Atticus/Rowan/Open
If anyone asked Atticus why he'd bothered showing up to the summer solstice party, he'd have sneered and informed them that someone had to be prepared to undo whatever damage a pack of drunken idiots did to the castle and grounds and, as usual, it fell upon him to be the only one to consider the consequences. True to his planned excuse, his wand was tucked through his belt, plainly in view and readily accessible—in deference to the warm weather, he hadn't worn a jacket and his sleeves, though still long, were too thin to stow it there discreetly. He lurked at the edges of the party, looking vaguely irritated and not at all like he'd chosen to be there. So far, it had successfully discouraged anyone from attempting to speak to him... or maybe it was previous exposure to Atticus that was responsible for that.
The truth was this: the only thing worse than being expected to participate in some kind of event was being excluded from it. In retrospect, it might have been better to stay home and at least have the illusion that it was his own idea to avoid everyone else, but when he'd made the decision Atticus hadn't wanted to give anyone the satisfaction of his absence. It had seemed better to go and remind everyone else that he existed and was technically part of their little happy family, no matter how much any and all of them might have disliked the fact. Or disliked him, in general. And he wasn't necessarily wrong about someone needing to be available and sober enough to correct any magical mishaps that might have happened. The rest of the department certainly wasn't likely to be.
This, however, all felt a little too much like chaperoning the damned Yule Ball, except Atticus had vowed to himself that he wouldn't go as far as scaring amorous couples out of the bushes.
Atticus scowled at some innocent partygoer who'd had the misfortune of drifting a little too close completely unintentionally. If he'd cared to, he likely could have called their name to mind, but the thought of that irritated him even further. It didn't matter; even without a thoroughly Snapelike drawl of her name, the young lady in question's eyes widened when she saw the look on his face and she wasted no time in fleeing. He couldn't decide whether it was satisfying, or just more annoying. Honestly, there wasn't a single thing about the party or the people there that didn't seem engineered precisely to make Atticus as uncomfortable, and therefore as annoyed, as possible.