Lucius may have no such troubles, but three years aboard the Barge has given Severus a number of odd perspectives; he has known Sirius Black as a new Azkaban inmate, Grindelwald as an old man, Neville in his late twenties. He should be accustomed to this oddness, but he isn't. If anything, he relied upon the knowledge that those aboard the Barge were not living their years out, but rather were removed from their timelines. His memories would remain intact.

The more he considers it, the more complex it becomes to him. The more he fidgets in his own way: a twitch of his right index finger, tapping on the tabletop in a nervous pattern.

"Three," he says at last, tossing the word out rather carelessly, as though it means nothing to him. Three years of memory, but not of life. He's still thirty-eight (or thirty-nine, perhaps), for all intents and purposes. How very unnerving. Perhaps he isn't following Lucius's commentary as closely as he ought to be - No, certainly isn't. He's just. Musing at this point. "I see little difference between Baedal and the places I've been. Or Britain as I knew it. I would quite willingly remain here, for all its...lack of convention."

There's a slightly rueful smirk, nearly a grimace for all that it's pained. "I have nothing to which I might return, after all - and Martha here. I suppose an aberration or two - a doppelganger here, Narcissa Black there - should hardly cause me concern."