Is that what happened to the sort-of-table in your room? [William inquires, before he can remember the incident that led him to be in the wizard's room. He pauses, his face locking into an inexpressive robot impression for an instant, before he blinks out of it. (Being an average person in this respect, William does not tend to be concerned about people when they are doing well.) (Nor would he pick on anybody if there was nothing wrong with them, but that is neither here nor there.)

(Presently, he's confident he's done something wrong, but this mortification seems less important than whatever mysterious shit smeared Severus' day.) (Less important to himself personally, and also evidently to Severus as well.) (Also not news.)] I can absolutely find scrap metal and dirt for you, no fucking problem. I've got a few spliffs and cigarettes left over, too, if you fancy it.

Or feel comparatively ambivalent toward it. [Tentatively, he lets himself slouch forward again, his elbows on the table. He looks at the reassembled bullet.] Could run it by y' room at the same time.