Septimus had chosen a seat at the table, as he usually did, with no one sitting to either side of him. It wasn't so much that he was not welcome as that they weren't. He loathed staff meetings and all the administrative minutiae that otherwise wasted his precious time, and more often than not, his foul mood translated itself into this sort of willful isolation. So there he sat, arms folded across his chest, irritated expression on his face, leaning back from the table as if to disassociate himself from the lot of them.
Septimus made an indelicate sound at Ó Domhnaill's ridiculous comments. It was not that he particularly cared if Finn teased the newcomers - it was practically expected of him - but the man never could take anything seriously which was a quality that grated on Septimus' nerves. And if anyone was likely to kill themselves in the course of teaching a simple class, Septimus would lay his money on Gideon Whyte, that insufferable prig of a hedge witch, who had, to Septimus' mind, no proper understanding of his subject. Love potions, indeed!
Septimus paid as much attention as bare courtesy demanded to the two women's introductions. He should at least make the attempt to remember their names, he thought, as it would be inconvenient later if he should have to ask when he was already supposed to know. If there was one thing that he hated, it was being made to look a fool, and he took care never to let it happen on his own account. Murmur was particularly obliging in that regard as the demon had a memory like a steel trap, though Septimus had not yet determined if that was due to some advantage of his species, or merely a personal quirk. If he had thought that Isabelle would be at all forthcoming, he would have asked her, but ever since Murmur had taken the idea into his head of sleeping with the woman, relations between them had been frosty at best. Septimus rather resented that he should be held responsible for the lustful ambitions of a demon, but he supposed that was necessarily what came of sharing a body as his would have been the one in Isabelle's bed had things progressed that far.
At length, discussion stopped, and Septimus became aware that everyone was looking at him as the only one who had not yet spoken. For some moments, he remained stubbornly seated, but it became obvious that he was not going to be let off the hook, so with a long-suffering sigh, he rose stiffly. "I am Professor Septimus Cowley," he stated tersely. "I teach Chemistry..." This said with a glare towards Whyte who could have no notion what he'd done to deserve it. "... elementary Conjuration and Magical Symbolism, as well as a thorough course in the history of Science and the Occult." After which, he promptly sat again and folded his arms with the distinct air of one who, having discharged his basic duty, did not expect to be called upon further.