Their gazes on him make his skin crawl and he scratches at his arm again nervously, still on the outside of it, glad that it just makes him look a little oddly shy. It will do like he's some kind of fucking cattle. He knows she's not talking about the alcohol.

Disgusting. He manages to keep the sneer off his face.

He's begun to move them toward the checkout line, which is blessedly short this time of night, and speaks companionably with a huffed out laugh. Like nothing is wrong. Like his father and aunt aren't looking at him like a piece of meat to rip apart piece by piece. "Sometimes when one's associates are too far gone," he says, grinning, "they do foolish things." It's a bit wolfish, but he knows they still think he's a muggle - they're like to find it more hilarious than anything else. "It can be dangerous around the wrong sorts, you're right."