Eric did not judge Marcus because he was a Quidditch player—as an athlete himself since he played rugby—and found the accusation quite obnoxious. Falling into the same category for general interests with Marcus, Eric wanted to find a common ground between them for conversing. On the other hand, a smirk crawled across his face as he eyed his beer while Marcus called him a brainiac, and disagreed they faced a cold war. "Then put your muscle to use," Eric replied, "because I don't know or care how smart you are, it only takes two brain cells to make a decision and only one of them needs to work. You're in a position of power, so take advantage of it."
There was a large, quite obvious, part of him that remained envious of anyone who had any sort of influence. Eric only acted as though he could solve the war and the Ministry's flaws. Even those he talked to regarding politics usually attempted to veer off subject, onto another subject, or simply wanted to escape Eric's inane choices of conversation.
Sighing—defeated, though Eric would not freely admit it—he finished his beer. Marcus had a good point: Quidditch games were a way to forget. "How many people show up to a game?" Eric asked. "A couple hundred, perhaps? You're on the Falmouth Falcons, are you not? One of the top ranked teams, mate, brilliant. But it's not just one innocent and carefree sort of person going to a Quidditch match, or have you already forgotten the World Cup incident a few years ago? A Quidditch match is the best opportunity for shady dealings, for certain people to gather unnoticed, and for everyone to turn a blind eye." Naturally, Eric felt the need to be pessimistic regarding his outlook on life.
He felt tempted to go home. Eric exhausted himself from work and needed to sleep at least 16 hours straight in order to recover. Greasy chips and a couple beers usually took its toll on his quite quickly.