Steve closed his eyes tightly at the mention of Lucas. That was the last person Steve wanted to look like, to remind people of. His cousin was deranged and sick, not worth the ground he was buried under. He decided to ignore the comments on his appearance altogether. Not all Death Eaters were dark haired sons of bitches. Steve was proof of that. Not all of them wanted to kill or maim everyone they came into contact with. He didn't believe in blood purity, but he did what he was told. That's why they didn't ask questions; so long as he behaved and stayed under their radar, he would be fine. As for being skinny, Steve didn't have much to say on the matter. He'd been the same shape his whole life. It came in handy when squeezing through the forest. Steve could always get into places his father couldn't.
With a smirk, Steve shook his head. Truthfully, he couldn't care less about Verity's lip. The only one that bothered him was Michael. Michael knew him, but was focusing on all the bad parts. He should know that Steve didn't believe in half the things Death Eaters did. It was only Michael's insults and taunts that bothered Steve, though he wouldn't deny sometimes Verity's and others got under his skin. It was hard to constantly deal with hatred from one side, and nonchalant attitudes from the other.
"There are some - a lot - of things you need to know. Reasons for the dreams, the fact you can't remember, the fact you trembled when you saw me." Steve didn't know how else to put it, or what else to say. She needed to know, and it wasn't just him wanting to get it off his chest. She had a child out there somewhere, and she had a right to know.