Rodolphus was ensconced between two tables in the kitchens, his long legs stretched out as far as they could be before hitting the other table which his shoes were planted up against. A bottle of Firewhiskey was held tightly in his grip, correct: a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey. It was his third one. It seemed like a brilliant way to enjoy New Year’s Eve, and he thought he had the right to relax a bit after the stress his parents had put on him the entire month, and so much more was to be piled on.
So, here he sat after two and a half bottles, his body relaxed in an indolent manner, his breathing shallow, and eyes half-closed, thoughts for once hollowed. He looked far too sated, and one would question if this was actually Rodolphus Atticus Lestrange.
… Yes, his middle name was Atticus. This was something he did well to hide, and only two people knew in the school. Honestly, a Roman Catholic saint? He assumed his parents were both rather doped up on drugs when they signed his birth certificate.
Back to his drunken stupor, and what a lovely one it was. He took another swig.