As they passed from the soup course into dinner, Noble became a little more concerned with the situation. By rights, the soup and time should have combined to have him feeling more like himself, but they hadn't. Things were more dire than he'd thought. He was going to have to take note of this later, because it was not promising for the state of his business.

He'd spent his workday mostly on inventory and an experiment. He'd been busy recreating the Draught of Peace which he had sold to Mr. Crouch, and which had apparently sent Mrs. Crouch into a coma. Fifteen minutes before coming into the sitting room earlier Noble had taken a microdose of the recreated potion. Things could be weird, with these relaxation potions, when you were trying not to sleep — but with his build and the size of the dosage, Noble had expected to be over things by the main course of dinner at most.

This was not the case. For the last five or so minutes, he'd felt vaguely as if he was levitating somewhere six inches above his body, like he was watching himself go through the motions of eating and not tasting it.

His eyebrows quirked at Ford; he'd heard Noble but hadn't been able to parse the rest of it, so was hoping that raising his eyebrows worked enough as a response.

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