Harry winced. "What did I say about your tantrums? For fuck's sake, Malfoy, yelling isn't going to fix things. A bottle of firewhiskey might." He looked at Ron. "Tell me we have firewhiskey. I can't deal with this shit sober." Not that he was sober, but some alcohol would make things better.
"So we have three dead men who are basically teenagers." He supposed that Remus was their age, but that felt wrong. Remus was old and wise and not... well young and fucked up like they were. "What about Narcissa? When in 1998?" Not that he would kill her, but things would be a lot stranger if she came back before turning against Voldemort.
"So what are we doing in terms of food and room?" he asked. "We really need Hermione here. She'd figure out how to bring back life and bring us home."