"No wonder," he agrees. "I did as well. For broadly similar reasons." Very broadly.
"Well, that just takes all the fun out of it."
"Oh, I don't dispute that he makes good wands," Severus protests. "But Narcissa wanted to give me one of his for a birthday--I think she assumed mine must have been second-hand--and we did find one that worked for me to his satisfaction, but not nearly so well as my own." He smiles at the description, and adds, "She may also have picked up on the envy I had at the time of you lot with dark-wood wands."
"My stationary," he corrects, "smells like cedar, lemongrass, and verbena. I keep it in a drawer with a low-volatility suffumitory against tampering. I have considered giving them some," he admits, "but I deplore to use store-bought, and they'd be expecting hand-made anyway. Better not to do a thing than to do it badly--although best to do it well, of course." He grimaces.
"He didn't even bother with a decent sauce," Severus reminds him, fingering a dart which had somehow walked out the door with him (and which had started life as a napkin), "I doubt he'd bother sending away for ostrich."