Harry swallowed and looked away. He got up from the couch and stumbled, the wine hitting his brain hard. The floor seemed to float beneath his feet as Harry followed Voldemort to the doors. He probably felt a little more confident than before, as everything that was happening around him felt like a fever dream, an infinitely distant reality that just flowed around Harry rather than actively affecting him. He stared at Voldemort’s black cloak, at his pale skin, and obediently walked up the stairs. Where had the Malfoys gone? Had they really left their own home?