.  She watched from a distance for a time, making her way toward the familiar long-haired man whose presence boomed with purpose and who, synchronistically enough, represented to Dazmond all those vainglorious notions of romanticism which today had kept her occupied with self questioning.

When finally present before the two, Daz leaned against a pillar in the landing, fixing her eyes on Cináed with a raised brow and marginal smile. 

"Evening, Tawse," she said, drawing a fag from her cloak pocket.  If he was smoking here, she wasn't about to be timid.  Dazmond figured any rules in existence would readily bend for this... austere occassion.   "Gotta light?"

Her eyes drifted toward the boy, towards whom she tossed a wink.  Having caught the last words from Cináed, she awaited the boy's answer with genuine interest.  As a former Slytherin herself, she could only hope the youth of today were upholding her House's legacy.

Indignation flared up inside Jasper, but he just barely resisted the urge to scowl. His face flushed an odd pinkish shade at the admonishment, hopefully indiscernible in the half-lit dark, but Jasper couldn’t be sure. The expression on the man’s face was a familiar enough one. Jasper had seen it on his father’s face often enough; an amused sort of condescending smile, one that proclaimed Jasper was an idiot and didn’t have a clue what he was saying. But no, he was projecting quite a bit, wasn’t he? The man hadn’t said that, not in so many words.

”Really?  You don't say?” He seemed overly surprised, and Jasper couldn’t help the irritated twinge in his gut. Was it so surprising that he was a Slytherin? Apparently. The man took another long drag and Jasper’s nose twitched in disgust. "Getting harder to tell the difference these days, isn't it?  You can tell a lot about a man by the way he presents himself." And exactly what was that meant to mean? Was this one of those blood purist phlyarologists? Jasper hoped not. He didn’t know many blood purists – his grandparents on his mum’s side might have been, old pureblood gits that they were, but Jasper only saw them once or twice a year and that was far too little to get their opinion on such matters. Seeing how they avoided him, he guessed he would have had to spend each day pestering them for years before they would even admit their favorite color to their least favorite grandson. And certainly, he didn’t hang out with any blood purists. Waker, his best friend, was a muggleborn He supposed that might have seemed odd in the past – a Slytherin and a muggleborn even friends at all - but this was the 21st century.

“Of course, even from inside a hat, Slytherin can recognize potential.  Even if it’s a little buried.  What makes you a Slytherin?" This time, Jasper didn’t resist the urge to scowl even slightly and it spread across his face easily and with familiarity. Before he managed to speak, a woman emerged from the shadows. Jasper could hardly see her, but she looked older than him by more than just a few years. She greeted the man – Tawse – and tossed a wink at Jasper.

“I don’t see a reason to defend myself to you,” Jasper said coolly, feeling tense and strange under Tawse’s intent gaze. “What made you a Slytherin, then, if you’re so high and mighty?” He hoped he hadn’t gotten the house wrong but from the way Tawse had dismissed him when he’d thought Jasper to be a Hufflepuff…He shot a glance at the woman. “Er, hello.”

The boy was persistently non-reactive.  Even as Cináed continued to circle the young man, his expression remained stoic and, initially, he remained quiet.  It wasn't easy to discern whether the boy was playing it cool or if he was sincerely apathetic.  Cináed could only hope he wasn't apathetic - that'd be very un-Slytherin-like.

The motion of another figure in the room drew Cináed's attention away from the youngster towards the more familiar individual.  "Ms. Wiedman," Cináed offered the woman with a charming smile.  He was aware Daz was married and he knew that matters in that area weren't exactly normal or predictable.  He'd never considered such matters any of his business - nor was he really that interested in the matters of others personal relationships.  He was too much of an in-the-moment fellow for such formalities. 

"It's wonderful to see so many faces come out to share in the memories," Cinéad said, pleasantly, as he stepped towards Daz.  She would know, well enough, that the comment wasn't necessarily to be taken literally.  He took her cigarette and lit it with his own before turning his attention back to the boy when he, finally, spoke again. 

"Now, now.  We seem to have started off on the wrong foot.  Do I come across as that confrontational, son?"  Cináed stepped back towards the young man and extended a hand.  "Name's Cináed."  He leaned himself against a wall near Daz but regarded the young man.  "It was simply a question.  But, if it'd make you less nervous if I answer first, I'd be happy to.  Belief in what I know is right.  A willingness to seek it.  Loyalty to my fellow wizards.  Those are my assumptions - you'd have to ask the hat for the full answer.  But, in my days, being Slytherin meant something.  It was a badge of honor." 

Receiving Cinead's chivalry with ease, Dazmond made artful use of the smoke that came of her  wizard's cigarette, using her intent to mold the plumes into the shape of serpents which slithered slowly through the air, darting their forked tongues coolly before dissipating.  She nodded just slightly in acknowledgement of the youth's hello, taking a background stance leaning in complete comfort against the wall, where Cinead joined her.  She listened keenly to his given interpretation of their mutual namesake, with a plethora of associations and assumptions coming to mind on the matter.  She stood, contemplating them, present to the conversation in all ways.

“I dare trust it's the same today, if even muted,” Dazmond said.  Her voice drifted out almost as like to liquid amber as her smoke.  She allowed a weighted pause to emphasize her words.  “A passion,” she said, regarding the boy.  “A passion which other houses can rarely touch.”  She thought of Nathan fondly for a moment, touching upon the pleasantness with which this night was ending, or rather beginning, once again.

“What claims your heart, I wonder, and calls you to the House of Slytherin?”  She spoke less seriously than before, adorning her speech with a certain lightness reflected in an easy-going smile.  “I'm curious if you were raised to act from a certain solidarity with Wizards and Witches, foremost,” she said, her eyes moving across his strange muggle embellishments.

"Ms. Wiedman," Tawse acknowledged the woman, and Jasper's eyes widened more than a little bit and he couldn't help the words that spurted out of his mouth in a ridiculous bit of fanboyish-ness. "Like, Dominik Wiedman? One of the beaters for the Falcons?" His voice, which had been calm and collected and typically Jasper, chattered away quickly and excitedly, before his mind caught up with his words and Jasper shut up, cheeks flushed pink, grimacing as he looked away hurriedly. "It's wonderful to see so many faces come out to share in the memories," Tawse went on, lighting her fag as Jasper flared his nostrils in disgust. He was lightly surprised as the smoke flourished in the shape of serpents, which he just barely caught out of the corner of his eyes, eyebrows raising in surprise.


"Now, now.  We seem to have started off on the wrong foot.  Do I come across as that confrontational, son?" the man - Tawse - started off again. Yes, you do, you phlyarology spouting purist. Jasper shot back mentally. But then, he didn't know this guy was a purist for sure, but with all this 'what makes you a Slytherin' billywig, it didn't seem that far of a wand swish away. "A bit," Jasper said with a small nod, tucking his hands into his cloak pockets, wand still loosely grasped inside. He had been trying to remain neutral, only here for a light bit of chatter before he wandered off back to his dorm to perhaps listen to the WWN before he showered and vanished off to bed.

"Name's Cináed." The man - Tawse - Cináed said, extending his hand. Jasper took it, giving a firm shake, though a quick one, and nodded. "I'm Jasper Quinn." Well, now, they knew exactly who he was. Or his name anyway. And for now, that was enough.  "It was simply a question.  But, if it'd make you less nervous if I answer first, I'd be happy to."

"I'm not nervous." Jasper scowled, taking his left hand subtly out of his pocket to rub his still-red cheek with his knuckles and then dropping it back into his pocket, but Cináed went on. "Belief in what I know is right.  A willingness to seek it.  Loyalty to my fellow wizards.  Those are my assumptions - you'd have to ask the hat for the full answer.  But, in my days, being Slytherin meant something.  It was a badge of honor."  Jasper scowled, he wanted to just slap the man, tell him he sounded like a Hufflepuff but...no, Jasper couldn't do that. He was a Slytherin, and Slytherins had more class than that. Or, at least, that's what he'd told the Daily Prophet what he'd thought about 'Kyle Gibson, 7th year Slytherin' and what that murderer had done.

"I'm proud of my House." Jasper argued, crossing his arms defensively. "I'm damn proud. What makes you think I'm not?" The woman, Wiedman, spoke and Jasper wasn't one hundred percent sure whether she was insulting him or praising their (apparently shared) House...or both, but he shrugged it off.

“What claims your heart, I wonder, and calls you to the House of Slytherin?” Somehow, coming from her instead of him, the question seemed less of an admonishment and more of an actual question. One that Jasper didn't mind actually answering. "I..." he paused, "I want to be someone. Do something that matters, you know, that sort of thing." he shrugged. It sounded so incredibly amateur-ish to actually admit it here, though. In front of people he'd only just met.  "Stand on my own, all that." Not to need my dad's approval. Or want it. To be able to actually be a member of my own Quinn family, regardless of my bastard status. he shrugged, looking away, his cheeks flushing again.

“I'm curious if you were raised to act from a certain solidarity with Wizards and Witches, foremost,” she added, looking pointedly at his decidedly muggle attire. Jasper frowned. "Of course I was. I'm a pureblood wizard, my mum knows almost nothing about muggles." he snorted, as though it was ridiculous. Except for how to get clothes incredibly cheap from them. "But muggles are...interesting. Bizarre. However you want to put it. And their clothing is a hell lot more comfortable."

"Oh, there it is!"  Cináed pushed himself off the wall with an obvious flurry of excitement and took a step towards the boy.  "Finally!  A hint of passion..  He does live."  Cináed looked the boy over, again.  Of course, it was only quidditch that sparked a little emotion within the boy, Jasper, apparently.  But, it was better than nothing.  The glimpse of what fire the boy had was brief, though; he was back to his blank, stoic demeanor almost immediately. 

Cináed looked over at Dazmond.  She was, unsurprisingly, far more elloquent with her words and questions.  Poetic speech and subtlety had rarely been one of his strong suits. However, it seemed as though this young lad responded better to the softer demeanor of a woman.  Not that Dazmond was a soft woman; few of the women who chose to associate with Cináed could be described as such.  But, she was less direct than he.  He spoke his mind; if it offended or bothered others it was their problem, not his own. 

"Oh, now, I certainly don't intend to come across that way.  I know I can come across as crass and crude.  Poor upbringing, perhaps.  Personal insecurities.  Who knows."  Those were, after all, the reasons they propsed at his sessions.  Of course, with the added reassurance that he could overcome these challenges.  Just like a hippogriff sores over the highest mountain or whatever rubbish they spew.   

"It's a pleasure, Quinn.  And, I'm sure as you've gathered by now, this is Dazamond.  That's good."  He said, cracking a smile.  Oh, children were such frustrating creatures - so contrary.  So prone to disagreement; he was quickly remembering why he avoided them.  Indeed there may be some potential in some of them, but it was such a headache to find it.  "Well, good.  I'm glad to hear you are not nervous." 

But, whatever the frustration, it seemed they were getting somewhere.  It didn't matter the boy was answering Dazmond.  "Good!  Good!  Saying your proud is good.  The desire to be more; that sounds more Slytherin like.  But, at first glance, of course, that's hard to see.  First impressions are important - I suspect you've come to your own about us already.  Sometimes, though, first glances are deceiving.  Sometimes, you have to dig a little deeper to find someone's true worth."

Dazmond gave very little attention to the short outburst concerning her elder brother, the only sign of acknowledgement being a lift of the head and a curt smile at the boy's excitement.  Daz also reserved her thinking that she could take Dominik out in a one-to-one bludger bash; she liked to give him his little spot in the sun now and then.  More interesting in the moment was what this Jasper's fascination with Dominik or the Falmouth Falcons in general could say for his House standing.  Of course the team was notoriously violent and underhanded; which was a start in moulding this boy in their image.  If that was what they were actually doing.

When she spoke the boy was responsive, possibly because of her call to fame but more probably because Dazmond could make just about anyone feel like divulging personal information, potions in the mix or not.  She was a master at flattery it seemed.  And as she and  Cináed already knew, theirs was a deadly mix of persuasion -- even if the kid hadn't quite warmed up to his company yet.  It came at the current moment with remarkable ease for Dazmond, considering her deep state of mind, a bit influenced by the bit of belladonna in her cigarette and the rest a product of the night itself -- in such strangely vibrating halls on this evening of remembrance.

Dazmond favored Jasper's responses to her initial question and was constantly tickled by  Cináed's wit.  Despite much lack of intention on her part, it did seem they were getting at something and her only thought was to persist.  The muggle bit was half-half.  Fascination was only warranted to a certain degree, but to wear their mark proclaiming it more efficient?  Troublesome.  It was quite like saying loin cloths were more favorable than jeans to a mudblood.  Going along with  Cináed, however, she decided it would be best not to comment.

"Interest aside, in the quirky and out of fashion, would you gravitate toward those of your like?  Those with your desire for the freedom of self-sufficiency?  Because I can only tell you if your heart is truly pure, you my friend are in the best company your young eyes have laid on yet."

She inhaled, withdrew with subtlety a smile that had only just appeared, and made note of her strange diction almost cursing Dominik and her father for the gift.  It could get her by in pretty much any situation but it wasn't her.  She had put aside for the moment her desire to go home and melt into existence for this bit of fun.  Luckily with Tawse around she didn't have to worry too much of not truly being understood for what she was.  It was the moment and she was existing inside of it.  For that she could keep on this for hours.

"Who do you gravitate towards?" she asked.  "Are you fond of Devlin Matthews?"

"Oh, there it is!" Cináed pushed himself off the wall with an obvious flurry of excitement and took a step towards the boy. "Finally! A hint of passion.. He does live." Well, certainly Cináed was provoking an emotion from Jasper: annoyance. He wanted emotion? Fine. Jasper could do that. He was mellowed out at night - he usually was - but he could throw a hissy fit if he needed to. It wasn't terribly difficult. A three-year old could do it, Jasper could do it as well. The man went on, apparently trying to get sympathy from him. Jasper wasn't buying it.

Cináed just wasn't very... pleasant to Jasper's senses. It had nothing to do with physical appearance - well, actually, it did. Cináed was rather unappealing to look at, what with bizarrely long hair and an apparent interest in heavy, uncomfortable looking robes. The numerous scars and tattoos did nothing to make him look less thug-ish. He wasn't pleading a particularly strong case (Jasper felt) and in the end, there was nothing that Jasper had a particularly strong reaction to.

"Good! Good! Saying your proud is good. The desire to be more; that sounds more Slytherin like. But, at first glance, of course, that's hard to see. First impressions are important - I suspect you've come to your own about us already. Sometimes, though, first glances are deceiving. Sometimes, you have to dig a little deeper to find someone's true worth." the man went on and Jasper nodded. Yes, that was true enough. He didn't see how it was relevant, though.

They were just two strange strangers who had wandered into Hogwarts tonight. They might have been Slytherins once, but now they were just obsessive alumni and he didn't understand what they wanted with him. "Interest aside, in the quirky and out of fashion, would you gravitate toward those of your like?" the woman - Dazmond - asked and Jasper nodded, for lack of a better reaction. What else was there to say? But wait did she mean...? Of my bloodtype or of similarity personality wise? In that case, the answer was neither and both. Which didn't entirely make sense, but. Anyway, Dazmond went on:   "Those with your desire for the freedom of self-sufficiency?"

"Of course." he shrugged. Well, Trent's kind of clingy and weird when it comes to relationships, but... "Because I can only tell you if your heart is truly pure, you my friend are in the best company your young eyes have laid on yet." Well, that sounded pretentious. 

"Who do you gravitate towards?" she asked and again, he shrugged. "My friends. Waker, Trent, them." At Dazmond's question, Jasper scowled. "Him? Definitely not. He's friends with the Snarks and they're beyond annoying." And there was the whole chaos of Devlin and Waker's fiasco and Jasper was guilty by association.

Cinaed took a long, deep drag off his fag as he considered the youngster for a moment.  He was all for the recruitment of the youngsters but there were cases in which they were spoiled too much too soon.  He was far too impatient, far too restless to invest the time it took to set these worthless cases straight - that was a task better left for the lower ranking members in the group.  Clearly, this boy had already been tainted and was clearly confused.  It was clear by now that he wasn't worth the risk of getting caught in forbidden territory.

"We're clearly wasting our time with this one," Cinaed said, all attempts at friendliness gone from his voice.  He was, quite clearly, bored with these proceedings.  "No real loss with this one.  He's more confused then he realizes.  You can stay and chat, if you like.  There's bound to be some real talent here." 

Such as this Devlin Matthews.  And, the Snarks.  if the course of this conversation was any indication, he seemed a much more likely source of talent.  "Have a good day," he said, coldly, before turning towards the door.  "I'm sure we'll meet again."