He chuckled a shallow, bitter chuckle. If she wasn't here to arrest him, she was... what? Giving him a pep-talk? She may have been an auror, and she may have been under dangerous, stressful situations before, but none that came with this sort of public scrutiny. He opened his mouth to disagree, to argue that it was his fault and nothing she could say would change that, but his mouth snapped shut and he reached for his glass instead. He didn't need to be impulsive right now. Not with her. They'd just gotten back on good terms (literally that morning, actually) and he didn't need to start something with her considering she was trying to be supportive. Or while she was pitying him. There wasn't a discernible difference in this situation, was there?

"Yes, but it happened to me," he said, "and now what's done is done. Some woman is dead. I nearly killed my sister." The words left his mouth thick with anger and hatred—but he wasn't sure who it was directed towards. Himself, definitely, but he couldn't help but feel anger towards everyone involved. The league. The aggressive Moroccans. Prewett, even if they were friends.

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