AN: Sorry about the chappy-delay, but the university is my evil overlord and forces me to toil with all these mountains of homework. But, thanks for the kind reviews, everyone!! ^_^ Ah, yes, someone asked whether this was about Aztecs... no, I'm playing with Mayans. Their mythology has a bit of similarity with the Aztecs, and Quetzalcoatl is known as 'Kukulcan' in that culture.
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Snape stood up, and slowly swept towards the office's door. Who the jumping Jupiter wanted to have a chitchat now? And why was the whole knock's aspect so slightly odd? It definitely was not the Headmaster fidgeting behind the wallhole's oaken lid: he always used the fireplace for express journeys to the castle's underbelly. Then again, McGonagall's knocking style was sharp and austere, whereas Filch usually pummeled the door so hard, that it was a mere wonder that the poor wooden object did not end to the Hospital Wing after every dose of such merciless violence. Yet, this noise... it was somehow rather shy, as though the individual beyond there had been insecure of whether to remain waiting for the answer or swoosh cowardly away.
Severus brushed some oily locks off from the way of his suspicious scowl. Today, on this lazy Sunday morning, his appearance was not likely to drive a pack of squealing fangirls to chase him. Where the Rasputin-ish black beard was not reigning over the facial landscapes, an undefined area density of stubble littered his jaws. The infamous well of grease stood lank, flopping unkempt onto his shoulders or collected into clods inside the high, starched collars of his uniform. The man was one of these psychology types that hardly ever paid attention to futile, secondary details of life, like teeth that had been unwashed for a week or underwear that had not been changed since Noah stepped in his ark. And the most introverted he became while remaining alone, as though crumpling inside a concrete cocoon and surrounding it with a bottomless moat. And nobody in this castle quite complained about his shabby hygiene, thus making the Potions Master even more oblivious of the infernal messiness. Nonetheless, by the time his hair would be dripping so much grease that the persons tottering behind him would slip to the oil pools, it finally ought to be time to bang the ABC of self-cleaning in that flint-hard scull.
The male glowered suspiciously at the heavy inside-opening exit, before wrenching it aside. If it was that insufferable quack Trelawney with her oh-so-magnificent omens...
'The inner eye has spoken that if you do not immediately walk backwards through the Entrance Hall wearing a chicken suit, a pigeon shall poo on you 5 pm tomorrow...' Cringing, he could hear Sibyll's ridiculously tragical voice ringing in his ears. And here would be no getaway at hand. In the corridors, an exemplary victim of lame prophecies always had two or more archways where he or she could soar if attacked by a random semi-fake Seer. But oh the woe, this dungeon was a perfect cul-de-sac...
"Yes?" Somewhat irked because of this nauseous prevision, Snape took a fairly sharp step over the threshold right after having yanked the gateway out of the way. He stopped dead with a small yelp, when feeling a rather forceful jolt against his torso.
"What in the name of Merlin...?" And as Severus looked down, his nose was to get drowned in a flyaway shrubbery of violently orange hair. A very disheveled-appearing Tonks was massaging her forehead inches from him. Apparently she had attempted to enter the office just the very instant he had proceeded with his jerky gait.
"Eh... Wotcher?" she gave a nervous smile when casting her regard up, "I-- um, ah, I wasn't sure if you were at home, but---"
Ta-dam. It was time for Snape's classical tonksyshock, the well-defined symptoms including the prominent facefall, the very usual tennis ball -sized lump in his throat, and abrupt breathiness, as though his lungs had been filled with molten Gorgonzola.
"Nynnynynnyn--- nynnnnynyy--- Nymphh-- m-m-m-- Miss Nymphadora? W-what are you doing here?" Severus' twitching jaw finally found the road of English. His wide-flown black eyes were boring into her: this feminine vista was something he never would have expected to find in the shady Slytherin vaults. The previous time the present day's Auror had resided here amongst the rippling shadows, had been eons ago, his very last memory concerning something about the ex-teen sitting a detention and scrubbing Oozyfishy's ectoplasm from a man-sized cauldron.
An awkward silence fell upon them. Nearby, a lonely torch sizzled and crackled in its brass bracket, its light remaining insufficient to shoo away the shadowland's raven wraiths.
"I-- uhh-- I just came from Dumbledore's and though that--- umh, that I could pay a visit..." Nymphadora felt her shoulders cringing perhaps an inch under Snape's unfathomable goggle. Why did the dark, shadowy man seem somehow taller and more broad-chested, while stagnating there in the coved doorway? Or was the effect solely because his vast cloaks and capes and whatever-batwear blended almost perfectly in the murky environment, leaving only a sallow mug to float somewhere above her crown? No... there was something else. Severus was not hunching, but posing like a freshly sculpted effigy of an off-taking winged gargoyle. Though elegantly soaring, his usual mannerism was the stoop prowling that gave the slight impression of an attacking spider. Now, however, the straightening of back had brought him a handful of more inches height. And perhaps the girl had selected somewhat a shorter form to wear today, together with the peculiar color-bursting zigzaggy-patterned gown. Her mere existence in this gloomy, monochromatic dungeon was as though trying to cram a parrot in a coalmine: so out-of-place those quarreling, eye-aching reds hues were.
"Um-- or... is it a bad time?" her simper faded, "I just---"
Snape was gradually recovering from the surprise. Chop-chop, his gaze raced back and forth the archway, as though trying to search for hidden spybots lurking in the ominous alcoves. If someone or something would see them this way, definitely more than just raising of eyebrows would follow... Nobody was supposed to be aware of their petite romance, the less the mighty iceberg Snape being so slushy over some goof-off lassie.
"N--no, no, come in, child." His clawlike hand took a firm hold of her upper arm, snatching her away from beneath the imaginary gawk of the nonexistent narks. The door banged tightly shut after the nervous woman. Briefly she had the weird mental image of this uncanny male being the gatekeeper of Hades, and that the gorgon was locking her in for forever in this sober underworld. But she shook the absurd conceptions away. Maybe a grumpy and sardonic oddball, but evil the Potions Master was not.
The male himself was still going through some sort of self-clashing disbelief. The little fledgling here, now? But, it was impossible... She, she was coming to visit him ON HER OWN...?
Just then the old scarecrow caught a glimpse of his mug reflecting from a random glass jar that perched on the nearby shelf with its other slime-filled comrades. Where were all the molehills when he needed to vanish into one? That five-o'clock shadow and the shaggy mop of oily locks... not to mention that he was no smooth-cheeked bishie to begin with. He was probably looking in her vision just as pleasant as the pickled toad inside the reflecting dish: somehow the man became very conscious of his ugliness in her presence, hence making him willing not to appear as though he had been swimming a few days in the London sewers.
Indeed, Severus Snape would have needed a special Howler every cockcrow to remind him that personal hygiene was not just a prissy ornamental accessory. Nonetheless, even though the first impression had doubtlessly been a mere disaster, perhaps the worst Armageddon could yet be avoided... Initially back against the Metamorphmagus, he haphazardly whipped his wand forth from the abyssal robe pockets.
"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!" A mumble, and a wand-tap against his chin made the unwanted facial fungus vanish, transforming the goatee and the mustache clean-cut. The filthy hair was a trickier dilemma. He solely gathered it behind his head with a piece of string his fingers had met in one of the pockets.
When the bat turned about, Tonks had severe trouble to suppress a snort-giggle even despite her shyness. The slapdash ponytail fit the man just as well as motor oil spiced raspberries. If he already did not appear like an evil cartoon overlord, this coiffure circus certainly crowned it all. It brought out his rather large and sharply pointed ears, furthermore exposing the whole gauntness of that long, thin countenance. Also the entire flash-quick currying was prone to cause involuntary titters. Her attendance was unquestionably causing very odd effects in him... yet, in a positive way.
The dungeon had somewhat changed from the golden schooldays of excessive cauldron-melting. Whereas light was as sparse as ever, the glass jars had multiplied exponentially, and a few random pieces of new furniture had been enslaved to carry foot-thick books and assorted potionmaking paraphernalia. And naturally the inhabitant himself had grown older... though, it was peculiar why the few lapsed years had had the effect of fifteen. Snape seemed far beyond his real age. Nevertheless... he was not alone with the premature aging. Lupin was already sporting graying hair, and Azkaban had emaciated Sirius to look like a middle-aged knave. Whatever was the Potions Master's biological reason for the sunken facial air, it had undeniably whipped him hard.
He took a sweep towards the girl, gaze still transfixed on her. Even though the blaring colors and the psychedelic figures of her garments were almost making his eyes water.
"I... I never would have expected to see you here, precious Miss Nymphadora..."
She recoiled at the sound of the ludicrous forename. "Eh-- it's just Tonks. I don't know where my fool of a mother picked up that---"
Nonetheless, the professor looked almost offended. "I do not wish to call you so, child. Is Nymphadora not the embodiment of your grace? I deduce your mother chose to call you well. Thus, why to desert something as fitting?"
Her cheeks flushed pinker than Umbridge's cardigan. By Merlin's laundrybaskets, this bloke was blabbering even gaudier than his mile-long letters... And apparently the first one excluding her parents that actually LIKED that ridiculous thick taradiddle... But it was not too hard to figure out why: the teacher seemed living on a wrong century anyways. So, how to take this...? The girl did not want to annoy the male, since she honestly enjoyed his company.
"Uhh... eh--" she hacked, not quite believing that the following could ever plop out of her mouth, "Alright, but please leave the Miss away. You know you don't need to be so formal with me, Severus." Still, even if the woman allowed him to address her that way, nothing would brainwash her to start worshiping that bizarre mismatch between Latin and Grecian magical creatures.
The sticky situation desperately needed some dissolvent. Both were merely stuttering, the conversation galloping nowhere. Yet, her petite yielding worked as an efficient resolvent, diluting away the stifling angst. A small smile arched his thin mouth, and a bony hand appeared on her shoulder, pushing the guest slightly onwards.
"There, you see my good point. Names often do tell about our traits or personalities, it ought to be..." And there the sentence died. What did Severus Snape actually bring in mind, when pondered further? Nothing snug really, moreover reminded the thinker of some fiendish killjoy possibly obsessed with serpents. Yet, a quick change of topic repaired the slightly wrong-gone discussion.
"Now... enter, please. I am most delighted to see you here, especially as I anticipated that you might be dear Professor Trelawney foreseeing that next week I shall be eaten by a pack of carnivorous Flobberworms... "
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So, a few minutes later Snape and Tonks had set their hinterlands down, and a pot of steaming tea had been ordered from the kitchens. She sipped at it rather reluctantly, because the Headmaster had just fed several cups of the very same liquid to her. Normally it would have tasted great, but overdose is always an overdose. She found herself subconsciously thinking of how to get rid of the pesky beverage without him noticing it. Jardinières would have been ideal places to dump it in... but the likelihood to find those here were the same as spotting pink puppy plushies decorating his desk.
Severus' eyes were to pop out of their sockets when the Auror summarized the purpose of her visit to Dumbledore's. Even though the Second War had officially begun, the old sage was seeking for a new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher, and seemingly had regarded Tonks as an excellent candidate. Before the rattled bat perching beside her had a microsecond to whinny any objections, she went on, staring at the very repulsive-feeling goo oozing in the Slytherin-crested dish.
"But I don't think I'd fit... I mean, I'd probably just blow up the classroom or something. Not very safe for the students. I'm kind of a borderline Auror anyways--- ah, well, maybe not that bad, but I seriously have trouble with some basic stuff-- That's what mum always keeps nagging about, that I'm so and so and so impractical..." Meanwhile, a subliminal whirr in her lobe wondered whether a veryveryveryvery silent and stealthy Evanesco would demolish at least a third of the tea. "Well, I said no. Kind of regret it a bit of course, but oh well. I try to make it up for the Order."
She gave an involuntary shudder. The air was very chilly down here, the slight humidity turning the coldness even more biting. The flimsy sleeveless summer-robe covering her small form quite did not work as a parka. What little good the teacup made, it at least warmed her hands.
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TBC, I hopefully get to include some tacky syrup in the next chapter. Comments?
