Figaro sat back in the chair, balancing on two of its legs.  His arms were crossed over his chest and he was emitting a casual, disinterested, you-can't-make-me-like-it attitude.  Across the table from him was Cornelia Woolfolk.  Figaro considered himself on good terms with just about everyone save a few choice students.  Callum Knight.  Erin Harper.  Atticus Pennyapple.  And Cornelia Woolfolk.  It wasn't that she was a bad person like those other boys.  It was that she was annoying. 

He narrowed his eyes.  Between them on the table, sitting in an open shoebox was an egg.  Their egg.  Their assignment for Care of Magical Creatures.  A sadistic punishment.  Figaro and Neely had been assigned to care for the egg together until it hatched before Christmas holiday, and before that time, attempt to identify it.  Professor O Morain had assured them the eggs would need constant looking after.  Painstaking attention. 

Figaro had been through a great deal lately.  His father had been arrested.  He'd gotten busted for trying to steal test questions and then framed his best friend for it.  He'd gotten the raw end of the deal when Devlin made him cancel his date with Fauna Blake.  He'd nearly killed himself sneaking off to Diagon Ally.  And now one of his best friends was suspended for who knows how long.  None of this compared to having to be partners with Neely.

In a sudden flurry of movement, he touched his finger to his nose and kept it there, claiming, "Not it! No joust."  He looked at Neely with a triumphant expression, assuming she knew exactly what he'd just done.

outfit

"What?" Neely wrinkled her nose and, more or less, scowled-- it was something she'd picked up from Sasha, who was now, most unfortunately, absent. Oh, how she wished he were here! Surely he would take her side against Figarotten Pratphix. "This is a team project," she reminded him, his silly, boyish game finally dawning on her. "We're taking care of her together."

Besides...

"Don't you know how crowded my schedule is?" She demanded. Despite the fact that she was sitting down, Neely managed to fasten hands to hips. Blonde hair shimmied over shoulder in self-righteousness, and promptly fell back into place thanks to the hairspray Fergie had recommended. Ferguson Amherst, the patron saint of hair, was doing her wonders in her attempt to guilt-trip and sass Figaro into doing his half of the work. Beginning with his half of the work. "What could you possibly have to do besides take care of our daughter? You don't even have any friends," she hissed, her voice contemptuous, and, admittedly, as childish as his announcement that he was 'not it.'

Reaching for her wand, Neely jabbed it in his direction, hoping to give his hand a quick jelly jinx so that it might part from its silly position on his nose. "If I have to, I'll sue you for child support. Daddy has excellent lawyers and I had the best nannies growing up." Obviously. "And you'll be sorry."

Looking down at the egg, which was sitting identical distance between them on the table, Neely tried to change her expression to something more enthusiastic. She was convinced there was some sort of muggle voodoo involved, a Nanny Cam or whatever terrible spy system muggles used in lieu of magic, but in magic form. It could see them, and it shared its eyes with the pretty professor.

Reaching out, Neely stroked it with her manicure. Her opposite hand plunged into her little purse, sifting around until she found the goodies she'd brought along for the first day on the job. She pulled it out, a bag within a bag, and plopped it on the table. It was pale pink, with unicorns dancing on its fluffy, cottony surface. "Everything she needs is in here," Neely told Figaro without looking up at him. "My elf sent it to me."

Peaking into the egg's diaper bag, she pulled out a ridiculous (ridiculously adorable!) item of apparel, which looked rather like a knit slingshot until Neely placed it atop the egg's head. It turned out to be a bonnet, lilac and baby pink in color. She tied its ribbon expertly, her fingers holding all the wisdom of years of schoolgirl hairstyles. "There. The Professor will love how much we love her."

Finally, she acknowledged Fig with her eyes again. "I've got a list of names in my notebook. I think the surname should be both of ours with a hyphen. It's very democratic." Use that vocabulary, Miss Woolfolk!

Figaro felt in desperate immediate need for two metal chopsticks to thrust into his ears to end it all please Merlin now.  Neely's wand flicked his hand away from his nose and he batted back at it.  His triumphant expression turned into a look of revulsion and the Slytherin paper doll harped on him about team work, schedules, child support, lawyers and daughers?!

"What are you talking about, daughter! It's a lousy, mingy little egg! It's probably got a bug larva in there, or a freaking eyeless salamander or something.  Gods, you're just terrible, aren't you?" he exasperated, with no attempt to hide his disdain.

Figaro was on his feet as soon as Neely pulled out a frilly, fuzzy pink purse and began adorning the egg with baby hat.  He almost vomited right then and there as she started dressing it up like a doll. 

"It's not a bloody, girl, Neely, it's a sodding dinosaur egg," Figaro said as he dug around in his own bag.  He drew out a magic (wink) marker, big and stinky that he used often to play an on-going game of hangman on the bathroom wall.  (He had no idea who his opponent was other than they seemed to be as bad at spelling as he was.)  He popped off the cap, and dove in at the egg.

He drew a crude, snarling mouth filled with teeth right on the hard, mottled shell.

"You better get this straight," he warned her and capped the big black marker.  "If I'm going to do this egg thing at all, it's not going to be a girl and I'm not its daddy."

As pissed off as he was, he was almost plaintive with his demand.  O Morain was a cruel, bitter professor who needed to be carted off for child abuse.

Figaro also wished Sasha were here.  He'd be a googleplex more times as agreeable a partner as Neely.  Sasha's probably just do all the work for him without complaining and wouldn't be a heinous harpy in the meantime. 

“EW! STOP!” Neely cringed violently, her hands moving spastically to the top of her neatly combed hair. As if she might rip it out in exasperation. “It is not a bug larva!” She countered. “Professor wouldn’t do that to us!” He wouldn’t do that to me. Neely was a Slytherin! She was adorable! The Professor liked her! It wasn’t her fault Figaro was such a little jerk! It wasn’t her fault his parents had given him the magic gene! Why couldn’t he just be a bloody squib?!

“Well, which is it?” She demanded. “A bug or a dinosaur?” Her mouth twisted in disgust. How had this happened? She’d promised herself she’d do well in Care of Magical Creatures this semester, even without Tulojow teaching and keeping an eye on her. “You don’t know anything. You’d probably think it was a rock if he didn’t tell us it was an egg.” Resisting the urge she usually got around the Hufflepuff-- to stick out her tongue and taunt him in a sing-song voice-- the small blonde insteady looked down at the egg, her features softening into their usual, unassuming koala appearance. “She looks adorable. We have to keep her warm. He’ll know if we don’t. It’s December, you!”

Looking up at Figaro again, she dared him with her eyes. Just challenge me. Try it. “You don’t have to be its dad. But if I fail, I swear to Godric, I’ll--”

Mistaking the marker for a wand, Neely cowered, her grip on the table’s edge fortifying itself like quick-drying cement. But when she realized, a moment too late, what he was doing...

“FIGARO FLAMEL SELLAPHIX, who the hell do you think you are?!” Neely hissed loudly (alright, screamed), shooting up from his seat. Her hands raced from the sky, where they were bunched in angry fists, to her hips, where they took up a pose strikingly like her own mother’s as her mouth let loose the words of his. Yes, Neely had been breakfasting when the Howler had arrived and provided a bit of entertainment a few weeks ago. Now she recalled it with less humor.

Scrambling toward the table like a bat whose wings had failed her, Neely tried to tackle the marker out of his hand, all the while avoiding the egg. “COME HERE, YOU.”

"Geddoff, ya batty girl!" Figaro shouted back when Neely flew at him, grasping for the marker.  Her quick movement had startled him.  Freaking savage teenage girls!  He was on his feet and ready for keep-away immediately.  He held the marker up high at first then swung it wide, trying to keep it out of her reach.

He hadn't missed the homage to his mum's Howler either.  (He'd been Figaro Flamel Sellaphix! to everyone for a week solid.)  Hearing Neely echo it here now just fueled his own frustration and anger.  So in the moments Neely was wrestling for the marker over the table, Figaro found a second to pop off its cap.  A potent chemical stench signaled the introduction of the marker as a weapon.

"It's a dinosaur!" he insisted and shouted back at her.  "Nothing cute comes out of eggs, so give it a rest!"

As she tried to take his marker, he tried his best to flail it around.  Neely would look just so daring with a giant black stripe on her forehead.  He grinned thinking of the tantrum she'd surely throw if he managed to mar her perfect, pale skin.  Gods, the screaming there'd be! They'd get in hot water for the ruckus, but the look of proper Neely looking proper marked up would be worth it.  And this was a Weasley marker - it was absolute rubbish to wash off.  Til Death Do Us Mark Black Marker.

He was a few inches taller than Neely and a good deal stronger.  But she had these pointy elbows that kept glancing closer and closer to his eyes, so his defensive manuevers turned offensive as he began to purposefully thrust the marker at her face.  Intent to mark!

It was understandable, given the energetic way Figaro and Neely grappled for the marker, that they forget their surroundings. Maybe in some other part of the castle, they would have gone unnoticed. But this was the library, usually filled with only the quiet murmur of study groups and the rustling, chain-clinking company of the books. Against that hushed backdrop, their shouts rang out loud and clear.

The epic battle had drawn a few stares, but the pre-tussle shouting (in the case of Neely, shrieking) had already pricked the ears of the librarian. Now Landis, unnoticed, swooped down on the pair like the inescapable wrath of an angry, well-dressed bibliothecal god.

Now, Landis wasn't always so prone to student murderuptight. He could even be quite mild-mannered. Literally dozens of students had passed in and out of his library without so much as a sneer in their direction; several of these dozens had glimpsed smiles. He was efficient and willing to help any student who needed it, and he never raised his voice. All of that was a necessity; Landis wanted no one to suspect him of foul play, after all, and the ebst way to do that was not to seem suspicious. Yes, quite often he was perfectly pleasant, and always impeccably polite.

Now was not one of those times. The marker was snatched out of their joint grasp, leaving a stripe across Neely's palm and along Figaro's thumb indiscriminately as it flew up to hover in the air far above their heads. Three feet from their table Landis stood, holding it up there, and using wandless magic to do so.

Contrary to many students' belief, wandless magic was not terribly hard to perform. After all, accidental wandless magic by pre-Hogwarts children happened all the time, and was part of the natural progression of a wizard or witch's magic - it was in fact the indicator of a magical child, and only ever unexpected in muggle families. It generally stemmed from a strong emotion, but not necessarily. Most wizards and witches didn't start to learn it until their latter years at school, and it required much practice. Still, it wasn't that it was difficult to do, it was that it was difficult to control.

It didn't take much control to yank a marker straight up into the air, but Landis was counting on them not knowing that.

"Children," Landis said, and the tone of his voice could have frozen seawater, if his glare hadn't been enough. "Compose yourselves."

Camilla Isabelle Sophia Satchel Woolfolk-Sellaphix.

Was blemished.

A whine escaped the Young Cool Mum of the bonnet-clad-and-magic-marker-pocked egg. Neely''s ticket to an O for the semester would not show up to Egg Care with the other unhatched projects, looking very much like the resident dweeb. Cami was above that.

Prepared to Half-Nelson to preserve her daughter's good genes (Merlin knew the patriarchal line was not doing the thoroughbred princess any favors), Neely pushed her knees into the table top's edge, her skirt flying behind her. She attempted to dig her nails into Figaro's hand, assuming her lack of height, muscle, and wand talent would be balanced by her taste in manicures.

As the marker swerved dangerously close to her ivory foundation and pale rose concealer, Neely scrunched her eyes, silently begging them not to water. The mere thought of being branded by a black marker made her eyes sting like the least allergy-friendly of spring blooms.

But then it disappeared. Or... flew. Neely's koala cheeks fell with her wobbling chin. Mouth agape and eyes pooled with sour tears, the Slytherin watched the marker sail up, down, and... into the hand of the librarian.

Children?

Neely looked around wildly for the source of such a shameful sobriquet.

Blushing a blush that would makes Sasha proud, she realized the designation was for none other than the pair of them. Neely scrambled quickly off of the table and patted down the pleats of her skirt. "We're not-- I'm not a--" But she remembered her priorities. "Excuse me a moment, Mr. Morgan," she murmured, and dived for cover-- not to avoid the sinisterly good-looking keeper of the books, but to resuscitate Camilla.

Emerging again with a bottle of Pegasus' Pristine Polish Remover With Squeaky Clean Shine (For A Gleaming Aphrodite Finish), the Slytherin began to untwist the cap. Just as she pulled the small, liquid-covered brush free, she noticed the streak of black across her hand and howled. 

She looked up at Mr. Morgan with wild, pleaing eyes, and then took appliance to hand, attempting to swipe away what no fifth year's wand would clean. The nail polish remover gleamed against her skin, fizzled, squeaked like a mouse, and... "NO!"

The marker had done its job. Even Neely's favorite brand of nail polish remover-- which could easily burn a hole through a wooden table-- only managed to blur the streak of ink on her skin. Her brows knitted together in extreme self-pity. She reached gingerly, frightfully for little Camilla, squeezing her eyes shut in silent prayer to Merlin before taking the beauty apparatus to the egg's surface.

"He... he..." She meant to slam the bottle onto the table, but instead set it down weakly. Her hand wound like a magnet in Figaro's direction and she pointed most accusingly. "HE KILLED OUR DAUGHTER," she sobbed. "I'M GOING TO FAIL. I'M GOING TO FAIL." Throwing herself at Erin's brother, she tried very hard to earn a hug. She needed one about now.

For the worst moment, Figaro thought that Neely had somehow bested him because the marker suddenly zipped out of his grasp. "No! Nyah!"

He threw himself after it only to discover that it now rested in the hands of the creep-tastic librarian Mister Morgan.  Neely was already getting down off him, but he pushed at her all the same, and at the same time righting himself on his own two feet.

"Aw, what - are you crying?!" he whined.  Girls crying always spelled disaster.  Girl tears melted brains and always caused non-crying, non-babies like Figaro to carry a bit more of the blame.  She was the one who'd brutally clawed at him like some savage, lip-glossed cockatrice.  He rubbed at the little red crescents on his hand and wrist.

He rolled his eyes mightily as Neely scrambled around trying to clean herself and the eggs.  As if some mark was going to fail them - all Professor O Morain would care about is the hatching part. If she didn't quit it, he'd probably get in trouble for something stupid, whatever insane accusations she managed to sob out.

"Come off it, Neely!" he pleaded in desperate annoyance.  "You're overreacting! We're not going to fail! It just... has a face - that's not a big deal!  Mister Morgan, don't listen.  No one killed anything! It's just an egg for class and it's fine.  Professor O Morain won't give a flying frick if it's got a face or not."

His voice hadn't gone down in volume at all, despite Mister Morgan's own near silent, lethally charged tones that librarians were so good at.  Many people felt automatically driven to modulate their voice to match their company and surroundings, but that had never been true for anyone.  And from the shrieking, same for Neely.  Figaro stood next to Morgan and Neely gesticulating for emphasis.

"Please, shut up!" he yelled at the still squeaking Neely.

Landis was neither expecting nor accustomed to weeping young women throwing themselves into his arms, and so at the very least Neely managed to distract him from his anger. His face went from foreboding to blank with shock in one fell swoop; he stiffened at the invasion of his personal space.

But she was a Slytherin, he was quite certain of it. He'd seen her about the school with a small flock of other girls from her house; he knew her by face, if not by name. Taking care of distressed Slytherins was probably part of his job description. So he patted her gingerly on the head in the same manner one would treat an explosive and hoped she wouldn’t get his shirt all wet. He was certain Snape had never had to put up with this sort of thing.  Slughorn's options - offering her candied pineapple, or possibly feeling her up - were also completely out of the question, and so unprofessional. (Young Landis had found Horace Slughorn very disappointing.)

As for Figaro, he raised an eyebrow at the shouting boy, listened carefully to his explanation, and nodded. Then, just as the boy began to yell for Neely to shut up, Landis cast a silencing spell with the wand he’d reached in his pocket to retrieve while Neely sobbed.

“You will keep your voice down in the library, boy.” To the top of Neely’s head he addressed an absent, “You too. Hush.” He had limited experience with crying girls; his sister was still only a child and did it often enough. As far as he could tell she cried over the silliest of things, so while he was surprised that Neely had chosen him to cling to like a limpet, he wasn’t particularly surprised that she was crying about a minor act of egg vandalism. It was probably a girl thing.

With a sigh, he raised his wand and cast a simple cleansing charm at the egg. To his very great surprise, nothing happened. There was the faint sizzle of the spell trying to do its job, but the black marks on the egg’s surface stayed stubbornly in place. Landis blinked, looked down at the marker in his hand, and then tried to swallow his smile. Weasley Wizarding Wheezes? Oh, that wasn’t coming off easily. And despite whatever favoritism he had towards Slytherins (hint: it was a lot) Landis did not feel inclined to work hard on the behalf of an egg. Much less one wearing a bonnet.

So instead, he worked to pry Neely off of him. “Come, Miss - " The Hufflepuff had called her Neely; Landis ran down the Slytherin roster in his mind - "Woolfolk." His tone was coaxing. "Your partner is right; your grade will be fine. It’s easy enough to hide. Just make - ” the egg - “her a little cloak to hide the damage, then turn her around and set her unmarked side as the front.”

His blue eyes flicked back up at Figaro. He removed the silencing spell, solely to ask, "Name and house?"

With the older man in the picture-- and one who regularly shampooed, at that-- Neely completely ignored Figaro. He was a lesser being, after all. He was not worthy of her tears, what with his wails and Thugglepuff, Boy slang. Even if he was the one who had caused all of the crying in the first place, there was no use in wasting one’s energy. And so Neely decided to re-channel it.

With a great shiver, that sort of inward stutter that unique to a child’s tears, and was was simultaneously a fight for oxygen and an attempt to get out the last word, Neely clung harder to her Head of House, taking his vaguely comforting gesture for a telltale sign of endearment.

She tried to hush, as he’d put it, but not without a grand finale. A sniffle, a woozy fist swiping at bleary eyes, and a weakly stifled howl brought the crescendo. “Oh, Mr. Morgan, will you p-please talk to the... the... professor for me? I d-don’t want him to think Slytherins are bad students. You’re such a... such a good advisor.” Pulling away, finally, she looked up at him, eyes wide like moons, and full of all the hope of a house elf being assigned a role in the Christmas dinner.

But the man was not just pretty. The man was brilliant.

A gasp, a pair of quirked brows, and a peek at the egg-- poor little Camilla, whose popularity neared the gallows each time her mother gazed upon her spotty, prematurely puberty-stricken face-- sent a new jolt of enthusiasm through Neely. Who didn’t like a makeover?

“Oh my golly Godric!” She shouted. Or, rather, shouted the first half. The golly came out a whisper, as Neely’s brain caught up with her doughy doll’s lips. It was such a saucy, Slytherin idea. Shameless. Cheeky. “You’re a genius, sir.”

Neely squealed (quietly, librarily). Swiping up the egg, she shot the snobbiest look she could manage in Figaro’s direction, and oh-so-silently delighted in the words coming nonchalantly from the librarian’s mouth.

"My daddy will be so happy to hear you're taking care of your charges, Professor. Might he... owl you his gratitude?" Ah, to gaze upon Figaro's face as she spoke the words was like a trip to heaven. She dared him to protest.

Figaro's mouth opened and shut silently a few times before he realized Mr Morgan had shut off his voice like a faucet.  There was nearly nothing so frustrating for Figaro to have things he needed to get across.  But silenced all he was able to do was stand there and listen. Balls!

He clamped his mouth shut and glowered.  Of the two of them, Neely was the one creating the dog-killing shrieking and all she got was a 'hush'? What a load.

But a smile burst through his snuffed attitude when Mr. Morgan's cleaning spell did nothing to his egg-face masterwork.  He watched with deep satisfaction as the Slytherin Librarian left the egg alone and tried to remove Neely's tentacular arms.

Neely.  God, she was wrong in so many ways. More squealing and prancing and posing.

Then, in a jiffy, the silenceing spell was lifted and Figaro's tongue was happy enough to comply.

"Figaro Sellaphix Hufflepuff," he stated obediently, but then he just kept on.

"Oi, airhead - he's not a professor. Maybe your dad can owl you half a wit so you can speak without letting all the idiot drip out every once in awhile.  You sound like a leaky balloon."

Then, back to Mr. Morgan.  "Look, no trouble here, gov.  Hand me the marker back, I'll go and Neely can give the egg a bottle.  Please."

The girl was still all over him, sniffling and clutching his jacket like a life preserver. Adrift in a sea of female hormones, Landis felt a bit... awkward. But not a mote of that discomfort affected the ruler-straight line of his spine, unless it was to make him stand even straighter. He glanced down at the blonde head buried in his lapels and didn't pat it again, since that'd only encouraged her to continue adulterating his person the last time.

“Oh, Mr. Morgan, will you p-please talk to the... the... professor for me? I d-don’t want him to think Slytherins are bad students. You’re such a... such a good advisor.”

And then those eyes. Landis was not affected by great big eyes, no matter how teary, but he was familiar with manipulation; to agree now would seem like weakness. Still, she'd let loose of him, and Landis preferred it that way, so he said calmly, "Of course. I'll have a word with him." Not an ounce of truth to the statement - Landis didn't take the fate of this egg as seriously as Neely, much less the fate of its exterior, and he didn't think the professor would care either. After all, it was only going to hatch, and the eggshell would be ruined anyway. But if it would make her calm down...
 
The boy seemed pleased by his inability to clean off the egg. Landis didn't mind. He'd already offered his suggestion, and although he was certain the mark could be removed, it would not be without considerable effort, and no doubt the egg would not retain its pristine color.

The boy wasn't the only one pleased, although for different reason. Apparently, Neely'd liked his idea. So much so that she started to squeal again. Landis didn't even have to pin her with a disapproving look before she caught herself and continued her enthusiasm in much quieter tones. He relaxed a little as she swung away from him and pranced to her egg.

"My daddy will be so happy to hear you're taking care of your charges, Professor. Might he... owl you his gratitude?"

Figaro was right; Landis was no professor, and her flattery was obvious. But her offer, equally obvious as it was, was much more compelling. "I would be honored," he said softly, eyes glinting - of course he would be. Ollis Woolfolk was no fool, no pureblood relic of the past. He was still very powerful, had made himself so, and moved in the largest social circles. An introduction spurred by his daughter - and a favorable impression - could prove valuable some day. 
 
But then the boy obediently offered up his name and house, and went off again, like he had some magical compulsion to spit out whatever crossed his mind.
 
Hufflepuff, well, that was a bit surprising. Landis had come to expect such brash stupidity of Gryffindors. But Sellaphix, that name.... His mind flashed back to drinks at the Hogshead ages ago, and the petite, intoxicated woman across from him who also happened to be one of the few people whose interests Landis protected just as fiercely as his own. This boy was the son of the man who'd gotten Dazmond's husband arrested.
 
Of course, Nathan was out now, although Sellaphix Sr. remained in Azkaban, and Landis was far too sensible to attribute the sins of the father onto the son. But he did wonder if there was a certain stupidity - the kind of stupidity that made one transport highly volatile amounts of illegal runespoor venom, perhaps, or insult a Slytherin in front of her Head of House - that ran through the family line. Then Sellaphix addressed him, talking like some Cockney gutter rat and with the audacity to further insult his charge. How dim was the boy? Landis didn't even attempt to hide his distaste. Nor did he hand Figaro back his marker. Instead, he pinned the boy with a sneer Snape would've been proud of.
 
"You wrestle on the tables and bring with you a permanant marker into a place full of fragile, easily-damaged things? And then you expect it back? You're dismissed, Mr. Sellaphix. Go."

With the promise of newly formed connections via Daddy Woolfolk, Neely’s confidence soared. Not that it wasn’t usually somewhere in the sky. Far, far above the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. But there was a certain... security... an insurance policy... in having one’s elders on one’s side. And, more to the point, inclined to distrust one’s nuisances. If Landis Morgan had any doubts at all about Neely’s own sincerity, she was highly oblivious.

The girl suppressed a gleeful giggle at Figaro being shot down. His marker was in Mr. Morgan’s possession now, and there it would remain. Neely pressed the back of her wrist to her face, covering her smile and offering another sniffle for good measure.

After taking a moment to straighten her silhouette-- smooth her skirt, run her fingers through her hair-- the tiny Slytherin collected her books in one swoop, pressing them to her chest like a locket. She then carefully stowed the egg in its nest at the top of her purse.

“I’ve got an afternoon study group in the common room. I should go, too,” she said, speaking more to Mr. Morgan than to Figaro, who, for all intents and purposes, had been explicitly dismissed. Or, rather, discarded. “Thanks again, sir.” Neely offered a practiced, weak and girly smile, and then spun on her heels.

She flounced away, sure not to appear too springy and pleased. But with a glance over her shoulder, and a discerning sweep of Landis Morgan’s attention, she felt out of the path of danger and librarianish hawk eyes. She stared straight at Figaro, raised her brows, and pursed her lips, triumph dripping from her koala countenance.