Spryly hadn't been expecting to be called out like that. He chucked weirdly, "No!" He polished off the rest of his drink, much to his dismay, and placed it back down a little too loudly. "Not me." He'd somehow managed to sort of maybe befriend Cassius Lestrange, fancy pants pro quidditch player, and he was now losing whatever impoverished yet somehow cool enough to associate with persona he'd done that with and replacing it with the sad deluded fool that he was. He was too poor for dreams, when was he going to learn that?
Eyeing up this magnificent set eh? MJ sold her soul to Satan's graphic designer. I wish he'd take mine too.