Authors Notes: This will be a story for those of you who liked the original one-shot by the same name, and here is the revised first chapter. Still cannot use quotation marks or apostrophes. If anyone knows why they turn into weird Ò, please let me know! My thanks to: Mickat, JasperPress77, marion, Severus Snape, elfgirl, Pan, Shamus Sev, Artemis MoonClaw, J.S. Sumner (Thank you!), Phoebs1, Red Ribbon, Lady Matsu, Serendipity, lillinfields, and Kazza. Shhh. . . I am also under the name of Nimrowdel if you want to read some sweet, non-R-rated fics, but please do not mention the name Elm Kitten in any reviews. :D
He watched them swirl below, that glimmer of polished society that gilded a band of the worst excuses for humans in existence. They waltzed, and the fabric trailing out from the guiding mens dress robes was only surpassed by the shining bustles of the ladies gowns. A fortune wasted for a party. Damn Malfoy. The thought soured the champagne in his hand, and he crushed the fluted crystal in an iron grip. The pieces tinkled like the false laughs of the women as they hit the floor.
Another year, another masked affair of the powerful and beautiful coming together. It was revolting. He knew on each and every forearm of each and every guest there was Dark Mark, some modestly hiding it, others flaunting their masters leash to the world. Or at least to Malfoys guests. The host himself perched on a small dais, an eagle mask obscuring his face, but the long blonde hair and the fact he was mauling an intoxicated red head were dead give aways. Snape sneered from behind his crows face, and fingered the trim of shiny black feathers that blended effortlessly with his hair. A group passed him by down the stairs.
*Say Severus, care to take Emily for a spin? She is aching for a dark bastard like yourself.* McNair stopped and gestured to a bright eyed blonde who looked like she might have been innocent a few dozen men ago.
*No, Avery, you know that. The answer will never change.* He did not bother hiding his annoyance.
*You know, old man, I am starting to doubt the existence of your reason. Go have fun.*
At least he did not get dragged out onto the dance floor with the sinister young debutants trying to move up in the ranks by seducing a senior Death Eater. Oh no, he had a good excuse. Severus Snape was married, and had been for twenty years. Just because he could not tell you what she looked like, did not mean she did not exist. He fingered the gold ring binding him to the woman who was also victim to a parents advantageous arranged marriage.
It was a long time ago now, that a fifteen year old Severus, shaking with raw fury, pledged himself eternally to a fourteen year old stranger so shrouded in rich, white veils he could not describe her beyond female and average height. His mother cried through the whole thing, remembering, he imagined, the same situation that left her with a husband of fists instead of kisses.
After the ceremony they had been port keyed by her father to a dark, lush bedchamber where they were told they would consummate the marriage or it would be crucio until they screamed in repentance. He flicked his wand and left his daughter naked against the bedpost on his way out. The heavy veil stayed, but quivered suspiciously like tears for a moment before a deep, rasping breath shuddered through the room, and she stopped trying to hide herself from him, proud and terrified.
Neither had said a word, nor seen each other, they just did it. It was awkward, and unsatisfying, and he knew it was painful for her, but he tried to be gentle. Gentle was difficult when one was so angry they could kill. They both bled. He had bitten through his lip in an attempt to control with wrath, and she bleed when he broke her, red marks on the sheets. When it was over they rolled to opposite side of the enormous bed, and he could hear her cry. In the morning she was gone.
Severus came back to the present. Gazing down, her saw Narcissa Malfoy in a peacock ensemble with mock plumes small talk with leering associates of her husband. She seemed to be blind to her husbands continuing ravishment of the red head on the plush velvet cushions. Oh yes, Snape thought. She knows her marital duty. He drifted back to his own unhappy marriage.
Like clockwork, he returned to her bedchamber in her parents manor once a year, on their wedding anniversary, and they preformed their marital duties. He doubted any heir would ever come of it. It was always dark, and they never spoke, but after twenty years they had learned to take their own pleasure from the ritual. She did not complain that he always had scotch on his breath, because they never kissed. He never bothered to worry about her faking it, because he did not care. They were faceless strangers who made a mockery of love once a year. The only way he knew it was the same woman year after year was by the curves beneath him, and their constant shape.
But maybe Avery, while a twisted pervert, had a point. Snape pulled the ring off and weighed it in his hand. He had always been faithful, but to what? What confidence did he have that his shadow bride was faithful to him? Perhaps she had been filling her time and her bed while Severus foolishly suffered night after night lonely and uncared for by another human. She has never given me a reason to believe she cares for me at all, or that she wants to even try. The ring slipped into his pocket. Tonight, he was single. Tonight, he would not go home alone. The wave of guilt was crushed, and he stepped on the forgotten champagne glass beneath his feet with a sickening crunch.
He surveyed the room. The women either ignored him or smiled coquettishly with vapid-looking eyes framed in fluttering lashes. Come, go where every man has gone before. They were pampered sluts with wealthy fathers and no responsibilities other than to entertain Daddys Death Eater friends. He almost felt sorry for them. A waif-thin, willowy blonde noticed his eyes upon her, and came towards him, swishing her yellow gown from side to side to make it flutter and attract attention to her assets.
*Want to go upstairs?* Her eyes were faintly bloodshot, and she reached out a bare hand to caress his behind. Snape angrily slapped her hand away, and the sleeve fell back to reveal terrible marks left from repeated needles puncturing the veins. He stepped a way with revulsion clearly marked on his face. She pouted with horrible, dark stained lips. *A girl has to have her fun.* Severus turned on his heel and followed the banister to a hall, and followed the hall, making a few twists and turns.
When he decided he would not be disturbed, he leaned back against a wall and breathed. Those women. No wonder he had not contemplated throwing out his marriage before. The Death Eater women were all repulsive, used and self-abused creatures in a haze. The muggle women were out of the question, he refused to pretend to be some magically-stunted Joe. The rest of the magical world believed him too much Severus Snape: Professional Bastard. They would never guess the very same man had loneliness eating him away, wanting to be loved, and to love in return with someone who was lover and companion.
He reached into his pocket and fingered the ring against the silk lining. He would return it when the opportunity came to the faceless girl it belonged, and he would seek the woman who could at least amuse him tonight. Maybe he could find the least drug-soaked, innocent woman at the party, but he doubted he would ever find one. Loneliness seemed branded on his life, and he sought out a refuge in Malfoys private wing of the house.
She stood in a study off the main hall stairs, focused on an antique chessboard with a king forgotten under her fingertips. He moved closer. A pretty picture, she had a bundle of red-brown hair elegantly but simply piled and pinned up, a sky blue gown that shifted like waves lapping at the floor and a white mask sat forgotten on a wide paneled desk. A half full bottle of red wine was paired with a large cupped wine glass, the dregs left in the bottom glowing. It is almost too easy. The strains of music drifted in from below, and he caught whiff of sweet feminine scent from the opened window of the study.
*Care to play?* He tuned his deep voice to its most velvety setting that he coddled frequently with single malt scotch, and watched her twirl around, king in hand. They met eyes. He could not tell what colour they were in the dim light of the room. She calmly appraised him, and nodded. He strolled in casually, and finding the twin to her glass in an open cabinet, poured them both generous amounts of ruby liquid.
They set up the pieces and began the game. Her delighted laugh whenever she captured a piece lit up parts of him he had forgotten. Of all the women here, he had found an unspoiled masterpiece of feminine glory in body, mind and spirit. She peeled her gloves off absently, and he was deeply moved to find her arms spotless of the Dark Mark. It burst the dam for him.
*We are pretty much even here, Madame. Care to make a bet?* She responded by carefully regarding the boards inhabitants weighing her chances.
*Certainly, name your price.* He adored her vibrant, quiet voice.
*You. If I win, you come home with me. If you win, you name your prize and I will give it.* She shook her head at his impulsive overture, suddenly serious, and wiggled a pale hand at him. There shone a solitary silver band. He leaned over the table and whispered into her ear.
*It is worth it? What kind of man would leave you at a party of Death Eaters alone, where you could meet dangerous men in hidden rooms?* She stiffened. He smiled into her neck. I think I hit a nerve. One similar to my own. A flicker of guilt was hushed. He moved back, and gazed steadily. Her eyes were shut, and her breathing deep. Moonlight played across her face as the room grew still, the only sounds the masses below drinking and becoming bawdy.
*Alright, if you win, you win me for tonight. If I win, I chose my prize.* Her eyes flew open, and they were darker, more mysterious. Snape adored them too, and threw himself into the game. So did she, and it moved swiftly towards that final move when she threw those dreaded words into his shocked face.
*Check mate!* There was triumph ringing in her voice, but Snape could feel his fantasy for the night slipping through his fingers.
*Name your prize.* He spoke softly, dangerously, and his gripped the table edge. Her fragile fingers rested on his, and her darkened eyes caught his line of sight. She strode around the table to him, gown ebbing and flowing, and met his ear with her wine-dipped words.
*I choose you. You will be my prize, but not tonight.*
She disapparated away, leaving him rapidly sobering.