Immediately after dinner, Harry had asked Kreacher for another round of provisions, better equipping him to a much longer stay at Malfoy Manor that initially expected. Harry had gone to bed carefully optimistic and a few glasses of expensive wine richer and calmer.<br/>However, while he had risen with every good intention, that optimism was quick to deflate.<br/>Despite the inclusion of a few randomly selected novels from the Grimmauld library, Harry was just about going insane before the clock struck 11. He had tried to sleep in, had comfortably read the Prophet as he had breakfast before withdrawing to the study at a lack of other space to entertain himself in. There, he had attempted to get through the first chapter of the first edition 1928 Russian wizarding fiction Kreacher had inexplicably deemed worth a read; Harry had re-read the introduction five times before finally accepting defeat, bored out of his mind.<br/>He had stared into space for another while, growing increasingly more exasperated.<br/>Some internal balance tipping over, Harry got up from his chair, a fraction too forcefully. He was suddenly entirely disinterested in respecting the sanctity of the weekend he had otherwise tried to impose onto Malfoy.<br/>"Sorry," he muttered, the sound of the chair loud in comparison to the dead silence of the room. "Fuck this."<br/>He grabbed parchment and the quill and inkpot, before stepping away from the desk. The way he glanced over at Malfoy showed he had had some intention of explaining or excusing himself, but the words never came, and he exited the room without any further remark.