"Have a seat by the firepit if you like." There's a little folding chair there, and a few big rocks. Hazel closes their door; clinking sounds and the slide of wood on wood ensue; they emerge a few moments later with a large jar tucked under one arm and a fistful of assorted plant matter in the other hand, dried flowers in a wide assortment of purples. There's a bell-shaped flower in a nearly-black indigo, a round-petaled little thing in deep vibrant magenta, a sprig of lavender, several different lilacs ranging from dark to icy-pale, and what appears to be a violently violet rose.
Hazel hands Sable the flowers. "Pick any one you like, or any two you think will combine well in some proportion." They begin unscrewing the jar. "These are my standard feminine transformative, slightly refined from the initial, ah, output. Try one and let me know what you think of the result; if it undershoots your desired bust size you can have another." With the jar open, they pluck out a small pink egg with a glossy surface and offer it up. It seems about the size of a Starburst, with a similar texture when squeezed or nibbled.