He was not going to go running to the Hufflepuff table for once. He was absolutely not going to stand around the Ravenclaw table pretending he was okay with the stank odor of superior attitudes nor was he going to go sniffing around the Gryffindor table.

If it was odors he had to deal with Declan was much happier withstanding the reeking self of entitlement from his own table.

He was displeased with his own depleting mood. It was a constant kind of misery that he knew was over dramatic but he couldn't bring himself to end it. Perhaps he was sadomasochistic--or perhaps he hated himself that much. Declan couldn't quite figure it out.

The deck of cards made a small rumbling sound as he shuffled them, over and over, in his brown hands.