Millicent couldn't really blame Hermione for staying on somewhere she disliked. Serving the scum at the Ratcatcher wasn't the best fucking job either, but it was at least close to what Millicent had done at home. Some days it even felt almost normal. And no one gave a damn if she antagonized the customers.
"I don't know about setting up a distillery." Moving at last, she pushed upright and opened one of the cabinets under the counter, pulling out a bottle of cinnamon-flavored whiskey -- the same shite she'd shared with the woman at the Hocus Pocus, Cherry. Who, come to think of it, Millicent hadn't seen there since. Best not to examine that nugget of information too closely. Merlin only knew what had happened to her.
Pouring a healthy-sized amount of the liquor into the bottom of each mug, she continued, "We could brew up something, sure, but adding the magic to make it proper firewhiskey? We'd be lucky if it didn't blow up in our faces. Literally." Since splinching herself during her first week, Millicent hadn't attempted any other big magic, living like a bloody muggle almost. She'd been lucky not to lose that leg, and it wasn't a chance she was willing to take again.