It was rare Deus found himself in a bad mood. Most things rolled off his shoulders like rainwater from ducks and rarely left a ripple in his laissez faire outlook. His moods shifted, certainly, but for the most part, only along various stops on a detached spectrum of wry amusement.  But today was different. Today he felt every inch the seventeen year-old, frustrated and annoyed with the world in general. It had very little to do with the world, of course, but that didn't stop him from being peeved at it.

It was a spell. A spell he was having a devil of a time cracking, despite a few filched books from Professor Reid's list of recommended tomes, and a Defense Against Beastely Spelles book he'd liberated from a Durmstrang student looking the wrong way at the right time. On the one hand, it was a puzzle, and puzzles were particular sorts of things that Deus, despite the slacker appearance he stringently maintained, enjoyed puzzles. On the other, his last attempt had backfired in a particularly nasty manner and he was still seeing spots—though he had managed to reattach the finger—and his ears (now back to their normal shape) were ringing like a bespelled church organ.

He was sitting in the windowsill, disheveled as usual (uniforms made him infinitely more uncomfortable than he'd ever care to outwardly admit, constricting as they were), rubbing his temples and trying to remember precisely what he'd done this time, to add it to his notes of things to avoid in the next attempt. Technically speaking, he should have been headed to class several minutes ago, but the thought of chattering voices and booming spells rather made his stomach heave and he gripped the windowsill while turning a uniquely pale shade of green.

No.

No class today.

He was staying where he was nice and quiet and alone.

That.  Was.  A Massive.  Load.  Of.  Bollocks. 

Scuffed, second hand loafers phwapped loudly against the stone floor as Mairead tromped through the castle.  Mairead didn't have a clue whether the Charms Professor and that aweful, horrid wench of a teacher were still leading those boring, fancy-schmancy dance lessons.  The Gryffindor had stormed from the room after a rather choice (though, hopefully, unintelligible - if the woman didn't speak Shelta) assessment of the professors.  Mairead dragged her bag, unceremoniously, behind her as she made her way. 

It was remarkable how a particular mood could distort one's perception of reality.  Especially when one was prone to perpetuating that version of reality for their own particular purposes.  When Mairead spotted the older Slytherin perched on the windowsill, it was easy to jump to the conclusion that Mairead was a part of that particular senior-class Slytherin's social circle.  It mattered little that the Slytherin had probably hardly noticed the second year, the second year had definitely taken notice.  Being 'friends' with older students was an instant ticket to being cool and, especially on bad days, it was easy to assume one had that ticket by proxy. 

Mairead didn't drop her bag so much as she'd let go of a strap and left it where it lay.  With a moody hmmph, she crossed over towards a nearby chair and flopped on it in one-sided solidarity with the Slytherin.  "They're all just a bunch of ruddy, stupid idiots," Mairead grumbled.  Despite a recent (very modest) growth spurt, Mairead still barely cleared four feet; slouched back in the chair as she was, her feet swung freely just above the floor. 

"Dancin's suppose t'be fun!  That evil witch must've worked hard to nab all the fun from it.  Donno why we even got to learn.  I'm not goin' to the stupid dance."

On an average, run of the mill day. Deus didn't mind the younger years. He didn't generally take a particular interest in any of them, but he didn't mind them—Doherty excepted, though even he was growing on Deus in a parasitic sort of way—even Rose, the first year determined to pick up Deus's work as bookie, amused him more than anything. He had a soft spot for them, to be entirely honest—or as soft as Deus was for anyone—because he still had memories of being 11 and dead terrified but refusing to show it that when term was up and everyone went home, he wouldn't be welcome back at the only place he could call such.

But that, of course, was sentimental crap, and he wasn’t particularly inclined to be sappy when his head felt like a herd of thestrals had been tap-dancing inside it recently.

This particular small child looked vaguely familiar, and Deus would ordinarily run through the mental tabs he generally tried to keep on the student population but that seemed like far too much effort. He glowered unhappily at her, which she seemed not to notice in the least. Clearly he was losing his touch. Rubbing his temples, he sighed when it became immediately apparent that she was not, in fact, going to leave.

"They're all just a bunch of ruddy, stupid idiots,"

Deus, with a voice like ice, managed an “Aye. Sure they are.”

 "Dancin's suppose t'be fun!  That evil witch must've worked hard to nab all the fun from it.”

“Aye, sure she did.”

“Donno why we even got to learn.  I'm not goin' to the stupid dance."

Deus grit his teeth and bit back a comment, opting instead for “Speakin’ o’ going. Ye should.” He made a slight flapping motion with his hand, a distinct ‘shoo’. “Dunno. Go find some way tae nab their fun in return. Yer a bright wee thing, ye can do it. I'm sure ye can find a way tae suck the fun outta sommat." If that last bit was dripping with ill-disguised sarcasm, well, the usually relaxed Slytherin just wasn't feeling like playing charmer today.

It was entirely debatable whether Mairead was oblivious to the upperclassman's sour mood or simply apathetic to it.  Either way, despite the unhappy glower, Mairead leaned over and tugged a roll stuffed with a piece of cheese leftover from lunch from her bag and took a big, chomping bite. 

“Aye, sure she did.”

Chattering on with a half-full mouth, waving her roll and cheese in the air like a conductor for her own monologue, Mairead leaned her head over the back of her chair.  "Then why they teachin.'  Thought teachers were supposed to be smart.  Smart enough to realize that if yer making dancin' painfully dull then ye've gotta be doin' somethin' wrong.  But, then, how hard's it to learn to step in a stupid square.  We do it all the time.  Any wanker's gone and shuffled outta someone's way in the corridor - it's the same stupid move!  Stupid Birds and Rats - they're all twits!"

The only reason the Gryffindor had grown quiet was to take another mouthful of bread and cheese.  She'd rolled her head to the side, just in time to catch the tail end of the shooing gesture.  "Are ye tellin' me to bugger off?"  Mairead demanded, glowering at the Slytherin, daring him to say 'yes'. 

She was having perfectly good fun right here!  What reason did she have to go elsewhere?  At least, here, anyone who happened by would see her hanging out with a cool, sixth year Slytherin.  It was an easy way to earn Corridor Cred!  Not too subtly, the Gryffindor turned back to her roll, the toes of her scuffed loafers hooking around each leg of her chair. 

"No," she said.  "Don't feel like it.  Me feet hurt."  A little tagged on lie.  "What'chya doin' anyway?  Why you staring out the window?  You drunk?"