Lorenzo was sprawled across one of the worn leather sofas, a Potions essay half-finished on his lap, quill dangling loosely between his fingers. He wasn't really working on it. His gaze kept drifting to the enchanted ceiling, where the storm clouds churned in miniature.

The weight of his wand vibrated against his thigh.

His hand moved before his brain caught up.

And then you speak, and Lorenzo's grip on his wand tightens until his knuckles go white. Not because he's angry. Because he knows that voice. He's heard it too many times before. The one you use when you're trying not to cry and failing anyway.