Who: Gabe and Travis When: Sunday afternoon, right after this Where: Travie's quarters What: Baking.
The upside to inheriting living quarters from Argus Filch was that, come wartime, whoever had camped out in the school hadn't bothered booby-trapping that set of rooms. Travis could only imagine why they'd passed up such prime real estate; maybe cat urine and fish sticks weren't quite the air freshener scents they were looking for. Understandable. Anyway, it was nice not to worry about cursed lice or disappearing mattresses or any of the other nasty tricks his cohorts complained about in the staff room. It did, however, mean disposing of more rusty lengths of chain than any adult man working around children ought to possess.
Travis had scrubbed the worst of the smell and the stains out by now, tossed some laundry festively around for atmosphere, and called it a day in the decoration department. He was technically not supposed to smoke inside, but he'd been striving to ignore minor rules that impeded his personal fulfillment all his life. So, in anticipation of Gabe's imminent arrival, he was rolling a couple thick joints at the imposing, oversized desk in the tiny office outside his room. Heh. He had a desk. That was still funny.