The Stories We Tell (open but only one please)

Martin was a writer, and he'd been doing it for so long that it had become second nature to him. When something was interesting he wrote about it, when he was feeling awkward he wrote about it too. Today he was working on the world he could only see in his head, a fictional story about a cursebreaker who got into crazy situations while working. He tried to make it humorous and lighthearted to balance out the danger scenes, even a few strange dates thrown in. His character's name was Tobias Jones, and he called him Toby for short. It was kind of odd writing in some ways, how a character starts off kind of like you, but then develops their own attitude and personality the more you write them. That was what he was thinking about as he was writing in a notebook when he heard somebody come in.

Putting a marker in place and setting his quill, and ink aside, he set his notebook carefully down and poured sand on it before blowing it off and collecting it to dry the ink. Only once that was done did he turn to see who the newcomer was. "Hello, sorry was in the middle of something. I'm Martin." he said with a smile.

Analyzing the situation, the Ravenclaw immediately noted the shifting like his being here had ruined his plans. "Were you going to meet up with some people here or something?" he asked, hazarding a guess at why he would be in an oft unused classroom. There were lots of those, because Hogwarts used to either have more students or just more classes taught in the past.

To be honest, social situations like parties held little appeal for Martin. Sure, he went sometimes, but they weren't really his thing. Usually the only ones he went to were the Quidditch team celebrations if they won, because he knew them really well and they were the closest thing to friends he had at Hogwarts. Part of him nearly packed up and left, but he was comfortable and had been in the middle of a chapter that he would prefer to finish while the ideas were flowing strong so decided not to get up quite yet.

Martin waited while Corbin took in the room, and decided to put his things away after a few moments. It wasn't that he was ashamed of them, but he didn't like people reading what he wrote. If he offered or chose to share what was in it that was one thing, but if somebody were to ever steal it and read without his consent he knew it was the one thing that would make him want to hurt someone. His stories, journals, an occasional poem...all of it was private and personal. One day he wanted to publish books, but he doubted they would be any of the stories he was working on now. He enjoyed the writing but he was well aware that his stories weren't up to snuff when it comes to being published.

When Corbin responded with the non-answer he just shrugged. "Doesn't really matter to me. I was just wondering if you would prefer I leave so you could have the space to yourself. The nice thing about legs is that they can take you away from a place if you aren't wanted, don't you know?" Martin asked him, not trying to be melodramatic but rather trying to lighten the mood with his odd sense of humor people rarely got.