September 1972
Number 12, Grimmauld Place
"Oh. A leather holster for my wand… lovely. Thank you, Father." Bellatrix gave a little smile up to Cygnus Black III, who beamed down at his daughter. She did so dislike birthday parties, but the Dark Lord himself had told her that it was important these days to occasionally gather followers together in a positive atmosphere.
So Bellatrix had submitted to the little party, and now she sat at a long dining-table with the Dark Lord himself at the head. She was beside him, having earned the place of honour over the last five years through undying loyalty and diligent, ruthless service. Her sister and mother had come, as well as Rodolphus Lestrange, the former Hogwarts classmate she was slated to marry in less than a month. Her Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga, as well as their sons Sirius and Regulus, were hosting.
Lord Voldemort had already made Bellatrix, her father, her sister, and her Uncle Orion Death Eaters, and he was soon to do the same with Rodolphus. But as Bellatrix opened her gifts, the Dark Lord sat with his hands folded on the table, staring carefully at her cousin Sirius. Bellatrix tried not to look alarmed as she reached for the next gift, a handmade rain cloak from her sister.
"Thanks, Cissy," Bellatrix said self-consciously. The next box was wrapped in dark green paper with shimmering silver ribbon, and Bellatrix smirked at her Aunt Walburga. "Excellent choice of Slytherin colours."
She tore the paper from the box and pulled the lid off. She marveled at the stunning bracelet inside, a silver cuff that glittered almost obnoxiously with diamonds. Bellatrix furrowed her brow, and when she looked up to her Uncle Orion, she shook her head and insisted,
"This is entirely too much, Uncle!"
Orion Black flushed a deep scarlet, his eyes flicking between his sons as he stammered, "W-well… you're family, Bellatrix; we wanted -"
"Bellatrix, no!" Voldemort snatched Bellatrix by the wrist just as she reached to pull the bracelet from the box. His fingers were still wrapped around her in the instant that she touched the bracelet. Suddenly everything was blinding white, and the deafening roar of a powerful wind surround Bellatrix. She shrieked, releasing the bracelet and wondering what the blazes had happened. She felt dizzy and sick and shut her eyes.
Then it was like she'd been thrown like a rag doll onto the ground. Her knees crashed hard against the floor, and her hands smacked so hard that she wondered for a moment if her wrists had broken. Bellatrix opened her eyes, expecting to find herself still in the dining-room at Grimmauld Place.
Instead, she found herself in a completely alien space. It appeared to be the parlour of an apartment, and as Bellatrix pulled herself off the carpeted floor, she studied the cream-coloured walls at the bright, sunny window. She frowned; it had been past dark at Grimmauld Place. She watched as Voldemort strode briskly to the window and pulled aside the white lace curtains. His jaw squared and he beckoned Bellatrix to the window with one hand.
She walked to him, her knees aching from the impact of landing on the ground. She stood beside him and looked outside, gasping when she saw the Eiffel Tower. Despite its being built by Muggles, Bellatrix knew the landmark well from childhood visits to France. She flicked her eyes to Voldemort and asked,
"Was it cursed, My Lord? Was it… some sort of Portkey?"
"More than that," he said gravely, gesturing down to the boulevard before them. "Those Muggle automobiles are positively ancient. The clothing they're wearing on the sidewalks… we've been thrown into the 1920s."
Bellatrix felt sick again. Time travel was more than possible, she knew, but it was heavily regulated for a reason, and going too far back in time was known to be catastrophically perilous. How could it possibly be that she and her master had been hurled so far through time and space? She shut her eyes and remembered the ominous look in Voldemort's eye, the way he'd grabbed her wrist and yelled in alarm. She remembered the surprise on her Uncle Orion's face upon seeing the elaborate, expensive bracelet in the box.
"Sirius," Bellatrix said, looking up at Voldemort. "My cousin Sirius. He's friends with blood traitors. This is some sort of trap he's laid; I just know it, My Lord."
He ignored her and started searching the apartment. He picked up a skeleton key lying on a low table and tucked it into his pocket. He walked quickly through the elaborate bedroom, into and back out of the bathroom, and through the kitchen and dining space. He came back to stand before Bellatrix and shook his head.
"The bracelet's gone," he mused. "I admit I have no immediate manner of getting us that many years forward in time. I can't be certain of what exactly that bracelet was. I saw it in your cousin's head, but I didn't want to be too obvious with the Legilimency. Just before you touched it, a feeling of dread came over me."
Bellatrix let out a shaking sigh and looked out the window toward the Eiffel Tower. "My Lord… perhaps my knowledge of wizarding history is a bit shaky, but… if we're on the Continent in the 1920s, doesn't that mean that Grindelwald is building his army?"
Voldemort nodded solemnly, pulling the key from his pocket and turning it over in his fingers a few times. He shook his head and seemed to be thinking aloud.
"Dumbledore might've done this. He would send me to the height of Grindelwald's power with the idea of us destroying one another."
He shoved the key back into his pocket and straightened his back. He gestured at Bellatrix's flowing, peasant-style black dress and her long hair, and he said rather sharply,
"We need more information, and you can't go out looking like that. It's suspicious."
Bellatrix glanced down at herself and asked quietly, "Are you very familiar with wizarding establishments in Paris, My Lord?"
"Familiar enough," he nodded, "and a good many of them have been around for long enough that they should still… already… be here. In any case, your hair needs to be cut short and you'll need a different outfit."
He sounded a little awkward saying that, but Bellatrix just nodded. She gulped hard, still trying to process what exactly had happened. She walked on sore legs to the bedroom, wondering whether someone else lived in this apartment. Perhaps that was what the key was for, she thought. Someone had planted them here. That was for certain. She stood in front of the gaudy gilded mirror and pulled her wand out with trembling fingers.
"Diffindo," she said, carefully pulling her wand around her head at chin level. Her lush hair fell away, leaving a curly bob. Bellatrix Vanished the pile of hair on the ground and then started murmuring spells to alter her dress. She made it knee length, lowered the waist, severed the sleeves, Transfigured it into silk, Conjured beading, and made her flat shoes into heels. She turned round to face the Dark Lord, who stood in the doorway of the bedroom, and asked carefully,
"Will this do, My Lord?"
He nodded once. He'd Transfigured his own outer robe into a black suit jacket that could certainly pass for Muggle. Bellatrix couldn't help thinking, in spite of everything, how strange and vaguely magnificent it was to be in Paris with him, with her lord and master, in an era long before her own birth. She gulped hard as she mumbled,
"I'm so sorry, My Lord. My silly birthday… if I hadn't been opening gifts… oh, Master. I'm sorry."
He seemed to sense the way she was a bit overwhelmed, and he took a step into the bedroom as he assured her,
"It'll be sorted quickly, Bella. I shall unearth what exactly that bracelet was, and we'll figure a way back to the time and place from which we were thrown."
As he spoke, his stern voice grew a little less certain, and finally he frowned and dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. Bellatrix said nothing. She added a pocket to her dress and tucked her wand away, and she wondered aloud,
"Have we any money, My Lord?"
He rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a Galleon. He flicked the Galleon with his thumbnail and caught it, and he said,
"British Galleons have been accepted in France for a very long time, and this one's worth even more here than it was… you know. At home. And I have many."
He put the Galleon away, and Bellatrix wondered whether perhaps he'd used an Invisible Extension Charm in his pocket. As usual, he'd amazed her with her power and with his inimitable calm. She marveled at him for a moment, unable to help observing how handsome he looked in his suit jacket. He sniffed lightly and said,
"According to the clock in the parlour, it's five in the evening. There is a wizarding cabaret that I do believe opened well before the 1920s… La Plume d'Argent. It should be opening in the next few minutes. Come here and I shall take you there by Side-Along."
Bellatrix stepped up to him and nervously put her hand on his forearm. She'd never really touched him, though more than once she'd wanted nothing more than to do so. She raised her eyes to him, and he murmured,
"Hold tightly."
She squeezed a little on his jacket sleeve, and suddenly the two of them were whirling and pinching through a black void. When they landed, they were in the narrow space between two buildings. Bellatrix peered out and saw the Arc de Triomphe. She knew this place. This was the Champs-Élysées. She'd come here as a child, but it was so long ago that she could barely remember now. As she studied their surroundings, the Dark Lord put his hand on Bellatrix's elbow. He was so close that Bellatrix snapped her face up to him; he stood over her and spoke in a low, furtive tone.
"You're not to call me My Lord or Master. No one here knows who I am, and for now it needs to stay that way. Your name is Lilith. I am your husband, Edmund Black. We are on holiday from England. Do you understand?"
Bellatrix felt her heart race, but she nodded and repeated in a hoarse voice, "My name is Lilith Black, and you are my husband, Edmund. We're on holiday from England. I understand, My Lord."
He gave her a sharp glare, and she shook her head quickly. "Sorry."
Voldemort took Bellatrix's hand in his then, making her shiver from the feel of his fingers around hers. He pulled out his wand and started to walk further back in the narrow opening between the buildings. Bellatrix was confused, for he was walking right at another street. But they hit a point between the buildings where a little rush of air and a small vibration came over then. The interior of a raucous cabaret materialized before them, replacing the outdoor space. Bellatrix was beginning to think nothing was real anymore, that all she would ever do would be to teleport and time travel until she keeled over dead. But then the Dark Lord squeezed her hand a bit and gave her a very serious look.
"Welcome, Lilith," he said very meaningfully, "To La Plume d'Argent."
June 1924
Paris, France
Lord Voldemort pretended to pay attention to the witch on stage, the way she showered herself in silvery sparks as she made seductive swaying motions. She was beautiful, probably, but Voldemort couldn't have cared less if he tried. He was thinking of the damned bracelet that had sent them here. He was trying to think of a way to get back; he couldn't come up with anything realistic. He knew Dumbledore was behind this. It had to be so. Voldemort flicked his eyes toward Bellatrix and watched as she read the witches' magazine that they'd found lying on a table.
The issue of Événements Magiques, which Bellatrix had translated with a spell, had revealed to them that it was June of 1924. Bellatrix had been nervously reading it for fifteen minutes now, during which time Voldemort had downed nearly an entire goblet of French elf-made wine. He drummed his fingers on the table, tired of waiting, and said over the music,
"Well?"
Bellatrix scooted her chair closer and pretended to watch the dancing on the stage as she said very quietly, "My Lo… I mean, Edmund… it only mentions Grindelwald once. Says that seven girls failed to show up for the school term at Beauxbatons and are believed to have joined Grindelwald's army of so-called 'radicals.' The rest of the magazine discusses fashion, how to not get run over by Muggle automobiles… there's an advertisement for a robe shop hidden here on the Champs-Élysées."
"Take note of that shop," Voldemort murmured. "You'll be needing a small wardrobe if it's to take any demonstrable amount of time to get out of here."
He started glancing around the cabaret at the diverse crowd of faces. Keeping his gaze surreptitiously oblique, he poked into one mind after another with Legilimency. People flinched a little at the strange sensation of him in their minds, but the performance kept most everyone engaged enough to ignore the intrusions.
A fixation with a husband's infidelity. Worries over a child with dragon pox. Recollections of sex and arguments, of shopping and holidaymaking. And then, finally, Voldemort stumbled upon a memory that was very interesting indeed. His eyes locked on the middle-aged wizard in whose mind he was lodged just now. He could see Gellert Grindelwald, with his icy blond hair and his menacing voice, speaking to a room full of adherents. Jules Bayard. The memory belonged to a man called Jules Bayard.
"Stay here," Voldemort ordered Bellatrix, and she resisted the urge to call him My Lord. She just nodded silently and watched her master as he rose from the table and climbed a few shallow stairs to the mezzanine level. He approached the table where the grey-haired wizard sat, and he bowed his head politely. "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Parlez vous anglais?"
The wizard looked a little suspicious but nodded. "Yes. I speak English. Can I help you?"
Voldemort licked his bottom lip, gestured to the chair opposite the wizard, and asked in a tone smooth as silk, "May I sit?"
"You may." The other wizard raised his eyebrows expectantly. Once Voldemort had sat down, he nodded and said politely,
"Monsieur Bayard, my name is Edmund Black. I'm on holiday from Britain with my wife. And I wonder if you might be so good as to introduce me to Gellert Grindelwald."
The other wizard's hand moved very quickly to the inside of his jacket, toward his wand, and he looked around frantically to see if anyone had heard. Voldemort shook his head and said almost gently,
"I am not from any Ministry, French or otherwise."
"How do you know my name?" asked Jules Bayard brusquely, and Voldemort stayed calm as ever as he declared quietly,
"I am a Legilimens. A skill I hope to put to use for Grindelwald. My wife and I came from England to join his army; making contact is proving more difficult than anticipated."
Jules Bayard narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his jacket. "This wife of yours. Where is she?"
Voldemort gestured down to the table in the front, where he could see Bellatrix's fingers knitting anxiously on the table. From up here, from this side view, she looked very pretty indeed, Voldemort thought. Short hair suited her.
"She's young," Bayard noted. "You sure she's your wife?"
"She's old enough," Voldemort said slickly. "Now. Monsieur Bayard. What needs to happen now to get me into the movement?"
"How can you prove you're not from any Ministry?" Bayard demanded, and Voldemort admitted,
"I can't. But you see that witch down there? The pretty, young one. Her name is Lilith. I trust her with my life, and I confess to being something of a narcissist. Beyond that, I place rather a high value on her life. You will find us both in the Place du Trocadéro tomorrow at noon."
Bayard nodded. "I will speak with my superiors before then. The Place du Trocadéro. Tomorrow at noon. I'll have word of some kind for you then. And what do I get in return?"
Voldemort shrugged. "Name your price."
Bayard rapped his knuckles on the table a few times and finally smirked a little. "I'll hold the debt. I may need something of you later; who knows? Until tomorrow… Monsieur Black."
Voldemort rose and buttoned his jacket. He nodded once and recited Grindelwald's motto. "For the greater good."
Back in the mysterious apartment - which they had determined was located on the rue Fresnel - Bellatrix used Marseilles soap to scrub herself raw in the claw foot tub. She ran her fingers through her oddly short hair and stared in the mirror for a moment. She was still in shock, a little, at the idea of having been rocketed through time and space. But the time for awe was gone. She had to help her lord and master get back to the time in which he was powerful, in which he was a rising star in an otherwise empty sky.
Bellatrix gulped hard and aimed her wand at the black dress she'd hung on the door. She murmured a few spells to take the beading off. With a few alterations, it looked enough like a nightgown, and Bellatrix yanked it on roughly. She walked out of the bathroom and found the Dark Lord standing in the parlour, halfway through the act of Transfiguring the divan into a bed. He looked up at Bellatrix when she entered the room, and his throat bobbed visibly. Bellatrix hoped that she didn't look indecent, that she didn't come across as a cloying whore.
"You look fine," Voldemort mumbled, and Bellatrix jolted at the unnoticed intrusion. She gathered herself enough to say,
"My Lord, it's kind of you to Transfigure a bed for me, but it is not at all necessary. I can sleep on the divan as it is, or on the floor. Hopefully, we won't be here long, anyway."
Voldemort frowned. "This isn't for you. You'll sleep in the bedroom. Engorgio."
He turned his attention back to his half-finished bed. Bellatrix glanced over her shoulder at the tall, poufy bed in the bedroom, and she shook her head as she turned back.
"My Lord, I couldn't possibly -"
"Don't do that, Bella. Don't make a show of protesting a damned bed. You'll sleep in there; I'll sleep out here. I did not ask for debate."
"Of course, My Lord." Bellatrix lowered her head, sighed and said quietly, "Goodnight, My Lord."
He didn't answer her, but she didn't need him to. Hours passed in silence, and she stared at the plaster decorations on the walls. As she tossed and turned in the too-soft bed, Bellatrix wondered whether her family had simply seen her disappear from the dining table with the Dark Lord. She wondered what was happening now among the Death Eaters, among the Dark Lord's enemies. In any case, she knew, it did little good to perseverate now on an time they couldn't even access. After a long while, she heard the church bells nearby chime midnight with a single stroke. If she didn't get sleep soon, she knew, she'd be no good to the Dark Lord the next day.
Fed up and frustrated, she considered pointing her wand at her own head and casting a Somnus Spell on herself. But it was more than a little risky; she'd heard stories of people putting themselves into comas that way. She pulled herself out of the bed and stalked to the doorway that led to the parlour. She could see him - her powerful master - lying on his back with his hands behind his head. She couldn't tell if he was asleep, so she asked quietly,
"My Lord?"
"Hmm." His voice was a low drone, and Bellatrix still couldn't tell whether she'd woken him. She shifted her weight on her feet and thought perhaps it had been a bad idea to come out here.
"What is it, Bella?" asked Voldemort in a deep growl. Bellatrix cleared her throat and admitted,
"I am having immense difficulty sleeping, My Lord. I want to ensure that I am clear-headed tomorrow when we meet with Jules Bayard. I have no potions with me, and…"
"And you're nervous about casting a Somnus Spell on your own mind. You'd like me to put you to sleep. Is that it?" He sat up, and Bellatrix felt her eyes go round as saucers when she realised he had no shirt on. He was lean but muscular, and Bellatrix averted her eyes to stop herself staring.
Handsome, she couldn't help thinking, knowing he could probably feel the want radiating off of her. He's so handsome, and powerful, and -
"Bellatrix." He'd risen to stand now, and he gestured into the bedroom impatiently. "Go lie down, then, and I'll put you to sleep."
Bellatrix obeyed, her breath shaking between her teeth as she did. She slithered back under the thick blankets and shut her eyes, thinking that she would look an utter fool if she ogled her shirtless master as he loomed over her. She felt the tip of his wand touch her temple, and then he murmured,
"Sweet dreams, Bella. Somnus."
Lord Voldemort couldn't help himself from staring a little as Bellatrix arranged her bobbed curls before the mirror in the bedroom. She'd just come back from the robe shop, where she'd obtained enough clothing to make it through the days, evenings, and nights until they found their way back to their own time. She stood now in an elegant dress of crushed velvet, midnight blue, with dark lipstick on. She was rather pretty, Voldemort thought again. He'd noticed it before, but only really in passing. Now he took a moment to study her, the way her petite frame moved as she tucked a few curls behind her ear and turned round.
"Ready, My Lord?" she asked him, and he nodded once. They were to meet Jules Bayard in a half hour, but he'd wanted to arrive early just in case. The two of them walked down the three flights of stairs from their apartment building, and once again Voldemort tried to think of how much planning had gone into planting them here. He needed to play mental chess now; he needed to get a step ahead of whomever had cursed them here. He stared up at the building from the outside for a moment and whispered,
"Dumbledore."
"You think it must've been him, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked, and he nodded.
"I can think of no one else with the ability to send two people back fifty years, move them through space, and and deposit them in an uninhabited apartment." He sighed and met Bellatrix's eyes, and she said firmly,
"Albus Dumbledore may have the ability to banish two people, My Lord, but I've every confidence that you'll undo his madness. You're not the type to be put in time out like some sort of child. I know you'll make him pay."
"Your loyalty is endearing, Bella," Voldemort said, stroking at her jaw in a way he'd never done before. Her cheeks flushed, and he realised she was the only actual disciple he had here. In theory, he could go to England and track down Albus Dumbledore and kill him here in the 1920s, but that might have untold consequences. Besides which, even if he did kill Dumbledore, he had no Death Eaters in the time and place. He only had Bellatrix. He sniffed lightly, pulled his hand from her soft cheek, and said in a stern voice, "Let's go."
They walked down the rue Fresnel and through the gardens until they reached the Place du Trocadéro. Voldemort walked quickly to the centre of the plaza and found a bench near some flower beds. He sat, and Bellatrix silently joined him. She kept so much distance between them that he reminded her,
"We're meant to be married, remember?"
"Oh. Yes. Apologies, My Lord." She slid a bit closer, and Voldemort decided against chiding her. Instead he watched Muggles coming and going and contemplated how very mundane their lives must be. In an age before Muggle conveniences like films with sound, and lacking in magic, they had so very little with which to entertain or advance themselves. Voldemort quickly grew bored of watching the Muggles, and instead he flicked his eyes up and down Bellatrix's form. "You look rather elegant in your new dress, Lilith."
The corners of her lips turned up a little, but she kept her eyes ahead on the passing Muggles. Finally she murmured, "Thank you."
Nearby church bells tolled noon, and Voldemort glanced around. Finally he saw him - Jules Bayard - walking straight toward the bench from across the chestnut-lined cemetery nearby. Voldemort rose from the bench and straightened his suit jacket, and Bellatrix flew up to stand beside him. When Bayard stepped up to them, he took Bellatrix's hand in his and kissed her knuckles.
"Madame Black," he said carefully, lowering Bellatrix's hand and turning his attention to Voldemort. He spoke quickly and quietly then as he said, "Gellert Grindelwald was elated to hear of a Legilimens with interest in joining his cause. Since he is so skilled in Legilimency himself, he bears the practise great fondness and wishes to meet with you when he comes to France next week."
Bayard's pale eyes were stony, and suddenly Voldemort understood. He didn't even need to look into the man's eyes to understand. Bayard didn't believe Voldemort's lie about being a British holidaymaker, and he'd passed his suspicions on to Gellert Grindelwald himself. What none of them knew was that Voldemort's Legilimency skills were surpassed only by his incredibly powerful Occlumency abilities. Voldemort kept his own face even more steady than Bayard's and nodded.
"How will we know when and where to meet him?"
"An owl will find you the day before with a time and location," said Jules Bayard. He bowed his head respectfully to Bellatrix and then to Voldemort, and he said crisply, "Good day."
He walked away just as abruptly as he'd come. Bellatrix waited until he was out of earshot, and then she raised her face to Voldemort's.
"Grindelwald will see straight into my mind and find out the truth about us," she worried aloud. Voldemort had thought of that already, of course. He shrugged and said down to Bellatrix,
"You shall simply need to become a very good Occlumens in a very short period of time." He glanced around at the cafés lining the Trocadéro, and he suggested lightly, "How about lunch, then?"
Bellatrix shut her eyes and sighed heavily. She dragged hot water from the bath tub up and over her face. She was utterly exhausted, more so than she'd ever been, after hours of Occlumency practise. The Dark Lord had hurtled into her mind over and over again, pulling out all sorts of memories and barking at Bellatrix to replace them with other ideas. When she'd started to grow tired and her newly-developed defences had crumbled, he'd threatened to simply Obliviate her. Bellatrix had grown more determined then, finally thrusting forward a fake 'memory' of dancing with Voldemort at a cabaret in London. He'd seemed satisfied then, as though she'd made enough progress for one afternoon.
Bellatrix had been too shaky and tired to eat much when he'd brought up food from a nearby boulangerie. He'd commanded her to go clean herself up and have an early night with plenty of rest so they could practise again in the morning. Bellatrix knew time was an issue; they had somewhere near a week to get her mind strong enough to withstand the prying examination of Gellert Grindelwald. That was rather a terrifying thought, but it also made Bellatrix more determined than ever.
Voldemort had seen in her mind the conversations she'd had with Narcissa, the ones where she'd confessed that she adored the Dark Lord with every ounce of her being. Narcissa had always reminded Bellatrix that she was to marry Rodolphus Lestrange, and that those sorts of feelings should be reserved for her husband. But Bellatrix couldn't help herself then and she couldn't help herself now. The way his eyes had pierced hers during the Occlumency tutoring hadn't helped, and now as Bellatrix sat in the bathtub, she felt herself come alive a little for him.
She would die for him, of course. She would throw herself straight in front of a Killing Curse for him, or she'd get herself killed in battle. She had no qualms or hesitation about killing for him. She would do anything for him. She could barely be bothered to rid her mother's garden of gnomes when asked, but she would gladly starve to death or kill a thousand innocents if it was for Lord Voldemort. She'd loved him with all her being for years, and now she was alone with him in an apartment. That sent all kinds of insane fantasies flurrying inside Bellatrix's mind, and she hurried to drain the bath and step out.
She needed to get ahold of herself, she thought. They were here because of a curse. They would be meeting with Grindelwald next week. They were holding up shoddy alibis. Everything was chaos now, and she needed more than ever to be a steady and reliable soldier for her master. She pulled on the rose-coloured chiffon nightgown she'd purchased, only then realising just how diaphanous and suggestive it was. She grimaced a bit and hurried from the bathroom, racing to open her wardrobe and pull out the velvet robe she'd bought.
But it was too late; Voldemort had appeared in the threshold to the bedroom and was leaning on the doorjamb. He crossed his arms over his white shirt, on which he'd undone the top three buttons, and he licked his bottom lip. Bellatrix froze where she stood, knowing her nightgown was scandalously translucent. She tried not to look embarrassed but felt her cheeks flush hot. Something in the Dark Lord's face shifted; his jaw squared and his lips went into a straight line as though he'd very firmly decided something in his head.
"We need more detailed memories," he told her. "Things to put forward if anyone invades your mind and looks for the truth."
"Detailed memories," Bellatrix nodded. "If you tell me what to imagine, My Lord, I shall try to -"
"No." He shook his head and insisted, "They must be real. At least some of them. I'm a Legilimens myself, Lilith; I can always tell when something's made up."
"Oh." She nodded and suddenly understood. Over the next several days, they would have to do things as Lilith and Edmund, things that she could cement in her mind and allow Grindelwald to see when the time came. She gulped and asked him, "What sort of memories shall we make, then?"
He chewed his lip for a moment and then stepped into the bedroom. She shut the doors to the wardrobe, giving up on the idea of modesty as he loomed over her. He took her face in his hands and pulled his thumbs under her eyes. That feeling sent a shiver up Bellatrix's spine and made her knees weak. She studied his dark eyes, his sculpted cheekbones and jaw, and she whispered something that she hoped wouldn't earn her punishment.
"You're my husband."
"So I am," he nodded. "There are things that husbands do to their wives, aren't there?"
Bellatrix felt very dizzy, but she nodded. She'd never done more than kiss a few boys at Hogwarts, and no one had ever made her feel the way Voldemort was doing now. When she managed to meet his eyes again, he said in a steady tone,
"I love you, Lilith. I have since the day we met."
Bellatrix opened her mouth with surprise, but before she could say anything, he'd lowered his face. His lips pressed against hers, very gently at first and then more insistently. Bellatrix moaned like a whore against him, shocked and delighted by the taste and feel of him. She reached for his shirt and pressed her palms to his chest, adoring the planes and warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. His own hands went from her cheeks to her shoulders, and he pulled her a little closer as he deepened the kiss. Suddenly his tongue was dragging along her bottom lip. When she whimpered, he pushed his tongue inside and pulled it along the roof of her mouth. Bellatrix felt her fingers cinch on his shirt; it was all so intense that she could barely stand up.
This was Lord Voldemort. This was her lord and master, her -
No. This was Edmund Black, her husband. They were here on holiday from Britain. She soaked in the feel of Edmund's lips, of his tongue. She breathed in the scent of her husband and luxuriated in the taste of him. When at last he pulled his mouth away, she whispered into the air,
"I love you too, Edmund."
He let a very long moment pass, his chest heaving a little. He dragged the back of his wrist over his lips, sniffed a little, and cleared his throat.
"That will do for tonight, Bella," he said. "I should think… I suspect that will be powerful enough to overwhelm many thoughts he might try and pull from you."
Bellatrix nodded, feeling her eyes sear. "I think you're right, My Lord."
He seemed almost flustered then, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and looking away from Bellatrix. She knew her nipples were firm and that he could probably see them through her thin nightgown. She knew she was probably pulsing with want, for she was warm and wet between her legs and lightheaded from the kiss. She crossed her arms over herself and vowed,
"I shall work ten times harder tomorrow, My Lord, on the Occlumency skills. I will not fail you."
"You haven't failed me yet, Bella," he said, still staring at the wall. "Go to bed. Get some sleep. We begin early in the morning."
He turned and walked from the bedroom, shutting the door behind him as he went. Bellatrix somehow managed to stagger to the bed, to drag herself beneath the blankets and shut her eyes. Tonight, owing to her exhaustion, she had no trouble at all falling asleep. And when she dreamed, it was of Edmund kissing Lilith.
