Nothing but pigs, ha. Ishmael suppressed his snort, trying to stay serious about this, lest she think it was a game. She had never been a witch - much like he had never had the opportunity to be much of a wizard - but Ishmael was resoundingly certain that if she'd had the power, all the residents of that village might well find themselves waking up as pigs in the blink of an eye.

Better turned to pigs than dead, that said.

Her faux-innocence was far too discomforting, even without the way she moved in close; Ishmael loosened his fingers at her wrist reflexively, his hand accidentally brushing instead against the thin fabric of her chemise. (Of course that was all she had on. It would be too much to ask of her, to blend in.)

He raised his eyebrow at her slowly, a wordless response of why don't I believe you, darling? But best to stay cool, best not to nag - she would not take kindly, Ishmael figured, to her antics being too harshly policed. The freedom, the fun, all sucked out. And he had never liked to look worried.

"I'm just trying to keep you out of trouble," he said smoothly, not quite a lie, refusing to step back until his point sank in. At least a little. (Never mind the humans' outrage, if she did make a mess here. Some of the Hogsmeade vampires would no doubt have her head. And that would be a waste.)

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