There's a papery crinkle within satin lined pockets before the envelope emerges, a usual sort of vessel for monetary exchange, but more unusually, a thick glass vial, stoppered with cork, and it's difficult to say at first glance if the glass is that shade of deep purple, or if the fluid inside it is this shade.

"Thrilling. Then I shan't take up too much of your evening."

Because even in wizarding Britain, being sarcastic about work dos is normal enough that it's still a habit, for all that he doesn't have the right to any since arrest and subsequent terrorism. "For your interest," he says, offering the latter object, and setting down the envelope. "And a donation. I made a guess at the going rate."