Well this looks familiar.
Would you care to learn the fine art of semaphoring?
She only pinks, rather becomingly, in response.
What is it, Ms. Bred? He pries, genuinely curious.
'Oh, I was just picturing them as fans.'
As... fans? He hasn't the foggiest, not the hint of a clue, which makes it all the odder that there's this strange pricking of the fine hairs on the back of his neck, particularly as they have an almost preternatural gift for scenting trouble.
'Fans,' she confirms resolutely. The blush only deepens.
Because you find it so... warm in here? It's December in Scotland and the witch is patently barmy. End of.
She debates just running with that explanation, especially as it would go a ways towards explaining the flush she can feel creeping over her skin. Finally she decides on the truth. 'For dancing.'
For... dancing? Apparently that explanation explains precious little as far as he's concerned. She imagines that's for the best.
That notion only solidifies when he continues.
You need... fans for dancing?
She swallows, but in for a Knut... She womans up. "I was thinking you might.'
Fans? For dancing. Me?
There is no earthly way she is going to explain it further.
Then the next thought strikes him, I do not dance.
'Ah. Well then I imagine you wouldn't need the fans either.'
She looks thoughtful, and the blush has receded, so he feels safe asking, And just what are you thinking about now?
'If you were to use a fan, which feathers would it have?' He blinks once; the witch clearly has a penchant for lines of thought that would never occur to him. 'Lucius is easy. Peacock feathers, both colourful or white would suit. You're trickier. Ostrich? Owl? Some sort of hawk, perhaps?' She seems unsure.
He smirks, catching on and decided. Raven. The answer is confident.
'Yes, yes I can see that. That sounds about right.' She smiles a gentle smile just picturing it. As he isn't aware quite what she's picturing, he escapes unembarrassed.
Well the height still isn't promising.
'No. No, I suppose it isn't.'
He examines the table closely, and a faint shimmer might lead a leery person to suspect he's tried to Transfigure it again. To no avail, evidently; it remains thoroughly unchanged.
Do we have any extra parts? He asks as he begins to hunt through the pile.
'Some might even be fitting,' she adds as she watches him consider some more... adventurous choices.
'You absolutely cannot use Weasley's and Potter's legs to raise the tabletop. What are you thinking?'
For his part, he's fairly sure she doesn't properly understand the meaning of the word 'cannot' if she believes that to be true, and the boys' absence was unlikely to be noted over the hols, but luckily he doesn't take up the baton. Or his wand, for that matter...
At the least, we should be able to raise the seat to a height suitable for adults.
He employs a Wingardium Leviosa and she fits the pieces carefully into place.
'There,' she's says as they finish, the gratification audible. 'Professor McGonagall can't possibly find any fault with it now.'
Never mind that, this finally gets my arse up off the floor. That's the very definition of eminently satisfactory in any book I should think.
'Here would you mind holding this for me?'
If you mean to tell me you're incapable of casting a Lumos, I shall well and truly come to doubt you're a witch, he responds as he takes the cast iron candleholder in hand.
'Nonsense. I just like the idea of you carrying a torch for me.'
His eyes narrow suspiciously and he doesn't reply for a moment.
Eventually he settles on a cautiously snarky, All well and good, but it's a candle, and not a torch.
'As you should well know, the castle interferes with all electronics. This seemed an adequate compromise.'
So pleased to hear I'm a compromise and merely adequate.
'I'm not going to dignify that with a response. You're fishing for compliments.'
A touch hesitantly he asks, Were there any to be had?
'If I live to be one hundred and thirty seven...'
And three quarters. Precision is everything.
'If I live to be one hundred and thirty seven and three quarters...'
Let's not forget the units: years of age, I presume? Units are even more crucial than precision.
'Fine. If I live to be one hundred and thirty seven and three quarters years of age, I don't think I'll ever understand how someone so bright can simultaneously be so staggeringly thick.'
Shall I take that for an answer in the affirmative? It wavers between cheeky and hopeful, and she finds she minds not at all.
'Yes,' she replies with a smile of sufficient warmth to render his Warming Charms obsolete (despite the season and location!), and he discovers he can't quite suppress a smile of his own.