Valerian remained quiet as he followed Art into the room, and was immediately surprised to find that it wasn't as bad as it could have been. If Valerian ever ruined his own life, he didn't think he'd be so concerned with the state of his bedroom—but compared to the downstairs, and compared so some of the potioneer's homes he'd been in between summers to get some extra experience, it didn't look so bad. The red wallpaper was fitting, but how could it not be? One of Valerian's impressions of Art from their Hogwarts years was that he was aggressively Gryffindor-ish, whereas Valerian floated around on the outskirts of Slytherin, at least until fifth year had propelled him into responsibility.
"I would hardly call it a lair," he teased, although his words were good-natured rather than intended to be offensive. If only Art had ever been a real lair—or maybe he had. Lucius Lestrange's home had enough rooms that could be called that, but it wasn't the same as being in a strange place that really was a lair. "But it works, and that's what matters." He guessed. He didn't know enough about Arthur in post-graduation life to know what worked for him, but he didn't seem too embarrassed about it.
He wasn't sure where to sit, but he did know where to go: to the liquor bottles, where he immediately reached for the wider, taller bottle of brandy. He moved back towards Arthur, feeling a little more confident as he did so (it was difficult to think of Arthur as intimidating when this was his living space). He stopped in front of him, holding the bottle out; he wasn't sure whether he was supposed to wait for a glass or what, but Arthur would know. He smiled again.
"I would hardly call it a lair," he teased, although his words were good-natured rather than intended to be offensive. If only Art had ever been a real lair—or maybe he had. Lucius Lestrange's home had enough rooms that could be called that, but it wasn't the same as being in a strange place that really was a lair. "But it works, and that's what matters." He guessed. He didn't know enough about Arthur in post-graduation life to know what worked for him, but he didn't seem too embarrassed about it.
He wasn't sure where to sit, but he did know where to go: to the liquor bottles, where he immediately reached for the wider, taller bottle of brandy. He moved back towards Arthur, feeling a little more confident as he did so (it was difficult to think of Arthur as intimidating when this was his living space). He stopped in front of him, holding the bottle out; he wasn't sure whether he was supposed to wait for a glass or what, but Arthur would know. He smiled again.
