"Well yeah," Harold said in a tone that was almost-but-not-quite a 'duh'-tone, "but this drink has extra kick! Its my birthday present to you. I might have a small bottle of firewhisley too, if you like that sort of thing."
He shrugged. He hadn't directly lied and said it was alcohol he'd spiked the drink was, merely attempted to imply. That left him guilt free in Harold's book ,"go on and drink it before it warms up! Smells good right? Cin-cin and all that!" He attempted to fight the urge to cross his arms impatiently and instead shoved them into his pockets. His fingers closed instinctively around his lucky sickle.