"Now you're getting into magical theory," Rus tells him severely. "It doesn't matter why it works, as long as it does." He takes a drink of scotch. "Have a drink," he says kindly. "It'll help everything to make more sense."
"HA!" Rus crows triumphantly. "Got you that time!" He waits while Severus fetches the darts. "And fewer obliviates too. They're a pain in the arse to do."
"Cornwall's an odd sort of place," Rus comments. "We could always infest the place with black beetles," he suggests. "Get them shut down." He raises an eyebrow. "Why do you know that?" he demands.
"Nothing wrong with grease and skin," Rus mumbles through a full mouth. "If they're done properly." Alf glares at Severus and mutters something about Julia Child. He stares admiringly at Rus. "You must have a cast-iron stomach sir. That's all I can say." He not-quite-bows. He can't wait to tell them about this back in the kitchen. Rus considers, making a neat pile of bones. "Could I get all three?" he asks, trying to look pitiful. "No one does them better than you."
Probably not. We'll be used to it. I fully expect that, before I die, they'll move it back to Labor Day. :( The weather has been so nice! I haven't wanted to waste any of it! Oh gods! And of course it's all your fault! *headdesk* EEK! Bad kitty! No no, that's waaaaaay to much to ask.