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

Indoors is crowed and noisy; the courtyard may be smoky and cold, but it's a nice break from the hubbub inside. Hermione is- for once- in a dress, though it's sensible, dark green and somewhat reminiscent of wizarding robes- long-sleeved and mid-calf length, though cinched in at the waist and low-cut enough to ensure that she doesn't look entirely as if she's come straight from a convent. The heels help, too, though they make any attempt at walking somewhat nervewracking. She'd have liked something a little more adventurous, perhaps, but hadn't been able to justify buying something she'd never wear again, not on her budget.

She's perched on one of the chairs (thank you, shoes) with a glass of white wine, her bag in her lap, idly listening in to the conversations around her- not with any particular intent, simply out of a rather nosy habit. It's a little isolating, but it's not something she's new to.

And of course if she doesn't talk to anyone for a while, her instincts kick in and her course of action seems obvious to her- and asocial to everyone else. She pulls a (very large) book from her (not quite so large) bag and sets it on the wooden table in front of her, finding her page. It's not that she intentionally packed a book to bring to the party- she simply brings a book everywhere she goes. It's a lifelong habit.

A book? Really?

Well, Kate can't say she's a party animal herself, but even she wouldn't bring a book to a party. She'll mingle, eat, and mingle some more even with people she doesn't know and leave before getting up the nerve to bring a book. She's outside doing just the socializing she planned on doing before she spots Hermione tucked in a corner, text in hand.

She slides in next to the other girl, sneaking a peek at the page and greets her with a laugh. "Geez, Penelope. I knew you were interested in the city, but even the place itself is taking a break today."

For a moment, she doesn't know why she's being addressed as Penelope- and then remembers. Ah. Yes.

There's little reason to keep up that particular charade anymore- she's already dropped it with certain people- but there's a degree of awkwardness in trying to explain that her name isn't really what she said it was.

She smiles up at Kate nonetheless, a little sheepishly, and closes over her book. "Oh, er- I'm taking a break from taking a break, put it that way. Probably not very social, I know. Enjoying the party?"

Surprisingly, Kate would be fine with the name change explanation. She has her own alias to keep secret and she knows people have their reasons. There'll be no judging here. Much, anyway.

Kate nods and slowly takes the book from Hermione's grip, killing any temptation she might get to go back to reading. "It's nice. Not too fancy or stuffy. I would ask the same about you, but I have my answer already."

Hermione makes a valiant effort not to twitch as the book's gently tugged away from her, and gives another embarrassed smile. "It isn't that I'm not enjoying myself, really- just that I came out for some air, and- well, I had the book in my bag, so why not?"

Because it's overly solitary and possibly quite rude. She's not stupid; that answer is very much obvious to her when she thinks it out logically.

"Er," she says, moving on, from one uncomfortable topic to the next. "Anyway, Kate, I've...sort of got a confession to make." Best to nip the deceit in the bud, right?

"Why not? Because it's a party and you'll look rude and out of place," Kate replies, gently teasing Hermione. She isn't the type to force a person to party if they don't want to, so all of this is nothing but good natured.

Kate's expression changes from a smirk to curiosity at Hermione's words. A confession? Of what? "What? You have another book in your purse?"

Severus has been dragged here as unwilling as ever to engage in social interaction; he doesn't wish to deal with the fallout of an outright refusal to attend these absurd get-togethers. So he makes use of it and picks out his ex-student at her table and slipping away from whatever inane conversation he was pretending to appreciate.

Since her arrival in Baedal, it's the first time Severus has seen Hermione Granger in person. She looks far older than he remembers her, and it does leave him feeling rather wrong-footed. After all, the last he saw her (without the barrier provided by the CiDs), she was peering down at him as he bled to death. It seems strange to him to think that life has, indeed, gone on. The world didn't simply come to a halt when he died.

Children grow up.

Well, good. He needs her intelligence and the sense of maturity that has hopefully accompanied the addition of a few years. He doesn't sit beside her, but instead stands at her elbow; it's familiar to loom over her, and it takes him a moment to remind himself that he is not her teacher. She is supposed to be his ally.

"Miss Clearwater." Dry tone, dismissive and disinterested in her alias. He has come to find aliases are pretty well useless here in Baedal.

She had been ensconced in her book, and snaps from it with what's not quite a jump, instantly expecting some kind of punishment. It really does border on ridiculous, that particular Pavlovian reaction. It certainly makes her feel like an idiot.

What on Earth is he doing here? 'Snape' and 'festivity' are two concepts which don't seem to mesh in her mind, no matter how she tries to wrangle them into a logical connection. "Sir," she says, a little tentatively, having to force herself away from 'Professor'. Reminding herself that she is not his student, she adds; "I didn't expect to see you here."

She sounds rather wary; the question of why he's here talking to her is clearly implied in her tone. After all, she highly doubts he just wants to wish her a merry Catenrat.

To be fair, he didn't expect to see himself here, either. He can understand the sentiment: holiday festivities were thrust on one very much in the same way as responsibility. First Albus, now Martha. And speaking of Martha, he glances around and makes an accusatory, albeit vague, gesture in her direction. Much as he feels he doesn't owe Granger an explanation, neither does he want to put her off entirely. Or be blamed for the decision to come.

"It is fortuitous, I suppose." He doesn't sound like it's fortuitous. To Severus, this is just another headache in the settling-in process. Making nice with the locals. And with that, he gives Hermione the full focus of his attention. "A word?"

She doesn't appear to be doing anything of importance (insofar as reading is unimportant), and it isn't a request so much as a 'Get up, I want to talk to you privately.' with some room for argument.

"Oh," she murmurs when he makes a gesture to indicate that it wasn't exactly his choice. She finishes the last of her wine, as if it will combat the weirdness of the thought of Snape doing as his wife says.

It doesn't work.

He wants a word; well, that can't bode well, but she's inclined to take it seriously. If he's deigning to talk to her, it's probably important, and the fact that he hasn't taken a seat implies that he wants her to get up. There's not really a choice in the matter.

"Privately, I assume?" she asks, getting to her feet and stowing her book in her bag, some slight concern about what he wants to talk about starting, although she suspects he wouldn't be so calm if it was anything incredibly urgent. Nonetheless, she tries to keep her movements quick.

It's quite odd: in spite of some three years intervening since he actually had to interact with Granger, she still rubs him the wrong way. Perhaps it's that she sounds so damned swotty, or that she's off to asking questions already - or perhaps he simply remembers what a nuisance she and her comrades were - but whatever the case, the old feelings of sheer irritation and disgust are coming back to haunt him.

Like acid reflux.

Yes, that's precisely it. Hermione Granger is anthropomorphic heartburn.

He doesn't respond to her question; instead, he bites back his scowl and turns away, making for the street, away from the crowds. There isn't a glance back to see if she's following - falling back on old habits, really. He simply takes it for granted that she's coming because it's what she would have done as a student.

Marvelous. She follows, of course- gritting her teeth and cursing her shoes while she's at it- out of respect for him and a faith that there is a very good reason for this. Nonetheless, she can't help feeling annoyed. He's just so unpleasant, no matter how much she might respect him for other things- she always forgets how completely and utterly disagreeable he is when she's not actually in his presence. It's so much easier to admire him when he's not in the vicinity.

At least his refusal to look at her means that before she catches up, she can thin her lips and raise her eyebrows in an expression of the things I do before wiping it swiftly off her face and returning to all the maturity she can muster.

She isn't so naive as to try pestering him for answers just yet, though the temptation's there; she's anxious to know exactly what 'a word' involves, but tells herself that he'll have to tell her in time and would probably just insult her to her face if she were to try and get him to explain before he wants to.

And he calls her insufferable.

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.

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.

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Hellboy had scoped out the options for getting out for a smoke, and was pleased to see that the courtyard was rather nicer than the side alley exit. He's had some (non-alcoholic) drink and some food, and knows he's going to have to do without for the duration of the movie, so he comes out here now while chomping down the remainder of a slice of pizza.

After a quick glance around, he settles down on a bench seat near Hermione's table -- adjusting for a moment to make sure the sword slung on his back also settles behind the bench out of the way -- and goes through the ritual of lighting up a cigar.

A couple of puffs to get it going, and he looks over at the woman nearby and says, "How's it going?" If she chooses to look up from her book and talk to him (and hopefully not freak out about his appearance, but he's currently in a mood to mostly forget about that possibility at the moment), great. If not, he can enjoy his cigar just as well in silence as conversation.

Hermione glances up, briefly wrong-footed by surprise at being addressed- and then more seriously thrown by the appearance of the man addressing her. It only manifests, however, in an involuntary raise of her eyebrows which she quickly gets under control; Hermione has had a lot of experience with people who aren't strictly human, after all.

"Oh, um- not badly at all," she says, closing over the book and giving him a thoughtful, interested look- the look of a woman running through all the different species she's read about and trying to fit him into one. She's not trying to gawk, but she may be managing it accidentally. "It's a nice place, isn't it? Here in particular, I mean, not..." She waves a hand. Not the kidnapping monster-infested city in general. "Well, I suppose it's a matter of taste." Is she babbling? She may be babbling.

"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."

"You didn't," Hermione assures him. Then, because she's honest: "Not much, anyway."

She holds out a hand at his introduction; she hasn't had the best night, exactly, and a little conversation wouldn't go amiss in cheering her up somewhat. "Hermione," she says, wondering if his name is...well, what it sounds like, or if it's just some linguistic coincidence. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I've gotten far worse, believe me."

Depending on which hand she offered, she may be a bit surprised that he in turn offers his left. The way he holds up his Right to show just how large and not especially hospitable it would be to shaking, however, will hopefully explain. (Also, it's currently holding his cigar.)

"Nice to meet you too, Hermione. What're you reading, if you don't mind my asking?"

It must, he reasons, be pretty freaking interesting for a person to be reading it out in the middle of a party.