"I knew there'd be a catch." He replied, wiping his mouth on a sleeve, fastening the lid back onto the bottle and re-examining it again. "It was paid for, but it's actually a black-market knock-off, isn't it? 2 Galleon a bottle, I'll bet, made with Sheep's Piss." He laughed, relaxing slightly. Fenrir, according to his dossier in the department, was likely to take offence easily and fly into dangerous rages, but hopefully the werewolf was a good enough judge of character to know that MacNair only meant to tease, not offend. Not fatally. He set the bottle down, enjoying the burn in his throat before taking another lung-full of smoke from the muggle cigarette, elbows on his knees.
"Business, Fenrir?" He questioned, eyebrow raising into dark hair, "What sort of business? The Ministry isn't interested in your pack right now, they've decided you're too difficult to deal with and they'd rather hush you up." He explained, flicking ash into the fire, his eyes leaving the other for a second, "They're happy to pay off parents with excuses. At the moment, although who knows how long that will last?"