The Dempsey house was a grand abode the likes of which Arven had only ever witnessed during classy social functions, at the insistence of a well-meaning sister. At such functions he had always wished he was surrounded by trees and wildflowers, not marble and lace, but on this rare occasion he was content; for said grand abode was a setting for quite the adventure.

He'd expected to be seated somewhere broad and public while Porphyria secured the sketches with help from a maid, but instead Arven found himself in the lady's rooms. From the disheveled longcoat to the dried mud caked onto his shoes, he was every inch out of place — but didn't let it stilt his confidence in the mission. And while, out of chivalry, he tried not to look around these private quarters too much, he noted with satisfaction that they were more suited to the poet in the lake than the rest of the house. He smiled, too, at her reminder of that afternoon they'd accidentally spent together; he'd cast a spell to send her skimming across the Black Lake in a sinking boat.

When they'd acquired the sketches, he laid them out on the writing desk and leaned over them, frowning. "A comb, of all things" he murmured half to himself. She'd described the artifact, but to see it drawn here so innocuous and ordinary was an odd sight indeed. "Would you mind if I made copies to send to Gringotts?" he asked Porphyria, drawing his wand.

"I'd like them to see the sketches as soon as possible. I'm not tremendously hopeful that they'll crack it, but those cursebreakers are used to dealing with transfiguration curses. So you never know."