She's not the only one who finds her temperament more suited to life during a crisis - all the baggage that comes with surviving horrific ordeals vanishes when you're still in the midst of it, versus the steps beyond; you make sense, in the context of nightmares, if you're damaged enough.
Which Severus Snape is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, cracked and splintered in all the right ways to make him appear almost too appropriate for a world gone mad. He makes more sense in Baedal than he does in Britain, and he makes yet more now than he did a week ago, black clothes stiff with blood, ash on his skin and under his nails, dark eyes keen. He moves with the disorienting snap-blink of Apparating, or as the horror show inspired black smoke of Death Eaters, or, as now, merely on his feet, walking across ruined cobblestones with his left hand raised, palm out, guiding purple-hued corrosive flames that consume and destroy every clinging, vicious little deathly sprite in its path.
When he sees Hermione he pauses, tilts his head and looks at her - but doesn't speak. The world around them is making enough noise as it is, but there's acknowledgement there. His gaze is too-sharp but distant at once, unnerving, the right side of his face painted (accidentally?) with what looks like a stripe of long-dried blood; maybe an injury, maybe a tribute. A metaphysical glimmer (of what should be familiarity) behind him says he's been shoving people behind wards, but he's here beyond them. In passing.
shoot me a pm if it's not all groovy
Which Severus Snape is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, cracked and splintered in all the right ways to make him appear almost too appropriate for a world gone mad. He makes more sense in Baedal than he does in Britain, and he makes yet more now than he did a week ago, black clothes stiff with blood, ash on his skin and under his nails, dark eyes keen. He moves with the disorienting snap-blink of Apparating, or as the horror show inspired black smoke of Death Eaters, or, as now, merely on his feet, walking across ruined cobblestones with his left hand raised, palm out, guiding purple-hued corrosive flames that consume and destroy every clinging, vicious little deathly sprite in its path.
When he sees Hermione he pauses, tilts his head and looks at her - but doesn't speak. The world around them is making enough noise as it is, but there's acknowledgement there. His gaze is too-sharp but distant at once, unnerving, the right side of his face painted (accidentally?) with what looks like a stripe of long-dried blood; maybe an injury, maybe a tribute. A metaphysical glimmer (of what should be familiarity) behind him says he's been shoving people behind wards, but he's here beyond them. In passing.