It would probably, in all fairness, be hypocritical of Lucius to resent the exclusion of himself as fortunate -- he hasn't been and it's written on him, and also this man has led enough of his own life that they are not simply one and the same, and by Merlin's beard, so has the older version of the two. But there's a contextual sharpness that harks readily to his own stilted uncertainty with what to do with a Narcissa that is not his at all, and the look he trades across the table is a little flat and cold.

The smile that follows is halved and a brief, insincere dart of a line near his mouth. "Then I suspect you're relieved," he says, hand spidering over his tea cup, "that should you find yoursel somewhere else new and strange, she will at least be cared for in your absence.

"It's the least I could do."