Speaking, for William, is a chronic problem unfortunately. The glare finds its mark, and William's eyes pop slightly. "All right, all right. No need to get your," he catches himself, immediately but very tardily recognizing the enormous discrepancy between his word choice and the kind of verbiage that the other man's needling him with right now. His natural assumption is that the tit thing set him off, not the witch thing. "--feelings out," he finishes.

William puts the one box of cigarettes into his pocket but doesn't let go of it. He starts to turn away, too, but even that hangs mid-motion, his eyes sketching furtively back toward Snape. It's not optimism, exactly, that inspires attempt number two. Well, since he's interrupting already-- "If you're not going to twa--tw-- trash-- me, I was wondering if you've got a light." He prepares for further mortification by pressing his toes together inside of his new shoes, maintaining eye contact with Snape's nose, and holding the door of his own locker like he might could improvise a shield.