Harry raised an eyebrow, moving to collect the decanter again and refilling her glass. The poor girl looked as if she could do with it. Maybe he hadn't been as careful with his feelings as he could have been. Girls were delicate things, after all.
"Don't believe me?" He said, pouring himself another glass too. "Alright, that's fair. Ask me something, something no one else would know. Although I guess you won't remember much, I left when you were less than knee-high. You must have been... six years old. I was 16, I was in trouble. I spent a year and a half in a cell." He shrugged, and took another sip to rid himself of that memory. "But I heard about your dad. At the tavern. That was a bad bit of business. Our mum sure knew how to pick 'em, didn't she?"