Now that they're seated comfortably, off the busy street, Robert is beginning to feel.. marginally more comfortable. Even without the weight of his father's death hanging over him like a cloud, Robert's not terribly good at loosening up, even on the best of days. From his earliest memories in life, he can always recall being busy - encouraged to read and study even before Hogwarts, to stick to his father's side like glue, learning the family trade. Networking. It never stopped, never ended, his life has always been one long whirlwind of activity.
Only at Hogwarts had he found any sort of reprieve. On his own there, without his father breathing down his neck, or his advisors and servants constantly harrying him, Robert had been able to breathe, for once. He'd kept himself busy anyway, because it's what he'd been taught, because he never really knew what to do with himself when it came to free time, but he'd had a sort of liberty in the school that he hadn't known before.
Of course, all that disappeared again the moment he finished his seventh year, and it was nose to the grindstone all over again. But right now, for the moment, he's able to let at least some of it go.
"It was ridiculous," he says, succinctly, palming the shotglass and dragging the pad of his thumb thoughtfully along the rim. "Not to say that there aren't those with true prophetic talent. But it's not something you can be taught. Smoke and mirrors, was all that class was." After only a moment more of contemplation, he tips back the shotglass and drinks.
no subject
Only at Hogwarts had he found any sort of reprieve. On his own there, without his father breathing down his neck, or his advisors and servants constantly harrying him, Robert had been able to breathe, for once. He'd kept himself busy anyway, because it's what he'd been taught, because he never really knew what to do with himself when it came to free time, but he'd had a sort of liberty in the school that he hadn't known before.
Of course, all that disappeared again the moment he finished his seventh year, and it was nose to the grindstone all over again. But right now, for the moment, he's able to let at least some of it go.
"It was ridiculous," he says, succinctly, palming the shotglass and dragging the pad of his thumb thoughtfully along the rim. "Not to say that there aren't those with true prophetic talent. But it's not something you can be taught. Smoke and mirrors, was all that class was." After only a moment more of contemplation, he tips back the shotglass and drinks.