More than anything, Cygnus was counting down the minutes until he could return to the manor, lock himself in his study for the night, and drink decent scotch in silence. If he had it his way, any appearance at a concert of all things would have been deemed unnecessary and written off, left in someone elseâs hands. Whatever the appeal of things like this, he would never know; the idea of being so packed into a crowd it was difficult to move, let alone prevent being stained by other peopleâs drunken spills didnât seem even remotely tempting by any stretch. No matter how noble or necessary a cause might be.
All the same, far be it from him to do anything less than make an appearance and a sizable donation. He was far too old to be getting Howlers from his father on the grounds of doing less than was expected, and whether Cygnus liked it or not, any gathering was a chance to keep an eye on the public for anything worth reporting back.
The music had begun drilling a hole through his head five minutes in, and he found the Leaky Cauldronâs set up easily. Not fantastic scotch, but it would do the trick; numb the throbbing in his head and irritation settling into his chest if nothing else. Even with people coming and going, spilling needlessly in both directions from glowing cups (yet another bit so clearly supporting the orphans), leaning against the bar was infinitely more tolerable than the alternatives. He did his job with little complaint, observing and reporting back wherever he was needed, but in nights like this, Cygnus felt the coil of his anger flare easily. His drink sat on the counter, just behind his elbow as he lit a cigarette, yet another attempt to quell the worst of things, even if momentarily. âSpotâs taken,â Cygnus stated as a presence settled beside him, paying little attention away from what he saw in his peripheral. It wasnât, not with how little anyone seemed to be standing still, but the last thing he wanted to do was socialize more than he had to and there were only a select few on that list.
