Even Old Morose Bats Can Get Soft

“...FILTHY FLEABAGS RUINING THE FAMILY HONOR! THE ESTATE OF OUR GRAND ANCESTORS SOILED, OH THIS IGNOMINY! THE MANGY SCOURGE OF THE NOBLE HOUSE, THE IMPURE MONGREL -”

Nymphadora still stood in the same place where Snape had so oddly arrested her. The sweet lullaby of Mrs. Black chimed mildly in the background. Absent-mindedly, she kept grazing the spot on her cheek where this unexpected touch had lingered. As the girl had descended into the fjord of her thoughts, she quite did not register the pocket-sized apocalypse whirling around her.

No... It had to be a mistake...

It simply could not be what it had felt like. Never, ever in this world! It just would be far too absurd! Perhaps the Potions Master had accidentally soared too nigh and erred to keep his hand too high... Nonetheless, that was quite a poor explanation. There had been enough space for a small elephant to march past her, without the fear of getting trampled by four organic rammers. What was this supposed to mean? Had this something to do with the shady shock-the-girl event just a tad before Sirius’s commotion? And if so, what did THAT mean? In vain, she searched for a logical path in the zigzagging maze of happenings.

Because... if the swift brush had not been an error, it had been a caress, an attempt to show fondness of some sort... And not just any chummy Order solidarity but something far beyond...

But, why so? There had not been anything even faintly electric in the air before, had there? Excluding the Knockturn Alley smash, she and Snape had not shared any missions. This made the intimate moment count flop towards zero. So, when and where was this possible attraction - if this oddity could be called so - born? Conversely, Tonks could not overlook how exceedingly strangely the shady professor had been behaving around her lately. Nevertheless, what to think? This exceedingly strange person always acted exceedingly strangely, literally glowing dark auras of mystery. What actually was one layer more of exceeding strangeness added to that?

But strangeness of this nature... Concerning Snape and his cold, cynical mentality, any such acts seemed so utterly out-of-character. The public opinion was that Dementors would turn into lilac Easter bunnies before the ol’ pool of pout would melt in front of some poppet. Or generally thaw out in front of anything.

Hence, it was no wonder why the exclamation points and other miscellaneous marks of punctuation spinning around her skull were merging into one giant bubble of disbelief.

As the Auror pondered the topic on, she quite did not know whether to be pleased or annoyed if some kind of rapture lurked behind his dodgy demeanor. Nymphadora esteemed his extravagant talents with smoldering slimes and other sinister soups, the crafty might with complex spells, the subtle handling of Occlumency and Legilimency... Yet, his fathomless obscurity among other character flaws was slightly hair-rising. Nothing seemed penetrating his mind, he hid everything behind a mental mask of some sort. That made him so snakelike, sly, and insidious. And what was more, this inner mask definitely did not hinder him to transilluminate others with his laser-sharp pupils. As if a skilled Dark Jedi had been playing around with the Force. The male certainly was not your average fuzzy puppy dog, but moreover a cobra with bared fangs. Under the scheming cool-headedness were unstable volcanic terrains.

And what was with the nuclear war between Severus and Sirius? Had there always been skirmish, or was it just a newer phenomenon? Apparently it was deep-rooted grudge, taking account all the snide remarks Black always made of Severus behind the backs. Of course the professor was no less guilty of slandering. But she naturally had neither idea of this, nor the hatred-triangle involving Black, Potter, and Snape, and how it was equally unequal to everyone of its members.

All in all, the scales or her confusion could not decide which pan weighted more. The moon had its dark side, but also its glorious silvery glow. The teacher had literally - even though she still had problems to admit this - saved her life, had forgiven her bloomers, et cetera. Hence, Nymphadora was rather irritated because of Sirius’s attitude towards the Potions Master. Did not Snape deserve something better than to become eaten alive by some random huff?

However... what to think now, especially of that touch? Along wriggling cognitive lanes, her mind roamed to the conclusion that it all had been an accident of some sort. It was plainly too ludicrous to imagine that sulky scarecrow possessing any saccharine sentiments towards her. Severus still owed her a bucketful of explanations about today’s happenings. And she would definitely interrogate him the next time this underground bird club met.

Tonks woke with a start to notice how silent it was around. Some minor clatter still could be heard from behind her: Lupin and Shacklebolt were attempting to pull Emmeline Vance out of the troll leg where she had flown headfirst. The witch seemed to be badly stuck. She was so deep inside the umbrella stand, that only her floundering legs stuck out. Sirius was Spellotaping his mommy’s portrait curtains shut, as though this means could have ensured a perfect serenity in the future. Arms akimbo, the Auror approached her cousin. Although her voice was snappy, it preserved a low enough decibel rate not to cause another bluster about Mudbloods and half-breeds.

“What was that all about? Sirius, that was totally pointless.”

His gaunt visage gave a scowl. “You know what, Tonks? It merely seemed to me that Snape was harassing you.” A bark-like laugh followed the dark notion. “I’ve had enough of him, and I don’t want him troubling you.”

She raised a brow. “He - he wasn’t troubling me. I think he tried telling me something, but couldn’t because you started having a fit.”

His mouth twitched sneeringly under his somewhat shaggy, black beard. “Tried telling... Yeah right. Look, Tonks, he cannot have anything such to tell you that he couldn’t tell us others. Don’t get overly friendly with that slimy git, he’s not to be trusted. I don’t care if Dumbledore says he’s a reformed man. Not even a good Scourgify scrubs away the stripes of a Death Eater. Stinking turncoat. I know what he really is.”

Today, Sirius unquestionably had a thunderstorm the size of Australia raging above his head. All in all, this day seemed suffering from too quick temper, and en passant made the unsuspecting mortals either ill with feverish crush or feverish anger.

Her mouth clicked open. Had she bits of parsnip in her ears or was she really hearing right? This was starting to go too far.

“What the bloody heck’s between you two?” She shot a tart regard at him.

This time Black somewhat evaded the girl’s frown. The dog had once bullied the bat more than the other way round; nothing could wipe that fact away. Subliminally the Animagus was somewhat ashamed of his teen stupidities, but not quite keen on admitting the mistakes.

“Well... let’s just say it all goes back to the golden school years... But that’s not important. What matters, is that I don’t think he ever changed. He’s got his oversized nose as much in the Dark Arts as twenty years ago, and the way he treats Harry... What a git.”

His mien was surly. In the background, Emmeline finally was getting free from the horrible trap. With a small pop, sounding much like as if the cork of a champagne bottle had been opened, she emerged from the troll leg. The men were pulling her out by holding her ankles, dragging her upside down in the air.

Neither did Nymphadora’s hands descend from the hips, nor did her snappy tone of voice diminish. Moreover, a more dangerous sort of crescendo spiced it. “Alright, whatever grudge you got, I don’t like that you’re starting to dig it up. He maybe wasn’t my dream teacher at Hogwarts, and I won’t deny that he’s odd, but we’re now fighting on the same side against You-Know-Who. I didn’t join the Order so that I could see the members being at loggerheads with one another. If I want garbage like that, I can go to watch Orc Mud Wrestling. Isn’t this supposed to be all about standing united, keeping the inner circles strong? Besides, I don’t like the way you keep calling him names. I would’ve expected less childish stuff from you.”

He let out a snort, his waxy face somewhat softening. That young Auror definitely was no subjected whimpering pipsqueak, but had determination to boss around. “Well... you got a point there, Tonks. I’ll try to bear him, but it’s impossible to turn us friends. But if he keeps bothering you like that...”

“But he wasn’t bothering me. I think it’s you who’s bothering Mr. Snape.”

Sirius’s eyes gleamed sternly under his furrowed brow. It was like watching up a giant, grim bloodhound.

“Bother and bother... Hrmh. Alright. But I give you one fair advice. Don’t ever mistake to touch him, not even in friendly means. In the worst case he’ll get blind with rage and hex you with some of his dear sweet Dark Curses.”

If Nymphadora’s jaw had not already verged the baseboard because of the former surprises, now it crashed through the floor and fell down into the cellar.

“What?”

“Don’t ask me why he’s so neurotic about it. Well, you saw his reaction when I - erm - asked him not to disturb you.”

The heir of the house scanned the hall with a swift glance. The space seemed to be short of Snapes of any shapes or sizes. “Left, I see. Typical, didn’t even care to help us qu-”

Something collided against Black’s side. This snatched the forthcoming utterance out of his mouth. The disorientated Vance, who attempted to stand the right way again, was getting tangled to her own legs. She teetered from side to side like a self-rocking seesaw.

There was no quite other solution but to direct her into the drawing-room to have a small snooze, so that she could rearrange her inner compass. Hence, Sirius went his way, and Tonks aimed her toes out of the house.

The evening sky was draped in a warm, dark-blue cloak where the celestial bodies glimmered like myriads of in-sewn jewels. Under the few lanky trees that daintily withered on the nearby sites, perched the gracefully rotting houses and the winsome exhibitions of oozing, overflowing garbage cans. Ah, the grace of the Muggle London suburbs. Despite the surrounding stink that possessed such a mild aroma of methane, Tonks did not Apparate straight home. She was left to wander along the rustling sand paths that meandered here and there. Her mind was jammed to reflect today’s incidents: Snape’s oddness, and Sirius’s churlish stories about him. As minutes turned into hours, and these latter units into larger dollops, a thickening haze of insecurity spread through her heart.

---

The days bounced speedily onwards like hyperactive kangaroos. The nature had begun celebrating its traditional summer carnival. The panoramas were decorated with ebulliently blooming, emerald green meadows, and trees were wobbling with odorous blossoms. The wind rustled mildly among the newly born leaves, and scented the air with sweet aromas. All this perky happiness was of course just a cover for a diabolical conspiracy against those who suffered from hayfever. Under their innocent-looking leaves and flowers, the lilacs and other sneakily evil plants cackled impishly, ready to puff out more poisonous pollen instantly when some extra-super-mega-allergic jack walked past.

All this summer symphony was not quite prone to slay Severus Snape’s emotional vampires. The fuzzy feeling, that had enchanted him before the glomp-Tonks-and-scare-her-off-her-rocket incident, had swollen into a hideous monster that gnawed his inners like a giant carnivorous larva. Shame, stupefaction, nervousness, all the cacophonic chaos was accumulating inside his chest together with dank despair. Initially, the beaten bat was marching around his bedroom. Somber shadows were casting spidery figures onto the walls around him. His trademarked public profile, the calculating, cynical oil-head, seemed to be totally shattered. Now he merely gnawed his yellowed fingernails, occasionally rending his black locks. These hairs were fortunately so slippery with grease, that it was rather impossible to pull them totally off. They kept sliding off from his fingers, and thus Snape was saved from premature baldness.

Oh the unfortunate misfortunes of the fortune... If only someone had enlightened the old lonely bloke that love was not satisfied very easily. On the other hand, the addressed hooknose hardly even understood the whole nature of his inner fever. If someone had cheerily slapped him on the back and told him that he was frantically amorous towards a certain pinklocks, the Potions Master would have probably turned this poor bugger into an oozing pile of poo, or something as charming. Indeed... where could he have learned to distinguish the sentimental rollercoaster that followed Amor’s successfully aimed arrows? Darker than dark, longer than long years he had spent in the darker than dark dungeons, with longer than long hours of solitude. The world of potions and Dark Arts had been his everlasting wonderland. Decades had been concealed inside the cloak of dusky isolation. Severus Snape was neither a cajoling Casanova running around Hogsmeade in lederhosen, nor a coaxing Caballero ready to sing syrup-dripping serenades under a beautiful damsel’s balcony in the moonlight. He did not gather girls around him like a honey jug allured flies. On the very contrary. His mere appearance was so spooky, that Disneyland could have hired him with a generous salary to be the top live ghost of the Haunted Mansion. What an outstanding lady-killer, indeed.

And now, in the descending twilight, the teacher was weltering in anguish. Yes, he had felt Tonks in his arms one more time. Although the fulfillment of his fantasy at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place had been smeared with such embarrassment, he had held her, felt her softness...

But...

The professor had had no idea whatsoever, what poisonous potions his heart would cook afterwards. An odd longing, a dreadful desperation was suddenly flowing in his veins, grilling his mind from microsecond to microsecond. That one more time was nothing. He comprehended it now. Just a flickering fading keepsake, which he had despairingly chased without ever becoming satisfied.

Oh, if that sweet child would be here, smiling at him... Oh, if he could caress her softer than soft cheek again... Such a tiny brush it had been, but oh, that heavenly softness... Although there were far softer objects in this universe - for example amoebas and jellyslugs - Nymphadora’s cheek still was the galaxy’s smoothest and silkiest treasure for him.

Grating his teeth and wringing his clawlike hands, he paced around the chamber. What to do, what to do? Why were the answers playing such an infernal hide-and-seek when he needed one? He had behaved more idiotic than a debilitated eggplant when grabbing the unsuspecting lass that way. And she had demanded reasons... and would be demanding them again when the Order would huddle together the next time.

He already owed an apology, and would have to knit up some sort of explanation to cover up his foolishness, even if was as misshapen as Hermione’s elf hats. And then what? The enigma was nothing but swept away. The desire to be near Tonks had swollen to the size of a zeppelin, thus being immensely hard to hide.

What to do, what to do? What was the answer to the question of life, universe, and everything? What was the matrix that would solve this grieving trouble? Splat, slap, splatter, he kept slamming his forehead with a palm, as though minuscule concussions would have accelerated thinking. How ironic it all had become... The same girl, whom he had years ago regarded as an insufferable blundering brat, had become the dream fairy, the nocturnal fantasy. Naturally, back in her Hogwarts days, Nymphadora had been one of the clumsiest and nosiest cauldron-melters he had ever met. One highly memorable event had been when the wee Ravenclaw witch had blown up his classroom, and at the same time accidentally transfigured her chopped Itchytickley roots into a thousand-headed flock of penguins. The Slytherin corridors had been in utter pandemonium. Teachers had been trying to catch the panicky birds, colliding painfully with one another amidst the thick smoke that had been billowing from the remnants of his dear classroom...

Nonetheless, through unexpected, tiny happenings, minds can turn upside down and inside out. They can expand to see new stellar dimensions and solar seas beyond narrow-mindedness. After Hogwarts, the weeds of childishness had been rooted out from Nymphadora’s mental garden, and she had grown up. For him, it was quite disturbing to see the overflowing teen angst gone, being replaced by today’s unprejudiced, jovial outlook. As he had lingered in the depths of her eyes, he had comprehended that their honesty was genuine. And how her heartening smile rested in such placidness, in the fresh beauty of her blooming youth...

“My preciousss...” Snape found himself whispering, hugging his sides, as though attempting to embrace hallucinations. No... He simply could not let the things grow moss; he would need to do something. Solidify his slushy-gone nerves and drink the goblet of vinegar. This was so ridiculous, utterly foolish... The sneaky weasel in his bat-cape had cool-headed courage to spy among the Death Eaters. Every time the local Dark Side creepers had their picnic, a friendly Avada Kedavra nearly patted his shoulder. One teensy mistake and his cover might be blown...

Hence, why was it such a Mount Everest -sized barricade on his road plainly to go and explain Tonks what he felt towards her? The major reason was that the poor old bat was almost farcically shy. So utterly inexperienced with any form of love. The decades of cynical coldness simply had not allowed any time for such ‘foolishness’.

Besides... how would he gibber the truth? He could not just go on blabbering jovially, “Miss Tonks, can I hold your hand, pretty please?” Additionally, if he successfully invented a means to express the feelings verbally, how would she react? The girl would probably howl like a pack of hyenas that had inhaled an overdose of laughing gas. The scornful, morose Severus Snape confessing such things... It would be too mind-boggling to be even believably unbelievable.

He sighed, frustrated by the lack of solutions. And it felt as though someone had been shoving scarab beetles down his collars, as the next tart truth bit him.

What chances would he have concerning the girl anyways? He had seen her maturing, had taught her to brew some icky yucky slops during the Hogwarts days... She had seen him as a teacher and later on as a fellow Order member... But after all, they barely knew each other. And the dream damsel was still so young... whereas the delirious Potions Master was approaching the saddening milestone of his forties.

Umpteen times the professor had trotted around his four-poster, riding his angsty sorrow-go-round. As the classical agony scene always requires the use of a dusty mirror and its gloomy reflection, his buckled shoes remained to stand in front of one. A battered old mirror it was, cringing in one shady nook. Had it always been there? Funny, how its existence had been so forgotten... On the other hand, it was rather widely known that Snape seldom spent any minutes in front of such prissy, needless haberdashery. Time was Galleons - or rather to say potions. The man had far more crucial things to do than for instance wash or trim his hair. In his impression, barbers and shampoos were only for self-obsessed swaggering harum-scarum wearing lavender-scented, lurid pink robes.

Severus shot his patented Scowl™ at the mirror, hardly getting merrier because of the reflection. That lank hair framing his gaunt, glaring visage... those dark, deep patches under his eyes, the lines on his forehead... They had not been there a few years ago. Age had begun skiing along his snow-pallid features, making nasty tracks here and there. So... this ugly gargoyle with an abnormally large nose was supposed to be the Prince Charming that would enrapture Princess Tonks, so that she would swoon and ooh?

“It is hopeless...” The gloomy mures of the underground chamber reverberated soberly the sigh of tragedy.

---

Anticipation and mystery hovered in the air. The oval, serpent-framed mirror in Snape’s bedroom was experiencing something very rare. Someone was peering at his reflection from it twice the same week. In any case, the whole scene was very confusing. If anybody at Hogwarts had witnessed it, they probably would have believed seeing horrible fatal hallucinations and needing swiftly the help of St. Mungo’s Healers.

Severus was stagnating in front of the looking-glass, wearing a sullen expression and a set of glossy and black, long robes embroidered with silvery trimmings. A matching, high-collared and starched cape, adorned with large S-shaped clasps, was perching on top of everything. Such an unidentified non-flying object as a comb was in his long fingers, gathering the mass of greasy hair into such an unidentified non-flying formation as a ponytail. Since the relegated event called hair-care was such an extremely rare phenomenon in Snape’s dungeons, all procedures and accessories relating to it could be relegated as highly unbelievable, and thus highly unidentified concerning the environment.

Minute by minute, the male’s visage was turning ever sourer. This was so pathetically foolish, so stupid... But, what other alternatives did he have? Perhaps a good impression would save the situation from turning into a horrible fiasco...

Today, Severus was forcing himself to face a challenge, which he considered as desperate as trying to teach Trolls the essence of poetry. Nonetheless, as his weeping, sniveling heart could not get up from the vale of tears on its own, he was obliged to act for the sake of things. Hence, before the evening’s Order meeting, he was going to talk to Nymphadora, and tell her about this sentiment swelling in his thorax.

Only if it had been a bit easier...

Pouting, he turned about. Severus did not want to goggle anymore at that reflection that looked like a Goth’s Christmas tree. His brains were self-mocking themselves, singing lampoons about their master’s absurdity. All this bizarre garment parade had been arranged just to give Tonks a bit better impression. Perhaps her upcoming scorns and cackles of refusal would be easier to bear if he had at least attempted to look serious. The odds were so sordid already... Why would she, this young sweet girl, ever care for an old Phantom of the Opera like him?

And yet... what if she would not be at Grimmauld Place tonight? Then what? Only more hair-ripping would follow, more pacing around a boring circle till the next or third or forty-second or multimegazillionth Order session. There quite did not exist any other caves where the bat could have met its equal. Of course Severus could have checked out her address from the London Teleowl Book, and gone to knock her door privately. That however was too much for the withdrawn bloke, who was almost comically obsolete in certain matters of courtesy. No. He would not dare disturbing the damsel that way.

With sweating hands, Snape collected his broom, getting ready for another London trip. The likelihood of being able to wear his wizard hat was however less than zero. The minuscule owl had invaded it entirely during the last few days. The hat had been re-cushioned with something that looked like badly knitted elf socks. A few of them bore Gryffindor emblems so misshapen that the supposed-to-be-lion looked moreover like a gouty camel. Unknown was, how the feather ball kept flying in and out of the well-sealed dungeons. But it definitely had done longer expeditions around the castle, incidentally collecting all kinds of wee trash and bringing them along. To crown it all, the bird had laid eggs inside the hat-nest. It was a proud mommy, and showed off its haughtiness by solemnly ruffling its feathers and sitting loftily on top of the egg pile like an empress on her throne. And if the real lord of the dungeon dared go even near it, the mini-owl transformed into a ferocious bomber-fighter, ready to defend its burrow.

What can be learned from this? Never let your hat commandeer an owl, or your hat shall be utterly perished.

******

Evening had descended. Snape leaned back against the moldy wallpaper of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place’s hall. Faint clatter animated the atmosphere every now and then, as more Order members waddled in through the front door. A few guild brothers threw curious glances towards him, especially because of the oddly gaudy robes and the extraordinary coiffure. Smoke was coming out of Snape’s nostrils every time he received such a stare, and he shot back frowns so venomous that the gapers merely jumped with fright. What a heart-shaped farce this was. Just because he had wanted to appear a tad more solemn in front of Tonks, he was with light speed becoming the evening’s number one object of goosy goggling. As though he had been some sort of mega-deformed alien from the moons of Jupiter. Those gawping nitwits, they were all scoffing at him and his despair. Besides, where was Nymphadora loitering? A great heap of sand had accumulated onto the bottom of an hourglass while Severus had been patrolling the exit.

On the other hand... the sheer thought of facing her filled his stomach with anarchic cockroaches, and he felt his respiration turning into shallow asthmatic wheezes. He had no poetic declaration of love ready in his robe pocket. Actually he did not have the faintest clue what to croak. The nervous raven would probably forget his English during the first sentences, and end up stuttering odd guttural grunts and hisses. This might have sounded like the mellowest love sonata for a Troll girl, but since Snape was by no means trying to speak Troll, the near future looked extremely uncomfortable.

However... he had to try. Had to attempt telling her something about his feelings...

Finally the front door’s ominous creak brought the Metamorphmagus in. Snape’s heart was to leap all the way to China, when his gaze met her. Abrupt mental quicksand swallowed all the courage left in him, and with a twitch, he retreated into the shadow of a Doxy-gnawed curtain. The girl minced past, not noticing the skulker. Only his long nose peeked out of the black shadows. From the corner of her eye, Tonks hardly recognized this normally very recognizable facial protrusion. Her subconscious probably thought it to be just a weirdly shaped rack up on the wall, and hence paid no further attention to it.

Severus felt his feet being nailed to the floor. No, no, his only opportunity was drifting away... And there he cowardly cringed in his pitiful hole, the valiant knight who dared to face His-Name-Is-An-Anagram just by relying on his Occlumency skills...

“I am not a coward! I shall conquer this, I shall!” he hissed to himself, trying to prop up his floppy self-esteem. So, although his shanks felt like watery chicken soup, he forced them to rush towards the girl. Not a werewolf’s whisker stirred in the dark hall. Even the individual who had unlocked the doorway for the Auror, had slithered back downstairs. Severus had to act quickly. He wanted no external eyeballs to peep at his super-secret doings.

For Tonks, it was classically another occasion to experience a sudden jump of fright. Snape’s hard, bony hand closed upon her upper arm like pliers, halting her ongoing. She twirled about, and briefly remained to stare at the Potions Master with a semi-shocked countenance. His uncanny garments with high starched collars, silvery viper embroideries, and other Gothic gimcracks were making him - opposite to his good intentions - look two hundred and forty-two percent eerier than before. Usually his thin, skull-white visage lurked behind the curtains of greasy hair. But now its sunken, wily features were fully exposed. And the hall’s haunted ambiance gave no helping hand. Moreover, the dancing shadows with the sparse, sickly ashen light made Snape look like a Vampire Lord, scarier than Count Dracula himself. Thin and angular, yet very sinewy and broad-shouldered, he towered over the little woman in his sinister robes.

“Miss Tonks... I - I wish that you would allow me to have a word...” he croaked hoarsely, his fervent gaze fixed upon the girl.

She raised a brow, still measuring his evil overlord attire with suspicion. “Umm... shouldn’t we get downstairs? The meeting’s about to start. Can’t it wait till it’s over?”

But Severus had already snatched her arm, and was leading her towards a small side room located in the farthest end of the hall. The nook of his confessions had to be private, and one hundred percent Sirius-free.

“Ghm... No... Miss Tonks... Nymphadora, I must talk to you, something of great importance I need to tell you...”

The forename sounded in her ears as sweet as the screeches of a toddler with wet diapers. But she did not bother to start a rant about the name crisis. Moreover, suspicion was crawling slimily along her backbone. She had abruptly recalled the dodgy interruption that had occurred a few days ago. This had to have something to do with it. The Potions Master apparently had a heavier mental burden in need of unloading: his somber, hesitant looks spoke for themselves. But what could be so deadly acute that they most possibly would be late from the phoenix symposium? If his topic did not explain even quark-sized bits of the previous cheek incident, she would definitely demand a straight clarification. Tonks was however going to let him mutter his mumbles first.

Severus conducted the girl across the dim hall, past heavy black curtains, past the cobwebbed candelabra that glimmered faintly in the wan light. The man was furthermore keeping her arm in a tight clutch, whereas the Auror tossed puzzled glances towards his attire. Perhaps the Death Eaters had an evil ball tonight, and everyone was supposed to look like giant death’s head moths.

“You... err... meeting someone, Mr. Snape? You’ve... dressed rather scaril... erm... differently,” she asked en passant.

“M - mmmmee - me... meeting?” he stuttered, slightly blanching. “Ee... I - yes, I mean no!”

A vein was throbbing terribly on his oily temple. It had been a hideous mistake to arrange this glitzy wardrobe display. Why had he not simply been satisfied with the elegant black simplicity of his humdrum bat-suit? With acid patience, he still swallowed the goggles of the others, but her remarks made his windpipe do an overhand knot with itself.

Snape laid his skeletal hand on the side chamber’s serpent-shaped doorknob. The carved teak door creaked ghostly open on its rusty hinges, revealing a small, vaulted storeroom fusty with age-old dust, dank as an old tomb. The man’s gleaming, rather anxious eyes were constantly sweeping from side to side, as though trying to spot atom-sized spy cameras. Once Tonks had entered the dismal hole where only a single, flickering lamp created pitifully sparse light, the man sealed the exit very carefully. He dared not look at her, but kept observing rather too keenly the dust-breathing floor. The frowzy air seemed to be poisoning him slyly, by stuffing his ears and clogging his brainwaves. The thought soared no more; the words were stuck in his throat. He was finally alone with her. But what to tell, how to make her understand what nettled his heart?

“Miss Tonks, I - I wish that you would excuse me that I am taking your time this way, but I... I sincerely must recount you something t-that has been... gurk... In - in vain have I struggled, it will not do. You must allow me to tell you...”

“Um... what are you trying to tell me, Mr. Snape?” Tonks wondered, giving a brief glance at her watch. The seconds were hurtling onwards, leaping over one another in their haste. “I just think... Wouldn’t it be better to leave this and talk after the meeting? Lupin told he’s got news from Dumbledore. We might miss something very important if we’re late.”

“I... No, I cannot let this wait any longer, I... ghh... I must... solicit, if...” Snape’s palate was now drier than Sahara. Alike in his dungeon, he marched apprehensively around the few square meters the chamber provided. The nonplussed girl was scratching her head. What the galloping gargoyles could there be so awkward that this Order spy could not even comprehensibly slur it out? Did he perhaps want to warn about some perilous shadow looming on the horizon? Had Voldemort perhaps allied with Sauron and other intergalactic Dark Lords, planning a surprise attack to take over the whole solar system? But in that case, should not he be gloating about his important findings down in the kitchen? Nymphadora had so far seen that the Potions Master possessed the coolness of an iceberg when he reported his snoop trips into the Death Eater soirees. Hence, why all this sudden, squirmy suspense?

Severus abruptly halted his pacing gracelessly mere inches before her, as though having collided with an invisible brick wall. There was certainly no overdose of carbon dioxide in the room, but still his lungs did not seem to reach the vital oxygen particles. There he stood, Nosferatu-like, breathing shallowly, staring down at the girl with his phrenetic, hungry gaze.

“I - I - n-need... to... tell... slprrfff...” There the diphthongs failed, utterly.

She was too close. Way too close.

His glazed pupils found some kind of bewildering bewitchment in the bewildered witch. That slightly naïve, soft gawp... her lips just a tad open, the chamber’s single lamp gilding the pinkness of her locks... His hand, which had been up in the air for some reason, was trembling so much that it would have become an efficient milk shake machine. And all suddenly, all the torrents of pent-up sentiments were beginning to break the iron-fastened dam, behind which they had been blocked.

She was too close...

The hand extended its chapped fingers towards her cheek, soon sliding down along it, caressing every millimeter of her soft jowl. On the left side, his whole other arm was preparing to dart forwards...

A very gauche mien was spreading on her face. No, this was impossible, she had to be hearing hallucinations and seeing acousmas! It all was a confusing deja-vu. So, the preceding brushing of her cheek had been done on purpose? The stroke of Snape’s cold, scarred hand had the distinct resemblance to sandpaper. Hence there was no doubt any longer to whom that particular touching style belonged.

“Mr. Snape, w-w-what are yy-y-ou doing...?” she piped, before her frightful utterance was thoroughly muffled.

Clamp! The tumult of his emotions had devoured the last biscuits of his reason. His arms closed around the girl’s little slender body like a giant mousetrap. She was in a flash arrested between the wall behind and the male’s wiry bat-form. The poor professor apparently thought his travesty of an embrace to be very gentle and affectionate. In truth, he was squeezing the Auror so tightly against his thorax that she had difficulty to breathe. At least three crowbars would have been needed to pry those two apart. And the circus definitely did not end there. With his left fist, he took a good hold of her occiput, and mashed his lips on hers. The forlorn bachelor had no perfect idea of how kissing was supposed to be done. He merely was aware that this procedure required two people smearing their lips against each other, producing a considerable amount of slurping and slopping noises on the way.

Thus, the fiery kiss, with which he was supposed to caress Tonks, started quite awkwardly. Snape was having serious trouble with his overlong nose. It seemed constantly blocking his efforts to reach her mouth better. But luckily he learned rather quickly the essence of kissing, and tilted his head so much that the bridged beak was not thoroughly hindering his fondness. Second by second, the acts of fondling were becoming less barbaric. The kisses were getting deeper and slower, his hand on her occiput beginning to stroke her hair. Snape’s sentiments were blazing with the heat of bubbling lava. The swirly, swooping feeling galloping along his body was the most wonderful thing he had felt in ages, and he wanted this sweet moment to last to infinity and beyond... Her softness in his clasp, forever, eternally... until the stars would fall and the sun perish... Until there would be only black ether left, yet their embrace everlasting...

Nonetheless, there were doubts whether Nymphadora wanted his uncanny emotional attack to be everlasting. At the moment, the girl was so perplexed with abrupt fright and surprise that she did not even understand to resist. She merely shuddered there, jammed between the amorous bat and the hard wall, as though being the salami inside a weird sandwich. Her glazed eyes were a hundred miles wide, round as Frisbees. Her mind was a bare, blank vacuum. Yet, very slowly, the grasp of reality was crawling back from the deepest and darkest subliminal wormholes, ripping the veil of smog from before her vision.

Severus Snape was kissing her.

Kissing. KISSING? SNAPE?

And then the post-struggle began, erupting in muffled yelps. It was neither disgust nor hatred, just thoroughly stunned welter.

“Hfffgghhhhhhmmmpppph! FFFFFF! Hggggplrrrf!” she squirmed, attempting to free her arms from the conceptual chains of his hold.

Snap. A pair of cruel scissors bisected the thread of his dream. Sensing her wriggles and gurgles, he unglued his lips from hers. Tonks began coughing as though she had swallowed a Snitch, being very breathless after the ultra-long, suffocating kiss.

Thereupon, a horrible, black coldness filled the professor’s chest. The awakening reality was gashing his heart with a hundred icy blades.

What had he done? What kind of immense foolishness had he executed?

The last pixels of color were washed off from his thin visage, as her terrified eyes met his after the worst hacks. His arms around her lost their squeeze, falling at his sides, slack as boiled spaghetti. The sentimental narcosis had driven him too far.

Wondering gloomily why she had not yet granted him a hard slap on the ear, he rasped dourly, “I - I am so sorry. I s-should never have d-done this to you.I - hgh - have been an awful idiot.”

He twirled about, hating initially everything he was, what he had committed... Oh, if he only could sink into the mould and rot there alone with his mistakes... His conscience was screeching like a chicken being plucked alive. He could not bear this shame. An Order meeting or not awaiting downstairs, Snape cared no more. This grim old place was the embodiment of his agony. He wanted out, and now. Not once glancing back at the victim of his passion, he clambered towards the door, hiding his visage into his hands.

“You fool, you pathetic fool, what have you done? What have you done?” he swore under his breath.

“Wait! Hey, wait a second!” He heard a feminine yelp echoing behind his cape.

“Wait...!”

But no, it was impossible to turn back any more. Like a black wraith, Snape glided out of the den of misery, the front door snapping shut behind him.