Are you Lord Voldemort?
The ink shone black against the smooth white paper for a full second before disappearing into the diary; Augustus Swan waited with bated breath for Tom Riddle's reply. He had been writing in the diary for several months, carefully planning the moment when this question could best be asked, waiting until Riddle's trust in him was assured.
Slowly the ink reappeared: Lord Voldemort is my past, present and future, the diary replied. Swan felt a moment of triumph, knowing he had his master's history in his hands, before the world went dark.
Tom Riddle shrouded the body of Augustus Swan dispassionately in the sheet from the bed, the wheels of his mind spinning furiously. He had known, when Swan revealed himself to be a Death Eater, that he was attempted to gain information which would lead to the harnessing of Lord Voldemort. Tom smirked to himself, knowing that no man would be able to achieve such a thing, least of such a rodent as Swan.
But the man did come with his advantages; he was, once suitably cosseted, a valuable mine of information. Swan had been close to the Dark Lord; close enough to know his most devoted supporters: Severus Snape, young Barty Crouch, Rodolphous Lestrange, Regulus Black and his cousin, Bellatrix Black. Now that Tom had freed himself from the diary he could find them, he could become an asset to the rise of the Dark Arts. He would assure all of them that Lord Voldemort would live forever.
"Crucio." The voice, as familiar as her own heartbeat, came out of the shadow at the end of long room. Pain exploded throughout her body, beating in rhythm with her blood, tearing her flesh to pieces. It seemed to go on forever; when it stopped her voice was hoarse from screaming.
"Had enough, Bellatrix?" He was still charming, despite his red, bloodlust eyes and mutilated appearance.
"Yes, Master." The words are automatic, an instinct to prevent pain and prolong life.
"You sound insincere. Do you need another…?" He trailed off suggestively.
"Do with me as you will; I am always yours to do with as you please." Her words of devotion rang on deaf ears.
"Apologize for what you've done! Apologize for not delivering to me the Animangus Black!"
"I have failed you, my lord! I beg you, kill me, that I may not live to disappoint you again!" she panted, face pressed against the cool floor. His laughter rang over her in waves, raising the hairs on her skin.
"No, not yet," he whispered mockingly. "Crucio."
Bellatrix Black lay on the bed in her room at the Hog's Head hours later, a hand pressed firmly against her throbbing eyelids. Echoes of the Unforgivable Curse rang throughout her body, reminding her of her failure. Lost for a moment in her own self-pity she ignored the unnatural heat that seemed to be growing in her body. With a start her eyes flew up, she threw herself onto her feet, wand held ready at her side. He had just finished with her, what could he possibly desire? Her hand trembled involuntarily. Did he mean to punish her again?
Her blood continued to heat, until it burned in her veins; she knew he was just on the other side of the door. Why did he hesitate? The door opened slightly and that voice spoke from the crack, that voice that made her bones tremble with anticipation. "Bella?" The door opened wider and Bellatrix stared, mouth agape, upon the face of her master, restored to it's youth and perfection.
The door closed behind him. "Bella."
"Master." The word came out in a rush of air. Bella fell to her knees, head bent so that the back of her neck was exposed. "How have you achieved this?"
"I am not your Master," Tom Riddle replied. He forced his way into her mind, assessing her loyalty with a ruthlessness that made her cry out. He began to smirk at what he found; a true Death Eater, talented and devoted to his future self. "You, Bellatrix Black, may call me Tom. Stand, let me look at you."
She did as she was told, eyes wide in reverence. He touched her face with one long, cold finger, tracing the strength in her cheekbones and high brow, the proud curve of her lips. There was something about her, some quality that drew him to her, forced him to trust her. He berated himself, Lord Voldemort trusts no one.
"Can you keep this secret, Bella? Can I trust you?"
"Of course." Any other answer would mean death, and even as her blood burned and his touched set her skin on fire she knew the proper response. "I am only yours, forever."
( More to come… )