In truth, Sorin's accent had improved greatly over what it was during his first days at Hogwarts. He'd taken English and Latin lessons two summers in a row to perfect certain words, but sometimes, his native tongue got the better of him still. Especially when he was tired, which he was currently. He hadn't been sleeping more than an hour or two a night since McGonagall's death, and the lack of sleep was starting to take its toll.
"No problem," he said, but he hung onto the ball anyway, tossing it from one hand to the next as Constantine cleaned his wounds. "Is something wrong? You seem discontent."
It almost felt odd having to ask that, because often, Sorin would have seen the problem beforehand. But, he asked anyway.