"Well, perhaps not the bank, but a bank, certainly." Let the wretched thing-man be jealous.

"Possibly, possibly not," he admits. "These potions come from a place where savvy sorts layer magic upon magic upon magic, until they practically--or literally--glow with it. They might sit comfortably with your extant magic. I could examine your enchantment, if you like, to be certain... but I don't imagine you're eager for such scrutiny."