Nor optimism, he thinks but doesn't say. "Certainly I could, but I think we can do without a list. You didn't use all the polyjuice, did you?"
"Mmmm," he utters thoughtfully, rolling a dart between his fingers. "Split his losses?" His other hand, held against his side, moves slightly, swish-flicking his wand, in its scabbard, against himself. He takes a long drink of whiskey, emptying his glass, holds very still for a moment, and then visibly relaxes all over, saying, "Right, I needed that," quite loudly enough to be heard, although by no means loudly, or in what could be called a public voice. He puts a hand behind his neck to stretch it out, rolling his head a bit to loosen the muscles, and pours himself another.
"A bit," he concedes. "Grapes is the usual comparison, I think. Or small tomatoes." His brow quirks in slight perplexity at the throwing before the rowing, but it doesn't matter, and he just nods.
What? You don't think children should be named Hephaestus??? Severus: (is sniffy) Awww. :(