Octavius is trying to waft the combined smoke out the window while Barrow engages in his bit of surreptitious chatter, cigarette clamped precariously between his lips while he does so. Once Barrow stands up, however, Octavius looks up to him owlishly for just a second before he tugs the window closed, limberly gets to his feet, and tucks his books into his satchel with all the ease of a scholar accustomed to quickly clearing out of a library because he's lost track of time.

"Wicked Grace? A bit, with my step-brothers," he answers, takes a slightly less wheezing puff from his cigarette, and falls into step beside his chaperone. Another cough; he probably won't be taking up smoking regularly anytime soon. "I'm terrible at it though. What's in the dining hall?" Seems a bit early for a meal, but then again, grief does weird things to one's sense of the passage of time.