Multiversal

Who: Lucius Malfoy (Sr) and Severus Snape β
What: Picking up some shopping, as you do, and chance of civil conversation.
Where: Severus' apothecary in Sobek Croix
When: Sssslightly backdated?

He arrives when the store is near closing, the sun reaching for the horizon as the clock ticks inevitably towards six. It's to avoid people in general, even if the only people that Lucius finds sharing the same space with to be remotely awkward would be his fellow wizards, both from his time and otherwise. He wasn't lying, however, about what ingredients he was having difficulty obtaining.

He wasn't lying about needing them either.

Sweeping inside, he pauses to both look around as well as loosen his coat a little against the change of temperature, as haggard as anyone has left him but still dressed in expensively cut wools and cottons and satin linings, shoes polished.

Who: Lucius Malfoy (Sr) and Severus Snape β
What: The older generation have some catching up to do.
Where: Aspic.
When: Misdi late afternoon.

He hadn't been kidding about the mulled wine, because to joke about alcohol is a sorry state of affairs. The scent of it, rich and spiced, permeates the air and almost lends it warmth in contrast to the chill of the outdoors. Presumably, the comfortable tavern offers other things, but everyone has a niche.

Already there before Severus can arrive, Lucius does not put on the appearance of a man preparing to spring a trap. He would probably not be visible if this were the case. He sits in one of the low wooden chairs not far from the hearth, a leg folded over the other and observing the flames and cracking splinter of firewood within them rather than the clientele. He is, perhaps, not as Severus last left him, while also being exactly that; aged a little beyond his years, wearing the resulting weariness and injury of the final wizarding war as something visible if difficult to name. Despite his recline, he is not comfortable.

He is also dressed in Muggle sensibilities, with only the compromise of being a little dark in his colours and overly formal for his surroundings. The tavern boasts a somewhat low ceiling and a bare trickling of clientele; Lucius' occupation of the hearth-side is remarkably quiet, and no one has approached him save to make sure he didn't want anything more to drink.

Cane rests, black and silver, against his leg, with his hand on the hilt as his only but very significant sign of vigilance.