There were few things he enjoyed more than a good party. Quidditch was probably the only thing at this point, and this party was celebrating the Quidditch World Cup—and by extension, him and his team-mates. It was the perfect recipe for a good time, and he'd found that he wasn't the only quidditch player in attendance that night. (He had to admit, his opinion of their quidditch team aside, Hogsmeade had the best wizarding pubs.) He'd opted to abstain from further beverages after his fourth beer so he might be able to remember himself in the morning, but the alcohol had already taken its effect.

He hadn't expected any aurors in attendance, and his face immediately dropped upon seeing her. Was something amiss? Was she here to arrest him? And then, the realization set in. Oh. She was in her normal clothes and had—until he'd bumped into her—been carrying a glass herself. He couldn't help but smile.

"Speak for yourself. This is my turf," he said with a deep chuckle. He eyed her nearly-empty glass now and nodded towards the bar. "Let me buy you a new one? I have a feeling it's my fault."

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