Scorpius sighs, defeated already. He wants to tell Lorcan that he's wrong, that he wouldn't help him scoop dung, but he doesn't like arguing with Lorcan. Possibly because he always seems to lose those arguments before they even begin.

The topic is quickly forgotten, though, as Scorpius has to choose his next words. He avoids Lorcan's gaze by staring into the giant pools that serve as the mooncalf's eyes. Scorpius doesn't resist at all when Lorcan offers him more pellets for the docile animal, whose breath smells like wet hay and farmlands. He's too preoccupied thinking about werewolves and transformations and animal attacks and scars, and how all of that was thrust upon Lorcan. It doesn't seem fair. It feels impossible.

"You're going to be preoccupied," Scorpius says, a little stiffly.