Lounging in the stands looking out onto the quidditch pitch was a robed figure with a distinctive red and gold scarf dangling from their neck, cap pulled low over their head. His face was occasionally illuminated by the glow of a cigarette as he took a drag and a half-empty bottle of whiskey hung from his fingers. He was the very picture of chilled out.

Movement out the corner of his eye has him sitting up with a hissed "shit" that was perhaps a little louder than he intended it to be, and he's secreting the bottle in one of his pockets and stubbing out his cigarette on the bench beside him in one move.

Then he realises it's another student and can't help but laugh, offering them a slight wave.