"Oh, I appreciated the result," Gabe contradicted, halfway between utter sincerity and a leer. Despite the many and ridiculous things he'd done, he'd have to admit (if forced at wandpoint) that it had been one of the bigger rushes of his life, seeing that blast, knowing who had to be responsible. He wasn't actually pyromaniacal (honestly officer) and he sort of didn't want to think about how it'd been seriously hot (and not in the obvious sense).
Didn't want to think about it because that wasn't William. He didn't have the experience. He'd had the theory for years, but he'd never used it. Gabe had been blowing shit up back at school, before it was anyone's life or death. If Gabe had been responsible for what had been done to the entry hall, he'd have been crowing. William looked like he wanted to tie himself in knots.
Gabe could untie him, but there was soot on one hand, still silver marks on the other. And he wasn't sure he wanted to.
He'd possibly been staring at William a little too seriously for a little too long now. There were more students at the front desks (the ones that had a line of sight into the trashed work-room) than there really should be.