Stephen snorted, and his father probably wouldn't understand but discussions of feeling and easing were making him think of sex, and he almost answered that his cock was too small to feel him come in, but he didn't think that his father would appreciate that kind of humour.
He tried to push that aside and concentrate on the important things: the lessons. It made sense though. He could throw out someone, but that would raise suspicion, and then they could press harder or go after Andromeda and that wouldn't do. So pushing people out wasn't a possibility; he'd have to learn to keep his thoughts shielded.
Before he could plan, he felt the presence again. He wasn't sure what to expect, and maybe that was part of the point, then he could almost feel travelling back in time, watching too many embarrassing memories from his childhood and early teenage years, or at least, they had been embarrassing back then, but now he didn't care enough and slowly and logically, he was able to shield them.
Then his father pressed on, discussions about Charlotte and Muggle and that brought too many associations, too many images flying one past the other: Muggle clubs, random men, floggers, Eros, Azriel, his bed. They were flashes, single moments in time, but all together they panted a very clear picture, and it was too much, too personal, too many years of keeping up appearances unfolding quickly and he couldn't occlude, but he could only push his father out, mentally closing his mind from any foreign intrusion.
He breathed hard, as if the exertion had been physical, eyes on his father. "Let it go, Dad."