Snape had come back, as he said he would, to check on Harry’s neck. Harry didn’t know why, on reflection, but he’d assumed that the potions master would stop in for as short amount of time as possible, check Harry’s neck, and then get the hell out of there. That wasn’t what was happening, however. Instead, Snape was once again sat around the dinner table with them, his back so rigid it must have been painful, and a fork gripped tightly in his hand as he swirled spaghetti onto it. He and Sirius had managed to avoid coming to verbal blows, but Harry was sure it was only because they’d managed to seat themselves as far apart as possible, and any sparring would have to be shouted from one end of the table to the other, and more significantly, across Molly Weasley in the middle of the table. No, silence was best.