multiversallogs | you chip away the old version of you

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.

Lucius' appearance is both strange and comforting; Severus thinks he might look better like this - he looks like a real person now, versus some polished mantlepiece being spun around like prized marionette. He deserves to look like hell over the things he's done (just like Severus deserves to die, imminently, when he returns). It's fitting.

It's also fitting that the younger man here looks better than usual. Of course he begins to do something akin to flourishing when he's taken out of that world. His hair is shorter, though still unmanaged, his clothes parts dystopian 1970s fashion and local originality, making him look subtly non-Muggle even at the barest glance. It's still all black, put together thoughtlessly, and that smell of tobacco, low class as it may be, is covering up the ever-lingering remnants of his potionwork.

"Hello."

Severus is as ever himself; still not quite grown in to the man Lucius knew, yet.

"You must be as bored as I am." Showing up immediately like that, and all.

"A slow evening."

The qualifier is agreement, made so by his dry tone of voice. For all that Lucius now has the privilege to call his current lifestyle financially comfortable, it is mainly just that. He sits, unselfconscious about his more or less prompt appearance, cane rested against his thigh and adjusting the sit of his coat around him rather than taking it off.

It is a cool evening, to be lurking on the patio, but it's nice and vaguely English to Malfoy's sensibilities. "That, and I thought to reward notice regarding the next door you would run into."

"My moment has passed." Deadpan around the edges. No one is like Bellatrix Lestrange; he doubts anyone short of the Dark Lord himself could do such damage, leave him out of commission for so long. (He shows his respect for the dead in the space of those thoughts.)

It's too cold out for anything as picturesque as fireflies, not cold enough for proper weather, so there's nothing to offer scenic punctuation to the silence that falls for a time. Severus isn't sure if it's awkward or not.

Eventually, "We successfully pretended to be friends, once."

It probably is.

Awkward.

But Lucius notices these things less, lately, on account of being prone to falling into sullen, kicked-dog silences himself. But when he does speak, ever syllable comes out clipped and tailored; even the short hm of what counts as humoured laughter in response to Snape's words is the same way.

"Where I am from," he starts, because it's certainly been established that there is a definite split between the world Lucius knows and the one this Severus comes from, even if only in some unique ways, "we maintained the ruse for some several years."

The future is a strange thing to contemplate when you know you don't have much left of it.

"You, me, and Karkaroff," he says, somewhat inexplicably - but even if Lucius doesn't cotton on immediately, his train of thought soon becomes apparent. "You've got a diary I don't expect you'll want to give up to me, so I'll probably have to convince Narcissa. And then I have to go to Durmstrang, and after that I suspect that'll be the end of it." (For me.)

If he even lives that long. If he doesn't appear back in his office as if no time at all has passed, and Albus Dumbledore is bearing down the dungeon corridor, coming for him.

Of course the war isn't over for everyone, for better or for worse. Whatever Lucius may think of the result, he can at least breathe easier. Mention of the diary gets a sharper sidelong glance, the lines between his eyebrows defined as he listens.

"Your alternate," he says, "waited much longer." To die, he means, or to show his true colours, or seek an end game-- all of those things are rather firmly interlaced.

"Yes, well, I hate teaching."

As if that's why.

Severus sounds both dismissive and bitter, there, like he doesn't really want to talk about himself but at the same time he wants to make his disdain for his 'alternates' clear. It's a lot of intent packed into one brittle remark, but Merlin forbid Severus actually have any skill at expressing himself properly.

"And I don't think either of us would appreciate a tea invitation." ... So instead he's invited Lucius to come murder some people? Yes. Apparently.

"Most occasions nowadays demand something stronger, at that."

Disdain for one's alternate is not an unfamiliar concept; his is probably a lot pettier, and through the lens of someone with profound regret. Lucius knits his hands together as if they were chatting over the weather, which is about as uneventful as the desolate urban street that acts as their view and backdrop. "You wanted to discuss what happened to the girl," he prompts, a little briskly.

"No, I am fully appraised of what happened to Penelope, and for all that it matters, you are as well."

Let's just skim right over anything of personal significance, shall we? Moving on.

"I wanted to discuss if you were interested in ending the lives of the men that attacked her."

Skipping over personal significance and straight into murder - that's fine. Lucius smiles, sudden but frosty and not quite at Snape, lapsing into a kind of thoughtful silence.

But only a short one. "The attackers; they made clear their reasons?"

Severus removes a folded up sheet of paper from his breast pocket, and hands it over - clearly a copy of the original, made from childish clippings of words and letters; it's the battle cry Penelope was left with, the attackers declaring they know what she is and what will happen to her, and those like her, who continue to practice magic.

"Considering the city runs on magic, I'd say they aren't the brightest, but there's probably a fair number, if not with the few I've tracked, then associated with them by proxy."

The note is taken, opened, scanned, and the corner of Lucius' mouth curls both at the stupidity and audacity shown in equal measures. It probably started this way, the old prejudices, the divide between magic and not.

It just didn't end that way.

He glances at Severus, then back down at the note. "An unfortunate thing, about imbeciles," he says, folding the note in half once more and handing it back, gesture loose, "they can do a remarkable amount of damage when there's a fair amount of them in accord. How many?" A beat, and he clarifies; "Lives."

"Three handled it, but I've found five. If they're a smaller unit connected to something else, they're being properly discreet, but one of them will know."

Severus isn't sure how much Lucius would know about his abilities as a mind-reader specifically, but he's sure the older man at least has a ballpark idea of Severus being remarkably talented at interrogation. It's less finesse and more adept at creatively nightmarish cruses. In that respect, they're covered.

But he'll need someone to make sure no one sneaks up behind him while he does it.

"I'm certain."

Dry. Referring not only to what one of these unfortunate men will know, but the added implication that between two wizards, or simply just with Severus Snape, it will be extracted in due time. Lucius' talents did not rest in Legilimency; but he had money, convenient friends, and a propensity towards violence and mind control when the scenario demanded it.

He twists a ring around on his finger as he gives it just a little more necessary thought, before he nods once.

He'll help.

Well.

Good.

Maybe next time they'll actually talk about ideology. (Or not.)

Severus lays out the details: they're a few blocks away, where specifically, the individuals involved, their recent activities. He's worked fast and effectively, without a great deal of stalking - he's not an investigator. He's not uncovering a conspiracy. This is practically a hobby; dispassionate, because he clearly doesn't care at all about the lead-up. They need to die, and that's what his goal is, all this necessary bullshit is just getting from point A to point B.

When Lucius is ready to go, they'll set off in the dark.

There is certainly nothing keeping him from being ready to go. There is a part of Lucius that is analytically curious about this new Severus Snape, watching the process of how one does set about planning the murder of idiot thugs and how much enjoyment he might glean from it. Not much, turns out, and that's a thing Lucius can appreciate. He's had enough of hopelessly sadistic colleagues and, indeed, overlords.

Which isn't to say he ~~might not~~ will absolutely spirit out a little enjoyment from the whole affair, but he is his own lost cause and doesn't count. He can trust himself not to be Bellatrix, in any case.

Beyond a few fiddly questions about logistics and other curiousities, Lucius requires nothing but his wand; he follows.

They Apparate there, the soundless, black-smoke slipping between instances only the men and women trained in the darkest of arts know. Severus wastes no time once they arrive, and walks right up to the landing of the townhouse as soon as he's corporeal - and as soon as Lucius is over the threshold behind him, he twists his hand beside him, and the house seals shut with a groan, and a crackle of magic.

There are two men and one woman in the sitting room, and to their credit, they are not shocked into silence - there's yelling, grabbing for weapons, shouting angrily, demands - Severus casts a stun spell and only one man falls; apparently the other two have some kind of protective talismans about them. The woman rushes Severus and he lets her, then catches her a foot from him in the grip of a spell that splits the joints in her knees and shoulders. She screams, he murmurs a summoning spell that yanks the talismans off her. Above them, thunderous footsteps of people beginning to bolt downstairs can be heard.

There's a hiss of something cutting through the air following the flick of Lucius' wand - launched like snakes, black ropes spiral with intent through the air towards the third man standing in the room. They land hard enough to lash skin, coiling around wrists and snapping them together, reaching out to bind around his throat as quick as lightning to catch him in their tangled clasp. There's a clatter as the weapon in hand falls as fingers try to pry loose the rope choking him, and then twin duller thuds as knees find the ground.

The talisman is summoned in kind and caught in the split second after Severus obtains the other from the woman.

His wand points for the door, then. It is convenient that they are coming to them, he thinks, more or less calm at the chaotic sound of many footfalls and shouting, if stiffly alert. He flashes first a disarming charm at the first sign of movement; the stunning spell proving to be only a fifty-fifty thing.

Severus gets the other one, easy, and for a moment just surveys the scene, five incapacitated people - the two who are disabled versus stunned still attempting anguished, furious communication - before he zeroes in on one of the men from upstairs. He grabs him by the front of his shirt and then drags him back into the kitchen, away from the front room and the windows (curtained as they may be) that face the street. (Not that anyone can hear or see much, from outside, with the sealing spell.)

The man is deposited unceremoniously on the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, while Severus pulls a glove out of his jacket pocket and onto his left hand. Ever since facing Bellatrix, the Dark Mark has burned (first to charring), and it still gives him some discomfort - hence putting a layer between metaphysical connectivity, now.

He doesn't bother telling Lucius to keep an eye on the rest of them; that's what he's here for.

Severus drags a kitchen chair over to sit on, and then grabs his victim by the neck, forcing his head back and meeting his eyes. He speaks no spell, but the sudden full-body twitch that the muggle man suffers despite the stun that grips him is evidence enough.

Lucius is quiet as Severus sets about moving people around, and he flicks a glance and then moves his wand in an instructional twitch - the rope extends enough to drag across its captive's mouth, between his teeth, silencing furious curses to muffled intelligibility. The silencing spell he casts on the woman is less cruel treatment, admittedly.

He moves to eventually stand and lean in the kitchen door, checking the time on a pocketwatch, and with more visual attention paid towards the room with the unmoving and/or struggling bodies.

A moment later and Severus drops the man he was 'interrogating' - lifeless, terminated with some imperceptible surge of magic. "Whichever one of them is Anders is the ringleader," he says, shaking out his right hand a bit. (Lucius may have noticed by now, Severus hasn't been using a wand.)

He joins the older man in the kitchen doorway, looking out at the four living captives, searching. He saw the person he needs in the dead man's head, but they're all squirming about trying to cover their identities. He knows it's not the woman - some part of him is grateful he won't have to torture her for it - and so he points and says, quietly, "Avada Kedavra." A glimmer of light, and there are only three living captives. It's the only kindness he'll be doing tonight.

"One of you volunteer. Or we'll just pick."

"You don't truly wish to be expendable," Lucius adds, given the reluctance in the room. "So don't be shy."

Immediately, and possibly not necessarily in true response to the wizards' words, the man being in a continued state of being strangled hoarsely grunts out what might be a curse, or indeed an answer. It is hard to make out. Regardless, Lucius spares the heavy lifting by directing the ropes to do it for them; muffled words are abruptly cut off, and the terrorist is dragged across the floor, following the path Lucius' wand makes towards the centre of the room, neatly flipped upon his back.

(And Lucius had noted Severus' particular brand of magic use, and filed it away silently for another time to question as he does with most peculiarities.)

There is satisfaction in treating them like this. Lucius can't say he never found his history rewarding at times.

Next subject so helpfully obtained, Severus immediately takes the man - leaving the ropes as they are - and gets right back to work. There's a moment of struggling, but Severus is too good at Legilimency for it to last. He rifles through the man's head without deliberate viciousness - it's not as if he needs to take any care; the state of him after doesn't matter.

He looks for names, faces, memories of meetings and conversations, the locations of anything incriminating. There's not a wealth of it, but it's enough to get the leads he's looking for; the bitter hate that flows through the man under his hands for magic-users is familiar. It feels like his father, and it makes the cruelty in which he works even more jagged around the edges. He remembers, in moments like these, just why he took the Mark.

After he's taken everything he needs and left the rest of the man broken, he backs away mentally. The man - Anders, whatever's left of him - gasps brokenly as best he can, spitting out a slurred but still passionate, hateful insult. Severus squeezes his throat, doesn't smile. Cruciatus flows through him where they're connected and Anders shrieks, muffled, spasming until he gives up. The light leaves his eyes as Severus watches. And then he drops him to the floor.

He steps back, shaking his right hand again - this time there's blood around his wrist near the cuff of his coat, and he grimaces, but only in mild irritation. It's not Anders' blood.

"There are documents upstairs in a green box, in a floorboard. Information to compile a hitlist."

It ought to be a thrilling read. Lucius glances to the two that remain alive, variously paralysed and otherwise rendered immobile, and back to Severus. He searches, semi-consciously, for signs of fatigue and strain; the practices of Legilimency and Occlumency were never, exactly, the most forgiving of magics for anyone. Cool grey eyes flick towards that glimmer of red at Snape's hand.

But Lucius wordlessly Disapparates to go and seek these documents. Taking something of a mallet approach, there is soon the sound of a wooden floor being indelicately broken open one board at a time in swift, almost musical succession, a few thuds and crashes of furniture waved aside, the noise echoing through the building but never escaping the walls. It stops not long after.

About half a minute later, once he has at least opened the thing and had a rifle through to see if the pages truly held anything of worth, Lucius appears once more, carefully sliding the pages back into places. Grainy candid images, screencaps from broadcasted network video posts, transcripts, CiD numbers, addresses.

"They've been rather busy," he says, not quite carelessly setting it down on an available flat surface. There is a steeliness to his expression, a similar edge that's sharpened his tone, settling his wand to point at the nearest still breathing body. "Finished with them yet?"

By the time Lucius returns, there are only two living persons to greet him; one of them is Severus, clean of blood, holding his wand. The remaining terrorist is on the floor, curled over on himself, fighting against the paralysis spell and whatever else has been inflicted on him.

"Not quite," Severus says, dispassionate and nudges the prone man with his foot. He flinches away. "We were having a heart-to-heart. It seems he's particularly fond of beating unconscious women."

Severus twitches his wand and his prisoner hisses, there's a particular twisting noise from the floor. Some unpleasant curse, impacting unseen ... parts, internal or otherwise.

A slow breath in raises broad shoulders as Lucius contemplates the immediate situation down the length of fifteen inches worth of mahogany. Ask anyone who knows him and they will gladly tell you that no, Lucius is not exactly infamous for his sense of compassion, not even for his fellow magic users, regardless of their breeding. But there are things that can and do offend him. The documents he uncovered beneath the floorboards offend him.

The man writhing at Severus' feet offends him. And so the incantation summons fire; it is not a spoken incantation, and it is not true fire. Flames of deep purple snake out from beneath the terrorist's clothing, smokeless, and instead of burns, it leaves behind bruises and sinks bone deep. A curse that can be flashily frightening and damaging, and thus, useful on the battlefield.

But not useless off of one, in Lucius' opinion.

He doesn't say it, but the bitter, detached thought flits through his head: No, I can't say I find any merits to letting anyone be unconscious, either.

It would have been one thing if Severus looked into his head and saw evidence that he felt assaulting someone that way was a mercy, but no; a grotesque coward through and though. He watches him for a moment, and then points his wand, casting a spell - a small, otherwise harmless one. An invigorating spell. No healing, no helpful adrenaline. Just making sure he's still completely and fully awake. The man makes a pained, miserable, angry noise.

Maybe none of this matters. He'll be dead soon anyway.

Outside a few drunk club-goers stumble down the street, laughing, oblivious to anything going on inside; this evening has become so nostalgic.

The prone form of the man under the unfortunate focus of the two wizard and their various curses twitches and jerks like a fish in its very last death throes, bruises colouring his arms, face, the expanse of skin beneath his clothing-- until Lucius twitches his wand with more determination and utters a sneered, "Avada Kedavra." A flash of green and then all is still.

It's not really a mercy so much as it is time management.

The sounds of the outdoors fails to make Lucius nervous, quietly confident in the spells cast to keep things outside from getting in, and things from within getting out. He gestures towards the documents. "Is everyone who knows of these dead?"

In perhaps disturbing contrast, Severus seems more at ease the longer this goes on; it's something he knows, that he doesn't have to guess at.

"In specifics, yes. There is at least one other individual, either an informant or superior, and his assistant. I assume that person expects these men to have kept notes somewhere." Almost absently, Severus shoves the now-dead man over with his foot, and stares down impassively at his face.

"I'll be interested to see if anyone has anything to say about this."

Either way, the men that injured the young witch are dead. Lucius is hesitant to offer more, wary of the glimmer of further investigation, but can't help but suggest; "If you make these documents a portkey, you could go fishing, as it were. Providing that anyone who knows where and how to look might attempt it, of course.

"That depends on your interest in loose ends, I suppose. Your friend can rest easily," a loose and sarcastic gesture about the place, "as things currently stand."

That's a fantastic idea, and Severus raises an eyebrow, appreciative of the suggestion, and intrigued at the potential. Instead of voicing this - "Are you accusing me of having friends?"

A flick of his wand and the documents float over to him so that he can inspect them without touching, and duplicate anything (potentially everything) he finds to be noteworthy. The portkey spell would be easy enough, but it's the end location that requires further thought. Surely, a secured location, one devoid of sinister shark pits or sharks with lasers, but something less than comforting, too. (Those details can come later.)

Almost absently: "What an infuriating example this place must set."

Everyone living together sickeningly peacefully. (Compared to wizarding Britain.) Handling this without living in a guerrilla combat unit. Existing openly, the integration of culture. How dare they all, etc and so on.

He glances towards the drifting documents and takes that as confirmation, the corner of his mouth upturning at mention of accusation. "Client," he self-corrects, delicately, and with only so much conviction. Lucius occupies his attention to taking the magical medallion he had pocketed that had so neatly defied the stunning spells, turning it over in his hand with curious fingers.

"Cooperation occurs on any level," he adds, wand flicking and another similar amulet rises from one of the corpses on the ground. "When it suits."

Curious, the sacrifices they make, magic to circumvent magic. But then- they all know the symptoms of sycophantic belief. The men in this room. The ones who await them, somewhere.

"What people can tailor themselves to has interested me more and more, of late."

"Quite."

Clipped, reserved, removed. What Lucius himself can tailor himself to has been a thing he's avoided thinking about in depth, and he will give the same careless lack of thought with regard to how comfortable he feels right here. Instead, he places the hovered amulet somewhere where Severus can reach it. "Whatever means you used to find the culprits behind the note," he says, "perhaps you might exercise the same on whatever wizard or witch was coaxed into making these."

Traces on magical items are easier to work, though he doesn't say so; whether Lucius can't or merely doesn't want to bother isn't his business, and this whole adventure has been Severus' undertaking, after all. But he takes the medallion and stows it for later pursual. That spell is one that requires a quiet moment.

In complete incongruity to everything-

"Thanks, Lucius."

"A pleasure." He has the decency to sound a little wry about it, but, the bar is somewhat low, there. Lucius gives one final glance about as if to survey the damage done and finding it to be satisfactory enough.

And it's true; his nature is to advise, and offer suggestion, and coax others into taking the lead, and following. Which doesn't make it not his business, when he adds, "I'll be interested to see where this leads." And with that, he takes it upon himself to go; reality bends a little around him in Disapparition, and he does so silently.

you chip away the old version of you

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