It isn't until they're a satisfactory distance away from the thinnest portions of the crowd, the carousing stragglers and arguing couples, that he stops and draws his wand. To someone perceptive - Hermione, for example - it might be noted that it's no longer the black one he once carried, but rather a pale birch, similar in length.

There's a quick flick - no words accompany it, and he doesn't relax enough to hint that it might have been a spell cast to dispense with eavesdroppers. However, the spell that follows contents him enough to stow the wand once more. And it's then that he turns on her, sharply, as though he caught her breaking curfew. Funny how some things don't change; here she is, an adult, and he still can't seem to see her as anything more than a wayward, obnoxious little girl whose nervous tic is raising her hand in class.

"You used the Protean Charm on galleons in your fifth year." No prologue; just that sentence, flat and abrupt. It's not an accusation - then again, it is. He knows she did it, but he wants verbal confirmation of this particular brand of rule-breaking. Perhaps he might have asked - politely at that - but he has the idea that it's better to scare the admission out of her than to coax her into telling. When he's civil to her, it seems to unsettle her. So he thinks, anyway.

That, and he isn't quite ready to start treating her like an equal.