One by one, the contents of the box are extracted and set on the counter with near-pathological precision; each vial produces the muted sound of glass on wood.

Severus meets his old comrade's gaze again and gives a modest gesture which could stand to suffer a dearth of irony: See, Lucius? Everything in order, perfectly measured, clean, of the best quality. Of course. For your inspection.

Were the situation different - any different at all - he would feel immensely bitter. Subservience chafes him, but at the moment, he senses he and Lucius are on something of an even keel. He may be nothing more than a humble shopkeeper, but humility is no more wanting than irony in the room. "I trust all is to your satisfaction."