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When the cigar box of tokens first falls with an explosive clatter, Lucius thinks they are foreign coins. Severus scrapes them up, swearing, but a red one rolls past the moving boxes and knocks against Lucius’ shoe.
Alcoholics Anonymous tokens, Lucius finally wheedles out of Severus. Most of them red. One month.
“Ah, so one receives this one for each month of sobriety?”
“No. Only the first month. Unless you fucking start over.”
Lucius takes the box, swirls a finger through the metallic chips—silver, red, one gold.
“To thine own self be true,” he reads.
“What a bloody farce.”