AN: Thanks for the new reviews, and thanks for reading so far!! ^_^ Heh, maybe I used a tad too much cruel hyperbola with that 'underwear that had not been changed since Noah stepped in his ark' in the previous chapter. My apologizes, I was way too much in caffeine high. Just as now. Oops. :S Ah well, I'd assume that even magickened underpants rot in 4500 years, so it's generally impossible even in the wizarding world. XD Anyhoo, here's a little something more.
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The delicate shade of green, that had tinted Snape's sunken cheeks since the ooh-so-shocking revelation of Dumbledore's suggestion, lingered for a while. Even after fourteen years, it was extremely hard for Severus to accept the fact that the Headmaster let the man's requests of applying the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching post to flutter through his scull as if his ears had been connected together with a straight hollow pipe. And that this year he would traditionally have to swallow the fish liver oil -tasting disappointment, as Albus once again sought the applicant outside of his close-knitted horde of Hogwarts henchmen. Nonetheless... it was mayhap foolish to complain, considering that not every by-passer gave former Voldy-fanclubbers second chances. With his unrelenting attitude, Dumbledore kept the Slytherin Head of House as far away as possible from the Dark Arts. No evil paintbrushing for the bat.
At the moment, Severus had to admit that a minor jealousy kept croaking in his mind, as goggling at that mere kid. What superior talent did she possess that made her a better Dadaist than he was? Or, in what way had that wretched Lupin or that insufferable glittering peacock braggadocio Lockhart performed more powerful acts than he, the mighty master of-- But here, the voice of reason took the harnesses. Was he going to remain surly to Nymphadora just because she had been offered the post? After all, she had said no... And when deliberated further with rationality, was not her refusal in a way his setback? She would have resided near him, even though they had been obliged to go on with the hey-you-are-my-tomnoddy-ex-student-so-let-us-scowl-and-glare -masquerade. But now, that hope was gone...
Still, a certain undertone of envy remained to whirr in his subconscious, even though he pushed all the major grudge aside. Love had softened him somewhat, but had not scrubbed off the basic character flaws. Nonetheless, nothing deadly crucial prevailed against Tonks: after all, he cherished the chaffinch, and the mere gawking at her features made ants invade his stomach. Hence, the toxic-green rouge on his phiz was washed away.
Snape's brow shot lightly up, when he finally noticed her minor trembling. "Are you... feeling cold?"
She gave a nod. "I... uh... didn't remember it's this frosty down here--"
He grabbed the almost full teapot, and moved closer to the girl. They were sitting about in the furthest nook of the dungeon, on a couch that appeared as though it had been borrowed from some b-class horror film, with carved ram-heads in the armrests, and the backrest looking moreover like a giant spine with long, slightly curved ribs protruding out of it. This monstrosity had been here ever since Snape had moved in, and who knew how long before that. He had tried removing the churlish tchotchke several times, but it seemed either to be attached to the floor with superglue, or with some counterjinxless sticking charm. So after a decennium of snarling and frowning at it, he had finally accepted the oddity to be his pal and started using it as a real seat.
"Here, have some more of this tea, it shall warm you up. And we can order more from the kitchens--"
It was a mere wonder that the Auror had not already transformed into an organic fountain with tea gushing out of her ears: so chockfull she was of it. She stared at the pot, attempting in vain to hide the nausea. "Eh-- ah-- I..."
But luckily the male was watching elsewhere. "Indeed... perchance it is somewhat on the cooler side..." As though trying to be a fancy bio-thermometer, his hand fiddled the air. A flick of wand, and the embers in the fireplace flared up. Tonks mutely sighed with ease, as the man absently lowered the infernal liquid's vessel back onto the table.
"You ought to have--"
His blibberblabber ceased. Sitting closer now, her existence was somehow more real, solider. Snape had kept gawking at her the instant she had been about to step in, but still his jaw remained to droop open. Despite the deluge of colors, she was very attractive in his eyes. Something utterly out of this somber, lightless underworld... Severus hardly noticed how his digits rose up to brush lightly her upper arm... soon slowly crawling upwards to adore that soft, round shoulder just a tad above. Weird, how the Defense Against the Dark Arts job-obsession suddenly began feeling just as insignificant as bullfrog's croaks, when his hand could enjoy this heavenly softness...
That stroke was enough to make her twitch. Compared to the Glacial Epoch reigning in the room, his usually so cold fingers felt considerably warm. But more than that, the fact that Snape actually was capable of giving such a gentle touch, was the most mind-boggling. Recently, she had put a fair amount of thought onto exploring his complex and contradictory nature. The image he gave to the outer world was the egoistic and cynical bucket of sulk. Yet, the insides were entirely another dimension, starting on from the poor self-confidence, the constant second-guessing, and that he actually deeply respected certain people. Never could he be spotted acting rudely or inconsiderate towards Dumbledore or McGonagall ...and now, this unexpected behavior towards her. But then again, among other things, Nymphadora furthermore could not comprehend the animosity between the deceased Sirius and this self-conflicting chap. Snape was such a walking Department of Mysteries. But those enigma-bound features had rather much begun intriguing her. What actually lurked beneath...?
In the jittery state as she was still, coy in this dark and tall man's presence, the petty token of affection indeed had more influence. And oh the anti-perks of being such a klutz. Her hands were suddenly shaking so much, that they no longer could firmly hold the heating element called teacup. With a splash, the dish keeled over, the lukewarm beverage getting splattered all over Snape's robes.
Horrified, her wide-flown eyes resembling two dinner plates, she slapped a hand over her mouth. "Eeh-- I--I-- Merlin's beard, I'm so sorry, uh-- let me fix that--" In mere panic, Tonks fumbled her belt to find her wand, gibbering, "I'm so sorry, p-please don't be mad at me, it was just your touch that---"
Nonetheless, for the Potions Master, this embarrassing goof-up appeared to be something very secondary, and he had dehumidified the garments with an express flick of wand while she still scrabbled hers as if her fingers had been in an overhand knot. Something in her agitated yelp had ignited a dark, gleaming burn in his pupils.
"What about my touch?" the man croaked huskily, his wiry black figure towering over hers, the sepulchral dungeon's shadows dancing around him.
The Metamorphmagus flushed into a deep shade of magenta. "I-- eeh-- t-the way you just-" And ever breathless she became, as the same skeletal digits rose up to slide along her jowl. Still, they were almost as irresolute as their target of admiration, brooding whether they were worthy to skim that fair, silky arc; scarred, hardened, and yellow-nailed as they were themselves...
"The way I what?" the hoarse drawl went on. A thumb appeared to fondle her lower lip, opening her small mouth just a centimeter. His burning eyes drew closer.
Her words were drained. Breathing as though all the oxygen molecules had been annihilated from the room, Tonks involuntarily retreated an inch towards the backrest. Yet, there already lurked one sinewy arm, which welcomed her slender body into its traditional, mousetrap-like hold. Still a few weeks ago, he would have believed such vellications and wormings to indicate that the poor victim of his clumsy cherishing was going to throw up. Nevertheless, he was now far more able to see through those puny feminine oddities, not any more confusing shy pleasure to something that Gred and Forge's Skiving Snackboxes would cause. On the very contrary, he now became only more encouraged to snatch her nearer and glue her lithe form against his age-strengthened thorax.
She liked his caresses... a mere miracle, such a blooming fair maiden in the arms of this old ugly man...
Severus could not comprehend how the following mega-cliché plaguing all the sappy lovebudgie tales ever scribbled could slither out of his maw. Probably he would bang his greasy head against the dungeon wall a few hours afterwards, punishing himself for becoming such an epitome of soap opera. But it had to be said.
"I indeed have missed you, sweet Nymphadora..."
If Snape's owl had seen his master now, it would have doubtlessly fainted with horror. And refused ever to deliver any letters, not even Howlers that contained in-sealed long-distance Cruciatus curses.
Next, the girl found herself arrested between his broad chest and the sofa's backrest, his lips fondling hers with slow, ever-deepening kisses. Tonks had not yet completely gotten used to that massive sharp-pointed beak-like protuberance -id est, his excessive nose- being squashed against the side of her face, and she still had the slight fear that it might accidentally poke an eye out. But apparently Severus mastered the behavior of this facial mountain, and Tonks would not be obliged to wear goggles while snogging. Another petty cause for alarm were his peculiar teeth. Especially the unnaturally long cuspids that only increased the uncanny vampireness his whole looks transpired. But ostensibly the whole fear of suddenly becoming a Dracula Chick walked with straw legs. This bloke was no nosferatu, but would have just needed good braces, some solarium, and a more cheerful wardrobe.
Plus the swirling, divinely halcyon emotion the sudden doveshow brought along, it also solved a binary dilemma. The tea threat's dark shadow no longer loomed ominously in the horizon, neither she felt like a popsicle. Just like she had learned at St. Mungo's: the batwing's shelter was always a mellow place. So out-of-breath Nymphadora was in his enfold, heart pounding with overspeed... The man slipped a few fingers down to caress her soft neck, recalling that she enjoyed it almost just as much as the kisses on her mouth... especially if his digits brushed over a sorer spot.
Or... what if he would let his lips caress her beautiful, white neck, would she like that even more...? But no, he was being horribly inconsiderate. She would probably grant him a cuff on the ear for even fantasizing about such a thing...
Alike formerly deduced, Snape was not mentally living on the present century. Forget lederhosen, latex, and 'private lessons' to silicone-stuffed Gryffindor Mary Sues. For him, it was already beyond seventh heaven solely to hold his beloved this way.
Fleetingly, Tonks could not hinder a few mossy memories from crawling up from the pits of mind. Perhaps all these contradictions embedded in this weird situation were prone to summon up such things... Severus Snape, the one who had always shot the worst and most hurting offences about her potionmaking blunders, now declaring his love and saving nymphs from iffy distresses... The girl fairly well could picture his younger, yet anger-deformed visage spitting insults at her pre-teen self, who almost tears in her eyes stared at a cauldron, whose insides had, by some incomprehensible flub, mutated into tap-dancing bunny slippers.
"I assume I ought to make you drink some Skele-Gro, so that you would achieve a proper scull instead of that one that simply seems to be too soft to hold any brain inside itself... When I request to observe the instructions, you use these round things called eyes to read every quarter of a letter I have written. Or are you such a dimwitted puny brat that--- "
"My sweet little child..." a silent breath at her ear broke the memento. With such a perfect clash in those few words, that nothing but mute perplexity remained to lodge in her lobe.
So tightly pinned against Snape's torso the girl had been, that only now she was able to free one arm from that stormy hold. Intention was to slip it around the man's neck, but as there was very little space in the gentle prison amidst the backrest, the left armrest, and him, her elbow accidentally hit rather hard one of the wooden ram-head decorations that littered the couch.
And oddly enough, due to the jolt, it seemed caving in...
The snoggers startled to a sudden low rumble, which evidently came from the stonewall behind the ugly piece of furniture. Flabbergasted, they remained to stare at the roughly cut bricks. Were they suffering from a mutual hallucination, or were those stones actually stirring?
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To be continued... Comments?
