The glare sharpened. "You've mostly seen me in dress robes," he pointed out, tone almost a low growl. "S'not a surprise jumpers weren't part of it. Too fucking hot out for them now."
He glanced down at the yarn in her hands, then the rest in the baskets he'd brought out, and the yarn she'd brought. "Fuck, just trade already, Bulstrode. The knitting's good. Spinning and dying're better." He ignored her and went back to looking through the skeins in her suitcase, sifting through them, half seeking the bamboo (he really didn't get much of it) and half just sorting it into piles of no fucking way, maybe, and the stuff he wasn't letting leave the house again.