Don Juan glanced at his feet as though he had forgotten. "They're in the grass," he explained, nodding towards the weeds. "I don't actually like shoes that much." Maybe it ran in the family; Shallot was barefoot more often than not too. Or maybe there was a part of him that thought he deserved to be a little uncomfortable tonight, a little too cold.

Hudson was being much nicer to him than he was being to himself. He had the sneaking suspicion that at some point tonight he would regret it. "We can go to yours," he relented with a sigh. "Can you apparate us from here, or should we walk to the floo?"

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