This story was inspired by a strange plot bunny that slithered into my mind during a law class where we were learning about the lawyer/client relationship and was encouraged by the members of His Most Faithful forum. It is based on a world where magic does not exist.

Also a note to those who are not aware of the British legal system and how it operates, unlike in America, a split profession operates where there are solicitors and barristers. Basically solicitors are those who meet with the client and do most of the written work while barristers appear in court. As well, I know Tom is not the most ethical lawyer, but is anyone really surprised?

I would also really like to thank Spinningdreams for being a beta for this fic.

Enjoy

Having practiced law for more than twenty years, Tom Riddle was content that he had seen everything. Most of the cases he dealt with always fell into a repetitious whirlpool that was always continuous.

This time it was a little different.

He had been flicking through the papers in front of him since they had been sent by Christopher Bradley, one of the solicitors he often worked with. They framed a peculiar tale about the event and the woman they detailed.

Most of Britain had heard about Bellatrix Lestrange. Only a few months ago, her face had been plastered over The Times and the news after she had been arrested for allegedly murdering her husband. It was so peculiar and infamous Tom was pleased at receiving the brief.

The woman fascinated him. From the media circus he had already known her background; privileged rich woman with an Earl for an uncle and married to a man whose father was in Parliament. Only twenty-two, she was seemingly a polite society girl, at least until she suddenly and erratically killed her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange.

The case was certainly intriguing and would no doubt attract some publicity. Tom was not particularly adverse to the notion. It could only be a positive and increase his chances of taking the silk.

Of course, it depended on how the case would progress and if the woman would be at all tolerable. From the information before him, most of the evidence pointed to her guilt so it would be difficult, but there could be crucial information missing. Tom was not prepared to trust that others had summarised and interviewed her.

It was time now.

Glancing at his wrist watch, he stood and carefully tucked all the files he needed into his leather briefcase. He normally would not have visited the client himself, instead preferring to leave the matter to the solicitor, but this case had gained his interest and, with the added scrutiny, he was determined to ensure he had done all he could to enhance his reputation.

Giving a curt nod to his secretary, he turned and left the Chamber to move into the lift to head to the car park.

There was only one place he could meet Bellatrix Lestrange.

Despite how often he had visited such facilities, entering a prison was always disconcerting to Tom. He loathed being stopped, searched and questioned like he was a criminal and could be controlled.

It was the sacrifice he had made to aid his curiosity.

After a final check, he was allowed into the visitor's room. It was nothing flash; merely filled with cream coloured walls, one desk, two chairs and a woman who sat and looked up at him as he entered.

Pausing in the doorway, he examined Lestrange with some surprise. Her appearance was unexpected; her dark hair was pulled into a bun, her uniform was cleaner than most prisoners, she sat upright as if she was on a throne and she was completely calm as if nothing bothered her. For someone who had just killed her husband in cold blood, she was remarkably undaunted.

However, Tom was well aware that appearances were deceiving. If anything, her appearance was just a useful tool for him to manipulate the jury.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Lestrange," he greeted professionally and coolly as he stepped into the room and placed his leather briefcase on the table between them. "I am Tom Riddle. Your barrister."

He knew from the way her eyes swept up and down him, from his shiny black shoes, to his well cut suit and to the distinguished face, that she was drawing conclusions about him just as he was drawing conclusions about her. He was not at all intimated; he knew he had little to worry about, especially from a murderer like her.

"Bradley said you would not come. He would be the only one to talk to me until my trial," she murmured as her almost black eyes stared straight into his midnight blue ones. However, her voice suggested she was not too worried.

"He did not know," he said crisply as he settled down in the hard chair with posture that matched the way she was seated. "That is how I normally operate."

Lestrange's eyes merely twinkled as a smirk slid upon her attractive features. "Does that mean I'm a special case, Mr. Riddle?"

"You may think what you like, Mrs. Lestrange," he said without a care in the world as he clasped his fingers together on the table before them. "But it will not help your case. Discussing what occurred the night of your husband's death will."

If he thought it would make her flinch, he was wrong. She merely lent back in her chair and looked smugger. "Do you not have that information already?"

"I need more information. I have been informed you intend to plead not guilty."

Contented, she leaned lazily into her chair. "It would depend on what you need to know."

The woman was already starting to frustrate him. Turning from her, he leafed through the files in his briefcase until he extracted the one he needed. "On the night your husband died you said you were in bed," he said as he read the piece of paper in front of him. "How did you not hear anything?"

"Are you meant to be my defence barrister or another barrister for the prosecution, Mr. Riddle?"

He did not bother hiding the twitch in his lips. "Answer the question, Mrs. Lestrange. The prosecution will subject you to much worse."

Lestrange sighed as if it was a great trouble to her. "We have a big house."

"You did not hear the sound of your husband being murdered as you have a 'big' house?"

"We have a very big house."

Tom could already imagine this was going to be a very difficult interview to conduct. He glossed over her comments and continued his questioning, "Do you and your deceased husband have any enemies?"

"Doesn't everyone have enemies?"

He looked at her sharply, but she only smirked.

"How was your marriage with your husband?"

"Isn't that a rather personal question, Mr. Riddle?" she asked swiftly, though she did not seem at all offended or worried.

"Again, Mrs. Lestrange, I can assure you the examination from the prosecution will be more intrusive."

Lestrange sighed dramatically. "It depended on my mood." His lips curled and he was about to snap at her, before she elaborated. "Sometimes he irked me and sometimes he was tolerable. It depended how much I was subject to his presence and affections."

Looking up from his notepad, for the first time Tom was genuinely intrigued. Did woman not normally crave ridiculous levels of affection? "That is a strange comment for a wife to make about her husband," he said slowly and carefully.

Lestrange only shrugged. "I don't care. I didn't love him."

Tom's eyebrows knitted together. It was not because of disgust about her lack of affection towards her husband, but more the prospect of how badly such a comment would be taken in the trial. "I would suggest you do not mention that in court."

"Isn't that rather unethical," she tried to accuse but Tom was not impacted. "To ask me to lie?"

"I did not ask you to lie," he said immediately. It only made Lestrange's smirk widen. "Now, what else can you tell me about your husband?"

"I suppose the affairs." Again she was not affected by the prospect. "I wondered into a few other beds and I know he was awfully fond of the maid."

Now, that was useful. His eyes gleamed as he finally felt like he had struck, maybe not gold, but perhaps some precious metal. "Would that be the same maid who found him dead?"

"Exactly."

His smirk was now matching hers as he leaned a little over the desk. "Did your husband ever make any suggestions that he would leave you for the maid?"

"I assume he was just fucking her because she was there. I'm sure you know how what that is like?" she said suggestively, but he batted it away and added another mental cross about his opinion of the woman.

"What would you say the other woman thought about you? Would you say she was jealous? Would you say she resented your position as Mrs. Lestrange?"

It seemed Lestrange had finally caught on. "I think she might have."

"Perhaps it might have led to some unhealthy and erratic behaviour. It might have even meant she would have been eager for the blame to fall on the woman whose position she desired."

"Yes!"

He only watched her eyes light up for a moment, before he returned to his notepad. His pen moved quickly over the page with elaborate plans and details flooding out of his mind, but, in their wake, only lines of neat and delicate handwriting were left behind.

After a few moments, he looked up and started to question her on other matters. It was at least a little less frustrating since both felt they had a goal in mind.

"Mr. Riddle," Lestrange called as he finished putting all of his papers back into his briefcase and rose from his seat. Looking over at the still seated woman, he waited for some more irritating behaviour. "You never asked me if I did it."

Examining the woman with no remorse over the death of her husband and only amusement over the situation, he had already made a conclusion about who killed Rodolphus Lestrange. He was sure she had, but she had never told him and that was what was important.

He allowed himself to smirk as he turned from her. "No, I did not."

Without another word, he turned and left her ready to prepare a case he refused to lose.

Sitting at the bar table in the court waiting for the judge, Tom was the very definition of calmness. The robes which he had become accustomed to wearing were pooling under his stool and his head was already starting to become hot from the woollen wig on his head, but he was not too bothered.

He enjoyed the self-importance the barrister's attire provided.

Idly flicking through his papers and notes, he was rather confident. It was foolish to be sure of an outcome in a case like this, but then again, it was not his head on the chopping block. If Lestrange was found guilty, he would not lose any sleep over the verdict.

Looking up from his papers, he glanced at Lestrange sitting in the box for the accused to his right. She was sitting still, straight backed and proud while she stared across at a nock in the wall opposite her.

Perhaps she had finally lost some of her attitude.

He was wrong. As if she sensed eyes on her, she turned from the wall to him with a cocky smirk. Stupid woman.

Annoyed, he turned from her and stood along with everyone else as the judge entered.

As could be expected, the court case was long, tiring and arduous, but as it continued, Tom did not yield in the slightest. Blessed with ease in speaking, a charismatic presence and no compassion if he happened to tear into a witness, to Tom it was simple. Some evidence went against Lestrange, but in the end, he was confident there was significant doubt about the crime and she would not be found guilty.

After weeks of questioning and a week of long deliberation from the jury, it was finally time.

Watching as one member of the jury stood and his hands shook on the hold of the paper in his hand he spoke, "We, the jury, find Mrs Bellatrix Lestrange-" He paused and the courtroom collectively held their breath. Tom saw that even Lestrange had gone pale. "Not guilty of the murder of Rodolphus Lestrange."

The reaction was immediate. From the audience behind him, he heard cheers of delight and relief from Lestrange's supporters and family and cries of outrage from Rodolphus Lestrange's family and the many more that had come to watch. Turning to Lestrange, he watched as she sat frozen with disbelief he nodded curtly as she glanced at him.

His job was done.

Tom knew what the problem with the case would be; he was now typecast as a villain by the media for being responsible for a murderer escaping charges.

He did not care. He was merely smug and satisfied. His fame had been increased and his chances of promotion and advancement were now higher. All in all, it had been a wonderful success.

About a week after the verdict, he was allowing himself to relax his normally impeccable posture as he stretched his long arms above his head in his chambers. Eyes closed, he heard his door open. He only had enough time to rock back onto the four legs of his chair before he heard an unexpected voice.

"So lax, Riddle. Somehow I always imagined you as incredibly tense and always stiff as a board," Bellatrix Lestrange murmured as she sauntered into the room with even more bravado than she had displayed in their previous meetings. "Don't worry. Your secretary let me in."

Cursing the new and obviously useless secretary, he glared at Lestrange. He had assumed she would not bother him again, yet here she was. "You might be unaware, but it is proper to retain a solicitor and for them to contact a barrister rather than to approach a barrister independently," he declared like he was reciting a textbook as his cold disposition slithered back onto his features. "Now, if you can leave and do-"

"This is not about needing another bloody lawyer," she snapped as, without permission, she threw herself into the plush chair in front of his desk. "God knows I remember how much I paid you the first time."

"Then why are you here?" he snapped glaring down at her over his desk.

"Come to dinner with me on Friday." Her voice was full of confidence without any detectable traces of nerves.

He did not expect that. His eyes widened for a brief second before he smoothed over the deficiencies in his iron mask. "Why?"

"Because I'm trying to bloody thank you," she growled in frustration. "God Riddle, I'm not stupid. I know I didn't have a hope with that case. I was going to be going to jail for the rest of my life, but you ensured that was not the case. How can I forget that? I'll even blood pay!"

It surprised him. He had not surmised such an action was a part of her character. "I generally cover thanks in the extensive payment you were complaining about before," he replied calmly rather than express any doubts or surprises. "I do not intend to have dinner with my clients because I happen to win a case. Why should I?"

Lestrange just growled in frustration. "Fuck Riddle! What is wrong with you? Are you queer or something? A young, attractive woman asks you out to dinner and you do not jump at the chance."

He conceded she was correct on those two matters, she was undeniably very attractive, but he was not ready to concede. "You have a strong sense of your own self worth."

Sighing she stood up abruptly. Remaining seated, he only smirked and looked up at her, pleased that he had won the battle. "Just meet me at Marque's Restaurant near King's Cross station at seven. Don't be late."

Without another word, she stormed out of his chambers. Watching her figure as she departed, he was amused rather than irritated at having watched her snap.

Stepping into the restaurant with black trousers and a white long sleeved dress shirt with a tie, Tom was a little surprised at his decision to attend. Lestrange had been irritating as a client, conceited, and a headache, but perhaps it was the prospect of watching her grovel that motivated him.

Or, perhaps, she was just correct that he had decided not to refuse a pretty young woman.

Lestrange was already there. Sitting at a table near the window, her gaze was directed at the people walking in the street as he moved to her side without being led by a maitre'd.

"Good evening, Mrs. Lestrange," he greeted politely, looking down at the sight before him. He was right; she was beautiful. Dressed not in prison garb or a suit, she wore a tight red dress that, from what he could see, hugged and emphasised her waist and bust. It was only highlighted by a low cut that, while it gave him a better view of her cleavage, was too low cut to be classified as tasteful by Tom.

He could not bring himself to complain as he sat down carefully in the seat opposite her.

"You're late," she said, though she did not seem annoyed at the prospect.

"No, I'm perfectly on time," he answered immediately as he tilted his wrist to show her the time on his watch. "Exactly seven o'clock. Just as you desired, Mrs. Lestrange."

She had lost one battle, so obviously she would find another. "Don't call me that," she snapped as he smirked at her frustration.

"Why? Are you already Miss Black again?"

"No, just Bellatrix or Bella if you must," she snapped, though her lips curled a little as if she had thought of something, "Tom."

He did not correct her nor was he at all bothered. He only raised an eyebrow. "If you insist, Bella." Lifting up the expensive bottle of wine on the table, he filled his glass and refilled hers without a word.

Dinner was surprisingly painless. The food was good and the wine was divine. It even caused him to have a few more glasses than he normally would have had. He was still sober, but the same could not be said for Bellatrix. However, he was more surprised by the conversation; it was occasionally snarky or dry, but it was mostly painless.

He was sliding his spoon into the last mound of chocolate mousse when Bellatrix leaned over the table, her voice low, "You know you still never asked me."

"Asked what?" he inquired keeping his voice quiet like her.

"If I did kill him." He looked at her sharply as he leaned towards her as well so their heads were almost together.

"I told you I did not need to know."

"But need and want are two separate things." She smirked and he could not deny she was correct. Curiosity and a desire for knowledge were two traits (never faults) he possessed in large degrees.

Despite that, he said, "This is hardly the place for this type of conversation."

"Perhaps you are right," she said softly. He thought the conversation was over as he straightened himself in his chair. He was wrong. Turning from him, Bellatrix waved over one of the waiters. "We need the bill."

"What are you doing?" he questioned once the waiter was out of sight.

"Doing what you asked. This is not the right place to discuss this so we will discuss it somewhere else. My apartment is only a short taxi ride from here." Looking back at him, she saw the quirk of his eyebrow and only shook her head. "Don't give me that look. I'm not that type of woman."

He did not reply and he neglected to mention that most loose woman always uttered such phrases. He only turned and received the bill from the waiter. "Thank you." Sliding the black folder open he only glanced at the receipt before he reached for his wallet.

"What are you doing?" Bellatrix snapped, trying to snatch the bill from his hand. He held it out of her reach. "I said I would pay."

"I may not be as blue blooded as you," he said quietly as he placed the required cash and a tip into the file, before he waved the waiter back towards them, "but I am not so vulgar as to allow a woman to pay for dinner."

Standing, Bellatrix seemed a little surprised by his answer, yet she stood firm and showed a slight smirk. "So polite," she murmured as they stepped onto the busy London street. He stood close by her as they hailed down a taxi and she gave the driver directions. Sliding gracefully into the back behind her, he leaned comfortably into the seat and found her looking at him. "How old are you?"

"Isn't that a rather rude question?"

"Only to a lady," she said with ease as she twisted in the seat to face him, "so tell me your age."

He was not too bothered by the questioned and answered without issue, "Forty-six."

He did not ask her age. He already knew.

Bellatrix did not seem disturbed by the answer. She only seemed amused. Her eyes focused on his face and he could imagine she was trying to detect traces of his age. There were not too many hints. He had aged well; his clinically structured features remained, his cheekbones had hollowed out nicely, his hair was still jet black and the only lines on his face made him more distinguished.

Murmuring her assent, she only smirked to herself and turned to the window. He did not bother commenting, but turned to the window to observe the streets that they passed.

As they pulled up into the upmarket side of London, he paid the taxi before Bellatrix could protest. She did not offer a comment nor did she do say anything when he held open the door for her while he examined the modern apartment complex before him. He remained equally silent as she led him into the building, into the lift and then up into her apartment.

He was correct. It was a mark of luxury with a fireplace, large television and electronics, leather couches and walls lined with artwork. He was pleased with how the evening was progressing as he settled himself on the lounge while Bellatrix returned to his side with two glasses and a bottle of wine.

"Thank you," she said politely as, with a nudge from Bellatrix, he made room for her on the lounge.

Taking a large sip of the alcohol, she kicked off the shoes and folded her legs underneath her as she turned to face him. "Now admit it. You want to know."

It was now back to the question at hand and the reason he had come here. He displayed the very image of disinterest as he leaned back into the leather. "If you insist on telling me I will listen."

He thought she might have persisted and forced him to display his eagerness, but she only grinned and spoke as if she could not hold it in any longer, "I did kill him." She sounded proud as she drank her wine and smiled at him.

Most would be disgusted. Most would flee upon being informed they were in the room with a murderer who seemed proud of her deed. Tom was not any of those. His curiosity was only increased.

"Why?" he questioned immediately, placing his finished glass of wine on the coffee table to focus on her. "You had to have a reason."

"Because I had to," she declared with a wave of her hands that almost spilt her wine. "Every day it was the same! I was nothing more than the wife of Rodolphus Lestrange. It was only an endless parade of dinners and teas. I just couldn't take it any longer. He didn't help. He made it feel like it was so normal. Every day it was 'I love you Bella' and he would look at me as if he expected me to reciprocate, but I never would."

Fuming, she stood eyes glaring as she rammed her glass on the table so hard that it almost smashed.

"It was not that type of marriage! I thought he knew that! I told him I would never bloody love him but did he ever fucking listen? No, he never did! So I was forced to keep the charade. I went elsewhere to men who would at least take me into bed and not tell me that they loved me, but still, every day, it was the same. He would be angry at my adultery and he would still expect my love."

She seemed to have worked herself up into a rage as she breathed deeply while Tom watched on calmly. "So you killed him because he loved you and that annoyed you?" He inquired, though he could understand why it would be irritating.

"Yes!" she exclaimed with wild eyes as she continued pace. "But it was more than that. When I had killed him I felt like I was something. It gave me a rush that I can never describe. There was no remorse, sadness or anything from those cliché tales that we are educated in but just...joy. Not that I can expect anyone to understand."

As she spoke, his lips curled into a smile and his eyes gleamed. "I understand."

Bellatrix turned sharply in the middle of her pacing. "What?" she murmured voice low and full of surprise. "How could you know? Your bloody cases do not count. Only someone who has killed someone could really understand what-"

"Exactly," he interrupted full of smugness and without any trace of guilt or worry.

"You have killed someone?"

"I would be a very bad lawyer if I admitted to something like that."

Despite the fact he had not given her a direct answer, he watched as Bella smiled and rejoined him on the couch. He remembered that night very clearly. He had been planning it for months and years. He had been seventeen and full of his plans. His father knew he had been in the orphanage because his mother had died giving birth to him. He had left him for dead. His father's family was rich and powerful, but he had been left for dead and with nothing.

So, he had acted. Full of fury and righteousness, he knew he was right as he snuck into Little Hangleton and the Riddle House. He had been so careful. He had killed his father, grandmother and grandfather just to be careful. He had left just after and thrown the gun he had used into the Thames.

Other than an unexplained long absence from the orphanage, nothing was ever noticed. Tom had never been caught. Like how Bellatrix had described, he had only felt that rush and that joy; never remorse. He had been so tempted to kill again for that same feeling, but he had restrained himself; there was too much of a risk of being caught.

Bellatrix was obviously in a better mood towards him as she slid closer, her lips still curled into a smile.

"Tell me who it was."

"No," he said simply as he reached forward and poured him and Bella another glass of wine.

"Please?"

"No."

Grumbling, she took the glass from him and took a long drink. "But you really felt like how I did? No remorse, only joy?"

Slowly, he drank his wine knowing he was on slippery ground, but, then again, he had already said too much. "Yes, exactly that. Remorse would be pointless."

"Exactly!"Bellatrix explained with drunken joy as she smiled brightly. "Exactly."

He could see there was some relief in her smile as he examined her beautiful face. Chuckling, he swirled his wine in his hand which he spilt on his white shirt and Bellatrix's leather lounge as she practically lunged at him. With a crash, the glass fell onto the floor while Bella pressed her lips to his and pushed him back.

While he did lament the red wine stain on his white shirt and, while it was unexpected, he did not push her off. His lips kissed her back with passion and longing as he flipped her over so he was pinning her down. She did not express any complaints about the action. She only unbuckled his belt and slid her hands into his trousers. Holding in the moan at the movement of her skilled hands, he had already hitched up her dress and yanked her underwear off.

It was fast, hard, passionate and a little rough and by the end, even Tom had slumped into her couch breathing heavily into the crook of her neck.

"Tom," Bellatrix murmured as she toyed with his hair that was now in disarray.

"Yes..." he answered softly with little care as he flicked his eyes open to face her.

"Don't think this changes or means anything."

Chuckling darkly in her ear he only smirked. "I never would. You don't need to worry about me falling in love with you."