Miles frowned at the thought of there not being any sobering potions, and just as he opened his mouth to ask why the fuck did they need contraceptive potions, he closed it again. Fuck, he hadn't thought about that side of helping the girls.
"Tell the girls it's up to them to cover themselves," he grumbled. "Shouldn't they be doing that anyway?" he added, more to himself than to Finnigan. "No, wait, I'll tell them. It'll sound better coming from me."
He looked at the folder of receipts, nodding and already flicking through them. He tried not to let his nose wrinkle up in distaste at the fact most of them were in Pounds, not Galleons. Glancing back at the tables and chairs, he wondered if they would be sturdy enough.
He cast a strengthening charm on the timber of one of them, not trusting the Muggle 'craftsmanship' (wasn't that an oxymoron?) in the slightest.
It seemed to be in order, even if it was more money than he'd been expecting, but then what else were they going to do with the Muggle money that people seemed to want to pay with at the bar?
"So where's this bird you wanted to give a job to? Isn't she late?" He finished off the fire-whiskey, wondering if his resolution to stop drinking would last if he had to hang around this place. He wasn't sure.