Estate of Quetzalcoatl

Estate of Quetzalcoatl

The sand inside a large hourglass trickled sluggishly through its curvaceous mistress’s waist. A few flickering orbs of candlelight had a contest with the major fire crackling in the slightly coved fireplace. A fragile sort of teacup chinked lightly, when long, ashen fingers lifted it up, and brought the dish to touch its master's lips. Almost one could see the half-drunken Bergamot tea cringe in its delicate vessel, as a pair of ominously large, thin nostrils abruptly flared above it.

The poor tea, exposed to such blankly staring, black, hairy cavities as those were. The gaping maw before was equally threatening.

Nonetheless, perhaps it was a better fate to enter the rima oris, than be eternally left to squinch beneath that murky double-menace. Namely, after a bit of wandering in the mazes of the digestive system, the tea would eventually reach its freedom, the heavenly toilet. Ah, how serenely it would be able to swim there with the other water molecules, and make a few new pals out of miscellaneous chunks blessed with the fragrant odor of methane.

The cup was finally put back onto its saucer. The fingers fluttered away to flip a page in a newspaper set wide open on the oaken table. A black-and-white picture of Cornelius Fudge became now endangered to the atrocious stare of the nostrils of doom. Yet, it was not their fault that the portly short man in the image looked so jittery. He was fidgeting, bouncing back and forth on his heels. His mouth twaddled mute gibberish so rapid and anxious that it appeared as though he had had thick fog covering half of his face. The answers to the behavior of the Minister of Magic needed not to be searched for in other galaxies. Already the cover of today's Daily Prophet screeched out the bad news with Hagrid-sized letters.

‘Second Mass Breakout from Azkaban: Ministry of Magic informs that the Death Eaters, which were arrested only a rough two weeks ago, have escaped from the wizard prison Azkaban. These highly dangerous criminals include the twice convicted Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, who had a high influence on the Ministry’s decisions and commissions before the shocking happenings at the time aforesaid...’

Below the headlines, a short note advised the impatient readers to turn to page three, unless they wanted to remain gazing at the large picture of a haughtily blinking man in his forties. Of course the Ministry's major ex-bootlicker, L. Malfoy, had received the place as the cover boy. Even though he bore an expression that suggested there might have been a bucket full of dragon dung under his nose.

Inside, the sad story of Voldemort's new rise went on and on, the crisscrossing lines of text hooting and tooting about a new era of dark destruction. More sullen desperados were depicted on the pages. The political forces were trying to organize themselves swifter than the speed of light. However, issues like how the Muggle population should be taken account were causing severe clashes of opinions, and thus ever more beard-ripping. There was also a slight lack of Aurors besides the innumerable other problems. All this made the Ministry appear as a total turkey, seemingly being able to do nothing else than to cluck and ruffle its feathers ferociously.

And apparently nobody had seen even a swishing cape's corner of the runaways. In one of the agitated newspaper pictures, a random Ministry worker explained how the Magical Law Enforcement had frantically started searching for any clues of the current residences of the Death Eaters.

Oh, so nobody knew... those pitiful fools...

The mouth under this violently curving facial protrusion, that had caused such fright to the small puddle of tea, curled into a sardonic sneer. To enhance the grace of that venomous leer, a badly washed, yellow eyetooth became concurrently bared.

Surely he knew... at least the semi-regular meeting places, if not the very exact hideouts of the convicted. Had he not seen those same swaggering gray eyes, as were in the cover picture, only a few hours ago through slits in a hood? The high-pitched cackle of the Dark Lord gloating in the background... Hmph. These pathetic pipsqueaks of the Ministry. First denying everything, and now suffering from the foreseeable consequences of their utter stupidity. Indeed, what sniveling lack-wits. Their very own fault.

But surely he knew certain facts... and so did the Headmaster. And thusly did the Order, thanks to his brave work as a spy in this darker than dark game of Life, Universe, and Everything.

It would be appropriate also to add 'more perilous than perilous', and 'more hazardous than hazardous and even a tad more' to the latter definition. Or course, if one wishes to be especially specific, the English vocabulary provides an extensive amount of adjectives to depict the wizarding world’s current sinister tides. Also such less refined expressions as 'iffy', and 'ickier than Umbridge’s pink cardigan after being dipped in an unflushed toilet' suit lucidly well. In case you would like to manifest the happenings with yet more gregarious and bombastic words, you are recommended to contact William Shakespeare's ghost. The address is available at the Spirit Division of the Ministry of Magic Headquarters, London.

Severus Snape rolled the newspaper shut, and carelessly tossed it aside. It was a late morning of July, a random day plashing in the river of time. Even though it was the hottest point of summer, Slytherin's hemi-damp dungeons always retained the atmosphere of a combined fridge and catacomb. Hence the fire was welcome, not to mention the heavy cloaks and robes and miscellaneous spectacularly billowing bat-wear the Potions Master habitually wore. The man was finishing his rather belated breakfast. He was still somewhat somnolent after the previous night's lack of sleep. A fake tufthunter of Voldy-Moldylocks as he was, Snape naturally had attended the major Death Eater convention that had followed the fleeing of Malfoy and the other cronies. And afterwards, an emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix had been called up. Snape had cawed his dramatic report at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with such detail that the Order probably knew even exactly how many ounces of cockroach droppings had been on the floor of the gathering place. Even if fatigued, Severus had thus acquired his chance for some smug satisfaction.

Ahh, the glory... Even though fatal danger followed his every sweep, he was awed and distinguished... unlike among these pathetic lunkheaded brats he had to teach here...

Although the professor frequently suffered from poor self-assurance - as usually misunderstood geniuses did - he was blatantly egoistic about the subjects he was brilliant at. Therefore, it was the very seventh heaven to plash in mental jactitation afterwards, and recall the shocked visages of Alastor, Shacklebolt, and Hestia Jones, who still wore hair rollers and fluffy bunny-slippers due to the very early time...

Although, there was the one figure he had missed... Perhaps the little one had not obtained Dumbledore's message...

He momentarily forgot his semi-villainous gloating, as the awareness soared elsewhere. Snape felt a tiny, odd tickling sensation in his midriff, and his face softened into a very uncharacteristic, gentle little simper. Alas, what a perturbing phenomenon this was. The odds for anything such appearing on that beetle-browed grunt-phiz were just the same as Voldemort's Animagus form being a pink polka-dotted butterfly.

Nevertheless, that unlikable expression dwelled more and more often on his gaunt, sunken features nowadays, thanks to the peculiar sentimental side that had started evolving in him within the last few months. And now that his petite admired one responded to his feelings, appreciated him quite as he was, the slushy sloppiness had logically increased. Consequently, more and more frequently his unfathomable black eyes burned with an odd mellow glint. He nevertheless let his infamous Scowl™ fall aside only when extreme privacy was granted. Which was either five hundred percent alone, or with her.

After all, the outer world was supposed to see him as the almighty dark flint-heart and king of cynics, the sarcastic curl of lip being his only form of smile. And this wee blossoming romance he had with the most unlikely klutz to clamber on the plains of England, was supposed to be kept as a secret. For the sake of Dumbledore's bird-club and his venturesome part-time profession as a double agent amongst the Death Eaters.

His gaze wandered athwart the somewhat disorganized, spacey dungeon. Two walls were covered sensuously with glass jars, where different kinds of misshapen impossibilities - either pickled or undead - swam in ickily flavescent fluids. One especially large Ladogan Lumpylob-Lumberfish goggled at the greasy-haired teacher with its prominently bulging eyes. It involuntarily reminded the man of the kitten plates the former Headtoad Dolores Umbridge had kept in her office. Miscellaneous potionmaking paraphernalia lay here and there. Some of them gave light ticking sounds; some oozed differently colored puffs of vapor. In one corner, his messy desk was overflowing with ancient leather-bound books and rags of parchment. One of the latter kind was scribbled so densely with cramped spiky writing that it was a mere wonder one could read it without a microscope. His pupils, used to the deep shadows draping the vaults, lingered a while upon that particular vellum.

He ought to finish the letter... Perhaps she was already awaiting the answer... At least so she had written in her latest reply, that she wished to hear from him...

The smile curving his thin mouth widened perhaps a millimeter.

She truly liked him... just like her honest eyes had so many times narrated... His sweet graceful nymph, her candor subtler than the strongest Veritaserum, her calm cordiality like the Draft of Peace... And ah, how her slender, youthful figure intoxicated him like the mightiest Imperius Curse...

Of course, Severus did not really perceive how Tonks, behind his back, giggled almost hysterically at metaphors like these versified for her. In his previous mail, the unsuave ol’ ghoul had compared her beauty to at least a dozen of diverse potions and Dark Hexes. Nonetheless, she in a way did like his eccentric ways of cajolery, even though the metaphors were so ludicrously mismatched. But still she thanked all the Nargles of this universe that Severus did not attempt poetry. It would have come out as something like ‘Ah, how are thy tresses as soft as the fungi growing on old cheese, so sweet thy scent that it shall make me sneeze...’ anyway.

The owl post had been their only coo-channel after the Auror had scampered home from St. Mungo's. By random reasons, they had not faced each other even at the classified poultry premises. In addition, during the Order sessions they would in any case need to toss aside the emotions and set up a major masquerade. Treat each other publicly with stiff formal coolness just like before the notorious kitchen clumsiness that gradually had lead to this mush-oozing lovey-dovey drama.

One itty bitty glitch still existed in the pen-pal business. Snape's personal mail owl. Day by day it became surlier, apparently feeling that it was deeply insulted when obliged to transfer to and fro all those love letters dripping with honeyed sugar. Pigeons and pink doves were supposed to be the couriers of idiotic sap-scribbles, not this darkly proud bird. Till this day it had yet troubled itself to deliver the posts, but also the petulance had increased exponentially. Often it is stated that pets resemble their owners, and this case was not an exception. The black, constantly frowning owl of unknown breed, with a disproportionately large, hooked beak, and stooping figure, had even considerable physical similarity to the Potions Master. Nonetheless, mostly the sameness was mental. In the Owlery, the animal always sat alone in the darkest and hindmost corner, sulking and scowling mutely at its fellow residents. A quiet morose loner it was, but extremely loyal to its owner, even though it suffered from these occasional mood swings.

*****

Snape’s sentience glided back to the present day. The silence in the ancient castle was almost unreal these times, since the squealing tiddlers and miscellaneous superfrogs had been shooed out. Even the adult population had widely decreased, as most of the professors had tiptoed out to spend their summer holidays. Or, in this case, rather to help their families and relatives to strengthen the little security there was left before the war. Everything was so unsteady, that nobody quite could spend the following few weeks as a Flobberworm.

There were a few elisions that almost never left Hogwarts. Hagrid could be seen pottering around the grounds. Trelawney occasionally drifted down from her psychedelic dimensions, and randomly could be spotted trying to predict the forthcoming deathday of some ghost. Common fact was of course that specters should not be able to die twice, but everything was possible when it came to the semi-fraud Seer. 'Beware of the doom that looms beneath the moon, in the moor when a cow moos' had been her latest, foully rhymed advise to Sir Nicholas, whatever that was supposed to mean then. And for everyone's misery, Sibyll had become very proud of this new poetic form of prediction, and repeated it virtually to everyone she came across. Even the Giant Squid.

Other permanent Hogwarts lodgers included of course the masterbat himself. Approximately fifteen years Severus had lived in the Slytherin dungeons, almost never leaving his murky chambers for a longer period than a couple of days. And even the idea of him playing beach ball on Hawaii, wearing a lei and a t-shirt bearing the label 'I ♥ Ohana', was so out-of-character that one should have been convicted to Azkaban for even picturing such mind-warping illusions. Thus it was very adequate to find his abnormally large nose glued to some complex potion recipe even in the deepest summertime. Indeed, he had recently made some extravagant success on the fields of this art. One dark and shadowy night - which is somewhat an unnecessary depiction since nights in the Great Britain are usually dark and shadowy due to the globe's inclination - Snape had, by a curious experiment with Polyjuice Potion and minced Ent bark, come across an intriguing mixture. It seemed that thus he was able to prolong considerably the drink's effect. The original gunk allowed the swigger to play chameleon only a pitiful hour, whereas the spell of this upgraded version might last for days with the same dose. At the moment, this project was Snape’s most mollycoddled cosset alongside with his aforementioned dream-cherub. The potion yet needed loads of improvement to work properly. For instance, the odd side effect of the drinker starting to sprout holly out of his nostrils had to be uprooted in a way or another.

Then there was McGonagall, who usually grabbed the harnesses of this stone colossus for the summertime and became the Deputy Headmistress. This year, however, the happenings had shaped themselves differently. Dumbledore had severely tossed all the holiday whoopee aside, and remained at Hogwarts to lead the Order and stealthily guard the Scar-Head Wonderboy from baddy boo-boo Voldykins. Naturally he had skipped vacation even the previous year. But somehow, at the moment, the effect of him being constantly present was more notable.

It was definitely a high advantage, actually entirely compulsory. The ol' sly snake-face was vehemently plotting new schemes to increase his power. Something had to be badly clicking with his dark aura, if a single skinny teen boy was able to throw aside his most forceful curses. And as the self-proclaimed evil rulers, cliché-like, tend to chase all kinds of hoodoo bric-a-brac to boost their strength, Lord Thingy was no exception. The Philosopher's Stone had been flushed down the toilet, but always the abysses of this world concealed more objects of blazing power. Like small golden hoops that could rule other similar hoops... Yet, if the holders were not strong enough with might, those attracting circular gadgets would - in the worst case - drain them into stinking schizoid lurkers talking in third person...

Nonetheless, the Dark Lord born from J.K. Rowling's pen was not after Lord of the Rings merchandise. His evil red gaze had been targeted to a Mesoamerican mystery from beyond a thousand years. A tangled saga almost utterly forgotten, and regarded just as firm as the thin film of ice that autumn's first frost creates onto the surface of water...

However, he had his reasons to believe that there was some accuracy in it. Alike with the legend of the Sorcerer’s Stone, he had not stumbled upon it merely during yesterday’s breakfast. Dark Wizards usually inserted a plentiful of time and effort to the study of obscure mythologies. That not only increased their knowledge base of the Dark Arts, but, in the cases when some cobwebbed rune was revealed to have something more sensible than tons of Trelawney-isms in it, also occasionally acquired the power so desperately sought for.

Who knew, but perhaps this time Voldemort had hit one of those hidden jackpots. And yet, if the abundant power that it promised would not provide to be quite so overflowing and bombastic after all, it still might help him on the conquest of the Earth.

And maybe he could take over a few other planets or solar systems after that. Having your own evil intergalactic empire sounded rather dandy, after all... But first, of course, he would need to obtain some swingin’ mojo and get rid of the effing puny four-eyes.

---

Snape finished the pumpkin pastry he had been absent-mindedly chewing the last half an hour. A faint knocking sound coming from the office door had burst the bubble of drowsy stillness. He stood up, and slowly swept towards the exit. Who the jumping Jupiter wanted to have a chitchat now? And why was the whole aspect of the knock so slightly odd? It definitely was not the Headmaster fidgeting behind the wall-hole's oaken lid. He always used the fireplace for express journeys into 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 up to the Hospital Wing after such merciless violence. Hagrid then again... well, you could not speak about a door after his handling, moreover about something that lay in splinters on the floor. Besides, the half-giant rarely was seen around here, since Snape and he were not in the very best terms with one another.

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 front 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-esque 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 socks that had not been changed since Noah stepped aboard 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. Nobody in this castle quite complained about his shabby hygiene. Thus the Potions Master became 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 teak-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 pink tutu and a swarm of winged oysters flying around your head, a pigeon shall poo on you five p.m. tomorrow...’ Cringing, he could hear Sibyll's ridiculously tragic 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 wannabe 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 door open. He stopped dead with a small yelp, as he felt a rather forceful jolt against his torso.

"What in the name of Merlin...?"

As Severus looked down, his nose was to become 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, 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 included the prominently lopsided face, the very usual tennis ball -sized lump in his throat, and such abrupt breathiness that it suggested he might have had his lungs filled with molten Gorgonzola.

"Nynnynynnyn - nynnnnynyy - Nymphh - M-m-m - Miss Nymphadora? W-what are you doing here?" His 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 coggled here amongst the rippling shadows, had been eons ago. His very last memory of those times concerned something about the ex-teen sitting a detention and scrubbing Oozyfishy's ectoplasm away from a man-sized cauldron.

An awkward silence fell upon them. Nearby, a lonely torch sizzled and crackled in its brass bracket. Its light remained insufficient to shoo away the shadow-land's wraiths.