Although moments ago he might have delighted in having the (far too bold) woman leaning against him, there was adrenaline rushing through his veins and all he could think about was how to avoid a conflict he didn't want to be in. He could fight—he'd been a quidditch player, after all, and he'd seen and been apart of enough of them over the years—but he didn't want to mess up his appearance or lower himself to a drunkard's level.

His hand came up and closed around the woman's upper arm, a silent warning as much as it was a supportive gesture.

"No," he said pointedly, just as much to her as to him, "we don't."

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