Harry reaches down to turn the taps back on, with a little twist of his mouth in amusement. He doesn't have paint on his person, but he washes his hands anyways — scrubbing below his nails and right down to the webbing of his fingers, slopping water and soap up his wrists and forearms like he's preparing to go to surgery. There's no words from him, because his magic is all about the rite and the intent. Linking the two is how he's always worked his strange, violent miracles. As he scrubs, he glances at Matt through the side of his eye.

"How many chances do you usually give people? I'm usually a one-and-done kinda' guy," and he'd like to know, in case he fucks up and needs to do a lot of redeeming and begging to get back into Matt's good graces. He'd hate to fuck up, though. Unless it's deserved; Harry's kind of out of that stage where he feels the need to burn every bridge just to keep people from following him into danger.

He reaches for the towel after he's done, wiping his hands clean with the same methodical swipe of his palms and the twist of his fingers. Balancing one hip against the damp counter ( he left a mess of water, naturally ), he keeps his eyes down as he riffs: "I figure we could talk, first. No need to dive into the rites without knowing one another better and what sort of resources we need to pair up. Or what we're aiming to look into."

Basically, he's ready to talk like they're scientists readying an experiment. But also meeting on a blind date. " — we got All Hallows' Eve coming up, maybe could scheme to do something crazy then. It's good for big whammies, and I got power to spare on that day."