Your wand. Esteban knew, then; Bram could tell from the flatness of his tone. “Y-yes,” Bram said anyway, solemnly, as if it was his own fault.

“I don’t know how you have so much of it,” he commented honestly, as Esteban began to help him search; energy, he meant. He had watched the older Gryffindor amongst his classmates or teammates often enough to see it in him, that boundless, deathless energy: a bright glow that seemed to radiate from him, bouncing off other people as if everyone around him was a mirror to it, dazzling light refracted.

No wonder lying in bed was boring for Esteban Zavala; no wonder he didn’t spend his time sitting still. Bram admired it, but he didn’t understand it: he tossed a glance out of the darkened tower windows, an indigo backdrop flecked with stars. Bram could sit motionless for hours watching things, could lie under stars or clouds and spending days lost in his own head.

He tossed the cushion he’d been holding, gently, at Esteban’s shoulder, to catch his friend’s attention as they hunted. “Do you never like to be still?”

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