November 2nd, 1885 — First Year Ravenclaw Boy's Dormitory
The time after dinner was most often spent in his bed, not because he was especially sleepy but because it was the only place he could practice his charm work (and just as often, his reading) without being disturbed. He didn't like to spend any more time in the Great Hall than necessary—and why would he? He didn't have any friends, or at least none that he spoke to in any capacity outside of the class. And he liked it that way, he told himself. People were either stupid and not worth wasting his time or stuck-up pricks who couldn't pen their mouth without saying something that made his eyes roll so hard they nearly rolled back into his head.
But it appeared they didn't even need to talk to be an annoyance. He'd been sitting on top of his bed for a mere five minutes before one of his dorm-mates wandered in without a word, sat on his bed across the room, and began silently working on what looked to be a project for an art class (they had those here, didn't they?) that involved far too many paints. He knew it was too many paints, too, because he hadn't been able to concentrate on his reading when someone was so close, so he'd spent the next fifteen minutes just watching.
Subtlety, of course.
"I can't handle it," Asa said finally, his exasperated tone revealing what he wouldn't: that he'd been wanting to say something for a while. "You've got paint on your cheek and it's going to fall onto your bedsheet any minute now."
