Ron had just finished his replying note to Fred when Harry came down the stairs, and was already starting to regret his rage fueled mouthing off. Well, somewhat.
Tossing the journal aside, Ron said, "Kicking the hornet's nest." The swig of whiskey he took this time was slower and he added, "And drinking. It's Bill the Face's birthday today, you know. Well, yesterday, whatever, point is it's a shame no one's put that fucking bastard in the ground and it's a shame it couldn't have been me, but too many other bastards need doing in, reckon it's a matter of priorities, you know? He hasn't tried to feed me my own teeth in a milkshake yet, so we can burn that bridge when we come to it. Buy a round for a psychotic pyromaniac gangster just to keep 'im from setting you on fire and suddenly he thinks you're friends, which is bad, 'cause then you have to worry 'bout the sort of people he makes enemies with deciding to be enemies with you and whether they're regular customers or not . . ." Ron trailed off then, with a philosophical shrug, added "but that's fucking gang politics, it's all fun'n games until someone gouges your eye out."
Ron paused in this rant, gave the whiskey a critical glance and then shrugged before taking a slow drag from the bottle, and finally turned to Harry and asked, "What're you up for, then?"