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Who: Lucius Malfoy, Sr. and Severus Snape Beta
What: An Old Men moment, probably
Where: A pub.
When: I will fill this in later.
Notes: None.
Warnings: None. Yet.

Life has been tossing strange curveballs in Severus Snape's direction. That he considers recent events to be curveballs and not the situation as a whole (that is, being abducted to Baedal) is very telling. Then again, he has had a long time to accept that he's dead in his own world, so his tolerance for the weird and unusual may be slightly higher than it once was. Still. First Charity Burbage appears, and though he has deftly managed to avoid talking to her, he's supremely aware that it's a reckoning he'll eventually have to face. Then, he is abruptly removed from the city and given a year's worth of memories from the Barge in the span of three days - something which has put him decidedly out of step with Martha.

Something which he hopes will remain out of step; there are memories he doesn't want her to have.

And then Lily. Every now and again, he reaches for his CiD to contact her, but he isn't sure what he would say. 'I'm here.' He finds he's not sure he wants her to know or just how the conversation would progress from there. He doesn't think he wants her to know simply for the sake of knowing. 'You're safe.' Untrue. Besides, what would Martha say? And the longer he waits, the more he realizes that, as pursuits go, contacting Lily would be better left to his doppelganger. He's closer to her age; it won't be as jarring for her. Though he spent nearly two decades wishing for her, hoping he could see her again, the glimpse he had of her in the CiD leaves him feeling rather removed from the situation.

And rather old.

If he's fair with time and includes those years on the Barge, he's forty-one. Everyone - Narcissa, her husband, Rosier, Nymphadora - seems to be so much younger. Severus is an anomaly. An aberration in the timeline. He's beginning to understand just how Lucius feels; their conversation in his shop starts to take on a new light. His inability to find a common point in time with the others from his world is incredibly alienating.

Which is also something of a curveball, because Severus has never cared before about feeling alienated. But, of course, it was never quite like this.

In the end, he doesn't contact Lily. As the days go by, he finds himself wanting some connection to home, however. He can't contact Rodolphus. Rodolphus is (was) complicated and profoundly simple in a way that goes well beyond annoying Severus. Burbage will ask questions, and he doesn't want to answer them. So it's Lucius he contacts, because whether Lucius hates him for his betrayal or has forgiven him thanks to the protection he gave Draco, they're of the same place and time, and on occasion, that's worth more than friendship. His message contains nothing more than an address and time; he doesn't fully expect Lucius to put in an appearance, but he goes and waits just the same.

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To be entirely fair, if Severus had a need to discuss murder, Lucius would be the first person he would contact. However, it's not on the menu today. Lucius may consider himself a lost cause, but Severus has that additional footnote to his life: rehabilitated inmate. Murder is distasteful save in rare circumstances. What waits for Lucius at the table is a bottle of wine that has been opened only long enough for Severus to pour himself a glass.

As for the man himself, his clothing is unchanged in style from their last encounter. He's dressed like a Muggle - perhaps a bit anachronistically and very buttoned-up, but a Muggle all the same. Clothing doesn't make the wizard.

When Lucius approaches, he stands and even goes so far as to hold out a hand. From an outsider's point of view, it might be seen as mannerly (which is a laughable concept, considering who's attached to the hand), but for Severus, it's practical. Once, shaking hands was a sign of truce and trust: gripping of wrists to make a show of being unarmed. His hand out, whether Lucius accepts or not, sets the tone. I'm going to be painfully civil. What about you?

The hand gets a sharper glance down in the sort of suspicion that might come about if you didn't know what a handshake was. But Lucius does, and so, he swaps cane into the other hand and accepts the physical act of truce. If only for the, you know, novelty of it. He wouldn't admit that there is something strangely assuring to it it as well, beyond relaxing just a fraction.

He raises an eyebrow, as if to say; If we must.

"A toast, then, to your second chance at acclimation?" he asks, once the shake gesture is done, pulling out the opposite chair and, once seated, drawing empty wine glass closer to himself. He probably isn't actually going to raise his glass; he'll leave the literal actions of affect to Severus to initiate.

Once seated himself, Severus has the good grace to fill Lucius's glass. It's at this point that his well of good manners runs dry, however; it was never really full to begin. This is all a matter of making a good show of being civil (or more civil than he was last time), and he doesn't have the capability to go overboard, much less the desire.

Lucius can help himself to more if he wants it.

"If you wish to raise a glass to my comings and goings, do it if you see the back of me for good," he replies dismissively. He doesn't hold out hope that it'll happen, and that flat disbelief bleeds into his tone. 'If', not 'when'. It's with that comment that he reaches for his wine, falls still, and glances around. It's a little too close to the subject that has been on his mind since before his abrupt departure.

"Oh?"

Not that Lucius has any reason whatsoever to be surprised about that sentiment. Indeed, his response is somewhat placid as he takes the charged glass and raises it to drink from in the same movement. "What would it matter to you, where you are? There's that sentiment--" He tips his glass a little in wry gesture, as he goes to hook his cane against the side of the table. The silver head could do with a polish.

The rich red wine horizon settles once more in his hand. "Home is where the heart is."

Even for Severus, his reaction is quite understated. He merely blinks at the comment. No arched eyebrow, no smirk, and certainly no response about the decided luck of his situation. He isn't here to flaunt his blessings to Lucius, and so he must choose his words quite carefully.

When has he ever not chosen his words carefully around a Malfoy? He finds himself hoping the wine will help lubricate the conversation, because he's having a good deal of trouble ignoring the fact that Lucius is here and Narcissa is not, and his own wedding ring is something of a slap in the face to his old - colleague.

"Flexible and accepting though I may seem -" Ha. "- I would hesitate to call this place 'home'."

Only that isn't entirely true. Didn't he have this conversation before he was pulled away? Didn't they agree that they could live here? But he was pulled away, and there is a house in Scotland which Martha doesn't know about because he's so blatantly out of step with her. Which brings him right back to why he's here, drinking with Lucius Malfoy.

"It's something of a challenge to accept an environment as such when your contemporaries are suddenly no longer your contemporaries."

"Quite."

But unlike his last stand alone one-worded response, this isn't flippant; filler, maybe, as Lucius reconsidered Snape sitting across from him over the top of his wine glass. Navigating dangerously close to certain topics they might be, Lucius is not actually keen to get into an argument about who has what and goes along with, instead, the intended meaning of the words being spoken.

"And so I take it Bermuda," if we're just going to call it that, now, wherever it was, "put you out of step." He guesses that Snape is not taking about the younger Malfoys, the recent Bellatrix, or even Lily Potter.

For once, Severus is left dumbfounded: he begins to reply, even opens his mouth to do so, then stops and leans back in his chair with a perplexed expression. It has been a year for him, after all, and it takes him a long moment to remember that the Bermuda to which Lucius is referring is not the Bermuda where Severus spent two weeks.

When he does realize what was meant, his mouth twitches in what might be a smile. Just a private joke: yes, Bermuda put him out of step. Quite so.

"To a small degree." He won't argue that he isn't out of sync with Martha, but. But. "Not an insurmountable problem on the domestic front. I was and am speaking on a broader social scale, of course. 'Bermuda' -" Another facial tic betrays his amusement. "Has little to do with it."

That first response gets a stare of frank and understated bewilderment, almost patiently waiting for Severus to move on or explain to Lucius what the matter is. When it turns into the former, Lucius has no complaints; he listens, and sips from his wine, sort of only skimmingly invested in whatever turmoil brought him here to share a bottle of wine.

Which is different to the usual 'not at all', in fairness. "They seem to understand a great deal more than one would expect. Enough not to ask very many questions."

In fairness, the turmoil which brought Severus here to share a bottle of wine is not what led him to opt to share it with Lucius. He could very well get blisteringly intoxicated at home and bemoan his fate alone; unfortunately, his personality does somewhat prevent him from outright admitting he likes Lucius's company.

Even when the other man is being (or has been) decidedly prickly about the small matter of twenty years' worth of betrayal.

At the assessment of what 'they' understand, Severus touches his fingers to the stem of the glass; he rolls it between thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly on the table. "Time and foreknowledge has made them strangers with almost-familiar faces. Is their understanding and restraint enough for you?"

Because it isn't for him, he's implying here.

Would that he could just sit back, tolerate Snape talking at him, and indulge in some wine until he cares not to. No, Lucius would only like to be that aloof, but it's an awfully lonely state to be in when you have little else. He considers that question with hooded eyes, glass held and hovering between the table and himself.

"I am an outcome that the majority of our peers would like nothing more than to avoid, should they ever make it back to the real world," he finally states. "They need not ask questions or do anything in reference to this to make it any less or more true. So no, not particularly."

He decides not to explain his attitudes towards the younger Snape. A judgement based off how he considers his own analogue.

"I shouldn't think so," is the only reply he gives at first. It's not an admission that he understands how Lucius feels in his own particular anomalous state - because he doesn't. But he does sympathize. He's acutely aware of their shared relative strangeness to the others.

He isn't certain how to express just what he's feeling about this, or what he hopes to gain by trying to commiserate with the man opposite him - and then, how to phrase it under the carefully guarded parameters begged by a conversation with Lucius Malfoy. Subtlety is a complicated thing on occasion. So after a moment, he simply goes on thoughtfully, "It does leave one feeling particularly old."

Severus says the word 'old' as though it's a completely foreign and insulting concept. He's only thirty-eight (or forty-one), and wizards have such long natural lives. How dare old age come creeping around the corners of his life this way. This soon.

Really, Lucius shouldn't give Severus such a self-righteous look at that comment. The other man was, of course, a family friend of the Malfoys himself and the stark age difference must have impact. He, too, has a younger analogue that isn't entirely shy about existing (anymore). It is entirely fair for a man in his early forties to feel a little old.

But Lucius isn't known for his sense of fairness. His woes are precious to him, uniquely individual, martyred and self-pitying. Still, he doesn't argue. His wine glass tips in gesture. "I suppose one does. Did you ever acquaint yourself with Narcissa Black, when she was still here?"

Now that Narcissa Black is gone, the hesitance Severus displayed in discussing his business with her is no longer an inhibiting factor. He gives a slight tilt of his head - yes, met her - and considers his own words carefully before replying.

"We played a very convincing game of not remembering one another, but I suspect it was more out of consideration - she for my feelings, and me for..." Well. Not hers. Lucius's, perhaps. He leaves the thought unfinished. "She looked as she did when you married her."

Or someone like Lucius, is the implication here. He's not certain which one would have been more polite.

"I did notice."

Which was uncomfortable. But maybe even more so, as Lucius goes on to add; "Although her behaviours in retrospect struck much younger. She had--" And he's settled, a little, into the rhythm of casual conversation, whether thanks to the three-quarter glass of wine he's consumed, or because talking to people should not actually be the task they both make it into, for various reasons, not the least of which being navigating the ego sitting across from Snape right now. "--difficulties with financing, as one might expect of a girl from her family, in the situation Baedal presents.

"There will be little more surreal to me than to be starkly reminded of Draco upon lecturing her about what she could and could not afford."

In retrospect, Severus thinks he probably shouldn't have laughed. Oh, it wasn't much of a laugh - just a slight quirk of his lips, quickly covered by a sip from his glass, but the amusement was there.

It's one of those rather dreadful situations where one much laugh to keep from crying - which he isn't likely to do, either. But the sentiment stands.

That, and the image is hilarious in all its profound melancholy. Lucius, standing over the woman who was his wife but wasn't, lecturing her as he did his son. About money. Severus has a very odd sense of humour.

"I can imagine."

Perhaps Severus is allowed to laugh, or affect amusement however he may. The look Lucius deals his way is sharp, as if searching for it, and he allows for his own halved if unhidden smirk, slightly dour but nevertheless there. It is what it is, and what it is is ridiculous. He dismisses Severus again, tipping attention back to his drink.

"You've an impressive imagination," is just as droll, reaching to collect the bottle to top up his own glass in careless splashes that never actually go beyond the glass's rim.

Set back down, closer to Severus if he wants it, before he takes up the glass again. "I suppose I ought be grateful that that's the only trace of fatherhood I've had to affect since being here." He doesn't sound like he is, but he doesn't sound like he isn't; it's almost an objective observation, stepping neatly around the sentiment of the matter, played for dry humour.

If nothing else, the time Severus spent aboard the Barge made him particularly superstitious. He doesn't say he's bored for fear that a flood - or, in Baedal, something nastier - might occur, and he never makes a statement remotely resembling the one Lucius just has.

Because inevitably, hoping aloud to keep someone away only results in drawing them in. Sirius Black, for example.

He refrains from comment, however. He doesn't know what it is Lucius might want; perhaps he misses Draco. Perhaps he, like Severus and Martha, might view Baedal as a city with some (some) potential for a life. Or perhaps he wants to keep his family as far from here as possible. 'Some potential' does not a suburban paradise make. Instead, he decides to redirect the conversation back to Narcissa Black. "There is little harm in telling you now that she purchased sleeping potions."

That gains a slightly unimpressed sound from Lucius, as if he can't even imagine what on earth any witch or wizard from his era below the age of twenty-two could have restless nights about. Never mind the horrors that Baedal provides, of course, although he couldn't say in certainty that Narcissa Black never ventured into the fog. But that seems too reckless, for her. He would know.

Not to be callous, or anything, because Lucius Malfoy would never, but an eyebrow lifts a little cynically. "Well. No doubt she will be better rested wherever she's returned to, for a time."

There's a mild twitch in Severus's expression which might be him biting back a second flash of amusement. He's not certain whether Lucius means 'for a time' because she's well on her way to being a married woman (unlikely), because Draco will come (more likely), or because the first war is lying in wait like a trap for her (that's probably it).

But the very idea that Lucius would ever resort to such crude humour as the first idea sets him not-quite-laughing again.

It's becoming clear to Severus that he is at that point for a person when frustration is so overwhelming, laughter is the only recourse. Helpless laughter, followed by irrational anger if emotions aren't curbed.

He refreshes his wine from the bottle between them, his jaw tightly clenched. When he does speak, when he has regained enough of his sense of emotional control, a few seconds have passed. Enough to nearly become an awkward silence. "I should hope she wasn't venturing into the fog. Not that I find the endeavor itself deserving of disapproval, but Narcissa at eighteen never struck me as the sort one might wish to take on an expedition to Muggle London, much less into the dangers surrounding the city. Narcissa at thirty, perhaps."

Awkward silences and Severus Snape; more likely than you think. Lucius often, these days, let's them ride on by rather than find some elegant way to fill them, content to drink, lazily observe their most unlikely surroundings, deftly avoid his own train of thoughts. He does not look for humour, this time; the First War is not remembered fondly and is, indeed, the centre of his reference.

It and the events that followed do tend to keep one up at night, after all. He flicks a glance up at Severus at mention of the imprisoning fog, something somewhat calculating in an attempt to read the other man's expression, before he pays attention only to his glass again.

"I very much doubt she did," he agrees, neutrally.

If the calculating look Lucius sends his way is what Severus might interpret it to be - that is, a look similar to those searching glances he himself gives others in an attempt to determine what they know - it's needless.

Whether Severus knows or not about Lucius's forays into the fog, he doesn't care. He has spent enough of his life paying careful scrutiny to just what one Lucius Malfoy may or may not be up to. He's not going to do it here. He wants, in some small way, to get along with his old...

Comrade. Question mark. Friend. Question mark.

'Drinking partner' will suffice for now.

"It then begs the question: what was causing her sleepless nights? The obvious postulations of homesickness aside. Surely Baedal itself is hardly worse in nature than home."

Severus, of course, may have somewhat skewed perceptions of 'acceptable places for habitation' after three years on the Barge and, before that, twenty years of warfare.

"She had two sisters I believe she was still relatively fond of at that point," Lucius says, content to go down this passage of conversation whether or not he, in turn, cares about scrutiny that may or may not come about. "Financial security, perhaps a pet, I don't entirely recall. If not the deprivation of a life she once knew and relied upon, then the thoughts inspired by what is given in exchange. Employment, imprisonment. Rent."

Because naturally, an ordinary life would be something Lucius cites as giving someone sleepless nights. It certainly hadn't been his favourite. "Or she was seeking attention," is a bit heartless, Lucius, but he's raised a teenager and she is close enough. He tosses back another sip of wine.

"Perhaps," he replies noncommittally. Truth be told, he doesn't like unanswered questions, and curiosity had been niggling at him when she first came to him, but with time it seemed less important. Now, he's simply using the incident as an excuse to avoid discussing other matters. For example, how Lucius looks on his betrayal of the Dark Lord.

He certainly wasn't thrilled on the Barge, but the mileage varied. This Lucius is fully in step.

Too, there is the issue of Martha that he has so deftly avoided discussing with - well, anyone save Narcissa and his doppelganger, and even those conversations were a result of a motivating factor in the form of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Whatever the case, he can't immediately think of anything further to say because Severus is not adept at small talk and broader conversation is impossible until he knows where he stands. Even with an enemy, he has found, he can have a fuller and more pleasant conversation than he can manage here. Old memories can't be drawn upon without possibly hitting the wall created by his own faithlessness, and new experiences seem to be out of bounds for them both.

So he remains silent, waiting to see if Lucius will pick up the thread of the conversation and direct them to a topic he deems suitable for an evening of drinking.

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."

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."

"Perhaps."

This is neutral conversational punctuation, considering pressing the point and topic but remaining quiet for the length of time it takes to consider Severus, and then his wine before sipping from it. "I had every intention to leave the country," he adds, almost flippantly. "Narcissa, naturally, insisted we remain. To see things through, is how she put it. There are few forces in the known world that can make that woman do anything she has decided she will not do."

And so, he remained in Britain, is what a tip of his wine glass is meant to indicate. He honestly doesn't know if Snape cares what became of him, after the war. Everyone seems inclined to go off inference and assumption, or just. Apathy. He isn't sure where his former(?) friend stands, but damn it all, he invited Lucius to drink and talk, and he shall do these things.

For some reason, admitting weakness (because to Lucius, anything that might show what he truly thinks and feels is that) in front of Snape the Younger is more difficult. The age disparity, perhaps. Their particular arrangement. "Including," he adds, "whatever force pulled me here."

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Find a grammatical error in last tag, feel horrible forever.

Take forever tagging anyone, feel horrible forever.

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