He ignores both of them as he studies the strange animal, before he allows the light on wand's end to dim, for all the good it did. Pointing wand, Lucius voicelessly casts - the snap of bone is audible all the way to the car, and he reaches, then, to pick up the silvered, spiraled horn separated from dead skull, thumb brushing loose fur and sticky blood off the base.

"There's a market for that which is no longer in use," Lucius states, turning on a heel to head back for the car, wand pointed for the ground in relaxed grip. He is, at least, dressed pragmatically for the occasion - for him, anyway, in dark fabrics he isn't attached to so much that he would fret over them getting dirty or torn.

No robes, either. "It's rather why we're here. The rest is rotten or rotting; I don't suggest eating it, no."