Raphael recoiled as she spun and flung little bits of snow onto his bare skin, and as she took his scarf he used his sleeve to wipe the little droplets of cold slush off his skin. He felt bad, but he didn't know her well enough or have a good enough rapport with her to express it in any meaningful way. She had to be miserable; if a tiny flurry of snow drops against his skin sent a shiver down his spine he could only imagine what it felt like to be covered. However, it didn't stop him from cringing as the delicate fabric of his scarf was ruined by the the moisture; it would never regain its fluffy texture, and would probably remain a shade or two darker even when it dried.

His focus didn't remain on his scar for too long, though, because she'd begun panicking and his gaze flickered between her and her bag as he tried to figure out why she seemed to frantic so suddenly. She reached inside and pulled out an ornament of sorts made in the image of something he couldn't pick out now that it had broken. Initially he didn't realize why she seemed so upset—it was just an ornament, right? It didn't look particularly old or expensive... but then he realized, oh.

"That's... terrible luck," he said, struggling to balance his desire to seem sympathetic with his fear of making too big a deal out of it. It wasn't so expensive, but probably more expensive than she could afford. "Surely a spell could mend it? You're good with those, I remember."

---