((This chapter was written by Lindsay and by the fabulous Squealing Fangirl.))
At Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place…
Noting the attention that was turned on him, Severus leaned back in his chair over a glass of Rosmerta's excellent red wine and narrowed his eyes in contemplation over what he was about to reveal, clasping his hands loosely on the worn table before him. The members of the Order stirred restively, and he launched into a softly-spoken recitation of his business.
"There is, as I am certain you are all aware, a meeting of the Dark Lord's followers in a matter of weeks. I plan to attend this meeting... And I also intend to allow Ms. Sabine Trefethen to accompany me."
At the first murmurs of protestation, he held up a hand. "Please hear me. Ms. Trefethen is well aware of the danger, and we have made preparations to ensure not only her safety but the safety of everyone involved. I will require her assistance, and she was willing to offer it."
For the moment, he kept the tale of the hidden object in the back of his mind, resolved to not mention it until he was more certain of its nature.
"An idiotic idea," remarked a witch from the back of the room. Average height, of the finest form and face ever to grace New York's offices, Tarla Prestan let her shiny light blonde ringlets hang down, and currently swaddled herself in conservatively-cut red silk robes, made slightly suggestive by the black satin corset worn over them, as was the American fashion at the moment.
Said witch flicked the filter of her long, thin cigarette with a French-manicured thumb, causing a few ashes to fall unceremoniously to the floor and earning a scowl from the already somewhat disturbed Mrs. Weasley.
"Trefethen would never do such a thing. Well..." A pointed look from the only other Yank in the room, a thin, freckled woman on a stool by the sink, stopped her. "At any rate, how would it ever work? Don't you need to have the..." Tarla gestured vaguely with her cigarette to her left forearm.
Severus sneered at the woman, whose attempts at sensuality in her dress and manner only served to annoy him, though he could not speak for any other males who might have noticed.
"I assure you, Trefethen would indeed do such a thing, as I did not volunteer her cooperation on my own." He answered silkily, his black eyes lazily following the ash as it sprinkled the floor and the smoke as it curled toward the ceiling. He returned his gaze to hers, uncurling his left hand palm up on the table, indicating his own "..." without actually displaying the Mark. "And yes, traditionally a brand - I believe that is the word you were searching for?" His tone was derisive. "A brand is required, but for the families of Death Eaters, unnecessary. Ms. Trefethen will be masquerading as a member of my family."
Sniffing disdainfully, Tarla drew a long drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke towards the barely-cracked window, giving the witch on the stool plenty of time to interject. Abigail Brooke was pretty-in-a-sweet-way, and currently her short hair was left as carelessly tended as the worn denim jeans and aging white blouse that she wore.
"I guess the two of you don't look very different," she said, tapping the counter incessantly (but silently) with a red fingernail and showing a hint of a Southern drawl. "She could pass for a cousin. But they would know, wouldn't they? Whatshisname would keep tabs on the family members of his inner circle."
Severus sighed at the indomitable questions of the two witches, but with that exception, let none of his irritation show in outward signs.
"'Whatshisname' does indeed have an extensive knowledge of his servants' family life, and I suppose that would be a problem if Sabine had planned on presenting herself as a blood relative. However, that is not the case. She will be presented as my wife."
Tarla let out something between a snicker and a snort, resulting in her choking on her own smoke; a few of the other residents of the room had similarly shocked reactions. Abigail laughed and rested her head on top of one hand. "I love it. Can't believe she agreed to it. Congratulations."
Meanwhile, Prestan waved her hand randomly until she could regain speech. "I can't say it doesn't seem well-suited to the both of you. No doubt she's inventing an entire history of the Snape-Trefethen courtship as we speak. And you're both certain that it'll work? You understand that I'd like to be familiar with the risks involved."
"You are correct in assuming that Sabine has spent a prudent amount of her considerable brainpower concocting a history, in order to make the entire affair seem more realistic," Severus considered his poor choice of words - affair? -; but decided that it was too late to alter the sentence. He paused, not meeting the eyes of his questioner, and studied his fingertips, tapping the table lightly. "There is no certainty in these dealings, as I am sure you are already aware. However, both Ms. Trefethen and myself have taken precautions to ensure that neither of us becomes either a liability or a corpse." He could not think of another way to word the blunt response, and did not truthfully want to.
"I believe that it would be futile to attempt altering Sabine's decision, she seems rather set in this matter."
Having better things to do, the table adjourned, twittering coming from some and mumblings from others; still more were silent as the gentle hum of the household resumed over a number of minutes. Meanwhile, Tarla folded the remains of her cigarette into an engraved ashtray placed conveniently by the sink, and moved to seat herself so as to be as opposite Snape as possible. "I have no doubt that Sabine can take care of herself, and neither one of us," here she gestured to Abigail and back to herself, as the freckled woman made her own way to the table, "have any need to protect her, or any desire to change her mind, I'm sure. She's a big girl; she knows what she's doing.
Tarla inhaled raggedly, and placed her hands flat on the table before her. "You, however, know the dangers of these circumstances better than any of us, and I would like to expect that no preventable harm will come of Sabine."
Abigail chose this moment to cut in, having seated herself rather close to Severus and leaned her elbow on the table to examine his profile. Despite the mirth that this might otherwise inspire, Abby looked very solemn. "Sabine isn't as cautious as she seems," she admitted. "She's occasionally too brash for her own good, but she's also as good as our sister. You will take care of her, won't you?" Unlike Tarla, Abby seemed to realize that she was asking rather a lot, and visibly braced herself.
Severus closed his eyes for the briefest of moments and sighed, resisting the urge to press the tips of his fingers to his temple as he always did to stave off a migraine. His jaw clenched for the barest of moments in anger at the irrepressible questions – being, well, himself, he was quite unused to questions of that variety coming out of any mouth other than perhaps Hermione Granger's. But it was easy to see that the two American witches cared for Sabine deeply, and to deny them the reassurance they craved was brutal cruelty that they, even in his eyes, did not deserve.
"I would not lead another member of this Order - or, indeed, any person - blindly into danger." He replied softly at long last. "I will do all in my power to protect Sabine... The three of you are obviously old friends, but I have grown rather fond of her in the more recent past, and I would hate to lose such a unique presence." He gave the slightest of smirks to assure them that his rather coarse comments were in jest. "Rest assured, I would not see her harmed."
Abigail, for one, seemed satisfied. "Thank you, Professor. You're a good man." With that, she rose, wrapping one speckled hand around Tarla's wrist (the blonde witch looked like she was trying to form a response that didn't involve sarcasm) and dragged her unceremoniously out of the room. "Good night, Professor Snape. Give Sabine our regards, and tell her to come with you next time!"
Finally, from down the hall, a once-sultry-and-now-prematurely-aging voice grumbled: "If anything happens to her, I'll have your skull as a jewellery box!"