Dirigible plum tea was, if memory served him right, appalling. He said, “No, I don’t think I have any,†and hoped fervently that Luna would never again think of bringing him some. He moseyed to the kitchen and put the kettle on, staying within eyeshot of the baby. It had started to make him nervous not to be able to see where the baby was; he woke up in the middle of the night, sometimes, needing to check on Jamie.
(He hovered; so far he wasn’t sure if he hovered too much, and wasn’t sure who to ask about it. Neither Mrs Weasley nor Ginny seemed like they would be unbiased experts on the subject.)
For a moment, he just watched the kettle, as though he could make it boil faster by glaring at it, before remembering to be polite. He said, after a moment, “Are you working on anything, then? A troll exposé?†As little as he respected most of the content the Quibbler published, he couldn’t help some loyalty towards it. (He suspected he was the only one of his friends who felt that way, and he didn’t even feel strongly enough about it to actually purchase it; occasionally he found a week-old copy in the Ministry cafeteria and skimmed it.)
