Severus goes into an obvious state of sympathetic sugar shock just at the thought of it, and the waiter takes this as encouragement to rattle off the dessert list. He gets very nearly a gag at the maple and cranberry creme brulee, but eventually Severys nods curtly at the citron-mascarpone tart.
"Right," he winces. Looking off into a corner of the room, "I remember she wanted very much to be good at it; I know she was practicing before the wedding." He snorts. "Came around the common room with a basket of gingerbread she thought was a failure, to be rid of it, no doubt. It was only a little singed."
"No, I think people had been pulling shells off the walls." He shrugs. "I'm sure it was something. Usually such extravagances of decoration are connected to sites of spiritualism or power. It might just as easily have been religious or military power, though. --But I'm not wearing black," he protests. "It's--" he looks down at himself to check. "Grey. Blue-grey, even! It's just the lights in here. I haven't been wearing black since I got here; that's Professor Snape's face. He's the batty one. I'm just a brewer," he finishes with an air of modest virtue. "Well, except the coat. He left that to me." Because it's a really good coat, and he's not parting with it. It has all his pockets just the way he expects them.
This was a remarkably ill-timed remark on Rodolphus's part, as it results in Severus actually choking on his drink. Hard. The waiter who'd come by to see if the water glasses needed filling gives them both a warily indulgent smile, which freezes like a rabbit when Severus manages, "That was your favorite hat? That monstrosity of Lockhart's? With the plumes?"
"Oh, bounce back, yes," he says dismissively. "I have no interest in the dreams of grubby schoolchildren, but," he says smugly, "I know for a fact that I've driven entire classes to tears. Only some on a regular basis, of course, these things being cumulative. And only when they were really wasting my time."
Severus puts on an exaggerated wince, both to amuse Rus and to assure anyone listening that not only is Rus kidding but that Clayborn believes he's kidding. Politicians don't have a lock on plausible deniability. "We'll assume you'll be having fun and say..." He squints, calculating. Sixteen scruples a dose, allow for insect damage and so forth and variability of development and the fact that while Rodolphus might be willing to pick a plant or two for himself, asking him to pluck the flowers off of it is not likely to end well... "Four stalks of at least four and a half feet should do it."