Years ago, there used to be a hurt look accompanied to those words. There was a reason (or ten) she all but pickled herself in wine (well, gin these days – how long had that been?): it was so much easier to see the good in Harry this way! Or, well, forget the bad.

“Oh, no,” she sighed, and once upon a time she might have cried about it.

But she had learned long before the drinking that she could do no right – why worry over anything?

“Oh, Noah,” she smiled and crinkled her nose, letting him lead the way.

Noah was the curly one, right? Oh well. Close enough.