Severus snerks a little, and inquires drolly, "Anything for an excuse? Honestly, now, can you carry off nervous? I'm not sure I care to..." The translation of this being, not for James Bloody Potter, and NOT for these clowns; there cannot be a reason good enough.
Severus turns to them, indulging in a moment of privately vindictive glee at having lost enough age lines to pull off fresh-faced. "Well now," he says, his voice not quite changing in accent, but slowing down a bit and losing some of its usual crisp edge, "'Tisn't much of a game, so early on, but such as it is." To Rus, "Your roll, I think."