"Gator's pretty good," he volunteered brightly. "I had that once; gotta granny lives in New Orleans. Don't taste as much like chicken as everybody says, but it's pretty good anyway."
The fact that Tim hadn't actually cooked anything didn't seem to bother him. He shrugged; not everyone was good at it, but at least he'd found someone to do it who had good taste in potato toppings, so he wasn't complaining. Good food was good food. "That's okay, I'll figger it out."
Tim's last question made him pause for a moment, but he nodded easily enough. Harry didn't much subscribe to lying or deceit (aside from during therapy sessions, but that was only because the real answers were a lot more boring than the stories he came up with; nobody wanted to hear that particular truth and Harry didn't want to talk about it), so he had no reason to conceal anything, nor did he consider doing so, even for a moment. "Yeah. More or less. I mean...I kinda moved out. Sort of." He fidgeted a little while he answered, moving his potatoes around on his plate with his fork.