"I'm," William starts to insist he's good, but the superstitious side of him takes over abruptly. It seems unwise to boast about one's skills so close to the biggest most telling bitch of all exams. He makes a face. "I won't jinx it. Everyone studies on Saturdays this close to showtime, anyhow. Well, those of us who consider ourselves mere fucking mortals."

He's not exactly being passive-aggressive in the direction of Remus and his friends, in that-- yes maybe a little but there's no real toxic resentment under it, no Implication to twist or darken his tone. Some of us have to meet the neurotic mundane pursuits quota and populate the minor character cast of Hogwarts. We can't all have flippy hair and main storylines. He doesn't seem as harsh as he could be, anyway, because he is walking forward through this, coming around the edge of the bed.

One hand out too, to check Remus for a fever. Even if the werewolf doesn't have one, his fingers will be cool. "I probably ain't good enough to sort what you had," William says, a little doubtfully. It takes a lot to put a wizard into bed at all, and something like a fever is somehow less common than. you know. petrifications and smashed limbs and growing scales and all that. "You feeling worse?"