It was, a dark and stormy night-
Previous exposure to this much-vaunted phrase might make the reader cringe. It is, after all, a collection of words that evoke thoughts of derision, humor, and, on rare occasions, contests. But, as the reader will note, there is no other way to properly convey the set of circumstances that have led to this document. The setting is England; so quite literally, it was a dark and stormy night.
One will refrain from mentioning that the meeting also took place on the Moors.
Amidst the rain, there stood, very dramatically, the one known as the Dark Lord. In polite society he: or the conglomeration of man and beast that he had become was known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. A very silly moniker he often thought. He'd spent years conjuring up his name; the anagram alone had taken the better part of six years. The coat (black and shiny) and the coat of arms were easier to design. Not to mention the countless hours instilling dread among the general populous at the very thought of his name, and now, at the very height of his notoriety, most couldn't even bother to speak his name. The annoyingly politically correct term that he had became to be known as, installed a sense of collective mass amnesia. The idiots had forgotten that he'd ever existed.
The Dark Lord, Voldemort for the uninformed, was piqued. Unfortunately, for most, this put the man in a continual bad mood. There did exist a small, yet vibrant sect that was absolutely delighted at his return. These folks, when not masturbating themselves to the words 'Lord Voldemort', could most readily be found at the knees of certain leather clad individuals; licking the very tip of a shiny leather clad foot. These souls practically vibrated in joy at the thought of a certain Dark Lord rampaging throughout the land. They usually felt that the Dark Lord's mission would be better served if they were to scamper about his feet, licking and salivating on command. Aside from these hearty folk and a Death Eater or three, most of the population very happily stuck their heads join the sand and hummed a merry little tune: much better as to block out all thoughts of evil Lords coming back to roost.
There were, as often exists, a group that knew the Dark Lo-Voldemort, was running merrily throughout the bogs. These very righteous souls called themselves "The Order of the Phoenix." In another of life's little ironies, this name was also never spoken of in polite society. Why people actually spent time on coming up with all these spiffy names for themselves is beyond most, it isn't as though people will actually be using the names. One does, however, digress.
Another group that could hardly ignore the fact the Dark Lord was running amok throughout England, Scotland and most of the British Isles, were the Death Eaters. Please refer to the previous statement about pithy nicknames. The Death Eaters were of course, followers of the Dark Lord. With a name like that, what else could they be? A very scary Quidditch team?
This night, the one in question, the Death Eaters were gathered around the Dark Lord trying, unsuccessfully, not to shiver. The Dark Lord, in that megalomaniac way most dreaded villains possessed, thought it was from fear. Most of those present that fateful night were very wet and cold, the one prostate at the Dark Lord's feet felt the brunt of the weather.
This man was Severus Snape, bane of just about everyone and much maligned. Snape spent most of his adult life spying on the Death Eaters for Albus Dumbledore. This had led to Snape going as far to get the Dark Mark; all of these terms must be capitalized, thus signifying their importance to man or: Those That Give A Fig about these sort of things. The Dark Mark was a very ugly thing that tended to turn black whenever the Dark Lord made an appearance. This led to a fashion trend in long sleeves that buttoned at the wrist, ensuring that the mark was not seen by accident. For Snape, the Dark Mark had led to suspicion among the very people he was trying to help, thus putting him in a perpetual bad mood. That he was face down trying to avoid being sucked into the bog to his left did not help matters one iota.
So there he lay, listening very intently to the words spewing forth from Voldemort's lips, gathering information, all the while knowing that the dirt was never going to come out of his hair. Most would be surprised that the very thought ran through Severus' mind. It was the belief of the consensus that Severus Snape never washed his hair, didn't bath and to take a step further, was one centimeter away from the undead. Snape, aware of these facts, tried not to let the stories about him bother him, but they did, had since he was a child. The rumors invaded every waking thought, thus leading to his perpetual bad mood. Here he was, getting a cold, muddy and still trying to inch away from the bog, and no one even appreciated what he was doing.
Once again he turned his attention to the Dark Lord, belatedly realizing that a response was required of him.
"Pardon, my Lord? I'm not quite sure what it is that you are asking of me," said Snape, directing his question to the man before him. It was easier to refer to the Dark Lord as a man, given Snape's past history. Despite the rumors that swarmed around him, Snape had never once been into bestiality. Unfortunately, an attraction to those that became beasts had pervaded his sex life, adding further to his bad mood. Everyone he had slept with either became a beast at one time or another. The times when Snape allowed himself to think about his sexual urges led him to shiver in fright. The question was, did having sex with those that became animals, make him one? All these thoughts were shoved quite forcibly to the back of his mind, getting distracted at a meeting was a very sure way to insure his death. Back, he thought, to the man looming over him.
"Ahh, my Severus," said Voldemort, not the least bit surprised that Severus did not understand. It was among his most excellent of ideas. Of course, being the evil lord that he was, he derived a great deal of pleasure from restating his machinations. Repeating evil plans was a sure sign that the speaker was a most evil entity. Very good for publicity and making the minions cower.
"I have a gift for you, my most wonderful Severus." He took great pleasure in hearing his beloved Severus inhale deeply at his words. Severus was a delightful man, now if only he took more pride in his appearance. Certainly, his gift to Severus would change all. It simply did not do that his adored Severus was thought so little of. He certainly thought highly of the man. There was not a man or beast in the entire country whose prowess matched Severus in bed. The man was born to be mastered in bed. Not even his new dalliances with Nagini held a measure to the feeling of Severus Snape writhing in ecstasy beneath him.
"Severus, beloved, I have a gift for you."
Snape, for his part, fought from trembling. The last time Voldemort gifted him with something, it had taken days for him to recover. Gifts, he venomously thought, were to be avoided at all costs; especially those that came from Dark Lords, Headmasters and certain fetish freaks.
Voldemort gave an imperious gesture (Dark Lords never made superficial gestures, every movement they made was calculated to be of a grandiose nature) to Peter Pettigrew, the only other person that The Dark Lord trusted. In Wormtail's case, it was more of a control issue. While Voldemort trusted Snape because of their mutual past, Pettigrew, in contrast, was a sycophant, slime and a quivering idiot. There was no chance the man would ever betray him. In the land of the pure cliché, this would be an obvious setup for the betrayal of the Dark Lord. In this case, however, Pettigrew had no thoughts of the kind; he very rarely had an original thought. He did scuttle off to retrieve the package Voldemort had set aside earlier.
Snape, for his part, waited in silence. It did no good to imagine what Voldemort considered an appropriate gift. Sooner than he would of liked, Wormtail returned and placed the package reverently at the Dark Lord's feet. Snape glanced sideways at the package, trying to see inside it, but it was well covered. With a sigh, he resigned himself to await the big revelation.
Voldemort, ever aware of the gravity of the moment, paused before revealing his gift to his beloved. The Death Eaters surrounding Snape and Voldemort, shocked out of their relief that The Dark Lord had not seen fit to gift them with something special, gasped in unison. Voldemort beamed out of his cavernous maw, he just loved to shock the minions. He held up his gift to the one that served him faithfully, a bouncing baby boy.
He'd given his Severus his heir.
Severus, to the surprise of many, but not Voldemort, was positively delighted.