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

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.

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)

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.

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

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