multiversallogs | Bite they little heads off! Nibble on they tiny feet!

It isn't until they're a satisfactory distance away from the thinnest portions of the crowd, the carousing stragglers and arguing couples, that he stops and draws his wand. To someone perceptive - Hermione, for example - it might be noted that it's no longer the black one he once carried, but rather a pale birch, similar in length.

There's a quick flick - no words accompany it, and he doesn't relax enough to hint that it might have been a spell cast to dispense with eavesdroppers. However, the spell that follows contents him enough to stow the wand once more. And it's then that he turns on her, sharply, as though he caught her breaking curfew. Funny how some things don't change; here she is, an adult, and he still can't seem to see her as anything more than a wayward, obnoxious little girl whose nervous tic is raising her hand in class.

"You used the Protean Charm on galleons in your fifth year." No prologue; just that sentence, flat and abrupt. It's not an accusation - then again, it is. He knows she did it, but he wants verbal confirmation of this particular brand of rule-breaking. Perhaps he might have asked - politely at that - but he has the idea that it's better to scare the admission out of her than to coax her into telling. When he's civil to her, it seems to unsettle her. So he thinks, anyway.

That, and he isn't quite ready to start treating her like an equal.

Hermione's eyes flick to the wand, noting it but not commenting. She assumes he's casting the Muffliato charm; it is his, after all, and it's what she would have done.

The accusation-slash-statement surprises and confuses her, and she frowns, wrapping her arms tightly and defensively around herself. Something in his tone- or perhaps just an automatic reaction to him- makes her feel like he's trying to find something to charge her with.

But that's absurd. She isn't a student anymore. So: the Protean Charm. What use could that be to him? Her mind flicks through possibilities as she nods slowly, and says warily; "I did, yes." She doesn't have to say 'why?'. It's already in her tone.

Perhaps, Severus reflects, he began this conversation with aggression because the mere idea of asking her for help turns his stomach to rot. He stares down at her impassively, his jaw tight and mouth set, certainly not revealing in his expression how he hates to humble or ingratiate himself to Hermione Granger. Or that, somewhere deep down, he might feel a sense of grudging respect for a witch who, at the age of fifteen, cast a Protean Charm flawlessly.

"And you are aware of its other uses?" he asks; his tone isn't gentle, but he's no longer interrogating her. He's being...almost conversational. Easing in to his request as best he can so he's able to wake up tomorrow without loathing himself - both for asking for her help and for dragging her a little too close to the grey area diving her (ostensibly) wholesome Hogwarts education and the Dark Arts. And, too, he doesn't want to terrify the little nuisance. He needs her, and they are discussing Dark Marks and Protean Charms.

She feels unpleasantly like she's under the microscope, and rather wants to avert her eyes, but something very Gryffindor in her makes her stare back.

She blinks at the mention of it's other uses. Right. The Dark Mark. It takes a lot of effort not to cast a pointless glance at his arm. Surely he must know more about it than she does?

"I got the idea from the Dark Mark, if that's what you're asking," she says- perhaps a little defiantly, refusing to be apologetic about it. She's not exactly proud of, well, copying off Voldemort, but it's the truth.

There's no flash of surprise in his expression at the admission she gives him, which in itself is quite telling; he already knows where she came by the idea. This conversation is purely for the purposes of confirmation. Of course, he can't help but be a bit tempted to spring other pieces of knowledge on her - but that's fun and games for a later time.

"Presumably, you've advanced in your education enough to recreate the spell for that purpose, then." He says it dismissively, but there's a slight intonation which suggests that this, unlike his other comments, is a question. Could she, if necessary, create a Dark Mark. Or something similar.

Her eyes widen. "Create a Dark Mark," she says, her voice flat with disbelief.

But as the facts align, it makes a little more sense; he's not surprised that she got the idea from Voldemort, which implies he knew, which suggests that was the reason he came to her at all; it's something he'd want to keep under wraps, hence the need of privacy; whatever the purpose of his question, it has to be part of something important. People don't just drop questions like that for no reason.

So-

"Why?" she demands.

Can't be for Voldemort. Can't be for the Death Eaters. So who is Snape loyal to? Who would he want to be bound to?

...Oh, bloody hell.

Oh, good. That steel trap mind of hers is working overtime, and for once, he's rather thankful he doesn't need to lay it all out for her. He can almost see the wheels turning as she puts all the details together. It's not as if the puzzle is a complicated one.

'Why', of course, is a completely unnecessary question, and his disappointment in her registers in his expression. Why else is he asking if she can manage it, after all? Because he expects her help. Obviously. Because he can't do it to himself, and Martha isn't a witch. Instead, he decides to interpret that 'why' as 'Why do it at all'.

"Narcissa Malfoy has confirmed my suspicions regarding Bellatrix's intentions." Half-true. "My options are limited, unfortunately. Martha refuses to carry a firearm, and spending my every waking moment guarding her is not an acceptable solution. If confronted by Bellatrix, she will stand very little chance on her own. This satisfies us both as a compromise: a method of communication which can not be removed, and which will allow me to Apparate directly to her at a moment's notice."

There. Very reasonable and succinct. He braces himself for an argument nevertheless.

"Of course." He is entirely sincere and if there is an umbrella in his pint, he'll clean off the stick and tuck it behind one ear to complete his Catenrat ensemble. It's no paper crown from a Christmas cracker, but one does one's best in trying times.

For a moment she simply stares at him.

"That," she says, briskly and rather clippedly, using a tone she would never have dared take with him as a student, suddenly much more the politician than the nervous schoolgirl, "is completely mad."

Except in some ways it's not, and they both know it. Mad circumstances require mad actions- she remembers breaking into Gringotts all too well. But all the same...

She tries to articulate why it's such a bad idea. It's Dark, it's creepy, it's like something out of a bad gothic romance novel. It could go horribly, horribly wrong. It's just too much.

He wouldn't listen to any of it, would he? Half of it sounds like a criticism of his marriage, after all, which is the last thing she wants to get into.

"If something were to go wrong with it--" Well. That's no argument. If something were to go wrong, it would be her fault- assuming she agreed to help them.

Narcissa Malfoy has confirmed my suspicions regarding Bellatrix's intentions. She tightens her arms around herself, feeling very cold inside, looking away and thinking about just what Bellatrix's intentions towards Martha would be, feeling a little sick and remembering Malfoy Manor. She's very clearly torn. "There's no way you can get Hellsing to protect her." It's half-phrased like a question, but she knows the answer and that's obvious. This is a last resort.

He doesn't immediately respond; instead, he clasps his hands behind his back, deliberating whether an Imperius curse wouldn't go amiss and letting her work herself around to the idea. It sounds mad, he's well aware. No more so than being kidnapped to Baedal, of course, or the fact that he's defending a time traveling doctor against a mad witch who ought to be dead, but all the same.

It's not until she looks away that he has any reaction at all, and it's one he would never want to admit: a flash of pity. And guilt. Having something of an overarching knowledge of her first seven years as a witch also includes the horrors she endured, and in some small way, he's exploiting it. Granger knows what Bellatrix Lestrange can do.

"What would you suggest?" Almost polite disinterest. "Hellsing would assign her a bodyguard, perhaps, and Martha is quite adamantly against that idea. For argument's sake, let us assume she would agree. Would you trust any of them to give her the same sort of protection your or I could provide? Do you trust them to be unbiased in this? Rodolphus Lestrange is in their employ, as well. I will remind you of your own distrust of the Ministry of Magic thanks to their associations with Lucius Malfoy, and he was not responsible for torturing two Aurors into insanity. Most importantly, however, I invite you to tell me who you believe would protect her better than I - or even half so well."

"I'm not-" She grits her teeth against- she's not sure what. She feels a kind of disgust at the very idea of creating a Dark Mark, and it's battling against the contradictory horror of allowing Bellatrix to have her fun with anyone, much less someone Hermione likes and respects. "I don't imagine you'd suggest this if it weren't a last resort," she finishes. "Which isn't to say I'll do it. Or that I can do it."

She pauses, trying to work out if she's exaggerating the difficulty in order to have an excuse not to be involved. "I don't know how Voldemort did it, only that it was probably related to the Protean Charm and that it's extremely Dark magic. I have no idea whether it would be safe, what side-effects it might have, how it might go wrong. And it's not exactly something one can practice."

Her response earns her a raised eyebrow - as though to ask, 'Did you think I meant I wanted this done tonight, in the middle of the Catenrat party?' However, while he can acknowledge that she needs to research (it is what Granger does, after all), there is a sense of urgency. So instead of arguing or insulting her, he decides to go for the proverbial jugular. He doesn't mention how she owes him her life many times over, or how her friends would not be alive if not for him. He doesn't bring up his past with her at all.

His tone is neither harsh nor unkind, but still firm - the sort of patient tone he might use with Mozenrath. A mentor speaking to his apprentice; how he should have spoken to her when she was his student. "Understand this, Miss Granger: Martha is in danger because of me. Her continued association with me is what will draw the attention of Bellatrix and any other loyal Death Eater who finds their way to Baedal. What they do to Muggleborns is nothing compared to what they will do to the Muggle wife of a traitor."

He pauses to let that sink in before pushing himself to continue. "I come to you because I trust your abilities. You are a sympathetic party and the brightest witch of your age. If I must taint her in this way, then there is no better choice in ally than you. However, if you are incapable - if this insults your delicate sensibilities - I will find someone else. They will not accomplish it with half your skill, nor will they be nearly so trustworthy."

His jaw works for a moment, and in his expression there is the barest flash of resentment. He hates pandering to her, and he hates stooping to this level, but he isn't willing to lose Martha the way he lost Lily. At least with Lily, he didn't know what he was missing. If it wins her complicity, he decides, then it's certainly no greater a cost than taking a second Mark. He swallows his pride and manages one last, barely audible word: "Please."

She stares at him, teeth clenched.

It's a bad idea, but he makes good points for it- and she knows that she can't stop him doing it simply by refusing to help him. He's right to target her need to be involved in things to see that they're done right; if this is going to happen, she wants to play her part in doing it to be sure that it's as safe as it can be, even if 'as safe as it can be' is not very safe at all.

Anyway, he might not be mentioning the fact that he's saved her life and the lives of her friends, but she's conscious of the facts all the same.

He's saying please. She owes him. And Martha needs her. She closes her eye for a moment-

"Alright. Yes." She nearly says 'I'll see what I can do', but that's not enough for this, is it? It's a matter of doing everything or nothing; just thinking about it is not an option. So she just leaves it as a yes. She doesn't look happy about it, but nor does she look like she's going to change her mind. "I'll do it."

Interestingly enough, hearing her agree to help makes him feel no better about the situation. Now that he has established the how, he has all the time in the world to focus on the what: putting a Mark on Martha. And all the guilt that goes along with it. Surprisingly, however, there isn't much.

Something to examine at a later time.

"Time is of the essence." It's not exactly something which needed to be said; he's sure she understands the nature of the problem and can deduce for herself that the pressing need for an immediate solution is the sole reason he's opting for this questionable bit of magic. After all, if he had time to plan a way to kill Bellatrix without the interference of Hellsing, that would be far more preferable.

With that he begins to turn away, to return to the Apache and find Martha - but hesitates and glances back. A rather sullen look steals across his expression, as though some external entity has just chided him for his lack of decorum. His eyes flicker first away from and then back to Hermione; a tic jumps in his cheek, but he spits it out - even if it's the most begrudging pair of words ever spoken in the history of mankind. "Thank you."

Edited 2011-12-28 17:32 (UTC)

"I'm not sure," he says--thoughtfully, remembering last year, sitting beside Denny as the last of the adrenaline dissipated from his system. The gentle snowfall outside, the sensation of lightheadedness coupled with the rare conviction that he was exactly where he belonged. He closes his eyes to sip his scotch, savoring the familiar burn.

"I've been away six months, and"--he turns away from the movie--"as for what might have gone on in that span of time, who can say? I don't--I outstay my welcome. Always and without exception." He smiles wanly in the flickering light cast by the screen. "I do, however, have a friend who I'd like to think would have saved me a cigar."

That gets another big sniffle out of Steve, a sharp, lips-pressed-together inhalation that clearly conveys I am trying to pull myself together, honest. He gives Hellboy a smile that's slightly quavering. "Thanks. That was some great movie, huh?"

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

He glances in the direction of the bartenders, too, but then his gaze returns to Rhade, one shoulder shrugging. "We don't have a lot of nanobot technology in use in medical situations, in Starfleet. Bones--Dr. McCoy--and I had a run-in with some alien nanotechnology at the Academy. He was pretty instrumental in putting a stop to some attacks going on at the time. But outside of that it's not something we have a lot of experience in."

"What about human subspecies, do you have those?" He is used to there being several varieties, engineered to live on several planetary types. And the idea that there is another interplanetary organization out there still standing is extremely interesting.

Even if they're both stuck far away from it.

His thanks are spat in such a way that she rather wants to recoil from them, but she knows what it means for him to display even the slightest civility. She nods and forces a quick smile, not trusting herself to say you're welcome because she's not exactly sure that he is.

She doesn't linger, though she's not exactly sure where to go from here. Ideally, she'd like to go home- proper home- but that's impossible. Second best is her flat and her bed in Baedal, but that feels like admitting defeat; the other option is getting another drink, but that would involve heading in the same direction he's going, which is not an appealing idea at all. She sets course for the table she was previously sitting at instead, at least to wait for a little while before she can give up on the night entirely.

'Time is of the essence'. The words ring in her head. There's nothing she can do tonight, though. Tomorrow, she resolves to research, to plan, to get her head in order. Tonight, she feels wrung-out, and the prospect of launching into this project isn't an appealing one.

Dark Marks aren't the most festive of things, after all, and quite frankly she's just not feeling the Catenrat cheer.

"Well, at least the yard stick for Kate's decisions in dating has decided to show up." Billy can't help smirking a little as he says that. He says it affectionately, okay, Tommy you are such a bad decision in dating don't even try to deny it.

"I don't know, do we have concrete proof that he's a jerk? Or not a jerk, as the case may be? We should check him out, if he's going to be our leader's boyfriend, that's all I'm saying."

"Twenty-two-fifty-eight." Wow. "Yeah, I think we have a bit of a generation gap between us," Olivia teases. "A starship, huh? That sounds like a big deal." It's always a happy accident when ego stroking happens to coincide with genuine astonishment.

"Maybe not," she says of antiquated scientific techniques. "When something falls out of the realm of what we consider normal, Fringe Division is called in, and we investigate. Situations that appear paranormal or just impossible. Shapeshifters, time slips, bleed over from other universes. If it's strange, we look into it, figure out how to make it right."

While Alan muses, she takes a bite of her pie, giving him the time to speak while she listens thoughtfully. "Some might call it outstaying your welcome, others could call it tenacity." It's the season to be assuring, even if it isn't Kalinda's default mode with strangers. She doesn't have a reputation here, though. She could stand to build one that's a marginally less frosty than the one she cultivated in Chicago.

"I'm sure there's no one out there missing me tonight. Except maybe a bartender or two." If she's sad about that - that no one back home would be remarking on her absence during the flurry of holiday gatherings that pervade this time of year - it doesn't show.

Hellboy nods with a sad little half-smile. "Yeah. It's one of the first I ever saw, as a kid. I can't even count how many times I've seen it, and it gets me every time."

"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to startle you." Only now does he consider his appearance and the effect it might have. She seems to be taking it pretty well, so he doesn't mind that she's trying to get his measure, or the babbling.

"I think it's nice, yeah. Reminds me of a few places I've had way too many drinks in over the years." He has, however, managed to stay sober so far tonight. "Name's Hellboy."

"Yeah?" Steve can't help it; he's curious about other people, other worlds, what other lives are like. "Part of your holiday celebrations every year?"

Bite they little heads off! Nibble on they tiny feet!

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