multiversallogs | from the palace to the riverside

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from the palace to the riverside

Who: Lucius Malfoy (Sr) and Severus Snape α
What: Creepers will creep.
Where: Somewhere in Badside.
When: Now. Sundown.

Rain clings to steel and shakes off in earnest by the time heavy footsteps are coming down the zigzagged fire-escape-turned-main entranceway.

The sky has deigned not to open up its downpour for the moment, but the smell of water and ozone hangs in the cooling air and the sky remains angrily clouded. Lucius' coat is damp from earlier in the day, a black garment of too fine a make for this end of town, almost snagging on the grimy stairs as he descends, shoes finding asphalt, as does the end of his cane. He arrived with nothing and leaves with nothing, thus making whatever business he had inside the red-brick apartment complex somewhat mysterious, but wherever he is going to next, he is clearly in no rush.

He walks. Eventually, there will be somewhere interesting he can slither into. A bar. A bookstore. A quiet restaurant. A brothel. (No.)

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If Lucius does go to a brothel, the man shadowing him will promptly give up and try again another day - or, well, maybe he'll just stun him and drag the (always, but now even more inexplicably) older man back to his blasted dungeon.

The rain hasn't bothered him, cloaked in more ways than one as he is, and when Lucius sets out, Severus departs from the ramshackle coffee stand he'd been lingering at and trails after him. Malfoy can't see him, can't even hear him him, wrapped in the spell he's in.

Maybe there's a sense. Maybe he realizes, with the nerves of an old soldier put through hell, that there's something just past his heels. Severus will wait until there's an appropriate - or at least safe - place. No corners, no unknown buildings, no alleyways. He must drift easily, ensure neutrality.

So for now, he merely follows.

It's that end of town that is both isolated without being particularly empty - apartments and townhouses blocked together and divided, everyone minding their own business and giving the impression of isolation. Above his head, two women sit on a balcony and barely pay him any mind as they share a cigarette, and he pays them no mind either as he crosses the street. He moves passed where yellow tape flickers over a building in some construction, a fleeting glance towards taped windows without expecting to see much in them besides himself.

Still. There is always that wariness of being followed, whether he suspects something as elaborate as his invisible stalker or not.

More the concern for generic pickpockets.

Vampires, as the sun sinks.

Normal things such as that.

Either way, his cane lifts off the ground to be grasped two handed, quite casually, and his hand wraps around the silver hilt. Some following gives the impression that Lucius' destination will be improvised at best, although there is the general drift towards the nearest train station.

Because they are who they are, Severus recognizes the offensive readiness, and keeps his distance. He can keep this up for as long as he has to - he'd rather it be as easy as possible, and he can't go knock on the man's door. It's curious, though, watching him and trying to guess what he's seen. Is the Dark Lord dead? What happened to - he's even hesitating in his head, calling him Harry. Or Draco, for that matter.

Strange.

He's not menacing, at least; not that he expects Lucius to empath his way around this confrontation.

Badside has seen a little of Lucius Malfoy since his first foray into the fog. He sold what bits he'd collected -- save for the tea set, that remains in his borrowed room at the Malfoy townhouse perhaps for later when he moves the hell out and requires a gift to bestow upon them while simultaneously slipping a bottle of brandy into his pockets, you know, like you do with hotels -- and attempted connections. Networking on this end of the spectrum (as in, even seedier than wizard terrorism over glasses of fine wine and the slick black tiles of the Ministry of Magic's floor) is a little different than what he is used to.

Alright, let's not kid ourselves. Was used to. When one shucks their older ways, one must, therefore, pick up new ones. Two and a half years later, granted.

At one stage, he tries the door handle of a building front. Closed. Fine.

His next destination, then, is determinedly for somewhere less public. Apparating on the streetside is generally not done and he doesn't want to stand out more than he already does with his cane and in his coats with too much fabric and shock of blonde-grey. After a proper long time with no sight of owl bearing word for his name, he does not expect to have been correct. Not that he thinks he was wrong, either.

The pavement turns to damp grass underfoot. At this hour and this weather, small, derelict parkland is abandoned.

Oh for fuck's sake, Lucius. Severus manages not to sigh irritably - he'd wanted to do this in a simple manner, and just approach him somewhere relatively populated; the more people around the less tense it would be, the more pressure on the both of them there'd be to just behave. But no! He's got to be dramatic about it.

Still several meters behind him, the younger wizard abruptly drops his enchantment and becomes visible. A few footfalls later, he stops walking, arms crossed, and waits.

Competition of who and who is not most clandestine will have to wait until after initial, uh, shock, which should happen in three, two--

The younger of the wizards doesn't have to wait long - there is that unnamed and quite mundane feeling of being not quite so alone as initially suspected (or initial suspicions confirmed, even worse), and the crunch of a second fall of footsteps has Lucius' own bringing to a halt. He turns, because he is both paranoid and also unconcerned what complete strangers might think of him and his suspicion--

And though he isn't drawing wand out of cane, his fingers do hook more rigid about the snake-shaped hilt. He doesn't, even by the light of partially dwindled day, take particular note of how much younger Snape is, and instead states, a little stupidly; "Severus."

Edited 2011-11-05 02:54 (UTC)

Yes, well.

For a moment he doesn't say anything, and just levels Lucius with a faintly accusatory glare - not wholly unusual, for Severus Snape, unprovoked or not. He is suddenly (as expected) uncomfortable; Lucius might be his friend, or might have been, or maybe they only pretended so that some facade of propriety could be catered to at least halfway - but he's Wrong, some amalgam, from far away. (Or perhaps Severus is.)

Finally-

"Took your bloody time leaving Hellsing's territory."

Wrongness is mutual, now evaluating the other man with a hint of visible dismay at age and. No, Lucius can't intuit much more than that, about anything that might make Severus further away than mere timelines, with only the barest grasp on the concept of how wildly things change, but it hardly matters. It's black and white. Either you are or you are not. It's amazing how things usually work out that way in Lucius' world, and when it comes to these instances--

Severus is not.

But.

"Did I inconvenience you?" is bland drawl, settling safe on customary sarcasm once he snaps himself out of silence. "You've not any quarrel with Hellsing, they don't even know you..."

Pause.

"Ah."

Ah indeed, and Severus just raises his eyebrows at him like yes, Sherlock, that would be the case.

"Lack of quarrel does not imply support," he says, his tone dull. "If you'd rather go back to playing house with them, by all means - I'll not be at the apothecary much longer."

Meaning Lucius won't be able to find him, after this. Severus - this Severus, this strange, young one, that's exhibiting a sort of jagged-edged confidence even in his anxiety here, born of murderous intent and an even darker heart - may have been clumsy at first, but he's learned, now, thanks to the elder Malfoy. He won't make the same mistake again.

And he doesn't know what he'll do if he's rejected, right now, but that's... something else to examine, later, or perhaps never.

The near compulsive scowl that twists the corner of Lucius' mouth is probably enough to communicate how he feels about playing house with the Other Malfoys-- or being accused of it.

"Believe me," he says, his voice dry, with its own particular edge to it that only developed in the last few years of his early 40s, "that playing house with them is not a choice I freely made." Slowly does it, he rests cane back into a more neutral and walking stick-like position, the end sinking into damp grass as he lifts his chin, regaining something back of gentlemanly conversation as opposed to wolfish wariness. He spends a lot of time fighting the compulsion to withdraw.

Or not fighting it, alternately. "What's wrong with the apocethary?" Hint of a smirk.

Part of Severus is still screaming that this is a terrible idea and that he shouldn't reach out to anyone, ever, that it's best to pull away and bury himself deeper in this city; they'll never notice, Lucius is the odd one out, he can take care of him just like he's done to dozens of people already -

"It doesn't pay well enough for the work I do, and if you can find me there, anyone can."

Or he can be wholly, bluntly honest. Whichever. His voice is flat: this is the reality of it.

"I take your point."

It is likely Lucius doesn't quite suspect what's playing out in the younger man's head. He isn't even sure if he suspects there is anything off about this one; it's been a while since he's stared down the young man before him and that's after some several months since the contemporary version himself died under Voldemort's brutality. Lucius is also no kind of Legilimens.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't matter. "Why hide?" Or perhaps a better question would be why stop, but, all in good time, and it's an undercurrent to his tone.

"I have important things to attend to, and I have no patience for politics of any kind."

Feeling irritably exposed suddenly, he creeps a bit closer - not menacingly, of course, and he looks over his shoulder as he does, as if he expects someone to burst out from a hedge with a binding spell as he does it. In this proximity, whatever is off is even more difficult to discern; his face is younger, but the weight on his shoulders is somehow older. Whatever he's done to himself, it's all internalized. When he looks back at Lucius, there's something weighted - maybe apologetic - in his gaze.

"You know me to be dead, don't you."

The question has Lucius hesitating, vaguely uneasy, but he states, flatly, and without his usual-- or what used to be his usual-- decorum, "The last time I saw Severus Snape, the Dark Lord had sent me to summon him. To talk." How that ends doesn't need to be spelled out. Lucius fared better but he can count it amongst his injuries. "The Second Wizard War took many... casualties."

He glances passed Severus as if to follow paranoia, but, as established, there is no one.

Both hands fold on balanced cane. "I'm quite weary of politics myself, I'm afraid." No, he sounds significantly less apologetic about that than prim British wording implies.

He's quiet for a moment, taking that in, watching Lucius' gaze adjust, move, refocus.

"I have seen many futures," he says finally. "And I have accepted what my end is to be."

Of all the possible disturbing things for him to say.

Quiet for a bit more, then-

"We shouldn't speak in the open, politics or not."

It is strange, being known by this handful of young things as 'the future'. For Lucius, it is the dreary and painful past, the bleak present, and for Merlin's sake, he's barely mid-40, this isn't old by modern, Western standards; he isn't an end game. But this is more suitable to find aggravating in the Other Malfoys than Severus Snape.

For him, it truly is.

"Shouldn't we," he inquires, although his tone doesn't deign to make it a question. Asking Severus to explain that, in the open, is a kind of conversational stupidity Lucius prides himself in avoiding. "You've a venue in mind?"

He steps closer still, non-threatening, and there's something in his eyes - his face, like a not-quite-flinch - as he looks at Lucius. Maybe he, too, is looking for more familiarity than he's finding.

(It's clear that Severus is, at least chronologically, the matched set with the other Malfoy couple, but he just can't.)

He extends a hand.

"We can't walk there."

Of course.

Old paranoia-- or relatively new paranoia, it is a matter of perspective, truly-- rustles up at what appears to be a reasonably harmless offer of conversation. Should Severus wish him ill, and perhaps he does, all things considered, then Lucius could well be playing into whatever it may be.

And yet, he changes cane from one hand to the next, and extends the one freed to grip secure around Severus' wrist. Not so long ago, he wandered into eldritch fog too with a bunch of mouthy strangers and ink monsters. For money.

He can handle following one Severus Snape in the name of curiousity.

He doesn't waste time, and the second Lucius has a grip on his wrist, Severus apparates them.

They re-appear in what appears to be a basement, but what could also just be a loft flat, except that it's impossible to tell with the windows blacked out like that. Whatever it is, it's tidy and tasteful and already crammed full of books - it could pass as his professor's quarters at Hogwarts, if a bit less refined. There's a sitting area near a stove, even, and...

No doors.

Hm.

(It is also, if Lucius feels like noticing, warded as fuck. No wonder no one can get in with Severus personally teleporting them.)

He notices. Lucius has been occupying his more boring hours with breaking his younger counterpart's wards, and their invisible, oppressive presence tunes into whatever wizarding sixth sense that you develop after a certain age. Lucius withdraws clasp and turns his back on the other man to better take in new surroundings, picking up on details that are as expected as the organisation of the apocethary, and others that are not.

The lack of doors sits somewhere in between these two extremes.

"Charming," he comments.

"I decided I didn't want to be bothered."

Yes, well. That much is obvious, Severus.

He makes a slight motion as if he's inviting him to sit down, but sometimes it's difficult to tell with him; hospitality is not his strong point. His quarters (spacious, even if it is mostly one large room, sectioned off neatly) have clearly been designed to suit him, but there's more than one chair, at least.

"I suppose I should apologize for my age."

Ha is not a thing Lucius says, but there is a huff of something that resembles it. "You will be the first," he states, moving then towards the seats, and how they expect to be occupied by more than one person. It's one of those snide thoughts that never make it to expression or verbalisation, but get filed away for later use. He sits without resting his cane on anything, never setting it down far from him, nor letting it even leave his hand.

Which isn't personal - he does much the same in the townhouse he's been resigned to calling home. Even over tea. "I've no apologies for mine."

"I should hope not."

There's no offense in his voice - none of that usual kicked-dog, grudging acceptance of the little bribes and put-downs that Severus should be used to; he's not combative, either. He just is.

"Would you believe me if I said it's good to see you?"

Finally, he sits.

"Yes."

Lucius is being a bit dry when he says that, as if this doubled, some, as commentary on the nature of Baedal and the company it keeps. "I had hoped, when I left my name with your assistant," and the emphasis, as per usual, is italicised disdain, "that something would come of it, if only for the variation. How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to be surprised at the number of us falling from the sky."

'Us', not them or you. Despite the fact that he's kept to himself so viciously, he has no illusions of true segregation. Severus knows what he is. What they all are. (Dead, dying.)

"Have you said anything?" About him. Is the obvious implication.

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