She clearly had very little experience with alcohol, which he supposed was to be expected. Ben made a gesture for her to sit and sauntered over to the bar to order her something, since the bartender hadn't glanced over at him when he'd wanted him to. He was reminded as he walked of the way Ellory Pendergast had kissed him — awkwardly, uncertainly. Rich girls were all talk when it came to anything fun. Miss Scrimgeour probably hadn't ever been properly kissed, he figured. He had almost certainly been Ellory's first real kiss, and depending on which prudish pureblood she ended up married to, he might be her last. He wondered whether she was even conscious enough of what kissing was supposed to be like to recognize the difference. It wasn't as though their very brief interlude behind the tents at the street fair had given her a wealth of experience to draw from for comparison.

The barkeep gave him a drink. He frowned at it for a moment before pushing his inner monologue to the back of his mind and heading back towards the table.

"One of 'whatever the Irish usually drink'," he said, placing it down on the table in front of her with a smirk before sliding back into the booth across from her where he'd left his own drink. He hadn't bothered to order her anything weak, because that would have required him to look like a wuss at the bar, and his pride wouldn't allow that, even in a Muggle pub where he was unlikely to see any one of these people again. "You know, I was a little surprised when I got your first letter. I thought the rumor would have scared you away. You must have been a Gryffindor," he joked with an affable smile.