Phineas laughs, a low, contented sound. "Maybe we're just rubbish, is the meaning."

He sort of angles so that Nia can see better: a little bit of shading here, there. Her hair requires a few close glances.

"Think I've got the proportions right there?" Phin taps his pencil on the coffee cup in her tiny sketchy hands. It's practically half the size of her body, or the suggestion of her body -- there's just the shoulders, and then some swirling mist, as though she's a patronus herself.