Although it might seem to others that Arista Sykes lived in a permanent funk, this was actually not the case. Or at least, it hadn't been, about six months prior. But since January, she had been in one long snit, and there seemed to be no reprieve. Losing the European Cup, falling horrifically ill, overzealous fans—she simply couldn't. Quidditch was generally her savior when it came to sour moods, but the impending start of the season now only filled her with displeasure and a vague sense of nausea.
None of this, of course, was improved upon by the fact that Saoirse had bodily dragged her to some banal party, the host of which she didn't even know, and had left her to undoubtedly cuddle with her equally banal boyfriend. The odd witch or wizard she had recognised, Arista had had no desire to speak with, so there was little choice in venue but the edge of the terrace, staring (glaring) moodily out at the horizon and daring anyone within drink-throwing distance.
There were some people, of course, that were unfazed by, or entirely missed, the delicate nature of such threats. Falcons, she decided, were in general one such hopeless type.
"Unfortunately, no," Arista drawled, hardly resisting the urge to roll her eyes in a full circle as she turned her head toward him. "I haven't been able to repress that fact."
She eyed him for a moment before her gaze narrowed in suspicion. Michal Conway Lynch and she had had plenty of opportunities to interact in the past and rarely chose to, so— "What are you doing?"
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