"Couldn't have," Marc said dryly. "I was in detention, being questioned. M'not their favorite person right now, but they can't get past my record, either. M'a top bloke for bringing folks in, and a good fucking Hit Wizard. Just because m'wife and my brother-in-law had a Death Eater relative escape doesn't change it." He finished the second glass, the last gulp of it, then pushed it away.
"M'not on anything likely to get me involved beating up m'mates," he said plainly. And he couldn't leave. He'd promised to stay on the inside, to make sure that when the Purists made their plans, there was someone to make sure people didn't die while doing it. Someone to mitigate shite. Someone to take care of shite and find things out when they needed finding. He'd been doing it for eight years now, and no one had told him to stop.