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Who: Claire Bennet & Severus Snape
What: Testing the waters for Martel
Where: Apothecary de Snape
When: Pre-Lex's Party
Warnings: Snapeishness

It doesn't take her nearly as long as it should to locate Snape's shop, not with the way she's been snooping around whenever she thinks she's least likely to be noticed, skulking in the shadows like some sort of painfully nonthreatening stray cat. Regardless of his previous attitude toward her, it isn't like Claire to just give up on people even when they give her a handful of reasons and try to shove them down her throat. She's pushy, and she knows that, but it's only ever gotten her places before and she hopes that, despite that previous encounter, this will be no different.

This time it's more than just her mood and feelings at stake. Although she might not actually have any idea what it is that's wrong with her boss, if it's something that can be fixed, if it's something she has a potential resource for, then why not? And Severus wouldn't be a very proficient businessman if he's going to turn down potential business. That's at least what she tells herself as she stands in front of the door, hesitating before knocking. She moves automatically to slip her hands into her pockets, but only then remembers -

She's dressed as Raggedy Anne.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Of course he knows she's there, and of course he knows she's been skulking around like a depressed wayward duckling. (Once, he considered - no, it isn't important.) It's that awareness that almost keeps him from bothering; it's hardly his fault if she stands out there until dark at the bloody back door, unannounced, pointless.

But then.

The heavy iron door swings open and Severus, dressed as ever, stands there in the frame of the doorway, head raised, gaze downcast, observing her with a very critical eye.

"Miss Bennet." It's almost a greeting. "This is a tactic that I'd not yet experienced, and so I must congratulate you. I've opened the door. What," and this is the important part, "Have you done to yourself?"

Claire almost considers asking if he's gone as a bat for the party, but even an idiot would realize that might be in bad taste, and she has no desire to have her legs turned to jelly or something possibly more horrifying but less threatening.

She tries to speak before he does, but Severus manages to get there first, and before she can respond to his addressing her - was that a greeting? - he's speaking again and commenting on the outfit she looks over, glancing down so that the thick, bright red braids of yarn slip over her shoulders and hang over her chest. If she ever thought that he looked ridiculous in all his black, sweeping cloaks, this might be enough to make her consider otherwise from now on.

"There's a party," she finds herself saying, conversationally. Enough of a pause comes after her voice fades away that someone observing might be under the impression she's about to ask him if he's going as well, but she doesn't bother. "I'm Raggedy Anne. Sadly without an Andy, but I'm a modern woman. I can go to a costume party on my own."

"That's fascinating."

Truly.

"... You didn't get the bloody thing stuck to you, I hope."

It's as sarcastic and edged as usual, but there's something to be said for youth: he actually sounds like he has a sense of humor. He's still an utter bastard, but, well, it's there.

"You don't have to patronize me," she points out, and even before the words have left her mouth, Claire realizes the absurdity in saying something like that to him. "Then again I guess you do." It's hard to explain the ways in which he sounds different - because all the major points are there just with something... less - but she doesn't feel so stuck on pins and needles the way she did back when she knew him in his later years, even if they were buffered by padding after a while.

She lifts one of her braids to demonstrate, then pulls off the ridiculous cap she's wearing over the yarn to scratch at the sweaty tufts of hair sticking up in crinkles along the top of her head. Looking no less ridiculous this way, Claire asks, "Are you going to let me in or should I just push by you and hope for the best?"

Something about the idea of her pushing past him seems to snap him out of whatever sharp-edged bantering mood he was in, and he goes rigid for a split second - something like a recoiling panic flashing in his eyes. But it's gone, quicker than most people would notice.

He leaves one hand splayed against the heavy door, and turns back.

"What's the best, then? I haven't got all night."

Here be dragons, Claire Bennet.

She doesn't pick up on that flash in his eyes, but the tension snapping through his muscles isn't exactly lost on her. Not sure how to translate it other than to interpret it as her presence in general just being an irritant, Claire stops, somewhat awkwardly with one foot extended toward the door and the other still grounded back in sanity. She looks up at him, thinking of all the things that she could say and could ask but can't and won't for reasons that have more to do with time than they do with being worried she might get her head bitten off.

She's not afraid of dragons.

"My boss is sick with something, so to speak. I was wondering if you could do something about it."

If she doesn't move quickly, the door's going to close - because he's moving. He's speaking to her at the same time, though, so apparently he's not actually going to slam it in her face.

"Something like an aspirin?" Severus glances over his shoulder, but not quite at her, moving down the narrow brick stairwell. "What has he done?"

An arm is thrown out to catch the door she assumes is going to swing shut in her face - not as a means of being rude but just as an indication that she should pick up the pace if she wants to get anything out of him - and so the return shrug that she gives him is somewhat awkward and off-kilter. Claire only has the metaphor that Martel gave her, not the actual ins and outs of the problem, but it's going to have to be enough: Martel isn't someone she knows well enough to push in what she assumes are the right places, and she's not interested in being out of a job just because she annoyed her boss too much.

The same might be said for her approach to Severus, but the memory of him bent over the sink in the back of his shop with his wrist exposed and his skin stinking up the room as it burned is too sharply into the memory to allow her to be anything other than pushy. She's here for Martel, but she's staying more for herself than anything.

"Something a little stronger, probably. He said that he did some kind of magic binding thing and he metaphorically burst his stitching." Claire steps after him, following without hovering. "He's in a decent amount of pain."

Despite the ambiguity of 'magic binding thing', the general picture that the metaphor paints is lurid enough for Severus to get an idea. Whether the binding was on this man or someone else, it's impossible to say, but he can deal with both backlash of mishandled magic or internal magic just fine.

"Your employer. He is in your cohort?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" It's an honest question, genuine and curious. She's read the literature but Claire still isn't totally sure she has her mind wrapped completely around the idea of these cohorts, and she's not sure whether or not she should be offended that he might be suggesting she wouldn't step up the way that she is for someone if he didn't sit at her table in the cafeteria.

Images of Martel as Regina George aren't the kinds of things she needs to be thinking about when what she should be focusing on is deciding on the right things to say.

"There are a number of people in your cohort I do not wish to speak to, under any circumstances."

And if his merits are traded on the network, he'll end up annoyed. He gives her a look, watchful. There's a lot of Death Eaters about, Miss Bennet.

The look she gives him in return is much the same, and she studies his face momentarily before nodding and looking away. Claire doesn't need to ask questions - although she wants to - and she's been under the impression as of late that it's sometimes better if she doesn't. There are always answers she's better off not knowing, if only because she ends up running the risk of really sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. Especially when it comes to people she already has some sort of vested interest in.

"I can tell Martel to keep it to himself, if you'll see him. Or give me something to give to him. Whatever you can do. Someone just needs to do something." Claire moves to put her hands in her pockets and remembers halfway there that she has no pockets, leaving her hands awkwardly placed on her hips. It would be easier to have a conversation of any caliber if she felt comfortable enough to wander around and look at things, but the odd tension keeps her rooted to the spot, as backward a notion as it seems.

"Is that why you've been a total hermit this whole time?"

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