Having slept long but lightly, Lucius emerges at an hour one would consider decent.
Sensibility dictates he do this. He has both hosted his house for guests in the past and been one himself, and there are certain rules one should abide by, both implicit and otherwise -- getting up in the morning is one.
The most concerning rule to Lucius being that, of course, he is a guest at all. This is not his home. The angles, the shadows, the orientation is all different to the estate in which he grew up and inherited, and so it won't take a lot of doing to get used to the fact that this, his status, is true, no matter what name claims ownership of the building.
Moving downstairs, he doesn't quite expect to see anyone but Narcissa when he enters -- which is silly, she told him otherwise, but he's suffering certain deprivations, including tea and its caffeine. His cane is in hand, never straying far from his side at all, its affected swing at his step ingrained, and he's deigned to at least run fingers through platinum-grey mane. It doesn't help anything for the fact that the Second War may have knocked a decade out of him and it shows in ways both subtle and not.
And also he is wearing the other man's clothing. It can hardly be helped.
Grey gaze settles on the other shape in the kitchen -- intellectually, he is prepared, but that doesn't stop the flicker of startled shock behind the stare that settles on the younger version of himself. It sures up again, quick enough, iced over. And he doesn't immediately turn on a heel and exit the way he came.
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Sensibility dictates he do this. He has both hosted his house for guests in the past and been one himself, and there are certain rules one should abide by, both implicit and otherwise -- getting up in the morning is one.
The most concerning rule to Lucius being that, of course, he is a guest at all. This is not his home. The angles, the shadows, the orientation is all different to the estate in which he grew up and inherited, and so it won't take a lot of doing to get used to the fact that this, his status, is true, no matter what name claims ownership of the building.
Moving downstairs, he doesn't quite expect to see anyone but Narcissa when he enters -- which is silly, she told him otherwise, but he's suffering certain deprivations, including tea and its caffeine. His cane is in hand, never straying far from his side at all, its affected swing at his step ingrained, and he's deigned to at least run fingers through platinum-grey mane. It doesn't help anything for the fact that the Second War may have knocked a decade out of him and it shows in ways both subtle and not.
And also he is wearing the other man's clothing. It can hardly be helped.
Grey gaze settles on the other shape in the kitchen -- intellectually, he is prepared, but that doesn't stop the flicker of startled shock behind the stare that settles on the younger version of himself. It sures up again, quick enough, iced over. And he doesn't immediately turn on a heel and exit the way he came.
"My. I hope someone told you."