Astrid flashes her a big, shit-eating grin: “Thanks, luv,” while Avigd makes another disgruntled noise. He’s staring at the door as if he’s considering making a run for it, but he’d tried that with her last time and it hadn’t worked.

So Astrid fishes around in her own pockets — she doesn’t do a lot of shopping — and drops some of her own coin on the table to contribute with whatever Hermione feels like chipping in. This is the after-work pub; he’ll be back, so the rest of his tab can stay. She eventually stands up, fingers knotted in the neck of his shirt, hauling him along like a stray puppy as they head for the exit together.

Her voice low, for Hermione’s benefit: “There’s a rain barrel outside. Say we dunk him before we start getting him home. Get the idiot sober.”