Chapter 2

"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light."

— Plato

A wife? Where had that come from? Had he missed something, somehow? Had he failed to anticipate this, or was it simply as out of the blue as it seemed? As nonsensical as it seemed? What was the Dark Lord seeking to achieve by marrying his spy off? Was it a matter of trust? Had the man (if you could call him that anymore) somehow sensed that all was not right? That would at least make sense, to force a spy onto a spy. Yet, surely, there were more sensible ways to go about things if his duplicity had been discovered. This was particularly true given Bellatrix's presence; she had never trusted him after all, not since he wormed his way out of a life time of imprisonment the first time round. Indeed, she was one of the few who questioned his loyalty consistently, to his face at least; the others murmured and cursed about him behind his back, but none were foolish enough to challenge his position as the Dark Lord's trusted right hand in his presence.

A wife? How did one respond to this seemingly random turn of events. Although, if he was honest there was only really one response to anything in the presence of this Master. Even then, with his death eater persona in full force, he couldn't help but to phrase it as a question: "A wife, my Lord?". Bellatrix gave a sharp peal of laughter, full of mirth. Severus shot her a hard glare, before returning his attention to the red eyes of his Master. White fingers gestured a chair opposite to the one in which the Dark Lord had settled himself; Severus obeyed. It wasn't as though one had a choice in these matters, no matter how little he wanted to move down this strange new avenue that had suddenly appeared in the peculiar road map of his life.

Severus did not crave the company of a wife. Indeed, the only act he craved from a woman preferably ended with him leaving her bed before she awoke again. It wasn't, despite what students appeared to believe, that he had no inclination to feel the warmth of a woman's embrace, he simply didn't enjoy the messy emotional consequences of an attachment any longer than a single night, and absolutely no longer than a weekend. He had been young and foolish once, over attached to a woman who could never have been his, even before he said that one unforgivable word. Mudblood. That was how he had ended up in this position in the first place; his childish attachment to a woman, his stupidity in delivering the prophecy to his Master, only to realise to whom it referred. His desperation to save her, to save them all. His defection to his Master of the supposed light. She had died anyway. Not that he could have ever had her anyway. That was why he was here, sworn to protect her son. The son of a man that he had hated. The love he held for her had died away over the years, indeed he now saw it for what it was, the infatuation of a child; the guilt of a man. He had no inclination to be made a fool of again, his life was forfeit anyway. He had no illusion that he would survive this second war; what good would it do to make any ties in this world anyway.

It was not like he was a particularly handsome man. He heard what people said; he heard the things his students called him. His nose was rather too large, and hooked from a number of breaks over the years. He couldn't even remember at this point how many breaks. Too many he supposed. His skin was pale, of course this wasn't helped by spending the vast majority of life in the dungeons, but that was simply genetics. His body was littered with fine silvery white scars; a life time of potion making and repeated torture at the hand of the man in front of him. Yes, he would agree his teeth were crooked, but he had no real desire to change that fact, it simply didn't matter. His hair was raven, cut to the chin; despite the general consensus that it was greasy, he defied anybody to work over a cauldron all day and not ended up with greasy hair. If anybody had paid attention they would have noticed that at breakfast his hair was shiny and fell straight and neat to his shoulders. By dinner he knew it would be greasy and unkempt, but what was the point in caring. No Severus Snape was not conventionally handsome man; but he did, he had been told, have some redeeming features. His fingers were long and thin, dexterous and their movements precise and fluid from years of the careful art of potion making. In fact no movement that he made was anything but controlled, anything but fluid. His eyes were dark brown, so dark in fact that most people would have called them black, surrounded by thick dark eyelashes. Whilst students were largely too frightened of what he might do should they gaze into those eyes for anything longer than a second, more than one woman had said that they could fall into the endless pools. Personally, he didn't see what all the fuss was about, it wasn't like anybody could see anything in those depths; his facade was one without emotion, he would have been more in agreement if somebody had said those eyes looked dead.

Severus Snape could be charming, when he wanted to be. He could seduce with the best of them; his voice perhaps his best attribute, as far as women seemed to think at least. Deep and velvety, he knew the inflection of his words was more than enough to get one woman or another into bed (preferably theirs'). Years of friendship with Lucius Malfoy and his wife had taught him how to court a woman, even though his intention was never to take things anything further than said bed. Indeed, his old friend had taught him all the trappings of the pure blood world, and he had slipped into their practices over time. Nobody would think him the malnourished and beaten little boy who came from the wrong side of the tracks if they hadn't already known. They would never know how his witch mother, disowned from her own family for traitorously marrying a muggle, had simply given in and never performed a single piece of magic after he was born. They would not know that his father beat his wife and son into submission, or that it was not unusual to go days without food when his father spent all of his pay check on booze and cigarettes. No, they would never know about his previous life, better that he act like those in the brotherhood, with all the trappings of high society. Not to mention that he couldn't imagine charming too many women in their rather narrow social circle if they knew his half-blood status on top of his lack of traditional good looks.

Dropping into the chair he had been directed too, and still suspicious of Bellatrix's offering, Severus allowed the glass she had offered drop to his knee. Generally it wasn't a wise idea as a spy to allow alcohol to influence your actions. Whilst he had worked on controlling his mind under the influence of alcohol, and worse, over the years it was best to have a clear mind for these things if at all possible. Of course, sometimes it wasn't possible, indeed there were times when it would have been suspicious for him to not imbibe, but this was not one of these times. Best to keep all his faculties under control in this bizarre avenue he was following. "Yes, a wife Severus", the Dark Lord spoke again a look of what may have been described as amusement in the face of any normal man, "We can't be letting that blood line of your's to dry out now can we." So that was what this was about.

Severus was the last in a pureblood line, the Prince line. Whilst his mother had been disowned on marrying a muggle, the lack of any other heirs had meant that the trappings of the Prince family had automatically passed into his hands upon the death of a grandfather he had never known. Despite the fact he was a half-blood, being the last living heir of the Prince family fortune had bought him slightly more respect with his brother's in arms; although, he wasn't sure if this was a particularly good thing. Of course in this "brave new world" of Lord Voldemort's they would need to continue the propagation of the old houses to make up for the lack of any muggle born witches and wizards entering their world. Not to mention any other deaths they would sustain in this pantomime of a war. So the Dark Lord was looking ahead, convinced of his victory, this perhaps should not have been surprising. Severus suspected that Dumbledore would not be surprised in the slightest in this development when he reported, but still it was not something they had openly considered.

The only unmarried man in the inner circle, Severus assumed, meant that he was the most obvious candidate to start this whole thing. His worst fear was that he was about to married off to some vapid, intellectually stunted pureblood girl; a student or ex-student. Of course he had been teaching sixteen odd years, so most women younger than he had been his students, those slightly older had been his contemporaries at school. Things looked bad enough as they were without being married off to a child he would have to bed, repeatedly, at the Dark Lord's order. Worse still, pureblood society in Britain was still living in what seemed like the dark ages; women belonged almost completely to their husband, arranged marriages were common place, and the couples would be bound forever. There was no concept of something as daft as muggle divorce in the world he currently occupied. If by some miracle he survived the war, with victory going to either side, he would be stuck with the woman for the rest of his life. This was not a happy thought as far as he was concerned.

The Dark Lord appraised his loyal servant, his trusted lieutenant, making eye contact before slipping into his mind. Severus felt the incursion immediately, forcing his lack of desire for a wife, or any long term emotional attachment to the forefront. Meanwhile, he carefully put away those things that had occurred to him since he heard that one word; wife. Apparently content, Severus felt the other presence slip from hind mind. "Whilst we all know that you have never really enjoyed the sins of the flesh," Bellatrix laughed haughtily at their Masters' words, "you must help us to rebuild our society once victory is won; all of my loyal followers must do the same." Snape simply nodded his head in agreement, accepting his fate as he always must do. It was true, unlike the other death eaters he would never (could never) enjoy taking pleasure from the broken muggles captured for one of the Dark Lords revels; he had tortured for the greater good, murdered for the greater good, but he drew a line at violating anybody in that manner. This was surprisingly accepted by Lord Voldemort; he had long since accepted that the academic man would not join in such activities, and whilst others found this behaviour odd, they had long since accepted no amount of encouragement or derision changed this.

"I suppose, My Lord, that you have a particular woman in mind?" Snape knew he had to keep control, despite how strained he felt. Whilst he had no interest being stuck in a marriage, he had even less interest in binding an unwilling participant to him. Worse, if they were unwilling he knew he would have to violate her, as the Dark Lord was certain to want to check any such marriage was consummated. He pushed these thoughts aside; such thoughts were dangerous in current company; best to come back to them later, if at all. "I told you I would find a suitable replacement for that mudblood you desired all those years ago." Severus nodded, it was generally not a sensible move to challenge the Dark Lord once his mind was set on something. Any time really, unless you enjoyed the after effects of the Cruciatus curse. "I thank you My Lord, you are most generous." Snape doubted it was any sort of generosity on his Master's part, but nothing else he could say would lead to anything good.

Voldemort stood, and gesturing Severus to follow, he said: "Time to meet your bride Severus".