"You know what, sure." Harry takes an honest-to-god Bakelite telephone out of its cradle and dials a number.

"Hi, Charity?" Harry winces. "Yes, and I'm still very sorry about that. But I'm- no, I have- I need a sweater." There's a pause. "Yeah, he's about as tall as you, I'd say. Yes. And he's- no, I just- there's magic reasons, okay? I need your fluffiest sweater. Not your best, just- yeah, fluffy. As much fluff as humanly possible. Yes. Thank you, Charity, I owe you one. Okay, I owe you several. I did already apologize for that. Thanks. Could you send Michael over with it? Good, good." He holds the receiver at arm's length and gingerly clicks it back into the cradle.

"Well, that went as well as expected. Your sweater is en route."