Lucius could choose to care more about the mystery of Narcissa Black and why she required the potion known to create a sleep likened for death, but it's just so much easier to let things go. As he tends to do. A lifetime of delicately monitoring his own spiderweb of social connection and the delicate temperaments of his peers has been retired from, relaxed, and they can all do what they like as far as he is concerned, whether it's thrive, suffer, or marry Muggle women.

Threads of conversation can be much the same, but in this case, he doesn't mind talking. A few months ago, he probably would have rivaled Severus in being an anti-social git and steadily drained the bottle without a word if he'd been allowed.

"I do not find it a greatly dramatic difference," he says, after a comfortable moment has slid by, not really looking at Severus, save for a flick of a glance back towards him. "Feelings of age and difference, between Britain and Baedal. That is my luxury of not dying. I suppose the charm has worn off for you-- years, you mentioned."