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“Where did you go?” Remus asks just as Harry considers excusing himself from the table, and all eyes fall on him at the question everyone's been dying to ask all night. Fred and George had thought maybe he'd been out with Ginny, but Ginny had grudgingly admitted she hadn't left all night (“and as much as I hate to say it, we are not a thing, alright?”). Ron had been dead set that he went to a strip club or something of the sort, but Hermione had reminded him the Harry wouldn't seem so pleased with himself; after all, every other time he'd visited one, it'd planted a seed of regret in his stomach the minute he'd walked in the doors – prior to his visits, he tended to experience a long session of drunken self-loathing and ranting to his friends, but Harry is dead sober currently.
Harry's nearly jet-black hair is mussed up even crazier than is strictly normal, like it had gotten wet and not patted down properly at all – especially at the nape of his neck, where a group of locks are wildly reaching around like little curly hands. His eyes are a bit too dilated, as well, like he'd come from a place lit far too bright and returned to the same-'ole dully-lit House of Black. Remus raises his eyebrows expectantly, and it's only then that Harry realizes that he had let the silence draw on for an almost awkward amount of time. He nearly stands, only to then run away, but the red and orange scarf hanging precariously over the back of Ron’s seat invades his mind: he grudgingly reminds himself that he is, indeed, a Gryffindor, the mark of the brash and the brave.
“Well, you see, Moony, I was out to prove a personal little theory of mine; a popular Muggle idiom, if you will.” The words are out of Harry's mouth and hanging, suspended, between the two of them, Harry and Remus, before the former is even aware of what he's saying. He cringes slightly at the condition of his voice – extremely hoarse, as if unused and raw. It’s wrecked, hard to understand and an emphasis in Harry’s mind of just what he’d gotten himself into. Remus crosses his arms, one blonde eyebrow climbing up his forehead to meet his hairline.
“Oh?” Is all the ex-professor allows to politely welcome Harry's elaboration like the patient man he is (as is his person; manners are a sacred part of friendly feasts, after all).
Harry kicks himself silently. What had he been thinking, talking on a whim? It hardly ever worked in his favor. Then, something comes to him – and it sounds really Harry-like in his mind as he thinks it – and without further hesitation, he adds, as if never pausing his anecdotal ministrations. “The one stating 'you are what you eat'. Due to infallible confirmation, I have discovered that upon consumption, evidenced by the rough condition of my voice, eating dick does not make me a dick.”
With the response, it seems to Harry that the entire world pauses to let him soak in the dangerously hilarious reactions to his deadpan explanation. Mad-Eye Moody begins choking on something, Harry's not sure what, and Tonks, not given proper time to react, jumps out of her seat and throws a spell at Moody that Harry's never heard but expects will help dislodge the blockage of his esophagus. All Sirius can manage is to choke back a laugh into his tea, and he thinks he hears the Weasley twins giggling to one another. Ginny's distraught face makes her look years older, and it consequentially occurs to Harry that basically telling everyone that he's gay in such an inconsiderate manner isn't exactly the kindest of gestures to the Weasley sister.
Molly, however, looks almost pained by the overly forward personal information, and Arthur, having went to retrieve another spoon just moments prior, trips over his feet in surprise and propels forward, knocking his head against the table side.
Remus gapes like a fish out of water, and it's oddly satisfying to watch, to see the witty ex-professor stumped by Harry's forwardness. Then, as if not meaning to (and with a hint of self-induced surprise), he responds with a matter-of-fact, “Well, I could have told you that.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Moody coughs out abruptly, Tonks having succeeded in opening his airways. He looks entirely too shocked, his real eye bugging out enough to be almost congruent with the glass one. To clear his throat, he downs half of his whiskey and slams it back onto the table with a bit more force than strictly necessary.
He's talking to Harry when he asks his rhetorical question, but Remus chimes in with an indifferent reply (and Harry eyes Sirius' abruptly red face). “Excellent deduction, Moody.”