"Frazzled," he finds himself repeating, a little preciously. Maybe he imagines himself to be better put together than that ha ha no.

More likely, it seems too innocent a word, but that would only be polite. "I suppose worrying about any arrival is damn near useless." Right? Lucius' pursuit of confirmation is dull, however - he shall take comfort from the act of conversation itself and the properties of alcohol. He had thought, before coming down, to do up the cuff of his shirt before arrival, although Azkaban markings at a row on his throat are harder to cover up.

"I'll have that cigar, if you wouldn't mind."