The stream of talking flooded over Draco in what felt like an unceasing onslaught before Mrs Weasley had to stop talking to draw breath, giving him a smile that was a little too strained to be cheery. He had not been prepared for such an enthusiastic greeting; he had expected – hoped – that he could just slink off to the cellar, and maybe see if that bottle of firewhiskey was still stashed inside the rip in his mattress. Just a glass or two to take the edge off, he had told himself.