He is methodical as he arranges the first course of perfectly done green asparagus with chervil remoulade, generously dusting the plate with freshly grated orange and lemon peel.
Harry dozed fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell again on the sound of his mother's voice.
Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan.
And every so often, amidst the endless rebuffs we'd have factored in from the outset, it would work: we'd get a kiss, we'd make a friend, we'd get a raise.