"Yes, yes, but still theoretical," he chuckles, "because I never had any."
Severus squeezes his arm, and then looks away to let him recover in peace.
"That would be a find indeed," he says solemnly, and rolls his eyes. "It was a persona. Anyway, I like neutral colors."
"A very broad sense," he grumbles.
Rolling his eyes, "I meant that the holiday's intent is to chase off the lingering souls of the dead, not to celebrate terror. Not your intent, obviously, but the holiday's."
Severus watches him with interest and darkens the ink for him when he complains. The waiter is back in a few minutes, looking rather as though he wished to be dead--obviously without going through the painful dying bit. He has a plate in his hands, with a steaming... lump of cooked dough on it. He puts this down carefully by Rodolphus, and says in a doomed voice, "He says thank you very much for the lovely picture, good work getting all the details into the space, have you ever thought of a career as a cartoonist, and he thinks a gentleman of such traditional, not to say medieval, sensibilities as yourself will appreciate this coney and turnip pasty with sage, saffron, and bacon. Would you like your cheque, now, please?"