"Fuck," says William, startling, interrupted in the middle of mumbly rote memorization of an intensity specific to people of Chinese descent who missed out on generations of mental acuity in this tedious department but nonetheless could really use it. "What the cunting," You don't hear Muggle curses very often in Hogwarts, but if you're around William much, you hear them a great deal more often. They sound natural too, as far as the range of potential effect goes; Purebloods rarely seem to have the hang of it the way that the ones with Muggle parents do. And so it goes, "son of a b--"

The Hufflepuff whirls and snatches at the jar. Succeeds primarily in knocking it off the lip of the table with his fingertips, secondarily in catching it, and finally in leaking a bit out of the rim. It slops off onto the floor, then when it lands, does something that makes William's eyes go huge, but the event is hidden by the edge of Remus' cot so. so-- then William makes what must be an irritated noise in the back of his throat. It could also be that he's clearing out phlegm, but he'd be the one laid up sick then.

"I can sort it," he says. "I know how." He knows things because he's studying for the NEWTs, and mundane sorts of seventh year things that you probably don't have to worry about when you're mates with James Potter's hair and Sirius Black's debonair rebellion je ne sais quois and Peter's around. (also when you're only sixth year, that probably matters too.)

It occurs to William around then he's being snappish at a lad who's looking terribly frail, so he adds, "Don't worry," as he starts to stoop, tugging his robes up from his feet.