The truth of the thought careened into him like a sledgehammer, and he was back to grinning like a dopey teenager again. Harry picked up one of the wine bottles that Rhian had brought them last night and slurped down its remnants. It may have been a bit early to start drinking, but Harry was parched and in a celebratory mood. Then he spotted another bottle, wedged firmly between the splintered remains of his bedside table. He remembered, with a flashed memory of filth, trying to drink the wine from every orifice of his wife, then trying to use it for a bit of decadent lubrication when things got a bit dry ... only to spill the whole thing and having to reignite the lubrication charms he'd built into the walls, which wasn't nearly as fun, even if they were far more practical and effective. 