It doesn't take a long time for Lucius to get there; a flurry of partial-Apparition and then moving on foot to navigate the particulars of the neighbourhood. He is in his predictable shades of black and grey and navy, the cut of his garments starkly more contemporary than what he was formerly used to, somewhat expensive, and balancing on some knife edge between practical and dramatic.

(The snake cane may tip it over one way or another.)

Approaching, the charms are a thing he can sense and are more or less expected. He brings none with him, having even the Dark Mark obliterated off his arm by god knows what the fuck kind of magic springs apparent on Catenrat. Meanwhile, there is no degree of light or shadow that does him favours; grey in blonde that straggles thin and splitted past his shoulders, inchoate stubble at his throat and jaw gone sandy-silver, and always a little tired no matter what hour it is.

There is the faintest of nose wrinkles at the smell of cigarette smoke, always coarser to him than his wife's cigars. Cheaper. And it will never not be a little unusual to see a younger Severus Snape, especially now with the elder taking up space. "Good evening," he announces at the same time he casts a grey-eyed look around, and locating a seat for himself.