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.